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( From a painting by J. Hayllar.) 


Illustrated Magazine 

For Girls and Boys, 




November, 1876, to November, 1877. 


Copyright by SCRIBNEK & Co., 1877. 

Press of Francis Hart 8l Co. 
New- York. 

library, Univ. «f 
North Carolina 


Abraham Lincoln, A Reminiscence of. (Illustrated by C. S Reinhart) Albert Rhodes 8 

Andre, the Artist-Soldier Charles Barnard 233 

Annetta Plummer's Diary Abby Morton Diaz 55S 

April Snow. Poem Virginia F. Townsend . . . 3S1 

Around the World on a Telegraph Wire. Poem. (Illus. by L. Hopkins). E. L. Bynner 680 

Artist-Soldier, The Charles Barnard ... 233 

Autumn Poetry. (Illustrated) Lucy Larcom 796 

Backus, My Friend Colonel. A Talk with Big Boys J. G. Holland ... 4S3 

Bear, The Good-natured. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard) Isabella Valancy Crawford . 135 

Bees that Went to the Sky, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 13 

Benita. Poem. (Illustrated) Mary E. Bradley 22 

Birds, Something about. (Illustrated) Prof. W. K. Brooks 394 

Birds in the Spring. ( Illustrated) Prof. W. K. Brooks 555 

Birds Improve in Nest-Building, How. (Illustrated by James C. Beard ).. Prof. W. A'. Brooks 686 

Blue-Coat Boy, The. (Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart) "Aunt Fanny" 662 

Blue-Coat Girl, Extracts Irora the Journal of a. (Illus. by C. S. Reinhart). Laura W. Johnson 327 

Bo-Peep. Verses E. Norman Gunnison .... 823 

Borrowing a Grandmother. (Illus. by Frank Beard and Sol. Eytinge, Jr) . .Helen Angell Goodwin 3S 

Boston Girl of 1776, A Little Mrs. E. G. Carter u 

Bouche de Mademoiselle Louise, La. French Story (or Translation F. Dupin Je Saint-Andre. . 503 

Boy's Life on a Man-of-War, A. (Illustrated) Chaplain LI. H. Clark 616 

Boys of my Boyhood, The . William Cullen Bryant. . . 99 

Brave Little Florencia. (Illustrated by W. H. Gibson) Newton Perkins 339 

Budge's Story of the Centennial Author of "Helen's Babies." 164 

Buttercup, A. Poem K. C 718 

Canaries, A Talk about. ( Illustrated) Ernest Ingersoll 247 

Car-Horses at Home. ( Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Charles Barnard 91 

Carlo and the Milk-Pan. Pictures drawn by F. Opper 38 

Caspar Deane and the Cinnamon. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard) C. D. Clark 3S2 

CATHERN : A Sequel to the "Ash-Girl." (Illustrated) Lucy G. Morse 302 

Cats, Turning into. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Frances Lee 392 

Caught by the Snow. (Illustrated by Thomas Moran) William H. Rideing. ...... 792 

Cecile et Lulu. French Story for Translation. (Illustrated) A. A. Chapman 369 

Cecile and Lulu. Translation of French Story 4. A. Chapman 531 

Centennial, Budge's Story of the Author of "Helen's Babies" 164 

Centennial Pen-Wiper, A. ( Illustrated) Mrs. M. H. Jaquith 50 

Central Park, Young Folks' Fun in. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Charles Barnard 705 

Century Ago, A, (Illustrated) Noah Brooks S02 

Child-Bishops of Salisbury, St. Nicholas' Day and the (Illus. by Sol. Eylmge)MHviite Egleston 532 

Christmas Eve, Leon Maturin's. ( Illustrated) C. F. Jackson 123 

Christmas Song, A Hatlie S. Russell 90 

~Christmas-tide, Not Only in the. Verse. ( Illustrated) Baste Hilt 447 

y< [Reus in Brittany, An American. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) William M. F. Round.... 727 

JbCi.lvkr Joe. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Henry L. Williams 236 

B»Clock in the Sky at Night, A. (Illustrated by Author) Richard A. Proctor 120 

"Cluck-a-Luck's Strange Children. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) E. Muller 77 



Complaint of the Stockings, The. Poem Sidney Day re 1 18 

Coral-Fisher AND HIS Wife, The. (Illustrated) Kate Brownlee Horton 641 

Cows with Red Ears, Four Hundred White Amanda B. Harris 466 

Curious Customs of Easter. (Illustrated by G. F. Barnes) Olive Thome 406 

Daylight Burglary, Another. Picture drawn by F. Opper 214 

Doll, The True Story of a ■ Rebecca Harding Davis. . . . 138 

Doves, The Flock of. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) Celia Thaxter 98 

Dowager, The Discontented. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) E. L. B 4S0 

Drummer Fritz, and His Exploits. (Illustrated by the Author) Howard Pyle 718 

Drumming, How I Went a- (Illustrated by James C. Beard) Frank R. Stockton 739 

Dumb Oratok. Poem. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) C. P. Cranch 627 

Easter, Curious Customs of. (Illustrated by G. F. Barnes) Olive Thome 409 

Easter Morning. Tablet 364 

Egyptian, The Naughty Little. Verses. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 560 

Esther, The Flower-Girl. (Illustrated) Emily H. Leland 280 

Faces of Fishes, The. (Illustrated) Herbert E. Copeland 282 

Fairies, A Dream About H. H 649 

Fair-Minded Men who Walked to Donahan, The. Verses. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 725 

Fairy Story, Making a. (Illustrated by Alfred Fredericks) Julius A. Truesdcll 428 

Far Away. Poem Bessie Hill 37 

Festina Lente, A Talk with Boys Thomas Hughes 245 

First Time, The. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Saxe Holm . . 473 

Fishers, The Three. Poem. (Illustrated by J. A. Mitchell) Laura E. Richards 554 

Flock of Doves, The. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) Celia Thaxter 98 

Florencia, Brave Little. (Illustrated by W. H. Gibson) Newton Perkins 339 

Florida Fishers. (Illustrated) Mrs. Mary Treat 490 

Flowers in Winter. (Illustrated) S. C 42 

FLUFFY AND Snuffy. Poem. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) Carrie W. Thompson 456 

Fourth Month Dunce. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) H. M. M. 371 

Fox and the Tablet, The. (Illustrated by the Author) H. P 381 

Fox, The Crafty. (Illustrated by the Author) Howard Pyle 261 

Frank. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Frances E. Beale 513 

French Story-Tellers, Two. (Illustrated) Donald C. Mitchell 780 

Furrow,. The Little Brown Seed in the. Poem Ida W. Bcnham 612 

General's Ride, Curious End of the. (Illustrated) John Lewees 434 

George the Third. (Illustrated) Noah Brooks 623 

" God Knows." Poem Julia C. R. Dorr 403 

Going a-Gypsying. (Illustrated) John H. Peel 620 

Going to the Sea-Shore. Poem. (Illustrated Border) E. F. N 587 

Golden Fish of Owari Castle, The. (Illustrated by a Japanese Artist) .. William E. Griffis 324 

Gone Astray. (Illustrated by Alfred Fredericks) George MacDonald 713, 770 

Good Times. Pictures drawn by "Sphinx " 24 

Good-Will. Talk with Boys J. T. Trowbridge 389 

Granny's Story. Poem .... Emily Huntington Miller. . 10 

Grass. Poem Edgar Fawcett 483 

Great-Grandfather's Books and Pictures. (Fac-simile illustrations ) 

r *i_ *t tt 1 1 t> ■ . , ( Horace E. Scudder 192 

from the New England Primer, etc.) > ' 

Greedy, The Kingdom of the. (Illustrated) Translated by Laura IV. Johnson 1, 112 

Green House with Gold Nails, The. (Illustrated by R. Riordan) Mrs. J. P. Ballard 525 

Greyhound's Warning, The Hezekiah Butterworth 189 

Gunpowder. (Illustrated) J. A. Judson 580 

" Happy New Year! " Picture 191 

Happy Day. Picture drawn by Mary A. Lathbury 644 

Hans Gottenlieb, the Fiddler. (Illustrated by the Author) Howard Pyle 400 

Hare and Hounds. (Illustrated) Kate Brawnlee Horton 789 

Haroun Al Raschid. Poem Henry IV. Longfellow 792 

Hevi. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 589 



H. H., A Parable by ' //. // 34 

HlPPETY Hop, The Sad Story of. Poem. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Samuel C. Wilson ,.. 489 

Hippopotamus, The Revenge of the Little. (Illustrated) Park Benjamin 816 

His Own Master. (Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart) J. T. Trowbridge, 81, 171, 26S, 

332, 4co, 442, 542, 593, 666, 746, S07 

"Hollenberry " Cup, The. (Illustrated by R. Riordan) Mrs. J. P. Ballard 457 

Horse Hotel, The. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) C/iarles Barnard 91 

House ok Santa Claus, The. (Illustrated) Edward Eggles/on 131 

Ice, On the. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly), Irwin Russell 315 

Illuminated Texts. (Illustrated Title) Susan Coolidge 379 

Indian Girl and Her Messenger-Bird, The. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) . George W. Ranch. 244 

Italian Babies. (Illustrated) E. D. Southwick S06 

IVANHOE. (Illustrated) Donald G. Mitchell 44S 

Jack Frost, A Visit from. Picture drawn by M Wool/. 318 

Jim and the Water-Melon. Picture drawn by Frank Beard 280 

Jingles 188, 438, 527, 651, 745, 773 

John's First Party Charles Dudley II 'arncr . . 673 

JUPITER, The Giant Planet. (Illustrated by Author) Richard A. Proctor 628 

Karen and Her Baby, Little. (Illustrated) S. C. W 297 

KATINKA. (Illustrated) Kate Brownlee Horton 157 

Katy Delay, Poor. Poem Maria W. Jones 351 

Kingdom of the Greedy, The. (Illustrated.) Translated by Laura W.Johnson I, 112 

King Lonesome. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Lucy Larcoin 178 

King Trisanku. Poem Henry W. Longfellow 649 

Labrador, A Summer Ride in. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Mrs. C. E. Groser 6S9 

Lead-Pencils, All About lames W. Preston 14 

Leap-Year. Picture drawn by "Sphinx " 14 

Lecture-Bureau, Trotty's Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. . . . 454 

Letter to a Young Naturalist, A. . . William Howitt 154 

Letter to Letter Writers, A Susan A. Brown 310 

Letter, Our. (Illustration: Fac-Simile of a Letter from Charles Dickens). M. F. Armstrong 43S 

Letters at School, The. Poem. (Illustrated) M. M. D 10S 

Light-House, Nellie in the. (Illustrated) Susan Archer Weiss 577 

LINCOLN, A Reminiscence of Abraham. (Illustrated by C. S. Reinhart) Albert Rhodes 8 

Listening. Poem. (I.lustrated by Thomas Moran) Mary N. Prescott 19 

Little Boston Girl of i 776, A Mrs. E. G. Carter 11 

Little Brown Seed in the Furrow, The. Poem Ida W. Benham 612 

Little Girl Who Grew Smaller, The. (Illustrated) Emily H. Leland 773 

Little Karen and Her Baby. (Illustrated) S. C. W 297 

Little Tommy Tucker. Picture drawn by Miss Florence Scanne/l. . . 466 

Little Travelers. (Illustrated by "Sphinx.") Harriet M. Miller 1S1 

Lonesome, King. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Lucy Larcom 178 

"Look! Look! " Picture drawn by J. W. Champney 485 

LOUISE, La Bouche de Mademoiselle. French Story for Translation F. Dupin de Saint-Andre . . 503 

Luck and Labor. Poem Mrs. Caroline A. Soule . . . 301 

Mabel AND I. ( Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge ) . . . Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen . . . 206 

Making Maple Sugar. (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes) Ruth Kenyan 300 

Man-OF-War, A Boy's Life on a. (Illustrated) Chaplain H. H. Clark 616 

March. Poem M. M. II. Conway 341 

Marjorie. Poem Celia Thaxter 491 

MICE AND their Ways, Wild. (Illustrated by R. Riordan) Ernest Ingersoll . . . 534, 600 

Minstrels, The Old-Time. (Illustrated) E. B. M 214 

Minuet, The. Poem Mary Mapes Dodge 153 

Miss Louise's Mouth. Translation of French Story on page 503 A. R. T 636 

Modern and Mediaeval Ballad of Mary Jane. (Illus. by L. Hopkins). .Henry Baldwin 202 

Moss-Pictures. A New Style of Fancy Work J. M. B 828 

Mother. Poem. (Illustrated by Frontispiece) I/. M. D 769 



Mother in the Desert, The. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 522 

Mother Goose Operetta G. B. Bartlett 226 

Mr. Tompkins Laugh, What Made Abby Morton Diaz .... 617 

Mr. Tompkins' Small Story Abby Morton Diaz 645 

My Friend Colonel Backus. A Talk with Big Boys J. G. Holland 483 

Naturalist, A Letter to a Young William Hounlt 154 

Naughty Little Egyptian, The. Verses. (Illustrated) Joel Stacy 560 

Nellik in the Light-House. (Illustrated) Susan Archer Weiss 577 

New-Year's Day, Marie's. (Illustrated) G. W. B 218 

No Pocket. (Illustrated) Sarah Winter Kellogg 75 

"Not only in the Christmas-tide." Verse. (Illustrated) Bessie Hill 447 

Now It 's Your Turn. Picture 788 

"Oh, The Dutch Companie is the Best Companie ! " Picture drawn by. "Sphinx " S23 

Opening the Lily. Picture drawn by Walter Satterlee 648 

Open Secret, An. Poem. (Illustrated by the Author) Mary A. Lathbnry 437 

Oriental Sports that I Saw, Some. (Illustrated by a Siamese Artist) .. Fanny Roper Feua 'ge 127 

Our Master. Picture drawn by Addle Ledyard 745 

Owari Castle, The Golden Fish of. (Illustrated by a Japanese Artist) William E. Griffis 324 

Owl that Stared, The. (Illustrated by C S. Reinhart) Rose Hawthorne Lathrop .. . 16 

Panchy. ( Illustrated by F. P. Lathrop) Mrs. F. M. Lathrop 737 

Parable, A H. H 34 

Partners. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Emily Huntington Miller. . 45 

Party, John's First Charles Dudley Warner. . . . 673 

Party, The First. Poem Josephine Bollard 254 

Pattikin's House. (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis, Mary A. Hallock, J. E. \ Joy Allison, 255, 347, 373, 492, 

Kelly, and Thomas Moran ) S 517 

Peterkins at the Centennial. The Lucrelia P. Hale 275 

Peterkin's Tea Party, Mrs Lucretia P. Hale 539 

Peterkins Gelebrate-the Fourth of July, The. (Illustrated by L. ) , ,. „ „, g 

Hopkins) > 

Peterkins' Christmas-Tree, The Lucretia P. Hale . ... 139 

Peter's Rabbit-Hunt. (Illustrated) Paul Fort 752 

" Please Don't Touch Me." Picture 805 

Poems and Carols of Winter. (Illustrated) Lucy Larcom 65 

" Polly's Christmas Society," Doings of the. (Illustrated) Olive Thome 109 

Poor Katy Delay. Poem Maria W. Jones 35 1 

Poppets. (Illustrated) Amalie La Forge 184 

Proverb, The Story of a. ( Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Sidney Lamer 468 

Q AND U. Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) J. P. Ballard 498 

Queen and Not a Queen, A. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 16 

Rabbit-Hunt, Peter's. (Illustrated) Paul Fort .... 752 

Rain, Hail, Snow. Verse L. T. C •. . . 279 

Ready for a Second Course. Picture drawn by J. IT. Champney ... 660 

Red Riding-Hood. Poem John Grecnleaf Whittier. . . 425 

Riddle, A. Verse J. S 141 

Ride, The Curious End of the General's. (Illustrated) John Lewees 434 

Robbie Talks Olive Thome 726 

Robin's Rain-Song. Poem. (Illustrated by W. H. Gibson) Celia Thaxter 661 

Roses. Poem Edgar Fawcett 539 

Sam Clemson, The Second Frank R. Stockton 361 

Sandhopper Jig, The. Poem. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Margaret Eytinge 235 

Santa Claus, The House of. (Illustrated) Edward Eggleston 131 

School-Luncheons The " Little Schoolwa'am," 755 

Sea- FOAM. Poem. (Illustrated by the Author) Mary A. Lathbnry 33 

Sea-Shore, Going to the. Poem. (Illustrated Border) E. F. A 7 5S7 

Secret Door, The. (Illustrated by Mary A. Hallock) . .Susan Coolidge 103 

Seven Ages, The. Poem. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins). . . M. B. Whiting . 312 


> Melville Egleston 532 


"Seventy-seven." Verses Mary Mapes Dodge 183 

Sleeping Courier, The. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 426 

SLIDE, A Jolly. Picture 274 

Songs of Spring. (Illus by Sol. Eytinge, Walter Satterlee and Fidelia Bridges). Lucy Larcom 3 D 5> 459 

SPRAY. (Illustrated by J. F. Runge, from painting by J. H. Beard) J. Reed Sever 552 

Spring-board, The. Picture drawn by F, Opper 13S 

Spring Work. Picture drawn by Mary A. Lathbury 346 

Stars and Daisies. Verses Louis Munson 247 

Stars in January \ / 166 

Stars in February (illustrated by the Au- \ ( 2 °3 

Stars in March J thor, with maps of the I \ 342 

Stars IN April I Northern and South- ( V ...... 385 

Stars in May , ern skies for each ) Richard A. Proctor. ( 498 

Stars in June / mont h, and with dia- ( j 5°2 

Stars in July I grams of the constel- \ j 6l 3 

Stars in August \ l a tions. I I 6 7 6 

Stars in September I / I 730 

Stars in October, November and December. ., \ 818 

St. Nicholas' Day, and the Child-Bishops of Salisbury. (Illustrated 

by Sol. Eytinge) 

Stockings, The Complaint of the. Poem Sidney Day re 118 

Story of a Proverb, The. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Sidney Lanier 468 

Summer Ride in Labrador, A. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) Mrs. C. E. Groser 6S9 

Sunday Baby, The. Poem Alice Williams 44 

" Sun Smiled, And the " Margaret Eytinge 588 

Swimming, A Talk About. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Sanford B. Hunt, . . . 607 

"Swooping Eagle's" First Exploit, The. (Illustrated by Sol. Eytinge) ..Sarah Winter Kellogg. . 682 

Tableaux-Vivants, New Parlor G. B. Bartlett 508 

"Tell Me, Daisy." Verses. (Illustrated by " Sphinx ") ' Bessie Hill 516 

"There 's a Ship on the Sea." Verse. (Illustrated by Thomas Moran) Joel Stacy 773 

Thistle-Puffs. ( Illustrated) Ina Carol 735 

Tinsie's Conclusion. (Illustrated by Addie Ledyard) George Klingle 48 

"TOLERBUL" Bad Boy, Story of a. (Illustrated) Sarah Winter Kellogg 25 

Tommy's Cousins. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) E.Mu/ler 528 

Tragedy. Poem Celia Thaxter 275 

Trisanku, King. Poem Henry W. Longfellow 649 

Trotty's Lecture Bureau Elizabeth Stuart Phelps . 454 

Turning into Cats. (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Frances Lee 392 

Turtle Taught a Lesson, How a. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins and J ^ <-■ Tluiver 6 6 

" Sphinx " ' 

Twilight Dance, A. Picture 679 

Two Dorothys, The. (Illustrated by C S. Reinhart) C. F. Jackson . 197 

Two French Story-Tellers. (Illustrated) Donald G. Mitchell 7S0 

Two Wishes, The. (Illustrated) Susan Coolidge 319 

Valentine, A. Poem. (Illustrated) 4. E. C 267 

Valentine, The. Picture drawn by "Sphinx " 243 

Village of Wild Beasts, A. (Illustrated) Frank R. Stockton 651 

Warning, The Greyhound's Hezekiah Butterworth . . . 189 

What Made Mr. Tompkins Laugh Abby Morton Diaz 617 

Which Had It ? (Illustrated by J. W. Champney) Sarah Winter Kellogg ... 7S3 

Whittington Listening to the Bow Bells of London. Picture drawn by .JiLiss £. M. S. Scannel! . . . 588 

Why Nellie was not Popular. (Illustrated) Constance Marion 404 

Wild Mice and their Ways. (Illustrated by R. Riordan) Ernest Ingersoll 534, 600 

Winter, Poems and Carols of. ( Illustrated) Lucy Larcom 65 

Wishes, The two. ( Illustrated) Susan Coolidge. ... 319 

Worthy Poor, The. Verses. (Illustrated by James C Beard) M. M. D 502 

Young Folks' Fun in Central Park. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) . Charles Barnard 705 




Introduction — A Balloon Inventor — Floating Gardens — Costly Clothes — Eating Nails — The Pet of the 
Regiment (illustrated) — Snakes with Spectacles — Tip-Top Shoes, 52; Merry Christmas — A Big Plum- 
Pudding — The Christmas Putz at Bethlehem — East or West ? — One Good Turn Deserves Another — A Little 
Hollander's Bird-Cage (illustrated) — The Safety Lamp, 142; A New Year Wish — Strange Scent-Bags — 
Feed the Birds — Five"Thats" — An Esquimaux House or Hut — Skipping-Ropes in Glasgow (illustrated — 
What Made Them So? — A Fern that Looks Like a Lamb — Bismarck's Dog — The Biggest Flower — A Doll 
for a Sign, 220; Were- Wolves — A Friend to the Birds — Supposing a Case — The Bee that Saved a Kingdom 
— New- York Street Lamps in 1697 and 1876 (illustrated) — A True Mule Story — Comfort for Short Folks, 
288; Crystallized Horses — A Fresh-Water Whale — School Luncheons — A Real Baby-House (illustrated) — 
A Seed in the Wool — Cinderella's Slipper — The Oldest Organ in the Country, 354; Short Days and the 
Birds — A Paper-making Spider — An Ape's Death — A Good "Blowing-Up" — How to Make Butter 
— " The Churn "(illustration) — Royal, but never a King — A New Way of Comforting — Jack-Stones — An Old 
Flame, 418; Robins in the Tree-top — How a Letter Won a Crown — Oil on the Troubled Waters — The 
Longest Days — A House-Building Fish — The Fish that Went Ashore (illustrated) — Route du Roi, 506 ; 
June Gladness — The Deacon's Conundrum — Astragaloi — Bad News for the Children — A Stocking Revival 
— A Circular Boat (illustrated) — School-Luncheons, 570; Fourlh of July and the Birds — An Underground 
Forest — July Events — The Cost of Wet Feet — Four-Leaved Clovers — Fire-Crackers — Sparrows and 
Horses (illustrated) — All the Alphabet — Can a Dog Think? — Blacksmiths in Africa, 634; Ice — Pressing 
Flowers — Discontent — Robin Hood Clubs — A Boy with His Eyes Open — The Fiery Tears of St. Law- 
rence — Which are the Swimmers? — Seventeen-Year Locusts (illustrated), 698; The Little Schoolma'am 
and School Luncheons — Flower Dollies — Is the Calla a Lily? — Electric Candles — Grass Shoes — " Not in " 
to Trouble — One of Jack's Pets (illustrated), 762; About Moss Pictures — How Not to Do It — Turkey and 
Roses — Dosing an Elephant — Home-Made Targets — Deacon Green's Sermon on Amiability (illustration) — 
A Needle-Throwing Weapon, 826. 

For Very Little Folks. (Illustrated.) 

A True Story — Jingles — The Wonderful Puppies — Children of the Week, 56; The Robin's Visit — What 
My Little Brother Thinks, 144; The Frogs' Picnic — Broken Toys, 222; The Adopted Chicken — Two 
Kittens — The Naughty Doll, 284 ; Little Tradja of Norway — The Sick Frog, 352; The Lion, 416; The 
Life of a Little Green Frog, 504; Tony's Letter, 568; Jamie's Rabbits, 632; Little Peery, 696 ; One, 
Two, Three (illustrated by Mary Wyman Wallace) — Good Friends, 760 ; What the Parrot Taught the 
Little Girl(illustrated by James C. Beard), 824. 

Young Contributors' Department. 

Letter from Winkie West — My Squirrel — Nothing to Do — The Youth and the North Wind, 59 ; A Queer 
Way of Writing (illustrated) — On the Closing of the Centennial — Tottie's Calendar (illustrated), 227; 
Pansy's Lovers — Some California Scenes — "The Youthful Rubens Drawing Flies" (picture), 356; How 
to Make a Bird-House (illustrated), 420; The Deserted House — A Fairy Story— "The Peterkins at the 
Centennial" (picture), 572 ; Pompeii — Barred In — The Woodpecker, 764. 


The King Orders a Tart as big as the Capitol, I; The Heart of Winter, 65; The Minuet, 153; 
Andre\ the Artist-Soldier, 233 ; Little Karen's Friends, 297 ; Aunt Carrie Winds the Clock, 361 ; As 
Good as a Mother, 425; A June Morning, 513; Nellie in the Light-House, 577; The Coral-Fisher's 
Wife, 641; "Hurrah for the Coach I " 705; "Wait till we get there, Darling!" 769. 

Little Housekeeper's Page. 

Wine or Cider Jelly, Jam Marion Harland 55 

Letter-Box 60, 149, 228, 292, 357, 421, 50S, 572, 636, 700, 765, S28 

Riddle-Box 62,150,230,294,359,423,510,575,639,703,767,831 

Our Music Page. 

" Dickon has a boat," 54 ; Christmas Carol, 148 ; Harum Scarum, 290. 



(See "The Kingdom of the Greedy.") 


Vol. IV. 


No. 1. 


(Bv P. J. Stahl.) 

Translated by Laura W. Johnson. 

Part I. 

THE country of the Greedy, well known in his' 
tory, was ruled by a king who had much trouble. 
His subjects were well-behaved, but they had one 
sad fault — they were too fond of pies and tarts. It 
was as disagreeable to them to swallow a spoonful 
of soup as if it were so much sea-water, and it 
would take a policeman to make them open their 
mouths for a bit of meat, either boiled or roasted. 
This deplorable taste made the fortunes of the 
pastry-cooks, but also of the apothecaries. Families 
ruined themselves in pills and powders ; camomile, 
rhubarb, and peppermint trebled in price, as well 
as other disagreeable remedies, such as castor — , 
which I will not name. 

The King of the Greedy sought long for the 
means of correcting this fatal passion for sweets, 
but even the faculty were puzzled. 

" Your Majesty," said the great Court doctor, 
Olibriers, at his last audience, "your people look 
like putty ! They are incurable ; their senseless 
love for good eating will bring them all to the 

This view of things did not suit the King. He 
was wise, and saw very plainly that a monarch 
without subjects would be but a sorry king. 

Happily, after this utter failure of the doctors, 
there came into the mind of His Majesty a first- 
class idea. He telegraphed for Mother Mitchel, 
the most celebrated of all pastry-cooks. . Mother 
Mitchel soon arrived, with her black cat Fanfre- 
luche who accompanied her everywhere. He was 
an incomparable cat. He had not his equal as an 
adviser and a taster of tarts. 

Mother Mitchel having respectfully inquired what 
she and her cat could do for His Majesty, the King 
demanded of the astonished pastry-cook a tart as 
big as the Capitol — bigger even, if possible, but no 
smaller ! When the King uttered this astounding 
order, deep emotion was shown by the chamber- 
lains, the pages and lackeys. Nothing but the 
respect due to his presence prevented them from 
crying " Long live your Majesty ! " in his very ears. 
But the King had seen enough of the enthusiasm 
of the populace, and did not allow such sounds in 
the recesses of his palace. 

The King gave Mother Mitchel one month to 
carry out his gigantic project. " It is enough," she 
proudly replied, brandishing her crutch. Then, 
taking leave of the King, she and her cat set out 
for their home. 

On the way, Mother Mitchel arranged in her 
head the plan of the monument which was to 
immortalize her, and considered the means of exe- 
cuting it. As to its form and size, it was to be as 
exact a copy of the Capitol as possible, since the 
King had willed it ; but its outside crust should 
have a beauty all its own. The dome must be 
adorned with sugar-plums of all colors, and sur- 
mounted by a splendid crown of macaroons, spun 
sugar chocolate, and candied fruits. It was no 
small affair. 

Mother Mitchel did not like to lose her time. 
Her plan of battle once formed, she recruited on 
her way all the little pastry-cooks of the country, 
as well as all the tiny six-year-olds who had a sin- 
cere love for the noble callings of scullion and 
apprentice. There were plenty of these, as you 

Vol. IV.— 1. 

[Copyright, 1876, by Scribner & Co.] 




work, and took time ; but Mother Mitchel was un- 
tiring, and her cat also, for while the operation 
lasted he sat on the roof, watching. It is only just f 
to say that the millers of the Greedy Kingdom 
brought flour, not only faultless, but of full weight. 
They knew that Mother Mitchel was not joking 
■when she said that others must be as exact with 
her as she was with them. Perhaps also they were 
a little afraid of the cat, whose great green eyes 
were always shining upon them like two round 
lamps, and never lost sight of them for one mo- 

All the farmers' wives arrived in turn, with 
baskets of eggs upon their heads. They did not 
load their donkeys with them, for fear that in jog- 
ging along they would become omelettes on the 
way. Mother Mitchel received them with her usual 
gravity. She had the patience to look through 
every egg to see if it were fresh. 

She did not wish to run the risk of having young 
chickens in a tart that was destined for those who 
could not bear the taste of any meat, however ten- 
der and delicate. The number of eggs was com- 
plete, and again Mother Mitchel and her cat had 
nothing to complain of. This Greedy nation, 
though carried away by love of good eating, was 
strictly honest. It must be said, that where nations 
are patriotic, desire for the common good makes 
them unselfish. Mother Mitchel's tart was to be 
the glory of the country, and each one was proud 
to contribute to such a great work. 

And now the milkmaids, with their pots and 
pails of milk, and the butter-makers with their 
baskets filled with the rich yellow pats of butter, 
filed in long procession to the right and left of the 
cabin of Mother Mitchel. There was no need for 
her to examine so carefully the butter and the milk. 
She had such a delicate nose, that if there had 
been a single pat of ancient butter or a pail of sour 
milk, she would have pounced upon it instantly. 
But all was perfectly fresh. In that golden age 
they did not understand the art, now so well known, 
of making milk out of flour and water. Real milk 
was necessary to make cheese-cakes and ice-cream 
and other delicious confections much adored in the 
Greedy Kingdom. If any one had made such a 
despicable discovery, he would have been chased 
from the country as a public nuisance. 

Then came the grocers, with their aprons of 
coffee bags, and with the jolly, mischievous faces 
the rogues always have. Each one clasped to his 
heart a sugar-loaf nearly as large as himself, whose 
summit, without its paper cap, looked like new- 
fallen snow upon a pyramid. Mother Mitchel, with 
her crutch for a baton, saw them all placed in her 
store-rooms upon shelves put up for the purpose. 
She had to be very strict, for some of the little 

may suppose, in the country of the Greedy ; Mother 
Mitchel had her pick of them. 

Mother Mitchel, with the help of her crutch, and 
of Fanfreluche, who miaowed loud enough to be 
heard twenty miles off, called upon all the millers 
of the land, and commanded them to bring together 
at a certain time as many sacks of fine flour as they 
could grind in a week. There were only wind-mills 
in that country ; you may easily believe how they 
all began to go. B-r-r-r-r-r ! what a noise they 
made ! The clatter was so great that all the birds 
flew away to other climes, and even the clouds fled 
from the sky. 

At the call of Mother Mitchel, all the farmers' 
wives were set to work ; they rushed to the hen- 
coops to collect the seven thousand fresh eggs that 
Mother Mitchel wanted for her great edifice. Deep 
was the emotion of the fowls. The hens were in- 
consolable, and the unhappy creatures mourned 
upon the palings for the loss of all their hopes. 

The milkmaids were busy from morning till 
night in milking the cows. Mother Mitchel must 
have twenty thousand pails of milk. All the little 
calves were put on half-rations. This great work 
was nothing to them, and they complained pitifully 
to their mothers. Many of the cows protested with 
energy against this unreasonable tax, which made 
their young families so uncomfortable. There were 
pails upset, and even some milkmaids went head 
over heels. But these little accidents did not chill 
the enthusiasm of the laborers. 

And now Mother Mitchel called for a thousand 
pounds of the best butter. All the churns for 
twenty miles around began to work in the most 
lively manner. Their dashers dashed without ceas- 
ing, keeping perfect time. The butter was tasted, 
rolled into pats, wrapped up, and put into baskets. 
Such energy had never been known before. 

Mother Mitchel passed for a sorceress. It was all 
because of her cat Fanfreluche, with whom she 
had mysterious doings and pantomimes, and with 
whom she talked in her inspired moments, as if he 
were a real person. Certainly, since the famous 
"Puss in Boots," there had never been an animal 
so extraordinary ; and credulous folks suspected 
him of being a magician. Some curious people 
had the courage to ask Fanfreluche if this were 
true ; but he had replied by bristling, and showing 
his teeth and claws so fiercely, that the conversa- 
tion had ended there. Sorceress or not, Mother 
Mitchel was always obeyed. No one else was ever 
served so punctually. 

On the ap'pointed day, all the millers arrived with 
their asses trotting in single file, each laden with a 
great sack of flour. Mother Mitchel, after having 
examined the quality of the flour, had every sack 
accuratelv weighed. This was head work and hard 

,8 7 6.] 


fellows could hardly part from their merchandise, 
and many were indiscreet with their tongues behind 
their great mountains of sugar. If they had been 
let alone, they would never have stopped till the 
sugar was all gone. But they had not thought of 
the implacable eye of old Fanfreluche, who, posted 
upon a water-spout, took note of all their misdeeds. 



From another quarter came a whole army of 
country people, rolling wheelbarrows and carry- 
ing huge baskets, all filled with cherries, plums, 
peaches, apples, and pears. AH these fruits were 
so fresh, in such perfect condition, with their fair 
shining skins, that they looked like wax or painted 
marble, but their delicious perfume proved that 
they were real. Some little people, hidden in the 

corners, took pains to find this out. Between our- 
selves, Mother Mitchel made believe not to see 
them, and took the precaution of holding Fanfre- 
luche in her arms so that he could not spring upon 
them. The fruits were all put into bins, each kind 
by itself. And now the preparations were finished. 
There was no time to lose before setting to work. 
The spot which Mother Mitchel 
had chosen for her great edi- 
fice, was a pretty hill on which 
a plateau formed a splendid 
site. This hill commanded 
the capital city, built upon the 
slope of another hill close by. 
After having beaten down the 
earth till it was as smooth as a 
floor, they spread over it loads 
of bread-crumbs, brought from 
the baker's, and leveled it with 
rake and spade, as we do gravel 
in our garden walks. Little 
birds, as greedy as themselves, 
came in flocks to the feast, but 
they might eat as they liked, 
it would never be missed, so 
thick was the carpet. It was 
a great chance for the bold 
little things. 

All the ingredients for the 
tart were now ready. Upon 
order of Mother Mitchel they 
began to peel the apples and 
pears and to take out the pips. 
The weather was so pleasant 
that the girls sat out-of-doors, 
upon the ground, in long rows. 
The sun looked down upon 
them with a merry face. Each 
of the little workers had a big 
earthen pan, and peeled in- 
cessantly the apples which the 
boys brought them. When 
the pans were full, they were 
carried away and others were 
brought. They had also to 
carry away the peels, or the 
girls would have been buried 
in them. Never was there 
such a peeling before. 
Not far away, the children were stoning the 
plums, cherries and peaches. This work being the 
easiest, was given to the youngest and most inex- 
perienced hands, which were all first carefully 
washed, for Mother Mitchel, though not very par- 
ticular about her own toilet, was very neat in her 
cooking. The school-house, long unused (for in 
the country of the Greedy they had forgotten every- 






thing), was arranged for this second class of work- plum-stones ! But no one risked it. Fanfreluche 

ers, and the cat was their inspector. He walked was not to be trifled with. 

round and round, growling if he saw the fruit In those days, powdered sugar had not been in- 
popping into any of the little mouths. If they vented, and to grate it all was no small affair. It 
had dared, how they would have pelted him with was the work that the grocers used to dislike most; 




both lungs and arms were soon tired. But Mother grated them till they were too small to hold. The 

Mitchel was there to sustain them with her une- bits were put into baskets to be pounded. One 

qualed energy. She chose the laborers from the would never have expected to find all the thousand 

most robust of the boys. With mallet and knife pounds of sugar again. But a new miracle was 

she broke the cones into round pieces, and they wrought by Mother Mitchel. It was all there ! 



It was then the turn of the ambitious scullions to 
enter the lists, and break the seven thousand eggs 
for Mother Mitchel. It was not hard to break them 
— any fool could do that ; but to separate adroitly 
the yolks and the whites demands some talent, and, 
above all, great care. We dare not say that there 
were no accidents here, no eggs too well scrambled, 
no baskets upset. But the ex- 
perience of Mother Mitchel 
had counted upon such things, 
and it may truly be said that 
there never were so many 
eggs broken at once, or ever 
could be again. To make an 
omelette of them would have 
taken a saucepan as large as 
a skating pond, and the fat- 
test cook that ever lived could 
not hold the handle of such a 

But this was not all. Now 
that the yolks and whites 
were once divided, they must 
each be beaten separately in 
wooden bowls, to give them 
the necessary lightness. The 
egg-beaters were marshaled 
into two brigades, the yellow 
and the white. Every one 
preferred the white, for it was 
much more amusing to make 
those snowy masses that rose 
up so high, than to beat the 
yolks, which knew no better 
than to mix together like so 
much sauce. Mother Mitchel, 
with her usual wisdom, had 
avoided this difficulty by cast- 
ing lots. Thus, those who 
were not on the white side 
had no reason to complain 
of oppression. And truly, 
when all was done, the whites 
and the yellows were equally 
tired. All had cramps in 
their hands. 

Now began the real labor 
of Mother Mitchel. Till now, 
she had been the commander- 
in-chief — the head only ; now, she put her own 
finger in the pie. First, she had to make sweet- 
meats and jam, out of all the immense quantity 
of fruit she had stored. For this, as she could 
only do one kind at a time, she had ten kettles, 
each as big as a dinner-table. During forty-eight 
hours the cooking went on ; a dozen scullions blew 
the fire and put on the fuel. Mother Mitchel, 

with a spoon that four modern cooks could hardly 
lift, never ceased stirring and trying the boiling 
fruit. Three expert tasters, chosen from the most 
dainty, had orders to report progress every half 

It is unnecessary to state that all the sweetmeats 
were perfectly successful, or that they were of 


exquisite consistency, color, and perfume. With 
Mother Mitchel there was no such word as fail. 
When each kind of sweetmeat was finished, she 
skimmed it, and put it away to cool in enormous 
bowls before potting. She did not use for this the 
usual little glass or earthen jars, but great stone 
ones, like those in the " Forty Thieves." Not only 
did these take less time to fill, but they were safe 



from the children. The scum and the scrapings 
were something, to be sure. But there was little 
Toto, who thought this was not enough. He would 
have jumped into one of the bowls, if they had not 
held him. 

Mother Mitchel, who thought of everything, had 
ordered two hundred great kneading-troughs, wish- 
ing that all the utensils of this great work should 
be perfectly new. These two hundred troughs, 
like her other materials, were all delivered punctu- 
ally and in good order. The pastry-cooks rolled 
up their sleeves, and began to knead the dough, 
with cries of "Hi! hi!" that could be heard for 
miles. It was odd to see this army of bakers in 
serried ranks, all making the same gestures at 
once, like well-disciplined soldiers, stooping and 
rising together in time, so that a foreign embas- 
sador wrote to his court, that he wished his people 
could load and fire as well as these could knead. 
Such praise, a people never forgets. 

When each troughful of paste was approved, it 
was molded with care into the form of bricks, and 
with the aid of the engineer-in-chief, a young 
genius who had gained the first prize in the school 
of architecture, the majestic edifice was begun. 
Mother Mitchel herself drew the plan ; in following 
her directions, the young engineer showed himself 
modest beyond all praise. He had the good sense 
to understand that the architecture of tarts and 
pies had rules of its own, and that therefore the 
experience of Mother Mitchel was worth all the 
scientific theories in the world. 

The inside of the monument was divided into as 
many compartments as there were kinds of fruits. 
The walls were no less than four feet thick. When 
they were finished, twenty-four ladders were set up, 
and twenty-four experienced cooks ascended them. 
These first-class artists were each of them armed 
with an enormous cooking-spoon. Behind them, 

on the lower rounds of the ladders, followed the 
kitchen-boys, carrying on their heads pots and 
pans, filled to the brim with jam and sweetmeats, 
each sort ready to be poured into its destined com- 
partment. This colossal labor was accomplished 
in one day, and with wonderful exactness. 

When the sweetmeats were used to the last drop, 
when the great spoons had done all their work, the 
twenty-four cooks descended to earth again. The 
intrepid Mother Mitchel, who had never quitted the 
spot, now ascended, followed by the noble Fanfre- 
luche, and dipped her finger into each of the com- 
partments, to assure herself that everything was 
right. This part of her duty was not disagreeable, 
and many of the scullions would have liked to per- 
form it. But they might have lingered too long 
over the enchanting task. As for Mother Mitchel, 
she had been too well used to sweets to be excited 
now. She only wished to do her duty and to 
insure success. 

All went on well. Mother Mitchel had given her 
approbation. Nothing was needed now, but to 
crown the sublime and delicious edifice, by placing 
upon it the crust, that is, the roof or dome. This 
delicate operation was confided to the engineer-in- 
chief, who now showed his superior genius. The 
dome, made beforehand of a single piece, was 
raised in the air by means of twelve balloons, whose 
force of ascension had been carefully calculated. 
First it was directed, by ropes, exactly over the top 
of the Tart ; then at the word of command it gently 
descended upon the right spot. It was not a 
quarter of an inch out of place. This was a great 
triumph for Mother Mitchel and her able assistant. 

But all was not over. How should this colossal 
Tart be cooked ? That was the question that 
agitated all the people of the Greedy country, who 
came in crowds — lords and commons — to gaze at 
the wonderful spectacle. 

C To be continued.) 



By Albert Rhodes. 

There was an interesting though unimportant 
scene in the life of Abraham Lincoln, of which I was 
an eye-witness. It was on the occasion of the visit 
of about twenty Indian chiefs to the Executive 
Mansion, delegated by their respective tribes to 
treat personally with the Great Father in the adjust- 
ment of their affairs. They were habited in their 
attire of feathers and paint, and each one was im- 
pressed with the greatness of the occasion, the most 
eventful, probably, of their lives. Their interpreter 
placed them in the form of a crescent in the spacious 
East room, on the floor, as they would have been 
ill at ease on chairs. Thus they sat on the carpet 
in decorous silence and waited the arrival of the 
Chief Magistrate. 

A number of people had been invited to be 
present at the interview, among whom were officers 
civil and military and foreign diplomates, accom- 
panied by their wives in fashionable toilet. Sev- 
eral of the latter, whose feet had not long left the 
asphalt of the Boulevards of Paris, looked on the 
copper-colored men — two or three using eye-glasses 
— with peculiar interest ; the objects of it, however, 
sat under the close observation with calm dignity, 
as calm as if they had been in the habit of sitting 
amidst the gaudy splendors of an East room, and 
of being looked upon, every day, by distinguished 
men and handsome women ; the absence of any 
manifestation of surprise being a characteristic of 
Indian nature. 

At length Abraham Lincoln came into the room 
and stood before the dusky crescent, while a group 
of well-known men gathered behind him, to hear 
what was about to take place, space being made 
by ushers about the chiefs, the President and the 
immediate group behind him. The interpreter 
occupied a place near Lincoln, to turn the aborig- 
inal language into English as it fell from the lip. 
The ceremony began by a personal presentation of 
each chief to the Great Father, each one going up 
to the powerful white chief and shaking hands — 
not extending the hand after the Caucasian man- 
ner, but holding it high and dropping it softly 
down into the Presidential palm. The names were 
furnished as they came forward by the interpreter 
— White Bear, Big Wolf, Red Fox, and so on. 

The face of Lincoln was plainly seen by most of 
the people present, for it was higher than that of 
any other. When he came into the room, it was, as 
usual, pale, and tinged with the sadness which was 
its principal characteristic in repose. He folded his 

hands before him, and stood rather awkwardly as 
he waited for the interview to begin. After making 
his compliments and shaking hands, each Indian 
returned to his seat on the carpet in the crescent 
of his brethren. When all had performed the 
ceremony, each one in turn made his speech to the 
President, standing up for the purpose, and sitting 
down when done, in parliamentary fashion, prob- 
ably through instructions from the interpreter. 
The first one who essayed to talk grew nervous, 
and in a hurried way asked for a chair in the 
spirit of a wrecked mariner who seeks for a plank. 
When it was furnished him, he took his seat and 
resumed the entangled thread of his discourse. As 
this trifling incident took place, a smile passed over 
the faces of the spectators, and was reflected in that 
of Lincoln. This smile, indeed, deepened into an 
audible laugh in the rear; but when the ear of the 
President caught it, his face immediately straight- 
ened into seriousness and sympathy with the dis- 
concerted Indian. He did not at once begin, and 
the interpreter said : 

"Mr. President, White Bear asks for time to 
collect his thoughts." 

The President bowed, and another smile went 
round at the plight of the perturbed Indian, but 
did not appear in the face of Lincoln. 

Soon, White Bear rose to his feet, went at it 
again, and after a fashion got through with what 
he wanted to say, at which there was a murmur of 

The burden of their speeches was the same. 
They had all come such a long distance, and so 
quickly, that they felt as if they were birds. To 
see the Great Father had been the wish of their 
lives. They were poor, and required help. They 
had always respected their treaties, and were the 
friends of the white man. They wanted to be 
prosperous and rich like their white brother. Big 
Wolf, particularly, enlarged on this theme. He 
said that he would like to have horses and carriages, 
sausages such as he ate in the hotel in Washington, 
and a fine wigwam — "like this," added he, as he 
designated the highly ornamented apartment .in 
which he stood. At this, the President could not 
restrain the desire to share in the general smile. 

Red Fox was the attorney and orator of the 
delegation. He dwelt on the gratification he ex- 
perienced at seeing the Great Father. It was the 
proudest and most important event of his existence. 
Had he been familiar with the Neapolitan proverb. 

i8 7 6.] 


" See Naples and then die," he would doubtless 
have paraphrased it to suit the occasion. There 
was, however, a cloud in the otherwise clear sky 
of his enjoyment. He had an apprehension that 
when he returned to his people in the Far West, 
they might not believe that he had seen the Great 
Father and talked to him face to face as it was his 
great privilege to do then and there. Hence he 
would like to return to his people laden down with 
presents, — "shining all over like a looking-glass," 
— to prove to them the friendly relations which 
existed between himself and the Great Father. 

as the interpreter turned his words into the tongue 
■of the red men. Their curiosity was fully aroused. 
Even the spectators looked inquiringly at Lincoln, 
to know how he was going to provide horses and 
carriages for those who thus bluntly asked for them. 
"You all have land," said Lincoln. "We will 
furnish you with agricultural implements, with 
which you will turn up the soil, by hand if you 
have not the means to buy an ox, but I think with 
the aid which you receive from the Government, 
you might at least purchase one ox to do the 
plowing for several. You will plant corn, wheat, 


There was no resisting this, and there was some 
good-humored laughing, but the faces of all the 
Indians remained serious and reserved. 

" Mr. President," said the interpreter, " the 
chiefs would be glad to hear you talk. " 

To which Lincoln intimated that he would 
endeavor to do so. 

" My red brethren," said Lincoln, " are anxious 
to be prosperous and have horses and carriages 
like the pale faces. I propose to tell them how 
they may get them." 

At this the dusky men were all attention, and 
manifested their satisfaction by the usual Indian 
guttural sounds. 

"The plan is a simple one," said the President, 

and potatoes, and with the money for which you 
will sell these you will be able each to buy an ox 
for himself at the end of the first year. At the end 
of the second year, you will each be able to buy 
perhaps two oxen and some sheep and pigs. At 
the end of the third, you will probably be in a con- 
dition to buy a horse, and in the course of a few 
years you will thus be the possessor of horses and 
carriages like ourselves." 

This plan for becoming proprietor of horses and 
carriages was not relished, for it meant work, and 
the faces of the Indians bore a disappointed ex- 
pression as the President unfolded it. 

"I do not know any other way to get these 
things," added Lincoln. " It is the plan we have 




pursued — at least those of us who have them. 
You cannot pick them off the trees, and they do 
not fall from the clouds." 

Had it not been for the respect which they owed 
to the speaker as the Great Father, it was plain 
that they would have exclaimed against his words 
with the untutored energy of their Indian nature. 
As he was well acquainted with that nature, having 
served as captain in the Tippecanoe war and spent 
his early life on the frontier, a suspicion entered 
my mind that he was blending with the advice a 
little chaffing. To change the subject and restore 
them to good humor, he requested one of the 
attendants to roll up a large globe of the world 
which stood in a corner on a three-legged support 
on wheels. The President placed his hand on the 
globe and turned it round, saying : 

" We pale faces believe that the world is round. 
like this." 

At this point Lincoln caught the inquiring eyes 
of the Indians fastened like a note of interrogation 
on the legs of the globe. 

"Without the legs," continued Lincoln, in 
answer to the mute interrogation, with a twinkle 
in his eye. "We pale faces can get into a big 
canoe, shoved by steam, — here, for instance, at 

Washington, or Baltimore near by, — go round tht. 
world, and come back to the place from which we 

With due respect to the Great Father, they evi- 
dently thought, to give it a mild term, that he wai 
given to exaggeration. He started off again, to tell 
about the North Pole, the torrid zone, the length 
and breadth of the United States, and how long it 
would take a man to walk from one end of it to the 
other, in which he got somewhat entangled; then 
seeing a well-known man of science on his right, 
Lincoln placed his hand on his shoulder, gently 
urged him forward to a position in front of the 
Indians, to whom he said: 

" But here is one of our learned men, who will 
tell you all about it." 

Saying this, Lincoln bowed and withdrew, and 
the savant, taken by surprise, endeavored to extri- 
cate himself from the difficulty as best he could, by 
continuing the theme where the President left off. 

One somber event followed the Indian reception. 
Big Wolf, who had expressed the desire to have 
sausages like white men, satisfied his appetite in 
the hotel on this food without stint, and it was this 
product of our civilization which was his bane. In 
a word, sausage killed him. 


By Emily Huntington Miller. 

Yes, lads, I 'm a poor old body ; 

My wits are not over clear ; 
I can't remember the day o' the week, 

And scarcely the time o' year. 
But one thing is down in my mem'ry 

So deep, it is sure to stay ; 
It was long ago, but it all comes back 

As if it had happened to-day. 

I mind 't was a raw Thanksgiving, 

The sleet drove sharp as knives, 
And most of us here at the harbor 

Were sailors' sweethearts and wives. 
But I had my goodman beside me, 

And everything tidy and bright, 
When, all of a sudden, a signal 

Shot up through the murky night, 

Here, stand by the window, laddies. 

Do you see, away to the right, 
A long black line on the water, 

Topped with a crest of white ? 
That is the reef Defiance, 

Where the good ship Gaspereau 
Beat out her life in the breakers, 

Just fifty-six years ago. 

And a single gun in the darkness 

Boomed over and over again, 
As if it bore in its awful tone 

The shrieks of women and men. 
And down to the rocks we crowded, 

Facing the icy rain, 
Praying the Lord to be their aid, 

Since human help was vain. 

J vi8 7 6.] 



Then my goodman stooped and kissed me, 

And said, " It is but to die: 
Who goes with me to the rescue ? " 

And six noble lads cried "I ! " 
And crouching there in the tempest, 

Hiding our faces away, 
We heard them row into the blackness, 

And what could we do but pray ? 

So long, when at last we heard them 

Cheering faint, off the shore, 
I thought I had died and gone to heaven, 

And all my trouble was o'er. 
And the white-faced women and children 

Seemed like ghosts in my sight, 
As the boats, weighed down to the water, 

Came tossing into the light. 

Eh, that was a heartsome Thanksgiving, 

With sobbing and laughter and prayers : 
Our lads with their brown, dripping faces, 

And not a face missing from theirs. 
For you never can know how much dearer 

The one you love dearest can be, 
Till you 've had him come back to you safely 

From out of the jaws of the sea. 

And little we cared that the breakers 

Were tearing the ship in their hold. 
There are things, if you weigh them fairly, 

Will balance a mint of gold. 
And even the bearded captain 

Said, "Now let the good ship go, 
Since never a soul that sailed ^with me 

Goes down in the Gaspereau." 

By Mrs. E. G. Carter. 

If you had been in Boston one hundred years 
ago, you might have seen, one pleasant April morn- 
ing, a clumsy, yellow-bodied, four-wheeled chaise 
lumbering and clattering over the cobble-stone 
pavements of Orange Street. On the front seat 
sat a small black driver, grinning, squirming and 
ejaculating in a marvelous manner. On the back 
seat was a prim lady, with a pursed-up mouth and 
very elevated eyebrows. So expressive of indigna- 
tion was her face, that the gray hair drawn sharply 
up over the cushion topping her forehead, seemed 
about to lift itself up and float off on the sweet 
spring air. 

Beside the displeased-looking lady was a restless 
little sprite in scarlet cloak and hood, whose small 
head wagged from side to side in wondering scru- 
tiny of the streets and houses which her little 
bright eyes had not looked on for nearly a year. 

After the battle of Lexington, Boston was in a 
state of siege, and a great many of the inhabitants 
on the patriot side early availed themselves of 
the permission to leave the town with their effects. 
The British occupied the beleaguered town for 
eleven months, and when they could hold it no 
longer, hurriedly departed on the morning of the 
17th of March. The exiled families were now re- 
turning to their deserted homes and hearths. 

The yellow post-chaise had picked its way cau- 
tiously into Boston over the Neck, Sam looking out 
sharply for the iron crow's-feet, with which the 
British had strewn the road. This peril passed, 
Sam was ordered to make a detour before he drew 
up at the door in Marlborough Street, that the ladies 
might have a glimpse of their beloved Common. 

" Hi ! yi ! zi ! " grunted Sam, as his rolling eyes 
surveyed the devastation made by the troops. 
" Fences down, big trees down, yartti" all cut up 
and cris-crossed like mince-meat ! I 'd like to get 
hold o' dose Britishoors ! " 

In default of a " Britishoor," Sam swelled him- 
self up and laid the whip on to the luckless horse, 
so that the poor beast started off at a break-neck 
pace through Paddock's Mall and down a cross- 
way into Marlborough Street. He stopped short 
at last before a gambrel-roofed house that stood at 
the end of a little court-yard, fancifully paved with 
beach stones, and lined on either side by a row of 

Little Abigail quickly scrambled out of the chaise 
after her mother, nearly smothering with hugs and 
kisses the portly black woman in a plaid turban, 
who stood on the broad door-step to greet them. 

" Welcome home, missuses ! Praise be to Prov- 
idence, our walls, and roof, and chimleys is a 




stannin' pooty much as we'se lef' 'em. But every 
other thing 'bout de house looks 'z if de caterpillar 
and de locus' and all de res' of de plagues of Egypt 
had lit on 'em, and crawled over 'em toof and nail. 
But, howsomever, small marcies is matter of thanks- 
giving in dese times of war and tribulation." 

We will leave Mrs. Ward and black Phillis to . 
make the tour of the ill-used house, which during 
their absence had been occupied by British officers, 
while little Abigail darts off to look for her London 
doll, Gloriana, hidden for many months in a small 
secret closet in the wall. 

Abigail's stout high-heeled shoes clattered up 
over the oaken stairs from landing to landing, and 
the little girl made heedless haste from room to 
room, skurrying at last into a queer three-corned 
chamber, where she scrambled up into a tall chair 
and felt, 'with nervous eagerness, along the dingy 
paneled wall. She touched the spring she sought, 
and a small door flew open, revealing a deep, low, 
triangular closet, in the midst of which sat majes- 
tically the London doll, Gloriana, presiding over 
a few moldy fragments of tarts and cakes. 

" Oh, my Gloriana ! " cried little Abigail, in 
a frenzy of delight. "There you are just exactly 
as lovely, and live, and precious as I left you last 

Abigail seized the precious Gloriana and hugged 
her to her heart, whereupon a fine sprinkling of 
shreds of golden hair, and bits of silkeri over-dress 
and petticoat, powdered little Abigail's scarlet cloak. 
Alas, the little mice had not only been busy with 
Gloriana's tarts and cakes, but had unblushingly 
nibbled the doll's wig and garments. 

"Never mind your clothes, Glory dear, I can 
make you new ones," chirped Abigail, cheerfully, 
shaking the shreds from her cloak. " If the mice 
had gnawed your lovely nose, that would have been 
a great mischief; but you are beautifuller than 
ever. Oh, how I used to cry, some nights, out in 
Milton, when I heard the cannon boom-booming ! 
I was so afraid a ball might go right through your 
precious, precious head. How scared and mis'ble 
I was, too, when I locked you up here in such a 
hurry. Don't you remember how old Phillis stuck 
her head in the room and says, ' Toss that poppet 
into the panel closet, and put your clothes into the 
brass-bound trunk ? We 're off for Milton in an 
hour, on the last pass to be had for love or money.' 
Can't you hear her queer black pronouncements 
this very minute, Gloriana, telling me 'not to waste 
one vallerble second, if I did n't want the British 
bayonets poking into my back?' Ha! ha! Come, 
let's go down-stairs and look at things." 

Down the crooked, winding back-stairs hurried 
Abigail and the liberated Gloriana. 

A bright fire of strange-shaped sticks blazed on 

the kitchen hearth, where stout oaken logs wer 
wont to be piled. 

" How queer!" piped Abigail, surveying the fin. 

"Queer, missis? Sartin. Mos' like 'tis th 
blessed Wes' Church steeple itself," sighed Phillis 
blowing dolefully with the bellows. " I heard te! 
they cut it down for fire-wood. Poor folks' houses 
too, chopped down by the dozen to keep th 
wretched Tory pots a-b'ilin'. Dat 'ar warmin'-pan 
look a' dat ! " Phillis threw down the bellows anc 
seized the tongs, heaping coals on the bake-kettl 
cover as if it were a red-coat's head. " All jags anq 
smooches ! It 's my 'pinion the Britishers fit witl| 
it 'stead of bayonets. So as dat 'ar used to shine 
Look at dat dresser, too. Plates and mugs mus' 1 
been jes' flung roun' in high scrimmage from morn I 
in' till night. Never a one set 'spect'bly up on enc 
since I lef dis yer kitchen, / know. If you 'd ; 
seen the time I had scouring-up here and settlin: 
things, you 'd said I 'd shore been down with dt 
small-pox, or some killin' ail, long afore dis." 

" Mamma ! " piped Abigail from the dining 
room, about which she was now fluttering with 
Gloriana. "Just see how the dining-table looks — ■ 
and the curtains ! Oh, mamma ! " 

" Dey cut up raw meat on dat 'hogany table ; 
yes, missis, so Governor Hancock's man Tom tolc 
me," burst in Sam, gazing on the table with eyes 
of horror, — the table which, with the assistance of 
many cuffs and fillips from Phillis, he had been 
used to keep as bright and spotless as a mirror. 
" An' de curtings ! He says they blowed out in dt 
rain and de sun from mornin' till night. Oh, my ! ' 

Sam, gaping and gazing at the battered house- 
hold goods, his hands in his pockets and his woolly 
head thrown back, looked a very statue of dismay. 

Now came in, quite breathless, Benjamin, Abi- 
gail's brother ; his cocked hat under his arm, and 
his long-skirted coat unbuttoned. 

"I've been everywhere, Abigail! Up Sentry 
Hill, down to the Mill Pond, all through King 
Street, and back again to the Jail ; on to the Com- 
mon and into the ' Old South.' You ought to see 
the Old South ! Pews all torn out, and " 

" Pews torn out ! " gasped Abigail, all a-tremble 
at the thought of sacrilegious hands having been 
laid on the church. 

"Torn out, and a riding-school fixed up at one 
end ! I tell you what, Abigail Ward, you never 
saw such a sight. Come right along with me. It 
beats seeing Percy galloping up and down Long- 
Acre on his white horse, getting his fine Fusiliers 
under way for Lexington, that day old Carter dis- 
missed us, and said : ' School 's out, boys. War 
has begun ! ' Wasn't that a lively day." 

Abigail, Gloriana and Benjamin were soon hur- 
rying along to the Old South, which was quite near 




)y. Abigail only peeped into the desecrated meet- 
ng-house, though Benjamin was eloquent in urg- 
ng the grand view from the gallery, which he 
Assured her had been fitted up in fine style for 
I jpectators ; and refreshments too, of prime qual- 
ity, had been sold up there ! 

Abigail stopped her ears and hurried out in 
[raorror. Seeing her face of distress, a bold-faced 
P30y sidled up to her and announced, glibly : 

" Deacon Hubbard's pew, silk curtains and all, 
was carted down behind our wood-shed and made 
.into a pig- pen. Want to see it ? " 

"You're a naughty Tory boy!" flashed out 
Abigail ; and gathering up her little quilted home- 
spun skirt, she pattered off over the flag-stones, 
^followed by her laughing brother. 
\i " Let 's go and look at the Province House. 
1 Our flag is hoisted there. Thirteen stripes ! It 
n looks gay, I can tell you." 

1! " Let 's," said Abigail, stamping her foot as if 
the hated British colors were under her heel. 
j So, with their heads in the air and their admiring 
1 eyes on the flag, they sauntered over the Province 
-House lawn, and then climbed the twenty steps 
that led to the grand entrance. These steps they 

remembered gay with gayly dressed gentlemen 
and officers coming and going from the governor, 
who lived there in great state. But the governor 
had vanished, and not a red-coat did they see. 
They were all gone together. 

'• Hoorah ! Good-by to the lobster-coats!" 
shouted Benjamin, swinging his cocked hat. 

" Hoorah ! " shrilled little Abigail, swinging 
Gloriana till fragments of her wig and petticoat 
powdered the stones. 

Just at this patriotic explosion, the Old South 
struck twelve, and with a parting glance at the 
bronze Indian above the cupola, gazing down at 
them with his glittering glass eyes, the children 
hastened home to dinner. 

"Where have you been, Abigail?" said the 
prim lady, who was crossing the hall as the small 
people closed the door behind them. 

Abigail explained. Then, for going out without 
permission, she was obliged to thrust Gloriana 
back into the panel closet with the moldy frag- 
ments of last year's feast ; then to come down and 
sit in her straight-backed chair, and stitch diligently 
on her sampler one hour by the tall clock in the 


By Joel Stacy. 

Buzzy Buzz, Wuzzy Fuzz, Dippetty Flop, 
Ali flew up to the cherry-tree top. 
" Pooh ! " said Buzzy Buzz, "this is n't high ! 
Let's keep on till we get to the sky." 

Upward they went, and they never would stop — 
Buzzy Buzz, Wuzzy Fuzz, Dippetty Flop ; 
"Ah, how jolly!" they started to say — 
When ev'ry one of them fainted away ! 

The next they knew they were down on the 

Three dizzy bumble-bees, frightened but sound : 

Never a mortal had heard them drop — 
Buzzy Buzz, Wuzzy Fuzz, Dippetty Flop. 

Humbled and tumbled, and dusty and lamed, 
Would n't you think they 'd have been quite 

ashamed ? 
But "No, sir," they buzzed, "it was n't a fall; 
We only came down from the sky, that is all." 

And now, whenever you see three bees 
Buzzing and pitching about by your knees. 
You '11 know, by their never once venturing high, 
They're the very same bees that flew up to the sky ! 






By James W. Preston. 

The lead-pencil, as we have it, was unknown to 
the ancients, and even to the moderns before the 
reign of " Good Queen Bess," as the English love 
to call their Queen Elizabeth. Just think how in- 
convenient it must have been to those old Greek 
and Latin authors, and to the writers and scholars 
of Europe from the earliest times down to within 
about three hundred years, to have no lead-pencils 
with which to write or to rule their paper — or what- 
ever they wrote upon. They often used a piece of 
sheet lead, cut as any boy could cut it, into a flat 
disk, with the edge sharpened all around so as to 
make a fine line, but of course this was not to write 

with, but only to rule lines to write on. And then 
again, what did artists and designers use to draw 
and sketch with ? Almost all of them used the old- 
fashioned pen (made of the goose or crow quill) and 
ink. Some artists, indeed, made use of a kind of 
pencil formed of a mixture of common lead and tin, 
and as this composition was comparatively hard 
and faint in color, the paper was prepared for the 
purpose of drawing by giving it a coating of chalk. 
Others, too. made some very fine drawings with 
chalk of various colors. But the article chiefly in 
use was the " gray goose quill." 

With what delight, then, must the world of artists 

i8 7 6.) 



and writers of all kinds have hailed the invention 
of the hlack-lead pencil, as we have it to-day ! 1 
said black-lead, but although the metallic part of 
this little implement is universally called black-lead, 
there is not a particle of lead in it. This black, 
smooth, soft and glossy substance is properly called 
plumbago, and is a compound of carbon and iron, 
or, as the chemists term it, a carburet of iron. 

There are several varieties of plumbago found in 
the rocks in different parts of the world, some of 
which are good for one use, and others for other 
uses, and it happens that one of these varieties is 
fine-grained, soft, nearly free from grit, and well 
adapted for writing with, and this kind has received 
the name of graphite, from Greek words which 
signify writing stone. 

Some of my readers doubtless remember that in 
the time of Queen Elizabeth of England, was born 
the greatest of English poets, William Shakspeare. 
He came into the world in the year 1564, about six 
years after Elizabeth came to the throne, and it was 
in that same year that there was discovered in the 
county of Cumberland, in the north-west corner of 
England, a mine of the best and purest graphite 
that had ever been seen. I have put these dates 
together so that you will be apt to remember them 
all, when either of them is mentioned. This sub- 
stance was so solid and firm and strong, and free 
from grit or sandy particles, that it could be sawed 
into sheets, and these could be sawed again into 
little narrow strips without breaking. These little 
strips of graphite being soft, and smooth, and black, 
were inclosed in round pieces of some soft wood, 
grooved out to receive and hold them ; and that 
was the modern lead-pencil to all intents and pur- 

This mine at Borrowdale, in Cumberland, at 
once became very celebrated, and of course very 
valuable.- Pencils made of Cumberland graphite 
were to be found all over Europe, and were highly 
prized everywhere. The manufacture of lead-pen- 
cils became a very important branch of business, 
and in order to keep it wholly within the borders 
of their own country, the English government 
passed laws prohibiting the export of graphite to 
foreign lands. Its value was such, that the average 
price in London was about ten dollars ($10) a 
pound, and the very finest quality sometimes 
reached forty dollars ($40) a pound. They took 
such good care of it that only a certain quantity, 
enough to supply the requirements of the pencil- 
makers, was doled out, on the first Monday in 
every month ; and moreover, the government was 
obliged to keep a military force at the mines, to 
protect it from bands of marauders and robbers, 
who attempted to get possession of it. 

England thus supplied the world with lead-pen- 

cils for nearly three hundred years. It is true that 
pencils were made of an impure graphite in some 
other parts of Europe ; but they were a very inferior 
article compared with the English, and artists and 
all others who required good lead-pencils were 
obliged to look to England for them. 

But there is an end to almost all good things, 
and so it proved at last with the graphite mine of 
Cumberland. Its exhaustion was only a question 
of time, and that time has now passed. It was 
clearly foreseen that some means must be devised 
for making the impure kinds of graphite available 
for the needs of the world, or the world must be 
content to give up the use of black-lead pencils. 
All sorts of experiments were tried with the graph- 
ite to purify and soften it, and at the same time to 
give it firmness and cohesion, so that it would not 
break nor crumble when sharpened and in use. 
They ground up the plumbago to a fine powder, 
washed it in repeated waters, so as to separate the 
sand or grit from it, and afterward subjected it to a 
great pressure to make it compact and firm. But 
this did not succeed. They then mixed the pow- 
dered plumbago with different materials, such as 
glue, isinglass, gum arabic, etc., to give it the 
necessary strength ; but this did not answer at all. 
Then they added to the powdered material about 
one-third its weight of pulverized sulphur, and this 
was a partial success, but the marks made with 
this mixture were faint, and did not satisfy the 
need, and this was, on the whole, a failure. 

But at last, as usual, patience, perseverance, in- 
genuity and experience solved the problem. Pen- 
cils are now made better adapted for all uses, 
blacker or fainter, harder or softer, than ever could 
be made of the best Cumberland lead by the old 
method. The mode of treating the plumbago by 
which this result is obtained is a French invention. 
It consists simply in mixing the powdered and 
purified plumbago with powdered clay, in a certain 
manner and certain proportions, moistening and 
drying and pressing and baking the mass, varying 
the treatment according to the different grades of 
pencils required. What is meant by grade in this 
connection, will be readily understood if you ex- 
amine a case of A.. W. Faber's finest and best 
polygrade lead-pencils. You will find upon them 
certain letters, which indicate the degree of hard- 
ness or softness, and the shade whether darker 
or lighter. For example, bbbbbb means that the 
pencil bearing that mark is extra soft and very 
black ; BBB, very soft and very black ; BB, very 
soft and black ; B, soft and black y HB. less soft 
and black ; F ', middling j H, hard : hh, harder ; 
hhh, HHHH, very hard ; HHHHHH, extra hard. 

These different grades are very convenient, and 
indeed are required by artists ; but by the old 




method of making the Cumberland lead-pencils, 
these nice shadings of softness and blackness could 
not have been obtained. So that human ingenuity 
and care may make an inferior article answer a 
better purpose than the purest natural product, 
unaided by human skill. 

There is a very grand manufacturing establish- 
ment in Germany, where the best lead-pencils are 
made: an establishment which a century ago con- 
sisted of only one little cottage house by the river- 
side, but now comprises large shops and tasteful 
dwelling-houses, a garden and grove, a gymnasium, 
a fine library, and a beautiful Gothic church, all 
provided and supported by the proprietors, for the 

use and benefit of the workmen and their families, 
whose fathers and grandfathers have worked on the 
same spot and for the same family for a hundred 
years or more. 

If I had space, I might also tell you how a most 
valuable mine of graphite, as good as that of Cum- 
berland, has been discovered in Siberia, from which 
that great manufactory is supplied with graphite. 
I could also tell you how the cedar-wood of which 
the pencils are made is taken from a cedar swamp 
on the western side of Florida, so that this cedar 
is transported to the heart of Europe, and there 
united with graphite from the mountains of Siberia, 
to be used as lead-pencils by Americans. 


By Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. 

When young Trotty Derridown went to the 
country to spend Thanksgiving at her grandmother's 
last year, she happened to get into the great old- 
fashioned garret. She was so impatient for dinner 
on the morning of Thanksgiving Day, that she 
wandered hither and thither inside and outside of 
the house (which was very empty and still, because 
almost every one had gone to church), trying to see 
or smell something which would be at least half as 
pleasant as turkey and plum-pudding are to eyes 
and nose; to say nothing of being allowed a mouth- 
ful of either on one's fork. And so, after opening 
a great many doors, and going into a great many 
places where she was not expected to go, she at 
last opened a door at the foot of such a dark stair- 
case that she thought the world had suddenly 
turned upside down, and that this must be a fairy 
road leading up into the earth ! 

Trotty stood in the half-opened door-way quite a 
long time, unable to decide whether she had the 
courage to enter a fairy kingdom after all, though 
she had often determined to do so if she got a 
chance. Then it came into her head that perhaps 
dinner would be served earlier in Fairyland than at 
home, which overcame her fears, and .the garret- 
door closed after her little pink skirt as it whisked 
out of the sunlight. When Trot reached the head 
of the stairs she knew she was not in Fairyland, 
because of a dim light from two windows, which 
showed her all sorts of odds and ends of furniture, 

and bunches of herbs hanging to the many beams 
that spread beneath the roof like huge roots. But 
it would do just as well as Fairyland for the pres- 
ent, she thought, and help her to get used to queer 
things. Very likely there were elves in the dark 
crannies on every side ; and the idea made her 
almost wish herself in the sunny entry again. 

"There's something quee-ar ! " she exclaimed, 
as she caught sight of a great black velvet bonnet 
a hundred years old, that looked a good deal like 
a basket. But it had two long strings dangling 
down, so she knew what it was in a minute. Of 
course she scrambled into a cradle standing under 
the wonderful bonnet, and snuffed out her pretty 
face with it, as one does a candle, in a trice. Then 
she made a big bow of the strings under her chin, 
which took her a long time, as any little girl of five 
might know it would. She looked very much like 
an hour-glass now, for she was as broad at top as at 
bottom, with a little waist in the middle. However, 
she could not see herself, and had reason to suppose 
nobody else knew whether she was looking her best 
or not,.since she could not have felt further off from 
grandmother and all the family if she had stepped 
over to Japan. 

"What can you be?" thought the pink skirt 
and black bonnet, walking up to a spinning-wheel 
higher than two Trotties. When she saw it was a 
wheel she thought it ought to go round, no matter 
how big it was (and it seemed to her as big as the 

i8 7 6.] 



duck-pond), so she put a finger on one of the spokes 
and gave a push with all her might. What a rattle it 
made ! Something flew up and something flapped 
down, and the wheel seemed delighted to have a lit- 
tle exercise after twenty years of snoozing, and kept 
going round, rattling and banging for some time. 

" Ho-hoo-00 ! " heard Trotty all at once from 
somebody behind. She was sure it was a crowd of 
Brownies or some such fry, for the sound was soft 
and strange. She threw her head back very far, 
in order to get a good view from under the wide- 

took Dinah into her arms and petted her, as she 
petted all her dolls. Dinah was on the broad grin, 
in or out of trouble. She had red flannel lips and 
white cotton teeth and a black cashmere face. Her 
dress was red, with a white pinafore, so that she 
was very cheering to look at ; and she had a sweet 
disposition, as one could see directly, for she held 
her head on either this side or that, being cloth, 
and never was stiff-necked like the Israelites. The 
only stiff thing about her was her hair, and that 
grandmother had knitted, and ironed, and raveled 


spreading bonnet, and gazed around. Then she 
sat down on the floor and looked under the bureaus 
and chairs and sofas. Yes, there was a Brownie, 
sure enough, hanging by the foot out of the lower 
drawer of one of the bureaus. It looked uncom- 
fortable, and Trotty thought it very stupid in a 
creature that was first cousin to the Fairies to allow 
itself to be in that position. The next moment she 
saw it was nothing more nor less than a good old 
negro dolly, with lovely frizzly hair standing up all 
over its head, as if it were a black thistle. 

"Come to me, dear," whispered Trotty, sitting 
along the floor till she arrived at the bureau. "Has 
the naughty drawer hurt dolly's foot ? " and she 
Vol. IV.— 2. 

out, so it was not Dinah's fault if it never lay flat 

" You pressus doll ! " cooed Trotty, after looking 
at her treasure for a long time ; and she was amazed 
to think she could ever have lived without her. 

"Ho-hoo-00!" sounded somewhere again. 

Trotty was not much frightened this time, be- 
cause she had Dinah for company. She threw her 
head back once more, de-ter-mined to find out who 
spoke. Mercy on us ! She caught sight of two 
great yellow eyes in a corner. 

"Pussy?" said she, questioningly. But when 
Trotty in the big black bonnet, and Dinah in the 
red dress and white pinafore, came close to the 



corner, behold, there were wings under the eyes, 
and only two feet under the wings. 

" You 're an owl," said Trotty. 

And it was an owl; and he looked cross as if he 
were biting his own nose, although he was only 
curling his beak up under his chin, apparently not 
meaning to speak between now and next Thanks- • 
giving. Trotty was soon tired of having the owl 
look at her so hard, with his ears standing up 
straight, as though he heard some one saying unkind 
things of him behind his back, so she remarked : 

" Please shut your eyes a minute. You have no 
business to keep them open in the day-time, any- 
way. " 

' ' Always listen to what Trotty Derridown says, 
and give her plenty of plum-pudding," answered 
the owl unexpectedly, holding up the tip of a wing 
as one does a forefinger. But he did not shut his 
eyes. Owls are of a philosophic turn ; and philos- 
ophers are always giving away wisdom (as Trotty's 
grandmother does the pears in autumn, lest they 
rot on the grass), because they have more than they 
can keep. But it is quite another matter for them 
to find time to act upon their own advice, or to eat 
their own wisdom, because they are so busy grow- 
ing it and sending it to their neighbors. Now the 
owl in the corner looked stuffed to choking with 

"Arc you stuffed with wisdom?" asked his young 
visitor, who had heard about owls and philosophers 
from her brother Hal. 

The owl lifted one of his claws and laid it on the 
side of his beak. "Goodness!" said he, "was 
there ever such a clever little girl ? " 

Since the question was put to her, Trotty thought 
she might as well answer good-naturedly, so she 
said she supposed there never had been. 

At this the owl shrugged his shoulders even 
higher than before, and Trotty was afraid she had 
not answered to his taste after all. 

"What do you play?" asked the little girl of 
the bird, when they had both been silent awhile. 

The owl ruffled himself up the wrong way, and 
looked like a feather pillow turned inside out, for 
about five minutes, till Trotty's legs ached with 

" I am the Bird of the Philosophers. I play ball 
with them. We throw questions and answers at 
each other. Ho-hoo-oo ! " 

" I could do that. Play ball, 1 mean," said 

"Oh, no," said the owl, haughtily. "First, all 
the philosophers sit round in a circle, each with a 
long white beard on and plenty of questions in his 
pocket. I stand in the middle with all the answers 
under one claw. " 

" What do you do next? " asked Trot, her eyes 

nearly as round as the owl's now. He sighed be 
fore answering. 

" I try to hit the right question, as it flies ovei 
my head, with the right answer, and this must bt 
done before any of the old gentlemen can get hole 
of it. They wear long beards in hopes that soim 
of the questions may get entangled in them. M\ 
eyesight has to be good, and that is the reason m\ 
gaze seems, to some people, rather intense." 

"Would not you rather play with me than with; 
those old Sossophers ? " demanded Trotty. 

The Philosophers' Bird smiled, but held its wind 
to its cheek and said, " Hush-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh ! " 

She was quite startled by the noise he madcj 
when he said " Hush," so she took several step^ 
backward and leaned up against something. It 
was hard and warm, and she soon discovered it wa? 
the chimney. 

"That 's where your dinner is being cooked," 
suggested some one ; she was not sure whether it 
was the owl or Dinah. 

" However, I must be going," she said. " But I 
should like to send a message to those old gentle- 
men. Will you take it, owl?" 

The owl put his beak a great way under his chin 
again, and turned his ears forward as if he were 
listening attentively. 

"Why, you see," continued Trotty, looking 
earnestly into the bird's yellow eyes, and speaking 
round her thumb, which she had put between her 
lips, "I guess they'd better play stwzv-baXls in 
winter, and go a-chestnutting in au/un, and sea- 
bathing in summer, and ■ " 

The owl broke into a real laugh at this ; but sud- 
denly checked himself, drew himself up indignantly, 
and looking over Trotty's head, exclaimed : 

"All my old philosophers go sea-bathing, for- 
sooth ! " 

Just then she heard a deep-toned bell ringing 
good-naturedly down-stairs, and soon some one 
came calling through the entry — 

"Trot! Trot! where have you gone? Dinner 
is ready." 

How Trot ran ! Dinah got a flap on every cornerr) 
they passed ; but then she was always contented 
with whatever happened, and appeared in the entry 
with as smiling a face as her new mamma. 

There was Trotty's mamma, too, laughing at her 
black basket of a bonnet. All at once her brother 
Hal stood by her side, and she half believed she 
had seen him come out of the garret door. 

"Well, Miss Derridown," gasped he, quite out 
of breath, "how do you like the Philosophers 
Bird ? " and he doubled himself up and went tum- 
bling down-stairs. When he was a great way off, 
Trotty heard such a shout of merriment ! She 
does not understand what it all means even yet. 

i8 7 6.| 




By Mary N. Prescott. 

I HAVE heard — I don't know whether 
Wide awake or fast asleep — 

That the stars once sang together 
To some shepherds tending sheep. 

So, at night, when they are glistening,' 
Just before I close my eyes, 

I look up, and keep a-listening 
For the music from the skies. 

And the stars shine out so brightly, 
That I cannot think but they, 

While I listen to them nightly, 
Will repeat the heavenly lay. 


By Susan Coolidge. 

A LONG time, — more than seven hundred years 
ago, and three centuries at least before Columbus 
discovered America, — there was born in England a 
little girl to whom they gave the name of Matilda. 
This little girl belonged to a very high family 
indeed, as you will think when I tell you who her 
relations were. For grandpapa, she had William, 
the great Duke of Normandy, called "The Con- 
queror," because he invaded England and conquered 
it. Her father was the king, Henry I., surnamed 
Beauclerc, because he was so good a scholar, though 
I rather fancy our high-school boys could beat 
his learning without trouble. Matilda's mother, 
known to history as " Maud the Good," was de- 
scended from Harold, the last of the Saxon kings. 
Maud the Good was not a very happy Maud. 
When she was a young girl, they put her into a 
convent, and there she hoped to spend her life, 
tending flowers, and telling her beads with the 

gentle nuns. But one day, came to the convent 
King Henry, to order her to put aside her veil and 
become his wife. — an order not easy to disobey, 
because in those days kings were very powerful. 
People hoped that by thus uniting the royal race of 
the Saxons with the conquering Norman race, an 
end would be put to the many feuds and quarrels 
which made the kingdom restless and unhappy. 
So Maud, with a sigh, left the peaceful retreat, and 
married King Henry. She had a little son and a 
little daughter, the Princess Matilda ; but she was 
not happy, and died young, feeling, the old chron- 
icles tell us, that her sacrifice had been in vain, 
and England was no better off than if she had 
stayed in the convent. 

For in those days England was a sad place 
enough ; even a poet would never have dared to 
call it " merry " then. Everywhere was confusion 
of rulers and of languages. The tongue we call 




English was not yet in being, and people spoke 
Celtic, Cymric, Gaelic, Saxon, or French, — accord- 
ing to the race they belonged to, and the part of 
the country in which they lived. All the materials 
for the England of to-day were there, but they were 
in separate parcels, so to speak, and only time could 
mix and blend them. The Saxons fought the Nor- 
mans ; the Normans robbed, imprisoned, and tort- 
ured everybody they could lay hold of who had 
property of any kind. Everywhere — no matter 
which party governed — the poor were ill-treated 
and pillaged. Multitudes fled across the sea to 
other lands, and "so general was the discourage- 
ment of the people, that whenever two or three 
horsemen only were seen approaching a village or 
open burgh, all the inhabitants fled to conceal 
themselves. So extreme were their sufferings, that 
their complaints amounted to impiety ; for, seeing 
all these crimes and atrocities going on without 
check or visible rebuke, men said openly that 
Christ and His saints had fallen asleep." It is 
hard, indeed, to realize that the rich, powerful 
England of to-day can ever have been so miserable. 

When little Matilda was five years old, she was 
married to the Emperor of Germany. A fleet of 
vessels sailed with the baby bride to her new home, 
and there was a splendid show in London in honor 
of her departure. But the people, who had to pay 
for the show, did not enjoy it much ; and, later, 
when Matilda was a woman grown, they remem- 
bered against her the heavy taxes of that wedding- 

Not long after, a sad thing happened. Matilda's 
brother, a young man of eighteen, went over to 
Normandy with his father, and, coming back in a 
vessel named the " White Ship" was drowned with 
all his companions, only one surviving to tell the 
tale. None of the courtiers dared to carry the news 
to the king. So they sent in a little boy, almost a 
baby, who, when he saw the king, knelt at his feet, 
and began to cry. The king asked the child what 
was the matter, and the little fellow sobbed out that 
the "White Ship" was sunk and the prince drowned. 
It is said that King Henry never was seen to smile 
after that day. Mrs. Hemans wrote some pretty 
verses on the subject, which some of you have per- 
haps seen : 

"He sat where mirth and jest went round ; 

He bade the minstrel sing. 
He saw the tourney's victor crowned 

Amid the gallant ring. 
A murmur of the restless deep 

Mingled with every strain, 
A voice of winds that would not sleep, 

He never smiled again." 

The little Empress Matilda was now the only 
child left to the king, and his heart was set in be- 
queathing to her the crown of England. Before 

his death, in 1 128, he called the nobles of the 
kingdom together, and made them swear allegiance 
to her as queen. The emperor, Matilda's husband, 
had died before this, and Matilda was married again 
to the French Earl of Anjou. After her father's 
death she came to England and was crowned at 
Winchester. Daughter thus of one king, mother, 
as she afterward became, of another, empress by 
marriage, and Sovereign of England in her own 
right, you will wonder that I have called Matilda 
'" no queen." I will tell you why I did so. It was 
because all her life long she never learned to reign 
over herself, which for man or woman is the high- 
est and most necessary form of government. Solo- 
mon says : " He that ruleth his own spirit is better 
than he that taketh a city ; " and Solomon, as you 
know, was a king, and understood what becomes 
crowned people as well as those who are not 

All her life long, — whether as princess, empress, 
or queen. — Matilda showed herself vain, passionate, 
vindictive, hasty, arrogant, and inconsiderate of 
other people. She had none of the womanly tact 
which often subdues prejudice and conquers influ- 
ence. She was brave in time of danger, strong of 
body, firm-willed, and fearless ; but these are rather 
a man's qualities than a woman's. Patience and 
sweetness she had none. Her haughty manners 
and cruel speeches offended friends as well as foes. 
Those who at first were ready to give all for her 
service, became afterward her bitterest enemies. 
She exasperated the common people by imposing 
heavy taxes and making oppressive laws, just when 
she should have conciliated and soothed them. 
England had never been ruled by a woman before. 
Both the nobles and the people disliked the idea of 
a queen, and Matilda did nothing to make her sex 
popular. She was ungenerous also. Her cousin, 
and rival, Stephen, who afterward became king in 
her stead, once surprised and captured her in 
Arundel Castle, and instead of detaining, courte- 
ously let her go, and even furnished her with 
an escort to her friends. Later, she in her turn 
captured Stephen ; but, far from remembering his 
kind treatment and reciprocating it, she loaded him 
with chains and threw him into the dungeon of 
Bristol Castle. His wife, a princess of great beauty 
and excellence, came to beg his release, and Matilda 
received her in the rudest manner, heaped insulting 
words upon her, and finally dismissed her harshly, 
while the poor princess wept and pleaded in vain. 
A little longer, and it was again Stephen's turn. 
He made his escape from Bristol, gained one battle 
after another, and pursued Matilda so hotly, that 
more than once she slipped through his fingers 
almost as by a miracle. These escapes of Queen 
Matilda are celebrated in history. Whole volumes 













■If ! !™^ 

IKW 111 

' • > 1^ "1,1 \>Avft^, l\x 1 i*j»«y 



B E N I T A . 


of romances might be written about them, so strange 
and picturesque and astonishing are they. 

Once, when the citizens of London rose suddenly 
against her, she got off by jumping on her horse 
and galloping out of the city only five minutes before 
the gates of her palace were battered down. Another 
time she fled from Gloucester in the same way, the 
Earl of Gloucester and a few gallant knights remain- 
ing behind to keep the pursuers at bay. Again it 
is said she feigned death, and was carried in a hearse 
with a long train of mourners all the way from 
Gloucester to Devizes. But, most romantic of all, 
and most adventurous, was her escape from Oxford, 
as shown in the illustration to this article. 

Oxford boasted a strong castle in those days. 
Into this the empress-queen had thrown herself, 
and for three months had defended it bravely. 
Then provisions gave out, and no hope was left but 
flight. But how to fly ? Stephen's army lay on 
every side like cats round a mouse-hole. Every 
avenue of escape was guarded, and sleepless eyes 
watched day and night that no one should pass in 
or out of the fortress. 

It was in this extremity that an unexpected ally 
came to the rescue of Queen Matilda. This ally 
was no other than that doer of good turns, Jack 
Frost. One December night he went silently down, 
laid a cold hard floor across the River Thames, 
wrapped all the world in fleecy snow, and then, 
flying to the castle windows, tapped with his crack- 
ling icy knuckles, whistled, sang, and made many 
sorts of odd noises, as much as to say, "All is ready, 
come out and take a walk." Matilda heard, and a 
bright plan popped into her daring head. She 
called four trusty knights, bade them wrap them- 
selves in white, put on herself a white dress and 
cloak, covered her black hair with a white hood, 

and, like spirits, all five set forth on foot. Their 
steps made no sound as they crept along, and their 
white figures cast hardly a shadow on the whiter 

Through the besieging camp they crept, and 
across the frozen river. No sentinel spied them ; 
not even a dog barked. If any lonely peasant 
waked up and caught a glimpse of the dim shapes 
gliding by, he probably took them for ghosts, and 
hid his head under the bedclothes again as fast as 
possible. So, sometimes on foot, and sometimes 
on horseback, but always unpursued and in safety, 
the fugitives sped on, and reached Wallingford, 
where Matilda's army lay, and were secure. 

For a few years longer the struggle lasted ; 
then, all hope over, Matilda fled across the channel 
to Normandy. Her brief queenship was ended, 
and she never came back to reign in England, 
though in later years her son Henry II. became one 
of its greatest monarchs. We don't know much 
about Matilda's old age, but I cannot fancy that it 
was a pleasant one. I imagine that she must have 
been a disagreeable old lady, querulous, and exact- 
ing. The girl makes the woman, you know ; youth 
lays the foundation for after years, and what we 
sow we reap. Matilda sowed pride, anger, selfish- 
ness, and hard words, and her crop came up duly 
as crops will. She could rule neither herself nor 
others, and it is not wonderful that England refused 
to be ruled by her. I wont draw any moral from 
her story, for I know you will skip it, as I always 
did with morals when I was a little girl. Besides, 
you are bright enough to see the meanings of things, 
and make out their lessons without help, and do 
not need me to say in so many words that — 

"Trust me dears, good-humor will prevail 

When airs and flights, and screams and scoldings fail." 

By Mary E. Bradley. 

When the summer morning in the sky 

Opens like a blossom, pink and pearly, 
With the bee. and with the butterfly, 

And with the bonny birds that sing so early, 
Little blue-eyed, yellow-haired Benita 

Trips along the shady woodland ways: 
Kiss the little maiden kindly, if you meet her— 

She deserves your kisses and your praise. 

'T is a lonely path the little willing feet 

In the early morning have to follow. 
To the spring that bubbles, clearly cold and sweet, 

Down amongst the mosses in the hollow. 
Still behind the trees the shadows darken. 

Chill her baby-bosom with a sudden dread ; 
Timidly she looks about to hearken, 

Fancving she hears a wild beast's tread ! 

i8 7 6.] 



Where its silver web the spider weaves, 

Silver drops like fairy jewels twinkle ; 
Pushing back the tangle of the leaves, 

Face and hands get many a showery sprinkle. 
But she does not stop, the little kind Benita, 

For her coaties draggled and her dripping shoe ; 
Only trips along with steps the fleeter, 

Smiling at the pretty sparkles of the dew. 

Cool and sweet it bubbles in the spring — 

Oh, be sure the loving little sister 
Hurries back, the healing draught to bring, 

Long before the baby can have missed her. 
By and by will come a mournful morrow 

When she need not rise before the sun ; 
Then it will be comfort in her sorrow 

That she never left this task undone. 

"timidly she looks about to hearken.' 


In its cradle-bed, not yet awake, 

Lies the baby-sister, wan and sickly ; 
Every single morning, for her sake. 

Goes Benita through the woods so quickly. 
For the peevish lips are parched with fever, 

The little pale face is a piteous sight, 
And the water has no coolness to relieve her 

That the mother sets beside her bed at night. 

Grief is sorest when it brings to mind 

Bitter memories for heart's regretting, 
Times when we were selfish or unkind, 

Times when all the wrong was in forgetting. 
Like the little loving child Benita, 

Let us do our duty every day ; 
Gladness then will certainly be sweeter, 

Sorrow will the sooner pass away. 

2 4 




i 7 6.] 


2 5 


By Sarah Winter Kellogg. 

Marlborough Coleman sat tying his shoes. 
They were heavy brogans, and the strings were 
trips of leather, greased and waxed. It was well 
hey had strength, or they could not have borne 
he twitching and jerking they received at the hands 
f the impatient, angry lad. His face was flushed 
nd scowling. This was a pity, for the face was a 
landsome one when the humor was good. 

While he was yet about his shoes, his little sister 
iukey entered the room with eager haste, her blue 
checked apron gathered in her hand. She wanted 
o show him some beauties of chestnuts her black 
riend Barbary Allen had given her. 

" Oh, Marley ! do see " 

Marley interrupted her savagely : 

" Don't come oh Marleying me ! I 'm mad ! " 

"Oh, Marley ! what 're you " 

" I told you not to ' oh Marley ' me. Come here 
Btherin' me, when I 'm already bothered to death !" 
Aunt Silvy ! " Sukey called to the negro woman 
Ivho was beating a pile of dried beans on a sheet 
ipread in the passage. "Aunt Silvy, come in to 
Vlarley; he wants somebody ; he 's bothered." 
" It 's so blamed mean," the boy said. 
" Hesh, Mahs'r Mauley ! Yer raus' n't sw'ar. 
Taint right, kase it's wicket." And, with this 
philosophical remark, Aunt Silvy seated herself on 
he second step of the stairs, leading from the room 
:o the attic chamber above. 

"I don't care what I do," Marley answered. 
"It's enough to make an angel swear, or commit 
.murder, or cut his own throat. Pa '11 disgrace me 
brever. But I wont ! I wont ! I wont ! " 

"Law, Mahs'r Mauley! what ails yer, honey? 
Looks like yer wants ter chaw up dis whole planta- 
cion. Neber seed nobody so mad sence I was 
jawn. What is it yer wont, yer wont, yer wont ? " 
" I wont tote a bag of corn to mill on ole black 
Betts, — lean, lank, gaunt, mangy old mule." 

" I would n't nuther ef I wus you, honey ; show 's 
yer bawn I would n't. Sakes alive ! what would 
Die mistiss do ef she wus ter look down from de 
New Jeeruslum an' see her gran'son totin' ter mill, 
straddle a sack uv cawn, like a missibul nigger? 
She 'd feel mighty cheap ; neber could hole her 
head up agin 'fore Sain' Paul an' Sain' Maffer, an' 
Pilgum Progess, an' her udder soshates up dar. 
'Sides dat, yer 'd dusgrace you' granpaw, too. 
Law ! we all neber had no sich puffaumances at 
you' granpaw Thompson's. Takes a Coleman to 
do sich things. A genulmon ridin' a meal-bag to 

mill ! I 'd a heap ruther do it myse'f den hab ole 
mistisse's granchile do it." 

At the picture of Aunt Silvy's portly figure seated 
on a sack of corn on a trotting mule, Sukey laughed 
and ran away to tell mamma. 

Aunt Silvy had belonged to the wealthy Thomp- 
son family, and when Elizabeth Thompson married 
Mr. Coleman, Marlborough's father, against her 
father's wishes, he had given her the slave Silvy, 
and forbidden her his house. Mr. Coleman was a 
vulgar man, with little means, whom Aunt Silvy 
held in supreme disdain. The Coleman children 
she tolerated because of the Thompson blood in 
their veins. 

"But I reckon you' paw," Aunt Silvy continued, 
"can't spaw none de han's from de cotton-pickin' 
to tote dat cawn ter mill. We all wont git de cot- 
ton pick 'fore Christmus, ef we don't hurry ; an' ef 
we all don't git it picked, we poor black folks can't 
hab no Christmus. Mahs'r al'ays makes us pick 
cotton all Christmus-day ef 't aint all in de gin- 
house 'fore dat. Neber had no sich puffawmances 
es dese at you' granpaw Thompson's. But, law ! 
de Thompsons is a deffrunt breed uv white folks 
from de Colemanses — show's yer bawn dey is." 

" I 've heard you say that a million times," Mar- 
ley said, petulantly. 

" Kase it's de troof," retorted Silvy. " I neber 
knowed no cotton-pickin' gwyne on at ole Mahs'r 
Thompson's Christmus-day. But law ! de Thomp- 
son cotton uster be all pick by Christmus, an' 
ginned, an' baled, an' sold, an' de money ready fer 
de Christmus-gif's. De Thompson black folks wus 
smaut. Dey wus a deffrunt breed uv black folks. 
Dese Coleman niggers aint wuf shucks ; but de 
Thompson cotton wus easier ter pick den de Cole- 
man cotton ; come outen de bolls heap easier ; it 
wus a deffrunt breed uv cotton den dis missibul 
Coleman stuff. Ole mahs'r's plantation was a heap 
richer 'n dis yere Coleman faum ; it wus a deffrunt 
breed uv sile. Law, a heap uv things wus deffrunt ; 
de hosses, an' bacon, an' hom'ny, an' de cawn 

"Well, I want some clean socks an' a clean 
shirt. If I hang myself before I get to mill, I want 
to be found with some clean clothes on." 

Marlborough said this in a light, laughing tone, 
which pleased Aunt Silvy, as indicating an im- 
proved humor ; but she little dreamed of the plan 
the boy was meditating. 

"Well, lem me see now. Whar did I put you' 




tuther shirt an' socks de las' time I wash um ? I 
mos' fawgits what I done wid um. Reckon I puts 
um in one dese yere sideboa'd drawers." 

Aunt Silvy crossed the room, and, with her strong 
hand, stirred up the contents of said drawers, much 
after the fashion in which she beat up her batter- 

" Aint yere," she announced at the conclusion of 
her search. "Reckons I hung um on dem dar 
nails hine de door," and she entered upon a remark- 
able rooting among the coats, and pants, and hats, 
and aprons, and towels, and baskets, and sun- 
bonnets, and petticoats, which thronged the said 
nails; but among the throng, Marley's shirt and 
socks were not. 

" Whar did I put dem cloze uv yourn ? Can't 
fine um high an' low. I jis warren dat dar good- 
fer-nuffin, regen'rate, -aller-eyed Jim hes wore 
dem dar cloze off, er-toti.'' dem cotton bales ter 

This was Aunt Silvy's next conjecture in solution 
of the problem. 

Jim was her son, some seventeen years old. He 
had gone to the Memphis market with six bales of 
cotton. Memphis was seventy miles distant, and a 
cotton bale weighs usually three hundred pounds. 
But do not infer from Aunt Silvy's remark about 
his toting cotton bales to Memphis that Jim was 
anything of a Hercules. The word '"tote" with 
Aunt Silvy was a somewhat indefinite term, as you 
might have surmised at learning that Jim had the 
assistance of a wagon and six mules in getting those 
six bales of cotton to the Memphis market. 

" Don't reckon," continued Aunt Silvy, "he wore 
um off nuther; b'lieve I put um on dis yere mandul- 

Candlestick, snutfers, baskets, knitting-work, sew- 
ing, dress-patterns, hanks of yarn, hymn-book, 
Bible, etc., etc., were moved off the chimney-shelf 
to a chair, and left there, by the way, for ten days 

" I reckons dat regen'rate Jim is got um on arter 
all," said Aunt Silvy, when this last search had 
proved fruitless. 

Marley all this time had been looking from the 
window in a meditative way, seemingly uncon- 
scious of Aunt Silvy's movements. Now he said : 

" Jim could n't get into my shirt an' socks. 
Hurry an' find them. If I 've got to tote that corn 
to mill, I want to go an' be done with it. It '11 take 
me all day to do the job. Bring along the socks 
and shirt. Hurry ! " 

" Law, Mahs'r Mauley, yer's so unpatient ! Ye 
don't gim me no time ter 'member whar dem cloze 
is. I mos' 'membered jis now, but yer dun gone 
made me fawgit. B'lieve in my soul I laid um in de 
big chis, top' uv de goober-peas. No, I don't 

reckon I did nuther; reckons I put um in de litt 
red chis. I mos' al'ays does put um in dar. Wa 
tell I looks. Law ! now I 'members all 'bout 
What a ole black goose I is ! I put dem cloze i 
de pawler on de sofy ; oughter looked dar in de fu; 
place, kase I mos' al'ays put um on de sofy. Y< 
see, I knowed nobody would n't come to see u 
'kase it's so cole; 'sides, nobody neber coim 

" No wonder they don't," Marley said. " Pa di 
graces us all ; makes me pick cotton, and go i 
mill. All the neighbors think themselves above us 
There aint a girl in the neighborhood that want 
me for a sweetheart, an' they aint a boy that want 
Sukey. Now, las' Sunday, at church, 'fore th| 
meetin' begun, you know, I rolled a May-appl 
'cross the floor to Mandy Bradshaw, — the pretties 
kind of one. She looked at it a minute, then se 
up straight as a crock with her chin in the air, ar 
looked like she would n't tech that mandrake-appl 
with a forty-foot pole. Then, pretty soon, Willi 
Harnston he rolled her one, an' mine was a hea 
better, an' she pitched after it like she was goin 
break her neck. An' she smelt it, and rolled it i 
her hands, an' patted it an' kissed it, an' tied it u 
in her handkerchief, an' loafed roun' with it a 
sorts of ways, all through meetin'. An' I 'm bettt 
lookin' than Bill Harnston the best day he eve 
saw. Folks think we aint any first family." 

"' I '11 let um know better ! " Silvy said, pantin 
and the perspiration starting. " De Thompsons 
de bery fustis fam'ly. Neber wus no sich pufficl 
lady in dese pauts ez you' gran'ma Thompson, ari 
you' maw is a tolerbul puffick lady yit, dough her 
been gwyne ter wrack an' ruin eber sence he 
married inter dis Coleman fam'ly. I tole Mis 
Lizbeth so, but her jis would morry you' paw, an 
dat's jis what 's de matter. Laws ! I wus so shann 
uv her, 'cause we wus boff young ladies togedder 
I aint neber helt my head up ez high sence." 

" Well, you hold it tolerbul high yet. You wait 
into church like you owned the meetin'-house an 
all the congregation and the circuit-rider to boot." 

" Law, honey, you oughter seed ole mistiss, you 
granmaw Thompson, walk inter church! My 
stars ! " 

" Well, go 'long. Aunt Silvy. I 've heard enougl 
about my grandma," Marley said. " I Ml nevei 
get dressed." 

" Law, honey, aint I gwyne ? I 's been gwyne tei 
go dis eber so long, but yer kep talkin'. 'Taint 
manners to go while company 's talkin'. I reckons 
yer better go on ter mill peaceable, 'cause it's right 
ter do you' duty. But when yer gits back, come 
roun' ter Aunt Silvy's cabin ; may be she '11 hab 
sumpin good for yer." 

"Of course you will; you 've always got some 

8 7 6.] 



hing good," Marley said as he shut the door on 
ler retreating figure. 
A half-hour later, Marlborough, seated on a sack 
f corn, was mounted on black Betts, jogging along 
ihe mill road, with a manner apparently docile. 
ii!ut ceaselessly his heart was saying, "I wont! 1 
,/ont ! I wont do nigger's work ! " 

You understand how it was. Marlborough lived 
a a section where labor was held to be disreputa- 
ble. It was not, then, the fatigue, or any other 
physical discomfort that formed the basis of his 
* ibjection to the mill-going. There was not the 
'. lodily hardship connected with it that pertained to 
:. 'possum-hunt, or a 'coon-hunt by moonlight, or to 
ift half-day's fishing, or to a dozen things in which 
"vlarley found exceeding enjoyment. He was fear- 
j:ng what people would think and say. And his 
[»ather was not superior to a like feeling. He would 
Hiave been glad to have it thought at the neighbor- 
ing plantations that his son did not work. There 
ilvas a perpetual conflict between this false pride and 
■lis avarice — his desire to overtake his neighbors in 
|i he road to riches. He was a small planter and a 
'ulgar man ; nay, worse than vulgar. Think of a 
ather sending his son to the cotton-field, and or- 
lering him to hide behind his hamper pick-basket, 
>r among the thick cotton-stalks, if any neighbor 
'Or stranger should chance to pass ! 

On this occasion, when he was sending Marl- 
borough to mill, it was with instructions to avoid 
:he big road, and keep to an obscure way where 
Inhere would be less risk of encountering members 
'of rich planters' families. 

1 Marlborough was now traveling this obscure way, 
peeping his eye strained ahead and his hearing 
strained back, that no one might come upon him 
Unawares. It was a lonely road, little traveled, 
,vorn by the heavy rains, unrepaired, and impass- 
ible to wheels. He felt tolerably secure against 
encountering any one. But he was determined 
-that at the sight of a human being, he 'd leave the 
"•road and take to the woods ; run away, perhaps, 
and never come back ; he 'd go away up North, 
■where people could work without being disgraced. 

He had been on the road some twenty minutes 
only, when he heard hoofs behind him. Pulling 
'his hat quickly over his eyes to guard against being 
recognized, he turned his head over his shoulder, and 
himself on the bag, and discovered General Brad- 
shaw and his daughter Mandy, the young lady who 
'had disdained the mandrake-apple rolled across the 
church floor to her. Marlborough did not think 
1 twice. With both heels he thumped black Betts' 
sides, and dashed into the woods. 

Burning with the revived memory of the slight 
Mandy Bradshaw had put upon him, Marlborough 
pressed on and on, heedless of the briars and tan- 

gles that pierced and tore him. He got on rapidly, 
for it was all familiar ground, making toward the 
creek. Bravely old Betts beat through the thick 
growth of cane and green-briar, of willow and of 
holly gleaming with its scarlet berries. At length 
Marlborough descried the broad creek. He plunged 
into it, and turned the mule's head down-stream, 
for the creek must run toward the river, and by 
the river he must escape ; for at this time he had 
made up his mind to run away for good. The day 
was now so advanced that he knew he could not go 
to mill and back; for all this time he had been 
yoing away from the mill. He knew, too, if he 
should return home without the meal, his father 
would cowhide him. Altogether, it was a very 
bad affair. 

As far as possible Marlborough kept to the 
shallow waters, but they nevertheless often rose 
about the mule's flanks, obliging the boy to climb 
to the corn-sack, and cling with hands and knees, 
squirrel-like. Again, the faithful animal became 
entangled in submerged brush, and floundered in a 
fearful way. On one such occasion, the sack went 
to the bottom of the stream. 

In time, he came to the trunk of a tree, com- 
pletely spanning the creek. After some moments 
of consideration, he concluded that this was an 
advisable point for loosing his mule, for he had 
decided that it would but serve to draw attention to 
him. He accordingly rode to the farther bank and 
dismounted on a log, leaving the mule in the water. 
Then he gave the creature the rein, and stood 
watching his last friend turn the back on him. It 
needed but a moment for the loosed animal to 
make the other shore. Like a deer she climbed 
the bank, shook her wet flanks, and then started 
for the home which the boy was deserting. Tears 
came into Marlborough's eyes. He thought of 
little Sukey, and his mother, who had ever tried to 
stand between him and his father's hardness ; of 
Aunt Silvy, who always had "sumpin good" for 
him stored away at her cabin. Now he was alone 
in the wide world. 

He stooped over the creek for a drink, dipping 
the water with his hand. That he might leave no 
tracks, he caught a piece of wood which had drifted 
against the trunk, fallen across the stream, threw it 
out on the bank, and walked to its end. Then he 
leaped up, and, clasping an overhanging branch, 
swung himself into a tree. This was one of a 
thicket. He passed from one tree-top to another, 
leaping and swinging like a squirrel. Reaching a 
place where the leaves lay thick on the ground, 
and where there was no mire to retain his foot- 
prints, he slid to the ground, and pursued his way, 
following the creek. Now and then he climbed a 
tree for some late grapes the foxes had spared. 




or for the scattered persimmons, shriveled with 
frost, but very sweet. About noon he came upon 
a hazel-patch, where he secured quite a harvest of 
nuts. On these he made his dinner, cracking them 
between his strong teeth as he walked on and on 
through thickets and brambles. The day was warm 
and bright, although it was late in the year; but in 
the dismal shades of this bottom, the air had a 
mean, snaky chill that crept up and down his back, 
and made him ask what he could do when night 
should come. 

The afternoon wore away as he was still following 

down her beams through the stripped boughs o, ;. 
the wood. Tired as he was, he determined to pu 
sue his journey. On he walked, stopping occasion 
ally for a rest. There were frequent startling noise 
that made his heart beat fast ; but he encounterei 
nothing alarming until about midnight, as h 
judged the hour by the moon. He was emergin 
from a thicket, whose passage had engaged all hi 
energies, and was about to sink down for a moment', 
rest, when he caught through the trees a sight tha 
startled him as the foot-print startled Robinson C 
soe. It was the glimmer of a light. A light in those 


the stream that was to lead him to the great river 
and to freedom. The black night closed around 
him, and he was alone in the strange, gloomy for- 
est. He was too weary to feel alarm ; the chill air 
made him tremble ; he lay down on the damp 
ground, his back to a huge cypress-trunk, and his 
thought with his warm bed in the attic at home. 
In spite of the cold and strangeness, he fell into an 
uneasy sleep, which was haunted by boisterous 
interviews with his father. He woke shortly with a 
cry that sent a night-bird fluttering through the 
branches. He was numb and stiff, and very 
wretched. The moon had risen, and was sifting 

dreary woods! It meant that some human being: 
was near. Much as he dreaded the lonely shades, 
and the cold, and the strange noises, he dreaded 
yet more the sight of man. Alas for him who 
must hide from the face of his fellows ! Perhaps 
this light meant that he was in the very clutches of 
pursuers whom his father had sent out for his capt- 
ure ; or it might be that he had come upon the 
haunt of a runaway negro. He determined to ascer- 
tain, if possible, what his danger was. Cautiously 
he advanced in a circuit on the light, keeping it 
between him and the creek, that he might have an 
open chance for flight, should it become necessary. 




2 9 

!'? He was not long in attaining a point from which 
s eye commanded a view of the light, and of a 
nited open space about it. There, clearly defined, 
as the figure of a man — a negro man — poking and 
ending the fire. Marley saw him laying some- 
»ing on the coals, and soon there were borne to 
ie hungry boy the savory odors of broiled bacon. 
ow his mouth watered ! How he longed to put 
,s shivering back to the glowing fire ! How com- 
Ttable things did look there ! How he did envy 
Hat poor fugitive negro ! How would it do, he 
iked mentally, to reveal himself to the black, and 
take common cause with him against man and 

But he did not yet feel reduced to extremity. 
»th many a lingering look at the cheerful light, 
e passed on, and soon it was lost to his vision. 
'he moon was his friend during the night, not set- 
ng till the dawn of day. By this time Marlborough 
>as foot-sore and faint, almost dead, as he verily 
elieved ; but he staggered on till the sun came up 
trong and bright. Then he gathered some arm- 
jls of the dryest leaves to be found, and made a 
ied, which seemed very soft to his weary limbs. 
ie might have slept in his comfortable nest all day 
nad not the pangs of hunger waked him. Nuts, 
>ersimmons, and grapes, these were the only edibles 
he stripped woods afforded him, and these were 
cant and difficult to find. To-day was hog-killing 
ime at home. Thoughts of spare-ribs, and sau- 
iages, and pigs' feet, and livers, and kidneys, and 
jigs' tails, haunted him. Even the disreputable 
:hitterlings in which the poorly-fed negroes in- 
dulged appeared to his thought as tempting dain- 
:ies ; and the crisp "cracklings," — he felt as if 
ie could eat a big kettleful of them. A dozen 
of them would have bought his birthright, or his 
anything else. He made a mental inventory of 
A.unt Silvy's good things, — hominy, sweet-potato 
biscuit, pumpkin bread, corn-dodgers. Back and 
forth they all passed through his thought, tan- 
talizing the famished stomach till it felt despe- 
rate. He kept himself on the keen watch for any 
chance food. He saw a squirrel run out from a 
hollow trunk. Perhaps that was Bunny's store- 
house. He hastened eagerly to investigate. Alas 
for your industry and providence, poor squirrel ! 
The boy's hungry eyes have discovered your hoarded 

A 'possum waddled on its short legs up a winter 
huckleberry-tree, whose bright little berries sparkled 
in the sunshine like points of jet. It ran out on a 
low side branch in pursuit of some stray berries ; 
but the limb bent beneath its fat proportions, and 
it lay quite still, hugging the swaying branch. 
Seizing a long stick, Marlborough administered 
some sturdy blows which brought the 'possum to 

the ground with a heavy thud, where it lay curled 
up -with eyes shut, playing dead, as 'possums will. 
A few more good strokes, and the poor 'possum's play 
became reality. Marlborough slung it across his 
shoulder ; he scarcely knew why, for he could 
hardly hope for a chance of cooking it. He trudged 
on as rapidly as possible. In the afternoon, clouds 
began to gather, and the air grew cold and search- 
ing. It became very dark; the vision could not 
penetrate one inch ahead. For a few moments, 
the boy groped his way with outstretched hands. 
Encountering a tree, at length, he seated himself 
at its base, and fell into an uncomfortable doze. 
When he woke, it was to find that the clouds were 
broken, and the light of the risen moon was strug- 
gling through the rifts. Inspirited by this, he re- 
sumed his journey. A few hours more of travel 
brought him to a coal-kiln. 

The coal-kiln constitutes one of the chief mines 
from which the slave derives his pocket-money. 
The green wood is cut and laid in ranks, covered 
with earth, then fired, and allowed to burn slowly. 
This makes charcoal, which is sold to the black- 

At the kiln, Marlborough warmed his chilled 
limbs. Then he determined upon a midnight feast 
of barbecued 'possum. With his pocket-knife he 
dressed the game, or undressed it, as Aunt Silvy 
always insisted the process should be characterized. 
Then he dug a hole in the ground, floored it with 
coals, and suspended the animal over the glowing 
surface. In due time the cooking was accomplished, 
and Marlborough ate and ate until he was tired 
of 'possum. Yet he tied in his handkerchief the 
remnants of his feast, hung it on his arm, and 
renewed his journey, it being by this time morning. 
He still followed the creek, seeing no one but a 
negro man at a distance, busily engaged in fishing. 
In about twenty minutes he reached a rail fence 
inclosing a cotton-field. As he was deliberating 
his farther course, Marley heard footsteps, and, by 
the path that followed the fence, he saw a negro 
man approaching. There was no chance to escape 
observation, so Marlborough put on a bold face, 
and advanced to meet the negro, who was evidently 
the man he had seen fishing. 

"Good-day, mahs'r," said the man, lifting his 

" Howdy, uncle ! " returned Marley. " I believe 
I 'm turned round, so I don't know my way to the 
road. How far is it to the road ? " 

"Which road you arter, massa? De Turnpike 
or de Buzzard-Roos' Road ? " 

" Which is the best ?" asked Marley, feeling his 

" Boff roads is tolerbul missible, specially dat 
Buzzard-Roos' Road, all cut up wid cotton-wagins ; 




but I reckons, arter all, de Buzzard-Roos' Road is 
peffcrbulest. I went de Turnpike de las' time I 
tuck a load er cotton, an' it look like sometimes 
when a wagin got stuck in one dem mud-holes dat 
it gwyne ter take a string uv mules a mile long to 
fetch her, an' den dey wouldn't fetch her." 

" How long does it take you to make the trip 
with a cotton load?" Marley asked. 

He was satisfied that he was now at no great 


fer a quarter of a mile ; may be a little fudder,— 
'bout a mile an' half, I reckons. Den yer take 
crosst de field ; den yer sees a big pussimmons-tree 
dat aint got no pussimmons on ter it, dough dar's a 
squerl nes' in it. Go a little way to'a'ds dat tree 
den keeps on a little fudder, and dar yer fines z 
paff; yer don't take dat paff ; yer keeps on ag'in 
tolerbul fer ; den yer turns to de lef, an' dar yei 
fines anudder paff. Dat las' paff yer takes, an' yei 

distance from 
the city, and 
he expected 
by the answer 
to this ques- 
tion he would 
be able to 
judge how dis- 
tant he was. 

"Well, I reck- 
ons it's 'bout fif- 
teen miles, an' 
I mos' ginirly 
totes eight bales 

an' " 

Marley inter- 
rupted him, not 
noticing that his 
question was yet 
unanswered, since he had obtained the information 
he desired. 

" Can you tell me how to get to the road ?" 

" To be sartain I kin. Yer jis follows dis fence 

sticks to it tell yer comes ter a big black-jack tree ; 
den yer lebes de paff an' goes a straight line to'a'ds 
sunset, an' dar yer fetches de Buzzard-Roos' Road, 
an' it's a heap easier ter fine den de Turnpike." 

" Can't you go with me a piece ?" Marley asked, 
completely bewildered. 

" Law, massa, I heap ruther go dan not; but I's 
de busiest nigger yer eber did see sence yer wus 
bawn. I 's bin hard at work fishin', and now I 's 
ot ter go an' kinul up my coal-kill. Mus' get 
dat charcoal ter town 'fore Christmus ; den I 's got 
ter tote all de mules on dis plantation ter water : 
'sides dat, I got ter git married to-night, an' I got 
ter make up a fun'ral discou'se 'fore Sunday. My 
las' wife 's been dead gwyne on six weeks, an' hei' 
fun'ral aint neber been preach' yet." 

" Well, give me the directions again." 

When the negro had complied with this request. 
Marley's bewilderment was complete. 

He, however, after a tedious walk, reached the 
Buzzard-Roost Road, as a friendly sign-board an- 
nounced. He experienced some quaking as he 
came upon the busy ground. Before and behind, 

i 8*6.] 



s far as the eye could reach, were two lines of 
1/agons to the right and to the left. One line 
(paded with cotton was moving toward the market, 
he other wagons were homeward bound with gro- 
ceries for the plantations. He was apprehensive 
ihat among those hundreds of negro teamsters, 
here might be some neighbor's slave to whom his 
ace was familiar; and his apprehensions were well 
bunded. At the neighborhood church, the plant- 
ers' families, including the slaves, were wont to 
issemble. As the whites were so greatly in the 
ninority. almost every one was known to hundreds 
of negroes whom he did not recognize. 

Marley was debating the advisableness of taking 
the woods again, when the thought flashed 
hrough him that Jim himself. — Aunt Silvy's Jim, — 
with wagon and mules, was somewhere on this very 
-oad. His father always sent the cotton by the 
Buzzard-Roost Road, though five miles farther than 
by the Turnpike, to save tollage. Marley kept 
llong the road, calculating the probabilities of 
meeting his father's team, with a fascinated desire 
to get sight of it without being himself seen. 

Before long, he became interested in watching 
the efforts of a group of negroes to extricate a 
stalled wagon from a mud-hole. Mules from other 
wagons had been hitched to this unfortunate one 
until there were ten. Three negro teamsters, with 
long, heavy whips, cracking and lashing, were 
haranguing the ten brutes with such a volley of 
gees, haws, whoas, get-ups, etc., as would have 
bewildered the very clearest head under those long 
ears. Three other negroes, with fence-rails as 
levers, were prying at the front wheels of the 
wagon, which were almost lost in the mire. 

" Now, all togedder, boys ! " cried one of these 
negroes. " Heave to ! Hurray! Her budged jis 
now. Whip up dem mules dar, an' we '11 fotch 

The mules strained and plunged, but yet the 
wagon stuck. 

" You all stop dat dar larrypin dem dar mules," 
bawled an outsider. " Don't yer see he's a-comin', 
an' fotchin ole Boss? Jis put dat mule in de lead, 
an' he '11 tote you all outen dat dar heap sooner 'n 
yer kin say Jack Roberson." 

Marley's heart leaped to his mouth. Boss ! 
That was the name of a Coleman mule ! He had 
named it himself, because it would work only in the 
lead, and there like a hero. 

"Tote 'long dat mule, Jim," called the negro. 

Jim ! Marley stood for a moment, too confounded 
to think out a course of action. A kind of fascina- 
tion kept him there, straining his eyes for a sight 
of Jim. There, sure enough, he was, the identical 
Jim with " yaller eyes." 

A sight of the familiar face acted on Marley like 

a shake to a night-walker; it brought back his 
senses. He dived behind a neighboring wagon, for 
the whole line of teams was waiting on the stalled 
vehicle. But he was too late ; he was sure of it ; 
he had seen the " yaller eyes" looking straight 
into his face. 

The negro, remembering that things were un- 
pleasant for Marlborough at home, immediately 
conjectured that the young master had run away, 
as he had often threatened. He gave old Boss up 
to his task of totin' the stalled wagon out of the 
mire, and went over to where a pair of legs under 
the wagon-body betrayed Marley's whereabouts. 

The boy heard a footstep beside him, turned, 
and with a great heart-throb saw Jim's face close 
beside his own. Would Jim tie him up and carry 
him back home ? Would he tell everybody that 
was Mahs'r Marley, and that he was a runaway? 
Or would Jim befriend him and help him forward? 

"What yere doin' yere, Mahs'r Marley?" Jim 
asked in a low, confidential tone. " Is yer bruck 
traces ? " 

"Yes," said Marley; and then he told Jim all 
about it. 

" Yer looks a heap older dan when I lef' home," 
Jim said. " Come 'long to de wagon an' git 
sumpin ter eat." 

Marlborough was much comforted in having a 
friend with whom to talk over his troubles, and to 
advise with. 

" I don't see what yer gwyne ter do 'less yer hab 
some money," said Jim. 

" If I only did have some ! " Marley replied. 
Then he looked at Jim steadfastly, as though 
taking his measure. It was true — the boy had 
grown old. Three days before, he could n't have 
spoken this : 

" Say, Jim, suppose you go 'long with me. I '11 
sell the mules an' wagon, an' we '11 get on a boat, 
an' go 'way off, up North somewhere. Then we '11 
both be free. I 'm a slave at home as much as 
you are." 

" I'll tell yer what, Mahs'r Marie}'. I made up my 
min' long time 'go, 'bout runnin' 'way, an' gwyne 
up Norf. I aint neber gwyne ter do it, kase for 
why, a nigger don't hab no standin' up dar, an' no 
'ciety. Dey aint no niggers scacely, an' de white 
folks don't soshate wid urn, an' it 's mighty lone- 
some. Den, in de nex' place, it 's so cole up dar. 
Now dar 's Patrick's Sam, he runn'd 'way an' went 
to Canady. Den he come back ter somewhars, an' 
got cotched, an' wus fotched back to his master. 
Yer jis oughter hear dat nigger talk. He says it's 
jis es cole dar fouf July es it is yere Christmas. 
Goodness gracious an' gracious goodness ! I don't 
wishes ter go ter no sech place. 'Sides dat, he 
could n't git nuff ter eat. He did n't hab no 




puffession, 'cept ter raise cotton, an' of course he 
could n't make no money, 'cause dar aint no cotton 
up dar; de white folks work dar, an' don't lebe 
nuffin at all fer de niggers ter do. 'Sides dat, ag'in, 
I 's 'gaged ter git married. Lucindy could n't spaw 
me. An' I don't want ter lebe mammy, an' Mistiss 
nuther, an' Miss Sukey, an' my udder soshates. 
'Sides all dat, Mahs'r trus' de mules an' wagin ter 
Jim, an' Jim 's gwyne ter tote um back ter him, 
show 's yer bawn." 

"That's right, Jim," Marley said, cordially; 
"but I don't know how I '11 make my way without 

Jim ran his hand in his pocket and drew out a 
greasy little bag of buckskin, tied with a leather 

" I puzzents yer wid dis," he said grandly, and 
he poured into Marley 's hand a silver quarter, three 
dimes, and two five-cent pieces." 

Marley didn't refuse it. He said, " Thanky, 
Jim ! You '11 get this back sometime. I 'm goin' 
to be a rich man one of these days ; then I '11 buy 
you an' set you free." 

" I reckons I might take up a susscription fer yer 
when I gits home, 'mung our black folks. Dey all 
likes yer. Yer could wait roun' till I gits back. 
Moster 's gwyne to sen' me straight back wid anud- 
der load er cotton. Yer jis wait yere, an' see ef I 
don't bring yer sumpin." 

They talked this plan over for some time, and 
Marley finally agreed to wait, if he found no good 
chances offered for getting away to the North. Jim 
was to caution the black people to secrecy. Marley 
knew he could depend upon them in any plan 
against Mr. Coleman. The cotton-shed of James 
Savage, Mr. Coleman's commission merchant, was 
decided upon as the place of meeting. Then the 
two separated, Jim to return home, Marley to go 
forward to the city. 

I do not intend to tell how he passed the time 
after reaching Memphis, waiting for Jim's re-appear- 
ance; how he had to economize, that his purse 
might not get emptied; how every effort to get 
work on the up-river boats failed. 

After five or six days, he might have been seen 

hanging about James Savage's commission house, 
or shed. This was crowded with cotton bales, 
piled to the very roof. On some of these he read, 
with a strange sensation, his father's name. 

Almost his last penny was spent when, one after- 
noon, about three o'clock, he saw far up the street 
a team that had a familiar look. As it drew nearer, 
his hopes were realized ; it was his father's, and 
there was Jim. Marley's spirits went up like a 
balloon ; he hastened to meet his ally. 

" I 's got sumpin fer yer," were Jim's first words. 
"Mammy sent yer heap er things;" and bundle 
after bundle was delivered into Marlborough's eager 
hands. He climbed on to a home cotton bale, and 
opened them. 

They contained, in the main, articles of his cloth- 
ing. One bundle, however, showed a collection of 
edibles — beaten biscuit, a huge yam potato, and 
a half yard of sausage. While asking questions 
about home, he made a substantial meal, and then 
he crowded between the bales, and changed his 
clothes, when he felt more respectable, especially 
as he put into his pocket the money which Jim had 
raised for him among the black people. 

" They all feels mighty bad 'bout yer," Jim said, 
"speshly Mistiss an' Miss Sukey, an' Mammy. 
Mammy says it 's gwyne ter kill you' maw. Hei 
looks mighty downhearted, an' you' paw does too. 
Never seed Mahs'r look so put out sence I wus 
bawn ; an' Miss Sukey, her cries all ze time 'bout 
yer. But I muss go 'long now; got ter git eight 
miles to'a'ds home ter night. Reckon Mistiss '11 bi 
more sati'fied when I tells her I seed yer." 

"Yes, I reckon so. Tell mother, howdy, an; 
Sukey too. An' tell Aunt Silvy, howdy, an' all the 
black folks ; an' father, if you 've got a notion to. 
I don't reckon I '11 ever see any of them any 

Marley was crying. 

" Law, Mahs'r Mawley ! ef I wus yer, I 'd stop di^ 
foolin', an' go back home fas' ez ole Boss could toti 
me. I wouldn't go up Norf no more 'n nuffin 
You' maw's cryin' arter yer, an' Miss Sukey, an 
Mahs'r '11 be better ter yer, show's yer bawn." 

What do you guess ? Did Marley go back? 

8 7 6.| 


Foam of the sea ! Foam of the sea ! 
Stay ! — we are weary of calling to thee ; 
Weary of hearing the ceaseless beat 
Of thy silver-sandaled, unresting feet, 
Hither and thither, and o'er and o'er, 
Along the level of white sea-floor, 

For evermore ! 
Thy gauzy garments have swept so near 
Our outstretched hand, but to disappear 

And slide away 

In a silver spray. 
While laughter ripples along the shore, 
And the 'broidered silver is changed to gray 

Sea-foam, rest ! 
Safe in this circling arm of rock. 
Away from the breakers' shout and shock, 

Rest, O rest ! 
And tell us the story unconfessed 
Through all the ages to mortal ear, 
Locked from poet, and safe from seer 

In the ocean's breast. 
Tell us thy charmed history ; 

Unravel the silver thread 
Of the glittering tissue of mystery 

Veiling forever thy head. 
Why art thou wooing forever 

The golden smiles of the sun, — 
Wooing and winning, yet never 
Staying thyself to be won ? 

Low is the light in the west, — 

Sea-foam, rest ! 





By H. H. 

Once there was born a man with a great genius 
for painting and sculpture. It was not in this world 
that he was born, but in a world very much like 
this in some respects, and very different in others. 
The world in which this great genius was born was 
governed by a beneficent and wise ruler, who had 
such wisdom and such power that he decided be- 
fore each being was born for what purpose he 
would be best fitted in life ; he then put him in the 
place best suited to the work he was to do ; and he 
gave into his hands a set of instruments to do the 
work with. 

There was one peculiarity about these instru- 
ments ; they could never be replaced. On this 
point this great and wise ruler was inexorable. He 
said to every being who was born into his realm : 

" Here is your set of instruments to work with. 
If you take good care of them, they will last a life- 
time. If you let them get rusty or broken, you 
can perhaps have them brightened up a little or 
mended, but they will never be as good as new, 
and you can never have another set. Now you see 
how important it is that you keep them always in 
good order." 

This man of whom I speak had a complete set 
of all the tools necessary for a sculptor's work, and 
also a complete set of painter's brushes and colors. 
He was a wonderful man, for he could make very 
beautiful statues, and he could also paint very 
beautiful pictures. He became famous while he 
was very young, and everybody wanted something 
that he had carved or painted. 

Now, I do not know whether it was that he did 
not believe what the good ruler told him about his 
set of instruments, or whether he did not care to 
keep on working any longer, but this is what hap- 
pened. He grew very careless about his brushes, 
and let his tools lie out overnight when it .was 
damp. He left some of his brushes full of paint 
for weeks, and the paint dried in, so that when at 
last he tried to wash it out, out came the bristles 
by dozens, and the brushes were entirely ruined. 
The dampness of the night air rusted the edges of 
some of his very finest tools, and the things which 
he had to use to clean off the rust were so powerful 
that they ate into the fine metal of the tools, and 
left the edges so uneven that they would no longer 
make fine strokes. 

However, he kept on painting, and making 
statues, and doing the best he could with the few 
and imperfect tools he had left. But people began 

to say, ' ■ What is the matter with this man's pict 
ures? and what is the matter with his statues 
He does not do half as good work as he used to." 

Then he was very angry, and said the people 
were only envious and malicious ; that he was the 
same he always had been, and his pictures and 
statues were as good as ever. But he could not 
make anybody else think so. They all knew 

One day the ruler sent for him and said to him : 

" Now you have reached the prime of your life. 
It is time that you should do some really great 
work. I want a grand statue made for the gate 
way of one of my cities. Here is the design ; take 
it home and study it, and see if you can undertake 
to execute it." 

As soon as the poor sculptor studied the design, 
his heart sank within him. There were severa' 
parts of it which required the finest workmanship 
of one of his most delicate instruments. That in- 
strument was entirely ruined by rust. The edgtj 
was all eaten away into notches. In vain he tried 
all possible devices to bring it again to a fine sharp 
edge. Nothing could be done with it. The most 
experienced workmen shook their heads as soon as 
they saw it, and said : 

"No, no. sir: it is too late. If you had brought 
it to us at first, we might possibly have made it 
sharp enough for you to use a little while with great 
care ; but it is past help now." 

Then he ran frantically around the country, try- 
ing to borrow a similar instrument from some one. 
But one of the most remarkable peculiarities about 
these sets of instruments given by the ruler of thi; 
world I am speaking of, was that they were of nc 
use at all in the hands of anybody except the one 
to whom the ruler had given them. Several of 
the sculptor's friends were so sorry for him that 
they offered him their instruments in place of hi? 
own ; but he tried in vain to use them. They were 
not fitted to his hand ; he could not make the kind 
of stroke he wanted to make with them. So 
went sadly back to the ruler, and said : 

"Oh, Sire, I am most unhappy. I cannot ex 
ecute this beautiful design for your statue." 

"But why cannot you execute it?" said tin 

"Alas, Sire!" replied the unfortunate man, 
"by some sad accident one of my finest tools was 
so rusted that it cannot be restored. Without that 
tool, it is impossible to make this statue." 

So hi 

'■8 7 6.1 



Then the ruler looked very severely at him, and 
aid : 

" Oh, sculptor, accidents very seldom happen to 
he wise and careful. But you are also a painter, I 
jelieve. Perhaps you can paint the picture I wish 

have painted immediately, for my new palace. 
Sere is the drawing of it. Go home and study 
his. This also will be an opportunity worthy of 
rour genius." 

The poor fellow was not much comforted by this, 

"or he remembered that he had not even looked at 

J iis, brushes for a long time. However, he took 

.he sketch, thanked the ruler, and withdrew. 

It proved to be the same with the sketch for the 

;, jicture as it had been with the design for the 

i itatue. lb required the finest workmanship in 

| oarts of it ; and the brushes which were needed for 

| :his had been long ago destroyed. Only their 

landles remained. How did the painter regret his 

''"oily as he picked up the old defaced handles from 

: :he floor, and looked at them hopelessly ! 

Again he went to the ruler, and with still greater 
embarrassment than before, acknowledged that he 
was unable to paint the picture because he had not 
the proper brushes. . 

This time, the ruler looked at him with terrible 
severity, and spoke in a voice of the sternest dis- 
pleasure : 

1 "What, then, do you expect to do, sir, for the 
'rest of your life, if your instruments are in such a 
"condition ? " 

"Alas! Sire, I do not know," replied the poor 
man, covered with confusion. 

^ "You deserve to starve," said the ruler; and 
ordered the servants to show him out of the palace. 
After this, matters went from bad to worse with 
the painter. Every few days some one of his 
instruments broke under his hand. They had been 
so poorly taken care of, that they did not last half 
as long as they were meant to. His work grew 
poorer and poorer, until he fell so low that he was 
forced to eke out a miserable living by painting the 
walls of the commonest houses, and making the 
'coarsest kind of water-jars out of clay. Finally his 
'last instrument failed him. He had nothing left 
to work with ; and as he had for many years clone 
'only very coarse and cheap work, and had not been 
able to lay up any money, he was driven to beg his 
food from door to door, and finally died of hunger. 
' This is the end of the parable. Next comes the 
moral. Now please don't skip all the rest because 
it is called moral. It will not be very long. I wish 

1 had called my story a conundrum instead of a 
parable, and then the moral would have been the 
answer. How that would have puzzled you all. — a 
conundrum so many pages long ! And I wonder 
how many of you would have guessed the true 

answer. How many of you would have thought 
enough about your own bodies to have seen that 
they were only sets of instruments given to you to 
work with ? The parable is a truer one than you 
think at first ; but the longer you think the more 
you will see how true it is. Are we not each of us 
born into the world provided with one body, and 
only one, which must last us as long as we live in 
this world ? Is it not by means of this body that 
we all learn and accomplish everything? Is it not 
a most wonderful and beautiful set of instruments? 
Can we ever replace any one of them ? Can we 
ever have any one of them made as good as new, 
after it has once been seriously out of order? In 
one respect the parable is not a true one ; for the 
parable tells the story of a man whose set of instru- 
ments was adapted to only two uses, — to sculpture 
and to painting. But it would not be easy to count 
up all the things which human beings can do by 
help of the wonderful bodies in which they live. 
Think for a moment of all the things you do in any 
one day; all the breathing, eating, drinking, and 
running ; of all the thinking, speaking, feeling, 
learning you do in any one day. Now, if any one of 
the instruments is seriously out of order you cannot 
do one of these things so well as you know how to 
do it. When any one of the instruments is very 
seriously out of order, there is always pain. If the 
pain is severe, you can't think of anything else 
while it lasts. All your other instruments are of 
no use to you, just because of the pain in that one 
which is out of order. If the pain and the disor- 
dered condition last a great while, the instrument 
is so injured that it is never again so strong as it 
was in the beginning. All the doctors in the world 
cannot make it so. Then you begin to be what 
people call an invalid ; that is, a person who does 
not have the full use of any one part of his body ; 
who is never exactly comfortable himself, and who 
is likely to make everybody about him more or less 

I do not know anything in this world half so 
strange as the way in which people neglect their 
bodies ; that is, their set of instruments, their one 
set of instruments, which they can never replace, 
and can do very little toward mending. When it 
is too late, when the instruments are hopelessly out 
of order, then they do not neglect them any longer; 
then they run about frantically as the poor sculptor 
did, trying to find some one to help him; and this 
is one of the saddest sights in the world, a man or 
a woman running from one climate to another cli- 
mate, and from one doctor to another doctor, trying 
to cure or to patch up a body that is out of order. 

Now perhaps you will say, this is a dismal and 
unnecessary sermon to preach to young people ; 
they have their fathers and mothers to take care of 


them ; they don't lake care of themselves. Very 
true ; but fathers and mothers cannot be always 
with their children ; fathers and mothers cannot 
always make their children remember and obey 
their directions; more than all, it is very hard to 
make children realize that it is of any great impor- 
tance that they should keep all the laws of health. 
I know when I was a little girl, when people said to 
me, "You must not do thus and thus, for if you 
do, you will take cold," 1 used to think, ''Who 
cares for a little cold, supposing I do catch one?" 
And wdien I was shut up in the house for several 
days with a bad sore throat, and suffered horrible 
pain. I never reproached myself. I thought that 
sore throats must come now and then, whether or 
no, and that I must take my turn. But now I have 
learned that if no law of health were ever broken, 
we need never. have a day's illness, might grow old 
in entire freedom from suffering, and gradually fall 
asleep at last, instead of dying terrible deaths from 
disease ; and I am all the while wishing that I had 
known it when I was young. If I had known it, 
I '11 tell you what I should have done. I would 
have just tried the experiment at any rate, of never 
doing a single thing which could by any possibility 
get any one of the instruments of my body out of 
order. I wish I could see some boy or girl try it 
yet ; never to sit up late at night ; never to have a 
close, bad air in the room ; never to sit with wet 
feet ; never to wet them, if it were possible to help 
it; never to go out in cold weather without being 
properly wrapped up ; never to go out of a hot 
room into a cold out-door air without throwing some 
extra wrap on ; never to eat or drink an unwhole- 
some thing ; never to touch tea, or coffee, or candy, 
or pie-crust ; never to let a day pass without at least 
two good hours of exercise in the open air; never 
to read a word by twilight, nor in the cars ; rfever 
to let the sun be shut out of rooms. This is a pretty 
long list of " nevers," but "never" is the only word 
that conquers. ''Once in a while" is the very 
watch-word of temptation and defeat. I do believe 
that the " once-in-a-while " things have ruined 
more bodies, and more souls too, than all the other 
things put together. Moreover, the "never" way 

is easy, and the "once-in-a-while" way is hard 
After you have once made up your mind " never" 
to do a certain thing, that is the end of it, if you 
are a sensible person. But if you only say, "This 
is a bad habit," or "This is a dangerous indulgence; 
I will be a little on my guard and not do it too 
often," you have put yourself in the most uncom- 
fortable of all positions ; the temptation will knock 
at your door twenty times a day, and you will have 
to be fighting the same old battle oyer and over 
again as long as you live. This is especially true 
in regard to the matter of which I have been speak- 
ing to you, the care of the body. When you have 
once laid down to yourself the laws you mean to 
keep, the things you will always do, and the things 
you will "never'" do, then your life arranges itself 
in a system at once, and you are not interrupted 
and hindered as the undecided people are, by won 
dering what is best, or safe, or wholesome, or too 
unwholesome at different times. 

Don't think it would be a sort of slavery to give 
up so much for sake of keeping your body in order. 
It is the only real freedom, though at first it doe; 
not look so much like freedom as the other way. 
It is the sort of freedom of which some poet sang 
once. I never knew who he was. I heard the line: 
only once, and have forgotten all except the last 
three, but I think of those every day. He was 
speaking of the true freedom which there is ir 
keeping the laws of nature, and he said it was likeS 
the freedom of the true poet, who 

" Always sings 
In strictest bonds of rhyme and rule, 
And finds in them not bonds, but wings." 

I think the difference between a person whe 
has kept all the laws of health, and thereby ha 
a good strong sound body that can carry hin 
wherever he wants to go, and do whatever hi 
wants to do, and a person who has let his bod; 
get all out of order, so that he has to lie in bed halt 
his time and suffer, is quite as great a differenc 
as there is between a creature with wings and 
creature without wings. Don't you ? 

And this is the end of the moral. 


F A R A W A V . 



One night, in the bright, warm summer, 
Mother went — oh so far away ! 

So very far ! Yet quite near her, 
In my pretty bed I lay. 

She did not hear when 1 called her- 
She was gone so very far ! 

I lay and wished I was only 
The moonlight, or a star ; 

She stood and looked from the window, 
In the moonlight cool and clear ; 

I called her as she stood there, 
But mother did not hear. 

Then she might soon have known it — 

How lonely I was for her. 
But I waited, and waited, and waited, 

And mother did not stir. 

At last she turned, and, smiling, 
Said, "You awake, little Jack?" 

But I only could sob and kiss her — 
So glad that mother was back ! 





'can it be possible that that pan contains milk?" 

' IT does ! IT DOES ! 


'my! this is just glorious!". 


By Helen Angell Goodwin. 

"We sha' n't have much of a Fanksdivin 'is 
year," said Sophie to her doll. " You know, Hitty, 
how we all went to dranma's last year, and now 
she 's dead and buried up in 'e dround, and we 
sha' n't see her any more, ever and ever, amen ! " 

Hitty looked up into the little mother's face, with 
eyes open very wide, but she did not answer a 
word. Perhaps she was too sorry to talk, and per- 
haps she was n't a talking doll ; at any rate, she 
kept still. 

" Last year." resumed Sophie. " we wode 'way 
out into 'e country, froo big woods wivout any 
leaves 'cept pine-leaves, and along by a deep wiver, 
and 'en we came to dranma's house, and Uncle 
Ned came out to 'e date and carried me in on his 

s'oulder, and dranma took off my fings and davt 
me some brown bread and cheese 'at she made al 
herself; but I did n't see her, 'cause folks make 
cheese in 'e summer, and 'at was Fanksdivin time. 
I went out to see Uncle Ned milk 'e cow, and hac 
some dood warm milk to drink, and mamma pul 
on my nightie and put me to bed in such a funm 
bed, not a bit like ours at home 'at you can rol" 
over and over in and not muss 'em up a bit ; but ii 
was a feaver bed. — live geese feavers, dranma said. 1 
— and I fought 'ey would cover me all up, I sank 
down in so. In 'e morning, Uncle Ned built a fire 
in 'e dreat bid oven ; and when it dot all burnec' 
down to coals, dranma poked 'em wiv a dreat lonj: 
shovel, so heavy I could n't lift it ; and by and bv 

A ,8 7 6.] 



she shoveled and scraped 'em all out into 'e fire- 
ii place ; and 'en she put in 'e chicken- pie to bake, 
j and a big turkey wiv stuffing, and a pudding wiv 
lots o' waisins in it, and shut 'e door. 'En every- 
body 'cept mamma and me went off to church, and 
after 'at we had dinner. 

" You 'd ought to been 'ere, Hitty, to see it ; but 
you was n't made den, so course you could n't. 
There was all 'at was in 'e oven, and bread and 
cheese, and cake and cranberry-sauce, and apple- 
pie and mince-pie, and punkin-pie and custard — 
no, 'ere was n't any custard, for 'e cat dot at it, and 
lin 'e evening we had walnuts " 

Just here, little " Lady Talkative,'' as papa often 
called her, was interrupted by the voice of her 
mother from the kitchen, where she and Aunt Ruth 
staid most of the time lately, getting ready for 
Sophie's uncles and aunts and cousins, who were 
invited for Thanksgiving. 

In spite of the motherly feelings supposed to be 
strong in the breasts of little girls, poor Hitty 
landed, head first, in the plaything box, as Sophie 
sprang up to answer her mother's summons. 

" Sophie, I want you to go over to Mrs. Green's 
and borrow a nutmeg for me. Go quickly as you 
can. I don't believe in borrowing," she added to 
Aunt Ruth, " but two of mine proved poor ones, 
and the cake cannot wait." 

By this time, Sophie's sack was on and her bon- 
net tied. She was an active little creature, very 
bright for a child of her age, and it was her delight 
to be of use in domestic affairs. 

" Now, what is your errand, Sophie ? " 

"Please, Mrs. Dreen," began the child, in ac- 
cordance with previous instructions, " my mamma 
would be much 'bliged if you will lend her a nut- 

" That will do. Now run." 

The little feet trotted as fast as they could across 
the two yards and in at the side gate of Mrs. 
Green's ; but the busy brain went so much faster 
than the flying feet, that the child blundered in her 

" Please, Mrs. Dreen, my mamma wants to 
bo'ow a dranma for Fanksdivin." 

Mrs. Green's eyes opened so wide, Sophie thought 
she looked like Hitty, and wondered if they were 

" What did your mother send for ? " 

"A dran — No, 'at 's what I want mine own 
self Oh dear ! I fordot what she does want, and 
she 's in an awful hurry." 

" What is she doing ? " 

" Making cake, and it can't wait, she said so. I 
know what it is, but I can't fink." 

" Was it fresh eggs ? " 

" No, ma'am." 

" Some kind of spice ? " 
" No, ma'am." 
" What is it like?" 

" Like a walnut, and you drate it wiv a drater. " 
" Oh, a nutmeg ! " 

" A nutmeg — 'at 's it ezactly. Funny I could n't 
wemember" — and the blue eyes brightened behind 
the gathering tears like the sunlit sky through a 
rift in a rain-cloud. 

Three minutes later, Sophie picked up her long- 
suffering doll, and entertained her with an account 
of the affair sufficiently minute to satisfy a New 
York reporter, ending by asking Hitty's opinion. 

"Oh, Hitty, wasn't it funny to tell Mrs. Dreen 
mamma wanted to bo'ow a dranma ? I dest wish 
I could, don't you ? I want one, more 'n anyfing. 
Don't you s'pose I could ? I '11 ask Uncle Ned. 
He knows 'most everyfing." 

Uncle Ned was in his room writing when he 
heard little hurrying footsteps on the stair, followed 
by three little raps at the door. He pushed back 
the inkstand, stuck his pen up over his ear, and 
called out : 

" Come in, Pussy. Push hard ; the door is not 
fastened. " 

" I 'm sorry to 'sturb you. Uncle Ned," began 
the small lady, while she climbed up into his lap 
and threw Hitty on the table, "but you must 
escuse me, 'cause I dot a very 'portant twestion." 
" Let us have it, little one." 
" Can anybody bo'ow a dranma ? " 
" Borrow a grandma ! That's a new idea ! " 
"You shouldn't ought to laugh at me, Uncle 
Ned, for I want one 
weal bad for Fanks- 

The tears came into 
Uncle Ned's eyes, for 
he was the youngest 
son of the grandmother 
Sophie mourned, and 
the pain of loss had not 
had time to soften. He 
held her quite still for 
a little, and then said, 
softly : 

"A- sad Thanksgiv- 
ing we shall have this 
year, my pet, and the 
only way to make it a 
little less sorrowful will 
be to try and make 
others happy. That 
was always grandma's, way. I rather like your idea 
after all. Your own dear grandmother is beyond 
the tokens of love and gratitude we fain would 
set before her, and why should we not make 





some other child's grandmother happy to-morrow ? 
Whose shall it be?" 

'■ Let me see. Fanny Turner 's one. Her dran- 
ma lives in a splendid drate house, and she 's dot 
lots o' money and servants and everyfing she wants. 
I dess we don't want her. Mrs. Allen — 'at 's two ; 
but she 's dot lots o' dranchildren wivout us. Oh 
my ! you could n't count 'em. If 'ey should all 
come at once, 'ey 'd fill her little teenty tawnty 
house wunning over full. Not any woom for we 
folks, 'nless 't was in 'e door-yard." 

Sophie stopped and thought a moment. 

" Oh, I know ! " she exclaimed at last, the funny 
gravity of the small features chased away by a sud- 
den smile which lit up all the dimples. " Mamie 
Hall ! she 's dest 'e one. She lives all alone wa- 
iter dranma down by 'e bridge. 'Ey 're dweadful 
poor, and Mrs. Hall works for 'e rich folks and 
leaves Mamie all alone a'most every day ; but she 's 
dood, and Mamie 's dood too, and her house is big 
enough, only I dess we better carry somefing to 
eat. for may be she has n't dot much baked." 

" Always looking out for your stomach," laughed 
Uncle Ned. '" We will go and ask mamma about it." 

On the afternoon of that same day, Mamie Hall 
sat by the window, wishing some one would come, 
for she was very lonesome. Her grandmother went 
early to help a neighbor, and charged her not to 
leave the house till her return, as she expected 
some persons to pay her some money, and they 
might call when no one was in, and the money was 
needed at once. She got along very well till her 
knitting-work was done and her story-book read 
through, and then she sat by the window and 
watched the people passing. Hark ! Somebody 
surely rapped. Mamie answered the summons, 
and was delighted to see her little friend Sophie, 
who said she could stay till night, and then Uncle 
Ned would come for her again. 

" Oh, I 'm so glad !" exclaimed Mamie. " Come 
right in and take off your things." 

Uncle Ned stepped inside to charge the children 
to be careful about the fire — a charge which Mamie 
rather resented, being eight years old and accus- 
tomed to responsibility. 

" I brought my doll," said Sophie, proceeding 
to take off her things too. 

" That 's right. I '11 get Lady Jane, and we will 
have a first-rate time playing keep house. What 
is your child's name ? " 

" Sophronia Mehitable Feodosia Caroline," said 
Sophie, slowly, and speaking every syllable with 

" What a long name ! " laughed Mamie. " Do 
you have to call her all that every time you speak 
to her? " 

'• Oh, no ! I call her Hitty for short, and if she 's 

cross I call her Hit. Her first name is for me,- anc 
'e next for Aunt Mehitable, and Feodosia was m) 
dranma's name, and Caroline, my cousin, dave hei 
to me." 

" I am afraid she wont want to play with a rag! 
doli," sighed the small hostess as she drew Lad;i 
Jane from the rude cradle where she usually slepti 
her little mother being too busy generally to attend 
to her. 

'■Oh, no!" cried Sophie. "I teach Hitty 'ai 
when she 's dood she 's no better 'an a wag-doll 'aj 
behaves herself, and when she 's naughty she : ^ 
worser, 'cause she's had better 'vantages." 

" But she's all dressed up in silk and jewelry, 
and Lady Jane has only a calico slip and a whiti 
apron," said Mamie, just to see what her mite of: 
visitor would answer. 

" 'At don't make 'e leastest diffunce in 'e world. 
All Hit's fine fings were dived to her. She is n't 
pwoud a bit. If she was I 'd spank her. I s'ould n'l 
for anyfing like her to be like Biddy Marty's dol 
that lives in the brick grocery — so awful big and 
pwoud. It 's 'diculous to see 'em together. Youi 
child 's zactly the right size. And, dear me, how 
clean she does keep herself ! I dess she don't pla\ 
in 'e dirt like my Hit." 

"Oh, she is older, and has learned better. Bui 
what ails your daughter's nose ? The skin seems 
to be off." 

" 'At 's where she bumped it 'is morning. She 
fell wight into my playfing box." And then, in- 
stead of telling how she threw her there herself, the 
small fibber remarked : " She is dest bedinning to 
do alone, and she dets lots o' bumps." 

Hitty took all the implied blame very coolly, for 
she neither blushed nor winked. 

" What made you think to come and see me, 
little Sophie ? I have been wishing you would ever 
since the good times we had the day my grandma 
worked for your mamma." 

'• I fought of it long ado, and teased and teased, 
but mamma would n't let me, till she had intwired; 
about you to see if you was dood. I knew it all 'e 
time, but she said she must ask some one who had 1 
known you longer. She lets me play wiv anybody 
'at's dood," added Sophie, with startling frankness, 
"no matter if 'ey live in little bits o' houses, and'' 
have to wear calico dresses to church. But I came 
now to bo'ow somefin. You '11 lend it to me, wont 
you now ? " 

" Yes, indeed, anything I can lend. But what 
can I possibly have that you have not ? " glancing 
inquiringly at her small stock of playthings. 

Sophie leaned forward with her fat forefingeri 
lifted in a ludicrously solemn gesture. 

" Mamie, you've dot a dranma, and mine is all 
dead and buried up in 'e dround." 

: 7 6.J 

" Yes, I have got a grandma, and the best one 
1 the world too, but what has she to do with it ? 
'ou surely cannot want to borrow her ! " and 
lamic laughed at the very thought. 

" Yes, I do," persisted Sophie, with the utmost 
iravity. " You can't have Fanksdivin wivout a 
ranma, more 'n you can Christmas wivout Santa 
,'laus. You need n't link I 'm dreedy. I '11 lend 
ou all my 'lations to pay. — papa and mamma, and 
i.unt Wuth and Uncle Ned, and all 'e cousins 'at 
tre coming. And here's a letter," she continued, 



" What is it ? " asked Mamie. 

" An invitation for us to spend Thanksgiving 
with Sophie and her friends. She feels so badly 
about her grandmother, she wants to borrow me! 
Will you lend me, Mamie, just for that one day ? " 

" No. indeed," replied Mamie, decidedly. " I 
should look well lending all the relative I have in 
the world to a girl who has got a houseful of 
cousins,'' and she threw her arms about the old 

"She can be yours dest the same, Mamie," 


tugging at a tiny pocket until she produced a little 
three-cornered note directed to Mrs. Hall. 

" I don't really know what to make of it," said 
(Mamie, " but when grandma reads the note, she 
will find out, I guess." 

So she crowded the corner of it carefully under 
the edge of the clock for safe keeping, and the 
playing went on. With riding out and visiting, 
caring for Lady Jane's fever and Hitty's wounded 
nose, as well as eating apples and doughnuts, the 
afternoon flew swiftly by. They were surprised 
when Mrs. Hall came in. Mamie instantly gave 
her the note, which she read with a smile and a 
tremor of lip. 

pleaded Sophie. " Do. Mamie, let me call her so 
for just one day." 

'• Oh, you may call her so always, if that is all ; 
but 1 must keep her too. I '11 not lend her at all, 
but I '11 give you half of her to keep for your very 

"Oh, will you ? will you ?" cried Sophie, dancing 
with delight, never noticing that she held Hitty by 
one foot, to the imminent danger of the rest of her 
china body. 

'• You 'd better keep the whole of me, and give 
her, at the same time, the whole," said grandma. 
" I shall love you none the less for taking this dear 
little Sophie right into my heart of hearts." 




And so it was. The morrow was a very happy 
day. Sophie introduced Mamie as her new sister, 
and she was heartily welcomed by all the cousins, 
big and little. After dinner, the "new grandma," 
as all called her, told them wonderful stories about 
the times when she was young, and Sophie would 
not part with her till she promised to spend the 
Christmas holidays with them. 

But before the Christmas holidays the " new 

grandma" died. It was sudden. She was sicl 
only a week. Sophie's friends cared for her ten- 
derly ; and just before the end, her father took the 
last care from the dying woman's heart by promis 
ing to care for Mamie as if she were his own. 

So Mamie and Sophie are adopted sisters now 
and though they are grown-up ladies, they nevei 
forget how the good God provided for the fatherless 
through Sophie's childish whim. 



S. C. 

through and kill them as he did their mates. Sc 
we pet and cherish the beautiful things, doing ai 
we can to make them happy, and they reward U: 
in their own pretty way by living twice as long a; 
cut flowers in summer ever do. 

There are various recipes for keeping bouquet 
fresh. Some people stick them in moist sand; 
some salt the water in the vases, and others warm 
it ; others, again, use a few drops of ammonia. M\ 
rule is, to cool the flowers thoroughly at night. 
When the long day of furnace-heat has made the 
roses droop and their stems limp and lifeless, I clip 
them a little, and set them to float in a marble 
basin full of very cold water. In the morning they 
come out made over into crisp beauty, as fresh and 
blooming as if just gathered. All flowers, however, 
will not stand this water-cure. Heliotrope blackens 
and falls to pieces under it ; azaleas drop from their 
stems, and mignonette soaks away its fragrance. 
For these I use dry, cold air. I wrap them in 
cotton wool, and set them on a shelf in the ice- 
chest ! I can almost hear you laugh, but really I 
am not joking. Flowers thus treated keep per- 
fectly for a week with me, and often longer. 

Many persons who are lucky enough to have 
flowers do not at all know how to arrange them so 
as to produce the best effect, while others seem 
born with a knack for doing such things in just the 
right way. Knack cannot be taught, but there are 
a few rules and principles on the subject so simple 
that even a child can understand and follow them, 
and if you St. NICHOLAS girls will keep them in 
mind when you have flowers to arrange, I think 

E all can have flowers in 
summer; but flowers in 
winter are, to most of us, 
a rare treat, only to be 
indulged in occasionally. 
Yet, I think we need them 
more then, and enjoy them 
more than at any other 
time, for our northern win- 
ters are so long and cruel 
that without flowers we 
are in danger of forgetting 
that there ever was a sum- 
mer. A bouquet never 
seems so precious as on 
one of those icy days when 
the world is so hopelessly 
frozen that it seems as if it never could bear another 
green thing. We touch the roses and the pinks 
with tender fingers and a feeling which we do not 
have for garden flowers, prosperous creatures, who 
take care of themselves and require none of our 
love and pity. These few sweet winter blooms are 
the survivors of a great massacre. Even now their 
lives arc in danger, for if the window were to be 
opened ever so little, winter would slip treacherously 

'76- ] 





iyou will find them helpful. Just as flowers are the 
imost beautiful decoration which any house can 
ihave, so the proper management of them is one of 
the gracefullest of arts, and everything which makes 
home prettier and more attractive is worth study 
and pains, so I will tell you what these rules are in 
the hope that you will use and apply them your- 

1st. The color of the vase to be used is of impor- 
tance. Gaudy reds and blues should never be chosen, 
for they conflict with the delicate hues of the flowers. 
Bronze or black vases, dark green, pure white, or 
silver, always produce a good effect, and so does a 
istraw basket, while clear glass, which shows the 
graceful clasping of the stems, is perhaps prettiest 
of all. 

2d. The shape of the vase is also to be thought 
of. For the middle of a dinner-table, a round 
bowl is always appropriate, or a tall vase with a 
saucer-shaped base. Or, if the center of the table 
is otherwise occupied, a large conch shell, or shell- 
shaped dish, may be swung from the chandelier 
above, and with plenty of vines and feathering 
green, made to look very pretty. Delicate flowers, 
such as lilies of the valley and sweet-peas, should 
be placed by themselves in slender tapering glasses ; 
violets should nestle their fragrant purple in some 

tiny cup, and pansies be set in groups, with no 
gayer flowers to contradict their soft velvet hues ; 
and — this is a hint for summer — few things are pret- 
tier than balsam-blossoms, or double variegated 
hollyhocks, massed on a flat plate, with a fringe of 
green to hide the edge. No leaves should be inter- 
spersed with these ; the plate will look like a solid 
mosaic of splendid color. 

3d. Stiffness and crowding are the two things to 
be specially avoided in arranging flowers. What 
can be uglier than the great tasteless bunches into 
which the ordinary florist ties his wares, or what 
more extravagant ? A skillful person will untie one 
of these, and, adding green leaves, make the same 
flowers into half a dozen bouquets, each more effect- 
ive than the original. Flowers should be grouped 
as they grow, with a cloud of light foliage in and 
about them to set off their forms and colors. Don't 
forget this. 

4th. It is better, as a general rule, not to put 
more than one or two sorts of flowers into the same 
vase. A great bush with roses, and camelias, and 
carnations, and feverfew, and geraniums growing 
on it all at once would be a frightful thing to behold ; 
just so a monstrous bouquet made up of all these 
flowers is meaningless and ugly. Certain flowers, 
such as heliotrope, mignonette, and myrtle, mix 
well with everything ; but usually it is better to 
group flowers with their kind. — roses in one glass, 
geraniums in another, and not try to make them, 
agree in companies. 

5th. When you do mix flowers, be careful not to 
put colors which clash side by side. Scarlets and 


pinks spoil each other ; so do blues and purples, 
and yellows and mauves. If your vase or dish is a 
very large one, to hold a great number of flowers, 




it is a good plan to divide it into thirds or quarters, 
making each division perfectly harmonious within 
itself, and then blend the whole with lines of green 
and white, and soft neutral tint. Every group of 
mixed flowers requires one little touch of yellow to 
make it vivid ; but this must be skillfully applied. 
It is good practice to experiment with this effect. ■ 
For instance, arrange a group of maroon, scarlet, 
and white geraniums with green leaves, and add a 
single blossom of gold-colored calceolaria, you will 

see at once that the whole bouquet seems to flasl 
out and become more brilliant. 

Lastly. Love your flowers. By some subtle sens, 
the dear things always detect their friends, and fo 
them they will live longer and bloom more free]' 
than they ever will for a stranger. And I can tel 
you. girls, the sympathy of a flower is worth win 
ning, as you will find out when you grow older 
and realize that there are such things as dull day: 
which need cheering and comforting. 


By Alice Williams. 

You wonderful little Sunday child ! 

Half of your fortune scarce you know, 
Although you have blinked and winked and 

Full seven and twenty days below. 

"The bairn that is born on a Sabbath day" — 
So say the old wives over their glass — 

" Is bonny and healthy, and wise and gay !" 
What do you think of that, my lass ? 

For " Sunday's child" may go where it please. 

Sunday's child shall be free from harm ! 
Right down through the mountain side it see 

The mines unopened where jewels swarm ! 

O fortunate baby ! Sunday lass ! 

The veins of gold through the rocks you '1 
see ; 
And when o'er the shining sands you pass, 

You can tell where the hidden springs may be 

Health and wisdom, and beauty and mirth ! 

And (as if that were not enough for a dower) 
Because of the holy day of your birth, 

Abroad you may walk in the gloaming's hour 

When we poor bodies, with backward look, 
Shiver and quiver and quake with fear 

Of fiend and fairy, and kelpie and spook. 
Never a thought need you take, my dear — 

And never a fiend or an airy sprite, 

May thwart or hinder you all your days. 

Whenever it chances, in mirk midnight, 
The lids of your marvelous eyes you raise. 

You may see, while your heart is pure and true 
The angels that visit this lower sphere, 

Drop down the firmament, two and two, 
Their errands of mercy to work down her 

This is the dower of a Sunday child ; 

What do you think of it, little brown head, 
Winking and blinking your eyes so mild, 

Down in the depths of your snowy bed ? 





By Emily Huntington Miller. 

Tip was the older of the two. I can't really say 
W old he was, and what is more, Tip himself 
d n't know. He wore a man's coat and a pair of 
ry small trousers, but neither fitted him. His 
it was an old felt affair that he had picked up in 
back alley, and his head seemed very much as if 
might have been picked up with it. 
Top was the other partner. It was Top who 
ought the melon, because he had sold all his 
ipers but one, and had an uncommon handful of 
lange. The melon was cheap too, and only a 
ifle spoiled, so the partners sat down on a stone 
id ate it. Then Tip wiped his mouth on his 
jat-sleeve and looked at Top, who had spread 
is last paper over his knees, and was slowly spell- 
lg out the news. 
" There 's a row somewheres, but I can't make 
lit which side is lickin' ; it 's the Turkeys or the 
ther fellers. What be the Turkeys, Tip?" 

" Base-ball fellers, I reckon ; them kind is great 
t a scrimmage." 

"And a freshet carried off a railroad-bridge. 

'amado in Dubbs County ; blowed all the oats 

own. Does oats grow on trees, Tip, or bushes?" 

"Bushes, and kind o' limber." 

" ' Tarrible catastrophe.' What would a catas- 

rophe be, Tip ? " 

" It's a kind o' jumpin' animal. Don't ye mind 
he one we seen to the circus ? " 
Top folded up his paper with a sigh. 
The circus was the beginning of the partnership, 
vhen the two boys, curled up together in a crockery- 
:rate, had been awakened in the dusk of a May 
norning by the long train of circus-wagons rum- 
iling away into the country Half asleep, they fol- 
owed on, keeping pace with the great brown hulk 
hat strode with swaying trunk after the wagons, 
ind glancing half fearfully at the awkward camels 
.hat bared their great teeth viciously, as if they 
.vould not at all mind making a mouthful of the 
■:wo little vagabonds. Once a driver noticed them, 
ind cracked his long whip at them ; but they only 
fell back a few steps. 

" I say, Tip, le's go on till it stops," whispered 
Top ; and with a nod the bargain was concluded. 

It was ten o'clock before the circus stopped, and 
the boys, footsore and hungry, hung around the 
wagons, getting plentiful kicks and abuse, which 
was no more than they were accustomed to at 
home, but rewarded by a glimpse of the animals 
as thev were fed, and making a rare breakfast on a 

loaf of bread that a girl in a dirty spangled dress 
snatched from one of the wagons and tossed to 

Top had risen in the world since then. He had 
left rag-picking and gone into the newspaper busi- 
ness, and even picked up a little learning at the 
night class in the newsboys' home. But he was 
loyal to his partner, and often shared his good 
fortune with him. He had a plan now for them 

" I say, Tip. le's you and me go to farmin'." 

Tip looked at Top. took off his hat, turned it 
over as if looking for an idea in it, and then put it 
on again, and said nothing. 

" There 's a chap comes down to the home told 
us fellers if you go out West a bit, the Guvment 
would let ye have a farm free, jest fer livin' on 't. 
Best kind o' ground, too. We could raise things 
to sell, besides havin' all the melons and stuff you 
could swaller every day." 

" Cm' on," said Tip, his mouth watering at the 
thought. " Is it fur, out West, do ye reckon ? " 

" A good bit ; but I Ye got some money, and we 
can walk it easy. Git yer other shirt, an' we '11 
start to-morrer mornin'." 

That night Top drew all his money from the 
deposit at the newsboys' home — three dollars and 
sixty-five cents. The first thing he did was to buy 
two clay pipes and a paper of tobacco. Then he 
laid in a store of provisions, in the shape of a sheet 
of stale buns, a triangle of cheese, and a dozen 
herrings. Tip was on hand promptly, with his 
other shirt in a wad under his arm. and the two 
partners started " out West." 

" May as well ride ten cents' worth," said Top, 
paying fare for the two on an omnibus that ran to 
the city limits. 

Afterward, they walked on toward the open 
prairie, breakfasting as they went, and adding to 
their stores a turnip and a couple of tomatoes that 
had jolted from some laden market-wagon. Miles 
and miles of market-gardens, where women and 
children were hoeing and weeding and gathering 
vegetables. They stopped at one house and asked 
for water, and a woman in a brown stuff petticoat 
and white short gown offered them some milk in a 
big yellow bowl, and a piece of black bread. A 
boy was washing long yellow carrots by the pump. 
Tip bit one, and liked it. Tip was always hungry. 
Then they went on, and by and by they came to 
the end of the gardens. There were great stubbly 




fields and a stack of yellow straw. They sat down 
by this stack to rest, and then Top thought of the 
pipes. The men whom he knew always smoked 
when they rested at noon, and so he and Tip tried 
it. They had tried it before with ends of cigars 
that they picked up, and once Top had bought a 
new cigar, a fifteen-center, and smoked it all, though 
it made him fearfully sick. The pipes did not seem 
to agree with them. Tip felt particularly uncom- 
fortable, and wished he had not eaten that carrot. 
They did not make any remarks about it, but pres- 
ently they put away the pipes and went to sleep in 
the sun. When they waked it was sunset and 
growing chilly. 

" No use to go any furder to-night," said Top ; 
and they burrowed into the straw and were as snug 
as two field-mice. 

In the morning there were only a herring and two 
very dry buns for breakfast ; but the partners had 
seen much smaller rations than that in their day. 
They asked for water again when they came to a 
house, but the old lady who opened the door must 
have been deaf. She only shook her head and 
shoo-ed them away as if they had been two stray- 
chickens. Next time they had better luck. A fat 
little woman with rosy red cheeks gave them a big 
basket to fill with chips, and when it was full she 
brought them each a thick slice of bread and butter 
and a great puffy brown doughnut. Afterward, 
they drank at the well out of a sweet-tasting dipper 
made of a cocoa-nut shell, and the woman looked 
up from the bread she was kneading to nod and 
smile as they went out of the gate. Next came a 
long strip of woods, without any houses, and be- 
yond that, open prairie again. 

" I think this is about fur 'nough." said Top, 
sitting down on a log. " I should kind o' like to 
have our farm nigh to the woman that give us the 
doughnuts. She 's a good one, she is." 

"Well," said Tip, "seems to be lots of land, 
and mighty scarce of houses. Le's take it half an' 
half, woods and penary." 

Now that the farm was located, the next thing to 
be done was to build a house. Never did Western 
emigrants find things more convenient, for near 
the roadside lay a pile of rails that had once been 
a fence about a hay-stack. These they dragged 
into the woods, and proceeded to build a hut against 
the trunk of a great tree. The result was not ex- 
actly a palace, but at least it was clean and airy, 
and they had slept in much worse quarters. They 
made a bed of green boughs and spread Tip's other 
shirt over it. Everything went well until Tip un- 
dertook to climb a tree after some wild grapes. A 
country boy would have known better than to trust 
the old dead limb from which they dangled ; but 
Tip never suspected that a tree could wear out, 

until he found himself crashing headlong through 
the branches to the ground. He lay there so quiet 
that poor Top might as well have had no partner 
at all. Top was frightened, but he did n't give it 
up. He shook Tip and slapped him on the back 
he even lighted a pipe and blew tobacco smoke in 
his face, all of which remedies he had seen used 
with success, though not upon people who hat 
fallen out of trees. After a while, Tip began to 
breathe again in a jerky fashion, and then he got 
strength enough to groan dismally. 

" Is it yer head ?" asked Top, anxiously. " Are 
ye all right in yer bones ? " 

" It 's me la'igs. and me spines is all smashed to 
flinders," moaned Tip. 

Top managed to drag his unlucky partner into 
the hut ; but the bed was anything but luxurious, 
and Tip was no hero to suffer in silence. 

" Is it as bad as a whalin' ?" asked Top, meaning 
to be sympathizing. 

" Wuss," groaned Tip; but, after all, the sug- 
gestion had some comfort in it. 

" Tip," said his partner, presently, "be ye sorry, 
ye come out West ? " 

"No, not if I die," moaned Tip. "I seen a 
feller die oncet, fallin' down a elevator." 

Tip tried to get up, but fell back with fresh howls. 

"Don't you give up the farm, Top; and you 
can have all my clothes and my other shirt." 

Top would have cried if he had known how, 
but just then a man coming down the wood-road 
stopped a moment to look and listen, and then 
strode up to the queer little hut, saying : 

" What in cre-a-tion " 

" He's hurt," said Top, briefly nodding his head 
at his partner. 

"Hurt! I should think so! Who are your 
and what are you doing here ? " 

" We 're pardners, and we 've took up this farm," 
began Top ; but the man looked at the pair of 
beggars and laughed in a fashion that threatened 
to bring the rails down over his head. 

" Well, well," he said at last, wiping his eyes on 
his shirt sleeve, " if that aint the biggest joke." 

Then he sobered down a little, and felt of Tip's 
bones — and, in fact, Tip was not much else but 

" No more meat 'n a ladder ! Well, well, well ! " 
And he picked up poor Tip and marched away 
with him, while Top followed meekly. It seemed 
to him the man had oil seven-league boots, he got 
over the ground so fast, while he could only limp 
after, for Top was getting sore and stiff from tramp- 
ing. By and by, they turned into a green lane 
and came to the back-door of a house. The man 
laid Tip on a bench, and a shaggy dog came and 
sniffed at him. 




" Molly Anderson ! " called the man, and some- 
*idy came trotting briskly to the door, saying, 
iWell, John ! " long before she came in sight. 
It was the woman who had given them the dough- 


tuts. Tip cried when he saw her, though he did n't 
enow why, for he felt wonderfully glad. 

Things were mixed up after that for a good many 
iays, and Tip had queer fancies of going or. and 
>n, trying to find the best kind of a farm to settle 
down upon, until at last he waked up to find 

himself on a clean bed in a great breezy garret, 
with the pleasant little woman darning stockings 
beside him. The man was there too, and he said, 
in a cheerful voice : "They're made of cast-steel 
and whip-cords, them 
youngsters. He '11 be 
right as a top in a day 
or two." 

" The other one is 
Top," Tip tried to say, 
but his voice was so 
queer he did not know 
it, and wondered who 
had spoken. 

In the end, the part- 
ners concluded to give 
up the farm ; but the 
man who had be- 
friended them gave 
them both work for a 
few weeks, and when 
one day they rode back 
to the city in a great 
loaded market-wagon, 
they felt far grander 
than the Lord Mayor 
for whom the bells 
rang " Turn again, 
Whittington ! " 

It was grander yet 
riding back again at 
night, with the new 
delight of returning 
to a home and a wel- 

" Tip," said Top, as 
they crept into bed, " I 
aint never goin' back 
to the city. When 
they wont keep us 
no more, and nobody 
wont keep us, I 'm 

goin' to start along the road, and keep on till I 

come to somewheres. Roads is better 'n streets ; 

they always goes to somewheres that they did n't 

start from " 

Top's voice died away, and Tip only answered 

with a snore. The partners were asleep. 

4 8 



By George Klingle. 

" Dear me, what a wonderful hat ! feathers and 
fine things ; just a pile ! " 

" Yes," whispered Felice, trying not to look, yet 
giving a little glance, for all, at the wonderful hat 
on the majestic Mrs. Pendilly's head as she moved 
up to her pew. 

"She must be very thankful; don't you think 
so, Felice?" 

"Why?" whispered Felice, glancing up the 

" She has such a lot to thank for," said Tinsie, 
looking down with a bit of a sigh at her own faded 
dress. "I just wish I had a hat exactly, precisely 
like that." 

"Why, Tinsie Treppet ! don't you know you 
would look like a fright with a hat like that ! " 

But she checked the smile on her lips, and the 
words she was just going to say, for she had not 
come to church to talk to Tinsie Treppet, and so 
she edged down closer to the pew door, and looked 
on the other side of the church. 

"Felice," whispered Tinsie, slipping after her, 
"do you think I ought to thank for such mean 

" Mother says it is sometimes because God loves 
us that He does not give us fine things, and that 
He is good ; oh, so good ! to give us any at all." 

" It 'pears to me He might have given them a 
little better — even like Tebitha Brady's " 

" Please don't, Tinsie," whispered Felice with a 
worried look in her eyes; "God is so good, and 
He hears you every word." 

"Sure and true ! I never thought of it," said 
Tinsie, involuntarily glancing around; "but may be 
He did not hear because so many people are talking. 
But here comes the minister to begin to thank, and 
I don't know what to thank for, in my heart, you 
know, unless it's for my new shoes." 

" For George 's getting well." suggested Felice, 
not quite sure if she ought to talk for Tinsie's bene- 
fit or be silent. 

" Sure and certain, I forgot that ! " 

" And your father's getting work." 


" And the lady being kind to your mother, and 
giving her sewing, you know." 

" I forgot." 

" And your having something to eat every day 
since last Thanksgiving." 

" Yes, only we had n't many pies." 

"And don't you know how you were lost, and 
they found you, and brought you back ?" 

" Yes, but I thanked the man for that, Felice." 

" Mother says God put it into the man's heart to 
be kind to you and to bring you back again." 

" Well, I never would have thought of that ! 
Let me see how many things that makes ; and oh, 
if I 'm to thank for all things like that, I can keep 
on counting a heap ; there 's " 

"Hush," whispered Felice softly, and drawing 
Tinsie down on her knees. 

"There's the pumpkin pie the baker sent for 
dinner," continued Tinsie, unwilling to be sup- 
pressed, but the next instant folding her little brown 
hands tightly over her eyes, with a new resolution 
to be still as well as thankful. 

Felice tried to follow the service and be thinking 
about the blessings; but in spite of herself, thought: 
arising from Tinsie's question as to thanking for 
such shabby clothes kept ringing in her head, and 
every little while the feathers of Mrs. Pendilly's hat 
would bob up so high and so 'fine that it was im- 
possible not to be attracted by them from the 
preacher and set to thinking about lots and lots of 
things which, at another time, would have been no 
harm at all ; but just now, in the middle of th 
preaching, the praising and the praying, were very 
distracting, and out of place altogether. 

"I do so much want to be good to-day," sighed 
Felice to herself; " I do so much want to think 
only about the praises and the prayers ; " and tears 
were quivering in her eyes before she knew it. 
" My dress is not nice, I know, but then it will do : 
and my hat — oh, if mother could know the wicked 
thoughts I had been thinking about my hat, she 
would say I never, never could expect any better 
and yet I am thankful, too, for what I have," and 
she turned aside that Tinsie, by her side, should 
not see the tears, and whispered a little prayer, 
quite apart from the prayers the minister was say- 
ing, begging to be forgiven her thoughtlessness, 
and helped to do better. 

" I Ve been saying them all over," whispered 
Tinsie as they arose from their knees; "every single 
bit of a thing I could think of; but say, Felice. 
don't you hope you '11 sometime have a hat like 
Mrs. Pendilly's to thank for?" 

" Tinsie Treppet ! I 'II never, never bring you to 
any more Thanksgivings ! " 

"Why, I've been thanking every minute of the 

8 7 6.] 



jjrayer, except just when I 'd peep up, you know, " See the feathers, Felice," she commenced 

imd then it was I got to hoping about the hat." again ; " were there ever any such before ! " 

Felice frowned and shook her head, and gave Felice looked again in spite of herself, and, as 

Tinsie a very gentle nudge, by way of reminder of she looked, the proud, vain face of Mrs. Pendilly 

her duty ; but Tinsie kept straight on with what turned quite around within view. 

she was saying, and then sat leaning back, gazing " I see the whole that mother was telling me 

up at the windows of the beautiful church, and then now! It is having such fine bonnets and things 

again at the wonders of Mrs. Pendilly's hat. that give people such faces ! " thought Felice, quite 

Vol. IV.— 4. 




startled with the thought, and, in an instant, en- 
tirely content with her own plain attire. " I remem- 
ber just what mother was saying about fine things; 
she said they make the heart proud very often, and 
a proud heart always spoils the face." 

So glad was Felice to find herself quite content 
after the struggle she had passed through in try- 
ing to be truly thankful, that she whispered her 
thoughts to Tinsie Treppet, and when, the next 

minute, the vain, proud face under the fine fixin; 
turned around again, Tinsie leaned eagerly fo 
ward to take in at one view the whole of the ui 
pleasantness ; then, suddenly clasping her hanc 
over her little calico-covered heart, exclaimed ju: 
under her breath : 

" Felice ! Felice ! I rather wear a hood or a sui 
bonnet forever than to have a hat and a face precii 
like Mrs. Pendilly's ! " 


By Mrs. M. H. Jaquith. 

This pen-wiper is not warranted to last a hun- 
dred years, nor is it so fine that it can be used but 
once in a century ; but it well deserves the digni- 
fied name of " A Centennial 
Bass-relief Portrait," even 
while it lies upon papa's 
library table in the humble 
capacity of a wiper of pens. 
And just now, while prep- 
arations for fairs and gift- 
making* are the order of 
the hour, the readers of St. 
Nicholas may be glad to 
learn how to make one. 

The first thing required is 
an oval medallion of broad- 
cloth, large enough to hold 
the figure and leave a suit- 
able margin. If it is to be a 
pen-wiper, the edge of the 
oval should be neatly pinked 
or notched with a scissors, 
and there should be several 
duplicate layers of soft black 
cloth under it, all secured 
together by a stitch in the 
center of the oval. 

•• To make hare soup, first 
catch your hare," is a safe 
recipe, and perhaps I should 
have said, first get your 
face, a photograph nearly or 
quite in profile — Washing- 
ton, Adams, Jefferson, any 
honored representative of the 

olden time, or else a smoothly shaven face of the 
present day will answer the purpose. Cut out the 

* See "Letter-Box" of present number. — Ed 

face neatly, leaving some of the card-board ove 
the head and on the shoulders as a support, 
which the hat and vest may be secured when th 

proper time comes. The hair, which should b<. 
sewed on after the figure is put together, is a flow- 

76 1 



g wig of flax, or soft white wool, or cotton batting. 

a queue is desired, it may be braided at the 
ick and tied with a very narrow black ribbon. 

Now come the various parts of the figure, the 
litems of which can readily be obtained from the 
icompanying diagrams. These patterns are to 
|| cut out of card-board and covered neatly on one 
■de, so as to present a proper effect when the com- 
eted figure is laid upon the cloth background to 
hich it is finally to be secured. 

First comes the vest of buff satin, or merino, 
isted over the card-board pattern. This and the 
iat sleeve must be trimmed with very fine narrow 
ihite lace, as shown in the picture. The knee- 
■eeches are of buff or satin, the hose of white silk, 
isteel on the card-board pattern, with a garter of 
>ack or some good contrasting color to hide the 
)ining. The black velvet shoe is cut around 
le ankle to the shape indicated in the diagram, 
isted over the silk stocking on the card-board and 
immed when dry. Make the hat of black velvet 
1 the same way. The dotted line of the diagram 
I lows where a card is to be sewed on to represent 
le flap of the hat when turned up. After the legs 
re adjusted and firmly sewed to the vest, the coat 
to be put on. This is of bright-colored silk velvet, 
laroon, brown, or green; black would do nicely if 
le centennial hero is intended only for a picture, 
rovided you have a light background ; for that 
latter, it might be, for a picture, mounted on white 
r pearl-colored Bristol board. The coat is not 
i, ned. Put the sleeve in place, adjust the- hand, 
'hich is cut out of fine white card-board, and your 
:gure is completed. If the face and hands have 
een skillfully colored, so much the better. Gilt Ol- 
iver beads may be used for the buttons, knee and 
itioe buckles, and the star in the hat : or little 
aetal ornaments from old fans can be employed 
s istead of beads. A stiff broom straw will do for a 
ane; stain it dark, and head it with a bit of tin-foil; 
hen cut the pasteboard piece representing the end 
f the sword, and cover it with foil, and hang it as 
hown in the picture. 

1 When your centennial portrait is finished and 
lid upon its tinted card, or its pen-wiperbackground 
f cloth, you will be surprised to see how really 

effective it is. Of course great care and neatness 
are required for getting the best results ; but what 


girl is not glad to take pains in making a pretty 
present to hand to some loved friend or relative on 
Christmas morning? 







be saying something to the cluster of tiny bal 
spiders that were clinging to her, probably assurin 1 
them that there was no danger. Then she agai 
examined her balloon, to make sure that all w: 
right, and then broke off the gossamer rope. Tl( 
little balloon gently rose before the breeze. M 
friend wished the skillful maker and bold navig; 
tor of the air a successful voyage, as she sailed 01 
of sight, and he never saw her more. 


A NEW year begins for us this month, my chicks, 
and we '11 greet it heartily, wishing it joy and use- 
fulness and profit. According to the Little School- 
ma'am, there are calendar years and solar years, 
and I don't know how many other kinds ; but your 
St. NICHOLAS year is a thing by itself. It begins 
when the forests are shaking down their red and 
yellow leaves and the children's hearts are begin- 
ning to stir with the coming Christmas, — in the 
grand old November when the winds start a won- 
derful serial story, ''to be continued next month." 

Talking of serial stories. I 'm told, though I 
hardly can credit the wonderful news, that Mr. 
Trowbridge — "Jack Hazard'' Trowbridge, "Young 
Surveyor" Trowbridge — is to give you a great long 
one this year, full of adventure, called 

His Own Master. 

So look out for it, my chicks. Deacon Green says 
the name is enough in itself — and he means to read 
every word of it. 

Now you shall hear about 


NOT Montgolfier, nor any other man, invented 
this balloon ; but a tiny insect which makes no 
noise in the world. A friend of mine watched her 
at work making a balloon, then saw her take her 
children and begin a journey in it. She was a 
mother spider, whose family name I do not know. 

Apparently she had become tired of her old 
home and wanted to move elsewhere. So she spun 
a little gossamer balloon, shaped somewhat like one 
of the natural divisions of a walnut-shuck. As it 
grew in size it would have floated away without her 
had she not fastened it by ropes of gossamer to 
the branch of a tree. 

By and by, when all was done, she seemed to 


In the beautiful valley of Cashmere, among th 
Himalayan Mountains, lies a lovely lake called Da 
Floating about on its surface, sometimes carried b 
the winds from one end of the lake to the othei 
are numerous small islands, on which grow tl 
fairest cucumbers and the most luscious meloi 
known. The way in which these floating gardei 
are made is very curious. All about the main short, 
of the lake grow quantities of reeds, sedges at 
water-lilies. When these grow very thickly td 
gether, people cut them from the roots which hoi 
them near the shore. The leaves of the plants ai 
■ then spread out over the stems, making a sort ( 
trestle-work to support the soil with which it is ne^ 
to be covered. After this has been done, the seed 
are planted and the floating garden is left to car 
for itself until the fruits are ready for picking. 


The children in my part of the world come on 
now and then with beautiful new dresses. I use 
to think such things grew in houses just as flowei 
grow on bushes, but I know better now, and I ' 
been told what they cost too. Yes, and I hear 
the Little Schoolma'am reading out of a bool; 
that in the time of James the First (of cours 
you know who he was ; I did n't once) gentleme 
wore suits of clothes that cost from one hundrc 
thousand, to four hundred thousand dollars. Th 
best way to get a good idea of this sum is to ima;j 
ine every dollar a daisy, and then scatter them, i 
thought, over a field. One that was mentione 
was made of white velvet embroidered with did 
monds ; and another of purple satin, embroidert 
with pearls. Ladies' gowns to match these werj 
embroidered, and cost two hundred and fifty do 
lars a yard. The fashionable embroidery was 
border of animals, filled in with spiders, worm: 
rainbows, fountains, and other dainty design- 
Lovely, was n't it ? I fancy ladies were n't so afrai 
of a " horrid bug " in those days as they are now. 


YOU don't eat nails ? Well now, what do yo 
call those round headed, little black things that yo 
sometimes nibble so contentedly ? Cloves? Clove 
according to the Little Schoolma'am, came from 
French word that means a nail ; and they do loo 
like a small nail, you must admit. By the way, a 
you know the very cloves you ate last were prett 
pink flower-buds when they were picked in tropic, 
regions, and dried in the sun ? They were nevti 
allowed to blossom, poor things ! 





' Dfar JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT : As your children 
ad a picture of "Old Abe. the Wisconsin War- 
agle," last month, it occurs to me that it would 
1 well to show them the portrait of another regi- 
ment pet. Here he is, a superb creature, and well 
Worthy of the kindness and favor shown him. He 
elongcd to the Forty-second Highlanders (a 
ritish company), and he always marched in front 
J their band. His quick, sensitive ears generally 



rciuld twitch at the slightest sound, and yet he 

ould bear unmoved the din of his dear regiment's 

rums and trumpets. Indeed, so proud was he of 

Lais band, that he would become very angry if, 

I uring a parade, a stranger attempted to pass be- 

t ween it and the main body of the regiment. He 

j.ras a brave, daring fellow in some respects, and 

et, strange to say, he at last was driven to his 

£ath by fright. One day, an angry cat suddenly 

reared her back at him, and. seized with a strange 
terror, he jumped over a precipice and was killed. 
Yours truly, SILAS GREEN. 


Perhaps all snalfes do not wear them, but that 
some kinds do I can testify. You know that snakes 
spend their lives crawling about among brush-wood 
and thorns, and it is essential that their eyes should 
be protected in some way. So kind nature has 

given them strong 
spectacles made of 
horn, as clear and 
transparent as the 
besc of eye-glasses. 
I have myself seen a 

You must know 
that at certain pe- 
riods a snake casts 
off the skin which 
has served him for a 
coat until he has out- 
grown it, and makes 
his appearance in a 
brand-new suit. This 
morning I had a 
good chance to ex- 
amine the cast-off 
coat of a snake which 
was left very near 
me. and attached to 
it I saw a pair of the 
spectacles such as I 
have described. So 
I suppose his snake- 
ship has a new pair 
with every new coat. 
Can you tell me 
anything more about 
these spectacles ? 


Copper toes? Oh, 
no ! These are new 
affairs. The shoes I 
allude to are very 
old-fashioned — time 
of Queen Bess (how 
long ago w'as that ?). 
They were a sort of 
clog or slipper, worn 
under the common 
shoe to set ladies up in the world. The)' were 
half a yard high sometimes, and were made of 
wood, painted and gilded. In Venice, where every- 
body wore them, the greatest lady wore the highest 
chopine, as these tip-top shoes are called. 

How awkward they must have looked, walking 
about on such clumsy things. I am glad the Little 
Schoolma'am does n't wear them, if only for the 
daisies' sake. 




Words by " Alba.'" 
$: Allegro Moderate. 


Music by F. Boott. 





By Marion Hari.and. 

Half a package of Coxe's Sparkling Gelatine, one cup of loaf sugar, one cup of cold water, juice and 
ated peel of one lemon, a pinch of nutmeg, and the same of ground cinnamon, two cups of boiling 
iter, and one glass of clear wine or cider. 

Soak the gelatine in the cold water for two hours. Put it into a bowl with the sugar, lemon-juice and 

peel, nutmeg and cin- 
namon. Pour the boil- 
ing water over these, 
and stir until the gela- 
tine is dissolved. Add 
the wine or cider, and 
strain through a thick 
flannel bag, without 
shaking or squeezing 
it, into a pitcher. It 
requires patience to see the slow "drop ! 
drop ! " of the amber-colored liquid with- 
out giving the bag just a tiny squeeze to 
hurry it up (or down). But your jelly 
will be cloudy if you wring out the dregs. 
Rinse out a bowl or jelly-mold with cold 
water, but do not wipe the inside. Pour 
into this the jelly from the pitcher, and 
set upon the ice or in a cold place until it 
is firm. When you wish to turn it out, 
dip the mold for one instant in hot water 
— not boiling — and turn upside down into 
a glass dish. Let mamma or auntie show 

you how to do this, as it is rather a delicate bit of work. 

Four pounds of berries, or ripe peaches, pared and 
sliced ; three pounds of loaf or granulated sugar. 

Put the fruit into a porcelain kettle, or a very bright 
bell-metal one. Copper kettles are poisonous, if not 
clean. Set this kettle into a pot or pan of hot water 
upon the range. Cover closely, and let the water in 
the outer vessel boil until the fruit in the inner kettle 
is hot and tender throughout. Lift the kettle from 
the fire, and mash the heated fruit with a wooden 
spoon. Put it back over the fire, this time directly 
upon the range, and let it boil steadily for half an 
hour, stirring almost constantly. Put your wooden 
spoon down to the bottom at each stir, to keep the 
fruit from burning. Drain off a quart of the juice at 
the end of the half hour. Add the sugar to the fruit 
and boil fast for half an hour more. Keep your spoon 
busy all this time. Jam should not be allowed to stop 
boiling for a moment after it begins to bubble up. 

Rinse out some small tumblers or cups with hot 
water. Pour the jam in hot, but let it cool before you 
iver it. Cut tissue paper to fit the inside of each cup ; press it down smoothly upon the jam : pour a 
a-spoonful of brandy upon this ; then paste thick white paper over the top of the cup. 

56 FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS. [Novembe] jfl 



How old did you say ? Three weeks. Yes, the lit-tle dar-lings an 
three weeks old this ver-y day ; and, though I do say it, they are the 
fin-est chil-dren of their age I ev-er saw. Why, do you know they re-fus< 
to stand up like com-mon dogs ! Won-der-ful, is n't it ? The way ir 
which their soft lit-tle legs bend and dou-ble up un-cler them is the mos 
as-ton-ish-ing thing you ever saw ! And on the end of ev-er-y leg is — 
oh ! such a per-fect lit-tle paw, as soft as vel-vet — -just look ! At first the) 
would not o-pen their eyes. Dear lit-tle things ! Was not that won-der 
ful ? Then in a few days they o-pened them. Was not that won-der-ful 
They go to sleep and they wake up just like oth-er dogs. Does not tha 
beat all ? And if you put your ear close to their soft fur, you can hea: 
them breathe. Yes, breathe ! And they are MY PUP-PIES ! 

I am not proud, but I do say they are five love-ly pup-pies. I ai 
ver-y care-ful of them, too ; but I will let all you good lit-tle girls and 
boys look at them, if you will be ver-y gen-tle. Don't make a noise an< 
wake up Snow-ball — he is the sleep-y one. Black-ball, here, is wid 
a-wake. You may touch his nose soft-ly, if you wish. You will find i 
quite nice and cool. I am so glad they are well and strong ! They tak 
af-ter me. Now, my dear friends, if you will please go a-way, I shall b 
o-hliged to you. My lit-tle ones need rest and qui-et at first, or the; 
will be spoiled. Any-thing but nerv ous, fret-ful pup-pies for me ! 

Little Joe Clacket, he made such a racket 
While shelling some corn at the barn, 
The Hebiddy crew, the chickens they flew, 
All coming to eat up Joe's corn. 

While Joe was shelling his corn in the barn, 
His mother was spinning some double-twist yarn. 
She made such a buzzing and whizzety whuzzing, 
She could not hear Joe at his corn in the barn ; 
He made such a racket and clicketty clacket, 
He did not hear her at her double-twist yarn. 


-~. V^_o ■ v -V 






The child that is born on the 
Sabbath day 

Is blithe and bonny, and good 
and gay ; 

Monday's child is fair of face ; 

Tuesday's child is full of grace ; 

Wednesday's child is merry and 

Thursday's child is sour and sad ; 

Friday's child is loving and giv- 
ing ; 

And Saturday's child must work 

[See "Letter-Box. "] 






Moretand, Oct. 12, 1875- 
i CHiPfV, old boy, it seems to me that I never had such fun in all my 
Te as 1 had last summer. It was at a place called Woodbury. You 

ont find it on any map, I guess; but that is the real name. When 
:hool was out in June, we staid about home for a week or two, and 
,ien a letter came from Uncle Jacob and Aunt Hannah, ashing us if 

e didn't want to come and slay the rest of the summer on the farm, 
/e got the letter about dinner-time ; but I wasn't hungry after that. 
1 other would n't let me go and tell Walt about it until after dinner. 
v'e didn't have anything extra; but it did take them the longest 
me to get through. 

' Well, you can bet that Walt was glad when I told him, and we 
egan to get ready at once. Walt's old rifle had to be got down and 
eaned ; then we had to lay in some powder and shot. I had to get 
le a new pocket-knife, and then there was a lot of other things we 
ot ready, which I have forgotten now. 

It took us two days and one night to get there. We were both of 
s pretty tired and both of us pretty dirty at the end of that second 
ay. Tom was at the depot with th<_- horses when we reached Wood- 
ury. and after a drive of a mile we stopped at the front door. 

There, on the steps, stood Uncle Jacob, and Aunt Hannah, and 
.unt Mary, and Cousin Libby, and Sarah, and Hannah; and Walt 
nd I had to kiss all of 'em. Mother said we must when we came 
,way from home I guess it wasn't very nice for them, with our 
ices covered with dust and cinders. 

I don't ihink this house is a hundred years old; but it ought to 
e, it's such a good one. It is n't painted, and it was n't built all at 
nee. When Uncle Jacob came here to live, they built the low part, 
'here's where the dining-room is now. It's a splendid room, I can 
;llyou. You 'd think so if you could have some of the good things 
t eat we have in there three times a day. What would you say, 
i!hippy, if you could pass your saucer the third time for apple-sauce, 
!nd have it heapud the last time, without having them tell you not to 
sk for any more ? 

I There are two lounges, one in the dining-room and one in the hall 
-and it's a splendid long wide hall, with a door at each end. Did 
iou ever see a door that opened half at a time — the upper half, and 
nen the lower? That's the way they are here Well, after break- 
tst, and dinner, and supper, Walt and 1 lie down on the lounge. I 
poke first for the one in the hall ; so that is mine. The pillow is a 
reat deal softer. I don't know why we lie down always then. 
*om says it 's because wc have been working hard ; but that 's some 
f his fun, because we don't work at all. All we do is to have fun. 

There's a boy here that we call Smutty Walt named him. He '11 

anything you tell him if it is fur fun. He would go in swimming 
hundred times a day, if Walt and 1 would go in with him, but he 

on't like to bring in wood. 

Nobody has to churn out here, It *s the dog. There's a big wheel 
itched to another wheel, and then there's a crank; so when the dog 
'alks, the dasher goes just as it docs when anybody churns up and 
own. I can see him churn every day. I 'm glad I aim Uncle 
acob's dog. 

There is a big brook runs down through the valley, and Tom and 
Jncle Jacob have fixed a place so all the water runs through a box 
'ith holes in it. That's for catching eels. Y'ou ought to have seen 
diata whopper we caught the other morning ! I had two big pieces 
t breakfast ; and it was good, I can tell you. 1 like eels. 

1 Walt and I made a water-wheel, and you should see how it goes ! 
'he water comes rushing down through the holes into a trough we 
lade for it, and when it leaves the trough it gives one good jump for 
ur wheel. Doesn't it whirl though ! After we finished that, we got 
1 little trip-hammer to work ; and, quite a little ways off, you can hear 
: go — rap-rap-rap ! 

The day we finished the trip-hammer, we had a good time. It was 
bout ten o'clock, and we got hungry. Walt said he was hungry 
irst, and that made me feel so, and 1 said I was. Then Walt said : 
'Let's tell Smutty to tell Aunt Hannah we want something to eat." 
■Then I said, "Let's." So Walt hollered to Smutty, and Smutty said 
le'd go if we'd give him some, and we said we would. Well, what 
lo you think? Aunt Hannah sent us two slices of bread apiece, 
'Uttered thick with butter, and lots and lots of apple-sauce on it. 1 
alt sorry that wc promised to give a part to Smutty when I saw how 
;ood it was. We get hungry now every day at ten o'clock, and we 
(on't always have bread and butter either. Oh, you 'd like to be here 
-such times ! 

I 've kept the best till the last. We go bare-footed when we want 
o, and we don't have to wear any collar or neck-tie. 

I can't write any more now, because it is dinner-time, and Walt 
ind I don't like to trouble Aunt Hannah by being late. 
Your affectionate school-mate, 

Winkie West. 

P. S. — We have clam fritters for dinner, and Walt likes them like 
■very thing. So do 1. 


A robin swayed to and fro 
On the old green apple-tree; 

He caroled a lovely song, 

And this song he caroled to me: 

' Oh, maiden fair, 

I 'm glad I aint you ; 
I am glad, I am glad, 
For you 've nothing to do. 

• The leaves they do grow, 
And the grass grows too, 
And the apple-tree blooms, 
But you 've nothing to do. 

' The goslings all swim 
In the lake so blue. 
And the hen lays eggs, 
But you 've nothing to do. 

' The little birds chirp, 

And the dove says 'coo;' 
The chanticleer crows. 

But you 've nothing to do. 

' The smoke curls up 

From the chimney's flue, 
And floats to the sky, 
But you 've nothing to do. 

' To the green of the grass 
The flow'r lends its hue, 
And blooms in the sun, 
But you 've nothing to do. 

' The clouds roll on 
In the distant view, 
And form the cool rain, 
But you 've nothing to do, 

' But now to my nest 

I my way must pursue, 
And leave you alone 
With nothing to do." 

Then he spread his wings, 

And away he flew, 
Singing and caroling, 
" Nothing to do ! " 

I rose from the grass, 

And the long hours did rue 

Which I 'd spent lying there 
With nothing to do. 

On my chair were the socks. 

Full of holes it is true ; 
But I said to myself, 
" Here is something to do ! " 


Most children like pets I do. I know. I have had kittens, and 
birds, and puppies, but I have liked none so well as my beautiful 
little gray squirrel. I reared him from a baby on milk from a bot- 
tle Our house is in the country, with woods all around, and our 
bed-room is very large, and on the first floor. My dear father is 
very infirm, and rarely ever leaves the house, and the window-sashes 
are always kept down. In this room Bunny has passed his first 
vear of life: he has his cage and bed, but he has never been con- 
fined, and his whole time, when not asleep, is spent in mischief and 
romping. In the morning he is up first, and wakes me by rubbing 
his nose in my face and purring like a cat, evidently saying, "Get 
up, lazy bones ! '' He then examines every chair, table, wardrobe 
and box ; whatever he takes a fancy to he carries to certain hiding- 
places for future use; my mother's work-basket is alwavs inspected, 
and her thimbles and spools of thread are carefully hidden away. 
We know his places of deposit, and whenever anything is missing 
we say at once, " Bunny has hidden it." When he is ready for a 
romp he jumps on my shoulder or head, and nips my ear gently 
with his teeth; then he scampers off, and we play hide-and-seek for 




an hour; and the cunning and sense he shows in this play father 
says is greater than that of most children. He is the most playful 
and active animal I ever saw, — far ahead of a kitten. If father is 
asleep on his lounge, Bunny teases him until he sometimes gets a 
flogging; he pulls father's hair, biles his ears, pulls the newspaper 
from his face, nips his fingers, and I and mother look on and laugh. 
In warm weather he slips between the sheets of my bed and coils 
up exactly in the middle of the bed. He knows a stranger as soon 
as he conies in, and will snarl and quarrel and scold like an old 
woman if strange children come in. If I leave the room he rims to 
the windows to watch me through the glass. He will put up with 
the roughest treatment from me without minding it, but a stranger 
must take care of those needle-like teeth; he can jump ten feet from 
one table to another. He is fed on nuts, bread, fruit, or almost any- 
thing that we eat; is constantly hiding away things to eat. When 
any of us have to write, we are obliged to shut him up; he snatches 
the pen from the hand, scratches at the paper, upsets the ink, and for 
mischief he never had his equal. I could write all day, and- then 
not tell all about him. To see him take a nut, run and jump on top 
of mother's head, sit there and eat it, and then hide the shell in the 
folds of her hair, is real funny; he has found out that the door is 
opened by turning the knob, and he often tries to turn it himself; he 

keeps me laughing half my time; but when he takes my poor dollies 
by the head and drags them over the floor, then he makes me mad. 
I am keeping him to take to New York next summer to a little boy. 
cousin of mine. a. C. w. 


Once on a time— 't was long ago — 

There lived a worthy dame, 
Who sent her son to fetch some flour, 

For she was old and lame. 

But while he loitered on the road, 
The north wind chanced to stray 

Across the careless youngster's path, 
And stole the flour away. 

"Alas! what shall we do for bread?" 

Exclaimed the weeping lad ; 
" The flour is gone! the flour is gone! 

And it was all we had ! " MINNIE nichols. 



We give this month, on pp. 50-51, directions for making a " Cen- 
tennial " fancy article fur a Christmas gift. Our readers will find a 
few other timely hints in the present " Letter-Box ;" and, for further 
information on the subject of home-made holiday gifts, we refer them 
to " One Hundred Christmas Presents, and How to Make Them," in 
St. Nicholas for December, 1875. 

Brooklyn, N. Y. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Can any of your readers tell me why two 
small c's are placed at the foot of the eagle on half and quarter dol- 
lars? Sometimes there is an s instead of the c's, and on coins of 
dates previous to 1875 I have never noticed anything. On some 
dimes I have seen two c's, but I don't remember ever having noticed 
an s on a dime. If some one will tell me what this means. I shall be 
much obliged. — Yours truly, Jessie J. Cassidy. 

The two small letters c c, and the single letter s, sometimes seen on 
our silver money, mean Carson City and San Francisco, and are put on 
the coins to show that they were struck at the mints in those cities. 
Coins from the mother mint at Philadelphia have nothing, and the 
absence of the letters shows they were made there. By means of 
these marks the examiners at the Assay Office are enabled to trace 
the coins if they find any defects in the work. 

Adele sends this pretty song which she has translated for St. 
Nicholas from the German of Goethe: 


A dear little bluebell, 

On one gladsome day, 
Sprang forth from the dark earth 

In brightest array. 
There soon came and sipped, 

A little brown bee; 
They were for each other 

Created, you see. 

The picture of the "Children of the Week," in our department 
"For Very Little Folks," was printed some years ago in Hearth 
and Home, but we reproduce it, not only because it is such a good 
picture, but because it is the very first drawing on wood ever made 
by our charming artist, Addie Ledyard. The poem in this number, 
" The Sunday Baby," will give additional interest to the illustration. 

Grand View, Texas. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Brother Harry and I have been taking^ the 
St. Nicholas two years. We are all happy when it comes ; it is so 
interesting, I want to write you a letter to thank you for making us 

such a nice, sweet book every month. I am ten years old, and 
brother Harry is twelve. We are both studying United States his- 
tory. We would so much enjoy a visit to the great Centennial at 
Philadelphia, but we live many hundreds of miles away in North- 
western Texas, and never saw a city, nor a railroad, nor many of the 
wonderful things we read of in St. Nicholas. Katv Grant. 

Litchfield, Illinois. 
Editor St. Nicholas : As I am about to begin the study of Eng- 
lish literature, I have written an answer to the first of the Harvard 
University questions published in the September Sckibner. getting 
my information from "Chambers' Cyclopaedia of English Literature" 
{1847) and the "American Cyclopaedia." I would like you to say 
how it would be received as an answer to the question if it was given 
in an examination. I did not feel sure whether I should go further 
back than Layamon, or whether to include the Scotch writers or not 
— Respectfully, Mary L. Hood (aged 14 years). 

Question : What aie the principal writings in the English language 
before Chaucer? 

Answer : The beginning of English literature is generally accredited 
to the latter part of the twelfth century, when the Anglo-Saxon tongue 
began to be modified by the Norman -French. The oldest known 
book considered English is Layamon's translation of Wace's " Roman 
de Brut." This writer is considered the first of a series known as 
the "Rhyming Chroniclers." Among them, Robert of Gloucester 
wrote a rhyming history of England, and Robert Manning translated 
several French books. Besides these were metrical romances, gener- 
ally reproduced from the Anglo-Norman, among which were " Sir 
Tristram," "Sir Guy," "The Squire of Low Degree," "' The King of 
Tars," " Morte Arthure," etc. Among the immediate predecessors 
of Chaucer were Laurence Minot. a ballad writer, and Robert Lang- 
lande, the author of " Piers Plowman." Contemporary with Chaucer 
were Sir John Mandeville, who wrote an account of his travels ; John 
Wicklifle, the reformer, who translated the Bible and wrote several 
controversial works in English ; and John Gower, the author of 
" Confessio Amantis." 

We consider your answer a very good one. 

"An Old Grandmother." — Thanks for the leaves of the "life- 
plant." They are flourishing finely, and we have sent some of them 
to the Little Schoolma'am. 

Zanesville, Ohio. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I received you yesterday. My grandpa 
gave me you for a Christmas gift. Don't you think I have a good 
grandpa? I see many letters in the "Letter-Box," but none from 
Zanesville. Zanesville is a smoky old town, but I like it because it is 
my home. We have two rivers here, the Muskingum and the Lick- 
ing. I am eight years old, and never went to school until last spring. 
1 have two pets, a dog and a squirrel. I have so much fun playing 
with my squirrel. He is very tame, and eats out of my hand. — Your 
little reader, Effie W. Mlnson. 




| Dear St. Nicholas : Please let me give your young readers a 

|nt for fancy-work for the coming holidays. 

i Shagreen paper, or egg-shell board, is anew, useful, and pretty ma- 
rial for handkerchief-cases, card-baskets, wall-pockets, etc. It may 
: bought for twenty-five cents a sheet at framing establishments, 
here it is used in making passe-partouts. It is white on one side, 
id gray on the other. The gray side will be found more effective 
r fancy-work. The edges of this paper may readily be pinked. 

'he parts of any fancy article can be fastened together by running 

'3bon through holes punched in the center of each pinked scollop. 

Iretty colored pictures, wreaths, leaf-sprays, etc., such as are sold in 
e fancy stores for children's albums, may be pasted on the surface, 
desired. Alice Donlevy. 

Beverly, New Jersey. 

Dear St. Nicholas : A young friend, now at Princeton College, 
nt as a New- Year's gift your magazine to my little girls in 1875, 
id has continued it for this year. The pleasure he has given them 

the enjoyment of its pages has led me to suggest, through your 
Setter-Box," to other young men desiring to present a birthday or 
>liday present to a little friend, sister, brother, or cousin, that they 
■ ould follow his example and send them a year's subscription to 
e St. Nicholas. It would be, as my little girls say, "a new pres- 
it every month." Its pure pages can safely be put in the hands of 
ir children, and relieve a parent's anxiety as to what they will read 

them, while we have so much to dread from many other periodicals, 
'>oks, etc. 

We have made use of several of your charades, pantomimes, &c, 
ith success, in our little school entertainments, and thank you for 
em. — Respectfully. Mrs, Fannie M. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I have tried making candy according to 
ihn F. H.'s plan. The candy turned out to be real good. Please 
it me down as a Bird-defender. — Yours truly, 

\\\ West Randall. 

Brooklyn, N. Y. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I read you and like you very much, and 
eing that the other boys and girls write to you, I thought that 1 
'ould too. Winter before last, I went to Florida fnr my health, and 
hile I was there the hotel folks used to go alligator-shooting, and 

;.ey brought in several pretty good-sized ones. They are nice-look- 

rg fellows, so I thought, but ugly to tackle. 
Aside from this, I had a pretty good time there, and when I was 

'urning home I brought a little 'gator with me; but when I got to 
ivannah, on my way home, he got lost in a fountain that was in 

|6nt of the hotel ; and a few days after, he got out and crawled into 

; e cellar of the hotel, where the cat got him and killed him. 

; But after that I got another one, which I liked better, and he did 
it get. lost or die, but has since then traveled with me wherever I 
ent; and last winter I got a turtle to keep him company, and they 

In along nicely together. Besides them, I have a gray squirrel that 

i like very much, and now I am trying to get a young 'coon. 

- Hoping that you will not get tired of my long letter, I remain, 

ours truly, Clarence H. New. 

Yorkville, Sept., '76. 
' Dear St. Nicholas : Will you please tell the girls that they can 
;ake a real pretty Christmas present for their fathers, brothers or 
icles, out of a child's slipper. You take a pretty little blue or red 
d slipper, or bronze if you like it better, and glue a little round glass 
kstand fast to the inside of the heel, so that as it stands in there it 
aches the least bit beyond the top. Then in the toe you fasten in a 
ill of fine black merino or cloth, gathered just as full as can be. 
his fills the toe out nicely, while the pinked edges of the frill stick 
it loosely about three quarters of an inch toward the inkstand, and 
irm a pen-wiper and ornament at the same time. I ought to have 
>ld you to put this in before the inkstand. If another .girl will go 
■lives with you in buying a pair of slippers, it is better, as you may 
atwant to make two presents so much alike. 

I My brother saws cocoa-nut shells in two, then cleans and smooths 
iem inside and out, and sets them on rustic stands or legs, which he 
akes out of twigs and roots. He varnishes the whole, after putting 
rim of acorns and leather oak-leaves around the top of the cocoa- 
Jtpart; and you don't know what a prettv flower-stand it makes, 
ometimes he trims the rim with a rustic twist, and finishes with rustic 
andles. He lines them with red or blue velvet, if they are to be 
sed for knick knacks or cards in them. Some boys like to make 
tese for Christmas presents. — Yours truly, Rosetta F. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I went on the coast survey with Uncle 
■din. I was thirteen years old then. We were delayed at Panama, 
id Uncle Odin gave me a long, bright day for hunting specimens 
•r my cabinet. He had been there before, and so he knew what to 
gjlG for. We went to an old mine that has not been worked for more 
lan a hundred years, and found some curious specimens. Up among 
ie hills we found garnets and a shiny black crystal that I persisted 
1 believing was a black diamond ; but down in the warm, wet valley 

between the mountains, the loveliest flowers were growing, and 
among them one which I want to tell you about. 

Uncle Odin said it was an orchid, but the pretty Spanish name for 
it is "Lafior del Espiritit Santa,'" which, being literally interpreted, 
means "Flower of the Holy Spirit," though it is sometimes called 
the " Holy Ghost flower." It grows very much like a tuberose, with 
fibrous, bulbous root, from which rises a tall stem or stalk. The 
leaves are long and pointed, wrapping sheath-like about the stalk, 
and then bending away from it to show the beautiful flowers. They 
are just as pure white as a water-lily, cup shaped, and about as large 
as a tulip. Each flower grows on a short stem that droops a little 
from the main stalk, so one can look straight into the open cup, and 
there lies a pure white dove, with slightly raised wings, tinted a faint 
lavender or dove color, and a delicate pink beak on its pretty round 
head. It is about an inch long, I guess, and as exquisitely formed as 
though carved from the finest alabaster. 

I wanted to bring a root home with me, but Uncle Odin said it 
would not live if disturbed in the flowering season; that late in the 
autumn, or early in the spring, the bulbs might be taken up and dried 
like tulip-bulbs, and then they would bloom again. So I told the 
pretty thing farewell, and left it there in the wilderness of swamp. 

Well, as I said, Uncle Odin called it an orchid when I asked him 
what kind of a flower it was, just as though that explained the whole 
matter. Now, what I want to ask of Jack-in-the-Pulpit, or some of 
your wise people, is — What is an orchid V Do they all bloom white, 
and have they all doves in their dainty cups? Please tell me some- 
thing about them, and much oblige your friend, 

Nat. Emerson. 

The orchids are a large family of flowers, found throughout the 
year in almost all parts of the world. They are noted for the peculiar 
torm which one part of the flower assumes, making it resemble some 
insect, reptile, or bird, as in the case given in the above letter. The 
orchids are very singular, beautiful, and fragrant flowers. A common 
specimen is the " lady's-slipper." 

Down in the valley, so cool and green, 

The lily's head is to be seen. 

Beautiful lily, so fair and sweet, 

White and pure, you lie at the traveler's feet. 

Darlingest lily, I love you so, 

I dare not to part with you, dare not to go. 

Beautiful lily, so pure and white. 

Lies in the valley, lies there all night. 

"Little May" (five years old). 

Two lovers, with very bad colds in their heads, hid away when 
they heard somebody coming. When that somebody halted close by 
the spot, the lady called out archly the name of a famous mythological 
rod. What was it ? 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl, six years old, and my name 
is Minnie Blaisdell. I am an only child, and "have not even a cousin 
or uncle or aunt, for both papa and mamma never had a brother or 
sister, and papa's father and mother died when he was a baby, and 
Ins aunt took care of him. I wonder if there is any other reader of 
St. Nicholas who has no cousin. 

I am not very strong, and mamma says my health is delicate, so I 
have to stay in the house a good deal, and can't play as much as 
most children can ; and as I have no one at home to play with, I get 
lonesome. I am very fond of kittens, and want one yen,- much, but 
mamma wont let me have any, for she thinks it is not good for me. 
Do you think it would hurt me ? 

As I can't have a kitten, papa got me two dogs. One is a great 
black Newfoundland, and his name is Hero ; and the other is just the 
littlest bit of a black doggie I ever saw. He is so small, when I go out- 
doors I put him in a pocket on the outside of my sacque, and you can 
just see his little head peeping out. He has very bright eyes, and 
looks very funny, for he almost always has his little red tongue stick- 
ing out I call him Tom Thumb, because he is so small, and he is 
full of mischief. He likes to tease Hero, who does not think such a 
little fellow is worth minding. At meals the dogs come and sit one 
on each side of me, but mamma wont let me give them anything at 
the table. Hero never asks for it, and if Tom does, Hero takes him 
by the collar and walks him out of the room, and wont let him come 
back. But when I feed them, Hero gives Tom the best ; and when 
any one gives him anything, he gives Tom the biggest share. He 
always lets Tom have the softest and warmest seat. Is n't he kind ? 
Mamma says he teaches us a good lesson, and I try to be as kind 
and generous as Hero, for I surely ought to do better than a dog. 
Hero is very grave and dignified, and never cuts up capers- as Tom 
does. If Tom doesn't mind me, Hero gives him a good shaking or 
boxes his ears. Sometimes Tom hides things, and then Hero makes 
him bring them back. So when Tom is naughty, I tell Hero to 
punish him, and he does. But he is very kind to Tom, and lets him 
pull and bite his tail and ears, or do anything he pleases to him. 
When they go out with me, and Tom gets tired walking, he makes 




Hero carry him on his back Hero saved my life once, so we think 
he deserves his name, don't you? 

Besides my dogs, papa got me the prettiest little black pony, for 
Dr. Lyon said I ought to ride horseback. He is very small; jet 
black, with a while star on his forehead and white feet, and a long 
flowing mane and tail; and 1 named him Charlie. I have a little- 
carriage that holds two, and every pleasant day I ride out in it or on 
horseback, with Hero to take care of me. Sometimes I take Tom in 
my pocket. Papa is n't afraid to lei me go anywhere if Hero is with 
me, for he wont let anything hurt me. 

Grandpa and grandma live with us, and grandma helped me write ■ 
this. If you can, will you please print this, so that the others can 
hear about my pets. I must tell you papa says Tom will never grow 
any larger. He got St. Nicholas for me, and I like it ever so 
much. — With ever so much love to you and all your readers, 

Minnie Blaisdell. 

Brockport, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas: 1 send you an answer to the question of 
H. E. B. : "When did Great Britain acknowledge the independence 
of the United States, or American Colonies, as it was then called ? " 

A final treaty of peace between Great Britain and the United States 
was signed at Paris, on the third of September, by David Hartley, 
Esq., on the part of the King of England, and by John Adams, 
Benjamin Franklin, and John Jay, on the part of the United States. 

The independence of the colonies was acknowledged by Sweden on 
the 5th of February, by Denmark on the 25th of February, by Spain 
on the 24th of March, and by Russia in July, all in the year 17S3, 
before it was formally acknowledged by England. 

The question of Ruel L. S. about birthdays on the 29th of February' 
I have often thought of myself, but never have been able to find an 
answer to it. I should think though, that as all other birthdays are 
365 days after the last one, this one would be on the 1st of March in 
all years but leap-year. 

1 have taken you (doesn't it seem funny to say "you"?) for almost 
a year, and I mean to go right on taking you, you are so splendid. 
I have a little sister, six years oM, who was so delighted with " Bobby 
and the Keyhole," that she has made me read it over and over until 
I know it almost by heart. I think "The Boy Emigrants" is very 
interesting, and "Talks with Girls" just as nice as can be; only I 
wish you came oftener and staid longer.— Your "loving reader. 

Elizabeth B. Allen. 

Several others of the boys and girls have answered H. E. B.'s 
question correctly. 

Rocky Brook, Rhode Island. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Can you not hit a ball twice in croquet, 
even if you have not been through your wicket, provided it is a 
different turn? Rolong Redmaine. 

In every turn, at croquet, you begin afresh, as far as the balls are 
concerned, and may hit a ball the second time even if you have not 
gone through a wicket since you hit it the first time. 

South Pueblo, Colorado, le 26 Juillet, 
Cher St. Nicholas : Nous sommes deux petites filles, agees a 

peu pres six et sept ans ; qui demeurent en Colorado. Nous sommes 

toujours si heureuses quand St. Nicholas arrive. 

Maman nous a lu 1'histoire de Piccola qui etait tres triste, parce 

qu'elle n'avait point de cadeau de Noel. 

Nous avons gardes nos habits et nos bottines pour elle. Dites, s'il 

vous plait a M Aldrich de nous donner un autre conte aussi amusart 
que celui de la comtesse de la Grenouillere. Si nous allions ci 
France, un de ces jours, nous esperons voir Piccola. 

Vos petites amies, Gertrude et Anne Lemborn, 

Newsboys' Home, New York 
Dear St. Nicholas : About six weeks ago I was up to Cooper'i 
Institute, and happening tr> pick up the St. Nicholas for April, 
came across an article headed " The Poor Boys' Astor House," ar. 
as I am an inmate of that institution, I eagerly examined its content 
which I think was very nice; in fact, I was enraptured with all 
read, especially about Gilbert Stuart. 

I am a poor boy without home or friends, and had it not been fq 
the Home, I do not know what I would do My father died abou 
one year ago, and my mother is in the Insane Asylum, and I have 
live at the Home. 

I have written several pieces of poetry, and as there is a deparl 
ment for amateur contributors, I take the liberty of sending you th 
following piece, which I leave to your approval ; and if it is fit fq 
publication, it would please me very much to see it in print. 

James D. Borden 


Life ! 't is but a little garden-flower, 

Growing on a rough and rugged road. 
Ready to drop off at any hour, 
As if weary of its load. 

First in infancy it dangles, 

In the gentle summer winds; 
Then in youth gets entangled, 

And no rest it ever finds. 

Now in manhood's happy bower, 
In peace and comfort it still grows ; 

And at old age it lost its power, 
Drove by chilly wind that blows. 

See now, with death in every zephyr. 
Time, its dreadful scythe in hand, 

Sweeps from this wicked world forever, 
To a far but better land. 

Norristown, Pa., June 28, 1876. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I like your magazine very much. I ihin 

it is the best magazine that has ever been published. I have jui 
commenced "The Story of Sevenoaks," bound in a book. I am vei 
much interested in the story of "The Boy Emigrants." My frieni 
J. Craig Crawford, showed me my name in the list of Bird-defende: 
in the July number. I was very glad that my letter had been r 
ceived. I thought the " Eight Cousins " and " The Young Survey oi 
were elegant. Every piece in St. Nicholas interests me. A frien 
of mine has had the St. Nicholas for 1875 beautifully bound for pi 
with my name at the bottom. 

I was sitting in father's study, and I thought I might as well wn 
to you. I am ten years old to-day. I was born at exactly half-pa 
one in the morning on the 28th of June, 1866. We have only s 
days to wait before our country will be one. hundred years old ; bi 
there is no need of me telling it, for everybody knows it. Please pi 
this in the " Letter-Box." I shall watch to see it in print. I will no 
close. — Yours truly, Hyland C. Mirphy. 



1. A vellow flower. 2. An ingredient of soap. 3. An aromatic 
plant. 4. A large animal. 5. A young woman. 6. A custom. 7. A 
black bird. 8. A silver coin. 9. A measure of length. 10. A useful 

The initials and finals form two of Dickens's characters. 


American cities: 1. A philanthropic city — Sob not. 2. An enter- 
prising city — On, we kry. 3. A river-spanning city — Crost here. 4. 
A noted city — In shag town. 5. A seaport city — Let's anchor. 6. 
A hot city — Boil me. 7. A new city — Up last. oswv. 


1. Syncopate a word meaning to unite, and leave a girl's nam 
2. Syncopate a word meaning fortunate, and leave a girl's name. 
Syncopate the name of an opera, and leave a girl's name. c. D. 


1. I do not of wearing the prison . 2. There is plenty 

on the . 3. What a of words about a 4. W 

that the in ancient . 5. I sent a which he will recer 

at . 6. We must get a new for this block at one of ti 

Southern . 7. Could you describe the correctly as bei 

covered by . ruth 





'. Behead and syncopate an article of food, and leave a color. 2. 
icad and syncopate an evergreen tree, and leave a part of the 
|y. 3. Hehead and syncopaLe a mournful song, and leave anger 
iehead and syncopate a noted epic poem, and leave a boy. 5. Be- 
,d and syncopate a precious stone, and leave a fish. 6. Behead 
i syncopate a forest tree, and leave a malt liquor. 7. Behead and 
copate a relative, and leave a luxury in summer. 8. Behead and 
copate a tropical fruit, and leave a falsehood, 9. Behead and syn- 
fflKe a part of the body, and leave an article of food. 10. Behead 
,1 syncopate a kind of grain, and leave an article of clothing. 



{A large and renowned city.) 

My first is in plum, but not in peach ; 

My second is in oak, but not in beech ; 

My third is in stone, but not in rock; 

My fourth is in door, but not in lock ; 

My fifth is in old, but not in new ; 

My sixth is in rain, but not in dew; c. u. u. 


. A noted ancient city. 2. A means of rising in the world. 3. A 
:y plant. 4. One of a certain Kastern tribe. 5. A church benefice. 
V small leaf. 7. A musical instrument, 
diagonals — From left to right: A degree of honor. From right to 

: A badge of the honor. j. p. b. 


My first has a large throat, and sometimes swallows, 

Though never in the winter, I believe; 
And sometimes it gets choked, and then it follows 

That only active remedies relieve. 

My next you have when anything is broken, * 

Nor is it often then a welcome sight ; 
Though sometimes you esteem it as a token, 

And give or take it with a small delight. 

My whole, when glowing from a light beneath it, 

Seems radiant with a warmth it cannot give, 
And helps to emphasize a pleasant welcome 

In homes where open-hearted people live. j. p. B. 


*A A metal. 


2. A city in Eunipe. 3. To leave out. 4. Used in 

J. W. H. 


r . Positive, an insect; comparative, a beverage; superlative, an 
mal. -2. Positive, an instrument used in a certain out-door exer- 
1 :; comparative, a dull companion ; superlative, an expression of 
:( iiity. 3. Positive, payment for services ; comparative, npprehen- 
.1 of evil or danger; superlative, a festive meal. 4. Positive, a 
: id animal ; comparative, a loud sound ; superlative, cooked meat. 



*T was yesterday that you made game 

Of me, you stupid bat ! 
To-day somebody trod on me, 

And kicked me, and all that. 
Well, well, my troubles last not long! 
In spite of every kind of wrong, 
I 'm bound to have my cheerful song. l. w. h. 


. Apocopate a knot of ribbon, and leave a fowl. 2. Apocopate to 
plex, and leave meat. 3. Apocopate a toy, and leave an animal. 
Apocopate a candle, and leave a plant. 5. Apocopate sorrowful, 
rl leave a plant. cvril deane. 


(Of <he seven objects shown, arrange the names 
initials and finals shall form the names of th 

of five 

that the 


,' 3 saw a 4, 5, 6 in the 7, 8, 9 yard in 

T , 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 



5. A vowel. 

CHARADE, No. 2. 


I pry out a secret, 

Devour a book ; 

I guide the hunter, 

And aid the couk. 

I "m drilled at the needle, 

And " cute " at a hook. 

In short, I "m a wonderful creation, 

Worthy your study and admiration, 

Albeit I 'm naught but a perforation. 


Faster and faster, 
The cruel master 

Waves me in air. 
Agonized crying 
Follows me, dying 

In sobs and prayer. 
Crying he heeds not, 
His hard heart bleeds not 

For such despair. 

Lifting so lightly, 
Drooping so slightly, 

On tender hinge. 
Dusting and sweeping 
When I 'm not sleeping. 

Deepening blue tinge, 
Height'ning the sparkling, 
Soft'ning the darkling, 

Yet I 'm but fringe ! 


2. A negative. 3. A noted lover. 

4. A num- 



Composed of seventeen letters. The 2, 13, 4, S, 1 is a part of the 
body. The 4, 12, 16. 3, 17 is a sign of the zodiac. The 10, 7, 2, 13, 
9 is a kind of tea. The 15, n, 1, 5, 17 is an aquatic flowering plant. 
The 15, q, s, 6, 14 is a girl's name. The whole is a natural phenom- 
enon. ISOLA. 





(The upper picture represents the whole word, from the letters of which the words represented by the other pictures are formed. 


Model, ode. 2. Samples, ample. 

5. Earth, art. 6. Eager, age. 
A "Hidden Tour,— t. Bremen. 2. Hanover. 3. Tivoli. 4. Ham. 
Lyons. 6. Rhine. 7. Cologne. 8. Bonn. 9. Coblentz. 10. Frank- 

Incomplete Sentences — 1 
3. Apathy, path. 4. Slater, late. 

Venice, ic 
23. Berlin. 

R O W 

14. Stutgard. 15. 
Prague. 20. Dres- 

fort. 11. Mannheim. 12. Bingen. 
Munich. 16. Tyrol. 17. Verona. 18 
den. 21. Eisleben. 22. Wittenburg. 
Connected Diamonds. — 


E K A 

Easy Diamond Puzzle — S, Ice, Screw, Eel, W. 

Riddle. — Looking-glass — Lo, o, O, loo, look, kin, king, in, gee, 
lass, as, ass. 

Consonant Puzzle.— Tennessee, Nevada, Alabama, Kansas, 
Arkansas, Alaska, Massachusetts, North Carolina, Mississippi, Vir- 

Easy Metagram. — Kate, date, fate, gate, hate, late. 

Abbreviations. — 1. Elegy, leg. 2. Grape, rap. 3. Jewel, ewe. 
4. Larch, arc. 5. Pasha, ash. 6. Snipe, nip. 7. Steam, tea. 8. 
Black, lac. 0. Coney, one. 10. Crate, rat. 

Beheaded' Rhymes. — Caprice, a price, price, rice, ice. 

Double Acrostic — Saratoga, Monmouth. 
S —ache- M 
A —re— O 

R _<>bi— N 

A _r_ M 
T — omat — 
O —rmol— U 

G — oa— T 
A -s— H 

Easy Enigmas.— i. Bobolink. 2. Grasshopper. 
Square-Word. — opal 

Puzzle. — Notable, no table, not able. 
Cross-Word Enigma.' — Charlie. 
Syncopations. — 1. Aloe, ale. 2. Aunt, ant. 3. 
Coat, cat. 5. Colt, cot. 6. Lead, lad 7. Plea, pea. 
9. Rose, roe. 10. Tome, toe. 
Charade — Kettle-drum. 

Geometrical Transpositions. — Grandiloquent, 
Circensial, Angelina, Quarantines, Connive, the Rubicon, Parsimc-r 
Anomorhomboid, Consideringly. 

Carp, cap, 
8. Reed, re 


Answers to Puzzles in Septfmber Number were received, previous to September 18, from Willie Dibblee. Nettie A. Ives, Jan 
A. Montgomery, Amy R. Carpenter. Virginia Davage, Lucy Allen Paton, "Juliet," Jennie Fine, A. J. Lewis. Frieda E. Lippert, Emi 
Elliott, Ida M. "Bourne, Agnes M. Hodges, Lucy Davis. Johnny Kenny, "Alex ' Nellie J. Thompson, C. M. Trmvbndgc, Nessie E. Steve 
B P Emerv Howard S Rodgers, Carroll L. Maxey, Bessie McLaren, Helen Green, Clara L. Calhoun, W. C. Delanoy, R. L. Groendyci 

Drawn by Thomas Muran. 

;J by F. S. King. 



/OL. IV. 

DECEMBER, 1876. 

No. 2. 


By Lucy Larcom. 

" It was the winter wild, 
While the heaven-born Child, 
All meanly wrapped, in the rude manger lies." 

SWEETER carols than bird ever sang usher in 
le wintry weather. The poem of childhood was 
hanted by angels on the hills of Palestine eighteen 
undred years ago, and its meaning has been deep- 
ning in the hearts of Christian men and women 
\rer since. 

Dear children, the secret of true poetry, as well 
B of all other true things, lies hidden in the heart 
f the Babe of Bethlehem — the secret of heavenly 
>ve, without which there is no beauty in the works 
r words of men. "Peace on earth, good-will to 
tan ! " is the hymn which must be sung in the 
eart before any poem worth keeping can be writ- 

Is it not beautiful that when the flowers of the 
ood and field have done blossoming, when the 
ees are leafless, and no birds make melody among 
te barren boughs, the whole world breaks out into 
nging over the cradle of its dearest Child ? 
■ Some of the Christmas carols are as simple as 
ursery-songs, and rude as the ages in which they 
egan to be sung, when Christianity itself was in 
s childhood. The wassail-cups and yule-fires of 
te old Saxons were often strangely mixed up with 
le tender and sacred birthday-story of the New 
'estament. Sometimes these carols were sung by 
lildren at the mansion window or door : 

1 Here we come a-wassailing 
Among the leaves so green ; 
Here we come a-wandering. 
So fair to be seen. 

Love and joy come to you, 
And to your wassail too, 
And God bless you, and send you 
A Happy New Year ! 

" We are not daily beggars, 

That beg from door to door : 
But we are neighbors' children, 

Whom you have seen before. 
God bless the master of this house, 
God bless the mistress too. 
And all the little children 
That round the table go." 

And some of them show a curious blending of 
church-music and hunting-songs : 

" The holly and the ivy. 

Now both are full well grown ; 
Of all the trees that are in the wood. 

The holly bears the crown. 
O the rising of the sun, 

The running of the deer ! 
The playing of the merry organ ; 

Sweet singing in the choir ! " 

There are others which, through their very sim- 
plicity, carry us back to the hills where the watch- 
ing shepherds listened to the song of the angels, so 
many centuries ago, so that we hear with them the 
first notes of that celestial anthem whose echo will 
never die away from the earth. 

Listen to this : 

" All in the time of winter, 

When the fields were white with snow, 
A babe was born in Bethlehem. 

A long, long time ago. 
Oh, what a thing was that, good folks. 

That the Lord whom we do know, 
Should have been a babe for all our sakes. 

To take away our woe ! 

Vol. IV.— 5. 

[Copyright, 1876, by Scribner & Co,] 




" Not in a golden castle 

Was this sweet baby born, 
But only in a stable, 

With cattle and with corn; 
But forth afield the angels 

Were singing in the air ; 
And when the shepherds heard the news, 

To that Child they did repair. 

" The wise men, also, from the East 
Were guided by a star, — 
Oh, I wonder often, at this day, 
Where those good wise men are ! " 

Milton's " Hymn on the Nativity," from which 
we copy a few lines, is among the grandest of 
Christmas poems. Written when the great poet 
was a very young man, it is full of the noble rhythm 
which makes all his poetry so wonderful. 

the one, for instance, 

the " Hymn on the Nativity 
beginning — 

" But peaceful was the night 
W T herein the Prince of Light 
His reign of peace upon the earth began ; " 
or this : 

" Ring out, ye crystal spheres! 
Once bless our human ears, 
If ye have power to touch our senses so; 
And let your silver chime 
Move in melodious time ; 
And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow," — 

and you will feel what rhythm is, without explana- 

Milton was a very learned poet, but that has not 
prevented him from being a favorite with a great 
many children. Grown-up people cannot always 
decide for the younger ones what they shall ad- 


Now, children, look in your dictionary and find 
out what "rhythm" means, for you cannot know 
much about poetry unless you have some idea of 
rhythm. If you are not satisfied with the definition 
in the dictionary, we will explain it as the tune to 
which poetry goes ; for the best poetry always has 
a tune, which is part of itself, like the stir of pine- 
forests in the wind, or the sound of a mighty river 
as it sweeps along. There are many kinds of 
rhythm — flute-like, bugle-like, piano-like ; it may 
have any musical resemblance you can think of. 
But Milton's poetry seems filled with the deep, 
strong harmonies of the organ, upon which he 
loved to play when he became a blind old man. 
If you have an ear for music, ask any one who 
knows how, to read aloud to you some verses from 

mire, and grand poetry often takes the childish ear 
and heart more than rhymes prepared expressly for 
juvenile readers. 

This is because a love of rhythm, or harmony, is 
born with us, and we cannot help enjoying it, 
whether we understand the words it is shaped into 
or not. Who understands the roar of the cataract, 
or the mighty organ-swell of the sea ? The aged 
man knows their meaning no better than the little 
child. To both they bring wonder, and delight, 
and awe. And so it is with the voices of greal 
poets in their highest inspiration. Old and younf 
are alike charmed with the music that comes frorr 
the soul when it is nearest to nature and to God. 

I remember that when under ten years old a 
school, the favorite piece in the reading-book, witl 

i8 7 6.] 


6 7 

myself and other school-mates about my age, was 
Coleridge's " Hymn at Sunrise in the Vale of 
Chamouni." In the midst of our playing, one of 
us would sometimes break out with a line of it. 
mother would take it up, and so it would be carried 
on, until, alone or in concert, we had repeated the 
whole. Indeed, though I have never seen the 
Alps, it often seems to me as if I must have visited 
:hem in my childhood, through the vision that then 
;ame to me, and lingers with me, in the lines — 

" Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?" 

And I remember also, that the poem I liked best, 
ong before I had outgrown Dr. Watts's " Divine 

to this day. And I do not think my tastes were 
unlike those of many of my child-companions, — 
nor that the children of to-day are very different 
from those who lived forty years ago. 

The best poetry belongs to those who can enjoy 
it best, without regard to age. This rule — if it is 
a rule — works both ways. A perfect child-poem 
will be one that men and women also will take 
delight in ; for, through poetry as well as religion, 
we are all of us in some ways — or ought to become, 
— " as little children." 

So do not be afraid, children, to claim your grand 
poetical favorites, and do not be ashamed of your 
humble and childish ones. If they are real poets, 
they all belong to one family. 

We were speaking of Christmas poems, — Christ- 
mas ! — that we all recognize as the loveliest and 


;>ongs" and Jane Taylor's "Hymns for Infant 
vlinds," — the classics of my Puritan childhood, — 
r/as Milton's " Paradise Lost." Of course I skipped 
.11 the learned dialogues that went on in heaven 
,md in the Garden of Eden ; but the beautiful gar- 
ten itself, where grew 

" Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose," 

.nd the wonderful palace of Pandemonium, that 
,•' rose like an exhalation," lighted by 

" Many a row 
Of starry lamps and blazing cressets," 

xed themselves as unfading pictures in my mind ; 
nd the "harpings and hallelujahs" that seemed 
d roll through the poem, resound in my thoughts 

most welcome guest brought us by winter. Merry 
Christmas ! that comes to us loaded with gifts, and 
that we, in return, delight to wreathe with ever- 
green, and bright autumn leaves, and greenhouse 
rose-buds, and all fragrant and brilliant blossoms. 

In memory of that Flower Divine, 
Whose fragrance fills the world. 

A very sweet poem, bringing Christmas before 
us in several different characters, is this, by Rose 
Terry (now Mrs. Cooke) : 


" Here comes old Father Christmas, 
With sound of fife and drums ; 
With mistletoe about his brows, 
So merrily he comes ! 




His arms are full of aJl good cheer. 

His face with laughter glows, 
He shines like any household fire 

Amid the cruel snows. 
He is the old folks' Christmas ; 

He warms their hearts like wine, 
He thaws their winter into spring. 

And makes their faces shine- 
Hurrah for Father Christmas ! 

Ring all the merry bells ! 
And bring the grandsires all around 

To hear the tale he tells. 

' Here comes the Christmas Angel, 

So gentle and so calm; 
As softly as the falling flakes, 

He comes with flute and psalm. 
All in a cloud of glory, 

As once upon the plain 
To shepherd boys in Jewry, 

He brings good news again. 
He is the young folks' Christmas ; 

He makes their eyes grow bright 
With words of hope and tender thought. 

And visions of delight. 
Hail to the Christmas Angel ! 

All peace on earth he brings ; 
He gathers all the youths and maids 

Beneath his shining wings. 

' Here comes the little Christ-child, 

All innocence and joy, 
And bearing gifts in either hand 

For every girl and boy. 
He tells the tender story 

About the Holy Maid, 
And Jesus in the manger 

Before the oxen laid. 
Like any little winter bird 

He sings this sweetest song, 
Till all the cherubs in the sky 

To hear his carol throng. 
He is the children's Christmas; 

They come, without a call. 
To gather round the gracious Child, 

Who bringeth joy to all. 

' But who shall bring their Christmas, 

Who wrestle still with life r 
Not grandsires, youths, nor little folks. 

But they who wage the strife : 
The fathers and the mothers 

Who fight for homes and bread. 
Who watch and ward the living, 

And bury all the dead. 
Ah ! by their side at Christmas-tide 

The Lord of Christmas stands ; 
He smooths the furrows from their brow 

With strong and tender hands. 
' I take my Christmas gift,' he saith, 
' From thee, tired soul, and he 
Who giveth to my little ones 

Gives also unto me!'" 

Another of our welcome winter guests is Happy 
New Year, brought in like a smiling baby in its 
white christening-robes, to be tossed about from 
one to another with good wishes and feasting and 
laughter. You might fill many volumes with the 
poetry that has been written about the New Year. 

But the wonder and beauty of winter itself are 
what the poets of the North have loved to show. 

We sometimes think of winter as the most un- 

poetic among the seasons ; but there is a different 
way of looking at it. The snow is a blank sheet 
to some eyes, but not to all. A fresh snow-drift is 
often molded like the most exquisite sculpture, and I 
its waves and lines and shadows are a joy to artistic 
eyes. The tints it reveals in the sunset rays are! 
purer than any color we know, and suggest the j 
light that may shine upon us in some lovelier world 
which we have not yet seen. 

And the falling of the snow — how delicate and 
dreamy it is ! There are poems through which 
it seems to glide as airily as it descends from the 
sky itself. 

This is the way Thomson, the poet of " The 
Seasons," describes it : 

" Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends. 
At first thin wavering, till at last the flakes 
Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day 
With a continual flow. The cherished fields 
Put on their winter robe of purest white. 
'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts 
Along the mazy current Low the woods 
Bow their hoar heads; and ere the languid sun, 
Faint from the west, emits his evening ray, 
Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill, 
Is one wild, dazzling waste, that buries wide 
The works of man." 

And somebody else writes of the snow-flakes a 
the blossoms of winter: 


Softly down from the cold, gray sky, 
On the withering air, they flit and fly ; 
Resting anywhere, there they lie, — 

The feathery flowers ! 
Borne on the breath of the wintry day, 
Leaves and flowers and gems are they, 
Fresh and fair as the gay array 

Of the sunlit hours " 

Still, again, they are spoken of by a poet (Joh 
James Piatt) as flowers exiled from the gardens c 
heaven : 

" The wonderful snow is falling, 

Over river and woodland and wold; 

The trees bear spectral blossoms 
In the moonlight blurred and cold. 

" There 's a beautiful garden in heaven ; 
And these are the banished flowers, 
Fallen and driven and drifting 
To this dark world of ours ! " 

You will remember Bryant's Ci Snow-Shower," 

'■ Flake after flake, 
Dissolved in the dark and silent lake," — 

and Longfellow's " Snow-flakes": 

" Out of the bosom of the air, 

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken 
Over the woodlands brown and bare, 
Over the harvest-fields forsaken, 
Silent and soft and slow 
Descends the snow." 


6 9 

Is it not true, as he says, that 

" This is the poem of the air, 

Slowly in silent syllables recorded, — 
Now whispered and revealed 
To wold and field?" 

A merrier little song, and one that American 
children have long been familiar with, is Hannah 
Gould's " It Snows" : 

" It snows! it snows! From out the sky 
The feathered flakes how fast they fly ! 
Like little birds, that don't know why 
They 're on the chase, from place to place, 
While neither can the other trace. 
It snows! it snows! A merry play 
Is o'er us in the air to-day! 

" As dancers in an airy hall 
That hasn't room to hold them all, 
While some keep up, and others fall, 
The atoms shift, then, thick and swift, 
They drive along to form the drift, 
That waving up, so dazzling white, 
Is rising like a wall of white. 

" But now the wind comes whistling loud, 
To snatch and waft it as a cloud, 
Or giant phantom in a shroud. 
It spreads, it curls, it mounts, and whirls; 
At length a mighty wing unfurls, 
And then, away ! — but where, none knows, 
Or ever will. It snows ! it snows ! 

"To-morrow will the storm be done; 
Then out will come the golden sun. 
And we shall see upon the run, 
Before his beams, in sparkling streams, 
What now a curtain o'er him seems. 
And thus with life it ever goes ! 
'Tis shade and shine! It snows! it snows!" 

How strange it must seem to live in a country 
where snow never comes ! The natives of such 
countries will not believe the frosty and icy stories 
told them by travelers from colder regions. Stranger 
still it must seem to them when, at long intervals, 
they are visited by a snow-storm. 

Bruce, the African traveler, tells us that an aged 
Abyssinian once drew him aside, to tell him, as a 
threat wonder, that when he was a young man 
something white one day descended from the sky, 
:overing the earth, and disappearing as silently as 
t came. Some one has very prettily versified this 
story of 

Snow in Abyssinia. 

" Bruce of Kinnaird could scarce repress the smile 

That twitched the bearded ambush of his mouth. 
When, in his quest of the mysterious Nile, 

Amid the perilous wilds of the swart South, 
An old man told him, with a grave surprise 

Which made his child-like wonder almost grand, 
How, in his youth, there fell from out the skies 

A feathery whiteness over all their land, — 
A strange, soft, spotless something, pure as light, 

For which their questioned language had no name, 
That shone and sparkled for a day and night. 

Then vanished all as weirdly as it came. 

Leaving no vesrige, gleam, or hue, or scent, 

On the round hills or in the purple air, 
To satisfy their mute bewilderment 

That such a presence had indeed been there ! " 

And you may have read of the little Barbadoes 
girl who, when she came to a northern country, 
and saw the snow falling for the first time, cried 
out that the angels were emptying their feather- 
beds upon the earth ! 

When the north wind sets our teeth chattering, 
and pierces us with needles of frost, we sigh for a 
climate where summer is perpetual. Yet no — not 
" we " exactly ; for there is nothing that a healthy 
child delights in more than the wild, stormy mirth 
that winter brings. 

Childhood and Winter are the best of playmates. 
Like some kind, rough old grandsire, he sets the 
boys and girls running races, tosses them about 
among the snow-drifts, and pushes them along the 
ice until they are rosy and strong with the merry 
exercise. Look at this German portrait of win- 
ter, boys, and see if you do not like it : 

" Old Winter is a sturdy one, 

And lasting stuff he's made of; 
His flesh is firm as iron-stone; 
There 's nothing he 's afraid of. 

" Of flowers that bloom, or birds that sing, 
Full little cares or knows he ; 
He hates the fire, and hates the spring, 
And all that 's warm and cosey. 

" But when the foxes bark aloud 
On frozen kike and river, — 
When round the fire the people crowd, 
And rub their hands and shiver, — 

" When frost is splitting stone and wall, 

And trees come crashing after, — 

That hates he not, but loves it all; 

Then bursts he out in laughter. 

" His home is by the North Sea's strand, 
Where earth and sea are frozen ; 
His summer home, we understand, 
In Switzerland he's chosen." 

But when any of us dream of summer lands in 
winter-time, we must remember how much that is 
rare and curious and wonderful the people of the 
tropics lose, in never seeing icicles or frost-work, 
or what Emerson calls 

" The frolic architecture of the snow." 

as Whittier describes it, for instance, in picturing 
for us the winter farm-life of his boyhood : 

" Strange domes and towers 
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, 
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood ; 
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed ; 
A fenceless drift what once was road ; 
The bridle-post an old man sat, 
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; 




The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 
And even the long sweep, high aloof. 
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell 
Of Pisa's leaning miracle;" 

or as it is given 
First Snow-fall " : 

Lowell's lovely poem, "The 

1 The snow had begun in the gloaming, 
And busily all the night 
Had been heaping field and highway 
With a silence deep and white. 

beauty of the summer woods, shows them to us uv 
their wintry whiteness : 

" But winter has yet brighter scenes, — he boasts 
Splendors beyond what gorgeous summer knows; 
Or autumn with his many fruits, and woods 
All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains 
Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice ; 
While the slant sun of February pours 
Into the bowers a flood of light Approach ! 
The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, 
And the broad arching portals of the grove 


" Every pine and fir and hemlock 

Wore ermine too dear for an earl ; 

And the poorest twig on the elm-tree 

Was ridged inch-deep with pearl. 

" From sheds new-roofed with Carrara 
Came chanticleer's muffled crow; 
The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, 
And still fluttered down the snow." 

And see how Bryant, who paints so well the 

Welcome thy entering. Look ! the mossy trunks 
Are cased in the pure crystal ; each light spray, 
Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, 
Is studded with its trembling water-drops, 
That stream with rainbow radiance as they move." 

And Whittier, in his " Pageant," bids us look 

" Where, keen against the walls of sapphire. 
The gleaming tree-boles, ice-embossed. 
Hold up their chandeliers of frost." 

. 1876.J 



In the ice-gleaming, sunlit forest, he exclaims : 

" I tread in Orient halls enchanted, 

I dream the Saga's dream of caves, 
Gem-lit, beneath the North Sea waves. 

" I wall; the land of Eldorado; 

I touch its mimic garden -bowers, 

Its silver leaves and diamond flowers." 

You see, little friends, that there is a poetry of 
snow and ice as well as of flowers and fields and 
rivers. Here is a specimen of it from Thomson : 

" An icy gale, oft shifting, o'er the pool 
Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career 
Arrests the bickering stream. The loosened ice, 
Let down the flood, and half dissolved by day, 
Rustles no more ; but to the sedgy bank. 
Fast grows, or gathers round the pointed stone 
A crystal pavement, by the breath of Heaven 
Cemented firm; till, seized from shore to shore, 
The whole imprisoned river growls below." 

That last line, which compares the stream to a 
caged lion under the ice, has been said to be the 
best description of a frozen river in the language. 

For all the cold, there are live things in the 
woods in winter. Bryant found them there : 

" The pure, keen air abroad, 
Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard 
Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, 
Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept 
Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds, 
That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, 
Patient, and waiting the soft breath of spring, 
Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. 
The snow-bird twittered on the bcechen bough, 
And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent 
Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry 
A circle on the earth of withered leaves. 
The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow 
The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track 
Of fox, and the raccoon's broad path, were there, 
Crossing each other. From his hollow tree, 
The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts 
Just fallen, that asked the winter cold, and sway 
Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold." 

And Emerson writes of a little friend he met 
in the deep forest on a stinging day of midwinter : 

" Piped a tiny voice hard by. 
Gay and polite, a cheerful cry, 
' Chic-chicadeedee ! '—saucy note. 
Out of sound heart and merry throat, 
As if it said, ' Good day, good sir ! 
Fine afternoon, old passenger! 
Happy to meet you in these places, 
Where January brings few faces '" 

Then he tells us that the bird, glad to meet his 

' Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand, 
Hopped on the bough, then, darting low, 
Prints his small impress on the snow, 
Shows feats of his gymnastic play, 
Head downward, clinging to the spray." 

The titmouse, or snow-bird, you know, has a 
different song for different seasons, — 

" In spring 
Crying out oi the hazel-copse, ' Phe-be ! ' 
And in winter, ' Chic-a-dee-dee ! ' " 

Dear little fellow ! No wonder the poets have 
sung of him so often. Doubtless one of your best- 
known pieces from babyhood is Hannah Gould's 

"Oh, what will become of thee, poor little bird? 
The muttering storm in the distance is heard," 

She speaks of the snow-bird as the "Winter 


1 Because in all weather I 'm happy and free, 
They call me the Winter King. Pee-dee-dee ! " 

We cannot help loving the snow-birds, they are 
so neighborly, calling upon us at our door-steps, as 
well as keeping company with us in the leafless 
forest-paths. It does us good to have our little 
cousins of the woods, who do not know our alpha- 
bet, come and ask us, in their own language, for 
such small favors as we can bestow upon them. 

A pretty song, with this idea in it, has been 
written by Mrs. Anderson, who has made many 
other charming verses for children : 

" When winter winds are blowing. 

And clouds are full of snow, 
There comes a flock of little birds, 

A-flying to and fro; 
About the withered garden. 

Around the naked field. 
In any way-side shrub or tree, 

That may a berry yield, 
You'll see them flitting, flitting, 

And hear their merry song; 
The scattered crumbs of summer's feast 

Feed winter birdlings long. 

" But when the snow-drifts cover 

The garden and the field, — 
When all the shrubs are cased in ice, 

And every brook is sealed, 
Then come the little snow-birds. 

As beggars, to your door; 
They pick up every tiny crumb, 

With eager chirps for more. 
Like wandering musicians, 

They 'neath the windows sing ; 
All winter long they stroll about, 

And leave us in the spring. 

" Off" to the land of icebergs, 

To islands cold and drear, 
They fly before the summer comes 

To frolic with us here. 
Give them a hearty welcome ! 

It surely were not good 
That they who sing in winter-time 

Should ever lack for food." 

If there were less beauty upon the outside earth 
in winter, there would still be the charm of home- 
life, which is always more perfect in a cold climate. 




One stronger reason than all others for being glad 
that we live in the temperate zone, is that it is the 
zone of homes. 

Greenlanders and Laplanders, it is said, each 
consider their own country the fairest the sun shines 
upon, and charming stories of domestic life have 
come to us from those icy latitudes. But the Esqui- 
maux and Kamtchatkans. and those inhabitants 
of extreme Arctic regions who must live in snow- 
huts, or burrow underground for warmth,- cannot 
know the rich and tender meanings the word 
" home " has for us. 

How much comfort there is in our cosey houses 
alone, — in the clean, warm room, perhaps with a 
glowing fireside ; the white table spread with 
wholesome and delicate food ; the cheerful circle 
around the lamp at evening ; the books, the sew- 
ing, the games ; the sound sleep of the long, snowy 
night, in beds as white as the drifts outside ; and 
the many other nameless blessings of a civilized 
home ! These the children of the eternal snows 
must do without. 

There is more poetry in a really beautiful home- 
life than in the finest natural scenery ; but it lies 
too deep in the heart for words to express. It is 
poetry that is felt rather than spoken. A happy 
home is a poem which every one of the family is 
helping to write, each for the enjoyment of the rest, 
by little deeds of tenderness and self-sacrifice, which 
mean so much more than words. This home-poem 
is all the more delightful because it does not ask 
or need admiration from anybody outside. The 
poetry that people live in, of which they are a part, 
and which is a part of them, is always the most 
satisfactory, because it is the most real. 

Think, little folks, of all the poems and frag- 
ments of poems you know, that never could have 
been written except in a country where tempest 
and sleet and long hours of darkness drove men 
and women and children within-doors, and kept 
them there to find out how dear and sweet a thing 
it is for a family to live together in love. 

The list is a long one, so long that it is of no use 
to try to fill it out here. But a hint or two, and a 
few extracts, may put you on the track of a great 
many beautiful things. 

There is Cowper's : 'Task," — a domestic poem 
throughout, and in great part a winter poem, too, 
— with its famous tea-table picture : 

" Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, 
And, while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn 
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, 
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, 
So let us welcome peaceful evening in." 

If you do not care to drink tea with the poet 
Cowper, you may like to hear him talk of the post- 

man, and the budget of news he brings ; or of the: 
Empress of Russia's wonderful palace of ice. 

Then, there is Burns's "Cotter's Saturday Night," 1 
which it will be strange if most of you do not enjoy.; 
it is so full of pictures. You seem to be inside of 
the Scottish cottage, where 

" The mither, wi' her needle and her shears, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;" 

while outside 

"November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh." 

There is Emerson's indoor view of a snow-storm : 

" Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, 
Seems nowhere to alight. The whited air 
Hides hiils and woods, the river and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the house-mates sit 
Around the radiant fire-place, inclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm." 

If you have ever known what it is to be shut inl 
with a happy household through a long, driving: 
winter storm, those last two lines will often be com-;' 
ing back to you, after you have read them, as onei 
of the cosiest of home-pictures. That " tumultuous; 
privacy of storm," how deep and close and warm: 
it is ! 

Best of all, perhaps, — certainly the finest epic of 
old-fashioned New England family-life ever written.; 
— is Whittier's " Snow-Bound." " Epic" may not! 
be the right word to use, and yet why not ? It -isi 
" narrative," and "heroic " adventures are achieved! 
by the men and boys out-of-doors in meeting tht^ 
snows and the winds ; while within, mother and: 
aunt and sisters weave together a web of home-liftl 
lovelier than anything to be shown by Penelope, ot 
Helen of Troy. 

By such a fireside as that described in " Snow- 
Bound," with the red blaze flashing up 

" Until the old, rude-furnished room 
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom," 

one might well be 

" Content to let the north wind roar 
In baffled rage at pane and door." 

Children of the old-fashioned days had a hare 
time, perhaps ; but it was worth a great deal to live 
around one of those deep, log-heaped fire-places 
It was "jolly," as you boys would say, to hear how 

" When a louder blast 
Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 
The merrier up its roaring draught 
The great throat of the chimney laughed." 

We must not forget one poetic thing that winte: 




. does for us all indoors, however humble our dwell- 
ing may be ; and that is to decorate our window- 
panes, making them more exquisite in their white, 
delicate tracery than the stained glass of ancient 

-cathedrals. This is Jack Frost's work, and we are 

I told, in one case, how he did it : 

" He went to the window of those who slept, 
And over each pane like a fairy crept. 
Wherever he breathed, wherever he stept, 

By the morning light were seen 
Most beautiful things ! There were flowers and trees, 
There were bevies of birds, and swarms of bees, 
There were cities and temples and towers ; and these 

All pictured in silver sheen '. " 

There is a dark and cheerless side to winter, 
which is not to be forgotten even by the poets. 
Thomson has written of it, as you will find in the 


You bring poetry into a life, whenever you bring 
it any real happiness. Think of that, dear chil- 
dren, and see how many hearts you can make sing 
aloud for joy ! 

There is a legend of the Child Jesus, which tells 
how he made flowers bloom and birds sing in the 
midst of winter, by a smile of love given to his 
mother. A beautiful meaning may be drawn from 
this. Love is the true sunshine, and all children 
can make a cold world blossom with it, after the 
example of the Holy Child. 

The Child Jesvs in the Garden. 

" Cold was the day, when in a garden bare, 

Walked the Child Jesus, wrapt in holy thought ; 
H is brow seemed clouded with a weight of care : 
Calmness and rest from worldly things he sought. 


;, "Seasons." He draws a picture of a man lost in 
the snow, so vivid as to awaken our sympathies 

1 very painfully. 

And Wordsworth has told us the piteous story 
of" Lucy Gray," — 

" The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door," — • 

how she wandered up and down the moor, bewil- 
dered by the falling snow, and perished at last in 
sight of her own dwelling. 

And Bryant's " Little People of the Snow." 
although so dazzling in its fairy fancies, contains 
a sad story of a similar kind. 

To the very poor, who suffer for want of food 
and fuel, winter is anything but poetical. It is the 
privilege of those who are better off. to make it a 
pleasant season to them, and to supply the heart- 
sunshine and home-warmth, without which winter 
is bitter indeed. A little kindness goes a great way 
toward brightening dark days and warming up 

" Soon was his presence missed within his home ; 
His mother gently marked his every way ; 
Forth then she came to seek where he did roam, 
Full of sweet words his trouble to allay. 

" Through chilling snow she toiled to reach his side, 
Forcing her way mid branches brown and sere, 
Hastening that she his sorrows might divide, 
Share all his woe, or calm his gloomy fear. 

" Sweet was her face, as o'er his head she bent, 
Longing to melt his look of saddest grief. 
With lifted eves, his ear to her he lent ; 
Her kindly solace brought his sou] relief. 

" Then did he smile — a smile nf love so deep. 
Winter himself grew warm beneath its glow ; 
From drooping branches scented blossoms peep r 
Up springs the grass : the scaled fountains flow. 

" Summer and spring did with each other vie. 
Offering to Him the fragrance of their store ; 
Chanting sweet notes, the birds around him fly. 

Wondering why earth had checkered so her floor." 

Every season has a beauty of its own, and the 
poets usually find it out for us, or else show us that 




there is a poetry of the gloomy and terrible as well 
as of the beautiful. So Cowper says : 

" O Winter, ruler of the inverted year, 

Thy scattered hair with sleet like ashes filled, 
Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy scepter, and thy throne 
A sliding car, indebted to no wheels, 
But urged by storms along its slippery way, — 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st. 
And dreaded as thou art ! " 

But we come back, in spite of our attempt to 
look on the dark side, to the brightness and jollity 
of the winter months. Where is there fun like 
that of skating? Hear the poet Allingham sing 
of it : 

" The time of frost is the time for me ! 
When the gay blood spins through the heart with glee, 
When the voice leaps out with a chiming sound. 
When the footstep rings on the musical ground. 
When the earth is gay, and the air is bright, 
And every breath is a new delight. 

" Hurrah ! the lake is a league of glass ! — 
Buckle and strap on the stiff white grass ! 
Off we shoot, and poise and wheel. 
And swiftly turn upon scoring heel ; 
And our flying sandals chirp and sing, 
Like a flock of gay swallows on the wing ! " 

And sleighing-songs innumerable might be brought 
together ; but we will only take, at present, a verse 
or two bv Stedman : 

' In January, when down the dairy 
The cream and clabber freeze, 
When snow-drifts cover the fences over, 
We farmers take our ease. 

At night we rig the team, 

And bring the cutter out; 
Then fill it, fill it, fill it, 
And heap the furs about. 

' Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens, 
And sleighs at least a score ; 
There John and Molly, behind, are jolly, — 
Nell rides with me, before. 

All down the village street 

We range us in a row: 
Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, 
And over the crispy snow!" 

Now, children, which season is pleasantest — I 
which has most poetry in it ? This is so hard a 1 
question to answer, it must be settled by leaving it J 
open on all sides, as it is here, in " Marjorie'sl 
Almanac," by Aldrich : 

" Robins in the tree-top, 

Blossoms in the grass, 
Green things a-growing 

Everywhere you pass ; 
Sudden litUe breezes, 

Showers of silver dew, 
Black bough and bent twig 

Budding out anew ; 
Pine-tree and willow-tree, 

Fringed elm, and larch — 
Don't you think that May-time's 

Pleasanter than March? 

" Apples in the orchard, 

Mellowing one by one ; 
Strawberries upturning 

Soft cheeks to the sun ; 
Roses faint with sweetness, 

Lilies fair of face, 
Drowsy scents and murmurs 

Haunting every place ; 
Lengths of golden sunshine, 

Moonlight bright as day — 
Don't you think that summer's 

Pleasanter than May ? 

" Roger in the corn-patch, 

WhisUing negro songs; 
Pussy by the hearth-side, 

Romping with the tongs ; 
Chestnuts in the ashes, 

Bursting through the rind; 
Red leaf and gold leaf 

Rustling down the wind ; 
Mother "doin' peaches" 

All the afternoon — 
Don't you think that autumn 's 

Pleasanter than June? 

" Little fairy snow-flakes 

Dancing in the flue; 
Old Mr. Santa Clans, 

What is keeping you ? 
Twilight and firelight; 

Shadows come and go; 
Merry chime of sleigh-bells, 

Tinkling through the snow; 
• Mother knitting stockings 

(Pussy's got the ball) — 
Don't you think that winter's 

Pleasanter than all ? " 

i8 7 6.J 




By Sarah Winter Kellogg. 

T was at Katie McPherson's 
Christmas party that the 
announcement was made. — 
in the dining-room, where 
the scores of bright chil- 
dren were assembled to 
partake of the good things 
which Mrs. McPherson had 
bountifully provided, — Jim- 
my Johnson made the an- 
nouncement, and this it was : 
" Bushy Caruthers aint got 
no pocket ! " 

Jimmy delivered this in 
such tones and with such a manner as he might 
have used if he had said: '' Bushy Caruthers aint 
got no thumbs ! " or " Bushy Caruthers aint got 
no nose ! " 

"Hasn't he?" said Bobby Smedley, with as 
much eager concern as Jimmy Johnson, or, indeed, 
the most exacting news-bearer could have asked or 

" Has n't he ?" said also Dickey Simpkins. 
There was that in Dickey's tone which added, 
" I 'm glad I 'm not in Bushy's trousers." 

Nellie Partridge, who was one of Jimmy John- 
son's audience, opened her eyes roundly and puck- 
ered her mouth into a perfect O, and then gave 
vent to a long " W-h-y ! " of astonishment. 

"No, he aint got no pocket," Jimmy repeated, 
with no abatement in his can-you-believe-it manner. 
" That's 'cause he 's a little boy," said Tommy 
Mayneer, who was large of his age. 

With this explanation. Tommy thrust his hands 
into his trousers' pockets, drew himself up to the 
full capacity of his inches, and marched back and 
forth a few paces with great dignity. 

Nellie Partridge, who, I much fear, will in time 
grow to be a gossip, hurried over to the group of 
children in the next corner, and repeated, with 
solemn eyes : 

" Say ! Bushy Caruthers aint got no pocket ! " 
-' Did you ever ? " said one little auditor. "It's 
too bad," said another. "Why!" exclaimed a 
third, hurrying away to carry the story to the next 
group of children. Then the word went to the 
company of little folks collected at the window ; 
thence to the children outside the dining-room 
door in the hall, on and on, until everybody knew 
that Bushy Caruthers was so unfortunate as to be 
at a party where candy and nuts and oranges and 

all manner of good things abounded, and where 
there was a Christmas-tree, and yet to have no 

What made it worse was, that it was Mrs. 
McPherson's way at her Katie's Christmas parties 
always to insist upon each little guest filling his or 
her pockets with good things " to take home." 

Poor Bushy ! 

After a while the word reached Bush)' himself. 
Of course he knew he had n't any pocket before 
the children flocked around him with their expres- 
sions of condolence and their eager inquiries and 
exclamations of concern ; but until he had heard 
these, and seen the consternation in the little faces, 
he had no conception of the magnitude of his mis- 
fortune. When this really dawned upon Bushy, 
he thought he ought to cry ; but that seemed too 
much like baby-conduct. So he perked up his 
head with an heroic look in his funny little face, 
and rolled his eyes from one to another of his con- 
dolers, as if he would say, "Well, if I aint got 
any pocket, I 'm going to bear my trouble like a 

"Well, Bushy," Barney Williamson advised, 
" you eat all the candy and jelly and nuts and cake 
and oranges you can hold." 

"What makes um call you Bushy, anyhow?" 
asked Henry Clay Martin. " You aint bushy a 
bit; you're slick as my black-and-tan terrier," 
and Henry Clay looked the unfortunate over from 
the crown of his glossy black head to the soles of 
his polished gaiters. 

" My name's Bushrod, and they call me Bushy 
for short," was the explanation ; whereupon a 
dozen or more children proceeded to tell what 
their right names were and what they were called 
for short. 

Meantime Bushy, in accordance with Barney 
Williamson's advice, was engaged in storing away 
cakes and candies, regardless of headaches and 
doctors. At the end of fifteen minutes he had 
probably discovered the limit of his capacity ; for 
at this time he went over to his papa with both 
hands full of bon-bons, and emptied them in that 
gentleman's big coat-pocket ; and when papa 
looked behind him for an explanation of the pull- 
ings, and so on. Bushy said, pathetically : 

" I aint got no pocket, papa." 

" You have no pocket, you mean.'' corrected 
papa, gently. 

" Yes, sir, I have n't no pocket. 




In a few moments he was back again, and papa mamma's silk dress were disturbed, and down 01 
felt another tugging at his coat behind, and heard top of her lace handkerchief streamed the cand' 
something rattling down into his pocket ; again and nuts from Bushy's overflowing hands, attendee 

came the explanation from Bushy : "I aint got no 
pocket, papa." 

It was not long after this before the folds of 


" I aint got nc 
we must all take 

by the inevitable explanation 
pocket, mamma. Katie says 
home something." 

Again and again was the silk-dress pocket visited 
for it was roomy, and mamma, busy in conversa 
tion, was unconscious of the visitations. 

Then Bushy's sister, Minnie, thirteen years old, 
was petitioned to lend the aid of her pocket to the 
pocketless boy. Beside this, Bobby Smedley, whose 
home was just across the street from Bushv's, vol- 
unteered the loan of one-quarter of one of his 
pockets for the transportation of Bushy's nick 
nacks. Miriam Endicott, who lived next door tc 
the unfortunate boy, hearing of Bobby Smedley's 
generosity, forthwith devoted a half of her roomy 
pocket to Bushy's relief. 

But it was when the children had gone upstair: 
to the parlors where the Christmas-tree stood, thai 
Bushy's concern attained its height. 

" S'pose," he said to Barney Williamson, remem 
bering Barney's role as adviser, " s'pose I was tc 
get a great lot of things — that ball " — and ht 
pointed to the spangled, radiant tree, with it 
wonderful blossoms and fruit — " and that top, and 
that drum, and that trumpet with a whistle, and 
oh ! them two wrasling heathen Chinee, and that 
whistle, and that cannon, and that velocipede, and 
that locomotive, and that there wheel-barrow, and 
a great lot more, how could I get them all home ? 
'cause I aint got no pocket, you know." 

"Well I'll tell you," said the ready Barney. 

j8 7 6.] 



," I '11 pack all the other things in your wheelbar- 
row, you know, and roll 'em home for you." 

Bushy did get the wheel-barrow, sure enough, 
and soon had it loaded up. 

You may well believe there was laughing at 
Bushy's house when all the pockets were emptied, 
and all the boxes and baskets. Such heaps of 
candy ! such piles of cakes ! such quantities of 
almonds and raisins, mottoes, lady-apples, oranges, 
and other good things, as were displayed ! In 
Bushy's eagerness he had actually smuggled a 

chicken's wing and buttered biscuit into his mother's 
keeping. There was enough, as he said, ecstati- 
cally, for another party. 

If he had gone to Katie's entertainment with 
pockets all over his chubby little form, he could 
not have fared so well. 

" Mamma," said Bushy, gravely, as he cracked 
an almond between his white teeth, his black eyes, 
meanwhile, sweeping the table which held his col- 
lection of sweets, "don't never put no pocket in 
my party-breeches." 



By E. Muller. 

; Of course Cluck-a-Iuck thought she had been 
v sitting on her own eggs. Why should she not 
think so ? There were ten of them, just as many 
; as she had counted when she first began to sit upon 
I them ; so when her young brood turned out to be 
ducklings, she was naturally surprised and dis- 
. gusted. But that was the fanner's fault. Cluck- 
i a-luck was such a good hen-mother that he chose 
i'her to raise the brood of ducklings. For a duck- 
j mother is such a careless creature — such a very 
: careless creature! All she thinks of is her own 
Jtoes, and how to say "Quack" amiably, and to 
- plume herself. So Cluck-a-luck had to see her 
fuzzy yellow brood step into the water at a spring- 
pond, and paddle away from her, while she sat on 
the shore and scolded at them. 

" You '11 take your deaths of cold ! " she screamed, 
when she found they did not drown, as she had 

told them they would. "I shall have the whole 
ten of you down with the croup," moaned Cluck- 
a-Iuck, and she ran off to consult Grandpa Wattles, 
the great Dorking cock. " Dear Grandpa Wattles! 
what shall I do with my children ? None of our 
family ever acted this way before ! " 

" Took-a-rook-a-raw, raw." said Grandpa Wat- 
tles, gravely ; he always said that when he felt 
puzzled. " You must make allowances, make 
allowances. Young folks are very different, now- 
adays. You can't always tell how they are going 
to turn out. Sometimes they are one thing and 
sometimes they are another. Don't fret. Here 's 
a fine grub for you. Don't fret." 

So Cluck-a-luck ate the grub and stopped fret- 

By and by the ducklings grew large and hand- 
some, with fine purple necks and broad yellow bills. 





" They really do me great credit," said Cluck-a- 
luck, proudly, as she bade them good-bye, and 
began to hatch out another brood. 

This time the farmer had enough ducks, so he 
allowed Cluck-a-luck to hatch out her own eggs. 
A fine brood they were. Nine yellow little fuzzy 
balls, with a little silvery chirp put inside of each 
one, to make music for their mamma. Cluck-a- 
luck was very proud of them, and as soon as they 
were big enough, she led them out of the hen-house 

into the barn- yard, and showed them to everybody 
while she clucked delightedly. Then she tool 
them to the pond. 

"Peep-peep !" said all the little ones, "such 
large water-trough ! " 

"Well, why don't you go in? " asked Cluck-a 

"Peep-peep! we don't want to," said they. 

"What nonsense ! " cried Cluck-a-luck. "No 
want to go in ? Why, your brothers and sister 





— J 

"why do you suppose they spay down so long?" 

ran in, of their own accord, before they were as old 
as you. Go in at once, before they laugh at you." 

"What's the matter there?" cried Shiny Tail, 
one of the eldest duck-sons, coming up. " Afraid 
to go in ? Give them a push, that's all they want." 

So Cluck-a-luck led the little chickens to a board 
that leaned out over the water, and then pushed 
them in, first one, then another, till all the nine 
were in the water. 

"Peep-peep! it's very cold! It's very wet. 
Peep-peep, p-e-e-p ! " cried all the little ones, and 
then they went down under the water, and staid 

" Why do you suppose they stay down so long?" 
asked Cluck-a-luck of Shiny Tail, who stood near. 

" I 'm sure I don't know. I never staid down so 
long," answered he, thoughtfully. 

But the little chickens never came up again, 
though Cluck-a-luck waited all day long for them, 
and clucked till she was quite hoarse. So she ran 
to Grandpa Wattles, and told him about it. 

" Took-a-rook ," began Grandpa Wattles, 

but seeing she felt very badly indeed, he stopped 
before he got to "raw, raw," and said: "Now 
don't fret, there 's a good creature. You have 
made a little mistake in their education. You can't 
always tell ; sometimes they turn out one thing, 
and sometimes they " 

" But they are all drowned, gone entirely ! " 
interrupted Cluck-a-luck. " What am I to do ? " 

"Well, well! Don't fret. Go and hatch another 

brood. Here 's a fine caterpillar I Ye saved for you. 
Don't fret," said Grandpa Wattles, very kindly. 

So Cluck-a-luck ate the fine caterpillar and 
stopped fretting, and began to hatch another brood. 
While she was sitting, a weasel ate all her eggs but 
two. These she hatched out, saying to herself: 

"It is just as well ; there will be less trouble about 
their education, when there are so few, and I shall 
not go near the water with them, that 's certain." 


So, when they grew strong enough, she took 
them up to the orchard, where there was no water, 
and there little Wacksy and Weepsy were good 




and happy for a long time. Cluck-a-luck gave 
them these names because one of them always said 
" Wack " and the other one said "Weep," when 
he cried. 

The little things were very fond of each other, 
and could not bear to be parted for a minute. One 
day Cluck-a-luck missed them. She had just been . 
taking her morning sand-bath, in a lovely dust- 
hole under an apple-tree, and when she got up she 
missed both her children. She ran to the barn-yard 
and asked all her friends if they had seen her 

" I saw them a minute ago," said her cousin, 

as possible, and he was squawking as only ayouni, 
Shanghai cock can squawk, because he could no 
be a duck, like Wacksy, and swim with her. 

' ' It seems to me you have very strange children 
Cluck-a-luck," said old Madam Brahma. "Then 
must be something wrong in your system of educa.< 
tion; my children never showed such dispositions.,; 

" Oh dear ! oh dear ! " cried poor little Cluck 
a-luck, " I 'm sure I don't know what it is. I ' 
done everything a mother could do, and I 'm dis 
graced by them after it all." 

Everybody stood watching and laughing at Cluck 
a-luck's children. Everybody made remarks. 


Pulletta. " It seems to me they were going down 
to the pond." 

"The pond! Oh, dreadful!" cried Cluck-a- 
luck. " Then they will surely drown ! " 

She hurried to the pond, and so did every one 
else, and all the chickens and ducks and turkeys 
and geese stood in a great crowd on the shore. 
And what do you think they saw? There was 
Wacksy, in the middle of the pond, swimming 
proudly around, while Weepsy stood near the 
shore, but up to his neck in the water, shrieking 
for her to come back and play with him ! What 
a disgraceful sight for a proud mamma! Weepsy's 
long legs and long neck were stretched out as far 

" Who in the world but a Dorking would thi 
of hatching one duck and one great awkw; 
Shanghai ! " exclaimed an aristocratic Bantam. 

' ' How was I to know ? " asked poor Cluck 
luck, indignantly. " I 'm sure I never knew thi 
could be-so many different patterns of chickens. 
I never would have hatched any ! " 

Grandpa Wattles felt very sorry, but he co 
not conscientiously advise her to go and try anotl 
brood, so he only said ." Took-a-rook-a-raw, ra 1 
and stood gazing at Wacksy and Weepsy, v 
were still making themselves ridiculous. 

" I '11 never hatch another brood ! " cried Clu 
a-luck; "I'll never lay another egg! I'll 




omewhere all by myself, and learn to crow ! " 
lit this dreadful threat, all the other hens looked 
t her and drew up their wings, and nodded at 
ach other. 

" You see she 's going to crow. I knew a hen 
ho could not bring up her chickens properly 
ould end by crowing. How very shocking ! " 

" Oh, please don't, there 's a good creature," 
lid Grandpa Wattles. " You are an excellent 
en-mother ; don't be discouraged ; don't crow ; 

hens never crow unless they 're good for nothing 

" But I will crow," said Cluck-a-luck. " I feel 
like doing something desperate. I can't make my 
children behave, and none of you sympathize with 

So she went away and got on a high fence, and 
crowed, and she tumbled over backward while she 
was crowing, and broke her neck, and her claws 
all curled up, and she was dead. 


By J. T. Trowbridge. 

Chaptrr I. 


Jacob Fortune, fifteen years old, barefooted, 
vgged at the knees, and with locks of very light 
ir showing through the torn crown of his old 
aw hat, sat on the door-yard fence, looking lone- 

Jacob had never known father or mother ; and it 

.s now three days since his aunt, who had brought 

Ti up and given him a home in the old house 

:re, was carried out of it and laid to rest in 

: old burying-ground, just out of sight over 

2 hill. 

-,Jacob had not thought that he was very fond of 

; aunt ; and if she felt any affection for him, she 

d a rather odd way of showing it. She worked 

rd herself, and made him work hard as soon as 

was old enough. She made him go to meeting 

1 Sunday-school, and would not let him play 

:r sundown on Saturday. She kept bundles of 

ed herbs, which she steeped, and was always 

ing a little " yarb-drink " herself, because she 

> sick, and making him take a little, not because 

i was sick, but because she was afraid he would 

She had no teeth, and she made him eat all 

crusts. Then, too, she took snuff, and was 

adfully sallow and wrinkled, and had a crooked 

k, and sunken black eyes, and a harsh voice 

1 temper which made him often wish that there 

■ no such thing as an aunt in the world, and 

ch put wicked thoughts into his head of running 

iy, in order to be his own master. 

lut now that there was no aunt in the world for 

Vol. IV.— 6. 

him, and he was his own master without running 
away, poor Jacob sat on the fence there and thought 
of all her real kindness to him, and remembered 
with remorse how many things he had himself done 
to make her cross and unhappy. 

How empty the old house seemed without her ! 
How empty and dreary the world seemed ! He 
knew now that there had always been in his heart 
a great deal more love for her than he or she ever 
suspected ; and he felt very much like going over 
to the old burying-ground. throwing himself down 
by her grave, and telling her so. 

He was awfully lonesome, and was wishing that 
somebody would come along and say something 
to comfort him, when he saw Deacon Jaffers ap- 

'• May be he'll have a good word forme," thought 
Jacob, brightening a little, not caring to be seen 
looking melancholy. 

The deacon, in his white starched linen, black 
straw hat and cool alpaca coat, appearing every 
way prosperous and well satisfied with himself, 
stopped when he came opposite to Jacob, and 
swung his buckhorn-headed cane. 

" So you are a free man now, Jacob — eh ? " said 
he. " And how do you like it ? " 

" Don't know," said Jacob, with a sorry grin. 
" It aint so lively as I thought it would be." 

" Would you like any better to have a guardeen 
appointed and put over ye ? There 's been talk 
on 't," said Jaffers. 

Jacob did not greatly fancy the idea of a guar- 

" Would n't like to be bound out to some good 




man, eh ? Wal, Jacob, you 've the name of being 
a perty stiddy boy, and I don't know but you can 
be trusted to look out for yourself. But you must 
be industrious. Mus' n't set too long on the fence. 
Keep on going to Sunday-school, and to meeting. 
Don't be off nutting and fishing with bad boys, in 
sermon-time ; your aunt never allowed that. Don't 
play cards or drink. That 's my advice to you, 

And the excellent deacon walked away, leaving 
the boy's mind darkened by the hint of a guardian, 
and his heart heavier than ever. 

Presently a man drove along the street in a one- 
horse wagon. He was broad as a tub, filling almost 
the entire wagon-seat. He had a broad hat-brim, 
and a broad, red face, and a broad smile on it 
as he reined up by the fence where the boy was 

It was Friend David Doane, the Quaker, famed 
for his butter and cheese. Jacob had always heard 
that he was a kind man, and he felt a thrill of hope 
as he thought, " I guess he will have a good word 
for me." 

" How does thee get on with the world, Jacob? 
The world, Jacob," added Friend David, " is much 
like an edged tool, good and useful to the wise who 
take hold of it rightly by the handle." 

Friend David looked like one who always held 
firmly by the said handle, and knew how to use 
the tool to his advantage. He went on : 

" I hear that thy worthy aunt, before she died, 
gave thee her cow, Jacob. How is it ? Has thee 
a clear title ? " 

" She gave me the cow in the presence of wit- 
nesses, if that is what you mean," said Jacob. 

" Thee is very young to be the owner of a cow ! " 
— and the broad, smiling face beamed like a full 
moon on Jacob. " What will thee do with her ? " 

" Don't know," said Jacob, to whom the cow's 
future looked as dubious as his own. 

" Would thee like to sell her ? " 

" Don't know." 

" Will thee take twelve dollars for her ? " 

" Folks have told me she is worth more than 
that," replied Jacob. 

" How much, then ? " 

" Twenty-five dollars." 

" Twenty-five dollars ! " repeated Friend David, 
with a solemn shake of the broad hat-brim. " Thee 
has been told amiss. I will give thee fifteen dollars 
for the cow. Will that satisfy thee ? " 

Jacob answered timidly that he did n't think he 
ought to sell her for less than twenty-five. Friend 
David regarded him sternly. 

" Thee is beginning young, Jacob ! " 

" Beginning to — to what ? " stammered the boy. 
He was simply endeavoring in his poor way to hold 

the world rightly by the handle, and could 
understand how he had merited Friend Davij 
crushing disapprobation. 

The Quaker did not throw any light upon u 
question, but raised his bid to sixteen dollars. 

" That is because I would like to encourage tls 
in well-doing," said David. 

Which seemed so kind in him that Jacob >fe 
almost made to feel that he would be an ungr«!> 
ful wretch if he did not accept the offer. 

'■ Sixteen dollars is a great deal of money fen 
lad like thee ! What does thee say to it ? " 

Jacob hung his head, and, being pressed furtlrj 
murmured feebly, " I can't— really — take less ta 
— twenty-five." 

" Thee is a grasping lad — very grasping !" :iij 
Friend David. "I would have been glad to J 
friend thee, but I find I can do nothing for tie 


thee is so grasping. If I should offer thee t\ltj 
dollars, I dare say thee would take it, thougliha 
knows it is too much." 

Jacob was a patient fellow ; but he had ■ 
and will of his own, which he would somiBit! 
show when provoked, as his late aunt knew \'fcl 
sorrow, and as Friend David now discovered. .ft 
felt that he was being imposed upon, and lomni 
up and seeing something very much like culini 
in the broad face, answered in the Quaker' t>w 
language : 

" Thee thinks wrong, Friend David. I Oil 
not take twenty dollars for the cow if I knew W 
too much, and I will not take it because I kiiv 
well as thee that it is too little." 




Friend David contracted his brows, compressed 
is lips, gave Jacob a terrible look and his horse a 
ouch with the whip, and drove on without a word. 

The future did not look brighter to Jacob after 
nis lesson. It was well to talk of holding the 
'orld by the handle, but where everybody was try- 
ig t0 g et an d keep a hold, would there not be 
■ouble ? 

Some boys now came along, who had a cat in a 
asket, and a big dog. 

" Hurrah, Jake ! " said they. " Come and have 
jme fun." 
1 " What ? " said Jacob. 

" We 're goin' to let the cat loose in Towner's 
oods and set the dog on her. If she climbs a 
•ee, we'll club her off, and see him shake her." 

Jacob was excited by the thought of sport. But 
Sen a soft feeling rose in his unmanly breast re- 
irding the cat. 

" Oh, I would n't, Joe ! " said he. 

"Wouldn't what?" cried Joe, the leader and 
>okesman of the boys. 

" I would n't club and dog the poor thing ! " 
-nd yet Jacob had half made up his mind to go 
•ith them and see the fun, if he could not pre- 
-:nt it. 
; The rebuke, however, nettled Joe, who cried : 

Who asked ye to, anyway ? We '11 club you if 
;)u come ! " 

1 " You never 'd dare to do that, Joe Berry ! " 
I "You try it ! Say three words, and I '11 heave 

ock at you now ! " 
v So saying, Joe stooped and picked up from the 
;,ad, not exactly a rock, but a pebble of the size 

a walnut, which he threatened to let fly at Jacob's 


" Three words ! — there ! " exclaimed Jacob, de- 


The stone was flung, but it hit only the rail on 

lich Jacob was sitting. He made a motion to 

mp down, whereat Joe, who was really a coward, 

irted to run, followed by the other boys and the 

j dog. A little way off they stopped and began 
jeer him and look for stones — "rocks" they 

lied them — by the road-side. 

"Jake feels awful big since he had a funeral to 

i house ! " said one. 

"Sober, Jake is; guess he's going to study to 
a minister," said another. 

He's begun to preach," said Joe. "Here's 

E ', J riething for his contribution-box," and he let fly 

:I : other pebble. 

Other stones followed, but all so wide of the mark 
it Jacob sat quietly on the fence and merely 
iked his contempt. The allusion to the funeral 
i his low spirits hurt him worse than the stones 
jld. He thought he had never heard anything 

so mean and hateful ; and, since his own com- 
panions had turned against him in this way, he felt 
wretched and desolate enough. 

The boys continued to throw stones as they slowly 
retreated, until they were quite out of range ; then 
hurried off with the basket and the dog. 

As soon as there was nobody to see him, Jacob 
gave way to his feelings and cried. He had not 
got much comfort from anybody who came along 
yet, and it was a bitter thought that he had missed 
his only chance of a good time by refusing to join 
hands with the wicked. 

'• Why should I care for the cat? Why can't I 
go and do like other boys who don't care ? " he 
asked himself, almost repenting of the scruples 
which had gained nothing for himself or the cat, 
and only earned his companions' ill will. 

But now the sight of another person approaching 
caused him quickly to dry his tears. 

" It's Professor Pinkey ! " thought Jacob. 

Chapter II. 


Professor Alphonse Pinkey, the dancing-mas- 
ter, was an airy youth, hardly more than twenty 
years old, in very wide mouse-colored trousers, a 
light-brown frock-coat buttoned with one button at 
the waist, and an expansive shirt-front. He wore 
his black hair in graceful ringlets, and had a 
mustache and strip of beard which resembled a 
fanciful letter T. Seeing Jacob, he waved his little 
cane with a smile, and walked up and shook hands 
with him. 

" I did n't know you were in town," said Jacob. 

'• I '111 not," said the professor. " That is, I'm 
merely flitting through ; a bird of passage. Don't 
get down ; let me get up." 

And the bird of passage perched beside Jacob on 
the fence. 

When the professor kept a dancing-school in the 
village the winter before, Jacob had attended it, 
and swept the hall for his tuition. The aunt, who 
was opposed to dancing, had known nothing of 
this arrangement beyond the fact that Jacob took 
care of the hall — to which circumstance the pro- 
fessor now made some playful allusion. 

Jacob looked sober. 

" How is the dear old lady ? " cried Alphonse. 

" She's dead — I thank you," faltered Jacob. 

" Dead ! you don't say ! Excuse my ill-timed 
levity. How long since ? " 

" She has been buried three days." 

'" How distressing ! You lived alone with her, 
did n't you ?" 

" Yes, — all alone." 

" Well, well ! don't feel bad," said the professor, 

8 4 


[Decem j 

thinking Jacob was going to choke. " Where do 
you live now ? " 

" Here ; that is, I stay here and take care of 
things, but since she died I 've slept over there at 
the neighbor's, — the old house seemed so lone- 
some ! " 

''Certainly; I can understand that. But — what 
are you going to do ? What are your prospects ? " 

" I have n't any," said Jacob. 

" What did the — excuse me if I come too ab- 
ruptly to the sordid business question," said Al- 
phonsc, — " what did the old lady do with her 
property ? " 

" She had n't much, anyway." 

" Was n't the cottage hers ? " 

" Oh no ; she rented it of Mr. Jordan, and paid 
twenty dollars a year for it. All the money she 
had saved went to pay the funeral expenses. After 
she was taken sick, I had to leave the place where 
I was at work, to take care of her ; so I was n't 
earning anything." 

" Then there were the medicines and doctors' 
bills," suggested Alphonse. 

" She was her own doctor, and took her own 
medicines, till the very last," replied Jacob. " She 
would n't have had a doctor at all, if it had n't been 
for the neighbors." 

" But — to return to the question of property — 
she must have left something," Alphonse insisted. 

"A little. There's the cow, and the pig, and 
the things in the house," said Jacob. " She gave 
everything to me. She was very kind to me to- 
ward the last." 

"Made you her heir!" exclaimed Alphonse. 
" Let 's go and see what you 've got ; have you 
any objection ? " 

Jacob was glad to have a friend to talk with. 
He took the professor over the house and ground, 
and showed him everything but the cow, which was 
in the pasture. 

" Now," said the professor, as they came round 
to the wood-shed and sat down on a step, " here 
you are in possession of a certain amount of per- 
sonal property, and you want to know the best 
thing to do with it." 

" Exactly," said Jacob. 

" With all due respect to your late lamented 
relative," Alphonse continued, taking a knife from 
his pocket and picking up a stick, "her household 
stuff don't amount to much. Throw in the cow 
and the pig and the chickens, and it is n't a brilliant 
fortune, Jacob. Still, here 's a problem to be con- 
sidered. Have n't you a jack-knife ? Well, find a 
stick and go to whittling, as I do." 

" What for ? " inquired Jacob, as he obeyed. 

" Don't you see ? " replied the airy Alphonse. 
" Nothing helps a man to think like a piece of pine 

and a knife. Now my thoughts begin to corr; 
he added, throwing off long, curled shavings fie 
his stick. " I perceive three ways open to youj 
making the most of your inheritance." He pans 
in his whittling and put up three fingers. " J 
first is for you to get married, bring a little i< 
right in here to fill your aunt's place, and gow 
with the housekeeping on the same humble u 
inexpensive scale." 

" Get married ! " laughed Jacob. " Why, n 
only fifteen ! " 

" I hardly thought you would consider that 
tion practicable," said Alphonse. " We '11 disiis 
it for the present," and he closed one of the fings 
" The next thing is for you to underlet the cott;t 
with your furniture, to some poor but worthy faift; 
that will take you to board at a low figure." 

" I don't know of any such family," said Jacn, 

" Then we will dismiss that notion for hi 
present," and Alphonse closed another fin* 
" There 's only one way left." He held up theis 
finger and touched it with the end of his spt 
"Sell out." 

" I 've thought of that ; but how ? " said JacI 

"An auction. Don't you know how the t a; 
is done ? I '11 write the posters for you. ' Aucbi 
sale of personal property at the late residenc oi 
Mrs. Myra Hapgood, deceased. One cow, im 
pig, two feather beds, one gridiron, three \\m 
tubs, one arm-chair with rockers and a sti^c 
back, two floor-rugs made by her own hands, m 
pine tables, crockery, flat-irons, one broom Jul 
little worn, and so forth, and so forth. To beolii 
unconditionally to the highest bidders. Profsci 
Alphonse Pinkey, auctioneer.' How's that mi 
boy ? " 

"It sounds well," said Jacob, laughing. ' irt 
you an auctioneer ? " 

" I am anything and everything. You ave 
known me as a dancing-master. I am also a mac- 
master, writing-master, fencing-master, and aior- 
trait-painter. I have been a flatboat-man, a erk 
in a grocery, and a stage-driver. I never sold iflds 
at auction ; but I do not hesitate to say that w: 
sell goods at auction, if I try." 

Jacob did not know that this lively talk viild 
lead to any practical results, but it made lira 

" Now tell me about yourself," said Alphise. 
" By the way, what 's the matter with your ar 
I 've noticed that scar." 

" That's where the old sow bit me," said J sob 

" Is n't that a rather remarkable place for afoil 
sow to bite ?" inquired the professor. " Ho di 
it happen ? " 

" You see," said Jacob, " I was puny when wa 
a little feller, and my aunt had her own notkso 




octoring me. She used to think there was varteii) 
■1 the ground to cure all diseases ; you could get it 
! ut of herbs by steeping them, or you could get 
out of the ground itself. So she used to bury 
le in the warm earth of the garden, all but my 
ead, and leave me there sometimes for half a clay 
t a time. It kept me out of mischief, for one 
iing ; I could n't stir hand or foot after she left 
le. One day, after she had buried me, she went 
) the neighbor's for something, and a peddler 
ime, and was scared when I hollered to him out 
f the ground, and went out and left the gate open. 
ir hen an old sow with a litter of nine pigs walked 
Si. She went rooting around, and finally came up 
■■ranting to me, with her mouth open, and all her 
Utle pigs squealing at her heels. I screamed, 
hat only excited her. She came close up to me, 
torting and showing her tusks, and I believe was 
; :tually going to eat me, when Aunt Myry came 
; ishing into the gate with a club. She had actually 
"sgun at my ear." 

■ " Lucky she did n't begin at your nose ! " said 
Iphonse. " If I were in your place, I should wear 

-iy hair long, to cover that scar." 
" I shall, now I 'm my own master. Site always 
:pt my hair cut short ; I don't know why, unless 
was because it took less time to comb it. She 
ever buried me up in the ground after that. I 
^member how frightened I was ; I can see the old 
>w's tusks to this day. Her mouth looked as large 
5 a fire-place, and the eye that was turned toward 
fie was as big as a tea-cup." 

P "Have you any other relatives ?" Alphonse in- 

c' " No very near ones ; only an uncle. But he 
nd my aunt did n't agree very well, and I don't 
link she ever heard much of him of late years." 
" Where does he live ? " 

" He 's some kind of a merchant in Cincinnati.'' 
" Cincinnati ! " echoed Alphonse, interested. 

■ What 's his name ? " 

' " Higglestone," said Jacob. 

II "You don't say ! " cried Alphonse. rising to his 
:et and standing before Jacob, poising knife and 
ick. " Your aunt has n't done much for you, but 
' 3u 've a fortune in your uncle." 
- Jacob wondered how that could be. 

" Don't you see? " said Alphonse, whittling fast 
ijain. " Higglestone & West are dealers in hard- 
ware in the lower town ; one of the richest firms 

the city ; and your uncle is well known as a 
. lblic-spirited, liberal sort of man." 

"Aunt Myry used to call him close-fisted and 


" Your aunt was prejudiced. Uncle Higglestone 

the mine you are to work, my boy." The profes- 

t's fancies flew like his shavings. He rattled away. 

" Here 's the programme for you. Auction sale 
— convert everything into cash. Then — Ho for 
Cincinnati ! I 'm on my way there now, and 1 '11 
take you along with me and introduce you to your 
uncle. You never had any quarrel with him, did 
you ? " 

" I never even saw him." 

"So much the better. He'll be astonished to 
find he has such a fine, promising young fellow for 
a nephew. I see the excellent old gentleman be- 
fore me now. 1 say, ' Your long-lost nephew, sir ! ' 
He exclaims, ' Is it possible — my poor sister's orphan 
child ! ' He welcomes you with open arms. He 
sheds tears at the recollection of your mother, but 
turns to you with smiles of pride and affection. A 
career is open to you at once. Don't you see ? " — 
and the professor laughed as he whittled. 

" I believe I will write to him," said Jacob, 
pleased with the picture drawn from his friend's 
vivid imagination. 

" Why write? If you wait for an answer, you 
will be too late to make the journey with me. Bet- 
ter take the old gentleman by surprise." 

" But suppose it should n't be so pleasant a sur- 
prise to him," suggested the modest Jacob. 

" That is n't a supposable case. But, even if he 
should not welcome you, what of that ? You are 
in Cincinnati. It is a great city — a great business 
center. I have hosts of friends there. We shall 
easily find something for you to do, which will be 
far better than trying to get a living in this miser- 
able little country town." 

"When are you going?" Jacob asked, with 
kindling looks. 

" I was going right on to-morrow. But I know 
your uncle will thank me if I wait to help you settle 
up your affairs and take you with me. Let 's see — 
to-day is Wednesday. We '11 have the auction on 
Saturday. Take the stage on Monday. Steam- 
boat Tuesday — ' floating down the river on the 
O-hi-o ! ' " sang Alphonse. " Cincinnati — when we 
get there. A delightful trip this season of the year. 
There you are ! " 

So saying, he threw away his stick and shut his 
pocket-knife, as if the matter were settled. 

" I '11 think of it to-night," began Jacob. 

"Think of it ? Why, we liave thought of it. 
There 's nothing more to be said. We might whit- 
tle and talk for a month of Sundays, and nothing 
better would come of it. My valise and violin are 
at the hotel. Let me see." 

Alphonse hesitated, and seemed about to resort 
to his knife and stick again. 

" You '11 be there to-night ?" said Jacob. 

" I was thinking. You would n't object to sleep- 
ing in the old house if I should come over and stay 
with you? Of course not," the professor went on. 




" We shall want to be together for consultation. 
So I '11 have my traps sent over. What have you 
got for supper ? " 

" Plenty of milk, and johnny-cake of my own 
making, and I can bake a few potatoes ; it '11 do for 
me, but it 's nothing to invite you to." 

" Nothing could suit me better, my dear Jacob ! 
I 'm vastly fond of johnny-cake and milk — so sim- 
ple, so novel ! And baked potatoes — how charm- 
ing ! Go and help me bring over my traps, and 
we are all right." 

Alphonse gayly whirled about on one foot, and 
snapped his thumb and finger in the air. 

Jacob could not help feeling some vague mis- 
givings as to the lively professor and his pro- 
gramme. He got up, brushed the dust from his 
clothes, and wished to give the matter a little con- 
sideration. Whittle as he would, he could not, 
think so fast as Alphonse. 

" Perhaps you would n't like to have me come 
and stop with you," said Pinkey. 

" Oh, that is n't it, — yes, I would, — but it 's so 
sudden ! " replied Jacob. 

He was indeed delighted, after his lonely hours 
and small comfort from old acquaintances, to have 
a companion whose condescension was so flattering 
and whose talk so cheering. And he felt that he 
ought to do all he could for one who proposed to 
do so much for him. 

" Everything happens sudden with me — that 's 
the sort of fellow I am," cried Alphonse, patting 
him on the shoulder. " Come along ! " 

And they started for the tavern. 

Chapter III. 


Professor Pinkey did not care to have Jacob 
hear his talk with the landlord, so he told him to 
stop at the porch while he went into the bar-room. 
The truth is, the professor's credit was not good at 
the inn, and he had been requested, when he ap- 
plied for a room there that afternoon, to pay some- 
thing in advance. 

" Oh, certainly ! " he had said. " A rather sin- 
gular request to make of a gentleman, but it 's the 
same thing to me. I 'm going out now to collect 
some outstanding bills due from two or three of my 
last winter's pupils. I'll leave my traps here till I 
come back ; then I '11 pay what you wish." 

As he had not succeeded in collecting any money, 
perhaps it would not have been convenient for him 
to advance any to the landlord. But he was not 
the man to say just that. 

" Sorry I sha' n't have the pleasure of stopping 
with you, my good friend," he cried, familiarly, on 

his return, striking the landlord on the back 
" Fact is, I 've received such pressing invitation; 
to visit the families of some of my pupils — I 've hac; 
to accept one or two of them — and I 've come foi 
my traps." 

" Very well," said the landlord, passing out | 
light valise and a violin-case from behind th< 
counter. He held on to them, however, as h<; 
added with a grim smile, "I don't care for you) 
present or future custom ; but I should like, befox 
we part, professor, to have you pay me a small sun 
due for your board here last winter." 

" Certainly. I '11 call before I leave town an<)] 
make it all right. When my pupils don't pay mcj 
I am sometimes obliged to ask for favors. How i 
your lovely daughter? She was one of my mosj 
interesting and promising pupils; if I could alway 
have such young ladies to teach, and men of hone 
like you to deal with, my profession would bl 

With which little stroke of flattery, and an ex: 
quisite bow and smile, the dancing-master withdrev 
his "traps" from the landlord's yielding hands, ant 
walked gayly out of the tavern. On the porch, h. 
gave the valise to Jacob, and carrying the violi! 
himself, triumphantly retreated; the landlord gazin 
after him with a puzzled and rather rueful look. 

'■'Do you believe he'll ever pay?" asked th 

'■I don't know," muttered the landlord. " 
meant to hold on to his traps ; but somehow he go 
them out of my hands 'fore I knew it. He 's cet 
tainly one of the politest men I ever saw ; you can' 
resist him !" 

The dancing-master made things lively for Jacoi 
that evening. After supper he wrote, in a bold an 
ornate hand, notices of the auction, to be posted ;, 
the post-office and store and on the town pump tb 
next day. Then he got a lath and the fire-poki 
and insisted on giving Jacob a lesson in fencinj 
Then he played tunes on his violin, and dance< 
and sang, and shouted, until the old house shoe 
and rang, and it seemed to Jacob that his auiu 
might at any moment appear, and with a terribl 
look demand, "What's all this noise?" 

She never would have allowed any such carryin 
on there while she lived ; and it would have troubh 
him, even if the shadow of death had not still hur, 
over the house and damped his merriment. C 
course Alphonse had no such feeling as to the o 
lady and the recent funeral, and Jacob excuse! 

The next day Pinkey put up the written notice 
and also took the precaution to go about and tap 
of Jacob's plans and prospects with the neighbour' 
He relied, not without reason, upon his own gl 
tongue to smooth away any objections on the pj 

I 7 6. 1 



sdljif the boy's friends or the town authorities, and to 
tij jiterest people in the auction sale. 
k ) Saturday afternoon arrived, and with it a goodly 
[((jrowd of men, women, girls and boys. A few came 

ut of good-will to Jacob, but more to gratify their 
il 1 uriosity and to see the fun. 
ij Everything was in readiness. Professor Pinkey 
■ad provided himself with a hammer, which he 

track upon the head of an overturned barrel in the 

itchen, to call the company to order, after some 
ar iime had been spent in looking about the premises; 

nd opened the sale with the following eloquent 
a ,»:ddress : 

mil "Ladies and gentlemen, it is with feelings of 
11 irofound emotion that I step up to wield the ham- 
ix f.rer upon this peculiar, I may say this affecting 
uLccasion. Who can contemplate the home of an 
il J ged widow, the humble board where she has par- 
l |aken of her solitary meals, the flat-iron she has used 

smooth the ruffles of her faultless cap, the pillow 
t /here she has suffered, the bedside where she has 
ktpirayed, without the tribute of a tear?" 
11 h Here Alphonse actually shook out his handker- 
, jhief, and used it. Strange to say, there was a 
(J, glistening moisture in his eyes, and a tremor in his 
r i] oice. Jacob felt his own eyes fill; and he could 

lot help wondering if he were really listening to the 
^;ame man who had so lately made the old house 

hake with reckless merriment. 
•| "This is the scene," Alphonse went on, " of her 
.ife-long, silent sorrow, her pious hopes, her anx- 
ious cares. In this rocking-chair she has sat and 
;)Cnit, and lived over the past, and" (he gave an 
irdent upward glance which would have become a 
[divinity student) "contemplated a heavenly future. 

n that kettle, she steeped the herbs and brewed the 

lrink that alleviated pain. In yonder skillet, she 

urned her frugal flapjacks for more than twenty 

; , years. It is good for at least twenty years more. 

. r Everything shows evidence of the most careful 

Jwisage. Those blue-rimmed cups and saucers, out 

!|(,)f which she imbibed the solace of the aged and 

j.iifflicted during all the years of her widowhood, are 

Jjis good as new. Purchasers can bid with perfect 

:onfidence, knowing that in every sale they will get 

■ :heir money's worth. For, ladies and gentlemen, 

1 sacred as these relics are, they must be sold. We 

ilLhave a duty not only to the dead, but to the living." 
|l Here all eyes, following the auctioneer's, turned 
1, iipon the blushing Jacob. 

. " The widow prized her home and her household 
goods," said Pinkey ; "but there was one thing she 
1 prized still more. That was her nephew. He was 
the idol of her heart. She showed her tenderness 
for him, and her appreciation of his worth, by giv- 
ing him everything, in the presence of witnesses, 
before she died. She said to him then, almost with 

her parting breath, ' Sell ! ' If she could rise from 
the tomb and put in an appearance now, she would 
murmur "Sell!' Ladies and gentlemen, we shall 
proceed to sell accordingly. 1 hope you will 
all do your duty to the widow and orphan, as I am 
trying, in a humble way, to do mine. I have post- 
poned a journey of great importance, and am now 
giving my time and services without remuneration 
(I should scorn to touch a cent of the orphan's 
money !) in order to settle up his affairs and give 
him a start in life. The terms of this sale, ladies 
and gentlemen, will be cash and immediate delivery. 
We shall now proceed." 

Chapter IV. 


At the close of his speech, Alphonse wiped his 
forehead, thumped the barrel- head, and ordered 
Jacob to hold up the rocking-chair. 

"We shall begin, ladies and gentlemen," said 
he, " with the old lady's easy-chair — her arm-chair. 
■ I love it ! I love it ! And who shall dare to chide 
me for loving that old arm-chair ? ' What am I 
offered? Remember all the sacred associations 
connected with a chair like that, and give me a bid, 

"Twenty-five cents," squeaked out an old lady, 
turning the chair around, as Jacob held it up, and 
scrutinizing it through her glasses. 

"Twenty-five cents I am offered. Twenty-five 
cents for a chair well worth two dollars. Ladies 
and gentlemen, look at it ! Why, the cushion 
alone is worth more than the price bid for the 
whole. Twenty-five, twenty-five. Don't let me 
insult the memory of the dead by knocking down 
her fine old arm-chair at that ridiculously low 
figure. Going at twenty-five ! Who will give me 

" I '11 give thirty," said a young woman with a 
baby in her arms. 

" Thirty I am offered. Thirty thirty thirty — " 

" Thirty-five ! " cried the first bidder. 

"Thirty-five! You will give more than that, I 
know," said Alphonse to the younger woman, with 
a persuasive smile. " What a chair that will be to 
rock your baby in ! Forty I am offered. Fifty ! 
Fiftyfiftyfiftyfiftyfiftyfifty ! Halfadollarhalfadollar 
halfadollar ! Going at half — a — dollar. Shall I 
have any more ? Half a dollar — one ! " Pinkey 
swung his hammer. "Going — at halfadollar;" 
he glanced his eye about the company, and crooked 
his forefinger into an interrogation point at the pre- 
vious bidders. "'Give me fifty-five?" 

Somebody nodded. 

"Fifty-five I am offered; fiftyfivefiftyfivefifty- 
five ! — going at fifty-five ! Sixty ! Sixtysixtysixty- 



[December,, t 

sixty sixty ! " — it is impossible to imitate the rapidity 
with which Pinkey repeated these words — "going 
at sixty cents ! Will the benevolent-looking lady 
there in the checkered shawl say seventy ? Thank 
you, madam. Seventyseventyseventy — going at 
seventy cents — one ! Going — going — going at 
seventy cents — two! Shall I have any more? 
Going — going — and gone, at seventy cents, to 
the benevolent-looking old lady in the checkered 
shawl ! " And Alphonse thumped the barrel head. 

want the best-known and most influential citizen Ij 
can find to do this for him, and give character to the! 
proceedings ; and you, Mr. Jaffers, are that man."/ 

And so it happened that the deacon, instead of 
preventing the auction, was present with his note-1 
book, and took the money. 

Alphonse now went rapidly through the house, i 
selling everything he could get a bid for, and finally il 
putting up in one lot everything that had been left 
over. This lot consisted of an old dye-tub, an 


The old lady smilingly took out her pocket- 
book, and offered to pay Pinkey on the spot. He 
gracefully waved her off. 

" I have absolutely declined to touch in any way 
a cent of the money proceeding from this sale. Mr. 
Jaffers — well-known to the community as Deacon 
Jaffers — has kindly consented to receive money for 
our young friend, and see to the delivery of the 
articles. Am I right, Mr. Jaffers?" 

The deacon nodded assent. That worthy man 
had been seriously inclined to oppose the scheme 
of the auction, on moral and legal grounds, until 
Alphonse had won his confidence by asking him 
to act as treasurer at the sale. "For Jacob's sake," 
Pinkey had said to him in his charming way; " I 

empty molasses-jug, a vinegar-cask (half full of 
"mother"), a rag-bag, some bundles of dried 
herbs, some medicine-bottles, a wood-box, chairs' 
with broken legs, baskets without handles, and other 
odds and ends. This extraordinary heap excited' 
a good deal of merriment, which Aphonse took 
advantage of to run up the bids; and was finally, 
knocked down for a dollar and ninety cents. 

"We will now proceed to the most important 
sale of all — that of the widow's cow," said Alphonse; 
and as he led the way to the shed, he was pleased : 
to see a broad-faced man waiting there, under a, 
broad-brimmed hat. Jacob had told him that hej 
thought Friend David would be on hand to bid fori 
the cow. 

3 7 6.] 



Fortunately, others who knew the value of the 
■ nimal were there too ; and the bids rose at once 
.) twenty dollars. 

"Twenty dollars!" said Alphonse, mounted 

:pon a milking-stool and flourishing his hammer. 

Only twenty dollars for a cow like that ! Milk 

Jch as cream, twenty-one quarts a day — not quite 

dollar a quart ! Who will give me twenty-one ! " 

He looked at Friend David, who had not yet 

ffered to bid. Friend David winked. 

"Twenty-one I am offered ! Twentyonetwenty- 

netwentyonetwentyone— going at " 

] "Twenty-two," said Deacon Jaffers. 
, "Only twenty-two!" exclaimed Alphonse. 
: Why, gentlemen, you are not going to stand by 
jnd see a valuable cow sacrificed. I am sure ! Gen- 
|e as a lamb — never known to kick or hold up the 
b iilk. What is it, Jacob ? " 
"I wanted to tell you," said Jacob, who had been 
ying for a minute or two to get in a word, " that 
ou are mistaken about the amount of milk she 
ives. She has given twenty-one quarts; but that 
as earlier in the season. Now she only gives 

Alphonse was not a man to be abashed by the 
iterruption. - 

"Thank you!" he cried; "I am happy to be 
nrrected. This sale is 'pon honor, and I desire to 
.it all my statements by the exact pattern of the 
icts. But I am sure, gentlemen, you will not let 
te boy suffer for his honesty. I understood him 
|/> say twenty-one quarts ; and it appears that it 

1'yas twenty-one quarts all through the early part 
f the season. It would be an unheard-of cow 
tat could give twenty-one quarts of rich milk the 
jear round. And I am offered only twenty-two 
pilars. Twentytwotwentytwotwentytwo ! Shall I 
lave twenty-three ? " 
I Friend David winked again. 

! " Twenty- three ! Going now at " 

"Twenty-four," said Deacon Jaffers. 
"Twentyfourtwentyfourtwentyfour ! Give me 
lother dollar ?" cried Alphonse, leaning over affec- 
onately at Friend David. "Give me a half?" 
Another wink from the Quaker. 
: " Half I am offered ! Twentyfournaftwentyfour- 
aftwentyfournaf ! — twenty-four dollars and fifty 
ints. Did I understand you to bid twenty-five, 
lr. Jaffers?" 

The deacon had not bid twenty-five ; but he 
, 3dded. 

" Going now at twenty-five dollars — and a half ! " 

: Ided Alphonse. Jacob looked on with breathless 

terest. " Twenty-six ? " — the auctioneer crooked 

j'e finger at Jaffers. " Twentysixtwentysixtwenty- 

(Xtwentysix— and a half I am offered. Twenty- 

icnaftwentysixnaftwentysixnaf ! Will somebody 

say seven ? Going at twenty-six dollars and a 
half — one ! Am I to have any more ? Your 
last chance, gentlemen ! Two ! Going — going — 
and gone, at twenty-six dollars and a half, to our 
worthy friend here in the broad-brimmed hat ! " — 
and Alphonse struck a beam with his hammer. 

Friend David smiled with satisfaction. But he 
was n't half so tickled as Jacob was, who thought it 
a capital joke that the Quaker had come to the sale 
and there paid more than the first price asked for 
the cow. 

" Seems I was n't so very grasping, after all ! " 
he said to himself. 

The pig and chickens were next sold. Then the 
garden crops, consisting chiefly of a few rows of 
corn and potatoes. 

Then the auctioneer put up his hammer, and the 
sale was closed. It had been a brilliant success, 
and as people went away, many carrying their 
purchases with them, they might have been heard 
praising Professor Pinkey. 

" What a beautiful man ! " said the old ladies. 

" Smart, I tell ye ! " said the men. 

" Aint he nice, though !" was the comment of 
the admiring girls. 

Jacob was almost forgotten ; and he was quite 
contented to be overlooked. Alphonse had inspired 
in him unbounded confidence and gratitude, and 
he gloried in his friend's popularity. He had also 
other cause for satisfaction. 

When all was over, Deacon Jaffers reckoned up 
the proceeds of the sale, which amounted to the 
handsome sum of eighty-seven dollars. 

"Better keep it for ye, hadn't I?" said the 
good man, thinking there was danger of Jacob's 
losing it. 

" A very kind and sensible suggestion," Alphonse 
answered for the lad. "I am sure, Jacob, your 
money cannot be in better hands. However. I 
suppose, if you go to find your uncle in Cincinnati, 
it will be as well for you to take it with you ; indeed, 
you '11 want some of it for the journey. If you go 
with me, I '11 take care that you don't lose it. I 
always, when traveling," said the professor, turning 
to Jaffers, " carry large sums " — he spoke as if large 
sums were very common with him — "in a belt 
about my person ; and I shall advise him to do the 

" A good idee," said the deacon. " Have a belt. 
Jacob, as the professor says ; and put all the money 
into it you don't want to use for your daily ex- 
penses. Have ye re'ly made up your mind to go 
and find your uncle ? " 

Jacob had concluded that it was the best thing 
he could do. 

'• Wal. wal ; I Ye talked with the professor, and 
I don't know but 't is. I suppose, then. I 'd better 

90 . A CHRISTMAS SONG. [December 

give ye the money, — though it seems a good deal it seemed to him a smail fortune. And it addec 

for a boy like you to have. I only hope you'll not a little to his triumphs to know that Joe Bern 

make a wise use on 't." and the other boys with whom he had lately quar 

And Jaffers put the money into Jacob's hands. reled were standing by, regarding him with admira 

Wonder and pleasure sparkled in the boy's eyes ; tion and envy. 

(To be continued.) 


By Mrs. Hattie S. Russell. 

The oak is a strong and stalwart tree, 

And it lifts its branches up, 
And catches the dew right gallantly 

In many a dainty cup. 
And the world is brighter, and better made. 

Because of the woodman's stroke, 
Descending in sun, or falling in shade, 

On the sturdy form of the oak. 
But stronger, I ween, in apparel green, 

And trappings so fair to see; 
With its precious freight, for small and great, 

Is the beautiful Christmas-tree. 

The elm is a kind and goodly tree, 

With its branches bending low; 
The heart is glad when its form we see, 

As we list to the river's flow. 
Ay ! the heart is glad, and the pulses bound, 

And joy illumines the face, 
Whenever a goodly elm is found, 

Because of its beauty and grace. 
But kinder, I ween, more goodly in mien, 

With branches more drooping and free, 
The tints of whose leaves, fidelity weaves, 

Is the beautiful Christmas-tree. 

The maple is supple, and lithe, and strong, 

And claimeth our love anew, 
When the days are listless, and quiet, and long, 

And the world is fair to view. 
And later, — as beauties and graces unfold, — 

A monarch right regally drest. 
With streamers aflame, and pennons of gold, 

It seemeth of all the best. 
More lissome, I ween, the brightness and sheen, 

And the coloring, sunny and free, 
And the banners soft, that are held aloft, 

Bv the beautiful Christmas-tree. 

6 7 6.] 




By Charles Barnard. 

The Guests. 
The guests at this hotel are horses ; red horses 
.nd white ; fiery racers from the prairies of Illinois, 
.nd solemn dobbins from quiet farms in West Vir- 
ginia. They come in squads of twenty and thirty, 
.11 the way from Wisconsin, Indiana, Ohio, and 

sort of thing, or they find the stairs uncomfortable, 
and ask if the elevator is running, and otherwise 
exhibit a lofty spirit unbecoming in sensible horses. 
Or, worse still, perhaps they are quarrelsome and 
bite and kick their neighbors, or display other vari- 
eties of ill manners. Certainly, such silly creatures 


Pennsylvania, in the cars to New York. Then 
hey go to a great stable on Second avenue, there 
o wait till they recover from the effects of their 
ide; and then they are invited to visit the great 
lorse Hotel on Third avenue, to see if they are fit 
:ompany for the honorable residents of this palace 
or horses. Here are some of the guests just enter- 
ng at the front door of the hotel and making the 
icquaintance of the manager. Perhaps when they 
irrive they do not take kindly to their private apart - 
nents, or they object to the bill of fare, or they ex- 
cess a dislike for the style of work they must do 
here. Perhaps they wish a private table and that 

are not entitled to a residence in the Horse Hotel, 
and the housekeeper soon sends them away to 
some poorer horse residence, where they never will 
find half the luxuries and comforts of this popular 

The good horses — those sensible ones who know 
what is good for a horse — stay in the hotel : and if 
they could tell what they think about it, doubtless 
there would be a mass meeting of the guests, with 
a vote of thanks to the managers, or at least a com- 
mittee of three to wait on the housekeeper and 
chief cook, with an appropriate set of resolutions 
expressive of appreciation of their "kindness and 



[Decembe : 

attention," and full of words like "elegant apart- 
ments," "choice viands," "politeness," "urbanity," 
etc., etc., etc. 

The Hotel. 

There are several large horse residences in New 
York. They each have beds for hundreds of horses,' 
and the dining-tables are a hundred times larger 
than those of the " Fifth Avenue" and " Windsor" 
put together. The Horse Hotel, the largest one 
of all, is on Third avenue, between Sixty-fifth and 
Sixty-sixth streets. It is one vast iron building, six 

assistants. Altogether, the hotel is unsurpassed f| 
horse-luxury and elegance. 

The guests destined to patronize the Horl 
Hotel come cantering up Third avenue in smaj 
companies, and with their heads loosely tied tl 
gether to keep them from running away (they ail 
strangers in the city, and are apt to be frightenci 
at the noise and confusion of the streets), and a ma 
rides on one, and leads the rest to show them ill 
way to the house. When they reach Sixty-fifl 
street, they pause before a great iron building wit 
eight doors, each as big as a barn-door, in tl 


hundred feet long and two hundred feet wide, and 
covers an entire block. It is three stories high, 
with a basement, and two thousand horses belong- 
ing to the Third Avenue Railroad Company reside 
there in a style of splendor and luxury quite un- 
known to horses who have never traveled from 
their native farms. There are waiting and recep- 
tion rooms, nice quarters for horses who happen to 
have a cold or a headache ; there is a fine hospital 
for those who are very sick ; there is a house surgeon 
and shoe-maker, to say nothing of a cobbler to put 
on new heels or otherwise repair their shoes ; and 
there is a housekeeper and a whole army of waiters 
and chamber-maids ; also, a chief cook, with a dozen 

front, and a fine portico in the middle. This is tl 
Horse Hotel. One would think so, for there all 
dozens of fat and hearty fellows standing about tl 
door, just exactly as men stand about the " Fifll 
Avenue" entrance, except that the horses do nfl 
smoke or pick their teeth in public — of course no I 
it is against the rules of the house. Then the ma:w 
ager appears, and politely invites them in, and thtM I 
march through one of the great doors and ent'li 
the reception-room on the first floor. This roof 
is a vast place, ten times as big as the largest mecf 
ing-house you ever saw. There are tracks all o\T 
the brick floor, and scores of horse-cars are comiil 
in and going out all the time. There are horsS 





•verywhere, some just coming in, others going out, 
ind some standing patiently waiting for their turn 
o go to work. There is a great well, or open 
space, in the middle of the room, and here the 
juests can look up and down and see the whole 
leight of the house. The place is cool and quiet, 
ind the guests are glad to rest a moment from the 
jlare and noise of the street. Presently the man- 
ager calls some of the waiters, and each horse is 
nvited to go down-stairs and see the barber and 
ihoe-maker, and to have a wash-up 
ifter the journey and get ready for 
linner. Going up or down stairs is 
lot particularly distressing. The 

ajstairs are wide and easy, and of 
j-ourse very properly carpeted with 
i choice pattern of hay-seed tapes- 
ry, thick and soft. In fact, the stairs 
In this house are so easy and com- 
fortable, that even a strange horse 
ihat never walked up or down a pair 

l, !>f stairs in his life, thinks it only a 

I [superior kind of hill-side, very much 

I a ike those on the old farm. 

The Dressing-Rooms. 
When the new guests reach the 
ottom of the stairs, they find them- 
selves in the queerest place imagin- 
able. A vast room full of horses — 
rows and rows of horses, as far as 
pou can see. The new horses think 
there must be horses to the right 
of them, horses to the left of them, 
ind horses before and behind. 
■Twelve hundred horses, all in one 
>!great room together. However, the 
-new-comers have not much time to 
look about, for the waiters invite 
them to have their shoes taken off. 
This done, their feet are washed and 
-"Iressed, and their coats are cleaned 
1 tnd brushed, and then they are 
■ marched off to get a new pair of 
'shoes. After this they are taken 
through the long halls, and shown 
. , o their rooms. A light lunch is all 
'eady, and when the guest has eaten 
;.t and taken a drink of water, he has a chance 
:o look about and see what sort of company he 
s in. 

When one goes to a hotel, ona expects to receive 
proper attention; so at the Horse Hotel there 
"i ire plenty of servants, but the queer thing about it 
s, that all the "maids" are men. Here is a picture 
if one of the pretty chamber-maids, and you can- 
lot fail to admire the charming stvle in which she 

puts up her back hair and the dainty gaiters she 
wears on her delicate feet. Every horse has a 
chamber-maid to wait on him, to make up his 
bed, to sweep out his room, and to set the table 
and brush his coat, and attend to all the other little 
horse-comforts. And excellent servants they are, 
for the guests look as nice and clean as possible. 
The coats are as glossy as silk, and every table has 
clean plates three times a day. Besides this, every 
horse can have a napkin if he asks for it politely. 


The Chambers. 
There are three sets of chambers in the Horse 
Hotel. One lot of over twelve hundred in the 
basement, and two more of over eight hundred in 
the third story. Those upstairs are divided into 
two sets. One is occupied by the horses that work 
in the night, and as these fellows sleep in the day- 
time, they have a separate place all by themselves, 
where the others will not disturb them by tramping 



[Decemi t 


about in the corridors. The stalls or chambers are winter, he has the best of care and all the luxm 

placed side by side in long rows the whole length any reasonable horse can expect. The new-con r 

of the great halls, and each horse stands facing may also amuse himself in looking about at 

another in the next row. The sides of each stall horses that are coming and going all the time, 


are low, and the new-comer has a good chance to 
see what is going on. There is a broad aisle be- 
tween every double row of stalls, and plenty of 
room for the horses to find their way about, or up 
and down the broad sloping stair-ways. Every set 
of stalls is numbered, and they do say that an old 
resident, if let loose in the hotel, could find his way 
to his own room without once asking the attendants 
to show him the way. Besides, all the horses be- 
longing to one car are together, and they soon learn 
to know each other, and particularly the other 
horse in the same span. If the horse has a room 
in the basement, his stall is one of a short row run- 
ning across the building. If he is upstairs, the 
rows run the other way; but in either case, there is 
plenty of light, and the air is sweet and comfortable, 
and free from bad draughts from the open windows. 
In the winter, every horse has a good blanket; but 
in summer, he does not need it ; and in summer or 

he may look out the window over the houseto 
or make friends with the sparrows. These fat a 
lively birds are everywhere, upstairs and dov>| 
They sit on the tops of the stalls, and fly up a 
down stairs, and visit all the rooms just as tr 
please. They even help themselves to the horsi 
dinner, without once asking leave, and fill ti 
whole hotel with the sound of their twittering, at 
no doubt the horses find a good deal of fun i 
watching them. 

Breakfast, Dinner and Tea. 

The first week the country horse spends in 
hotel, he tries the bill of fare to see if it agrees wl 
him. It is a bountiful table, and the corn-steal 1 ) 
the oat-puddings, and hay-dessert, are prime, 
sides this, there are tip-top gravies of salt 
water, and harmless coffee of pure Croton. Twen I 
seven pounds of oats, hay, and corn, ground 




mixed, for every horse every day, and equally 
divided into three meals. The new guest thinks 
the fare excellent, and is mightily pleased with his 
good fortune, and eats it all up every time with a 
good relish. Of course he must go out for exercise 
every day, and for the first month he makes one 
trip with the cars to the Post-Office and back each 
day. After that, when he is well accustomed to 
the luxurious fare at his hotel, he makes two trips 
a day, and that makes his day's work, — all that is 
expected of him. If we visited the Horse Hotel at 
supper-time, we would see men dragging great 
hand-carts through the aisles between the rows of 
stalls, and giving each horse in turn his share, just 
as in this picture. 

Everywhere the utmost neatness and care, every- 
where the utmost attention, so that every member of 
the four-footed company be made perfectly comfort- 
able. In one place horses are coming in from their 
work, warm and perspiring, and the waiters rub 
them down, and lead them to their places, but give 

Everywhere hither and thither fly the sparrows, 
up and down stairs and over the horses' heads, and 
following the supper-carts about, to pick up a grain 
or two, as if they were the guests and the great 
house had been erected for their especial accom- 

The Kitchen. 

Down-stairs, in a place safe from fire, is the 
kitchen, where the dinners for the two thousand 
guests are prepared. In one room is a steam- 
engine turning swiftly all day, that the mills may 
grind the tons of corn and oats that are needed. 
In another room are great wooden tubs, where the 
corn and oats and cut hay are mixed together. 
The tubs are as clean as good boards and plenty 
of scrubbing can make them, and the horse-cooks 
scatter salt in them, and then pour in the good 
things and stir them all together till a great pud- 
ding is made, and then the waiters come with their 
trays-on-wheels and take it away to the hungry 
company up and down stairs. The picture on the 

n them nothing to drink till they are cooled off and 
t|/.are perfectly rested and at ease ; then they in turn 
ihave their supper. Other horses that have had an 
31 early supper are going out for a trip down town 

and they look fat and hearty, as if on the whole 
they found the hotel comfortable and life reason- 
ably agreeable. 

opposite page shows how the cooks prepare the 
second course that follows the soup, and the one 
on this page represents the waiters attending the 
table. Every day the cooks must prepare break- 
fast, dinner and supper for two thousand horses, 
and a great mountain of food it makes — more hay 
and oats than two horses could drag in a hay-cart, 




and more than enough to keep all the horses in 
some country villages for a whole year. 

The Hospital. 

Horses, like men, sometimes have their ill turns 
and fits of sickness ; and the curious part of this is, 
that they take cold, and have sore throats and the 
rheumatism, and everything else that men are 
liable to have if they do not take care of themselves. 
So there is a doctor constantly on hand to look 
after the company, and to give fhem their pills and 
powders. The first sign that a car-horse exhibits 
of sickness is a slight lameness when at work. Do 
you think they whip him up and make him go 

gone, the doctor's man dresses the patient's feet ajl 
wipes them dry, and the horse feels a hundred tirn 
better, and thinks he could try that long trail 
down town again without misgivings. The shl- 
maker puts on new shoes, and the convalesces 
goes to his own room for a good supper anc* 
night's rest, and tomorrow he will be all riife 

Another horse may decline his dinner, or refip 
to rise early in the morning, or come home It 
night and droop his head and leave his supji 
untouched, and then the chamber-maids say if 
poor thing is really sick, and that the doctor mit 
be called. The doctor comes and examines le 


faster? No ; they take him right to the hotel, and 
call the doctor. The medical man looks wise, feels 
of the poor fellow's feet, and says he is feverish and 
must have a warm bath. So the doctor's assistant 
takes off the patient's shoes, and leads him to the 
hospital for lame horses. This is a cool and shady 
room in the basement, and filled with comfortable 
stalls, and each having a big tub of warm water. 
Here the lame horse with fever in his feet has a 
foot-bath of warm water and hay-seed. He has 
tramped many a weary mile over the stones of 
Third avenue, and the bath is grateful and comfort- 
ing, and he holds his feet in it with resignation 
and patience, as if he felt sure that the wise doctor 
knew what was best. Then, after the fever has 

patient, and in a few moments he knows what 
the trouble, and the horse is led away down-st:s 
and out into the yard to another part of the hoi^ 
to the hospital for sick horses. Here he ha^i 
double bed given him, and the doctor write^ 
prescription and gives it to the nurse, and | 
medicine is prepared in a little apothecary sn | 
attached to the hospital. Now. horses do not 1 
medicines, and big doses are their particular' c 
like ; so the wise doctor is a homeopathist, a 
administers his medicines in pills and powders tl 
do not taste badly at all, and the horse takes th 
without knowing it. Sometimes a sick horse, 1 
a sick boy, gets nervous and behaves in ways t 
are not nice, and then the nurse has to hold 


i8 7 6.] 



head while the doctor gives him his medicine in a/ 
syringe. In this quiet and comfortable hospital, 
far away from all the noise of the street and the 
excitement of the hotel life, the sick horses soon 
recover, and then they go back to their work again ; 
or if they are old and nearly worn out, they are 
placed in stalls by themselves, and offered for sale 
to any one who cares to buy them. They are not 
wholly worn out, and on a farm and at light work, 

give one a better idea of the horse's brains, and 
show that he is often almost human in his feelings 
and instincts. Nearly all of the two thousand 
horses gathered here display a docile and amiable 
spirit, and actually seem interested in their work. 
They take the greatest interest in all that is going 
on in the hotel, and when it comes to real down- 
right work in the traces, they certainly act as if they 
had consciences, as if they were proud and willing 


,und with an occasional taste of green grass, they 

"1 .night live for years; so the farmers buy these old 

locses, and take them away to the country to spend 

;he rest of their days in peace, far from noisy Third 

ivenue and the wearisome jangle of the car-bells. 

Some boys and girls fancy a horse a stupid 

Tareature, without an idea above oats. A walk 

e 'J :hrough this vast building, with its hundreds of 

H Liorses in rows beyond rows, with its great variety 

11 ')f animals from every part of the Union, will soon 

Vol. IV.— 7. 

to work, and wished to show that they appreciated 
the attention and kindness that were bestowed upon 
them. They sometimes quarrel among themselves, 
and display a curious jealousy of new-comers ; but 
they rarely attempt to kick the waiters or bite the 
chamber-maids. Of course, they have to work, 
and to work hard; but they find in their great 
Horse Hotel every comfort in sickness or health, 
plenty to eat and drink, and the sparrows for com- 




By Celia Thaxter. 

The world was like a wilderness 

Of soft and downy snow ; 
The trees were plumed with feathery flakes, 

And the ground was white below. 

Came the little mother out to the gate 
To watch for her children three ; 

Her hood was red as a poppy-flower, 
And rosy and young was she. 

And then she hid by the pine-tree tall, 
For the children's tones rang sweet, 

As home from school, through the drifts so ligl 
They sped with merry feet. 

" Oh, Nannie, Nannie ! See the fence 

Alive with doves so white ! " 
" Oh, hush! don't frighten them away!" 

They whisper with delight. 


She took the snow in her cunning hands, 

As waiting she stood alone, 
And lo ! in a moment, beneath her touch, 

A fair white dove had grown. 

A flock she wrought, and on the fence 

Set them in bright array, 
With folded wings, or pinions spread, 

Ready to fly away. 

They crept so soft, they crept so still, 

The wondrous sight to see ! 
The little mother pushed the gate, 

And laughed out joyfully. 

She clasped them close, she kissed their cheek 

And lips so sweet and red. 
The birds are only made of snow I 

You are my doves," she said. 

i8 7 6.J 




By William Cullen Bryant. 

The conductor of St. NICHOLAS has asked me 
for a talk with the boys who read this magazine. 
If she had not at the same time suggested a sub- 
ject, I am pretty sure that I should not have com- 
plied with the request ; but when she mentioned 
" The Boys of My Boyhood," there was something 
in the words which carried my mind back to the 
early years of my life, and made me think that I 
might be able to hold the attention of the readers 
of the St. NICHOLAS for a little while in discours- 
ing of those who began life with me. 

The boys of the generation to which I belonged 
— that is to say, who were born in the last years 
of the last century or the earliest of this — were 
brought up under a system of discipline which put 
a far greater distance between parents and their 
children than now exists. The parents seemed to 
think this necessary in order to secure obedience. 
They were believers in the old maxim that famil- 
iarity breeds contempt. My own parents lived in 
the house with my grandfather and grandmother 
on the mother's side. My grandfather was a dis- 
ciplinarian of the stricter sort, and I can hardly 
find words to express the awe in which I stood of 
him — an awe so great as almost to prevent anything 
like affection on my part, although he was in the 
main kind, and, certainly, never thought of being 
severe beyond what was necessary to maintain a 
proper degree of order in the family. 

The other boys in that part of the country, my 
school-mates and play-fellows, were educated on 
the same system. Yet there were at that time 
some indications that this very severe discipline 
was beginning to relax. With my father and 
mother I was on much easier terms than with my 
grandfather. If a favor was to be asked of my 
grandfather, it was asked with fear and trembling; 
the request was postponed to the last moment, and 
then made with hesitation and blushes and a con- 
fused utterance. 

One of the means of keeping the boys of that 
generation in order was a little bundle of birchen 
rods, bound together by a small cord, and generally 
suspended on a nail against the wall in the kitchen. 
This was esteemed as much a part of the necessary 
furniture as the crane that hung in the kitchen fire- 
place, or the shovel and tongs. It sometimes hap- 
pened that the boy suffered a fate similar to that 
of the eagle in the fable, wounded by an arrow 
fledged with a feather from his own wing ; in other 

words, the boy was made to gather the twigs in- 
tended for his own castigation. 

It has never been quite clear to me why the birch 
was chosen above all other trees of the wood to 
yield its twigs for this purpose. The beech of our 
forests produces sprays as slender, as flexible, and 
as tough ; and farmers, wherever the beech is com- 
mon, cut its long and pliant branches for driving 
oxen. Yet the use of birchen rods for the correc- 
tion of children is of very great antiquity. In his 
" Discourse on Forest Trees," written three hun- 
dred years ago, Evelyn speaks of birchen twigs as 
an implement of the school-master; and Loudon, 
in his "Arboretum," goes yet further back. He 
says : " The birch has been used as the instrument 
of correction in schools from the earliest ages." 
The English poets of the last century make fre- 
quent mention of this use of birchen twigs ; but in 
Loudon's time, whose book was published thirty 
years since, he remarks that the use of these rods, 
both in schools and private families, was fast pass- 
ing away, — a change on which the boys both of 
England and the United States may well be con- 
gratulated, — for the birchen rod was, in my time, 
even more freely used in the school than in the 

The chastisement which was thought so whole- 
some in the case of boys, was at that time adminis- 
tered, for petty crimes, to grown-up persons. About 
a mile from where I lived stood a public whipping- 
post, and I remember seeing a young fellow, of 
about eighteen years of age, upon whose back, by 
direction of a justice of the peace, forty lashes had 
just been laid, as the punishment for a theft which 
he had committed. His eyes were red, like those 
of one who had been crying, and I well remember 
the feeling of curiosity, mingled with pity and fear, 
with which I gazed on him. That. L think, was 
the last example of corporal punishment inflicted 
by law in that neighborhood. The whipping-post 
stood in its place for several years afterward, the 
memorial of a practice which had passed away. 

The awe in which the boys of that time held 
their parents extended to all elderly persons, toward 
whom our behavior was more than merely respect- 
ful, for we all observed a hushed and subdued de- 
meanor in their presence. Toward the ministers 
of the gospel this behavior was particularly marked. 
At that time, every township in Massachusetts, the 
State in which I lived, had its minister, who was 




settled there for life, and when he once came 
among his people was understood to have entered 
into a connection with them scarcely less lasting 
than the marriage tie. The community in which 
he lived regarded him with great veneration, and 
the visits which from time to time he made to the 
district schools seemed to the boys important occa- 
sions, for which special preparation was made. 
When he came to visit the school which I attended, 
we all had on our Sunday clothes, and were ready 
for him with a few answers to the questions in the 
" Westminster Catechism." He heard us recite 
our lessons, examined us in the catechism, and 
then began a little address, which I remember was 
the same on every occasion. He told us how much 
greater were the advantages of education which we 
enjoyed than those which had fallen to the lot of 
our parents, and exhorted us to make the best 
possible use of them, both for our own sakes and 
that of our parents, who were ready to make any 
sacrifice for us, even so far as to take the bread out 
of their own mouths to give us. I remember being 
disgusted with this illustration of parental kindness 
which I was obliged to listen to twice at least in 
every year. 

The good man had, perhaps, less reason than 
he supposed to magnify the advantages of educa- 
tion enjoyed in the common schools at that time. 
Reading, spelling, writing and arithmetic, with a 
little grammar and a little geography, were all that 
was taught, and these by persons much less quali- 
fied, for the most part, than those who now give 
instruction. Those, however, who wished to pro- 
ceed further took lessons from graduates of the 
colleges, who were then much more numerous in 
proportion to the population than they now are. 

The profound respect shown to the clergy in 
those days had this good effect — that wherever 
there was a concourse of people, their presence 
prevented the occurrence of anything disorderly or 
unseemly. The minister, therefore, made it one 
of his duties to be present on those occasions which 
brought people together in any considerable num- 
bers. His appearance had somewhat the effect 
which that of a policeman now has at a public 
assembly in one of our large towns. At that time 
there was, in each township, at least one company 
of militia, which was required to hold several meet- 
ings in the course of the year, and at these, I 
remember, the minister was always present. The 
military parade, with the drums and fifes and other 
musical instruments, was a powerful attraction for 
the boys, who came from all parts of the neighbor- 
hood to the place at which the militia mustered. 
But on these occasions there was one respect in 
which the minister's presence proved but a slight 
restraint upon excess. There were then no tem- 

perance societies, no temperance lecturers helc 
forth, no temperance tracts were ever distributed 
nor temperance pledges given. It was, to be sure j. 
esteemed a shame to get drunk ; but as long a: 
they stopped short of this, people, almost withou , 
exception, drank grog and punch freely with 
out much fear of a reproach from any quarter! 
Drunkenness, however, in that demure population 
was not obstreperous, and the man who was over! 
taken by it was generally glad to slink out of sight 

I remember an instance of this kind. Then 
had been a muster of a militia company on thef 
church green for the election of one of its officers, 
and the person elected had treated the members ol 
the company and all who were present to sweetened 
rum and water, carried to the green in pailfuls 
with a tin cup to each pail for the convenience ox 
drinking. The afternoon was far spent, and I wa> 
going home with other boys, when we overtook in 
young man who had taken too much of the election 
toddy, and in endeavoring to go quietly home, had 
got but a little way from the green, when he fell hi 
a miry place, and was surrounded by three or foul 
persons, who assisted in getting him on his leg; 
again. The poor fellow seemed in great distress, 
and his new nankeen pantaloons, daubed with th' 
mire of the road, and his dangling limbs, gave hinf 
a most wretched appearance. It was, I think, th' 
first time that I had ever seen a drunken man. Al 
I approached to pass him by, some of the olde 
boys said to me, "Do not go too near him, for \i 
you smell a drunken man it will make you drunk.' 
Of course I kept at a good distance, but not out o 1 
hearing, for I remember hearing him lament hi 
condition in these words : " Oh dear, I shall die ! : 
" Oh dear, I wish I had n't drinked any ! " " Ol| 
dear, what will my poor Betsy say ? " What hi 
poor Betsy said 1 never heard, but I saw him le< 
off in the direction of his home, and I continue) 
on my way with the other boys, impressed with ; 
salutary horror of drunkenness and a fear of drunker: 

One of the entertainments of the boys of my time 
was what were called the "raisings," meaning thi 
erection of the timber frames of houses or barns; 
to which the boards were to be afterward nailed* 
Here the minister made a point of being present* 
and hither the able-bodied men of the neighbor"!, 
hood, the young men especially, were summoned, 
and took part in the work with great alacrity, 
was a spectacle for us next to that of a performe 
on the tight-rope, to see the young men wall! 
steadily on the narrow footing of the beams at 
great height from the ground, or as they stood tcl 
catch in their hands the wooden pins and the brace:* 
flung to them from below. They vied with eacll 
other in the dexterity and daring with which thejj 

i8 7 6.] 




| ; went through with the work, and when the skeleton 
, of the building was put together, some one among 
them generally capped the climax of fearless ac- 
, tivity by standing on the ridge-pole with his head 
j downward and his heels in the air. At that time, 
( even the presence of the minister was no restraint 
1 upon the flow of milk punch and grog, which in 
[ some cases was taken to excess. The practice of 
.calling the neighbors to these "raisings" is now 
^discontinued in the rural neighborhoods; the car- 
penters provide their own workmen for the busi- 
ness of adjusting the timbers of the new building 
,J ri to each other, and there is no consumption of 
Another of the entertainments of rustic life in the 
[region of which I am speaking was the making of 
,, maple sugar. This was a favorite frolic of the boys. 
The apparatus for the sugar camp was of a much 
['ruder kind than is now used. The sap was brought 
1 in buckets from the wounded trees and poured into 
l r a great caldron which hung over a hot fire from a 
..stout horizontal pole supported at each end by an 
jiupright stake planted in the ground. Since that 
Xtitne they have built in every maple grove a sugar- 
l, house — a little building in which the process of 
:,„making sugar is carried on with several ingenious 

i.; contrivances unknown at that time, when every- 

u'.hing was done in the open air. 
1 From my father's door, in the latter part of 
March and the early part of April, we could see 
perhaps a dozen columns of smoke rising over the 

voods in different places where the work was going 
>n. After the sap had been collected and boiled 
or three or four days, the time came when the 
(jj,hickening liquid was made to pass, into the form 
,| )f sugar. This was when the sirup had become 
,,L )f such a consistency that it would "feather" — 
I hat is to say, when a beechen twig, formed at the 
,'.i mall end into a little loop, dipped into the hot 
, I , irup and blown upon by the breath, sent into the 

■ J ir a light, feathery film. The huge caldron was 

hen lifted from the fire, and its contents were 
ml . 

■ zither dipped out and poured into molds, or stirred 

.'riskly till the sirup cooled and took the form of 

ordinary brown sugar in loose grains. This proc- 

ss was exceedingly interesting to the boys who 

' ame to watch its different stages and to try from 

me to time the sirup as it thickened. 

In autumn, the task of stripping the husks from 

, le ears of Indian corn was made the occasion of 

, )cial meetings, in which the boys took a special 

" art. A farmer would appoint what was called 

a husking," to which he invited his neighbors. 

'he ears of maize in the husk, sometimes along 

ith part of the stalk, were heaped on the barn 

oor. In the evening, lanterns were brought, and, 

iated on piles of dry husks, the men and boys 

stripped the ears of their covering, and breaking 
them from the stem with a sudden jerk, threw them 
into baskets placed for the purpose. It was often a 
merry time ; the gossip of the neighborhood was 
talked over, stories were told, jests went round, 
and at the proper hour the assembly adjourned to 
the dwelling-house and were treated to pumpkin- 
pie and cider, which in that season had not been 
so long from the press as to have parted with its 

Quite as cheerful were the " apple-parings," 
which on autumn evenings brought together the 
young people of both sexes in little circles. The 
fruit of the orchards was pared and quartered and 
the core extracted, and a supply of apples in this 
state provided for making what was called "apple- 
sauce," a kind of preserve of which every family 
laid in a large quantity every year. 

The cider-making season in autumn was, at the 
time of which I am speaking, somewhat correspond- 
ent to the vintage in the wine countries of Europe. 
Large tracts of land in New England were over- 
shadowed by rows of apple-trees, and in the month 
of May a journey through that region was a journey 
through a wilderness of bloom. In the month of 
October the whole population was busy gathering 
apples under the trees, from which they fell in 
heavy showers as the branches were shaken by 
the strong arms of the farmers. The creak of the 
cider-mill, turned by a horse moving in a circle, 
was heard in every neighborhood as one of the 
most common of rural sounds. The freshly pressed 
juice of the apples was most agreeable to boyish 
tastes, and the whole process of gathering the fruit 
and making the cider came in among the more 
laborious rural occupations in a way which diversi- 
fied them pleasantly, and which made it seem a 
pastime. The time that was given to making cider, 
and the number of barrels made and stored in the 
cellars of the farm-houses, would now seem incred- 
ible. A hundred barrels to a single farm was no 
uncommon proportion, and the quantity swallowed 
by the men of that da)' led to the habits of intem- 
perance which at length alarmed the more thought- 
ful part of the community, and gave occasion to 
the formation of temperance societies and the intro- 
duction of better habits. 

From time to time, the winter evenings, and 
occasionally a winter afternoon, brought the young 
people of the parish together in attendance upon 
a singing-school. Some person who possessed 
more than common power of voice and skill in 
modulating it, was employed to teach psalmody, 
and the boys were naturally attracted to his school 
as a recreation. It often happened that the teacher 
was an enthusiast in his vocation, and thundered 
forth the airs set down in the music-books with a 





fervor that was contagious. A few of those who 
attempted to learn psalmody were told that they 
had no aptitude for the art, and were set aside, but 
that did not prevent their attendance as hearers of 
the others. In those days a set of tunes were in 
fashion mostly of New England origin, which have 
since been laid aside in obedience to a more fastidi- 
ous taste. They were in quick time, sharply ac- 
cented, the words clearly articulated, and often 
running into fugues in which the bass, the tenor, 
and the treble chased each other from the middle 
to the end of the stanza. I recollect that some 
impatience was manifested when slower and graver 
airs of church music were introduced by the choir, 
and I wondered why the words should not be sung 
in the same time that they were pronounced in 

The streams which bickered through the narrow 
glens of the region in which I lived were much 
better stocked with trout in those days than now, 
for the country had been newly opened to settle- 
ment. The boys all were anglers. I confess to 
having felt a strong interest in that "sport," as I 
no longer call it. I have long since been weaned 
from the propensity of which I speak ; but I have 
no doubt that the instinct which inclines so many 
to it, and some of them our grave divines, is a 
remnant of the original wild nature of man. An- 
other " sport," to which the young men of the 
neighborhood sometimes admitted the elder boys, 
was the autumnal squirrel-hunt. The young men 
formed themselves into two parties equal in num- 
ber, and fixed a day for the shooting. The party 
which on that day brought down the greatest num- 
ber of squirrels was declared the victor, and the 
contest ended with some sort of festivity in the 

I have not mentioned other sports and games of 
the boys of that day, — that is to say, of seventy or 
eighty years since, — such as wrestling, running, 
leaping, base-ball, and the like, for in these there 
was nothing to distinguish them from the same 
pastimes at the present day. There were no public 
lectures at that time on subjects of general interest ; 
the profession of public lecturer was then unknown, 
and eminent men were not solicited, as they now 
are, to appear before audiences in distant parts of 
the country, and gratify the curiosity of strangers 
by letting them hear the sound of their voices. 
But the men of those days were far more given 
to attendance on public worship than those who 
now occupy their place, and of course they took 
their boys with them. They were not satisfied 
with the morning and afternoon services, but each 
neighborhood held a third service of its own in the 
evening. Here some lay brother made a prayer, 
hymns were sung by those who were trained at the 

singing-schools, a sermon was read from the work 
of some orthodox divine, and now and then a wor 
of exhortation was addressed to the little assembl 
by some one who was more fluent in speech tha 
the rest. 

Every parish had its tything-men, two in numbt 
generally, whose business it was to maintain ordi 
in the church during divine service, and who s; 
with a stern countenance through the sermof 
keeping a vigilant eye on the boys in the distal 
pews and in the galleries. Sometimes, when hi 
detected two of them communicating with eac 
other, he went to one of them, took him by thl 
button, and leading him away, seated him besicj 
himself. His power extended to other delinquei 
cies. He was directed by law to see that the Sal 
bath was not profaned by people wandering in til 
fields and angling in the brooks. At that time"* 
law, no longer in force, directed that any pers( 
who absented himself unnecessarily from publ 
worship for a certain length of time, should pay 
fine into the treasury of the county. I rememb 
several persons of whom it was said that they h: 
been compelled to pay this fine, but I do not r 
member any of them who went to church aftx 

For the boys of the present day an immen 
number of books have been provided, some of the 
excellent, some mere trash or worse, but scarce ai 
are now read which are not of recent date. T 
question is often asked, What books had they 
read seventy or eighty years since ? They h 
books, and some of great merit. There vM 
" Sanford and Merton," and "Little Jack;" thtl 
was "Robinson Crusoe," with its variations " Tl 
Swiss Family Robinson " and " The New Robins* 
Crusoe ; " there was Mrs. Trimmer's " Knowledl 
of Nature," and Berquin's lively narratives a I 
sketches translated from the French ; there \\l 
"Philip Quarll," and Watts's "Poems for Cl- 
dren," and Bunyan's " Pilgrim's Progress," a| 
Mrs. Barbauld's writings, and the " Miscellanecl 
Poems " of Cowper. Later, we had Mrs. Eel 
worth's "Parent's Assistant" and " Evenings I 
Home." All these, if not numerous, were at le.i 
often read, and the frequent reading of a few goi 
books is thought to be at least as improving— I 
useful in storing the mind and teaching one 1 
think — as the more cursory reading of many, 
elementary books there was no lack, nor, as I ha 
already intimated, any scarcity of private instru 
ors, principally clergymen, educated at the c 

I have here set down such particulars as n 
occur to me of the employments, the amusemen 
and the studies amidst which the boys of my ti 
grew up and were trained for the duties of m; 

i8 7 6.] 



rltUood. Of those who set out with me in life there 
ire few now remaining ; they are like old trees in 
t young wood, waiting for a high wind to snap 
heir aged trunks and level them with the ground. 
They became dispersed to different parts of the 
Country, particularly the new States of the West, 
vhose institutions they have helped to form. They 
iiiad grown up, in the main, a conscientious genera- 
01 ion — laborious, enterprising, strict in the perform- 
ance of duty, and obedient to the laws ; and on 
Ijjhis account they were the very men to whom the 
iliask of forming new communities might be most 
ti dvantageously committed. A few of them became 
j| listinguished above their fellows. One became 
itj : .n eminent Orientalist, and settled at Athens, in 
ajiireece. Another, with whom I used to contend 
fj'ia the foot-race, became one of the millionaires of 
li Jew York, and died not long since full of days, 

leaving an honored memory. A third, my school- 
fellow in preparing for college, retired from a pros- 
perous mercantile career to become a lecturer on 
political economy and the author of valuable works 
on that science. One with whom I had a series of 
written disputations, migrated to Indiana and be- 
came one of its legislators. One was afterward the 
founder of the American Tract Society, and now, 
in the calm evening of a long life, employs himself 
in writing its history. Two went to the East as 
missionaries, and in the midst of their labors laid 
down their lives before the approach of old age. 

Whatever may have been the merits or the 
shortcomings of the generation to which these men 
belonged, they are now with the past, and it is yet 
to be seen whether the different system now adopted 
in training the youth of our country will give it a 
better class of citizens. 


(A Christmas Story pf Two Hundred Years Ago.) 

By Susan Coolidge. 

Knowle, in Kent, is an ancient manor-house. 
t stands knee-deep in rich garden and pasture 

rinds, with hay-fields and apple-orchards stretching 
eyond, and solemn oak woods which whisper and 
^iake their wise heads when the wind blows, as 
lough possessed of secrets which must not be 

etjooken. It is a real place, and the room which 
;0U see in the picture is a real room. That makes 
le picture much more interesting; don't you 
link so ? 

Very much as it looks to-day, it looked two hun- 
red and thirty years ago, when Charles the First 
as king of England. That was the Charles who 
ad his head cut off, you may remember. Blue 
hristmas smokes curled from the twisted chim- 
eys in 1645, just as they will this year if the world 

"Jjsts a month longer. The same dinnery fragrance 
lied the air, for good cheer smells pretty much 
ike in all ages and the world over. A few changes 
lere may be — thicker trees, beds of gay flowers 
hich were not known in that day ; and where 
ice the moat — a ditch-like stream of green water 
ivered with weeds and scum — ran round the walls, 

iJ. now a trimly cut border of verdant turf. But 

j, iese changes are improvements, and in all im- 

. 3rtant respects the house keeps its old look, undis- 

jj-lrbed by modern times and ways. 

In the same nursery where modern boys and 
girls eat, sleep and learn their A, B, C to-day, two 
children lived. You see them in the picture — little 
Ralph Tresham and his sister Henrietta. Quaint, 
old-fashioned creatures they would look to us now; 
but, in spite of their formal dresses and speech, 
they were bright and merry and happy as any 
children you can find among your acquaintances. 
Ralph's name was pronounced "Rafe," and he 
always called his sister " Hexie." 

Christmas did not come to Knowle in its usual 
bright shape in 1645. Gloom and sadness and 
anxiety overshadowed the house ; and though the 
little ones did not understand what the cause of the 
anxiety was, they felt something wrong, and went 
about quietly whispering to each other in corners, 
instead of whooping and laughing, as had been 
their wont. They had eaten their Christmas beef, 
and toasted the king in a thimbleful of wine, as 
usual, but their mother cried when they did so ; and 
Joyce, the old butler, had carried off the pudding 
with a face like a funeral. So, after dinner, they 
crept away to the nursery, and there, by the win- 
dow, began a long whispering talk. Hexie had 
something very exciting to tell. 

" Nurse thought I was asleep," she said, "but I 
was n't quite ; and when they began to talk I woke 




up. That was n't wrong, was it, Rafe? I could n't 
sleep when I could n't, could I ? " 

" I suppose not ; but you need n't have listened.'' 
said Rafe, whose notions about honor were very 

" I did pull the pillow over my ear, but the words 
would get in," went on Henrietta, piteously. "Aud- 
it was so interesting. Did you know that there 
were such creatures as Bogies, Rafe ? Dorothy 
thinks we have got one in our house, and that its 

replied Hexie. " How long is it, brother? — sine 
Humphrey went away, I mean. Wont he evt : 
come back ? " 

" I asked Winifred once, but she only said, ' Gc 
knew,' that nothing had been heard of him sint 
the battle when the king was taken. He might b 
dead, or he might be escaped into foreign parts--;!, 
and then she cried, oh, so hard, Hexie ! Poc 
Humphrey ! I hope he is n't dead. But, about tl 
Bogie, how curious it must be to meet one ! Oh, 


hole is in the great gallery, because once when she 
was there dusting the armor, she heard a queer 
noise in the wall, and what else could it be ? It 
eats a great deal, does the Bogie. That 's the reason 
nurse is sure we have got one. It ate all the cold 
sheep's-head yesterday, and the day before half the 
big pasty. No victual is safe in the larder, the 
Bogie has such a big appetite, nurse says." 

"I remember about the sheep's-head," said Rafe, 
meditatively. "Almost all of it was left, and I 
looked to see it come in cold ; but when I asked, 
Joyce said there was none. Cold sheep's-head is 
very good. Do you remember how much Hum- 
phrey used to like it ? " 

" I don't remember exactly, it is so long ago," 

say, let us go to the gallery now, and see if we he 
any strange noises there. Will you ? " 

Oh, Rafe ! I 'm afraid. I don't quite like 

" But you can't be afraid if I'm there," said Rai 
valiantly; " besides, I'll put on Humphrey's 
sword which he left behind. Then if the Bdjjj 
comes — we shall see ! " 

Rafe spoke like a conquering hero, Hexie thougl 
so, though she trembled, she made no further o 
jection, but stood by while he lifted down t 
sword, helped to fasten its belt over his should' 
and followed along the passage which led to t 
gallery. The heavy sword clattered and rattled 
it dragged on the floor, and the sound was echo 
in a ghostly way, which renewed Hexie's fears. 




it: " Rafe ! Rafe ! let us go back ! " she cried. 

1; "Go back yourself if you are afraid," replied 
dph, stoutly ; and as going back alone through 

ne dim passage seemed just then worse than stay- 
er where she was, Hexie. stayed with her valiant 

is- Very softly they unlatched the gallery door, and 
lie in. It was a long, lofty apartment, paneled 
th cedar-wood, to which time had given a beau- 

1 ill light-brown color. The ceiling, of the same 

iod, was carved, here and there, with shields, 

ats of arms, and other devices. There was lit- 

furniture : one tall cabinet, a few high-backed 

itch chairs, and some portraits hanging on the 

.Us. The sun, not yet quite set, poured a stream 

red light across the polished floor, leaving the 

J corners and the empty spaces formidably dusk. 

fie children had seldom been in the gallery at 

s hour, and it looked to them almost like a 

ange place, not at all as it did at noonday when 

;y came to jump up and down the slippery 

or, and play hide-and-seek in the corners which 

seemed so dark and dismal. 
Even Rafe felt the difference, and shivered in 
te of his bold heart and the big sword by his 
e. Timidly they went forward, hushing their 
itsteps and peering furtively into the shadows, 
ddenly Hexie stopped with a little scream. 

lose to them stood a huge suit of armor, larger 
i taller than a man. The empty eye-holes of 
: helmet glared out quite like real eyes, and the 
ole figure was terrible enough to frighten any 
le girl. But it was not at the armor that Hexie 
earned ; the iron man was an old friend of the 
ldren's. Many a game of hide-and-seek had 

|5;y played around, and behind, and even inside 
ti; for Humphrey had contrived a cunning way 
which the figure could be taken to pieces and 
t together again ; and more than once Rafe 

jjjji been popped inside, and had lain shaking 

" h laughter while Hexie vainly searched for him 
ough all the gallery. This had not happened 

hi .'ly, for Rafe was hardly strong enough to manage 
himself the screws and hinges which opened the 

J-nor ; but he knew the iron man too well to scream 

ti: him, and so did Hexie. The object which ex- 

;ij)Sd her terror was something different, and so 

,;.! inge and surprising that it is no wonder she 

I earned. 

c ulose by the armor, half hidden by a curtain of 
ivy tapestry, was an open door, where never door 

I I been known to be. It stood ajar, and dimly 
1 ble inside was a narrow staircase winding up- 


' The hole of the Bogie ! " gasped Hexie, clutch- 

at Rafe's arm. He started, and felt for the 

ird. It rattled fearfully, and the sound com- 


pleted Hexie's terror. She burst away, flew like a 
scared lapwing down the gallery, along the pas- 
sages, and never stopped till she reached the 
nursery and her own bed, where, with two pillows 
and the quilt drawn over her head, she lay sobbing 
bitterly at the thought of Ralph left behind, to be 
eaten perhaps by the Bogie ! Poor little Hexie ! 

Ralph, meanwhile, stood his ground. His heart 
beat very fast, but he would not run away, — that was 
for girls. It must be owned, however, that when a 
moment later the sound of muffled voices became 
audible down the stairs, he trembled extremely, 
and was guilty of the unmanlike act of hiding be- 
hind the curtain. He was only ten years old, which 
must plead his excuse with bigger boys who are 
confident that they could never, under any circum- 
stances, hide themselves or be afraid. 

The voices drew nearer, steps sounded, and two 
figures came out of the narrow door-way. Could 
there be two Bogies ? No wonder they ate so much. 
But in another minute all thought of Bogies van- 
ished from Ralph's mind, for in one of the figures 
he recognized his own sister Winifred. 

Her companion was a man. There was some- 
thing familiar in his form. It moved forward, and 
Ralph jumped so that the big sword rattled again. 
Bogie number two was his brother Humphrey, 
mourned as dead ever since the summer before, 
when so many brave gentlemen gave up their lives 
for King Charles at the battle of Naseby. 

''What noise was that?" whispered Winifred, 

"Some sound from below," replied Humphrey, 
after listening a moment. " Must you go, Winnie?" 

"I must, dear Humphrey. I dare not absent 
myself longer lest I be missed and suspected. Oh, 
if to-morrow were but over, and you safe on the 
French lugger and over the sea ! I cannot breathe 
while this hiding and danger go on." 

" I suppose I ought to be glad also," said Humph- 
rey, ruefully; "but to me that French lugger 
means exile, and loneliness, and poverty, for the 
rest of my life, perhaps. Better have laid down 
my life with the rest at Naseby, in striking one last 
blow for the king." 

"Don't, don't speak so!" protested Winifred, 
tearfully. "You are alive, thank God ; and once 
these wars are over we may rejoin you, and have a 
happy home somewhere, if not in the land of our 
fathers. Now, dear Humphrey, have you all you 
need for the night ? " 

" Christmas cheer," said Humphrey, in a would- 
be cheerful voice. " Beef and ale, — what better 
fare could be ? You are a gallant provider, my 
Winnie, and there is need, for since I have lain 
in that hole with nothing else to do, my appetite 
has raged like a wolf. That sheep's-head was 



[Decem It 

wondrous savory. I say though, Winnie, what do 
the servants think of the famine I create in the 

" Oh, the stupid creatures fancy that a Bogie has 
taken up his residence here. A very hungry Bogie, 
Joyce calls the creature ! " 

The brother and sister laughed ; then they 
kissed each other. 

" Good-night, dearest Winifred." 

"Good-night, brother;" and Humphrey vanished 
up the stairs. Winifred lingered a moment ; then, 
as if remembering something, opened the door 
again and ran after him. Ralph marked that she 
laid her hand on a particular boss in the carved 
wainscot, and pressed it in hard, whereon the door 
sprang open. He stole out, laid his hand on the same 
boss, and felt the spring give way under his touch. 
Some undefined idea of stealing in later, to make 
Humphrey a visit, was in his head; but he heard 
Winifred returning, and hurried out of the gallery. 
Putting back the sword in its place, he entered the 
nursery. No Hexie was visible, but a sobbing sound 
drew his attention to a tumbled heap on the bed. 

" Is that you, Hexie? Why, what are you cry- 
ing about ? " pulling away the pillow which she 
held tight. 

"Oh, Rafe ! Then the Bogie didn't eat you, 
after all ! " And Hexie buried her tear-stained face 
in his shoulder. 

"Bogie! Nonsense! There are no such things 
as Bogies ! " 

" What was it, then, that lived up that dreadful 
stairs ? " 

"I can't tell you; only it was nothing at all 
dreadful. And, Hexie, don't say a word about that 
door to any one, will you ? It might make great 
trouble if you did." 

" I did tell Deborah, when she fetched the can- 
dle and asked why I cried, that I saw a strange 
door in the gallery," faltered Hexie, truthful, 
though penitent. 

"Oh! Hexie, how could you? I don't like 
Deborah, and her father is a crop-eared knave. 
Humphrey said so one day. How could you talk 
to her about the door, Hexie ? " 

" I — don't know. I was frightened, and she 
asked me," sobbed Hexie. " Will it do any harm, 
Rafe ? " 

" It may," said Rafe, gloomily. " But don't cry, 
Hexie. You meant no harm, at all events." 

" Oh, don't speak so gravely and so like Joyce," 
said Hexie, much troubled. She cried herself to 
sleep that night. Deborah, who undressed her, 
asked many questions about the gallery and the 

" It was very dark, and perhaps she mistook," — 
that was all Hexie could be made to say. Ralph 

was disturbed and wakeful, and slept later tltal 
usual next morning. He jumped up in a hua 
and made what haste he could with dressing m 
breakfast, but it seemed as though they never t<| 
so much time before ; and all the while he ate m 
was conscious of a stir and bustle in the houH 
which excited his curiosity very much. Knocking 
the sound of feet — something unusual was going gri 

As soon as possible he slipped away from nu| 
and ran to the gallery. The door was half opui 
He looked in, and stood still with terror. Men.a J 
brown uniforms and steel caps, were there souBi 
ing the ^alls and tapping the floor-boards vfl 
staves. The gallery seemed full of them, thoifij 
when Rafe counted there were but five. 

"This man of iron was, in all likelihood lal 
Malignant also," he heard one of them say, strikja 
the armor with his fist. 

" He is somewhat old for that. Methinks t| 
is armor of the time of that man of blood, Ha§ 
the Eighth. Move it aside, Jotham, that we 
search the farther panel." 

So the heavy figure was thrust into a corner, Ml 
the men went on tapping with their wands. Re] 
groaned within himself when he heard them declljH 
that the wall sounded hollow, and saw them seaifej 
ing for a spring. Twenty times it seemed as fhoihl 
they must have lighted on the right place. TweBJ 
times they just missed it. 

"We were ill advised to come without too la 
declared the man who seemed leader of the pa : 
" Come thou to my shop, Peter Kettle, and than 
Bartimeus and Zerrubabel, and we will fetch s®J 
things as are needful. Jotham, stay thou here.M 
see that no man escapeth from the concealing 
behind the wall." 

So four of the men went away, leaving Jothw 
striding up and down as on guard. Preseiiyl 
came a shout from beneath the window : 

" Jotham ! our leader hath dropped his poucln « 
which are the keys of the smithy. Hasten .H 
bring it to the outer door." 

"Aye, aye ! " answered Jotham, and, poucliJll 
hand, he ran down the stairs. Now was Rafe's H 
portunity. Like a flash he was across the gall<]M 
his hand on the boss. The door flew open, M 
he fell into the arms of Humphrey, who, swon §1 
hand and teeth set, stood on the lower step of k I 
staircase, prepared to sell his liberty as dearhBJ 

" Rafe ! little Rafe ! " he exclaimed. 

"Hush! The man will come back," pa r W 
Rafe. " Come away — hide — oh, where ? " Til 
with a sudden inspiration he dragged his brotit | 
toward the iron man. "Get inside," he crll 
'• They will never think of searching there ! <|| 
Humphrey — make haste ! Get inside ! " 




' 'here was no time to be lost. With the speed of 
Operation, Humphrey unscrewed, lifted, stepped 
! l >de the armor. Rafe slipped the fastenings to- 
'j'lher, whispered " shut your eyes," and flew back 
l( ! his hiding-place. Just in time, for Jotham's 
°|) was on the stair, and next moment he entered 
i>|l gallery, and resumed his march up and down, 
(I e dreaming that the man sought for was peep- 
through the helmet holes at him, not three feet 


resently the other soldiers came back with ham- 
's and wrenches, and in a short time the beauti- 

' wainscot, split into pieces, lay on the floor. 
*■' idenly there was a shout. The secret door had 

n open, and the staircase stood revealed. Four 

the men, with pikes and pistols, prepared to 

iW.'nd, while the fifth guarded the opening below. 

it that moment Winifred entered the gallery 
i a the farther end. She turned deadly pale when 

saw the open door and the men. 

Oh ! Heaven have mercy ! " she cried, and 

pped half fainting into a chair. 

,afe darted across the floor and seized her hand. 
Hush," he whispered. " Don't say a word, 
t< -:r. He is safe." 
|1 He ? Who ? " cried the amazed Winifred. 

ut now voices sounded from above. The men 
»l>e coming down. Winifred rallied her courage, 
i: :, and went forward. She was very white still, 
mfcishe spoke in a steady voice. Her two brothers, 
UMiphrey in his hiding-place and little Rafe by 
lW side, both admired her greatly. 
lip What is the meaningof this, Jotham Green?" 
it.: demanded. " By what warrant do you enter 
Itii spoil our house ? " 

By the warrant which all true men have to 
rap'ch for traitors," said Jotham. 
sis You will find none such here," responded Win- 
| i firmly. 

up We find the lurking-place in which one such 
nil doubtless lain," said Zerrubabel. "Where 

':s exist, look out for vermin." 
You are less than civil, neighbor. An old 

se like this has many strange nooks and corners 
al i'hich the inhabitants may have neither use nor 

knowledge. If your search is done, I will beg you to 
make good the damage you have caused as best you 
may, and with as little noise as possible, that my 
mother be not alarmed. Jotham Green, you are 
a good workman, 1 know. I recollect how deftly 
you once repaired that cabinet for us." 

All the men knew Winifred, and her calm and 
decided manner made its impression. Jotham 
slowly picked up the fragments of the paneling 
and began to fit them together. The rest con- 
sulted, and at last rather sheepishly, and with a 
muttered half apology about "wrong information," 
went away, taking with them the injured wood- 
work, which Jotham undertook to repair. Rafe's 
first words after they disappeared were: 

" Winifred, you must dismiss Deborah. It is 
she that has betrayed us." 

"How do you know that, Rafe ? " 

Then it all came out. Winifred listened to the 
tale with streaming tears. 

"Oh, Rafe, my darling, how brave you were! 
You played the man for us to-day, and have saved 
— I trust you have saved — our Humphrey. The 
men will not return to-day, and to-night the lugger 

And Humphrey was saved. Before morning, 
well disguised, he had made his way across country 
to a little fishing-port, embarked, and reached 
France without farther accident. 

So that strange Christmas adventure ended hap- 
pily. It was all long, long ago. Humphrey and 
Winifred and Rafe lived their lives out, and lay 
down to rest a century and a half since under the 
daisy-sprinkled English sod. Little Hexie died an 
aged woman, before any of us was born. But still 
the beautiful old manor-house stands amid its gar- 
dens and pasture lands, with the silvery look of 
time on its gray walls. Still the armed figure 
keeps guard beside the secret staircase, the tapes- 
try hangs in the old heavy folds, evening reddens 
the cedar walls and the polished floor, and every- 
thing occupies the same place and wears the same 
look that it did when little Rafe played the man in 
that gallery, and saved his brother Humphrey, 
more than two hundred years ago. 






By M. M. D. 

One day the letters went to school, 
And tried to learn each other ; 

They got so mixed 't was really hard 
To pick out one from t' other. 

A went in first, and Z went last ; 

The rest all were between them, — 
K, L and M, and N, O, P,— 

I wish you could have seen them ! 

B, C, D, E and J, K, L, 

Soon jostled well their betters ; 

Q, R, S, T — I grieve to say — 
Were very naughty letters. 

Of course, ere long, they came to words- 
What else could be expected ? 

Till E made D, J, C and T 
Decidedly dejected. 



Now, through it all, the Consonants 
Were rudest and uncouthest, , 

While all the pretty Vowel girls 
Were certainly the smoothest. 

And simple U kept far from Q, 
With face demure and moral, 
" Because," she said, "we are, we two, 
So apt to start a quarrel ! " 

But spiteful P said, " Pooh for U ! " 
(Which made her feel quite bitter), 

And, calling O, L, E to help, 
He really tried to hit her. 

Cried A, " Now E and C, come here ! 

If both will aid a minute, 
Good P will join in making peace, 

Or else the mischief's in it." 

And smiling E, the ready sprite, 
Said, "Yes, and count me double." 

This done, sweet peace shone o'er the scene, 
And gone was all the trouble 1 

Meanwhile, when U and P made up, 
The Cons'nants looked about them, 

And kissed the Vowels, for, you see, 
They could n't do without them. 


(As told by One of its Members.') 

By Olive Thorne. 

HAT started the 
thing, I don't re- 
member. Oh, I 
believe Nell Tain- 
tor proposed it ; 
anyway, it was 
splendid, and I '11 
tell you all about 

We girls had a 
society, you know, 
and we had n't 
anything in par- 
ticular to do; and 
Nell proposed 
that we should 
make something 
for Polly Stevens' 

Polly 's a real 
nice girl, and used 
to go to our school, 
she fell on the ice last winter, and hurt her 
, and she has to lie down all the time ; she 
even stand up a minute. 

ell, we used to go and see her as often as we 
L 1 ; but, of course, we had our lessons, and prac- 
'„ and other things, out of school ; and so she 
to get awfully lonesome, Nell said, because she 
!n't do much of anything, and she had read 

every book Nell had, — Nell lived next door, and 
used to run in. And she staid alone ever so much, 
because her mother 's a dress-maker, and has to go 
out, and she did n't have things very comfortable ; 
the doctor's bills were so large, that her mother 
had as much as she could do to get along. 

When Nell told us about her, we felt ashamed 
that we had n't been to see her more, and so we 
just got up a plan to give her a surprise. We gave 
our society a new name, " Polly's Christmas So- 
ciety," or " P. C. Society," in public, so that every 
one should not know what it was, and we all went 
to work for her. 

Kate Woodbury was president — splendid girl 
Kate is. She said she would make a nice wrapper 
for Polly, out of a blue dress of her own that she 
had burned a hole in ; she knew her mother 'd let 
her have it. Mattie Barker said she would give her 
a quilt, or spread, that she was making out of bright 
bits of silk. It was log-cabin pattern, and real 
pretty. Alice Burnett said she would make her a 
pretty rug to lay before her lounge; the floor was 
bare, and it would look so pretty. She knew how 
to make one out of round pieces of black and red 
and white woolen. You 've seen them ? A black 
one, about as big as a tea-cup, at the bottom, a red 
one, a little smaller, laid on that, and a quite small 
white one on top ; all tied together with a tuft of 
red thread in the middle of the white one. Then, 
when she had lots of these made, she sewed them 




[Deck I 

all on an oval piece of old sacking, and it was real 
bright and pretty. You can shake the dust out of 

Nell said Polly needed a curtain for the window 
at the head of her lounge ; she had nothing but an 
old shade, and it was n't nice, so I said I would 
make her one like some I saw at my aunt's last 
summer. It was of unbleached muslin, with two 
wide stripes of bright red, and bright blue percale 
across the top and the bottom, — a little way apart, 
you know. It did n't cost much, and I had a dol- 
lar of my own, and it was ever so pretty. It looked 
like some foreign cashmere thing. 

Well, we all went to work with a will. Nelly 
got Will, her brother, to make a lounge-frame, 
Polly had a horrid old hair-cloth sofa. He made 
it out of some timber they had in the yard. It 
was rough, of course, but stout I tell you; and we 
nailed some old bagging on it for a bottom, and 
made a nice soft cushion for it, and a big pillow, 
and covered the whole with real pretty chintz; and 
Mattie made a crocheted tidy for it, that could be 
washed. Oh, I forgot ! John Burnett sawed out a 
lovely set of shelves, with his new jig-saw, and Kate 
Woodbury took an old stand out of their attic. It 
was good, and strong, but awfully old-fashioned ; 
and it had two drawers, and leaves to let down. It 
was just the thing for Polly, because she could 
keep her things in the drawers, you see ; and her 
shelves could stand on it. And I made a cover 
to fit it, out of Turkish toweling, the new-fashioned 
way, you know, with gay figures sewed on ; and 
Alice brought a sweet little vase that she had, to 
hold flowers, or ferns and grasses, in winter. We 
knew Polly was very fond of flowers, and Nell said 
she had to keep them in a tea-cup. 

Let me see, was that all ? Oh, no ; every girl 
collected all the nice books she could. We each 
gave one or two of our own, and asked the boys 
that knew Polly, and most all our mothers gave us 
one or two, so we had a real lovely library. I re- 
member some of the books — " Undine," " Grim's 
Stories," " Hans Andersen's Works," a whole set 
(Johnny Burnett gave that ; wasn't he splendid!) 
and "Little Women," and "We Girls," and — 
oh, lots of others I can't remember, only all nice 
ones, and in good order. Mrs. Woodbury put in 
a lovely new Bible with clasps, and there were lots 
of poetry books; she 's very fond of poetry. 

And — let me think — Mattie's sister, who 's been 
to Europe, gave her a most lovely photograph. — 
three little angels, or cherubs, or something. Oh, 
it was too sweet for anything ! I 've seen Polly 
look at it till she cried, and I wanted to myself, 
though I 'm not good, like Polly. 

We got a glass, and made a frame for it of card- 
board, with delicate lichens glued on. You know 

how ? they 're real pretty, are n't they ? W<ij 
went out in the woods to get them, and we broB 
home such beautiful mosses, — we tried to thirl 
something to make of them, and at last we din 
some of the nicest in a box, and covered it witlH 
pieces of glass cut the right shape to make a 'M 
like a box, and fastened at the corners with corti 
paper gummed on. We found two ferns M 
yet, so late as that, and some partridge-berry ■ 
Kate put in a slip of her Kenilworth ivy, and.ift. 
haps you won't think so, but it was just lovely I 
it grew all winter, and I believe Polly enjo^B 
more than anything, she watched it so much sil 
knew every leaf, she said. 

Well, I believe that was all. These things jol 
us some weeks to do, and we worked hard ffl 
tell you. We had hardly time to make our CB 
mas presents for our own folks, but I did getB 
to embroider that cushion for mamma; is til 
pretty ? I did every stitch myself. But wheiB 
I? Oh, all this time the secret was kept nfl 
though a good many knew about it ; and ju>B 
fore Christmas, one day Mrs. Stevens, Polly's iB 
er, was cutting a dress for Mrs. Barker, and \B 
went over to tell her about it. Nell TaintoiBJ 
her that we girls had a society, and had been BJ 
ing some presents for Polly. 

Well, she cried ! I do wonder why peopl.M 
when they 're glad ! She said she had been I'M 
to get Polly something nice for Christmas, sl.ha 
such a dull life, and she was so patient ; 1 H 
spite of all she could do, everything she coul< fld 
was used up in doctor's bills and rent. Sh sal 
she meant to make her a cake, at least, an<BJ 
said, right off, that she could come into their tul 
to make it, so that Polly should n't know. 

We talked the thing over, and we decidedM 
Mrs. Stevens should get Polly to bed eaijH 
Christmas Eve. There was a hall between t'BJ 
ting-room and bedroom, and she thought BJ 
wouldn't hear us, and we were to go abouljgl 
o'clock to fix it all up for her, and then alll 
there the next morning to see her surprise. AH 
day, Mrs. Stevens told us afterward, Polly w;i§L 
low-spirited, though she tried to be cheerful Vm 
thing. She was a good girl, always; but sM 
membered that our school was getting readW 
festival and a Christmas-tree, and she could n 
thinking of last year, I suppose, when she was I 
and had presents with the rest of us. 

She did have a present on the tree, too, ;B 
as the rest of us ; and we took it with us wl H 
went that night. It was a real nice work-bo:| 
everything in it complete. Miss Murton m 
Polly was her pet scholar. 

Well, we could hardly wait for eight o'cl 
you may imagine, and before the clock wa 



I I I 

king we were there. Polly was abed and asleep, 
i,s. Stevens said, and we went right to work. The 
|i 's brought in the lounge, and put it in a pleasant 
I Inerof the room, and we girls fixed it up with its 
il v quilt and nice big pillow ; and we laid the rug 
I m in front of it, and hung the curtain over the 
j dow ; and put the stand, with its cover, and the 
j ik-shelves, at the head where she could reach it. 
|;d we put the moss-thing on it, and the vase filled 

1 grasses, and ferns, and bitter-sweet on top of 
Then we filled the shelves with books, and 

ig the picture where she could see it without 

I/ing. And then we trimmed the whole room 
l evergreens left from decorating our church. 
,ir the door we put "Merry Christmas," in 
| umn leaves. Mrs. Taintor made it-; she sewed 
[f leaves upon white muslin, and it looked as 
;| igh it was right on the wall. 
shite worked there, if you '11 believe me, till twelve 
jlock, and when we finished, it was just lovely. All 
;j ; time Mrs. Stevens could hardly help a bit ; she 
Jj sat in the corner and cried. I never saw such 
n t3man. 

1 1, fe gave Mrs. Stevens the new blue wrapper. 
Hi told her to put it on Polly when she dressed 
.Jf and tell her the girls sent it to her so she would 
i til fine when we came. I was so excited I 
),i|,;ght I should n't' sleep a wink that night, but 1 
n ^ after all — slept like a log, and I had to hurry off 
jljjre breakfast so as not to be late. 
. t |t seven o'clock we were all there— all we girls, 
J/an; Will and Johnny wouldn't go — and Mrs. 
glens went into the bedroom and dressed Polly, 
j E ) brought her out. She was so thin and light 
e j,|j she was easily carried. Polly was so delighted 
i her pretty wrapper that she looked perfectly 
lj ( |.)y when she came in. The first thing she saw 
[ijii her mother laid her down was us, and she 
n, '" Oh, girls ! " but at that minute she seemed 
:e something strange in the room. "Why, 
" she began, and stopped short, and looked 
j]f;;nd. She looked at everything — the walls, the 
re, the stand and books, the mosses, the 
%£ itself; her chin began to quiver, and her 
^Lto work, and suddenly she just buried her face 
ut ,Lie pillow and cried as hard as she could cry. I 
jjjp thought of crying ; and I 'm sure I don't 
jjjj/why, but I found the tears running down my 
„jXks, . and looked around, and every one of the 
was crying, too. It was the most ridiculous 
; I ever saw, but I could n't help it. Soon we 
IB to laugh, though, and make fun of our cry- 
• and we would n't let Polly even try to say 

en we all went out into the hall and brought 
i, j r surprise for Mrs. Stevens. We told her we 

had come to stay to breakfast, and every one of us 
had "a basket full of good things from our own 
breakfasts — broiled chickens, breakfast rolls, hot 
coffee (Nell brought that from her mother's kitch- 
en), cold meat, pickles, hot Saratoga potatoes (from 
Nell's), and ever so many things. We pulled 
out the table and spread it before Polly's lounge, 
and before long we sat down to a jolly breakfast. 
There was ever so much left, though. 

Finally about ten o'clock we went away, and after 
we were gone Polly received the very best present 
of all from her mother. You see it worried her 
'most to death that she could not help her mother. 
It was one thing that kept her back. And Mrs. 
Stevens had taken specimens of her knitting around 
to ladies who had little children, and had got or- 
ders for pretty bright 
stockings for them ; 
enough to keep Polly 
busy all winter. Each 
iady had furnished 
her own yarn, and 
there was a pile of 
lovely colored yarns 
for her to begin on. 

Polly could knit 
beautifully, and H I do 
believe the prospect 
of earning something 
to help her mother 
was the best present 
she had that day. 

In the evening, 
when I was on my 
way to a Christmas 
party at Nell's, I 
passed by Polly's, 
and the curtain was 
not quite drawn. I 
could n't help just peeping in. There she lay half 
up on her elbows, a book in her hand, but not 
reading, looking at nothing, with the most lovely, 
happy look I ever saw. I 've often wished I had 
a picture of her. 

We were careful not to neglect Polly after that. 
From that day she was the happiest girl I ever saw, 
busy from morning to night, knitting or reading, 
or repeating poetry, which she learned by the page. 
She earned a good deal of money, and she knit so 
beautifully that she always had lots of orders ahead. 
Now her mother knits too, and takes in some 
work, but does not go out any more. I don't know 
any happier or nicer place to visit than Polly 

I think that Christmas was the nicest one I ever 


I 12 




(By P. J. Stahl.) 

Translated by Laura W. Johnson. 

Part II. 
SOME of the envious or ill-tempered declared it 
would be impossible to cook the edifice which 
Mother Mitchel had built ; and the doctors were, 


no one knows why, the saddest of all. Mother 
Mitchel, smiling at the general bewilderment, 
mounted the summit of the tart; she waved her 
crutch in the air, and while her cat miowed in his 

sweetest voice, suddenly there issued fromjl 
woods a vast number of masons, drawing wan 
of well-baked bricks, which they had prepay n 
secret. This sight silenced the ill-wishers, im 
filled the hearts of the Gifl 
with hope. 

In two days an enor in 
furnace was built aroundfl 
above the colossal tart, vfl 
found itself shut up in an 
mense earthen pot. TB 
huge mouths, which werto» 
nected with thousands of 'Fi4| 
ing pipes for conducting B 
all over the building, 9 
soon choked with fuel, hB 
help of two hundred cha aij 
burners, who, obeying ; n 
vate signal, came forth innj 
array from the forest, I 
carrying his sack of <M 
Behind them stood MBJ 
Mitchel with a box of maud 
ready to fire each oven SM 
was filled. Of course th'.dn 
dlings had not been forg<B 
and all was soon in a blaB 
When the fire was li ltd 
in the thirty ovens, whei hfl 
saw the clouds of smokcB 
ing above the dome, th.: an 
nounced that the cookinB 
begun, the joy of the ppl 
was boundless. Poets ifl 
vised odes, and musician-UK 
verses without end, in fl 
of the superb prince wlite( 
been inspired to feed h pW 
pie in so dainty a m;B] 
when other rulers cou 
give them enough, even 
bread. The names of M 
Mitchel and of the illu 
engineer were not forgol 
this great glorification, 
to His Majesty, they weii 
tainly the first of mankind, and their name 
worthy of going down with his to the re 

All the envious ones were thunderstruck. 





ied to console themselves by saying that the work 
as not yet finished, and that an accident might 
ippen at the last moment. But they did not 
ally believe a word of this. Notwithstanding all 
ieir efforts to look cheerful, it had to be acknowl- 
Iged that the cooking was possible. Their last 
source was to declare the tart a bad one, but 
' iat would be biting off their own noses. As for 
.'dining to eat it, envy could never go so far as 
at in the country of the Greedy. 
After two days, the unerring nose of Mother 
>j itchel discovered that the 
rt was cooked to perfection. 
Xhe whole country was per- 
med with its delicious aro- 
a. Nothing more remained 
it to take down the furnaces. 
* other Mitchel made her 
Scial announcement to His 
ajesty, who was delighted, 
_d complimented her upon 
r punctuality. One day was 
[11 wanting to complete the 
.3nth. During this time the 
ople gave their eager help 
, the engineer in the demo- 
on, wishing to have a h. a nd 
the great national work, 
d to hasten the blessed mo- 
at. In the twinkling of an 
£ the thing was done. The 
jjLcks were taken down one 
' one, counted carefully, and 
]5.Tied into the forest again, 
I serve for another occasion. 
Jhe TART, unveiled, ap- 
ired at last in all its maj- 
ff and splendor. The dome 
LjjjjS gilded, and reflected the 
s of the sun in the most 
,. J zling manner. The wild- 
,■ L excitement and rapture 
through the land of the 
;edy. Each one sniffed 
h open nostrils the appe- 
ag perfume. Their mouths 
, ered, their eyes filled with 
rs, they embraced, pressed 
n rh other's hands, and in- 
..'ged in touching panto- 
.ties. Then the people of 
n. and country, united by 
B rapturous feeling, joined 
ds, and danced in a ring around the grand con- 

Io one dared to touch the tart before the arrival 
lisMajesty. Meanwhile something must be done 
VOL. IV.— 8. 

to allay the universal impatience, and they resolved 
to show Mother Mitchel the gratitude with which all 
hearts were filled. She was crowned with the laurel 
of conquerors, which is also the laurel of sauce, thus 
serving a double purpose. Then they placed her, 
with her crutch and her cat, upon a sort of throne, 
and carried her all round her vast work. Before 
her marched all the musicians of the town, dancing, 
drumming, fifing and tooting upon all instruments, 
while behind her pressed an enthusiastic crowd, 
who rent the air with their plaudits and filled it 



with a shower of caps. Her fame was complete, 
and a noble pride shone on her countenance. 

The royal procession arrived. A grand stair-way 
had been built, so that the King and his Ministers 




could mount to the summit of this monumental 
tart. Thence the King, amid a deep silence, thus 
addressed his people : 

"My children," said he, "you adore tarts. You 
despise all other food. If you could, you would 
even eat tarts in your sleep. Very well. Eat as 
much as you like. Here is one big enough to 
satisfy you. But know this, that while there re- 
mains a single crumb of this august tart, from the 
height of which I am proud to look down on you, 
all other food is forbidden you on pain of death. 
While you are here, I have ordered all the pantries 
to be emptied, and all the butchers, bakers, pork 
and milk dealers, and fishmongers, to shut up 
their shops. Why leave them open? Why indeed? 
Have you not here at discretion what you love best, 
and enough to last you ever, ever so long ? Devote 
yourselves to it with all your hearts. I do not wish 
you to be bored with the sight of any other food. 

"Greedy ones! behold your TART ! " 

What enthusiastic applause, what frantic hurrahs 
rent the air, in answer to this eloquent speech from 
the throne ! 

"Long live the King, Mother Mitchel and her 
cat ! Long live the tart ! Down with soup ! Down 
with bread ! To the bottom of the sea with all 
beefsteaks, mutton-chops, and roasts ! " 

Such cries came from every lip. Old men gently 
stroked their chops, children patted their little 
stomachs, the crowd licked its thousand lips with 
eager joy. Even the babies danced in their nurses' 
arms, so precocious was the passion for tarts in this 
singular country ! Grave professors, skipping like 
kids, declaimed Latin verses in honor of His Maj- 
esty and Mother Mitchel, and the shyest young 
girls opened their mouths like the beaks of little 
birds. As for the doctors, they felt a joy beyond 
expression. They had reflected. They under- 
stood. But — my friends ! ■ 

At last, the signal was given. A detachment of 
the engineer corps arrived, armed with pick and 
cutlass, and marched in good order to the assault. 
A breach was soon opened, and the distribution 
began. The King smiled at the opening in the 
tart; though vast, it hardly showed more than a 
mouse-hole in the monstrous wall. Then turning 
to his people, who, seated at long tables, were 
stuffing themselves like mad, he whispered in the 
ear of his Prime Minister, the first mathematician 
of the age: 

" The train is fired. How long will it burn?" 

"Six weeks, Your Majesty," replied the man of 

At this answer, the King stroked his beard 
grandly. "All goes well," said he, " for him who 
knows how to wait." 

Who can tell how long the feast would have 

lasted, if the King had not given his command th 
it should cease? Once more they expressed th 
gratitude with cries so stifled that they resembl 
grunts, and then rushed to the river. Never hadi 
nation been so besmeared. Some were daubed > 
the eyes, others had their ears and hair all stick); 
As for the little ones, they were marmalade fro 
head to foot. When they had finished their toilc, 
the river ran all red and yellow, and was sweeten 
for several hours, to the great surprise of all t 

Before returning home, the people presently 
themselves before the King, to receive his co-j 

"Children ! " said he, "the feast will begin ag;a)| 
exactly at six o'clock. Give time to wash the dislB'J 
and change the table-cloths, and you may oisil 
more give yourselves over to pleasure. You sllj 
feast twice a day, as long as the tart lasts. Do :Q 
forget. Yes ! if there is not enough in this ontla 
will even order ANOTHER from Mother Mitchel; m 
you know that great woman is indefatigable. Y'lj 
happiness is my only aim." (Marks of universal jrrj 
and emotion.) " You understand ? Noon, and I 
o'clock ! There is no need for me to say, be puis 4 ! 
ual ! Go, then, my children — be happy ! " 

The second feast was as gay as the first, anew 
long. A pleasant walk in the suburbs, — first • 
ercise, — then a nap, had refreshed their appeta 
and unlimbered their jaws. But the King fam|^ 
that the breach made in the tart was a little smafi 
than that of the morning. 

" 'T is well ! " said he, " 't is well ! Wait till 
morrow, my friends ; yes, till day after to-morrl 
and next week J" 

The next day the feast still went on gayly ; yea 
the evening meal the King noticed some enta 

"Why is this?" said he, with pretended ii 
ference, to the court physician. 

" Your Majesty," said the great Olibriers, "apw 
weak stomachs ; that is all." 

On the next day there were larger empty spn 
The enthusiasm visibly abated. The eighth 
the crowd had diminished one-half; the ninth, thfe 
quarters; the tenth day, of the thousand who elf 
at first, only two hundred remained ; on the elevi(l& 
day, only one hundred ; and on the twelfth — as) 
who would have thought it ? — a single one answ 
to the call. Truly he was big enough. His 1 
resembled a hogshead, his mouth an oven, anc, 
lips — we dare not say what. He was known irj 
town by the name of Patapouf. They dug o 
fresh lump for him from the middle of the tart, 
quickly vanished in his vast interior, and he re 1 
with great dignity, proud to maintain the hone 
his name and the glory of the Greedy Kingdoi 





the next day, even he, the very last, appeared that night from too much tart. Let us draw a veil 

lore. The unfortunate Patapouf had sue- over those hours of torture. Mother Mitchel was 

ed, and, like all the other inhabitants of the in despair. Those Ministers who had not guessed 

ry, was in a very bad way. In short, it was the secret dared not open their lips. All the city 

:nown that the whole town had suffered agonies was one vast hospital. No one was seen in the 




streets but doctors and apothecaries' boys, running 
from house to house in frantic haste. It was dread- 
ful ! Dr. Olibriers was nearly knocked up. As for 
the King, he held his tongue, and shut himself up 
in his palace, but a secret joy shone in his eyes, to 
to the wonder of everyone. He waited three days 
without a word. 

The third day, the King said to his Ministers : 

" What ! Your Majesty, must we eat it all ? ' 
"You must!" sternly replied the King; 
MUST ! By the immortal beefsteaks ! not one 
you shall have a slice of bread, and not a loaf sh 
be baked in the kingdom, while there remains! 
crumb of that excellent tart ! " 

"What misery!" thought these poor peopjj 
" That tart forever ! " 


" Let us go now and see how my poor people are 
doing, and feel their pulse a little.'' 

The good King went to every house, without for- 
getting a single one. He visited small and great, 
rich and poor. 

"Oh, oh! Your Majesty." said all, "the tart 
was good, but may we never see it again ! Plague 
on that tart ! Better were dry bread. Your Maj- 
esty, for mercy's sake, a little dry bread ! Oh, a 
morsel of dry bread, how good it would be ! " 

"No, indeed," replied the King. " There is 
more of that tart!" 

The sufferers were in despair. There was I 
one cry through all the town — "Ow ! ow ! ow 
for even the strongest and most courageous wel 
horrible agonies. They twisted, they writhed, J 
lay down, they got up. Always the inexol 
colic. The dogs were not happier than their | 
ters ; even the)' had too much tart. 

The spiteful tart looked in at all the wincl 
Built upon a height, it commanded the town, 
mere sight of it made everybody ill, and its fcj 
admirers had nothing but curses for it now. 
happily, nothing they could say or do made il 

7 6.] 



OW I OW ! 

ialler; still formidable, it was a frightful joke for 

Dse miserable mortals. Most of them buried 

:ir heads in their pillows, drew their night-caps 

sr their eyes, and lay in bed all day, to shut out 

; sight of it. But this would not do ; they knew, 

:y felt it was there. It was a nightmare, a hor- 

le burden, a torturing anxiety. 

[n the midst of this terrible consternation, the 

ng remained inexorable during eight days. His 

art bled for his people, but 

! lesson must sink deep, 

it were to bear fruit in fu- 

e. When their pains were 

■ed, little by little, through 

ting alone, and his subjects 

mounced these trembling 

rds, "We are hungry!" the 

ig sent them trays laden 

h — the inevitable tart. 

'Ah ! " cried they, with an- 

sh, "the tart again ! Always 

tart, and nothing but the 
v t ! Better were death ! " 

V few, who were almost fam- 
i id, shut their eyes, and tried 
1 eat a bit of the detested 
) d; but it was all in vain 
I hey could not swallow a 
'At length came the happy 

• when the King, thinking 

ir punishment had been se- 

; enough, and could never 
'forgotten, believed them at 

gth cured of their greedi- 

s. That day he ordered 
r - l ther Mitchel to make in one 

her colossal pots a super- 

ellent soup, of which a bowl was sent to every 

ily. They received it with as much rapture as 

the Hebrews did the manna in the desert. They 
would gladly have had twice as much, but after 
their long fast it would not have been prudent. 
It was a proof that they had learned something 
already, that they understood this. 

The next day, more soup. This time the King 
allowed slices of bread in it. How this good soup 
comforted all the town ! The next day there was 
a little more bread in it, and a little soup-meat. 


Then for a few days the kind Prince gave them 
roast beef and vegetables. The cure was complete. 



[Decemi J 

The joy over this new diet was as great as ever 
had been felt for the tart. It promised to last 
longer. They were sure to sleep soundly, and to 
wake refreshed. It was pleasant to see in every 
house, tables surrounded with happy rosy faces, and 
laden with good nourishing food. 

The Greedy people never fell back into their 
old ways. Their once puffed- 
out, sallow faces, shone with 
health ; they became, not fat, 
but muscular, ruddy, and solid. 
The butchers and bakers re- 
opened their shops ; the pastry- 
cooks and confectioners shut 
theirs. The country of the 
Greedy was turned upside down, 
and if it kept its name, it was 
only from habit. As for the 
tart, it was forgotten. To-day, 
in that marvelous country there 
cannot be found a paper of sugar- 
plums or a basket of cakes. It is charming to see 
their red lips and their beautiful teeth. If they have 
still a king, he may well be proud to be their ruler. 

Does this story teach that tarts and pies should 
never be eaten ? No ; but there is reason in all 

The doctors alone did not profit by this great 

revolution. They could not afford to drink wel 
any longer in a land where indigestion had becoM 
unknown. The apothecaries were no less unhap \i 
Spiders spun webs over their windows, and tl I 
horrible remedies were no longer of use. 

Ask no more about Mother Mitchel. She \sl 
ridiculed without measure by those who had adorij 


her. To complete her misfortune, she lost her 
Alas for Mother Mitchel ! 

The King received the reward of his wisd 
His grateful people called him neither Charles 
Bold nor Peter the Terrible, nor Louis the Gr 
but always by the noble name of Prosper I., 

By Sydney Dayre. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Last Christmas we had a Christmas-tree — we always hung up our stockings before. On Christmas momin 
of the baby's stockings was gone, and we could n't find it anywhere. But yesterday it turned up in the funniest place. You never 
guess where, so I must tell you. It was tucked into one of the pigeon-holes of grandfather's desk. He found it there on Christmas i 
ing ; and as he can't see very well, he thought it was a pen-wiper some of us had put there to surprise him. And this letter, directed tL 
was in the foot of the stocking. No one can tell how it ever could have got into grandfather's desk ; but you know a great many won 
things do happen on Christmas Eve ! — Yours truly, Mav Merripe 

I HAVE a piteous tale to tell, — and where, I should like to know, 
But to the good St. Nicholas, should a baby stocking go ? 
I thought if I told our family wrongs, in good old-fashioned rhyme, 
You 'd fix the matter up, somehow, before next Christmas-time. 
Perhaps you 're wondering how it is I look so very bright, 
All covered up with pretty stripes of red and blue and white ? 
Well, when the stockings came last Fall, in brown and navy blue, 
Mamma declared, foi baby they would never, never do ! 
The sober things might answer to be worn by Will or May, 


But the dimpled darling Lewie's should glow like a summer's day. 
So grandma got her needles out, and began me, so I 've heard ; 
And with every stitcb she knit, wove in a smile or loving word. 

And how I gather round the cunning feet you ought to see ! 
Why, the toes are like pink sea-shells, and dimpled is each knee ! 
I 've hugged the dainty things with a clasp so warm and tight, 
That old Jack Frost has never had a chance to take a bite. 
But I must hurry on to show how, on last Christmas night, 
The stockings of this family received a dreadful slight. 
I '11 tell you what my father said — he '11 tell it best, I know, 
Though I am getting old myself — (there 's a big hole in my toe). 

I heard him sadly groan that night — his name is Gray Lambswool ; 

My mother, Mrs. Fleecelined, sighed as though her heart were full. 
" Ah me!" he cried, "that Christmas Eve should now be passing o'er, 

And I and mine be lying here upon the bedroom floor! 

I thought we 'd all be hanging up along the chimney there ; 

How wonderful the things we held last Christmas, I declare ! 

Such gay embroidered slippers, done in beads and Berlin wool, 

With meerschaum, studs, and smoking-cap, till every part was full. 

My eldest son there, Seal Brown, ought to have his foot this minute 

Pressed out of all its comely shape by treasures crowded in it, — 

With ball and top, and soldiers with trumpet, sword and gun, 
' And everything, besides, a boy would need for Christmas fun. 

" And next to him Miss Navy Blue would hang, and proudly hold 
A little chain and locket, and a ring of shining gold, 
A tiny, tinkling music-box, and, standing over all, 
With such fine clothes, and real hair, the very loveliest doll ! 
And stumpy, dumpy Redstripe would lovingly embrace 
A stumpy, dumpy baby, with a smiling rubber face, 
A glowing coral necklace, a rattle too, methinks, 
And sugar-plums among them, just to fill up all the chinks. 
But ah ! 't is hard for stockings to fall on times like these, 
When all the world is going mad about its Christmas-trees. 
We 've been a faithful family ; I 've served my master well ; 
I 've not a darned hole anywhere, as any eye may tell." 

So now you see the reason I have spun a yarn so long — 

I want to get St. Nicholas to right this fearful wrong ; 

I want his prancing reindeer to tear through all the land, 

And bring him to each chimney, to fill, with liberal hand, 

The stockings blue, red, brown and gray. — the stockings great and small. - 

The ribbed, the striped, the plain, the plaid, — the stockings short and tall; 

And if you now are weary of the grievances I sing, 

Just cry, "Oh, hang those stockings!" — that will be the very thing. 





By Richard A. Proctor. 

There are some old churches in England which 
have clocks showing the lime with only one hand — 
the hour hand. I dare say that it will seem very 
strange to active and busy minds in America that 
such clocks as these should still continue in exist- 
ence. A slumberous place it must be, truly, where 
men are content to know time by the hour, and to 
take no note of minutes. Or, if that is not really 
the way of it, still it must be a strangely backward 
world where such clocks, once sufficient for their 
purpose, have not yet been replaced by time- 
measures better suited to active, business-like folks. 
When such clocks were more common, and house- 
clocks and watches less used (and probably very 
seldom in order), it would have been useful to 
know what I am now going to tell you about a 
clock in the sky,* though at present the knowledge 
will help rather to teach young folks the stars, than 
to show them how to learn the time from the stars ; 
for the clock I have to describe has only one hand, 
and not only so, but that hand goes the wrong way 
round, and only once round in a day. 

The first step toward a knowledge of the stars 
should be the recognition of the pole-star, because 
the pole of the heavens being the point round 
which all the stars are seemingly carried, so soon 
as we know the stars around the pole, we have a 
center, so to speak, from which we can pass to 
other groups until we know them all. Once known, 
the pole-star can always be found by the learner, 
supposing he observes the heavens always from the 
same station ; for it lies always in the same posi- 
tion (or so nearly so that the change can scarcely 
be noticed). If, for example, you have once been 
shown, or have found out for yourself, that from a 
certain spot in your garden, or from a certain win- 
dow in your house, the pole-star can be seen just 
above a certain chimney or tree, then at any time, 
on any night when the sky is clear, if you betake 
yourself to that spot, or look through that window, 
you will see the pole-star over its accustomed chim- 
ney or tree. It is there, indeed, all the time, 
whether the sky be clear or cloudy, whether it be 
day or night. Not only does a knowledge of the 
pole-star give you a known central-point whence to 
proceed to others, but it gives you the means of 
knowing where lie the cardinal points round the 

horizon ; for, of course, when you face the pol 
star, the north lies before you, the south behin 
you, the east on your right, the west on your left 

But to find the pole-star, it is well to begin 
the dipper. This well-marked group includes t\\ 
stars which are called the " pointers," because tht 
point to the pole-star. The dipper is so conspic 
ous and well-marked a group that it is easily learnt 
and cannot easily be forgotten. Although not ve 
near the pole, it is yet not so far from it as to ran 
very widely over the heavens ; and if you loi 
toward the north at any hour of any clear nigl: 
you will seldom require many seconds to find tl 
familiar set of seven bright stars, though at o 
time it is high above the pole, at another close 
the horizon, now to the right of the pole, and am 
to the left. In England the dipper never sets; 
America it partly sets, but still can be recogniz 
(except at stations in the most southern State 
even when partly below the horizon. 

Let us inquire, first, where the dipper is to 
looked for, and in what position its stars are place 
at various hours all the year round. Of course, 
a general sense, the dipper lies always toward t 
north. The student, therefore, will not, like " Bi 
o' Fredum Sawin'," " w'eel roun' about sou'-wes 
to find it. Still, it saves trouble to have soi 
idea where and how the group will be place 
especially if the night of observation is half clouds 
so that all the seven stars are perhaps not seen 

The dipper lies low down to the north (as she 
at I in Fig. I ) at about six in the evening of Dece 
ber 2 1 st. The seven stars are marked, for cc 
venience of reference, with the Greek letters 
which astronomers know them, namely : a (Alph 
/3(Beta), 7 (Gamma), t! (Delta), c (Epsilon), \ (Zet 
and ;; (Eta). The two stars a and /3, which fo 
the side of the dipper farthest from the hand 
are called the pointers, because they point (as I 
arrow shows) toward the pole-star marked 1 in I 
picture. This star is easily distinguished in t 
heavens, because it is much brighter than any 
its immediate neighborhood. It is not at the ti 
pole of the heavens, which lies where the two era 
lines of the picture intersect. Consequently, I 
pole-star goes round the pole, though in a v 

* We find traces in the writings of old times that the stars were used to show the time. For instance, the "first earner" in SI 
speare's :< King Henry IV." (part i., act ii., scene i.) says, "An 't be not four by the day, I '11 be hanged ; Charles' Wain is over the 
chimney," — Charles' Wain being the group of seven bright stars which is commonly called in America "the dipper." 





>%U t 5 

Horizon of ^e*v0r7eans 

k 3 J j«/i 

yyf — Horizon — of-\ — -Xouisvi/le 

Horizon — of—ff'/iilade/phio' 

Horizon of -Boston and aZ p/acrs in about -Latitude 42i°-Nbrt/i. 
JToTZson of Zond on (J?r?{?) Hes Acre 


I, i, and I, respectively, at 8 P. M. Nov. 22 ; at 9 P. M. Nov. 6 ; at 10 P. M. Oct. 22 ; at 11 P. H, Oct. 6 ; midnight Sept. 21. 
II, 2, and II, " at 8 p. M. Feb. 19; at 9 P.M. Feb. 5 ; at 10 P.M. Jan. 21 ; at 11 p. M. Jan. 5 ; midnight Dec. 21. 

III, 3, and in, " at 8 P.M. May 21; at 9 P.M. May 8; at 10 P.M. April 23; at 11 P.M. April 8; midnight March 23. 

IV, 4, and iv, " at S p. M. Aug. 23 ; at g P. M. Aug. 7 ; at jo P. M. July 22 ; at n p. M, July 7 ; midnight June 22. 

f lill circle ; * it is shown in four different positions, 
nbered i, 2, 3, and 4 in Fig. 1. The Greek 
;er a (Alpha) is assigned to it, because it is the 
ha star, or leading star, of the group to which 

it belongs. The seven stars of the dipper belong 
to the constellation (or star group) called Ursa 
Major, or the Greater Bear; while the pole-star 
belongs to the constellation called Ursa Minor, or 

The actual distance of the pole-star from the pole is about two and a half times the apparent diameter of the moon ; so that the pole- 
appears to go round in a circle having a diameter exceeding five times the apparent diameter of the mooo. This is a much smaller 
s, however, than most persons would suppose from this description, for the mind unconsciously overestimates the size of the moon, 
three stars forming the belt of Orion will afford a very good idea of the range of the pole-star around the pole ; the stars to the right 
left of the middle star of the belt representing almost exactly the relative positions of the pole-star on the right and on the left of the 
of the heavens. Or the matter may be thus stated : Orion's belt just about measures the distance between 2 and 4, or between 1 and 3, 
g. 1. A star placed at the true pole would make, with stars at 2 and 4 (Fig. 1), a set just like the belt of Orion. 




the Lesser Bear. Two other stars, also belonging 
to Ursa Minor, are shown in the picture, at I, with 
their proper Greek letters, /? (Beta) and y (Gamma). 
They are called the "guardians of the pole," be- 
cause they circle around it as though keeping watch 
and ward over the axle-end of the great star-dome. 
The best way, perhaps, to remember where the 
guardians are to be looked for, is to notice that the 
four stars I, e, 6, and /3 of the dipper are nearly in 
a straight line, and that if a square be supposed to 
be set up on this line, as shown in Fig. 2 (on the 
side toward the pole), the guardians lie close to 
that corner of the square which is opposite the 
pointers. You cannot easily fall into any error as 
to the four stars of the dipper, to be used in thus 
finding the guardians of the pole, for they are the 
only four which lie nearly in a straight line. But 
to make assurance doubly sure, notice that the star 
I, which lies at one end of the line of four stars, 
has a companion close by (as shown in Fig. 2). 
Thus we have at one corner of the square the 
pointers, at another the double star {, and at the 
next corner the guardians. 

The dipper, as I have said, is in position I at 
about six o'clock in the evening of December 21st. 
The pole-star is at this time placed as at 1, a little 
above and to the right (or east) of the true pole. 
The guardians are at I. The dipper is now at its 
lowest ; but, as the picture shows, all the seven 
stars are visible at all places in the latitude of Phila- 
delphia. The dotted line, however, which repre- 
sents the horizon of New Orleans, shows that in 
that latitude only one star of the seven can be seen, 
namely a,* the pointer nearest to the pole. This 
star is so bright, that even as far south as New 
Orleans our description of the position of the dipper 
will serve as a sufficient guide to find the pole, if 
only the Southerner who uses it notices how Fig. 1 
presents the stars of the dipper, which for him lie 
below the horizon. If this method should not 
suffice, then let him look for the dipper two hours 
later, by which time all the other stars except \ and 
7] will have moved round so far toward position II 
as to be visible at New Orleans, — c and 7 lying 
almost on a horizontal line very near indeed to the 

If on any night toward the end of December, you 
were to watch the northern heavens from about six 
o'clock, when the dipper is as at I Fig. 1, until 
about midnight, you would see the dipper move 
steadily round till it had reached the position 
marked II. The guardians of the pole would by 
that time have reached the position II ; and the 
pole-star, though it would seem to you to be in the 

same position as at the beginning, would in realil 
have shifted from 1 to 2. If you still went c 
watching, you would find that by about six in tr 
morning the dipper would have gone round in tl 
direction shown by the arrows until it was in tb 
position marked III, high up above the pole an 
not very far from the point overhead. If yoi 
watch had begun earlier in the evening, say 
about five, when the sky is already quite dark (i 
December), you would have seen the dipper in 
position between I and IV (but nearer to I) ; ar 
in the course of the entire night,' that is from evei 
ing twilight until daybreak, the dipper would ha\ 
gone more than half way round, from this las 
named position to a position somewhat farthi 
round (in the direction shown by the short arrow 
than III. 

But in order to see the dipper in these differei 
positions, and also in that portion of its course (c 
either side of IV) which in December it travers 


during the day-time, it is not necessary to keep 
long watch upon the group, or to study the heave, 
during those " wee sma' hours ayont the twa 
wherein the professional astronomer does the be 
part of his work. If you come out in the evenii 
(say at about eight) once or twice a week on cle 
nights, all through the winter half of the year, ar 
a little later during the summer months, you w 
see the dipper and all the polar groups carried rig 
round the pole. For though, speaking generall 
it may be said that they complete a circuit once 
every day, yet in reality they gain about four mi 
utes' motion in the twenty-four hours, and thus g 
further on little by little night after night — gai 
ing an hour's motion in about a fortnight, tv 
hours' motion in a month, twelve hours' motii 
(or half the complete circuit) in half a year, un 
finally, at the end of the year, they have gainf 
a complete circuit. 

* This little star is called by country folks in England " Jack-by-the-Middle-Horse," the stars e, g t and n representing the three hon 
oi the " wain," or wagon. The small star was a test of eyesight among the Arabians. It is, however, very easily seen. The star 
called Mizar. its companion Alcor. 

876. J 



Thus at eight o'clock on or about November 
:2d, the dipper is at I, the guardians of the pole 
ire at I, and the pole-star is at 1. At eight o'clock 
in or about February 19th, the dipper is at II, the 
;uardians are at n, the pole-star is at 2. At the 
ame hour on or about May 21st, the dipper is at 
II, the guardians are at III, the pole-star is at 3. 
Lnd lastly, at the same hour on or about August 
3d, the dipper is at IV, the guardians are at IV, 
he pole-star is at 4. 

It is because of this steady turning motion or 
Dtation around the pole of the heavens, that the 

stars of the dipper (say, for instance, the pointers) 
form as it were a clock in the sky, by which the 
astronomers at any rate, though also any one who 
is willing to give a little attention to the matter, can 
tell the hour within a few minutes on any night in 
the year. 

A few observations made in this way on a few 
nights during the course of the year, will give a 
clearer idea of the steady motion of the star-dome 
(resulting in reality from the earth's steady rotation 
on her axis) than any amount of description either 
in books or by word of mouth. 

By C. F. Jackson. 

The snow was falling thickly and steadily, and 
le evening shadows were gathering so closely 
ound the house that Leon and Annette were 
.ad to turn from the window where they had been 
ir the last half hour, and nestle down together in 
te corner of the big fire-place. There was no 
mp or candle in the room, but the large fire of 
?at and brushwood sent forth a ruddy glow, which 
'ightened everything immediately around it, while 
1 occasional leaping flame would suddenly bring 
to view some more distant object, and send the 
ladows chasing each other into the farthest cor- 
>r of the low kitchen. 

The pot was boiling over the fire, and Mere 
' aturin was walking backward and forward pre- 
iring supper. 

''See, Leon," whispered Annette, "how funny 

andma's cap looks on the wall ! When she goes 

er to the cupboard it is quite small, and when 

e comes nearer here it grows up, up, half way 

er the ceiling. Look, there it is now, just like 

e of Maitre Caussin's hay-mows in July ! " 

"Yes, and see the spinning-wheel change and 

rn as if the fairies were spinning on it ! " 

1 "Do they ever, Leon? Perhaps they are doing 

'mow. Oh, if we could see them ! " 

"You little silly," replied her brother. "Who 

:r saw fairies Christmas Eve? If it were mid- 

' Timer now ! St. John's Eve is the time for them. 

e here, Annette, if you are very good from now 

St. John's Eve, — if you do everything I want 

a to, — if, if," said Leon, wishing to make as good 

1 1 >argain as possible, " if you always drive Blan- 

chette home from pasture when I want to play 
with George, if you will always get grandmother 
the cresses when I don't want to go to the brook 
for them, I will show you the fairies on that night; 
that is," added the boy, thinking, perhaps, he had 
better not promise too much, " I will let you go 
with me to the big stones in the middle of the 
wood yonder, just at midnight, and there — Maitre 
Caussin's Joseph told me so — you will be sure to 
see them." 

" Oh, Leon, I will do anything for you if you 
will but let me see them ! But it is so long to 
wait ; perhaps grandmamma knows if one can see 
them any other time. Grandmother" (raising her 
voice), "do the fairies ever come Christmas Eve, 
and do they ever turn spinning-wheels to help 
people ? " 

"Nay, child, who ever heard of fairies then?" 
said Mere Maturin, "and if they did take the 
trouble to turn spinning-wheels, it would not be for 
idle folk like you ! Come and put the dishes on 
table, for the pot is boiling, and it is time we had 

Annette speedily obeyed, and there was no more 
talk of fairies for an hour. After that, the dishes 
being all washed and put away, and grandmother 
seated in the chimney-corner with her knitting, the 
children took their places, side by side, on the 
hearth opposite to her, and began to plead with 
her for some legends and stories, such as they 
loved to hear. 

Leon and Annette lived in Brittany, in a little 
old cottage not far from the sea, and a few miles 



[December J 

from the town of St. Malo. Their eldest and only 
brother, Louis, had gone as a soldier two years 
before, and was at Toulon with his regiment. Once 
in a great while they heard from him, and his last 
letter but one had told them he was married. They 
were looking for a letter from him now, for it was 
six months since the last one came, and they said : 

" Louis will surely send us a message for Christ- 

This Christmas Eve, the father and mother had 
gone into St. Malo, to be present at the midnight 
mass and Christmas morning service, after which 
they were to come home, and the children had 
been left with their grandmother. Since sunset, 
the snow, which had been gathering overhead all 
day, had begun to fall, and was rapidly covering 
up the well-beaten road, on which for many weeks 
no fresh snow had fallen. 

" Tales, tales," said the old woman, " you have 
heard them all many times, my children. I have 
no new stories for you." 

" Then tell us old ones, dear grandmamma ! " 

"They say, then, little ones, and I have heard 
it ever since I was but half your size, that on the 
holy Christmas Eve, when the hour of midnight 
strikes, all the oxen and cows and asses can speak 
like us human creatures, because they stood by 
when the Blessed Mary laid the Holy Babe in the 
manger," and the old woman made the sign of the 
cross devoutly. 

"But is it true, grandma?" said little Annette, 

" I cannot say for myself, as I never heard them 
speak, child ; but why should not poor brutes have 
a voice given them for once for sake of that blessed 
night, and that they may praise God ? There was 
Antoine," the old woman went on, murmuring to 
herself, "sat up on purpose to hear them one 
night, and at twelve he went out to the stable, but 
the poor fool made such a clattering in undoing 
the door, that the beasts in St. Malo might have 
heard him through their sleep, so the ass and the 
cow were well warned, and never a word would 
they speak before him ; and they were wiser than 
some folk if they had secrets to talk about, for 
everything Antoine heard he went straight and 
told it ; and, indeed, I believe he could not have 
helped it, if he knew he was to swing for it the 
next minute; but he is dead now, like many a one 
I once knew. May he rest in peace ! " 

"But did you ever know any one else who tried 
it," cried both the children at once. 

" Only Pierre. Pretty Madeline, old Jacques the 
miller's daughter, waited up one Christmas Eve, 
and, when midnight drew near, she was too afraid 
all at once to stir out in the dark alone for anything 
so strange and wonderful, so she sent Pierre, her 

cousin. He had heard nothing, he said when hi 
came back; but nobody thought that counted fo'j 
much, for though Pierre was a clever fellow enough) 
and could even read in the newspapers all by hifflj 
self, without the priest to help him, everybodl 
knew he would n't have heard the church bells, 
they had all rung at once and he in the tower, 
he were thinking of Madeline ; and that same evenj 
ing did n't the miller — Jacques was lame then — as 
him to give him his crutch, and put a stick on th 
fire, and did n't Pierre put the crutch on the fii 
and give Jacques the stick, and Madeline was bi 
just in time to pull the crutch out of the flame 
and it was scorched ever after. So you see he w; 
not much to be depended on, till he marric 
Madeline and settled down. 

" Madeline was only a goose-girl, but she was 
stout, comely maid, with cheeks like roses, ar 
Pierre from a boy had always been fond of he 
He taught her to read while she was minding tl 
geese, and there never was a storm so bitter th 
Pierre was n't glad to face it if he could only he 
Madeline home with her geese. Ah, they 've ris< 
a bit since that day, for Pierre turned out a thrif 

fellow, and The saints shield us ! Leo 

what was that ? " 

" I heard nothing but the night-wind blowing 
said Leon, gravely. But Annette clung to h 
grandmother, and the grandmother laughed light 
to think how slight a thing startled her in her o 

The little girl listened for some time longe 
while Mere Maturin wandered on, telling old storl 
of the people she had known in her youth, q 
Leon was strangely silent. A thought was workii 
in his brain. Why should not he, that very nigh 
find out with his own ears if this we're true? 
would not tell Annette, for she might be afraid al 
cry or make a noise, and spoil all, and he wou 
succeed no better than did Antoine, whom 
grandmother knew. So when Mere Maturin si 
it was time to go to bed, he undressed, and sa 
his prayers, and climbed up to his little mattrd 
in the loft. He had grown too big for it, but it \ 
the best he had, and his sleep was always soun 
Grandmother and Annette would soon be aslel 
in the room off the kitchen, and Leon lay in bl 
watching the faint glimmers and shadows that fl 
on the loft stairs from the remains of the fire tl| 
burned low in the wide kitchen chimney. Tli 
had had a larger fire than usual, for it was vel 
cold weather and Christmas Eve, and Mere Mat] 
rin had said, " We must be warm to-night, if 
are cold all the rest of the winter." He kept I 
eyes open for some time, but fell asleep at lal 
and started awake again in a sudden fright, 
the magic hour had slipped away from him 

» a 

876. J 


I2 5 


■ IIS 

sleep, and he would have a whole year to 
/ait before he could try his chance again. The 
louds had all cleared away, and the moon was 
hining brightly in through the diamond-shaped 
lanes in the little window. Leon slipped out of 
ied and into his clothes, and then softly crept down 
he stairs. He could just see the face of the old 

lock in the corner, and he was in time. It wanted 
■ ve minutes of twelve. He crossed the kitchen so 
'jftly that he did not disturb his grandmother and 

'iSter, and, unfastening the door, stood alone out 
'1 the night. Leon was a brave boy, so no thought 
?f fear came to him, but he shivered in the nipping 

inter air, and pulled his cap further down over his 

ars. He could easily see by the moonlight where 
'ie path to the stable ought to be, although it was 

covered by several inches of snow, and in a few 
minutes he was at the door. 

Very softly now, Leon, or Blanchettc will lift her 
head and look at you out of her large, gentle brown 
eyes, and old Jeanette will move her long ears and 
snuff danger near, and you will spoil it all. 

So gently he undid the door, so quietly he stole 
in and stood in the shadow, 
that neither cow nor ass- 
could be disturbed, yet surely 
something has aroused and 
affrighted them both. Leon- 
listened breathlessly. Sud- 
denly both the animals be- 
side him moved uneasily. 
Presently, from outside the 
stable, came clearly and dis- 
tinctly on the night air the 
bray of an ass. It made 
Leon start more than when 
Jeanette answered it from, 
within the stable with an- 
other bray. 

He was only frightened 
for a moment, however, and 
then he turned and went out 
of the door to see who this 
midnight visitor could be. 
There was nothing in the 
yard ; but he crept along 
by the fence, and whea 
he reached the gate, there, 
standing in the moonlight, 
was an ass, her head pushed 
far over the gate, and her 
long ears bent forward, list- 
ening for some answer to her 
summons. There was a sad- 
dle on her back, but no one 
on it. 

For a moment, Leon 
paused. He knew she had 
not come there all alone, 
but that probably somewhere 
along that lonely country 
road she had parted from 
sese. her burden. The nearest 

house was four miles off, and 
in a different direction from that by which the 
ass had come, for Leon saw her footprints in the 
snow. He might have to walk far ere he should 
find those whom she had carried, but if he did not 
go— if he waited till daylight — it might be too late 
for help to reach those whom cold and snow had 
perhaps overcome. He opened the gate, then fas- 
tened it securely behind him, and gently turned 
the ass around. To his surprise she made no 




objection, but somewhat wearily retraced her foot- 
steps in the snow. 

They did not have to go far, however. A few 
yards from the house the road turned, and crossed 
a little stream where was a bridge ; beyond this 
was a hollow, and then came woods. At the 
entrance to these woods was one of those way-side 
shrines which you often see in France, where was 
an image of the Virgin with the infant Saviour in 
her arms ; beneath this, on the white snow, lay 
something dark, and when she reached it, the ass 
stood perfectly still. Leon came up to her, and 
stooping down by this dark mass upon the snow, 
saw lying there a young woman, unconscious, with 
a baby in her arms. 

What was the boy to do? His stout arms could 
not lift the inanimate form. There was no one but 
his grandmother and Annette within call, and they 
would be but little help to him. Yet something 
must be done. Leon felt her. She was not 
quite cold, and the baby, wrapped in the mother's 
cloak and clasped to her breast, was still warm. 
Leon tried to make the ass kneel down. She did 
it readily enough, as if she were accustomed to it, 
and understood the need now. Then he laid his 
warm cheek against the girl's and breathed into 
her lips and called to her, and strove in every way 
to rouse her. 

She stirred, but did not open her eyes. The 
baby, however, awoke and cried. That cry did 
more to fully arouse the mother's consciousness 
than anything else, and to Leon's joy she mur- 
mured, "Hush, my darling!" Then he called 
aloud to her, and at last tried to take the baby from 
her arms. She opened her eyes then, but half 
vmderstandingly, and with great difficulty obeyed 
Leon's words when he told her to rise. She could 
not stand, but Leon got her upon the saddle, and 
putting one arm around her to hold her firmly 
there, he guided the ass down the road and over 
the bridge to the gate. They arrived there safely, 
though many times on the way Leon thought they 
would not. 

He ran into the house and woke Annette and 
his grandmother. It was some time before he 
could make them understand, but at last they did. 
Fortunately there were still hot embers on the 
hearth, and Annette heated a little milk, which 
they poured down the poor woman's throat. This 
brought her to herself enough for them to lead her 
into the house, where the warmth soon revived 
her. Leon put more wood on the fire, which soon 
gave out a good heat, while Annette and the grand- 
mother warmed blankets and put about the woman 
and child, and rubbed the mother's cold limbs. 
When they had quite recovered, and had partaken 
of bread and milk, Mere Maturin would not allow 

them to speak, but put them in her own bed am 
left them to sleep. 

The first red streaks of dawn were seen in thi 
eastern sky before Leon had quite satisfied hi: 
grandmother and sister on this wonderful advent 
ure. Then he went back to bed, and did no 
wake till the Christmas sun streamed in at hi: 
window, and he heard Annette calling out he 
greeting to him from the foot of the stairs. 

Their strange visitors slept till quite late in th( 
morning, and had not yet appeared when the fathe 
and mother came home. You may be sure then 
was much to tell and hear about this odd adventun 
of Leon's, and then Pere Maturin held up a lette 
from Louis, a Christmas letter, which made thi 
children dance with joy. In the midst of it all 
their visitor came into the kitchen from the inne 
room, her baby in her arms, and looking quite 
bright again after her rest. She was very small 
so tiny that Leon wondered that such a stout bo; 
as he was should have had so much trouble in lift 
ing her on to the ass, and she looked very youn; 
indeed. Then she told them her story. 

Her husband was a soldier. He had met her a 
Toulon, her native place, and married her there 
She had continued to live at her father's till hi 
died, leaving her a little money. Her husband' 
regiment was ordered to Algeria soon after, and a: 
she had no relations in Toulon or anywhere else 
he thought it best to send her and her child to hi: 
mother in Brittany. He had written home som< 
time before he left, and said he knew his fathe 
would meet her at St. Malo, as he had requested ir 
his letter. But when she reached there after he: 
long journey, she did not find him, and, being : 
stranger in the place, she thought the best thing 
she could do would be to hire an ass, and take thi 
straight road to her husband's home. The land- 
lord at the inn in the town where she had stoppec 
to inquire the way, had told her that she could no 
fail to find the house ; but the snow had come or 
and hidden the path, and she grew wearied. The) 
wandered out of the way many times, sometime; 
finding the road, and then losing it again, till, worr 
out, she had fallen from the ass right below the 
shrine in the road. " When I looked up, anc 
saw the gentle face smiling down upon me, 1 
thought, " said she, "Heaven would have pity or 
me and my baby, and I said my prayers, and had 
just fallen asleep, when the good God sent you, 
Leon, to wake me. And now, dear friends, I will 
not trouble you more ; if you will kindly tell me 
where the Pere Maturin lives I will go and find 
him, and my Louis and I will bless you always in 
our prayers. " 

"Pere Maturin! Louis!" they all exclaimed; 
and then followed such explaining, and laughing, 




d crying, and kissing as never was known before. 

h last, when all was quiet, the father read Louis' 
:ter to them, and it was the one they ought to 
ve received long before, telling them his Marie 
is coming to them, and would they love and care 

fV her and the baby for his sake ? 
Oh, how happy they all were together, and how 
:asant that the joy should come to them on 
iristmas Day ! 

When dinner was over, and they had said every- 
ng they could think of about this wonderful ad- 

'nture, and had admired little Marguerite, An- 
tte suddenly exclaimed : 

" Leon ! did the ass and the cow speak? " 
" I did n't hear them, " said Leon, shaking his 
head ruefully; "but the ass did everything but 
speak when she looked at me over the gate, and 
then took me to Marie." 

"Yes," said his mother, "and though there is 
nothing in the idle tale to speak of, you may be 
sure God led the ass to you, Leon, and taught her 
how to make her wants known to you, though it 
was not by speech ; and He cared for Marie and 
her babe, for the sake of the Holy Child, laid in 
His mother's arms in the stable among oxen and 
asses that first Christmas Night." 


By Fanny Roper Feudge. 

'• I SHOULD like see a boy beat me at catching ; or 
lan either, as for that," were the boastful words I 
'-ird uttered by a twelve-year old lad, as he tossed 
i ft two balls at once, and caught them as they 
cended, one with each hand. That was eer- 
ily very well done ; but let me tell the boys who 
d the ST. NICHOLAS of some "catching" that 
'iave seen in far-off lands, — catching with the 
> ; uth instead of the hands, — and they shall judge 
[gther my boastful young friend of the two balls 
1 ild be likely to carry off the palm amid all com- 

'"he first time I witnessed these feats of agility 
1i at the palace of the King of Siam, where I 
1 been dining. His favorite band of gymnasts 
e in attendance that day, and he challenged us 
>ee their exploits, and then tell him whether our 
'ntrymen could do anything more wonderful in 
i way of climbing and catching. So he seated 
little party on an elevated platform, where we 
Id see readily the movements of the actors, and 
'i first thing that met our view was a swinging 
i 1 ;e attached to two slender poles that were plant- 
r perpendicularly in the ground. About twelve 
' Js off was another pole, to which was suspended 
1 funny hook a silk net purse filled with gold. 
■' purse was full forty feet above the ground, 
le the stage swung about five feet lower, and was 
It swaying to and from the pole that held the 
p.5e, by the action of a long rope pulled bv men 

standing on the ground. On the stage stood four 
men, and as it veered toward the money purse, he 
who stood nearest was allowed one trial of his skill 
at catching the purse with his mouth. If he suc- 
ceeded, the money (about sixty dollars in gold) was 
to be his reward, and he might descend, as he had 
mounted, by a rope ladder ; when the next one 
would take his turn, till all who wished to do so had 
made the attempt ; anew purse being supplied each 
time one was carried off by the teeth of a victor. 

I thought it a fearful risk, and almost held my 
breath in dismay ; but everybody around me was 
laughing, and the gymnasts themselves did not seem 
to think of danger. As easily and naturally as you 
would catch a ball tossed toward you by your com- 
panion, the first man opened his mouth just at the 
right instant, touched the purse with his lower lip 
to dislodge it from the peg, and caught the string 
between his teeth, just as his time was up, by the 
veering away of the stage. Several others followed, 
with the same success, each loudly cheered, and 
appearing triumphantly happy. Then for one poor 
fellow, who failed to catch the coveted prize, came 
the usual penalty of being hissed and hooted at by 
the crowd ; but worst of all, he had to let go the 
stage, grasp the pole to which the purse was 
attached, and, with hands and legs entwined, slide 
down as best he could to the ground. I thought, 
of course, he would fall ; but he let himself down as 
readily as a monkey or a squirrel could have done, 





or even the dan 

of a descent 

that bare pole. 

course there w 

only a few seconds of ti 

for him to seize the p 

as the stage swung aw 

and had he halted or h 

tated at all, he must im 

tably have been dashed 


A native artist drew 
scene for me, but failed 
giving an idea of the gr 
height of the poles. 

In another game, 
poles forty feet high 
erected five feet apart, 
the top of each was a sri 
platform sufficient to aft' 
standing-room for a sin 
man. When the perfoi 
ance began, a man stood 
one platform with his 
upward, and on the ot 
stood one in his natural p 1 
tion. As soon as the sig 
was given, the two ac 
changed places and positi 
at the same time ; so t 
the one who had stood 
his head on the platfc 
nearest to me, passed 
comrade and came down 
his feet on the platform 
ther off. This excha 
was repeated some twe 
times or more, without 
pause of a single mome 
and when these retired, 
same feat was repeated 
other gymnasts. 

Then came a game 
which four lances or spe 
were placed points upw; 
at the four corners of a be 
or table, sixteen inches « 
and about four feet lo 
At regular intervals all 
the center, were eight or 
shorter spears, jmmedia 
over which, with the po 
touching his bare back 
a man, who in this posii 
supported the weight of t 

and appeared too crestfallen . at the disgrace he and sometimes four others. These walked, jum 
had incurred to care about the loss of the money, and danced upon the body of their prostrate d 



1 , Sometimes they turned 
I :rsaults, and at last they 
I y seated themselves on 
ead and knees, called for 
.nd drank it, then lighted 
lots from a brand which 
>f them reached over and 
|| in the mouth of the 
,rate man, as they all 
)ed off together. The 
as he lay motionless 
the spears, seemed not 
el any pain from these 
,ig movements, and I 
'told that no sign of a 
d was ever left. The 
it was borne mainly by 
heels and palms bent 
vard, and the center of 
:ty must have been per- 
maintained. Occasion- 
swords were used instead 
;ars, and when this was 
they were placed hori- 
,ly, with the edges up- 
toward the actor's body, 
ne of the feats in rope- 
ng were odd enough, 
dancer always had a 
lie wire fastened firmly 
his waist, and to this 
>ne end of a strong cord 
ttached. The other end 
string was made fast to 
on ring, and through 
as passed the rope up- 
ich the actor performed 
rious feats. He turned 
saults, danced, fenced, 
it his body into all man- 
ludicrous attitudes ; and 
astonished us all by 
g from the rope and 
g about in mid-air, like 
;e fish floundering in 
v water, the ring and 
preventing him from 
rig the ground. Then 
jew himself back on the 
and walked up and down, carelessly fanning 
; f with a bunch of feathers which he held in 
land. Presently the feathers were thrown 
and the actor rushed up and down the rope 
inning for a wager, but pausing every now 
en to toss a joke or a bon-bon at those near- 
him-; and, when we least expected it, he 
from his rope and disappeared with a bound. 

a£. IV.— 9. 


Next, feats in tumbling and fencing were per- 
formed with great dexterity. Some walked on 
their hands, others on their elbows, and all were 
capable of putting their limbs into attitudes that 
seemed, to our Western eyes, equally ludicrous and 
impossible. One man defended himself against 
half a dozen others, though his only weapon was 
a staff about as long and as thick as an ordinary 




yard-stick, while his opponents had short swords to among the gymnasts of our own country. InciJ 

use against him. But by his dexterity in parrying it is hard to conceive of gymnastic skill and da I 

their weapons, jumping over their heads, and superior to that shown on this occasion. All 

occasionally putting his feet on their shoulders, the feats I have mentioned, and many similar o I 


and turning a somersault backward, he succeeded 
in disarming several, and driving all from the 

You may judge that after witnessing these ex- 
ploits, we had to admit to the king that we had 
never seen the equals of these Siamese performers 

are performed by the bands of trained gyr 
belonging to royal and noble Siamese housel 
But these performers are never seen else*! 
They are regarded as a necessary part of al 
man's household, but as not suitable for the ] 
tainment of the laboring class. 



1 3 l 


(A Christmas Fairy Sirour for Sitnday-sclioots.) 

By Edward Eggi.eston. 

Arrangement of the Stage. 

E stage, shown in the diagram, is about fif- 

feet deep by twenty in width in its main por- 

It may vary considerably from these dimen- 

according to the size of the hall or Sunday- 




" \ 
h h 


i x 

Front of Stage. 


room. The room in this diagram is sup- 
to be forty feet wide. The stage should 
! less than twelve feet in depth nor less than 
in width. The portions of the stage repre- 
. at B and/" may be on the same level of the 
platform, or B may be higher or lower, and 
ncline. The beauty of the stage is greatly 
ced by surrounding it with a fence of pop- 
The upright posts should be bits of lath 
en inches high, the lower end nailed to the 
if the platform, and the whole wrapped with 
; of pop-corn. Then draw two strands of 
irn from post to post, to represent the hori- 
rails. At /' there should be a gate with 
ted arch over the top. This should 
l, wrapped with pop-corn. There should 
:e strands in the gate and a diagonal brace. 
Dp-corn fence is not essential, but it is a great 
n to the beauty of the scene, giving the 
i weird and fairy-like appearance, and con- 
g finely with the dark green behind. At x, x, 
' ia.ll Christmas-trees may be planted. 
i house, A. is nine feet in length and six in 
It should be about six feet high at the 
The frame is of studding, and it is first 
i with lath nailed six inches or more 
Cedar boughs are then so interwoven as 
rely cover it. The roof is thatched in the 
way. At e there is a chimney made by 
ig out both ends of a packing-box, such 
sed for shoes. The box is kalsomined or 

painted to look like stone;* cleats arc nailed around 
this chimney near the top, to imitate ornamental 
stone-work. The box is securely nailed to the 
timbers of the house, and there is a ladder inside 
the house, so arranged that the lad who represents 
Santa Claus can put his head and shoulders out at 
the top. At b there is a door-way two feet wide, 
in which is a door on hinges. Make it an open 
frame covered with pink tissue paper. The win- 
dow, c, is two feet square and made like the door, 
but intersected with strings of pop-corn for sashes. 
Over the door-way, b, is a transparency like a tran- 
som. It reads " Santa Claus," and is lighted by a 
lantern behind. The house should be provided 
with a door-bell. Every precaution must be taken 
against fire. The house should stand about two 
feet from the wall, and the back may be left open. 

At a, a, two pumpkin faces illuminated are sus- 
pended or put upon any support that may be found 

At B there should be either a miniature tent or 
a dense arbor of evergreens. If the tent is used, 
a Chinese lantern may be suspended on the top 

Characters, Costumes, Etc. 

Santa Claus should be a boy of fourteen or 
sixteen years of age, with good acting qualities, 


especially a sense of drollery. He should have any 
appropriate costume, wig, mask, etc. He carries a 

1 See "Letter-Box." — Ed. 




snuff-box, and a red or yellow handkerchief. He 
is also provided with a whistle. 

The Dwarfs are boys of ten or twelve years of 
age. They wear masks and a red tunic of paper- 
muslin, stuffed, to give them a hunchback appear- 
ance. They carry staffs, little tin trumpets, stoop 
as they walk, and speak in a squeaky falsetto. 
Their stations are just inside the house, at h, h. 
They appear from behind the house in every case 
except the very last. 

The Fairy Queen should be a little girl of 
from six to nine years of age, dressed in gauze, with 
wings of the same material. Stripes or stars, or 
spangles of gold paper, add to the effect of her 
dress. She wears a coronet and carries a wand. 

The Committee should consist of three girls 
in ordinary dress. They are represented by X., 
Y. and Z. in the following dialogue, but their real 
names should be used instead of the letters. Z. 
should be a rather small girl. 

Preliminary Arrangements. 

The superintendent or pastor conducts the intro- 
ductory exercises from some point in front of the 
stage. No one must be seen on the stage until 
the dialogue begins. 

At the time of beginning, the house, A, conceals 
Santa Claus and his two dwarfs, and a grown per- 
son who has charge of the lights and who acts as 
prompter. There is no light on the stage except 
that in the transparency over the door, and that in 
the pumpkin faces. There are a large number of 
tapers or lamps inside the house, carefully arranged 
to avoid the danger of fire. These are not lighted 
until the signal is given in the dialogue. The 
fairy queen is concealed in her bower at B, with 
some one who has charge of her, and an automatic 
music-box, which sits upon the floor of the plat- 
form, wound up and ready to be started at the 
proper time. The committee of girls sit in the 
audience, and not together. 


After appropriate introductory exercises, a teacher 
rises in his place and speaks in substance as fol- 
lows : 

Teacher. Mr. Superintendent, I see some very 
pleasant decorations here, but no presents or re- 
freshments for the scholars. I move that a com- 
mittee of three be appointed to go up to Fairyland 
and inquire of Santa Claus. I would like to know 
why this Sunday-school has been left out. 

Another teacher. I second that motion. 

[Superintendent puts this question to vote, and 
declares it carried, in due form. 

Superintendent. I would appoint — let me see — 
girls are better at coaxing than boys, I think — I will 

appoint X., Y. and Z. [calling the girls by 
real names'] , who will please come forward. 

[X., Y. and Z. rise from their places in I 
several classes, and come forward l\ 

Superintendent. Girls, you see we are witl 
any candy or anything of the sort for our schcl 
Old Santa Claus has forgotten us. He nevel 
so before. Now I want you three to proceJ 
Fairyland and see if you can find him. Telll 
we must have something. Don't come down I 
out something. We can't have all these chi I 

[ The committee proceed by the steps to the s 

They stop to examine the first pup 


Z. What a strange face ! Wonder who it i 

}'. One of Santa's tricks, I suppose. 

X. They do say that he 's full of fun Bu 
must be his house. Let 's find the door. 
proceed to thefro?it.] Here it is. 

J'. Is n't it 'cute ? I 'd like to live here. 

Z. And play dolly-house ? 

X. Here 's a door-bell. Santa Claus has a 
latest improvements, I declare. 

Y. Ring it. 

Z. No, don't ; I 'm afraid. 

X. Pshaw ! Santa never hurts anybody, 
you see his name over the door? [Rings.] 
a pause.] I wonder he don't answer. May 
is n't at home. 

Y. Gone sleigh-riding, as sure as I live ! 

Z. I guess he's gone to bed. Maybe his 
ma would n't let him sit up late. 

X. Let 's look around, and see what we cai 
You two go around that side, and I '11 go a 
this. See if you can 't find him in behind tl 
that 's hanging up there. 

[X. goes to the left, around the house. 

• Y. a?id Z. go around to the right. Th, 
ceed timidly to the back of the house 
sight of the audience, whereupon the 
blow sharp blasts upon their horns, a 
girls all rush back to the front of the I 

X. I 'm so scared ! 

Y. and Z. Oh, dear ! I'raso scared ! 

X. What could it be? Guess old Santa, 
made that noise just for fun. I wish the si 
tendent had come himself, or sent some of th 

]'. I '11 bet the boys would run from that 
Don't you ? 

X. Yes. Boys never are as brave as gir'l 
how. But let's go back again, and see wha| 
is there. 

Z. I 'm afraid. 

X. Well, you stay here, and Y. will go th 
and I will go this wav. 




X. again goes to the right, Y, to the left. They 
proceed more timidly than before to the rear 
of the house, disappearing behind it. The 
dwarfs blow their horns, the girls re-appear, 
< crying out in alarm, and the dwarfs run 
out after them. The girls hurry back to the 
front of the house, followed by the dwarfs — 
one coming routid one end of the house, the 
other round the other. They speak in high, 
squeaky tones. 

fst Dwarf. What do you want ? 

-ond Dwarf. What are you doing here ? 
We want Santa Claus. But we did not know 

were two Santa Clauses. 

[ The dwarfs laugh long and loud. 

'■st Dwarf. We are not Santa Clauses. We 

le dwarfs that take care of Santa Claus's store- 

s, full of goodies and presents. 

ond Dwarf. But there 's nothing left to take 

of now. Santa 's given away all he had this 

But we must see old Santa. Our Sunday- 

1 has been left without anything, and we want 
good old Claus himself. 

st Dwarf. But you can't. He 's asleep. 

ond Dwarf. He was out all night last night, 

ow he 's tired to death and sleeping like a top. 

der would n't wake him. 
But we must see him. 

and Z. Yes, we must. 

ond Dwarf . If you'd been riding over roofs 


st Dwarf. And climbing down chimneys 

ond Dwarf. And filling stockings 

st Dwarf. And Christmas-trees 

ond Dwarf. And climbing up chimneys 

st Dwarf. And getting your hands and face 

;r soot 

ond Dwarf. And driving reindeer, — they do 

h Dwarfs. I guess you 'd be sleepy too. 
iBut we must have something for the chil- 

ind Z. We must have something. 
it Dwarf. There is n't a thing left. 
ond Dwarf. Not a thing. 
What will the superintendent say ? 
What will the children say ? 
What will the infant class say? 
.And what will the deacons say? 
md Z. Yes, what will the deacons say ? 
'1 Dwarfs. Deacons ! Oh, my ! Ha ! ha ! 
The dwarfs now give a blast apiece, and re- 
treat into their hiding-places. 
Well, I 'm going to wake up old Santa Claus. 
Way be he '11 be cross. 

X. But we must have something. [Rings.'] I 
wonder he does n't answer. 

Z. Ring louder. 

.V. Well, here goes. [Rings three or four times.] 
[Santa Claus, appearing at the top of the chim- 
ney, blows his whistle. 

X. Y. and Z. Oh. dear! 

Santa Claus. Who's there? Who rang my bell, 
I 'd like to know? Pity if I can't sleep Christmas 
Night, when I 'm tired to death. Who 's there, I 
say ? 

X. Oh, you dear old Santa Claus ! Don't be 
angry. Some of your little friends have come to 
Fairyland to see you. Come down. 

Santa Claus. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Some of my little 
friends come to see me ! Well, well ! [Blows his. 
whistle.] Light up the house, fairies, light up the 
house. [ Whistles again, and then descends the 
chimney and re-appears at the front door. The 
house is lighted within.] How do you do, girls? 
how do you do ? [Shakes hands all round, and 
then, with great deliberation, takes a pinch of 
snuff.] Well, I 'm glad to see you. What can I 
do for you ? 

A". Why, you see, Santa Claus, our Sunday- 
school is left without anything this Christmas. 

Santa Claus [sneezes and uses his bandana]. 
What? You don't tell me so? What 's the name 
of your school? 

X. The Sunday-school. 

Santa Claus. Oh, yes ! and your superintend- 
ent is Mr. ? I know him, like a book. I 've 

filled his stockings many a time when he was a 
little fellow. I don't know how I came to miss that 
school, But you see I 'm getting old and forgetful. 

]'. How old are you, Santa? 

Santa Claus. O, now! Do you think I'd tell 
you that ? 

Z. You must be as old as the Centennial. 

Santa Claus. Pshaw ! I used to fill George 
Washington's stockings when he was a little boy. 

V. No ! Now, did you ? 

Santa Claus. Of course I did. 

I'. What did you put in them ? 

Santa Claus. What did I put in little Georgie 
Washington's stockings? Well, now. that's more 
than a hundred years ago, and an old man's mem- 
ory is n't strong. I can't remember but one thing. 

A". What 's that ? 

Santa Claus. A hatchet. 

Y. Oh, my ! 

Z. That same little hatchet ? 

Santa Claus. The very same little hatchet. 
[Laughs.] But I did not give him the cherry-tree. 

A". Yes, but we must have something for oui 
school, good Santa Claus. 

Santa Claus. But you can't. I 've given away all 




I had, and turned the reindeer out on the mount- 
ains to pasture, and the times are so hard that I 
can't afford to hire a livery team. 

X. Yes, but we must have something. 

V. Yes, we must, dear old Santa. 

Z. Yes, indeed. 

Santa Clans [takes snuff and sneezes}. Well, 
what is to be done ? How many scholars have you 
got this year ? 

X. About . 

Santa Clans. So many ? Why, you must be 
growing. I hope you have n't any Christmas bum- 
mers among them — folks that come to Sunday- 
school to get something to eat. I hate that kind. 

V. I don't think we have many of that sort. 

Santa Clans. Well, I always did like that school, 
and now I 've gone and forgotten it. I wish some- 
thing could be done. [Blows his whistle long and 
lond, and shouts :] Dwarfs ! here ! Drako, where 
are you? Krako, come! Wake up! [Whistles 
again.} [Enter dwaifs, each blowing his horn. 

Santa Clans. Now, my little rascals, what have 
you got for the Sunday-school ? 

Both dwarfs [bowing very low]. Nothing, my 

Santa Clans [takes snnff and sneezes}. I don't 
see that I can do anything for you. 

.V. But we cannot go back without something. 
The children will cry. 

Santa Clans. Dwarfs, go and look again. 

[ They go back behind the house as before. 
After a time they re-appear. 

First dwarf. We cannot find a thing. 

Second dwarf Not one thing. 

Santa Clans [takes snnff]. Well, my little friends, 
this is very embarrassing — very — but I have n't a 
thing left. 

.V. But we can't go back. What will the super- 
intendent say? We must have something. 

}". Something or other. 

Z. Yes, something. 

Santa Clans. I '11 go and see myself. [Exit into 
honse. After a considerable delay re-enters.] Yes, 
I find a box of candy, nuts, and pop-corn in the 

X., Y. and Z. Candy, nuts, and pop-corn ! 
Good ! 

Santa Clans. What have you got to put the 
things in ? 

A". Why wc have n't got anything. 

Santa Clans. Well, then, the children will have 
to take off their stockings and let me fill them. 

A"., Y. and Z. Oh, Santa Claus ! we could n't, 
such a cold night as this. 

Santa Claus fakes snuff, looks perplexed, walks 
abont the stage]. Well, I don't know what to do. 

X. Oh dear ! 

Y. Oh dear! 

Z. Oh dear ! dear ! dear ! 
Santa Clans [starting up]. Now I have it. 
X. Have what ? 
Santa Claus. An idea. 

Z. An idea? [Addressing X.] What 's an 1 
Can you put candy into an idea ? 

A". Be still, Z. Let 's hear what Santa CI; 
idea may be. 

Santa Claus. I know who will help me ov 
this trouble. There 's my friend the Fairy Qi! 
.V. The Fairv Queen ! 
V. Oh, my ! ' 
Z. Goody ! goody ! goody ! 

[Santa Clans blows three blasts on his wi 
and listens. The music-box in the 
bower begins to play. 
Santa Claus. Listen ! She 's coming ! 
A*. Fairy music. 
V. and Z. Sh-h ! 

[ The fairy comes down from B, skipping 

reciting or singing: 

In the secret rocky dell, 

There the fairies love to dwell ; 

Where the stars on dew-drops glance, 

There the fairies love to dance. 

Both dwarfs [bowing to Santa Claus] 

Fairy Queen, my lord ! 

Santa Claus [bowing]. Hail, Queen of the Fa 
A'., Y. and Z. [bowing]. Hail, Queen o 
Fairies ! 

Fairy Queen [bowing]. Hail, Santa C 
Hail, little friends ! 

Oh, stocking-filler, Santa Claus, 
I heard you whistle — what 's the cause 
You rough and shaggy children's friend 
Why did you for a fairy send ? 
Santa Claus [taking snuff]. Why, you see, 1 

a Sunday-school forgotten, hundred chi 

I want to give them something: But they ha 
got anything to put it in. 
Fairy Queen. How would fairy stockings 
White or black or pink or blue ? 
A". Fairy stockings ! 
]'. Oh, my! 

Z. Goody ! goody ! goody ! 
Fairy Queen [waving her hand toward fi] 
Whatever Santa Claus ?hall say, 
That let Fairyland obey. 
Santa Claus [entering the house and blowi. 
whistle.] Fill up the stockings, fairies; fill u 

[ The dwarfs enter, this time by the from\ 
and return carrying between them a 
full of little pink tarlatan stockings 
with candy, nuts, etc., which are the. 
tributed to the children. 



By Isabella Valancv Crawford. 

ITTLF. Nona and her 
mother were walking 
together through the 
wood on their way 
home from market. 
The wood was a wild, 
lonely place enough, 
but that was not the 
reason why Nona sud- 
jag" denly turned, ran back 

*fn iCpPsSK, * to h er mol; her's side, 

and clutched her gown 
with a frightened air. 
No, it was because Ger- 
stein, the huntsman, 
had become visible in 
a side-path. 

Why do you always run away from Gerstein ? 

5 a good, kind fellow," said the mother. 

Oh, no, mother ! he cannot be good, he is so 

dfully ugly, and has a hump on his back," 

I'ered Nona, shuddering. 

His hump is not his fault ; the good God gave it 

"said the mother severely. " And do you sup- 
that only handsome and straight people are 

ous and respectable ? " 

Dna felt ashamed, but she nodded her little 

That shows what a silly child you are," went 
ne mother, " silly and thoughtless, too. When 
are older and wiser, you will see your mistake, 
discover that ugly forms often cover kind hearts, 
li that a beautiful person is sometimes the cloak 
ilfcad nature. Now you are but a child and we 

forgive you for being foolish." 
<j)na shook her short golden curls and looked 
nvinced. Gerstein had now disappeared, so 
ran forward gayly and without fear, till the 
Is were passed, and they neared the brook and 
mill, close to which was her home, for Nona 
die miller's little daughter. 
Ho, ho ! " cried an elf as the mother and child 
■d out of view. " So you don't believe in ugly 
;le, fraulein Nona? And you think all pretty 
le are good, do you ? Just give me the chance, 
I'll show you the difference," And the elf 
' ;d his legs together, and doubled himself up in 
iig fit of chuckling laughter which sounded 
■ . igh the wood like the clink of tiny castanets. 
1 Vhat are you laughing at, friend Greenjacket ? " 
1 a doe who, with her fawn beside her, was 

cropping the grass close to the bough on which the 
elf sat astride, swinging to and fro. 

" At the folly of a mortal child," responded the 
elf. " Not the first one I have laughed at either. 
Mortal children are uncommonly silly. This little 
fool now-, because she happens to be pretty herself, 
imagines that every one who is not pretty must be 
wicked. Ho! ho! ho!" 

" Dear me," sighed the doe, raising her beauti- 
ful head with a sniff. " Lightfoot," turning to the 
fawn, " I hope, dear, you have more sense than 
that, young as you are." 

'• Oh, yes, mamma," said the fawn. " I thought 
the wild cat we saw was so pretty, you remember, 
till you told me what a cruel beast it is. Now I am 

" I '11 teach her a lesson," said the chuckling elf, 
balancing himself on his thumbs, and flourishing 
his legs. Then he nodded to the doe, and with a 
rapid movement vanished into a crack in the 

Nona had no idea that the creatures of the forest 
were discussing her thus. She was a good, helpful 
child in spite of the small flaws of character which 
we have seen ; and having many things to do about 
the house, it was several days after this conversation 
with her mother before she again walked in the 
wood. This time she went alone. The forest had 
a bad reputation among the country people, who 
considered it the home of sprites, dwarfs, goblins, 
and other unearthly beings. But Nona had lived 
close to it all her life, and was not in the least afraid. 
She had never seen a goblin, and did not believe 
there were any in the wood. So she tripped gayly 
along the shady paths, gathering flowers, and sing- 
ing a little song so sweetly that the birds flew 
after, perching on way-side trees, and joining their 
shrill pipes to the melody of her voice till the leafy 
aisles rang with the noisy concert. 

Thus Nona wandered on. Hour after hour 
passed ; more birds, more flowers, more distance 
measured by the busy feet, till suddenly the sun 
dropped out of sight, the shadows of the trees 
mingled into one, and Nona aroused as from a 
dream, to find herself in a new and strange place 
which she did not recognize at all. 

She was not frightened at first ; it seemed as 
though it must be easy to return to the accustomed 
path, but when moment after moment went by, each 
bringing fresh bewilderment, deeper twilight, she 
lost courage. To and fro she ran; searched this 

I 3 6 



way, that. All was of no use. At last she sat down 
on a moss-covered log, and began to cry. The wind 
rose and made strange sounds in the boughs above ; 
her sobs echoed through the lonely wood, and every 
now and then a queer noise as of soft chuckling 
laughter mingled with these echoes, and perplexed 
her. Her eyes were too dim with tears to see where, 
not far off, an odd little sharp face, surmounted by 
a pointed cap, was poked from beneath a grass tuft 
to watch her movements. It was naughty Green- 
jacket, who, having led Nona into this trap, was 
enjoying his success. 

Presently the moon rose, and Greenjacket drew 
in his head, afraid of detection. The stars came 
out in the sky, and twinkled in a friendly manner, 
which was cheering. Then the moon reached down 
a long ray like a hand, touched Nona's hand, and 
seemed to draw her along. She went for a few 
paces, then paused affrighted, for a small figure 
stopped the way, and a keen little voice said, " This 
is the path, Nona, I '11 guide you." 

" Oh, dear, what is it ? " she gasped. 

" This way," repeated the voice ; and Nona fol- 
lowing quite bewildered, Greenjacket led her down 
a narrow path beset with brambles, which plucked 
and caught at her dress as though they wished to 
detain her. Suddenly the path ended in a great 
rock in which was a black, gaping cave-mouth. 

''Oh, what is that? Why did you bring me 
here ? " cried Nona. 

" It is the cave of Bruin the bear. He is the 
ugliest bear in the wood, so you can fancy how bad 
he must be," replied the mocking sprite. " Ho, 
Bruin ! Come out of your house and see what a 
nice little tidbit I've brought you." 

With these words, the fairy vanished, while Nona, 
with a moan of despair, sank on the ground, sob- 
bing to herself, "What shall I do? what shall I 

" Ugh ! ugh ! " growled a deep voice from the 
depths inside. ''Who is that? Ugh! ugh!" 

Nona's heart stood still with fear as she heard a 
heavy footstep approaching, and saw the red glare 
of a torch. Presently out of the cave-mouth came 
a huge black bear, lumbering on his clumsy toes, 
and growling dreadfully. Another bear followed, 
carrying in his paws a torch which he held respect- 
fully to light the big bear along. 

" Ho, ho ! " said the big bear. " Who have we 
got here, I should like to know ? " and he put his 
nose so close that Nona thought he was going to 
eat her at once, and shivered with fright. 

" You are cold," said the bear, misunderstanding 
this motion. " It is a chilly night, but inside my 
house you '11 find it nice and warm. Come in, 
come in, you 're just in time for supper." 

"Oh dear! he means me. 1 am the supper," 

thought Nona, and she began to cry bitterly, mi 
to the surprise of the kind old bear. 

" Heyday ! " he exclaimed. " What 's all tl 
I never saw such a child for crying. Come in 
warm yourself, and let me see if I can't find soi 
thing you can fancy to eat." 

" Don*t you eat little girls ever ? " inquired No 
still drawing back. 

"Little girls! Nonsense! They're not g 
to eat. We like potatoes and ground-nuts m 
better," said Bruin, and Nona, quite re-assurec 
his tone, resisted no longer, but took his paw, wl: 
he offered politely, and let him lead her into 
cave. It was light inside. A big fire burned 
the ground, over which hung pots and kettles, fi 
which issued all sorts of savory smells. But N 
shuddered a little as she perceived, seated round 
crimson fire, a number of strange and ugly cr 
ures, who all rose and saluted as she entered \ 
the bear. 

There were brown elves no bigger than a m; 
thumb, with spindle legs and green, shining e: 
There were dwarfs with heads like pumpkins, 
bodies as thin and wiry as that of a daddy-lc 
legs ; hairy creatures who carried brooms in 
hands ; moon-faced goblins, sprites, wrapped 
green little sheets ; and tiny men in green, an 
with canes tipped with bee-stings. All of tl 
bowed and smiled pleasantly as they made n 
for Nona beside the fire, and after a few min 
she ceased to be afraid, so easily do we accus 
ourselves to what is amiable and harmless t 
when it takes a hideous form. 

The pots and pans held some odd food iv| 
looked unlike anything Nona was used to eat, 
one of the bears supplied her with a bowl of 
milk and a honey-comb, both of which articles 
knew all about. So the supper passed off me 
with her as with the rest. 

Supper ended, the company remained by 
fire conversing pleasantly. Not a cross word 
spoken by any one. The very ugliest of the i 
lins seemed to have the wish to be agreeable. N 
saw an elf with spider-claws get up to offer his 
to a little dwarf whose corner was chilly, 
noticed that in spite of his gruff voice and clu 
movements, the big bear was the life of the p: 
and seemed to have but one wish, that of mal 
all about him comfortable and at home. She be 
quite to love the old fellow with his shaggy 1 
and blunt muzzle, and when he asked her to 
them a song, she made no objections, but lifted 
voice and sang even more sweetly than when 
afternoon she had charmed the birds. The b 
and all the assemblage were delighted, and -beg 
for another and another, till Nona had finishei 
the songs she knew. 




After that the big bear 
ing, which ran as follows : 

himself volunteered a 

' Though I 'm a rough old fellow, 

With a shaggy coat, 
With a voice which comes like thunder 

From my wide, red throat, 
With little eyes and fishy, 

And a pair of great brown paws 
Finished and ornamented 

By strong, sharp claws. 
Although I 'm very ugly 

allowed to light Nona home, so they trimmed their 
glow-worm lamps, and the good old bear, placing 
her on his back, trotted through the woods in the 
direction of the mill. The elves flew beside, amus- 
ing themselves with all sorts of droll pranks, 
pinching the squirrels as they lay asleep in their 
nests, wakening the birds, and rousing the dream- 
ing owl on the bough by a crack and a loud whoop 
in his ear. Some of the gentler ones filled Nona's 
basket with wood-flowers wet with dew ; and one 


If you judge me by my shell, 
Still my heart is kind and tender, 

And I love all things well. 
And there 's a good old saying, 

Admit it friends and foes, 
That only he is handsome 

Who always handsome does." 

Though Bruin's voice was rough as his coat, this 
igwas much applauded by the company, and he 
s begged to favor them with another, which he 
. Then a great clock struck, and it was time 
the party to break up. 

little darling brought her a rose-cup in which were 
cuddled two tiny butterflies, side by side. So they 
went along. 

As they gained the edge of the forest, a horn was 
sounded close to them, and Bruin set Nona hastily 
down on the ground. 

'' Here we part." he said, ''for that is the horn 
of Gerstein. the huntsman. And a wise bear will 
keep out of his way, though he 's a good fellow and 
a kind one. Good-bye, dear Nona. Don't forget 
your friends, the bears, and remember [here 




Bruin's voice grew impressive] , remember that an 
ugly creature may have as kind a heart, and be as 
worthy of regard, as a handsome one." 

Nona blushed deeply and felt abashed, for she 
now understood that her foolish words had been 
overheard, and that the bear wished to give her a 

" Good-bye. You Ye all been so good," she fal- 
tered ; and even as she spoke, Bruin and the elves 
vanished, and she stood alone in the forest. 

Not alone for long, however. In another moment 
Gerstein broke through the boughs, and the joyful 
smile which lit his face when he saw her, made him 
seem almost beautiful. 

" Here is the dear little maiden," he cried. 

" Well, there will be joy at the mill. Thy mothc 
has wept much, Nona ; thy father has searched al 
night, but now all will be forgotten, for thou ar 
safe, praise be to God."' Then he lifted Nona in hi 
strong arms, and as she clung to his rough shouldc 
she thought of the good bear, and it seemed to he 
that Gerstein was of kin to him, strong and ugh 
but kind of deed and tende 1 - -,iTieart. 

Ever after that day she loved Gerstein. Ant 
when her mother saw her run to meet him, ant 
jump for joy at the sound of the horn which told o 
his coming, she would smile and say: 

" Thou art grown wiser, Nona. I told thee on 
day that so it would be. Dost thou not remember 
It was the day we walked together in the wood." 




By Rebecca Harding Davis. 

It is a single little doll, laid away by itself in a 
box — a cheap china doll, such as you buy for a few 
cents, but dressed in a gay slip, with lace ; the sew- 
ing on the dress very bad indeed — in some places 
the stitches long and gaping. I want to tell the 
readers of St. NICHOLAS the story of the doll and 
the sewing on it. 

A year ago, a young girl, one of the teachers in 
a school in a great city, bade good-bye to the chil- 
dren and went home. The children laughed a 

great deal, and the story went about how that Mi; 
Nelly was going to be married soon, and was goin 
home to learn to keep house. 

Nelly was one of the merriest girls in the work 
In school or at home, everybody tried to sit ne; 
to her, to hear her laugh. Nobody was 'ever s 
friendly or so full of life, they said. But she wi 
not strong ; and when she went home, instead c 
learning to keep house, she grew thinner an 
weaker day by day, while the doctors stood hel; 

i8 7 6.] 



lessly looking on. The marriage was put off again 
and again. At last she could not leave her room. 
Yet still people tried to come close to her ; the 
laugh was always ready on her lips, and the big 
blue eyes grew more friendly with each fading day. 
The valley of the shadow of death was sunnier to 
her than life is to most people. She held the hands 
of all her friends as she went through it, and the 
best Friend of all was close beside her. 

It began to be noticed, however, that she was 
anxious to sew or knit all the time, to make some- 
thing for little children — soft, white little shirts, or 
baby's socks. It may be that the thought of a 
little child which ne,ver should rest on her own 
bosom was the tenderest memory in the world she 
was leaving. In the city where she lived there is 
a hospital for sick children, in which there are 
many " memorial beds " given as legacies by dying 
women, or in remembrance of them by their friends. 
Nelly had no money to endow a memorial bed, but 
her thoughts were busy with the sick babies. 

" I will dress a box of dolls," she said, " so that 
each can have one on Christmas morning." 

They gave her the doll, and scraps of silk and 
lace, and she worked faithfully at it with her trem- 
bling fingers. 

'■ I will have them ready," she would say. 

I!ut it seemed as if she would not have even one 
ready, she was forced so often to lay it down. One 
September night she was awake all night, and by 
dawn made them wash and dress her and give her 
her work-box and scissors. 

By noon the doll was dressed, and she laid it 
down, smiling. 

An hour or two later, they told her that the end 
was near. " She kissed them all good-bye. Her 
face was that of one who goes upon a pleasant 
journey ; and, holding her mother's hand, she 
closed her eyes and went away. 

There is the little doll, alone in its box. I 
thought if each little girl who reads this story in 
St. Nicholas would dress a doll and send it to a 
poor child in some asylum or hospital on Christmas 
morning, that Nelly would surely know of it, and 
be glad that she and her loving fancy had not been 


By Lucretia P. Hale. 

PRETTY early in the autumn the Peterkins began 
to prepare for their Christmas-tree. Everything 
was done in great privacy, as it was to be a surprise 
to the neighbors, as well as to the rest of the family. 
! Mr. Peterkin had been up to Mr. Bromwich's wood- 
lot, and, with his consent, selected the tree. Aga- 
memnon went to look at it occasionally after dark, 
and Solomon John made frequent visits to it, morn- 
ings, just after sunrise. Mr. Peterkin drove Eliza- 
beth Eliza and her mother that way, and pointed 
furtively to it with his whip, but none of them ever 
spoke of it aloud to each other. It was suspected 
:hat the little boys had been to see it Wednesday 
"ind Saturday afternoons. But they came home 
with their pockets full of chestnuts, and said nothing 

ibout it. 
At length Mr. Peterkin had it cut down, and 

jrought secretly into the Larkins's barn. A week 
or two before Christmas, a measurement was made 

>f it, with Elizabeth Eliza's yard-measure. To Mr. 
3?eterkin's great disma; , it was discovered that it 
: vas too high to stand in the back parlor. This 

act was brought out at a secret council of Mr. 

and Mrs. Peterkin, Elizabeth Eliza, and Aga- 

Agamemnon suggested that it might be set up 
slanting, but Mrs. Peterkin was very sure it would 
make her dizzy, and the candles would drip. 

But a brilliant idea came to Mr. Peterkin. He 
proposed that the ceiling of the parlor should be 
raised to make room for the top of the tree. 

Elizabeth Eliza thought the space would need to 
be quite large. It must not be like a small box, or 
you could not see the tree. 

" Yes," said Mr. Peterkin, " I should have the 
ceiling lifted all across the room ; the effect would 
be finer." 

Elizabeth Eliza objected to having the whole ceil- 
ing raised, because her room was over the back 
parlor, and she would have no floor while the 
alteration was going on, which would be very awk- 
ward. Besides, her room was not very high now, 
and if the floor were raised, perhaps she could not 
walk in it upright. 

Mr. Peterkin explained that he did n't propose 
altering the whole ceiling, but to lift up a ridge 




across the room at the back part where the tree 
was to stand. This would make a hump, to be sure, 
in Elizabeth Eliza's room ; but it would go across 
the whole room. 

Elizabeth Eliza said she would not mind that. It 
would be like the cuddy thing that comes up on 
the deck of a ship, that you sit against, only here 
you would not have the seasickness. She thought 
she should like it for a rarity. She might use it 
for a divan. 

Mrs. Peterkin thought it would come in the worn 
place of the carpet, and might be a convenience in 
making the carpet over. 

Agamemnon was afraid there would be trouble 
in keeping the matter secret, for it would be a long 
piece of work for a carpenter ; but Mr. Peterkin 
proposed having the carpenter for a day or two, for 
a number of other jobs. 

One of them was to make all the chairs in the 
house of the same height, for Mrs. Peterkin had 
nearly broken her spine, by sitting down in a chair 
that she had supposed was her own rocking-chair, 
and it had proved to be two inches lower. The 
little boys were now large enough to sit in any 
chair ; so a medium was fixed upon to satisfy all 
the family, and the chairs were made uniformly of , 
the same height. 

On consulting the carpenter, however, he insisted 
that the tree could be cut off at the lower end to 
suit the height of the parlor, and demurred at so 
great a change as altering the ceiling. But Mr. 
Peterkin had set his mind upon the improvement, 
and Elizabeth Eliza had cut her carpet in prepara- 
tion for it. 

So the folding-doors into the back parlor were 
closed, and for nearly a fortnight before Christmas 
there was great litter of fallen plastering, and laths, 
and chips, and shavings ; and Elizabeth Eliza's car- 
pet was taken up, and the furniture had to be 
changed, and one night she had to sleep at the 
Bromwichs', for there was a long hole in her floor 
that might be dangerous. 

All this delighted the little boys. They could 
not understand what was going on. Perhaps they 
suspected a Christmas-tree, but they did not know 
why a Christmas-tree should have so many chips, 
and were still more astonished at the hump that 
appeared in Elizabeth Eliza's room. It must be a 
Christmas present, or else the tree in a box. 

Some aunts and uncles, too, arrived a day or two 
before-Christmas, with some small cousins. These 
cousins occupied the attention of the little boys, 
and there was a great deal of whispering and mys- 
tery, behind doors, and under the stairs, and in the 
corners of the entry. 

Solomon John was busy, privately making some 
candles for the tree. He had been collecting some 

bayberries, as he understood they made very nice 
candles, so that it would not be necessary to buy 

The elders of the family never all went into the 
back parlor together, and all tried not to see what 
was going on. Mrs. Peterkin would go in with 
Solomon John, or Mr. Peterkin with Elizabeth Eliza, 
or Elizabeth Eliza and Agamemnon and Solomon 
John. The little boys and the small cousins were 
never allowed even to look inside the room. 

Elizabeth Eliza meanwhile went into town a num- 
ber of times. She wanted to consult Amanda as 
to how much ice-cream they should need, and 
whether they could make it *t home, as they had 
cream and ice. She was pretty busy in her own 
room; the furniture had to be changed, and the 
carpet altered. The " hump " was higher than she 
had expected. There was danger of bumping her 
own head whenever she crossed it. She had to 
nail some padding on the ceiling for fear of acci- 

The afternoon before Christmas, Elizabeth Eliza, 
Solomon John, and their father, collected in the 
back parlor for a council. The carpenters had done 
their work, and the tree stood at its full height at 
the back of the room, the top stretching up into 
the space arranged for it. All the chips and shav- 
ings were cleared away, and it stood cm a neat box. 

But what were they to put upon the tree ? 

Solomon John had brought in his supply of can- 
dles, but they proved to be very "stringy" and 
very few of them. It was strange how many bay- 
berries it took to make a few candles ! The little 
boys had helped him, and he had gathered as much 
as a bushel of bayberries. He had put them in 
water, and skimmed off the wax, according to the 
directions, but there was so little wax ! 

Solomon John had given the little boys some of 
the bits sawed off from the legs of the chairs. He 
had suggested they should cover them with gilt 
paper, to answer for gilt apples, without telling 
them what they were for. 

These apples, a little blunt at the end, and the 
candles, were all they had for the tree. 

After all her trips into town, Elizabeth Eliza had 
forgotten to bring anything for it. 

"I thought of candies and sugar-plums," she 
said, " but I concluded if we made caramels our- 
selves we should not need them. But, then, we 
have not made caramels. The fact is, that day 
my head was full of my carpet. I had bumped 
it pretty badly, too." 

Mr. Peterkin wished he had taken, instead of a 
fir-tree, an apple-tree he had seen in October, full 
of red fruit. 

" But the leaves would have fallen off by this 
time," said Elizabeth Eliza. 






" And the apples too," said Solomon John. 
; " It is odd I should have forgotten, that day I 
Vent in on purpose to get the things," said Eliza- 
>eth Eliza, musingly. " But I went from shop to 
hop, and didn't know exactly what to get. I saw 
I great many gilt things for Christmas-trees, but I 
knew the little boys were making the gilt apples; 
•here were plenty of candles in the shops, but I 
! :new Solomon John was making the candles." 
Mr. Peterkin thought it was quite natural. 
Solomon John wondered if it were too late for 
hem to go into town now. 

' Elizabeth Eliza could not go in the next morn- 
ag, for there was to be a grand Christmas dinner, 
■nd Mr. Peterkin could not be spared, and Solomon 
! lohn was sure he and Agamemnon would not know 
'hat to buy. Besides, they would want to try the 
andles to-night. 
Mr. Peterkin asked if the presents everybody 
ad been preparing would not answer? But Eliza- 
eth Eliza knew they would be too heavy. 
A gloom came over the room. There was only 
flickering gleam from one of Solomon John's 
andles that he had lighted by way of trial. 
Solomon John again proposed going into town, 
[e lighted a match to examine the newspaper about 
le trains. There were plenty of trains coming out 
t that hour, but none going in except a very late 
ne. That would not leave time to do anything" 
nd come back. 

' "We could go in, Elizabeth Eliza and I," said 
olomon John, "but we should not have time to 
uy anything." 

Agamemnon was summoned in. Mrs. Peterkin 
as entertaining the uncles and aunts in the front 
arlor. Agamemnon wished there was time to 
:udy up something about electric lights. If they 
Duld only have a calcium light ! Solomon John's 
andle sputtered and went out. 

' At this rhoment there was a loud knocking at the 
ont door. The little boys, and the small cousins, 

and the uncles and aunts, and Mrs. Peterkin, 
hastened to see what was the matter. 

The uncles and aunts thought somebody's house 
must be on fire. The door was opened, and there 
was a man, white with flakes, for it was beginning 
to snow, and he was pulling in a large box. 

Mrs. Peterkin supposed it contained some of 
Elizabeth Eliza's purchases, so she ordered it to be 
pushed into the back parlor, and hastily called back 
her guests and the little boys into the other room. 
The little boys and the small cousins were sure they 
had seen Santa Claus himself. 

Mr. Peterkin lighted the gas. The box was 
addressed to Elizabeth Eliza. It was from the lady 
from Philadelphia ! She had gathered a hint from 
Elizabeth Eliza's letters that there was to be a 
Christmas-tree, and had filled this box with all 
that would be needed. 

It was opened directly. There was every kind 
of gilt hanging thing, from gilt pea-pods to butter- 
flies on springs. There were shining flags and 
lanterns, and bird-cages, and nests with birds sit- 
ting on them, baskets of fruit, gilt apples and 
bunches of grapes, and, at the bottom of the 
whole, a large box of candles and a box of Phila- 
delphia bonbons ! t 

Elizabeth Eliza and Solomon John could scarcely 
keep from screaming. The little boys and the 
small cousins knocked on the folding-doors to ask 
what was the matter. 

Hastily Mr. Peterkin and the rest took out the 
things and hung them on the tree, and put on the 

When all was done, it looked so well that Mr. 
Peterkin exclaimed : 

" Let us light the candles now, and send to invite 
all the neighbors to-night, and have the tree on 
Christmas Eve ! " 

And so it was that the Peterkins had their 
Christmas-tree the day before, and on Christmas 
night could go and visit their neighbors. 



Johnny looked down in the spring, one night, 
And what did he see but a dipper ! 

The handle crooked, the bottom out. 
Yet floating as trim as a clipper. 

It wasn't broken; 'twas good as new; 
Yes, fit for a monarch's daughter. 

Ho ! you 're a funny old dipper ! " said 

•' You can't hold a drop of water." 

John ; 






A BUSY December to you, my youngsters! A 
busy December, full of plans for making other peo- 
ple happy ; and then a merry Christmas ! The 
holiday St. Nicholas, I 'm told, will reach you 
this year before Christmas Day. If that 's the case, 
why Christmas, too, will come in ahead of time, 
that 's all. 

The fact is, Christmas is n't a golden flash in the 
children's sky. No, it 's a sort of goldy way, bright, 
beautiful, and holy, that shimmers into view early 
in December, grows brightest on The Day, and 
then fades slowly into the New Year. Christmas 
shines in some hearts as soon as they know it is 

Let 's see. We must start off with a holiday sub- 
ject this time. Ha ! I have it ! 


Now and then, the Little Schoolma'am reads 
things to the children that make your Jack almost 
jump out of his pulpit. Now what do you think 
of this account which the little lady lately read out 
of an old book to a hungry group of youngsters 
who had crowded about her because they had seen 
her "laughing at something in the book?" She 
said the June referred to was the summer of 18 19. 

"On June 8th, at Paignton fair, near Exeter, the ancient custom 
of drawing through the town a plum-pudding of an immense size, 
and afterward distributing it to the populace, was revived. The in- 
gredients which composed this enormous pudding were 400 pounds 
of flour. 170 pounds of beef suet, 140 pounds of raisins, and 240 eggs. 
It was kepv constantly boiling in a brewer's copper from Saturday 
morning to Tuesday, when it was placed on a car, decorated with 
ribbons, evergreens, &c, and drawn along the street by eight oxen." 

There was a pudding for you, almost as grand 
as Mother Mitchel's ! But they should have saved 
it for Christmas. 


My Dear Jack : Will you please let me tell the other girls, and 
their brothers, how to make something pretty for Christmas? 

In Bethlehem, Pa., where mother and I passed considerable time, 
there is a large Moravian settlement, and some of their customs are 
very interesting, particularly during the Christmas season At that 
time, the Moiavians make what they call a Putz, not only for the 
amusement of their children, hut for all who may come to see it. 

A Putz is a miniature landscape, with whatever figures you may 
.like to put in it. Some of these scenes are made on a grand scale ; 
but smaller ones, eqally pretty, and not so difficult to manage, are 
made at fhe foot of the Christmas-tree. The tree is placed on a table, 
or, better still, it is set in a large dry-goods box, and then boards are 
put across the top of the box, as a foundation for the Putz. 

If you wish to make one, girls, you have only to go into the woods 
for your materials. Pieces of rock, large and small, mosses, ferns, 
lichens, vines, and whatever you may think pretty, will answer the 
purpose. The large rocks, you use for mountains, interspersed with 
small branches of cedar and pine for trees. A narrow piece of tin- 
foil, bent into various shapes, will do for a water-fall, across which a 
card-board bridge can be laid. Lower down, you can have a looking- 
glass lake, or, better still, a tin pan, filled with water, on which arti- 
ficial ducks, geese, fish, boats, etc., can float. Conceal the edge of 
the glass or pan with moss, and put grave! at the bottom of your real 
lake, as well as gravel walks around it 

With card-board houses, and fences, and miniature sheep, horses, 
etc.. you can make very pretty scenes. Or you can represent the 
birth of the Christ-child, with small toy figures that come expressly 
for such scenes. You will find it easy to make a pretty design for 
Christmas with very little material. 

The Moravians at Bethlehem welcome all visitors, whether stran- 
gers or not, who choose to go into any of the houses to examine the 
Putz, and it certainly is a very interesting sight. 

I am your sincere young friend, Mamie H. 


" Deacon Green, please sir, Tom Scott says 
Aspinwall is west of Panama, and I say it is n't." 

" Well, my man, what are your grounds for dis- 
puting him ? " said the Deacon, mildly, seeing that 
some reply was, expected. 

" Why, good grounds enough, sir. He admits 
that Aspinwall is on the Atlantic Ocean side of the 
isthmus, and Panama is on the Pacific Ocean, or 
that part of it known as Panama Bay. Humph ! 
guess 'most anybody ought to know that the Pacific 
Ocean is west of this continent, and the Atlantic 
is east of it ; and yet he sticks to it that Panama is 
east of Aspinwall ! " 

" Well, Thomas is generally pretty sure of a 
statement before he makes it," put in the Deacon. 

" But, sir," proceeded the boy, growing redder 
as he began to suspect that the Deacon might be 
on Tom's side, " I don't see any sense in going 
right against geography. He needn't try to make 
out that the Pacific Ocean is east of the Atlantic — 
not on this side of the world, sir." 

"That's true," said the Deacon. "And now. 
Joe, I '11 tell you what I '11 do. You just run home 
and examine the map closely, and then if you find, 
on careful inspection, that Thomas is wrong, come 
to me and I '11 fill your hat with the finest apples 
you ever tasted in your life." 

Joe did run home ; he did examine the map 
closely — and to this day he never has said a word 
to the Deacon about those apples. 


Germantown, August ioth, 1876. 
Dear Jack : I wish to tell you a little story about a canary and 
a sparrow. One momine, while my little brother and myself were 
sitting on the piazza, a sparrow came and perched on my canary's 
cage, and began eating the seed it found on the outside. My bird 
was very glad to see a friend, and immediately began singing. My 




ittle brotlier happened to be eating a piece of bread, and he threw a 
ew crumbs to the sparrow, which it soon picked up and carried to 
he canary. It was very funny to see it put the crumbs in the canary's 
kieak. I think it gave them to the canary because it was thankful 
or the seed my bird had given him. — Yours truly, 

Edith M. Darrach. 


New York, Oct. 12, 1876. 

Dear Jack-IN-THE-Pulpi t : Once, when I was 
n Holland, waiting in an Amsterdam railroad sta- 
ion for the train to come along, I saw something 
very pretty that I made a drawing of it on pur- 
pose for you, knowing you would like to show it to 
our boys and girls. Here it is — a bird-cage, and 
he very finest bird-cage I ever saw in my life. 
There is no need of describing it. The children 
/ill see the beautiful stand embellished with moss 
nd flowers, the two houses set in the midst of the 
;reen, the connecting gallery covered with fine wire 
■auze, and the birds skipping to and fro enjoying 
very inch of it. They can see, too, the bell in the 
agoda tower which rings sweetly whenever the 
ttle inmates choose to pull the string. In fact, 
'hile I was looking, one of the birds did pull the 
tring, so I sketched him in the act. 

I did not draw the railroad station, you see, Jack, 
ecause the person who was taking the cage home 

Warren, the St. Nicholas artist. He has done 
it so beautifully and accurately that if ever I make- 
any more drawings I shall ask him to copy them 
for the credit of the family. 

I am, dear Mr. Jack, yours very truly, 

Joel Stacy. 

the safety lamp. 

Philadelphia, Sept. 25, 1876. 

Dear Little Schoolma'am : I think the omission in C. A. D.'s 
letter, page 798, of the October St. Nicholas, is the safety lamp 
that Sir Humphrey Davy invented, by means of which many lives 
have been saved. In May, 1812, an explosion of gas took place in 
the Felling Colliery, near Newcastle, which caused the death of nine- 
ty-two persons. This prompted a committee of proprietors of mines 
to wait upon Davy to sec if he could devise any way of preventing 
similar accidents. 

Davy had observed that combustion was not communicated through 
tubes of small dimensions, and, by experimenting, he gradually re- 
duced the size of the tubes till he found that a metallic gauge, with 
apertures not exceeding one twenty-second part of an inch, was 
sufficient to prevent the flame inside of the lamp from igniting the 
explosive gas on the outside. He therefore devised a lamp with a 
wire screen, which the miners could use with safety. 

Your friend, Francis H. Jackson, Jr. 

The Little Schoolma'am wishes Jack to thank 
Master Jackson, Nelly M. Sherwin, Martie S. D., 
" Ned," R. S. S., and all other young friends who 
have correctly given the important fact omitted by 
C. A. D. She wishes you also to know that a new 


■f a birthday present to his little daughter, said it 
is to be set upon a pedestal in the garden. I 
i'<-tld n't help thinking how delighted the little girl 
i )uld be with his beautiful gift, and how easily "the 
,:ing could be copied (from the drawing) by some 
merican cage-maker in case I ever should want 
give my little girl a superb Christmas present. 
Then I thought of your thousands of young folks, 
d how some of their fathers, who could spare the 
quisite money, might like to have such cages 
ide for them. The wire-work can be so delicate 
it the birds inside will almost think they are not 
;ged at all. Perhaps I ought to tell you that the 
awing I send was made from my sketch by Mr. 

safety lamp, called Landau's New Safety Lamp, for 
use in mines, promises to be an improvement even 
on Sir Humphrey Davy's. She says, "Tell them 
that the chief peculiarity of the invention is that, 
by an ingenious arrangement, the admission of 
gas extinguishes the flame, so that it cannot under 
any circumstances be exploded by the lamp." 

Humph ! The dear Little Schoolma'am does n't 
tell us how the miners will feel when they are left 
in the dark. I should n't like that part of the in- 
vention ; still, it is better than being blown up. 
Any intelligent miner would rather have a whole 
body in the dark, than to be scattered about in 
fragments in a good light. 





nce a robin flew into a pretty room ; 
and just as he went in, the wind 
banned the window-blinds shut, so 
he could not cret out a grain. 

At first he did not mind, but flew 
about and lit on the bright picture- 
frames, and wished his pretty wife 
were with him to enjoy the pleasant 
place. Then he rested on the back 
of a small chair, and then he saw 
another robin ! 

" O-ho ! " sang he to himself, — 
" here is some one else. I must 
speak to him : ' Whew ! Mr. Robin, 
glad to meet you. My name is 
Cock Robin. What do they call 
this place ? ' " 

But the other robin did not an- 
swer. He only opened his mouth 
and jerked his head from side toj 
side just as Mr. Cock Robin did. 
You see the other robin lived in the 
looking-glass, and could not speak. 

" A rude fellow ! " chirped Mr.' 
Cock Robin to himself. " Not worth 
talking to ! Ah ! yonder are some 
fine cherries ! I '11 eat some." 

The cherries were in a bowl on 
the table. Mr. Cock Robin helped 
himself. Then he decided to try the 
other bird once more. 

" My friend," sang he softly, as he 
caught the stem of a fine cherry 
in his beak and flew to the chair 
again, " here is a fine cherry for 
you Oh ! oh ! " 


Well might Mr. Cock Robin say " Oh ! " for there stood the other robin 
n just such a chair, offering him a cherry in the most polite manner ! 

" Thanks ! " said Mr. Cock Robin. " But, my deaf and dumb friend, 
„$ we each have one, we need not stand on cer-e-mo-ny." 

So both began to eat. 

" He is a fine, sociable fellow, after all," said Mr. Cock Robin. 

The door opened, and in came a little girl. 

" What 's that ? " cried Mr. Cock Robin faintly to himself. 

The girl clapped her hands for joy, and ran toward him. 

Up flew Mr. Cock Robin in a great fright. He whisked past the looking- 
,lass and saw that the other robin was badly scared also. Then he tried to 
y out of a closed window where there were no blinds ; but he only dashed 
gainst some very hard kind of air that hurt his sides. If he had been like 
du, he would have known that it was window-glass, and not hard air. 

" Poor birdie ! " said the little girl, as she threw open the window. 
You shall go out if you want to." 

In an instant, Mr. Cock Robin was flying through the sunlight to his 
:tle wife. 

" Where have you been ? " chirped she, as he reached the nest. 

" Oh, I 've been on a visit," said Mr. Cock Robin — and he told her 
1 about it. 

Soon Mrs. Cock Robin said, softly : " I should like to see that other one. 
/as he very handsome, my dear ? " 

" Handsome ! " cried Mr. Robin, sharply. " Handsome ! Not at all, my 
'ear — a very homely bird, indeed ! Yes, ma'am — very homely, and as deaf 
5 a post." 

" How dreadful ! " sighed Mrs. Cock Robin. 


My little brother is — oh, so funny ! 
He thinks that a king is made of money ; 
He thinks little cherubs, overhead, 
Hold up the stars to light us to bed. 

He thinks that near those cherubs, but under, 
Are other cherubs who cause the thunder ; 

Vol. IV.— 10. 


They roll great tables and chairs around, 
And growl and roar with an awful sound. 

He thinks some quick little cherub scratches, 
To make the lightning, a million matches ; 
Another carries a watering-pot 
To wet the earth when it gets too hot. 

He thinks — my brother is, oh, so knowing ! — 
A feather-bed cherub does all the snowing ; 
He thinks the feathers come sailing down, 
And make the snow that whitens the town. 

He thinks that a painted mask can eat him ; 
Or pull his hair ; or chase and beat him. 
Yes, really thinks a mask is alive ! 
But my little brother is only five. 

He thinks little fairies make the clamor 
In grandpa's watch, with a tiny hammer. 
He thinks some fairies can live in a book ; 
Or dance in kettles, to frighten cook. 

He thinks the grasshoppers bring molasses ; 
That a fairy over the bright moon passes ; 
He thinks my Jack-in-the-box is alive, 
Like witches who go to the sky for a drive. 


He thinks our " sis " is her dolly's mother — 
My dear, absurd little baby brother ! 
Yes, thinks he is uncle, and feels quite grand 
To lead his niece about by the hand ! 

But, the best of all, he is really certain 
He once saw Santa Claus through the curtain ; 
And he thinks Old Santy '11 come by and by, 
On Christmas Eve — and so do I. 

! 7 6.] 








Words by Mary Mapes Dodge. 

; Sop. Solo. Allegro Moderate. 

1. Good news on Christ - mas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren dear ! 

2. Good news on Christ - mas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren sweet 1 

Tenor or Baritone Solo, ad lib. 

Music by F. Boott. 



3. Good news on Christ -mas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren 

4. Good news on Christ - mas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren 




once born 
to find the] 

are yours to \ 
the one Goo 

Beth - le- hem, Is liv - ing now and here. 
Ho - ly Child, Is light - ed for your feet. 

Good news on Christmas morn - ing, Good news, O child -ren 
Good news on Christmas morn - ing, Good news, O child - ren 


give the Lord, As ev - er wise men had. 
Shep- herd hold, The feeb - lest in his care. 

Good news on Christmas 
Good news on Christmas 






ing, Good news, O child - ren 
ing, Good news, O child - ren 

J-r— I N- 










■f "T 





dear ! For Christ, for Ch 1 ist, once bom in Beth - le - hem, Is liv - ing now and 
sweet ! The way, the way to find the Ho - ly Child, Is light - ed for your 

For Christ, once born in 
The way to find the 




glad ! Rare gifts, rare gifts are yours to give the Lord. As ev - er wise men had.... 
fair ! Still doth, still doth the one Good Shep-herd hold The feeb - lest in his care 

Rare gifts are yours to 1 
Still doth the one G00J 







S g-|-*~ »*=g-rg * 

r * 




Good news, good news, good news, good 





m *=g 

Beth - le - hem, Is liv - ing now and here. 
Ho - ly Child, Is light - ed for your feet 

Good news, good news, good news, good news, good news. 





give the Lord, As ev - er wise men had. 
Shep-herd hold, The feeb-lest In his care. 

Good news, good news, good news, good news, good news, good 

D. : 


3 g g- 





a tempo. 









rall..\ I. 

* JVords from St. Nicholas for January, 1876. 






Home-made Christmas Presents. 

The best response we can make to correspondents who ask us for 
' p in devising Christmas presents that they can make with their 

n hands, is to refer them to the article called "One Hundred 

ristmas Presents, and How to Make Them," in St. Nich- 

\S for December, 1875. A new supply of this back number is 
'.*dy, and any one, by inclosing twenty-five cents with full past- 
lice address to the publishers, will receive a copy of the article by 

irn mail. It is so full, so clear, and so copiously illustrated, that 
, do not feel able to improve upon it. Our " Letter-Box " in last 
■ nth's St. Nicholas contains directions for making a few articles 
!fe Christmas gifts. In fact, suggestions for pretty handiwork abound 

St. Nicholas, and we always are glad when correspondents 

dly add to our stock. 

Berlin, Mass., August 29, 1S76. 

)ear St. Nicholas: I saw in your March number an account 
L ,-i doll claimed to be the oldest in America. 

1 friend of mine, Mary I,. Whitcomb, has in her possession a doll 
- ch is much older. This, the first doll brought to America, was 
denied, in 1733, by Captain George Girdler to his daughter, Han- 

Girdler, then two years of age. 
: 'he doll's body is of wood, to which the legs and arms are tacked 
■. 1 small nails. The doll's head is of wood, painted or coated with 

lething giving it an appearance not so much unlike that of those 
*v* ur day as might be expected. 
5t was last dressed about thirty-five years ago, and now wears a 

te lace cap, dress of brown satin, white stockings, and velvet 

pers, and looks very like the little old lady it is. I intended 
+ l *ing long before now on this subject, but have neglected to do so. 
3* ink St. Nicholas is a splendid magazine. — Very truly yours, 

Clara L. Shattuck. 

New York, Oct. 16, 1876. 

•ear St. Nicholas: I cut this out of the newspaper, and I do 

1 you would put it in the " Letter-Box." It is so nice, and it 
- r :es me feel as if Cinderella, and Jack-the-Giant- Killer, and all 
U 1 ie old stories might be true : 

_ \ Two exceedingly tall people are Captain Bates and wife, the giant 
j - giantess, who were married in London some years ago. The 
l^ain and spouse have retired from public life, and built a house 

r Rochester, New York. He is seven and a half feet high, and 
, is an inch taller, and each weighs more than four hundred pounds. 
''■ '' i rooms of their house arc eighteen feet highland the doors twelve 
Z : high. Their bedstead is ten feet long, and all the furniture is 
j;s>ortionateIy large." 
T^-ist to think of it ! I should n't be surprised if there were a great 

knocker on the slreet-cloor, made like a man's face, and if it snap- 
; its teeth at people when they went to knock. — Yours truly, 
t , Sally G. Clark. 

Orange, N. J., August 20, 1G76. 

ear St. Nicholas : I have seen a great many things about girls 
J± '- "Oving themselves and learning to be housekeepers, and so on ; 
" not a word about boys. Now I think that somebody ought to 

; something for us fellows. — Yours truly, Arthur Ropes. 

r thur, and hundreds of other boys, will be glad to know that his 

£ t has been anticipated. There are to be nine familiar and friendly 

1 dks with Boys" during the present volume of St. Nicholas, and 

if them from men who know just what the boys ought to hear. 

Bryant tells you this month of the ways of boys when he was a 

"jhimself, and beneath his pleasant narrative you will find many a 

^f n of true manliness. Every word of Mr. Bryant's has value for 

boys, because it comes from one who, by an upright, noble 

ind the worthy cultivation of fine gifts, has proved an honor to 

1 ime and his country. Soon you shall hear from the others. Your 

. Trowbridge has a hearty word to say, and friends from the 

St. Louis, Mo. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I live in St. Louis, and get your Magazine 
every month. I have got the hull of a boat, about two feet long, 
with places for two masts: and I have rigged her like a schooner and 
have great fun sailing her on a pond near where I live. But I never 
saw a vessel; only pictures, and don't know how to rig her right. I 
wish some boy, who lives on the sea-coast, would tell me how to rig 
her like a yachL 1 saw a picture of the " Countess of Dufferin," but 
I can't make it all out. My father has been to sea, and tries to ex- 
plain it to me; but he has forgotten, it was so long ago. Do yachts 
have fore top-masts, and top-sails ? and how is the top-sail hoisted ? 
And do they have ratlines? and do ihe stays come down over the 
ends of the cross-trees to the side of the vessel, or are they made fast 
to the mast? I don't see how they can be made fast to the mast, for 
then you can't raise the gaff; and I don't see how there can be a 
foretop-sail, because it would foul the maintop-stay. I am going to 
take my schooner to pieces, and rig it up right after school hours, 
and if you would like, I will tell you more about it some other time. — 

Lewis G. Conant. 

Miniature yachts, when rigged as schooners, have foretop-masts 

and maintop-masts, and foretop-sails, and maintop-sails. Both top- 
sails are secured to short " sprits " or poles, and are hoisted from 
deck. The stay from the foremast to the mainmast is called the 

. irowoncige lias a nearly word to say, and tnends irom the 

p; side of the Atlantic are coming to have a friendly talk with 

George MacDonald, who wrote that wonderful fairy tale, 

e Princess and the Goblin," and the rhyme beginning " Where 

; r 'ou come from, baby dear?" will soon be heard from, and before 

you shall have a word from the school-boy's friend, Tom Hughes, 

ar of " Tom Brown at Oxford " and " School-days at Rugby." 

" spring-stay," and in changing the vessel's course, the fore top-sail 
is lowered till it can pass under the spring-slay, and then it is brought 
up on the other side. Ratlines are never used on the shrouds. Only 
the larger vessels use cross-trees, or "spreaders" as they are called; 
and in every case the top-mast back-stays always come to the deck, 
and are fastened just abaft (to the rear) of the shroud. Such schoon- 
ers also have a stay from the top of the maintop-mast to the top of 
the mainmast, 

This outline drawing gives the position of the sails commonly used 
in miniature yachts; 1 is the mainsail, 2 the maintop-sail, 3 the fore- 
sail, 4 the foretop-sail, 5 the staysail, 6 the jib, 7 the flying-jib. The 
first mast is called the foremast; the short mast above, the foretop- 
mast. The second mast is the mainmast, and the one above it is 
the maintop-mast. Two shrouds arc given to each mast, and one 
back-stay to each topmast. The dotted lines show how the foretop- 
sail passes the spring-stay, and the top of the foresails, and shows 
how the jibs pass each other, one lapping over the other. This is an 
outline of the sails and standing rigging only, the running rigging 
being omitted to save room. 

Providence, R. I., October 23d, 1S76. 

Dear St. Nicholas: The lady with the cold in her head, men- 
tioned in the last number of St. Nicholas, called to the person who 
was coming, "Caduceus" — Can you see us? 

The Caduceus was the rod of Mercury, the messenger of the gods, 




and God of Trade, and also of thieves. It consisted of a short staff, 
around which two snakes twined, and which bore a pair ofwings.- 
Yours truly, 

Charles Hart Payne. 

Annie Manning also answers the question correctly. 

We are sure that all our readers who admire a fine dialogue, or 
parlor- play, will heartily welcome Mr. Eggleston's ''fairy show" 
in the present number, entided "The House of Santa Claus." The 
play has been publicly tried in Brooklyn, and has proven a complete 
success. With only slight changes, it can be readily adapted to 
home or parlor representation. In its present form, therefore, it com- 
mends itself equally to those who are seeking an effective and lively 
composition for school or public exhibition, and to those who may 
desire an aid of this sort in the entertainment of a social or family 

Boys and girls wishing to imitate stone, when making scenery such 
as is described in the " House of Santa Claus," or when making card- 
houses, etc., can do so by covering the object which is to represent 
stone with a coating of glue, or mucilage, and then throwing com- 
mon sand upon it, before the glue has dried. If the sand is applied 
liberally, a very close resemblance to stone may thus be produced. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I 've meant to write to you for ever so long, 
and to join with the rest of the girls and boys in telling how I love 
you, — yes, I believe I almost love you. I think you're just the fresh- 
est, cheeriest, jolliest, and altogether loveliest magazine I know of 
I 've taken you ever since you were born, and we all enjoy you so 
much, from grandma to my little three-year-old brother, who looks 
at the pictures, and takes a great deal of delight in having " Sister 
Lizzie" read the short, big-print stories to him. There was one in a 

previous number — I think the May one — which especially pl<: 
him, and which he is never tired of hearing read. I can't remei 
its name; but it's about some little chickens, whose mother told t 
to fly, but, as their wings were not grown, couldn't; and non 
them tried, except one, who did his best, although he did n't succ 
and was afterward rewarded because he really tried. "Brave 
our Centennial Cat," also delighted him very much. For my pa 
Hked " The Queen of the Moles," and Miss Thaxter's bear stoi 
well as any, though I don't know but Mrs. A. D. T. Whitr 
"Spinning and Weaving," "Midsummer and the Poets," 
well, I keep thinking of more and more of them,*— and all I can 1 
is to repeat what I said before, and that is, that I think the v 
number is just as nice as it could possibly be. — Yours always, 

L. W. 

St Alba 

Dear St. Nicholas: I will tell you a story about my uncle 

he was a little boy. He told his mother he was sick, and c 

want to go to school. She said he could take some castor-oil a: 

to bed. He went to school. Frankie Webb 

"The Boy Emigrants," which has so delighted our readers d 
the past year, is soon to be published in book form by Scribner, 
strong & Co. Mr. Brooks knows a boy's heart through and thr< 
and his fine story, with its wealth of strong narrative, exciting s 
a:,d incidents, and true lessons of self-reliance, ought to be re; 
every boy in the land. No better picture of the gold-seeker's Hi 
be found anywhere in literature than this stirring, straightfor 
manly story of "The Boy Emigrants." We know, young fii 
that all of you will rejoice at its publication in separate form, ai 
heartily congratulate Mr. Brooks, and the host of boys who w 
eager to own it, on the handsome appearance of the volume, 
binding is neat and tasteful, and the pictures are the same that 
appeared in St Nicholas. For you who read the magazine, the 
needs no word of praise or introduction, but we feel it both, a me 
and a duty to commend it earnestly to all. 



Acrostic. — Dame Durden, 

Little Nell 

D — affbdi— 


A — lkal— 


M —in— 


E — lephan — 


D — amse — 


U —sag— 


R — ave — 


D — im— 


E — 1— 


N — icke— 


Anagrams. — x. Boston. 2. New York. 3. Rochester. 4. Wash- 
ington. 5. Charleston. 6. Mobile. 7. St, Paul. 

Easy Syncopations. — x. Marry, Mary. 2. Lucky, Lucy. 3. 
Norma, Nora. 

Reversals. — 1. Brag, garb. 2. Room, moor. 3. Flow, wolf. 4. 
Mode, Edom. 5. Note, Eton. 6. Strop, ports. 7. Animal, lamina. 

Abbreviations. — 1. Bread, red. 2. Cedar, ear. 3. Dirge, ire. 4. 
Iliad, lad. 5. Jewel, eel. 6. Maple, ale. 7. Niece ice. 8. Olive, 
lie. 9. Spire, pie. 10. Wheat, hat. 

Diagonal Puzzle. — Baronet, Coronet 
B a a l b e C 
b A l l o O N 

B A R T R A M 
B E D O V I N 

C A N O N R Y 

L E a f l E t 

T A B O R E T 

Cross-word Enigma. — London. 
Charade, No. 1. — Chimney-piece. 
Square-Word. — iron 



Grammatical Comparisons. — 1. Bee, beer, beast. 2. Bow 
boast. 5. Fee, fear, feast 4. Row, roar, roast. 
Riddle. — Cricket 
Apocopes. — 1. Cockade, cock. 2. Hamper, ham. 3. Rattl 
4. Rushlight, rush. 5. Rueful, rue. 

Rebus. — " Great expectations bring great disappointments.' 
Pictorial Double Acrostic. — Table, Easel. 

T — un— E 

A — mmoni — A 

B —00k— S 

L — yr— E 

E —1- L 
Easy Enigma. — Man, hat, tan — Manhattan. 
Charade, No. 2. — Eye-lash. 
Diamond Puzzle. — r 





Numerical Enigma. — The Aurora Borealis. 
Pictorial Enigma. — Stream: Star, arm, ram, aster, mastisfe 
tar, mat, rat, rest, meat, ear. 

Clarence M. Trowbridge and Robert L. Groendycke answered correctly all the puzzles in the October number. 

Answers to Special Puzzles in October Number were received, previous to October iS, from Walter Raymond Spaldin: 
Mosmat), Brainerd P. Emery, Lou L Richards, John B. Greiner, Emma Elliott, " Ajax and Alex," Bessie T. B. Benedict, Virginia 1 
A. Carter, Sheldon Emery, Mary P. Johnson, Howard Steel Rodgers, Lena Devereux, Willie Dibblee, C. H. Delanoy, W. C I 
Allie Bertram, Ella M. Kirkendall, Leila Allen, Millie Thompson, Charles N. Wilkinson, Mary N. Wadsworth, "Juno," Mamie B. E 
Howard Steel Rodgers, Osman Abbott, Nessie E. Stevens, Charles F. Cook, C. A. Montague, A. G. Cameron, "Scarsdale," Susie 1 
Eleanor N. Hughes, Frank P. Nagel, Bessie McLaren, Helen Green. 

oi ■ 

I Fourteen letters. My whole is a fragrant flower. 

L went to pick wild i, 5, 7, 9, 2, 6, 14, ti, 10, 8, 3, 13, and found it 

oming in the field where they grew. The 7, 12, i, 3, 1 made the 

i, 7 very 13, 2, 14, 3, 5 ; and I did not care if the 6, it, 8, 9, 7, 1 
V 3ked my fingers. I 13, c, 2 a sheep or 5, 2, 12 come and 6, 11, 12, 
1 [, 14 some of 8, 5, 1 leaves. A boy with a sly look (who 11, 12, 
-H'l birds' nests) came by, trundling a 6, 9, n, 7, 12, 2. He had 
.3 a 6, 12, 2 and 9, 11, ro, 12, 2, and aimed at the 6, 11, 4, 9, 13, 5 

1 robin, through the 6, 9, 7, 13. I was 13, 12, 7, io, 8, 14, n than 
1 an teil that he hit 8, 5. Then I took my 10, 12, 13, 4, 1 and 6, 14, 

11, 8, 4, 1, and went home. B. 


My first is never out ; 

My second 's but a letter ; 
My third will waste your ink, — 

Or, if you like it better, 
My third will hold your sheep ; 
My last is impress deep. 

My whole is free and bold, 

And will not be controlled. L. w, h. 


I 'Jine letters. Diagonals — From left to right : A sportive insect. 
>m right to left : A genus of plants which one handsome species 
:his insect lives upon. 

. An ancient kingdom. 2. A very useful household article. 3. A 
low flower. 4. Small fleets. 5. To attract strongly. 6. Making 
nparisons. 7. Gay. 8. A small flag on a vessel's mast. 9. A use- 
piece of furniture. p. 


; . Mv sister Rebecca detests both pickles and pears. 2- Then are 
ighty children not allowed to go? 3. We made bark frames and 
kets for the fair. 4. The great door is broken, actually broken in 

' ; ces. 5. Those were the first arts that we learned. 
Concealed in the above arc five words having the following signifi- 

-Mons: 1. A student at a military school. 2. A place of public con- 
'- 3. To shut out or exclude. 4. To decree or establish as law. 
Specimens of a kind of pastry. 

Che five words, when found and properly arranged, will form a 
lare-word. j. J. t. 


(The whole is a word dear to all Americans.) 

Mv first is in flour, but not in wheat ; 

My second is in dine, but not in eat; 

My third is in bench, but not in seat; 

My fourth is in fence, and also in gate ; 

My fifth is in number, but not in date. 

My sixth is in stop, but not in go ; 

My seventh is in yes, but not in no. L. P. 


Fill the blanks in their order with words making sense, and which, 
placed under each other in the same order, will f< >rm the square-word. 

I saw a violet and gold growing beside a wild on a little 

in the river, and wondered if birds carried the there. J. 


Take one word from out another without changing the order of the 
letters, and find a complete word remaining. 

1. Take to sin from a small dog and leave a row. 2. Take always 
from a young hare and leave to allow. 3. Take a shoemaker's in- 
strument from unrestrained by law and leave smaller. 4, Take a tree 
from showy and leave an insect. 5. Take an era from a show and 
leave a short breath. 6. Take cunning from a checked cloth and 
leave to brown. 7. Take the last from a cord and leave a weight. 8. 
Take part of a bird from vibrating and leave to utter melodious 
sounds. c. d. 


Make a proverb from each sentence. Thus the letters of " Flams 
sage's rags" may be transposed into " As green as grass." 

1. Earns sage's rags. 2. A bub says, "Ease! '* 3. Scold a shy 
cat, Ira. 4. Asa has a dream charm. 5. Again Sam blows a nice 


Five of a party of seven arc we — 

With our respects to you. 
Now, a part of each of our names we'll tell, 

In a tale both new and true : 

Two friends who longed to wed, would fry 

Some fish — so down they sat: 
By set of sun the fish were done, — 

Now what do you make of that ? 


1. Behead a small hound and leave a large American bird. 2. 
Behead a North American bea->t of prey and leave a part of his head. 
3. Behead a sly, thievish animal and leave a common beast of bur- 
den. 4. Behead a common, lively horned quadruped and leave a 
grain. 5. Behead common farm animals and leave a beverage. 

6. Behead a small, spry animal and leave part of an artist's outfit. 

7. Behead an early bird and leave a ship mentioned in the Bible. 

8. Behead a wild aquatic game bird and leave one who is in love. 

' s. 


metal. 5. A consonant. 

A domestic animal. 3. Glossy silk. 4. A 


. Shr- 
it was 

her assertion that among all her pets the one valued 

■ . 2. The tired Arab joyfully exclaimed, 

, and I shall be released from my . " 3. 

: Indian said of himself, " through tangled bushes, and 

- the thorniest thickets. 4. Her found vent 

sars. 5. He could not propensity for writing . B. 


1. A BEAUTIFUL Roman girl, whose father slew her rather than 
have her made a slave. 2. The Grecian Goddess of Peace. 3. 
A dramatic poet of Syracuse, who flourished during the reign of 
Ptolemy I. 4. A daughter of King Creon of Corinth, whom Jason 
married after deserting Medea. 5. A name given to Pluto, Per- 
sephone, the Erinnyes, and others. 6. A contracted form of the name 
of the king to whose court Thetis sent Achilles in disguise. 

The initials form the name of a celebrated Roman poet, and the 
finals his masterpiece. sedgwick. 

i5 2 





The twenty-six numbered designs in the show-window represent as many articles suitable for Christmas gifts, including one or monl 
each member of the family. Nos. i and 2 are for grandfather; 3, 4, 6, 12 for grandmother; 5, 7, 8, 9, 10 for mother; 11, 13, 14 for fatlg 
15, 16, 17, iS, 23 for sister; 19, 20, 21, 22 for brother; 24 for baby; 25, 26 for the one who is most fond of music. \V hat are the gifts ? 


The initials and finals name two bays in the western part of Europe, 
i. A title of nobility. 2. One of the United Stales. 3. Part of a 
saddle. 4. A monk's hood. 5. A fruit 6. An affirmative. 

F. L. o. 


I am a word of five letters, the sum of which is 157. 
My 1, — (my 2, -f- my 4), = my 5 ; my 5, -(- my 3, = £-J of j 
j -, my 3, — my 2, X mv 5' = m y x » X ( m Y 2 -f- m >' •»)• 





[Engraved by J. G, Smithwick, Irom a picture by J. E. Millais,] 


il. IV. JANUARY, 1877. No. 3. 

[Copyright, 1876, by Scribner & Co.] 


By M. M. D. 

Grandma told me all about it. 
Told me, so I could n't doubt it, 

How she danced — my grandma danced ! — ■ 

Long ago. 
How she held her pretty head. 
How her dainty skirt she spread, 
How she turned her little toes — 
Smiling little human rose ! — 

Long ago. 

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny; 
Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny ! 
Really quite a pretty girl, 

Long ago. 
Bless her ! why, she wears a cap, 
Grandma does, and takes a nap 
Every single day ; and yet 
Grandma danced the minuet 

Long ago. 

Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, 
Always knitting Grandpa's stocking — 
(Every girl was taught to knit, 

Long ago). 
Yet her figure is so neat, 
And her way so staid and sweet, 
I can almost see her now 
Bending to her partner's bow, 

Long ago. 

Grandma says our modern jumping, 
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, 
' Would have shocked the gentle folk 

Long ago. 
No — they moved with stately grace, 

Vol. IV.— h. 




Everything in proper place, 
Gliding slowly forward, then 
Slowly courtseying back again, 
Long ago. 

Modern ways are quite alarming, 
Grandma says ; but boys were charming- 
Girls and boys, I mean, of course — ■ 

Long ago. 
Bravely modest, grandly shy- 
What if all of us should try 
Just to feel like those who met 
In the graceful minuet 

Long ago ? 

With the minuet in fashion, 
Who could fly into a passion ? 

All would wear the calm they wore 
Long ago. 
In time to come, if I, perchance, 
Should tell my grandchild of our dance, 
I should really like to say, 
; We did it, dear, in some such way, 
Long ago." 


By William Howitt. 

Rome, April 9, 1876. 

y dear Young Friend : It gave 
me much pleasure to receive your 
letter. I am much obliged by your 
kind offer of sending me specimens 
of American insects and birds, of 
which you seem already to have a 
promising collection ; but I do not make collections 
of any kind of natural history objects. If I can be 
called a naturalist at all, it must be a very natural 
one, for I never studied any branch of natural his- 
tory in books, excepting botany, and only the 
botany of the British Isles. That was to me a 
great delight and source of health in my early 
youth as it led me to range far and wide over the 
country, over hills and fields, through woods and 
marshes, and along the sea-coasts. But even that 
branch of natural history was superseded by other 
constant pursuits, and I have never renewed it me- 

thodically. Nevertheless, the acquaintance wt 
I then, and in still earlier years, made with fen 
flowers, grapes, and various forms of vegetable : 
remains with me. There are few British pk 
that I do not know familiarly, though their sci 
tific names I should sometimes have to look 
This acquaintance gives me a good guess at in; 
species of foreign plants that I see, and adds to 
pleasure in the country wherever I am. 

As to animals of all sorts, quadrupeds, bipf 
reptiles, insects, I have a wide acquaintance vH 
them by sight, not by science. The appeararafl 
notes, and habits of most British birds, are asM 
miliar to me as possible. I never hear a song cfl 
twitter of one, as I am walking anywhere, btBS 
recognize it as the voice of an old friend, to B / 
great astonishment of my human friends. SHa 
are the pleasures of an habitual intimacy with is 
works of God in this his wonderful world. I fhi§ 
fore congratulate you on the taste for natural I 




ory, and hope you will, in classifying and preserv- 
lg your various specimens, keep alive in your 
eart all the poetry of nature connected with these 
vnumerable and charming inventions of the Great 
lechanist. He must surely be the best naturalist 
■ho carries into his cabinet the consciousness of all 
re freshness, loveliness, and indescribable harmo- 
' ies of the magnificent world in which God has 
iven them places to live for our mutual pleasure 
nd advantage, — that world which we are too fond 
f calling "this wretched world," "this vale of 
'ears," and the like. 
What a vast and varied field you have in the 
.merican continent for your inquiries and acquisi- 
ons. I have seen something of the beauties of 
our ornithology in Audubon and Wilson, and of 
our trees in some handsomely illustrated works, 
/hen you have mastered the northern portion of 
our immense continent, what a second one there 
, swarming with all the forms of life, and such 
fe ! I never had but a few days' view of South 
merica, but it was to me a glimpse of wonder and 
' slight. A land of palms, cocoa-nut trees, bananas, 
tangoes and bread-fruits ! The trees, the flowers, 
le birds and insects ! Those blue-green butter- 
ies, large as my hand, and the margin of their 
ings studded, as it were, with jewels, floating 
'nid magnolias and a world of other trees, new 
■ 1 me, with the quaint chameleons lurking in the 
lickets below ! 

When you have completed the ornithology and 

vtomology of total America, there is Australia. 

hich by that time will be brought very near to you 

• / steam. That, of course, will be a great while 

: ;nce, and I shall be glad to think that you will 

;tend your researches thither, because you must 

: then an old man and will have enjoyed a long 

, e of pleasure in the accumulation of knowledge. 

; Tn Australia (to say nothing of India and the 

■ les of the Southern Ocean) there is a totally new 

,:orld of creatures, — the kangaroo, a whole race of 

arsupials ; that queer nondescript, the platypus 

Prnithorynchus paradoxus) , with a head and bill 

, r te a duck, the body of an otter, and a tail like a 

aver, which is carnivorous and lays eggs. These 

eatures, which are quick as lightning, disappear- 

\ S like a flash under water, we yet managed to 

oot sometimes, but never found anything in their 

omachs but a little fine black mud; probably 

-acerated infusoria. The impossibility of furnish- 

;'g this food has defeated all attempts to convey 

I'em to other countries. There you would find 

e swan black ; emus\ ibises, native companions, 

sort of tall adjutant or crane, of most comical and 

cular habits. The gorgeous lyre-bird and the 

wer-bird, which amuses itself not only in building 

tower, but of making little inclosures of shining 

stones or shells, as children do. You have there 
trees occasionally arriving at a height of 500 feet, 
and nettles, real urtica, growing into large and 
very dangerous trees. As for insects, they are as 
the sands of the sea. There is a mole-cricket, 
which makes a lid to its hole, with a hinge, and as 
you approach ceases its noise, drops the lid, and 
shuts itself in. Amongst the oddities, though not 
insects, you have fish that hop about on land, — I 
have seen them ; and crawfish of a bright red, as 
if already boiled. But let me tell you about the 
mantis, and the ants. You have no doubt seen the 
mantises of South America and India, which are 
precisely like leaves, with the leaf ribs and foot 
stalks, too ; but the Australian ones that I saw 
were different. We caught one with a body like a 
straw of about four inches long, and a pair of small 
but lovely Psyche-like wings, with rainbow colors. 
As we had no chloroform, or anything to kill it 
with, we kept it under water for more than twelve 
hours. When taken out, as fast as it dried it be- 
came lively again as ever. It continued all day 
just as lively, although pinned down upon a piece 
of bark. At night a mouse ate off its head and the 
legs on one side. The next night the mouse ate off 
its tail and more legs, but it continued as lively as 
ever. On the third day a bird scooped down upon 
the table before our tent and carried it away, and 
possibly managed to extinguish the vivacious remains 
of the mantis in its stomach, but I would not say. 

We had in one part of the country a small house- 
ant of not half an inch long, that was found on 
almost every twig of a bush, or hole of a tree. It 
would jump down our backs, when, as often was 
the case in hot weather, we had our shirt-necks 
open, and would kick and sting away until we had 
destroyed him. This ant was an admirable fly- 
catcher, and would dart at a fly many yards, and 
would strike it with unerring precision. Frequently 
it would dart down from the roof of the tent, as I 
sat reading, - and strike at a capital letter on my 
open book, taking it for a fly. The ants by myr- 
iads, and of many species, are always traveling up 
and down the Australian trees. I suppose they 
puncture the tender shoots at the top and suck the 
juices. Probably this is the cause that at a particu- 
lar season of the year the manna gum-tree scat- 
ters down its manna. As many of these trees are 
some hundreds of feet high, the daily journeys of 
these ants is considerable, but as the concentric 
rings in the stems of these trees make it probable 
that some of them have lived for 1.000 years or 
more. I expect such armies of ants have been 
marching up and down them for the same long 
period. It would require a large volume to give 
you an idea of the various and showy birds of Aus- 
tralia. I mav tell you two little facts. 




We used to be much amused with the family life 
of a gray bird, I believe a sort of gray magpie. 
These birds seemed never to produce more than 
one young one at a time, but then father and 
mother, uncles and aunts, joined in feeding it, and 
making a great fuss over it. You could always 
know where one of these much-rejoiced-over young 
birds was, by the clamor and cackling of the assem- 
bled relatives, as of a lot of barn-door fowl. 

In once digging for gold, that lay near the sur- 
face, we came upon a small bush containing the 
nest of a little bird called the " splendid warbler; " 
it was full of young ones ; the father, a gay, fine fel- 
low, brilliant with a variety of colors, but a very great 
coward, scarcely dared come near us, but three or 
four brown little birds — I suppose the mother and 
her sisters, or eldest daughters — fed the young with- 
out caring for us. We were so much amused by 
them that we would not disturb the bush till they 
had flown, but went on to another place. As soon 
as we thought the young ones had flown we 
returned to dig up the bush, but a party of Mor- 
mons, from California, had saved us that trouble. 
We asked them how much gold they found under 
the bush, and they said four ounces. Four ounces 
at four pounds sterling an ounce. So we had lost 
sixteen pounds sterling, not wishing to disturb the 
warbler's family ; but we did not regret it, for they 
had given us more than that amount of amusement 
by their proceedings. 

Sir John Lubbock of late years has been study- 
ing the habits and instincts of bees and ants. I 
am afraid, however, that he has been doing in 
entomology what Niebuhr did in history, and rent 
away a good deal of fact along with actual myth. 
I think that there is a vast deal that is wonderful in 
these insects. It always astonishes me to see a 
young swarm of bees one day put into a new hive, 
and perhaps carried away to a new place ; the next 
day fly off far and wide over the fields, load them- 
selves with wax and honey, and come back with 
the rapidity almost of rays of light — come direct to 
the new hive, though it stand among a dozen oth- 
ers, without mistake or circumlocution ; dart past, 
not only houses among trees, but moving objects; — 
pass you as you stand near the hive, hundreds of 
them at a time, yet neither strike you nor each 
other, though thus concentrating their flight to a 
point. Independently of their geometric skill in 
constructing their cells, this seems to me marvel- 
ous. And if they fly, as Sir John Lubbock sup- 
poses, by scent, what noses they must have ! 

An old friend of mine, an enthusiastic philo-apia- 
rian, told me that being at a friend's house one dry 
summer, when all the field flowers were nearly 
scorched up, he saw thousands of bees busy in a 
field of clover then in bloom. 

" I wish my bees were here," said my friend. 

" Probably they are," replied the gentleman. 

" What, at forty miles distance ? " 

" Yes," said his friend. " On your return horn 
dredge the backs of your bees with flour as the 
issue from the hives in the morning, and we sha 

This was done, and his friend wrote to hit 
directly: -'There are plenty of your white-jackc 
bees here in the clover." 

But whatever is the fact with bees, ants folio 
their noses much more than their eyes. In m| 
garden I saw a train of ants ascending an appl 
tree ; go up by one track, and descend by anothc 
As in ascending they passed between two sma 1 
shoots that sprung from the bole, I stopped the 
passage with a piece of bark. The ants did n 
see this obstruction with their eyes, but ran bum 
against it, and stood still, astonished. Soon 
crowd of them had thus been suddenly stoppei 
and were anxiously searching about for a passag 
By various successive starts forward, they eventual 
got around the obstruction and reached the trac 
on the other side. The line of scent was renewe 
and thenceforward, on arriving at the barricad 
they went, without a moment's hesitation, by tl 
circular track. I then took my penknife and par! 
away a piece of the outer bark on the open be 
where the ants were descending. The effect v 
the same. The scent being taken away, the ar 
came to a dead stand, and there was the same co 
founded crowd, and the same spasmodic attem[: 
to regain the road, which being effected in t 
same way, the scent was carried over the shav, 
part of the bark, and the train ran on as freely 

We have a large black wood-ant in Engla 
and probably you have one similar in America, 
makes in the woods heaps of small dead twigs, 
large as a cart-load. This mound of twigs is a c 
of ants, almost one living mass. Turn aside a f 
of the outer twigs, and hundreds of ants are m 
visible, in a state of great agitation. Put the po 
of your stick near them, and they will sit up, a: 
sitting in chairs, and bite and fight your st 

In my teens I went to ramble much about Sh 
wood Forest, the scene of Robin Hood's explo 
Near the town of Mansfield, on the forest, wa; 
wood called Harlowe Wood. In this I saw a 1 
of these wood-ants following a track burnt qi 
bare, as if by the formic acid of their bodies, 
followed this line for about a furlong, to ascert 
whither the ants were going. At that distance t 
wheeled around and returned to their nest, wit! 
any apparent cause for this march that I could 
cover. There must, of course, have been a mo 

l8 7 7-] 



for it, — of food or moisture, or something, — but I 
could detect none. Nearly twenty years afterward, 
having paid a casual visit to my old haunts, in 
crossing this wood, to my astonishment, I came 
upon this line of ants proceeding from their nest to 
this very same spot, and back again, with as little 
visible cause as ever ; and though it is very many 
years since that last visit, I feel persuaded that if 
that wood be not destroyed, the same line of ants 
is at this day making the same march to the same 
spot, and thence returning. 

Probably the object may be to capture insects 
that cross their line of march ; but they never 

seemed to pause or quit the exact track, or to show 
any disorder, as if engaged in looking out for or 
securing prey. 

I send these desultory remarks, knowing the in- 
terest that a young naturalist takes in the smallest 
characteristics of animal life. A son of ours, as a 
boy, could tell you every mason-bee's abode in an 
old wall where there were hundreds ; and, after- 
ward, had a pleasure in. and sympathy with, every 
creature that existed near him. 

May you live, learn, enjoy, and make known 
much of the hidden knowledge of God's humble 
creatures. — Your friend, William Howitt. 



(A Russian Story.) 

By Kate Brownlee Horton. 


Katinka was tired, and lonely too. All day , 
mg, and for many days together, she had plied 
er distaff busily, drawing out the thread finer and 
ner from the great bunches of flax, which she 
:rself had gathered and dried, till the birch-bark 
isket at her feet was almost filled with firm, well- 
laped " twists," and the sticks in the great earthen 
pkin, upon which the thread must be wound 
"ew fewer and fewer. 

The tips of her fingers were sore, and it was dull 
work with no one to speak to except her faithful 
cat, Dimitri, who was never content when he saw 
his mistress working, unless he had a ball of thread 
for himself; and as she looked about her cheerless 
little room, so lonely now, she thought of the days 
when a kind mother had been near to lighten every 
duty; and joyous, merry children had been her 
companions in all childish sports. She hated the 




tiresome flax now, but then the happiest days were 
spent in the great flax-fields, playing at " hide-and- 
seek " up and down the paths the reapers made. 
And when the summer showers came pelting down, 
how she would catch up her little sister Lisa and 
run home with her "pick-a-back," while neighbor 
Voscovitch's children laughed and shouted after 
her as she ran. Ah, those were happy days ! But 
now mother and sister were gone ! Only she and 
her father were left in the little home, and she had 
to work so hard ! She did wish that her life was 
different ; that she was not poor, lonely Katinka, 
the peasant maid, any more. Oh ! why could she 
not be like the rich Lady Feodorovna instead, 
whose father, Count Vassilivitch, owned nearly all 
the houses and land from Tver to Torjok, and had 
more than three hundred serfs on his estate. 

Now, Katinka's father, Ivan Rassaloff, was only 
an istroatchick* (sneeze, my dears, and you can 
say it nicely), and owned nothing but a rickety 
old drosky \ and Todeloff, a sturdy little Cossack 
pony, and drove travelers here and there for a few 
kopeckst a trip. But he saved money, and Katinka 
helped him to earn more ; and one of these days, 
when they could sell the beautiful lace flounce, on 
which she had been working during all her odd 
moments for three years, and which was very nearly 
finished, they would be rich indeed. Besides, the 
isba (cottage) was not really so bad, and it was all 
their own ; and then there was always Dimitri to 
talk to, who surely seemed to understand every- 
thing she said. So a smile chased away the gather- 
ing frown, and this time she looked around the 
little room quite contentedly. 

Shall I tell you what the isba was like, that you 
may know how the poor people live in Russia ? It 
was built of balks (great beams or rafters), laid 
horizontally one above the other, the ends crossing 
at each corner of the building ; and it had a pointed 
roof, somewhat like that of a Swiss chalet. Inside, 
the chinks were filled with moss and lime, to keep 
out the cold. It contained only one room ; but a 
great canvas curtain hung from the roof, which by 
night divided the room in two, but by day was 
drawn aside. 

There was a deal table, holding some earthen- 
ware pipkins, jars, and a samorar (tea-urn), — for 
even the poorest peasants have an urn, and drink 
tea at least three times a day ; a deal settee, on 
which lay the winter store of flax ; Katinka's dis- 
taff, and the curious candlestick which Russian 
peasants use. This is a tall wooden upright, fas- 
tened to a sort of trough, or hollowed log of birch- 
wood, to keep it erect. To the top an iron cross- 
bar is attached (which can be raised or lowered at 

will), having at the end a small bowl containing c§ 
and a floating wick, which burns brightly for sever) 
hours, and is easily lowered and refilled ; while tl 
wooden trough below catches the drip. 

But the most curious thing in the room was tm 
stove. It was made of sheet-iron, and very largil 
with a door at one end, into which whole logs I 
wood could be put at once ; it was oblong, and fl - 
on the top, like a great black trunk ; and on th 
flat top, with the fire smoldering away beneal 
him, Ivan always slept at night in winter ; ai 1 
sometimes, when it was very cold, Katinka wou \ 
bring her sheepskin blanket and sleep there toij 
Not one Russian isba in fifty contains a bed ; whij 
there is a large family, father, mother, and litt 
children all crowd upon the top of the stove \ 
winter, and in summer they roll themselves up 
their blankets and sleep outside, by the door ! 

The lamp was lighted and shone brightly 
Katinka, who made quite a pretty picture as si 
rested awhile from her work to speak to Dimit 
She wore a white chemise with very full, loi 
sleeves, and over it a sarafane of red linen with 
short boddice and shoulder straps of dark bin 
On her head she had tied a gay-colored kerchii 
to keep the dust of the flax from her glossy bla 
hair, which hung in a single heavy braid far do\ 
her back. One of these days, if she should man- 
she would have to divide it in two braids, and we 
a kerchief always. 

Her shoes were braided, in a kind of basket-wo 
of strips of birch-bark, very pliant and comfortab 
though rather clumsy in appearance. 

All the day Katinka had been thinking of son 
thing which Ivan had told her in the morni 
about their neighbor, Nicholas Paloffsky, and 
poor, motherless little ones. The mother had be 
ill for a long, long time, and Nicholas had spent 
he could earn in buying medicines and good h 
for her, but they could not save her life. Th 
when she died, Nicholas was both father and motl 
to the little ones for months ; but, at last, he 
fell ill, and now there was no one to assist him. 

Besides, he did not own his isba, and, if the r 
were not paid the very next day, the starosta (lar 
lord) would turn him and his little ones out-of-doo 
bitter winter though it was. 

That was fearful ! But what could she do 
help him ? Suddenly there flashed across her mi 
a thought of her beautiful lace flounce, on wh 
she had worked till she loved every thread of 
and in whose meshes she had woven many a briyj 
fancy about the spending of the silver roubles til 
would be hers when she sold it. She had intern 
to buy a scarlet cusackan (jacket) with gold e 

b Drosky-driver, or cab-man. t Drosky, or droitzschka, a four-wheeled pleasure carriage. 

I A kopeck is a coin worth about a cent of American money. 




roidery, and a new drosky for her father, so that 

is passengers might give him more kopecks for a 
titde. But other plans came to her mind now. 

Just then, Ivan came home hungry ; and as she 
1. listened to prepare his supper of tea and black 
(I -ead and raw carrots, and a kind of mushroom 

ewed in oil, she almost forgot neighbor Nicholas 

hands, and a silver crucifix hanging from his girdle, 
who, on reaching the church to which he bade 
Ivan drive quickly, gave him his blessing — and 
nothing more ! So Ivan's pockets were empty, 
and the pony must go without his supper, unless 
Katinka had some dried fish for him. 

Katinka, who had a tender heart for all animals, 


ile waiting on her father, who was always so glad 
j'come home to her and his snug, warm room. 
( 8ut to-night, for a wonder, he was cross. All 
j/ he had waited in the cold, bleak public square 
Torjok, beating his arms and feet to keep him- 
f warm ; and occasionally, I fear, beating his pa- 
nt little pony for the same reason. Not a " fare" 
i come near him, except a fat priest, in a purple 
c gown and broad-brimmed hat, with long, flow- 
; hair and beard, a gold-mounted staff in his 

carried a great bowlful of fish out to Todeloff, who 
nibbled it eagerly ; for ponies in Russia, especially 
those that are brought from Iceland, consider dried 
fish a great delicacy, and in winter often live on it 
for weeks together. Then she gave him a " good- 
night kiss " on the little white spot on his nose, 
and he whispered, " Now I don't mind the beatings 
I had to day ! " — at least I think he must have 
meant to say that when he whinnied so close to 
her ear. 




When she went back to the house, Ivan was 
already wrapped up in his sheep-skin blanket on 
top of the stove, and snoring lustily ; so she lowered 
the curtain and crept softly into her little corner 
behind it. But she could not sleep, for her mind 
was disturbed by thoughts of neighbor Nicholas, 
whose little ones perhaps were hungry ; and at last- 
she arose, filled and lighted the tall lamp, then 
unrolled her precious flounce, and worked steadily 
at it till, when morning came, only one little sprig 
remained undone, and her doubts as to what she 
should do with it were dispelled in the bright sun- 

After breakfast, which she made ready as briskly 
as though she had slept soundly all night, she said: 

" Father, let me be your first fare to-day, and 
perhaps I may bring you good luck. Will you 
drive me to the Lady Feodorovna's ? " 

"What in the world do you want there, Ka- 
tinka?" said her father, wonderingly. 

" To ask if she will buy my lace," said Katinka. 
" She has so many beautiful dresses, surely she 
will find a place on one for my flounce." 

" Ha ! " said Ivan, " then we will have a feast. 
You shall make a cake of white flour and honey, 
and we will not eat ' black-brod ' for a month ! 
But what will we do with so much money, my 
child ? " 

Katinka hesitated a moment ; then said, shyly : 
" Pay Nicholas Paloffsky's rent, and send the Tor- 
jok doctor to cure him. May I, father?" she 
added, entreatingly, forgetting that the money 
would be her own. 

" Hum-m-m ! " said Ivan; "we shall see. But 
go now and prepare for your drive, for Todeloff 
does not like to wait." 

Katinka was soon ready. With her sheep-skin 
jacket, hat and boots, she did not fear the cold ; 
and mounting the drosky, they drove rapidly toward 
Count Vassilivitch's beautiful home, not fearing to 
leave their little isba alone, for the neighbors all 
were honest, and, besides, there was nothing to 
steal I 

A drive of four versts (about three miles) brought 
them to their journey's end, and Katinka's heart 
beat anxiously as the old drosky rattled up through 
the court-yard to the grand hall-door ; but she 
went bravely up to the fine porter, and asked to 
see Lady Feodorovna. 

" Bosja moia ! '" (bless me) "what do you want 
with my lady ? " asked the gorgeous Russ who, in 
his crimson and gold livery, serf though he was, 
looked scornfully down on free Katinka, in her 
poor little sheep-skin jacket. 

I think Katinka would scarcely have found cour- 
age to answer him, but, luckily, his lady crossed 
the hall just then, and seeing Katinka, kindly 

beckoned her to enter, leading the way to her ow 
especial apartment. 

"What do you wish with me?" she askec 
kindly. But Katinka was too bewildered by th 
splendor on e\ery side to answer as she should. 

Truly it appeared like fairy-land to the youn 
peasant maid. The room was long and very loftv 
the ceiling, one great beautiful picture ; the floe 
had no carpet, but was inlaid with different kind 
of wood in many curious patterns; the walls we r 
covered with blue flowered silk, on which mirroi 
and lovely pictures were hung alternately ; whi! 
beautiful statues, and luxurious couches covere 
with blue damask, added to the elegance and con 
fort of the room. 

There was no big, clumsy stove to be seen (fc 
in the houses of the rich, in a recess in each roonj 
is a kind of oven, in which a great wood fire 
allowed to smolder all day), but a delicious feelin 
of warmth prevailed, and a soft, sweet perfuni 
floated on the air. 

At last, Katinka's eyes rested on the fair lady 
her soft, fleecy gown of white (for even in wintt 
Russian ladies wear the thinnest summer dresses i 
the house), and she said, softly : 

" I think this is heaven, and surely you are lik 
an angel ! " 

" Not an angel," said Lady Feodorovna, smilinj 
"but perhaps a good fairy. Have you a wisl 
pretty maid ? " 

" Indeed, yes," replied Katinka. " I wish, wis 
•wish (for you must always make a wish to a fai 
three times) you would buy my lace flounc 
See ! " — and she unrolled it hurriedly from out tc 
clean linen cloth in which it was wrapped. " It 
fair and white, though I have worked on it 
three years, and it is all finished but this one litt 
sprig. I could not wait for that ; I want the mom 
so much. Will you buy it ? " 

" What is the price ? " asked the lady, who sa 
that it was indeed a beautiful piece of work. 

"Ninety roubles" (about seventy-five dollar;' 
said Katinka, almost in a whisper, as if she fearn 
to name so great a sum aloud, though she knt' 
the lace was worth it. 

" Why, what will you do with so many roubles i 
asked the lady, not curiously, but in such a goo 
fairy way, that Katinka said : 

" Surely I need not fear to tell you. But it is 
long story. Will you kindly listen to it all ? " 

"Yes, gladly; sit here," and Feodorovna point 
to one of the beautiful blue couches, on the 

tre edge of which Katinka sat down timid] 

making a very funny picture in her gray sheep-sk: 
jacket and scarlet gown. " Now tell me, first, yo 

" Katinka Rassaloff, barishna (lady), daughl 




Aif Ivan, peasants from beyond Torjok. Beside us 

ives a good man, Nicholas Paloffsky, who is ill 

t nd so poor. He has four little children, and many 

, day I have divided my supper with them, and 

et I fear they are often hungry. The baby cries all 

illay, for there is no mother to care for it, and the 

iries trouble the poor father, who can do nothing 

no help. Besides, unless the rent is paid to-morrow, 

rhey must leave their isba. Think of that, lady ! — 

bio home in this bitter winter weather ! no shelter 

p]r the baby ! Ah, buy my lace, that 1 may help 

hem ! " replied Katinka, earnestly. 

i Without speaking, Lady Feodorovna rose and 


that he could not get it shut in time to say a word, 
but opened his eyes instead to keep it company, 
and stood looking after her till she was seated in 
the drosky. Then Ivan "flicked" Todcloff, who 
kicked up his heels and rattled out of the court- 
yard in fine style. When they were out of sight, 
the porter found he could say " bosja moia " again, 
so he said it ; and feeling much relieved, was grad- 
ually getting back to his usual dignified manner, 
when his lady came tripping down the stairs, 
wrapped in a beautiful long sable mantle, bidding 
him order her sledge, and one for her maid, to be 
brought to the door at once. 



nrent to a beautiful cabinet, unlocked the door with 
i tiny gold key, which was suspended by a chain 
:) her girdle, took out a roll of silver roubles, and them in Katinka's lap. 
"There," said she, "are one hundred roubles, 
.re you content ? " 

', Katinka took the soft white hand in hers and 

«issed it, while such a happy smile lighted up her 

.ce that the " good fairy " needed no other answer. 

fc "Hasten away, Katinka," she said; "perhaps 

: Ju may see me soon again." 

Katinka courtesied deeply, then almost flew out 

the great hall-door, so startling the grand porter, 

- ho had his mouth wide open ready to scold her, 

When the sledges were brought, Lady Feodo- 
rovna entered hers and drew the soft, white bear- 
skin robe around her, while her maid threw over 
her fur hood a fine, fleecy scarf of white wool. 
Then the maid put numberless packages, small 
and great, into the foot of the other sledge, leaving 
only just room to put herself in afterward. 

While they are waiting there, I must tell you 
what Lady Feodorovna's sledge was like. It was 
built something like our "one seat Boston cutters," 
except that the back was higher, with a carved 
wooden ornament on top ; there was no *' dash- 
board," but the runners came far up in a curve at 
the front, and where they joined was another splen- 




did ornament of wood gilded, and surmounted by 
a gilded eagle with outspread wings. 

The body of the sledge was of rosewood, and in 
the front was a beautiful painting of Cupid, the lit- 
tle "love-god," and his mamma. The other sledge, 
which had a silver swan at the front, was not quite 
so fine, though the shape was the same. 

There were no horses to draw these sledges, 
but behind each stood a servant in fur jacket, 
cap and boots, with a pair of skates hung over his 

" I wish to go to the isba of Paloffsky, the peas- 
ant, beyond Torjok ; we will go the shorter way, 
by the river," said Lady Feodorovna. " Hasten ! " 

Then the servants each gave a great push, and 
the sledges started off so quickly and lightly down 
the slope to the river that they could scarcely keep 
up with them. When they reached the banks of 
the Blankow, which flowed past the Count's grounds, 
and was frozen over for miles, the servants stooped 
and put on their skates, binding them by long 
straps over their feet and round and round their 
ankles. Then they started down the river, and, 
oh ! how they flew ! while the sledges, with their 
gorgeous birds, fairly sparkled in the sunlight. 

Sooner almost than I can tell it they had reached 
their journey's end ; the skates were unstrapped, 
and the sledges drawn up the bank to the door of 
the little isba, which Lady Feodorovna entered, fol- 
lowed by the maid with the bundles. 

A sad picture met their eyes. Poor Nicholas sat 
on a bench by the stove, wrapped up in his sheep- 
skin blanket, looking so pale and thin that he 
scarcely seemed alive ; on his knee lay the hungry 
baby, biting his little fist because he had nothing 
else to bite, while on the floor beside him sat a lit- 
tle three-year-old fellow crying bitterly, whom a 
sad little elder sister was trying to comfort. 

Nicholas looked up as the door opened, but did 
not speak, as the strange lady advanced, and bade 
her maid open the packages and put their contents 
on the table. How the children stared ! The little 
one stopped crying and crept up to the table, fol- 
lowed shyly by his sister. Then the maid put a 
dainty white bread roll in each little hand. Then 
she took the baby gently from off the poor, tired 
father's knee, and gave it spoonful after spoonful 
of sweet, pure milk, till its little pinched cheeks 
seemed fairly to grow full and rosy, and it gave a 
satisfied little ''coo — o," that would have done 
your hearts good to hear. 

Meanwhile, Lady Feodorovna went up to Nicho- 
las and said, softly : 

" Look at your little ones ! they are happy now ! 
Can you not rouse up and drink this good bowl of 
soup ? It is warm yet, and will do you good. Drink, 
then I will tell you some good news." 

Nicholas took the bowl which she held towart 
him, but his hand trembled so that it would hav 
fallen if she had not herself held it to his lips. A 
he tasted the warm, nourishing soup, new lit 
seemed to come to him, and he grasped the bou 
eagerly, drinking till the last drop was gone, then 
looking up with a grateful smile, he said, simply 

" Ah ! we were so hungry, my little ones and I 
Thanks, barishna." 

" Now for my good news ! " said the lad) 
" Here is the money for your rent; and here a 
ten roubles more, for clothes for your little ones 
The food there is sufficient for to-day ; to-morro 
I will send you more. Do not thank me," sh 
added, as Nicholas tried to speak; "you mu: 
thank Katinka Rassaloff for it all." 

Just then a great noise was heard outside, an 
little Todelofif came prancing merrily up to In 
door, shaking his head and rattling the little bel 
on his donga (the great wooden arch that all Ru 
sian horses have attached to their collars), i 
proudly as if he had the finest drosky in all S 
Petersburg behind him. 

Katinka jumped quickly down, and entering tr 
little isba, stood fairly speechless at seeing Lac 
Feodorovna, whom she had left so shortly before i 
her own beautiful home. 

"Ah, Katinka ! I have stolen a march on you 
said the good fairy. "There is nothing you a 
do here." 

" Is there not ? " said Katinka. "See! here 
the sfarosta's receipt for a year's rent, and there 
turning toward the door as a venerable old m; 
entered, "is the Torjok doctor, who has come 
make neighbor Nicholas well." 

I must tell you what the doctor was like, r 
wore a long, fur coat with wide sleeves, fur boot 
and a great pair of fur gloves, so that he look 
almost like a big bear standing up. He wore que 
blue spectacles, and from under a little black \ 
vet cap, long, silky, white hair fell over his shot 
ders, and his white beard nearly reached to 

The doctor walked up to Nicholas, put his han 
on his knees, stooped and looked gravely at hit 
then rising, turned sharply to Katinka, saying: 

"There is no sick one here! Why did y< 
bring me so far for nothing? But it is two roublf 
all the same." 

"Here are the roubles," said Katinka, "and 
am very glad we do not want you ; " which was n 
at all polite of her. 

Then, too, Ivan had driven off in search of p; 
sengers, so the poor doctor had to walk nearl) 
verst (about three-fourths of a mile), through' t 
snow, back to Torjok, which made him growl li 
a real bear all the way. 




Katinka went shyly up to Nicholas, who was 
wning crossly at her, and said : 
•'Are you angry with me? Do not frown so, I 
y. Well, frown if you will ! the children do not, 
i I did it all for them ; I love them ! " and she 
ight up baby Demetrius and buried her face in 
curly hair to hide a tear that would come ; for 
J felt grieved that Nicholas did not thank her, 
:n with a smile, for what she had done. 
When she looked up Lady Feodorovna and her 
id were gone, and Nicholas stood before her 
ding little Noviska by one hand, while two-year- 
[ Tottleben (that is a real Russian name, though 
:haps you did not know it), clung to his knee, 
i' Katinka," said Nicholas, gently, "now I can 
Ink you with all my heart, though I cannot find 
rds to speak my thanks. Let the children kiss 
1 for it all ; that is best." 

Catinka kissed the children heartily, then she 
| down the baby and opened the door, but Nich- 

Then Katinka hastened to brush her pretty hair, 
and put on her best sarafane (dress), with the scar- 
let embroidered boddice and straps, and was all 
ready when Ivan came in, to tell him of their invi- 
tation, and help him make his toilet. 

" I must have my hair cut," said Ivan, seating 
himself on a bench, while Katinka tied a band 
around his head, fastening it over his forehead, 
then got a great pair of shears and cut his hair 
straight round by the band. (Even the barbers 
always cut by these bands, and I do not think one 
of them could have done it better.) Then, like a 
good little Russian daughter that she was, Katinka 
took a bit of tallow candle and rubbed it on her 
father's hair to keep it smooth, belted down his 
gray flannel blouse, and handed him his sheepskin 
jacket, with a hint that it was high time for them 
to be off. 

When the guests entered his isba, Nicholas 
kissed Ivan, — for that is always the custom be- 



i's face was sober then, though his eyes still 
led as he said : 

1 Come back to tea, Katinka, and bring Ivan 
1, and our young neighbor Alexis, who often is 
i'gry, we will have a feast of all these good 

"Horro sha " (very well), said Katinka, then ran 
':kly home. 

limitri met her at the door, crying piteously. 
( Poor pussy ! " cried Katinka; ''you have had 
ling to eat all day ! What a shame ! " 
.1 Miauw ! " said Dimitri to that. 

Never mind, pussy ; you shall have all my sup- 

and father's too, for we are invited out to tea, 
,nust not eat anything now." 

Miauw, miauw," said pussy to that, and scamp- 
I away to his bowl to be all ready for his fish, 

milk, and sour cabbage soup (think of that for 
iss ! but he liked it), that he knew was coming. 

tween Russian men who are friends, — then he 
called to Alexis : 

"Heads up, my boy! and help me with the 

Alexis, who was turning somersaults in his joy, 
came right side up with a spring, and soon the feast 
was on the table, and the four wooden benches 
drawn up around it. 

Ivan and Nicholas had each a bench for himself; 
Alexis sat beside Katinka, while Noviska and Tot- 
tleben were placed on the remaining bench. 

Katinka had wrapped baby Demetrius up in his 
little lamb-skin blanket, and laid him on the top of 
the stove, where he fell asleep while she was patting 
his soft cheek. 

What appetites they all had ! and how quickly the 
good things disappeared! wine-soup and grouse; 
cheese-cakes and honey ; white rolls and sweet 
cream cakes (" Charlotte de Russe" perhaps — what 




do you think?) vanished almost as if by magic, till 
at last there was only a bowl of cream left. Alexis 
— who had acted as waiter, removing all the empty 
dishes in turn — placed this in the middle of the 
table, giving to each one a birch-wood spoon and 
refilling the glasses with tea ; then he sat down by 
Katinka again at the plain uncovered table. 

(Do you know anything about Russian tea, chil- 
dren ? It is made very strong and is drunk always 
from glasses instead of cups, and so hot that, it 
would bring tears from the eyes of any one but a 
Russian. Milk is not used ; a slice of lemon instead 
floats on the top. Sugar is never put in the glass, 
but tea-drinkers hold a lump between their teeth, 
and then drink the tea through the sugar ! Even 
very little children are given strong tea to drink as 

soon as they have teeth to hold the sugar, arid tl 
seem to thrive on it.) 

There was much to talk about. Nicholas hai 
very, very hard time in persuading Katinka to ta 
the rent money which the grand lady had left, 
which he protested he no longer needed, since 
landlord was paid, and he already felt well enoi 
to work. Katinka, in her turn, had to laugh 
the jokes of Alexis, who was really a funny f 
when he was not hungry ; Tottleben had to sim 
funny little child-song ; and Ivan had to tell Nic 
las of Todeloff's wonderful ways. 

And here we must leave them — a happy, grate 
party, though Nicholas still looked pale and feel 
and the company-boy had eaten so tremendoi 
that Ivan still was staring at him with astonishme 


By the Author of " Helen's Babies." 

H, Toddie, — where do you think 
I 've been ? I Ye been to the 
Centennial ! Papa woke me up 
when it was all dark, and we 
rode in railroad-cars and horse- 
cars before it was light ; that 's 
the way men do, Tod, an' it 's 
lots of fun. My ! did n't I do 
lots of railroad-riding before I 
got to the Centennial ! An' all 
along the road I saw piles of big 
sticks laid crosswise ever so nice, 
so they looked just like the picture in the big Bible 
of the altar that Abraham put Isaac on, you know, 
and I thought they was altars, an' after I thought 
about what lots of little boys there must be going 
to be burned up in that country, and asked papa 
about it, he said they was n't altars at all, but only 
just piles of railroad ties — was n't it too bad ! And 
I crossed the Delaware at Trenton, too, just like 
George Washington, but 't was n't a bit like the 
pictures in the history-book that papa reads out of, 
and nobody there had on hats a bit like Washing- 

But I tell you the Centennial was nice ; every 
little while we 'd come right up to a place where 
they sold pop-corn balls, and they made 'em as 


easy — why, a little thing went down, an' a 1 
thing came up, and there was a pop-corn ball 
in a second. An' then they made people pay 
cents for 'cm ! I think 't was real mean ; / vj 
a hundred times that much for a penny wht 
keep my clothes clean all day. 

But, oh, if you only could see the big engin 
Machinery Hall ! I don't see how the Lord c, 
do more than that engine; itturnsal] sorts of wl 
and machines, an' don't make a bit of noise al 
it, an' it don't ever get tired. An' the water — 
if we lived in Machinery Hall I guess papa woul 
ever scold us for leaving faucets open an' wa 
water, for there 's dozens of great big pipes 
don't do anything but spout out water. An' t 
was a whole lot of locomotives, but they hai 
any men in 'em, so you could walk around 'en 
look at 'em without anybody sizzin' steam or. 

An' do you know, papa says all the stearr 
gines and locomotives in the world began by a 
Watts boy playing with the tea-kettle on his n 
ma's stove ; he saw that when there got to be 
of steam inside of the kettle, it pushed the top 
an' that little boy thought to himself, Why coul 
steam push up something that was useful ? B 
we was to go in the kitchen an' see what the 




tie would do, then Bridget would say, " Ah, go 
y an' don't ye be meddlin' wid fings." I guess 
world was a nicer place for boys when that little 
itts boy was alive. 

was awful disappointed at the Centennial, 
ugh ; 1 thought there 'd be lots of color there, 
my centennial garters is all color, — red, an' 
,te, an' blue, an' nothin' else but Inja-rubber, 
the houses was most all just the color of mud- 
s, except Aggerycultural Hall, an' the top of 
t was only green, an' I don't think that 's a very 
tty color. It was nicer inside of the houses, 
i.ugh ; there was one of them that papa said had 
re than twenty-two miles of walks in it; I guess 
re was, cos we was in it more than an hour, an' 
h funny things ! You ought to see a mummy, 
1, — I guess you would n't ever want to die after 
t, but papa said their spirits was n't in 'em any 
re, — I should n't think they would be, if they 
ited to look nice. You know mamma's opal 
; ? — well, papa lifted me up and showed me the 
jest opal in the world, and 't was nearly as pretty 
he inside of our big sea-shell, 
know what you 'd have liked, — there was a 
ure of Goliath, an' David had chopped his head 
in' he was a-holdin' it up, — I think he ought to 
e had his head chopped off if he looked as flor- 
as that. An' I saw Circe, and the pigs all 
baling to her to turn 'em back into men again, 
really believe I heard 'em squeal, — an' Circe 
sat there lookin' like Bridget does when she 
it give us more cake. It made me feel dreadful 
riink there was men inside of those pigs, 
ut what bothered me was, every once in a while 
(would come to a place where they sold cakes, 
then papa would hurry right past ; I kept show- 
him the cakes, but he would go along, and he 
just the same thing at the places where they 
le candy, only he stopped at one place where 
" was making chocolate candy, an' grindin' the 
- -:olate all up so that it looked like mud, an' he 
, "Isn't that disgustin'?" Well, it didn't 
' very nice. 

there was a whole lot of things from Egypt, 

re Joseph and Moses lived, you know, and all 

ind the wall was pictures of houses in Egypt, 

:.. asked papa which of 'em Pharaoh lived in, an' 

;» two or three people close to us looked at me 

.aughed out loud, an' I asked papa what they 

hed for, an' he said he guessed it was because 

Iked so loud ; I do think little boys have an 

il lot of bothers in this world, an' big people 

real ugly to 'em ; but papa took me away from 

1, an' I got some candy at last, an' I think 

s about time. 

tien we saw lots of animals, an' birds, an' fishes, 
they was n't alive, an' I was walkin' along 

thinkin' that I wished we could see somebody we 
knew, when all of a sudden I saw a turtle, just like 
ours. I just screamed right out, an' I liked to have 
cried, I was so glad. That was in the Gov'ment 
Building, I believe papa called it; an' I saw all the 
kinds of things they kill people with in wars, an' a 
man on a horse that was just like papa was when 
he was a soldier, — I guess you would n't want to 
run up to him an' ask him what he 'd brought you, 
he looked so awful. An' just outside the door of 
that house was a big god like the heathens make 
an' pray to. I should think they would keep him 
out-of-doors, he was so awful ugly — why, I would n't 
say my prayers to him if I did n't ever get anything. 
I asked papa if the god was standin' there while he 
made a heaven for himself, an' papa said I 'd have 
to ask Mr. Huxley about that; I don't know any 
Mr. Huxley, do you ? 

Then we saw the Japanese things, — I knew them 
right away, cos they always look like things that 
you don't ever see anywhere else. One of the 
things was a man sittin' on a cow, an' papa read a 
card hangin' on it — " Shoki, punisher of imps and 
bad boys," an' then he said, " You 'd better behave 
yourself. Budge, for that old chap is looking for 
you." I did n't think he looked shockey a bit, an' 
I just told papa so, and then a lady laughed an' 
said I was a smart boy, as if it was anything very 
smart not to be afraid of a little old iron man on 
an iron cow ! 

You just ought to see how people looks inside of 
'em ; I saw some people that was cutted open, only 
they wasn't real people, but just made of mortar. 
You 'd just get tired to see what lots of funny places 
bread an' butter an' apples have to go in us before 
they turn into little boy, and how there 's four little 
boxes in our hearts that keep openin' an' shuttin' 
lots of times every minute without the hinges ever 
comin' loose an' lettin' the covers drop off, like they 
do in our toy-boxes. 

You never saw such lots of pictures; there was 
rooms, an' rooms, an' rooms, an' each one of them 
was as lovely as Mr. Brown's barn was when the 
circus pictures was all over it. There was one big 
picture that papa said was all about a lady named 
Cornaro, that was stole away from her home, and 
the people that stole her tried to make her happy 
by givin' her nice things, but the picture looked so 
much like a lovely big rug that I wanted to get up 
there an' lie down an' roll on it. An' then there 
was the <ra»fullest picture of a whole lot of little 
boys — not so very little, either — that was crucified 
to keep the Lord from bein' angry. I tell you, I 
just said a little prayer right away, an' told the Lord 
that I was glad / was n't a little boy then, if that 
was the kind of things they done to 'em. I guess 
I know what people mean now, when they say 

1 66 



they 've got the blues, cos that dreadful picture was 
blue all over. 

I think comin' home was about as nice as any- 
thing, though, cos boys kept comin' through the 
cars with bananas, an' figs, an' peanuts, an' apples, 
an' cakes, an' papa bought me everything I wanted, 
an' a lovely lady sat in the seat with us an' told 
about a picture of Columbus's sailors kneelin' down 
an' beggin' him to forgive 'em for bein' so bad, 
just like mamma reads to us out of the history- 
book. An' then another lady sat in the seat with 
us, but she was n't so nice, cos she said " Sonton- 
nial," — / think big folks ought to know how to talk 
plainer than that. An' papa said he 'd go out a 
minute or two, an' I was thinkin' what a great trav- 
eler I was gettin' to be, an' how I knew most every- 
thing now I 'd been to the Centennial, an' how I 
was smart enough to be a big man right away, an' 
what lots of things I : d do, and how I 'd have every- 

thing nice I wanted to, like big men do, when 
at once I got afraid we 'd gone off an' left papa, 
then I got to be a little boy right away again, at 
cried, an' when papa got back I just jumped in 
lap an' thought I 'd rather stay a little boy. 

I 'm awful sorry you was n't there, too, Tod, 
papa said such a little boy as you could n't do 
much walkin'. An' I asked papa when there 'd 
one that you 'd be big enough to go to, and 
said, " Not for a hundred years." Gracious Pet< 
I knew you 'd be dead before then. But yo 
see a centennial even if you die, cos the Lord 
everything nice in heaven, an' centennials are ni 
so there '11 be lots of 'em there, an' you wont 
tired a bit lookin' at 'em, an' I don't believe I 
angels '11 laugh at you when you say things, 
you wont be dragged past all the cake and can, 
places, so I guess you '11 have a good time, ever 
you was n't with us. 

By Richard A. Proctor. 


It is very pleasant to know the stars — to be able, 
like Milton's hermit, to 

" Sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth show." 

And it is not at all difficult to learn all the chief 
star-groups, — or constellations, as they are called, — 
if only the learner goes properly to work. Perhaps 
I ought rather to say, if the teacher goes properly 
to work. I remember, when I was a boy about 
twelve years old, being very much perplexed by the 
books of astronomy, and the star-charts, from which 
I tried to learn the stars. There was "Bonny- 
castle's Astronomy," with a very pretty picture of 
one constellation, — Andromeda, — in which, if one 
looked very carefully, one could perceive stars, 
though these were nearly lost in the carefully 
shaded picture of the Chained Lady herself. An- 
other book which I found in my father's library 
showed a series of neat pictures of all the chief 
constellations, but gave no clear information as to 
their whereabouts. And the charts which I found 

were not at all easy to understand, being, in fa 
the usual star-charts, which give no informat; 

whatever about the places of star-groups on the & 
of any place or at any time. So that it was only I 




1 rking my way from the Great Bear to constella- 
ns close by it, then to others close by these, and 
so on, that I slowly learned the 
chief star-groups. The object 
of the series of maps which are 
now about to be given, month 
by month (in pairs), is to re- 
move this difficulty for the young 
astronomers of America. The 
maps are made specially for 
America, and for the particular 
month to which each pair be- 
longs. For instance, they would 
FIG ' 2 ' not be right for London (as, in- 

:d, some writing on each map shows) ; nor 
uld the January maps which appear in the pres- 
. number of this magazine be of the least use for 
le or July. 

The two maps printed on pages 168 and 169 
)\v what stars can be seen toward the north, and 
at stars toward the south, at a certain convenient 
Lir during every night in January. This hour 
•ies, night by night. On January 1st, the hour 
which the stars shown in these maps can be 
n in the position shown will be about a quarter 
it nine in the evening ; on January 2, about 
ven minutes past nine ; on January 3, about 
en minutes past nine, and so on earlier and 
lier each night : on January 5, at nine ; Jan- 
y 8, at a quarter to nine ; January 12, half past 
ht; January 16, a quarter past eight ; January 
eight o'clock ; January 23, a quarter to eight ; 
mary 27, half past seven; and January 31, a 
irter past seven. 

iefore describing the maps for the month, it will 
well for me to note that the black part of each 
p shows the sky as it would be seen (toward the 
th in Map I., toward the south in Map II.) by 
ervers living in Philadelphia or in the same 
tude. This is nearly correct (quite sufficiently 
for the purpose of these maps) for New York, 
Louis, Washington, Cincinnati, and all places 
or nearly on the same latitude as any of those 
es. The horizon for Boston, Chicago, and other 
:es nearly in that latitude, is shown below the 
izon of Philadelphia in the northern map, and 
ve that horizon in the southern map. The 
izon for Louisville, and places nearly in the same 
:ude, is shown above the horizon of Philadelphia 
he northern map, and below that horizon in the 
thern map. The horizon of New Orleans forms 
lower limit of the southern map, and is seen in 
northern map high above the horizon of Boston. 
, tly, to show the young American astronomer 
J ' notably American skies differ from English, 
t horizon of London is shown below the lower 
1 t of the northern map, and high above the 

horizon of Boston in the southern map. The point 
overhead, of course, varies just as the horizon varies. 
Its position for Philadelphia and Boston is shown 
in each map ; its position for London (England) in 
the northern map, and for New Orleans in the 

In each map the Latin names of the constella- 
tions are given ; but in the description of each map 
the English names will be given, and a few re- 
marks on each constellation. The Greek letters 
used by astronomers are also given ; and the young 
learner who may not happen to know the Greek 
alphabet, will do well to learn the names of the 
Greek letters, as follows : 

a is callec 


i' is ca 

lied Nu 

j3 i: 


£ / 


7 " 



' Omicron 

6 " 


n ' 


e " 




C " 


c ' 

' Sigma 

V " 


T ' 


e " 


I' ' 









Chi (Ki) 

7. " 


V- ' 




(j " ' 


Most of the bright stars have proper names, 
chiefly derived from the Arabic. Many of these 
will be mentioned as our survey proceeds. 

Looking northward, we see that Draco, " the 
dragon," has usurped the region due north imme- 
diately under Ursa Minor, the " little bear." The 
full proportions of the dragon are now clearly and 
conveniently shown, except in the southern parts 
of the L'nited States, — for the horizon of New 




Orleans conceals from view the two bright stars y 
and /?, which anciently formed the head of the 
great monster. In those modern maps which show 
the constellation figures, the dragon is represented 
differently, and generally somewhat as in Fig. I 
(knots and all). But you cannot imagine the stars 

of familiar objects out of the stars; but this is ce 
tainly a mistake, for I know that when I was a lac 
and before I had learned to associate the stars wit 
the constellations at present in use, I used to in 
agine among the stars the figures of such objects ; 
I was most familiar with. In the constellation i 

is thepoint overhead ' er _ o is thepoint overAead for f/ie 
forthe MtudeofI7iilad«^~-~~ T~ xMAMAaifjfi 

-£ Staraf/stifairsS:: ^ •> < I to ff «/ ■■ ■' \s ra rof2ndAfaf^. 



|r c 


«« ?& 

:| C ^ sol 




A. Vr?ea/i& . 

<. j Horizon 
JL2 WBr/ftms 


, ;ii ,, ; . ' ||| [ Lgo J/0// 


Jforizon of Zondon (E?ny.) 
T/ieJYorr/iernSkrat/O ?uDec.2/ ; at -9pm San S.-and ntS r m. <fan 20. 

to form a dragon, or snake, in that way. Now we 
may be sure that the ancients, when they called a 
group of stars by any name, really imagined some 
resemblance between the star-group and the figure 
after which they named it. I have heard it said 
that the liveliest imagination cannot form figures 

the Swan, I saw a capital kite (it is there to tl 
day). In the Great Bear, I saw the figure of a t 
very common at that time in England, representi 
a monkey that passed over the top of a pole. T 
three stars forming the handle of the Dipper (7 
and f) made the tail of the monkey ; and if y 




10k at the Dipper in the position it now occupies 
the early evening, you will readily see the figure 
a climbing monkey. In Perseus I could see a 

irland of flowers such as my sisters used to make. 

rion was a climbing giant when rising, but took 

ie attitude of a giant going down hill as he passed 

groups really seemed pictured in the heavens. Add 
to this the consideration that it would not be among 
the stars overhead, but among those toward the 
horizon, that they would imagine such shapes, and 
I think we can understand where and how they saw 
a dragon in the stars shown in the lower part of our 

is t/ie'point overhead ' u y erheact ut/te'pointorerheadjrort/ie 

fort/telatitudcoff/u/ad 1 

'■ 1.. ,,Jrd « 

•MBostm Otirhr%aMems 

W. ^\^ y£ %_L :r -'" ^ AR,E \ 

(p'% "• . 63" ~~~_ .'- 

1 V-___ i. fl TAURUS . -. / ->? \\ J :, 

o;rion >^' ;. 7 ■ • o^ 05 

d .•;■..■ ■«■>■■ 4.' : 

.-- -7. 1 i 

\+£/. ' ; ■— Jfor.ofXon 


Boston - 



r ■ / Horizon 

";" ■ IfoiHzon of JSTew Orleans ^ yl - 

TJie Southern Styai '/OpviBec 2/ ; at SpuJaa^andatd '?M.Jan20 

;r to the west. In the Serpent-Bearer and Ser- northern map. It was not such a nondescript as 

it I saw a monstrous sword, shaped like the Fig. 1 which they saw, but a really snake-like fig- 

ved saber which Saladin wielded ; and so forth, ure ; and, for my own part, I have no doubt what- 

doubt, in the infancy of astronomy, or perhaps ever that the stars d and y were the eyes of the 

the world itself, men were fanciful in the same dragon they imagined, and that its head was pict- 

y, and the figures they assigned to the star- ured in their imagination somewhat as shown in 
VOL. IV. — 12. 




Fig. 2.* On referring to the northern map, you 
will see that I have borrowed a star from Hercules 
to make the snake's head complete. But that does 
not trouble my mind in the least. The idea of 
separating the constellations one from another was 
a much later one than that of merely naming the 
more remarkable star-groups. If one set of stars 
seemed to resemble any object, and another set to 
resemble another object, I think the corresponding 
names would have been given even though some 
stars of one set were included within the other set. 
In fact, I think this very constellation of the Dragon 
seems to me to show that our modern constellation 
figures have been largely reduced in extent. When 
/ look northward at the Dragon placed as in the 
northern map, I see not a mere snake with his 
head as in Fig. 2, but a monstrous winged serpent, 
as in Fig. 3 ; only, to make the figure complete, I 
have to take in a large piece from the Little Bear. 
The stars thus borrowed make a great wing for the 
dragon ; the stars <o, V, 15, etc., of the dragon make 
another wing ; and the neck, body, and tail run 
from f through r/, H, 1 and a to X 

You may, perhaps, think that it matters very 
little what figures the ancients really imagined 
among the stars. But you will be disposed to think 
differently when I mention that the supposed want 
of resemblance now between the star-groups and 
the figures assigned to them, has led some to form 
the bold idea that there was once a strong resem- 
blance, but that some stars have gone out, others 
have shone forth more strongly or are altogether 
new, and that thus the resemblance has been de- 
stroyed. When we remember that our sun is only 
one among the vast number of suns, it becomes 
rather a serious matter for the inhabitants of the 
earth if so many suns have really changed. For, 
in that case, our sun may soon change in his turn, 
and either broil us up with excess of heat, or leave 
us to perish miserably from "extremity of cold. 
However, I think the explanation which I have- 
given shows that the resemblance formerly im- 
agined still remains, and that it is only because 
modern astronomy has docked the dimensions of 
the old figures that they no longer correspond with 
their names. 

Above the Dragon we see the Lesser Bear, the 
two guardians of the pole, ji and 7, having swung 
round a little past the lowest part of their circuit. 
Approaching the north from the left are the stars 
of Cepheus, which will in a month or two be more 
favorably placed for study. Notice the glory of the 
" milky way " overhead. Looking that way, also, 
the very bright star Capella will attract your notice. 
It belongs to the constellation Auriga, or "the 

charioteer." There is a nearly vacant space 1 
tween Auriga and Ursa Minor, which seems 
show that in that direction the system of stars j 
which our sun belongs is not so richly strewn wi 
suns as elsewhere. And although, when a telesco 
is turned toward this region, hundreds and tho 
sands of stars are brought into view, yet not neai 
so many are seen as when the same telescope 
directed toward Perseus or Cassiopeia. 

And now turning our back upon the pole-st; 
let us look toward the south. A month ago, 
" great whale," Cetus, occupied the greater part 
the southern mid-sky ; but now (at the same hou 
that constellation has passed away westward (wht 
it can still be seen), and the mighty river Eridan 
occupies nearly the whole space between the eqi 
tor and the southern horizon. This constellation 
a great deal too large ; it has not room to tr 
itself. Observe how poor Bayer (the astronon 
who first gave to the stars of each constellation 
letters of the Greek alphabet) was perplexed 
the large number of stars he had to deal wi' 
There are seven T'aus (in reality there are nine, 1 
the other two are small), and five Upsilons 
shown (out of seven), while several stars wh: 
ought to have received their proper Greek lette 
have been only numbered. 

Above Eridanus is the fine constellation Taur 
or "the bull," belonging to the zodiacal twe 
which mark the road-way of the sun and plane 
The sun's path, or ecliptic, is marked on the m 
the portion shown being that which he traverse; 
May and June. The symbol II represents the s: 
of " the twins," the sun entering that sign, on 
course toward the left shown by the arrow, ab 
the 2 1st of May — which is, therefore, not the ti; 
to look for Taurus or the Pleiades, seeing that 
sun is shining in the midst of their region of 
heavens. The sign of Gemini, or " the twins," u 
formerly to agree with the constellation of 
twins," but now, as the map shows, falls u{ 

The group of stars called the Pleiades is one 
the most interesting objects in the heavens, 
former times they were thought to exert very : 
portant influences on the weather, probably beca 
when the sun was in Taurus, which then coi 
sponded with the end of April, it was a time wltti 
all nature seemed to spring into activity. Admil 
Smyth says that the passage in Job, translate 
"Canst thou bind the sweet influences of Jki 
Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion ? " etc. , shod 
be rendered thus : 

" Canst thou shut up the delightful teemings of Chimah ? 
Or the contractions of Chesil canst thou open ? " 

' Aratus, in describing the constellations, speaks of the Dragon as "with eyes oblique retorted, that askant cast gleaming fire.' 




himah representing Taurus, or the constellation 

xupied by the sun (in Job's time) in spring (April 

nd May) : while Chesil is not Orion, but Scorpio, 

he constellation which in Job's time was occupied 

y the sun in autumn (October and November). 

is interesting to notice the ancients thus regard- 

! ; ig the stellar influences, as exerted, not when the 

l-ars in question are visible in the night-time, but 

I hen their rays are combined with those of the 

I'm, which also was the way in which astrologers 

)"garded the stars. Taurus now shines highest in 

l?ie skies at midnight toward the end of Novem- 

":r ; but in Job's time, six or seven weeks earlier. 

esiod, speaking of their return to the night skies 

ter being lost in the sun's rays, which in his day 

ould be in early autumn, says : 

" There is a time when forty clays they lie, 
And forty nights, concenl'd from human eye; 
But in the course of the revolving year, 
When the swain sharps the scythe, again appear." 

With the telescope, more than two hundred stars 
can be seen in this group. To ordinary vision, six 
only are said to be visible. Yet many persons see 
seven, not a few can see nine or ten, and Kepler 
tells us that Moestlin could count no less than four- 
teen stars, without telescopic aid. 

The bright and somewhat ruddy star Aldebaran 
is in the head of " the bull," formed by the closely 
clustering group between Aldebaran, e and y. This 
group is called the Hyades, from a Greek word 
signifying rain, the influence of these stars being- 
considered showery. The two stars : i and f form 
the tips of the bull's horns. 

Facing the bull, we see on the left the glorious 
constellation Orion. But this constellation is far 
too important to be dealt with in the short space 
now left me ; and therefore I must defer my ac- 
count of this splendid group to next month, when, 
at the hours selected for our evening observations, 
he shines in full glory upon the meridian. 

By J. T. Trowbridge. 

Chapter V 


THE pleasant excitement of the auction passed 

th the afternoon, and with the approach of even- 

' I came more serious thoughts to Jacob. 

Nearly everything had by that time been removed 

m the house, and he felt that he no longer had 

home. Friend David had led away the cow. 

' m men were lifting his aunt's bureau into a 

gon at the gate. Another was ruthlessly cutting 

by the roots the corn which the boy had planted 

id hoed that summer, in the pleasant anticipation 

! roasted ears in August. The ears were not yet 

1 ge enough to eat, and the whole must go for 

-der. The half-sized potatoes would also have 

be dug; for everything left growing in the gar- 

r when he gave up the cottage would belong to 

: owner. The small price which these things 

lught at auction had not troubled him, but it 

" de him wince to see so much of his summers 

rk rudely swept away. 

\lphonse, who had stood at the gate, whittling 
tick, while the men were loading up the furni- 
e, now returned to the door where Jacob was 
omily surveying the scene of desolation. 

"Jacob, my boy," cried the professor, gayly, "I 
have whittled out another idea." 

"What is it?" asked Jacob, trying to look 

" I leave here to-night — in half an hour." 

"Where for?" 

" For Cincinnati." 

Jacob turned pale. 

" You can't ; there 's no stage." 

" I 've hired one of these men to take me over to 
the other road in his wagon ; there 's a Sunday 
stage on that road." 

Jacob could scarcely speak, so great was his agi- 
tation. He had sold out his home, and now he 
seemed about to lose his only friend. 

" What 's to become of me? " 

" You are to go with me, of course." 

That brought back a gleam of hope to his dark- 
ened soul. 

" But — how can I ? It is so sudden ! " he said. 

" Everything happens suddenly with me, as I 
told you," laughed Professor Pinkey. " Listen. 
Though you 've arranged to have your bed and a 
few things left in the house, it wont be pleasant to 
remain here till Monday. We might stand it one 
night; but two nights and Sundav — bah ! I don't 




know how I 've endured it as long as I have, under 
the most favorable circumstances ; it was only to 
keep you company and put through the auction. 
Now everything is ready. You Ve got your money. 
Hurrah ! " 

"But there are some people I ought to see 

" Who, for one ? " 

"The man who owns the cottage. I shall owe 
him a month's rent on Monday." 

" You can send it to him. Besides, there 's gar- 
den stuff enough left on the place to pay him. 
Moreover," added Pinkey, " he should have been 
present at the auction, and bid in something to 
secure his debt." 


"Then the doctor hasn't been paid. His bill 
for attending my aunt will be ten or twelve dollars." 

"That can wait. It is boyish to be in such 
haste to pay bills!" cried Alphonse with some con- 
tempt. "Pay bills always — at your own conven- 
ience; that's the rule. Come, put on your Sunday 
clothes ; hang up your old ones for the landlord — 
they'll be something toward his rent!" Pinkey 
rattled away. " What do you stand staring there 
for ? I tell you I 've whittled it ail out ; it can't be 

He drew Jacob into the house, and, taking down 
from a nail a small black traveling-bag, which they 
had saved for the purpose from the old lady's 

assets, called for the boy's shirts and stockings 
be stuffed into it. 

Jacob, bewildered, hardly knowing what he d 
began to put on his best clothes, and empty 1 
pockets of his old ones. 

" Here's all this money ! " he exclaimed in 
spair. " I have n't got my belt made yet ! " 

" I '11 lend you mine," said Alphonse. 

" What will you do with your money ? " 

" Why, leave it in the belt, and let you carry! 
you look out for the belt, and I '11 look out for yo I 

" I should n't dare ! " said Jacob, frightenedrt 
the idea of losing both his own money and p 
friend's. " I wish you would put my money i§ 
the belt, and wear it yourself ; I shall feel belj 
about it." 

" No. I wont ! I 'm not going to have anyth 
to do with that money ; I 've said so, and I '11 si 
to it," declared the virtuous Pinkey. " I can mil 
a belt for you in ten minutes — only give me a pis 
of sheepskin, or strong cloth." 

Unfortunately, no material of the kind was tcH 
found in a house which had just been cleared by.n 
auction sale. 

" Might tear up a sheet," suggested Alphoij. 
"That wont do though; the sheets are sold vjj 
the other bedding. I don't see but that I sill 
have to take your money in my belt, after all." 

Jacob thought it very kind in the professor, t 
to relieve his inexperienced mind of a great carl 

Alphonse disposed of the money while Jacob as 
dressing. When the traveling-bag was packed, lie 
professor said, throwing out scornfully some thigs 
his young friend wished to put into it : 

"That old jacket? You never will want tit, 
my boy ! You are to be a gentleman now,-|t 
least you are to travel with a gentleman, and bas 
much like one as circumstances will allow. \pt 
best clothes are bad enough. Ha, ha ! " jjfi 
Alphonse laughed at Jacob's outfit. 

" May be you will be ashamed to travel mt 
me," said the boy, blushing, as he looked dowjt 
his pepper-and-salt "go-to-meeting trousers, 'as 
he called them, and surveyed his tight coat-sleeS. 

He had always thought it a very proper suiijar 
a lad of his years ; but now, as he began to viefc 
with the eyes of the elegant Mr. Pinkey, it locB 
ridiculous enough. He tried to pull down his \5t, 
which was made too short ; then to button his At 
at the waist, as Alphonse did, but it was too sn& 
and he only made things worse. 

" No matter! you are all right ! " said the I 
fessor, laughing merrily. " What you lack inle- 
gance of attire, you make up in personal beaut" 

" I don't know what you mean by that," pofid 
Jacob, with a strong suspicion that he was nfti 
fun of. 

■ 77-J 



pi "I mean that you are a right good-looking 

Dung chap, in any clothes." 
c'J "Pshaw!" said Jacob, coloring redder than 
; i efore. 
I " Oh, but I 'm in earnest now ! " 
1 1 And, indeed, if you had seen our young friend 

ashed and combed, and with his clean " shirtee " 

a (as he called the false bosom and collar which 

e put over his coarse cotton shirt), you would 
n ave thought the professor not far wrong. 
(no Jacob, however, — who had been bred up by his 
:c ant to the wholesome belief that he was a very 
1 omely boy, — did not agree with him ; and de- 
i ared that, even if the dancing-master was not 
si shamed of his traveling companion, he would be 

shamed for him. 
tfcjri "I'll tell you how we '11 manage that," replied 
;■) .lphonse. " You can travel as my servant, — if 

lat will suit your idea of the fitness of things any 

Jacob did n't know whether it would or not ; but 

efore he could make a reply, Alphonse appeared 

> have settled the matter in that way. 
" There comes our wagon ! Now are we all 

:ady ? " said the professor, taking up his violin- 

" I want to look around a little first ! " said 

>icob, surveying with a sad heart the old house 
} hich had been so long his home, and which he 
A as now to quit forever. 

b, "What's the use of looking around? There's 
jlothing you want here, is there ? " 
lj r "Yes — I want a last drink out of the old well- 

ucket, 'fore I go ! " 

i Jacob was almost choking as he spoke, — with 
t .| r first, probably, for he had been eating a hasty 
Ijjtpper. He went to the well, drew up a brimming 
' bucket with the long sweep, set it on the curb, 
|j nd stooped over it, spattering his newly-blacked 
I toes with the drippings as he drank. Then, hav- 
| ig replaced the bucket on the curb, he wiped his 
JUouth, also giving a little dash at one eye with a 
; ' orner of his handkerchief, and said he was quite 
, . :ady. 

i '•' Well, bring the baggage ; " and Alphonse 
. n iarched off with his violin, leaving Jacob to follow 
,;| c ith the bag and valise. 

r j.'As they went out, they noticed Joe Berry and 
i iiother of the boys who had stoned Jacob, hanging 
ground the gate. His heart relented toward them, 

id he wanted to give them a friendly hand at 
,,j.arting. But Joe, moved by envy and malice, 

died out to his companion : 

: "Some folks feel mighty big since they've had 
, i auction and sold off their old duds ! " 
That provoked Jacob, I am sorry to say ; and he 

tiled out, in reply : 

l 73 

" See here, Joe Berry ! There 's some cast-off 
clothes of mine in the house, that I don't want ; 
they 're a good deal better than any you 've got, or 
are likely ever to have again, and I '11 give 'em to 
you, if you '11 be a good boy and keep your face 

This retort had the desired effect ; but Joe's 
angry reply was lost in the loud laughter of Al- 
phonse and the driver of the wagon, as the three 
rode away. 

Having locked up the cottage, Jacob stopped to 
leave the key at the nearest neighbor's house. The 
people there had been very kind to him, and it 
cost him a good deal of pain to bid them good-bye. 
The professor would not let him make any more 
stops, although Jacob thought he ought to give 
warning of his departure to the buyers of some of 
the things still left in the old home. 

" What's the use ?" said Alphonse. '"They '11 
find it out soon enough." 

And he would not hear a word about their going 
a little out of their way to see the landlord and the 
doctor and pay their bills. 

Jacob yielded to him in this as he did in every- 
thing, but with a heart full of misgivings. 

Night was now coming on ; the road wound 
among shadowy hills, and the evening crickets 
were beginning to sing. Jacob looked back, and 
thought of his lost home, and of all the friends he 
was leaving, probably never to see one of them 
again. Then he looked forward into the future 
and the on-coming night, with feelings which Joe 
Berry would not have envied so much, could he 
have looked into his heart. 

Chapter VI. 


The home Jacob was leaving was in one of the 
easterly counties of Ohio, about thirty miles from 
the Ohio River. 

But the river he had never seen. He had never, 
in fact, been a dozen miles from home. Every- 
thing was new and strange to him on that first 
journey ; and when, late Sunday afternoon, the 
stage-coach, on the top of which he rode with Mr. 
Pinkey, came out of a pleasant grove on the brow 
of a hill that overlooked the broad stream winding 
between woods and farms, and shining miles away 
by the beautiful Virginia shore, he thought it the 
finest sight in the world. 

They stopped that night at a village on the 
banks, and on Monday forenoon went on board 
a steam-boat going down the river. 

It was the first steam-boat Jacob had ever seen ; 
and his heart beat high with joy and pride as he 
stood on the deck and heard the rushing of the 




paddles, and beheld the boat swing off from the 
shore and go gliding away on the stream, bearing 
him and his fortunes. 

" Now you see how it is," said Alphonse. " Who 
would stay cooped up in a wretched little town like 
that you 've left, when he can put out and see the 
world as you are doing ? " And he added, spread- 
ing his hands to the river and horizon to give effect 
to his eloquence: " Lives there the man, with soul 
so dead, who never to himself hath said, ' This is 
my own, my native land ? ' " 

Jacob did not quite see the relevancy of this last 
remark, which sounded very much like a quota- 
tion ; but he felt that it was something fine. 

" Now for our state-room," said the professor, 
taking up his violin-case from the deck, and walk- 
ing off, followed by Jacob with their baggage. 

The boy was surprised to see how perfectly at 
home Mr. Pinkey appeared on the boat. He was 
at once on familiar terms with the captain ; and he 
walked in among the passengers, lifting his hat to 
the ladies, and making pleasant off-hand remarks, 
like any old acquaintance. With his trim figure, 
his wide trousers, his coat buttoned with one but- 
ton at the waist, and falling carelessly open above, 
displaying an expansive shirt-front and blue neck- 
tie, — his pretty mustache, which he occasionally 
stroked, his hair in ringlets, and his graceful, 
vivacious ways, — it was no wonder the ladies re- 
garded him admiringly, and seemed pleased with 
his attentions. 

Jacob, too diffident to put himself forward and 
share his fine friend's triumphs, would have felt 
quite lonely and neglected if he had not had the 
novel scenes on the river to divert him, and the 
passengers to study. 

Some of these interested him because they 
seemed so suddenly to have become intimate with 
Alphonse, — two young ladies particularly. They 
were evidently sisters, and looked so much alike 
that he could not have told them apart, but that 
one was dressed in green silk and the other in 
pink. They were rather handsome, and full of gay 
talk and laughter. In half an hour they were talk- 
ing familiarly to Alphonse ; while a certain tall, 
dark man, with a black beard, whom Jacob had 
first seen talking with the sisters, kept aloof from 
them and paced the deck, frowning frequently at 
the favored Pinkey. 

Jacob was seated on a bench by the rail, looking 
sometimes at the river and shores, and sometimes 
at the passengers, and listening to the sounds of 
merriment in which he could not share, when 
Alphonse called out to him. 

"Oh, Jacob, my boy, bring up my violin, will 
you ? " 

Jacob seemed quite to have forgotten that he 

was now his own master. He started to obey wl 
the alacrity of a servant, and had reached the sta I 
room before he remembered that Pinkey had t| 
key. He was going back for it, when he ni 
Pinkey coming to bring it. 

" Where did you first know all those people I 
Jacob asked, as Alphonse stood at the glass, toui> 
ing up his toilet before returning to the deck. 

" I never saw one of them before, you greJ 
horn ! " laughed the professor. 

" Why, how could you get acquainted with th<i 
so soon ? " 

" That 's the Pinkey style ; that 's the way to m 
slow-coach ! Walk right in ; care for nobodj 
push yourself — push yourself; that 's my motS 
Though, of course, you can't do that in pepp[- 
and-salt pantaloons. Ha, ha ! Come, bring l£ 

So saying, Pinkey locked the door again, al 
tripped airily back to the group awaiting him unc» 
the pillared roof of the deck ; Jacob following ole 
diently with the instrument. 

" There ; thank ye, Jacob, my boy ; put it dowfl 
said the professor, with a condescending smile. 4 

Jacob felt all eyes on him as he awkwardly wis 
drew, and, rolling his own in distress, saw a bri;| 
young girl with merry blue eyes fairly laughing* 

He had noticed her before. She was sitting vM 
a lady who, as Jacob had noticed, called her FloiiJ 
while the young girl had called her, "mamm" 
She was full of fun, and seemed to know eve«< 
body, and to be a favorite with everybody. 1-fi 
was not quite so old as Jacob ; and he had thoug;,- 
as he watched her, that he would give anyth g 
in the world if he but had the courage to speako 
her. She had looked at him curiously once S 
twice, and given him no further notice till now. m 

She was laughing, and her mother was trying 
stop her, though she was smiling herself at « 
time. It was a moment of bitter chagrin to Jacl 
He believed that he hated Florie, though onll 
little while before she had appeared to him so gci 
and beautiful. He returned to his place by i 
rail, and gazed off upon the water, with a fe 
which was very red indeed. 

Professor Pinkey played some merry tunes a 
his violin, and the sisters in green and pink s:i I 
some lively songs. The passengers applaudij 
and everybody seemed happy except the till 
dark man, who continued to pace the deck <? 
mally. We must also except Jacob. He its 
entertained, but by no means blissfully at ease| 
his mind, as he sat there, in the distressing c|fc 
sciousness of an ill-fitting coat and pepper-and It 
trousers, and watched the sport, and wondered-B 
many another sensitive young person has donen 





like occasion — if he could ever get to feel at home 
l " company." 
He did not receive another word or look from 
t dphonse until they met in their state-room after 
upper. Then the professor overflowed with affa- 
ility and extravagant praises of " the heiresses." 
"What heiresses ? " said Jacob, much astonished. 
" Why, the sisters, the twins — the Misses Chip- 
e »erly; the girls in green and pink, with the big 
ar-rings. They are the only daughters of the 
chest man in St. Louis. One's name is Theodora, 
rid the other's, Theodosia ; ' Dory ' and ' Doshy ' 
what their mother calls them. That 's the stout 
Id lady with the double chin. I 've learned all 
oout them, and am dead in love ! " said Alphonse. 
" With which one ? " Jacob inquired. 
" I don't know yet," replied Alphonse, care- 
:ssly. " But I 'm resolved to offer myself to one 
r both of them before we leave the boat." 
" Wont that be — rather — sudden ?" said Jacob. 
" I tell you, things happen sudden with me. 
'ovv do you like 'em ? " 
Hv Jacob felt bound to like ladies whom his elegant 
■ ' iend admired. He could not help saying, how- 
•fver, that he thought them rather rough in their 

" That 's Western style," Pinkey replied. " Did 
)u notice how mad that fellow was at me ? " 
" The tall, black-bearded man ? I saw him look- 
ling daggers ! " 

ill " He 's a Kentuckian — Colonel Corkright, a no- 
j:> 'Hous duelist!" said Alphonse, confidentially. 
I But I 'm not afraid of him." 

Chapter VII. 


MATTERS took a singular turn that evening. 

Jacob saw Colonel Corkright throw the stump of 

s cigar into the river, and deliberately walk over 

■ where Alphonse was telling stories that made 

re young ladies in pink and green scream with 

.1; ughter. He expected nothing less than to see 

. e tall Kentuckian pick up the slight professor 

1 i id fling him over into the water, after his cigar- 

ump. But nothing of the kind occurred. 
8 j Corkright treated Alphonse with courtesy, deign- 
ing even to smile while the sisters laughed. Still 
1 tcob was alarmed on his friend's account, and he 
1 nged to get word with him, to warn him of his 
; inger. 

j . It was a warm moonlight evening, and the com- 
■. -iny kept the deck, enjoying songs and stories. 
• : e fresh breeze, and the beautiful play of light on 
; J e water between the boat and the Virginia shore. 
r - I "You seem lonesome here by yourself," said a 
■ 1 :ntle voice to Jacob as he sat musing. 

He was so intent just then in watching Florie as 
she flitted in and out among the groups of pas- 
sengers, that he had not noticed Florie's mother 
seating herself on a camp-stool near by. 

It was she who spoke. Her voice was so very 
soft that it had a sort of sympathetic drawl. 

"I'm not lonesome," he replied, with a little 
embarrassment: "though maybe I seem so be- 
cause I don't know anybody." 

" Are you traveling alone ? " she inquired. 

Jacob answered that he was traveling with Pro- 
fessor Pinkey. 

" Oh yes ! I remember you brought up his violin 
for him." Jacob was glad that the moonlight did 
not betray his blushes. " He seems a very pleas- 
ant gentleman," added the lady. 

Jacob answered, with a glow of pleasure, that 
Mr. Pinkey was the best fellow in the world, as well 
as the smartest. 

" You have known him intimately a long while, 
then ? " 

This question, put with the lady's peculiar drawl, 
set Jacob to thinking that his intimacy with Al- 
phonse really extended over only a few days. But 
he thought of their first acquaintance, and said : 
'* I ve known him ever since last winter, when he 
kept a dancing-school in our town." 

Florie had glided near, and now stood leaning 
fondly on her mother's shoulder. The moonlight 
was on her face, lighting up an intent, curious 
smile, with which she seemed to be scrutinizing 
Jacob. He remembered her merriment at his ex- 
pense, which had stung him so, and he tried to 
think he hated her still ; but he might as well have 
tried to hate a rose-bud because he had felt its 

" I should think he would make a very good 
dancing-master," said the mother. " His manners 
are exquisite." 

Florie laughed, " You did n't go to his school, 
did you ? " 

" Florie, be still ! " said her mother. She was 
always saying to her, " Florie, be still ! " but some- 
how Florie never would be still. She was not 
exactly rude, but she had been a good deal spoiled, 
no doubt ; and she had a way of saying and doing 
always the first thing that came into her gay young 

Jacob looked her full in the face, and said, with 
an honest smile : 

" Yes, I did go to his school, though I suppose 
you would n't think so, from my manners." 

" I think he must be a very poor teacher." 
laughed Florie. 

" Be still, Florie ! " said her mother. 

Jacob was a pretty plucky boy. although he ap- 
peared so diffident in society. Opposition roused 




his spirit. Florie's presence and saucy bright eyes 
had troubled him at first. But her pert remarks, 
instead of increasing his confusion, cured it ; and 
he was now quite himself as he replied, with the 
same steadfast, honest look and smile : 

" He is a very good teacher. But I suppose I 
was a bad subject. We were all pretty green, and 
he gave us only ten lessons ; I had only nine, for I 
went in after the first one. Not much of a chance, 
you see, for a boy that had always worked hard 
and never been in company ! But you can't under- 
stand that. You can afford to laugh at an awkward 
fellow like me ! " 

Jacob laughed himself as he spoke, while Florie 
looked more serious. 

" I don't laugh at you ! " 

" You don't now ; but you did." 


" When I carried Mr. Pinkey's violin to him 

Florie's silvery laugh rang out again. 

"I laugh at everything — anything; but I was 
laughing more at your dancing-master than at you 
— he was so ridiculous ! " 

" Be still, Florie ! " said the mother. 

" How — ridiculous?" cried Jacob, firing up for 
his friend. 

" Ordering you about as if you were his servant 
— and he such a little fellow, dangling those ring- 
lets ! ' Put it down, Jacob, my boy ! ' " 

Florie struck an attitude, waved her hand, shook 
her own auburn curls, and made altogether so droll 
an imitation of Pinkey's manner, that Jacob had to 
laugh, while her mother exclaimed, " Be still, be 
still, Florie ! " 

" I 'm sorry you don't like my friend," said 
Jacob, struggling remorsefully against his merri- 

' ' Like him — ha, ha ! If 1 were you, I 'd get a 
pair of scissors, or use my jack-knife, and cut off 
that lowest button of his coat, so he can't button it 
at the waist and make a wasp of himself any more ! 
And I 'd snip out curls enough from his head when 
he's asleep, so he'd have to have his hair cut," 
Florie went on, in spite of her mother. " He's so 
absurd ! " 

" You don't seem to agree with the ladies who 
admire him so much," replied Jacob. 

"What ladies? If you mean the Chipperly 
girls," cried Florie 

" Be still, Florie, my child ! " said her mother. 

"He's just the kind of man to please them," 
the child kept on. " Have you noticed how " 

" Florie ! Florie ! if you don't stop, you shall go 
to bed ! Come ! " and the mother arose, taking 
the wayward girl firmly by the hand. " I don't 
know what this young lnd will think of vou ! " 

Florie laughed as if she did n't care, and r; 
away, like a fain 1 , in the moonlight. 

" You must not think anything of what s 
says," remarked the mother, turning to Jaco 
" She is very thoughtless." 

" I don't care for what she says of me or any 
the rest, but she really does Mr. Pinkey injustice 
replied Jacob. " I can't understand why she doi 
like him ; everybody else does." 

" Oh yes, everybody must admire Mr. Pinkey 
But in the lady's drawl there was something whi 
sounded to Jacob a little like irony. He h 
noticed the same when she spoke of Pinkey's ma« 
ners being " exquisite ; " but it did not occur 
him then that there could be any sarcasm in t 
remark. " He is almost too brilliant ; there is d; 
ger of his dazzling a lad like you." 

" Danger — how ? " said Jacob. 

" You may be blinded to his faults. For I si 
pose even Professor Pinkey has his faults ! " 

That was decidedly satirical, though spoken w 
an innocent demureness, which would have qu 
deceived Jacob only a few minutes before. Son 
how his talk with Florie had quickened his 

" Yes, I suppose he has," he answered. " I 01 
know he is a most generous fellow. He insisted 
paying my traveling expenses — though he had da 
a great deal for me before." 

" And did you let him ? " 

" I could n't help myself, because he has 

" Oh ! " said the lady. " How happened that 

Jacob told her. 

" Very kind in him indeed to relieve you of 
care of your money ! I ought not to breath< 
word against so good and generous a friend ! A 
truly, I am sure he is a person of some excell 
traits as well as accomplishments. But is he tn 
— is he altogether upright ? Are you sure his 
fluence over you is good ? " 

" Oh, very sure ! " exclaimed Jacob. 

" I am very glad to hear it. Good night ! " 

Nothing could have been kinder than the lads 
manner. But somehow her words implied a grit 
deal more than she said. They set Jacob to thifr 
ing of something which had troubled his consciem 
all along, and which made him feel extremely < 
easy just now. There was the doctor's account I 
attending his aunt in her last illness ; why hadlj 
not asked for and paid it before coming aw;.' 
And he ought to have settled with the landlord-|t' 
was a small amount that he owed him ; he had M 
money, and it would have cost but little troubkp 
find him. Why had he not done so ? Certainly, hi 
cause of Professor Pinkey's advice. Was, then, til 
gentleman's influence over him altogether goodv 




But while Jacob reasoned thus, and condemned 
imself, he found plenty of excuses for Alphonsc. 
Florie and her mother had gone. Soon after, 
i ae other ladies withdrew, the mother of the sisters 
aving sent for them from her state-room. Al- 
honse was left in conversation with the Kentucky 
j olonel and two other men, and all of them pres- 
ently entered the cabin. 

Jacob followed, and found the four engaged in a 
ame of cards, amidst a company of pretty rough- 
looking men, several of whom were also occupied 
1 card-playing. The end of the cabin devoted 

When Jacob returned, he found Pinkey and 
Corkright engaged in a game ; and noticing the 
skill with which the professor handled the cards, 
was not surprised to see him win. 

It was growing late, and Jacob, who wished to- 
go to bed, saw with some discomfort that another 
game was to be played. 

"Are you coming soon?" he whispered to Al- 

" Yes, in a few minutes. Here, take the key; 
the room is too small for two to undress together ; 
I '11 be there by the time you are in bed." 

'.3re exclusively to gentlemen had been shut off 
nm that of the ladies by the dividing doors, and 
■> was filled with loud talk and tobacco-smoke, 

rich were so offensive to Jacob that he wondered 
<w the delicate Alphonse could endure such an 

rtosphere and such society. 

Hearing male voices in the ladies' cabin, he 
. Iked into it ; but, finding that he had entered a 

emn meeting, where a traveling preacher had 
' iembled a small company for evening prayers, he 

shfully walked out again. 
. " Curious ! " thought he. " Bible-reading on one 

e of the partition, and gambling on the other ! " 

Pinkey and the Colonel were now on such friendly 
terms that Jacob dismissed his fears on his friend's, 
account. Still he did not like to leave him there 
in such company ; and it was only because he did 
not wish to displease him that he finally with- 

He passed through the other part of the cabin 
again to his state-room, and went to bed, leaving 
the lamp burning ; then lay awake for a long while 
waiting for Alphonse. At last he fell asleep, and 
it must have been two or three hours later that he 
was awakened by somebody in the room. 

It was Alphonse. He was very pale, his eyes. 

i 7 8 


f Janua 

shone, and his fine white forehead glistened like 
marble. Jacob did not speak until he saw that his 
friend was not preparing for bed, but going out 
again with his violin. 

" You are not going to play, this time of night, 
are you ? " he said, anxiously. 

'• What business is it of yours whether I play or 
not ? " Alphonse retorted, sharply. 

" I did n't mean cards — I meant the violin," said 

"Just a tune or two," rejoined Pinkey, in a 
kinder tone, as he went out and closed the door. 

Jacob did not know when next he fell asleep ; 
but, awaking a second time, he found himself in 
the dark. He remembered that the lamp had been 
burning low, and that he had seen Pinkey turning 
up the wick. Had he entered the room a second 
time, and put out the light ? Or had it burnt out? 

He listened for any movement or sound of brea 
ing in the berth below. All was silence, broki 
only by the constant jar of the boat's engine al 
the rushing noise of the strong paddle-wheels. 

Jacob turned, and listened again. Then t 
reached carefully down to the berth below. It \1 
vacant ; the carefully tucked-in coverlet had it 
been disturbed. 

A great fear possessed him, and he was about! 
get up and dress himself, to go in search of s 
friend, when he heard footsteps approaching, a| 
a hand on the door. Somebody came in, ail 
without striking a light or stopping to undrt, 
got into the lower berth. 

The moon had set ; but the first glimmer f 
dawn was beginning to steal through the snl 
state-room window, and by the gray, cold li|# 
Jacob could see that the comer was Alphonse. ; 

(To be continued.) 

By Lucy Larcom. 

Who is the white-faced old man 

Outside, at the window-pane. 
That muttered and sighed, as away he ran 

Into the sleet and rain ; 
Crying to some one behind. 

Calling to some one before, 
One whom he cannot find, 

One who will come no more?" 

That old man has sisters three ; 

One he has never seen : 
On a throne of roses afar sits she, 

And the whole world owns her a queen. 
But out ot her riches and power. 

Nothing has she to spare — 
Not so much as a flower — 

For the lonesome wanderer there. 

One sister beside him delayed, 

And tried his thin fingers to hold ; 
But the storm her garments shredded and frayed, 

And she sank, benumbed with the cold. 
And ever he prays and cries, 

And over her silence grieves ; 
Behind him, alas ! she lies 

Buried in golden leaves. 

in w J 



One happy young face before, 

Looks back, between cloud and drift, 
With a sudden smile, and is seen no more ; 

And the pilgrim follows, swift 
As a flash of the noon-day light ; 

With wail, and reproach, and shout, 
He follows, through day and night, 

Till again the face peeps out. 



This fairest sister of all 

Will laugh in the old man's face, 
Will challenge him onward, with merry call, 

To measure with her a race, 
Till, weary and lame, he falls 

Amid rose-buds and springing fern. 
She flies with the wind ; he calls, 

But never will she return. 

For the pale-faced pilgrim without 

Is Winter, the lonesome king, 
Calling back to Autumn with dreary shout, 

And hurrying on toward Spring. 
As Summer rules over the flowers, 

Over ice and snow reigns he. 
Lo ! there at the pane he glowers, 

And shakes his white scepter — sec ! 

i So 







By Harriet M. Miller. 

WE all are travelers on the jour- 
ney of life — some of us pleas- 
ant and helpful, and some of 
us cross and complaining, but 
all with equal speed hurrying 
on to the end. 

Let the older travelers pass on 
their way, while we take a peep 
at the youngest of all the little 
travelers in their first stage, 
when as yet they have no voice 
in the conduct of their own lives, 
but are tumbled and tossed about 
at the convenience of more ex- 
perienced fellow-passengers. 
To begin where the human race started, let us 
i how the little travelers get on in the far East, 
e Oriental baby inherits from his grave, ceremo- 
us papa a quiet, thoughtful air, to which our 
)ies are perfect strangers. No laughing, kick- 
■, crowing, and screaming little traveler have we 
■e, but a solemn, quiet, black-haired infant, who 
ks out at life from his mother's back with a calm 
ifference that even the grown-up babies of the 
:st cannot equal. Tied up in his wooden tray, 
a cradle, he goes with mamma to the field, 
ing his dinner, or lying under a tree, with equal 
rvposure, contentedly waiting the time when he 
11 waddle around, wrapped in yards and yards 
>ilk and woolen cloth ; jackets and trousers, fez 
1 turban, and big shawl around his waist, if he 's 
Turkish baby ; and red shoes or wooden kob- 
>s, blue baggy trousers, loose jackets, and red 
or tarboosh, if he's a Syrian baby. He makes 
journeys in a basket hung on the side of a horse, 
i stuffed seat and bar to hold him up, while his 
se rides the same animal and keeps him quiet 
i a lump of opium, if he 's a Persian baby ; and 
:s luxuriously on donkey-back, with his cradle 
ng between two upright posts from the saddle, 
e 's a Jerusalem baby. 

'he bare-headed baby of China, not quite so 
ve as his Asiatic cousins, is still a contented 
e traveler, whether he rides on the back of 
nma, or is tied on a mat to sleep, or exposed 
de the door in a bamboo cage, or fastened 
lis gilded baby-chair, to teach him to sit up. 
! most important moment in his young life 
/hen, at the age of one year, he decides his 
re destiny in a curious way. He is carefully 
ised in new clothes, and seated in the middle 

of a large sieve, in which are placed many articles, 
among which are money-scales, a brass mirror, 
writing utensils, books, silver and gold ornaments, 
and fruits, while the anxious parents stand by to 
see which object will first attract his sober black 
eyes. If he takes up a book or pencil, he is 
destined to become a scholar ; if the glitter of gold 
or silver attract him, his fate is to amass wealth ; 
if fruits suit him best, he will incline to spurn the 
rice of his father's table, and feast upon delicate 
puppy-stew, or bird's-nest soup. 

At two years of age he will dress like his grand- 
father of eighty, and look like that old gentleman 
seen through the small end of an opera-glass. 
When he first enters school, he will bring, not a 
spelling-book and slate, but two candles, a few 
sticks of incense, and a small quantity of mock 
money (made of paper), to be burned before a 
piece of paper having the name of Confucius writ- 
ten upon it. Thus the little Chinese traveler is 
launched on his school-life. 

The little traveler on the shore of the Ganges 
has a very different life. Bathed every day in the 
sacred stream, or in a jar of its water ; scrubbed 
with its holy mud — ears, eyes, and mouth ; thor- 
oughly purified from all sin, as his parents devoutly 
believe — how can he help being better than other 
babies? He is a jolly, happy baby, bright as the 
sunshine of his native land ; not troubled with clothes 
if he belongs to the poor classes ; but wrapped in 
gorgeous silks of scarlet and blue, loaded with 
jewels, and weighed down by enormous gold-em- 
broidered turban, if he happens to be a prince. 
He is betrothed by his parents while he is still in 
the first stage of his journey, and often is married 
at the age of six or eight to a bride of as many 
months, when, according to the custom of the 
country, he goes to live in the family of his little 
wife, and be educated — not to learn his lessons with 
her, as you might suppose, for, alas ! the baby- 
girls of Burmah are not taught to read. 

This little Hindoo traveler sleeps in a basket 
hung from the roof, and rides out on mamma's 
hip ; and, what seems dreadful to us, he learns to 
smoke before he can walk, his mother often taking 
a cigar from her own lips and putting it into his. 
If his life -journey is cut short, his body is carried 
to the grave in his basket-cradle, which is covered 
with a fringed canopy and hung from a pole on the 
shoulders of men, and left at last upside down on 
his last resting-place. 




By the side of the same sacred stream we can see 
the little traveler of the Parsees, a people who 
came long ago from Persia, and who worship the 
sun. The peculiarity of this fair-faced baby in the 
land of darker colors, is that he is never seen with 
his head uncovered. Man, woman, or child, — old 
or young, rich or poor, day or night, asleep or 
awake, indoors or out, — the Parsee must always 
keep the head covered. He wears a pretty cap of 
silk or velvet or linen, which is very becoming. 
His dress is always of silk, covered with embroidery, 
gold and jewels, according to the wealth of his 
family, and the little Parsee is a very picturesque 
object among the naked babies of the poorer 

The little traveler in Italy, with his droll little 
cap, and dress like his grandmother's, goes in lead- 
ing strings, or a walking-frame of wicker-work. 
On the Cornice road he goes to market with 
mamma, riding in a basket hung to the sides of 
a donkey, with a brother or sister in a similar 
basket on the other side. The vegetables, which 
mamma sells, and the babies, ride very content- 
edly together ; while the mother, with her parasol- 
hat, crowns the droll load, busily engaged in knit- 
ting or spinning as she rides along. 

In Algiers, baby rides " pick-a-back," and in 
Bavaria tied flat to his nurse's back; but if he 
belongs to the poorer classes, he has the best time 
in France. Have you heard of that most beautiful 
charity of Paris called "The Cradle" (Creche), 
where the babies of mothers who must go out to 
work are kept all da) — bathed, freshly dressed, 
fed, doctored, and amused till their mothers return 
home at night ? The late Mrs. Field, in her pleas- 
ant letters from France, tells about it, and how the 
children of richer parents are interested in it, saving 
their money to pay for a cradle in the house, and 
then going to visit it, and feeling a particular in- 
terest in the baby which lies in their cradle. 

There is another charity in Paris, as well as in 
many other places, for the little traveler who is 
"left out in the cold" by poor or unhappy parents. 
In our country he is apt to start on his life-journey 
from somebody's door-step, from which he is gener- 
ally sent by the owner to a Foundling Home, pro- 
vided for such unfortunate waifs ; but in Paris the 
charitable home for this little traveler has, in its 
door-way, a sort of box which turns on a pivot. 
When a mother, from poverty or any reason, feels 
obliged to give away her baby (and none can tell 
what a mother must feel before she comes to that), 
she goes to this door, lays the little creature in the 
movable box, and turns it around out of her sight, 
ringing a door-bell as she does so. An attendant 
takes the gift, carries it to kind-hearted women 
within, who dress and feed it, and bring up the 

motherless baby, in time tench it some trade, 
give it a start in life. 

The little traveler on our side of the water h 
variety of fashions. In Lima he swings in a h 
mock ; in Yucatan he toddles around amply dredl 
in a straw hat and pair of sandals. Among le 
Indians of our prairies he begins life as a paste 
bundle, hung over his mother's back or from & 
limb of a tree. His head is made to grow flatiy 
means of a board (as you see in the picture), if'fc; 
is to have the honor of being a Flat-head Indiii. 
Waste no pity on him ; it would be the sorrow ■ 
disgrace of his life if his head were shaped te 
yours. He will in future years select his skis 
from round-headed races, and proudly declare tat 
no Flat-head was ever a slave ! 

When the little travelers come in pairs, tgr 
make confusion in the world. Among our PJifc 
Indians (as I lately read in a Nevada paper), wni 
this happens, it becomes necessary, by Indian lfl 
for the dignified, pompous papa himself to tee 
care of the superfluous baby. When you rem'a- 
ber that an Indian never deigns to notice, ml- 
less to touch, a papoose, you can imagine wh;fe 
mortification this must be to him. 

Among some peoples the extra baby is at cse 
put out of the way ; but in one African tribfc 
curious custom prevails. The hut containing Be 
unfortunate pair is marked by a cloth hung be re 
the door, and a row of white pegs driven into fe 
ground in front of it. If any one except the par<fe 
goes in, he is at once seized and sold into slavfe. 
The twins cannot play with other children, anew 
one can use anything out of that house. '& 
mother is allowed to go out to work in the fid, 
bring wood and other necessary things, but ae 
cannot speak to any one out of her own fanll 
This performance goes on till the unwelcome tir 
are six years old, when they have a great ceremiy 
— music, marching, feasting, and dancing; id 
when this is done, the banished family take^its 
place among respectable people again. 

Save your pity for the unhappy little travcM, 
American born and white, who is abandonecto 
the tender mercies of nurses. He will be drefed' 
too tightly perhaps, drugged with soothing-sip 
(or worse), slapped if he cries, and left alone inhe 
dark. He will ride in his carriage with the su in 
his eyes, if it is sunny ; and with arms and h;ds 
uncovered and half frozen, if it is cold. Flies nil 
be allowed to tickle his fat little nose, and pinto 
stick into his tender little back. The strings oris 
absurd lace cap will choke him till he is blaclin 
the face ; and he will nearly break his neck fallg 
over the arm of Bridget when she wants to gclip 
with a crony. His troublesome clothes willbe 
twitched down and jerked around ; and he wil be 



id down, set up, turned over, and arranged any 
iy most convenient to her. Above all, if he dares 
ien his mouth to complain of any of these tortures, 
5 delicate little body will be trotted on her hard 
tees till it will be nothing short of a miracle if his 
ccious little life is not worried out of him. 

si. The calm Oriental baby in his tray or basket; 

ie Chinese baby in his cage ; the baby of Burmah, 

ked or wrapped in silks, smoking at two and 

1 irried at ten : the baby of the " Cradle " and the 

Kindling Asylum of Paris ; the Lima baby in its 

hammock, and the stolid Indian papoose on its 
boards, — each and every one is happier and better 
off than our poor little mother-abandoned American 
baby, left to ignorant and careless nurses. 

The ''mother-baby," — the happy little traveler 
who is not left to the mercies of a nurse, whose 
throne is his mother's arms, whose pillow is soft, 
and whose needs are wisely met, — he is the hap- 
piest of all. Fair, fat, and hearty, the sorrows of 
babyhood come not near him. He truly is the one 
" born with a silver spoon in his mouth." 


By M. M. D. 

ING, dong ! Ding, dong ! 

Seventy-six will soon be gone ; 
Seventy-seven 's coming on, — 
Ding, dong ! Ding, dong ! 

Tell us, year, before you go, — 

Ding, dong ! Ding, dong ! 
Why at last you hurry so, 
Though at first so very slow ? 

Ding, dong ! 
Can't you wait a little longer, 
Till the baby-year gets stronger? 
Ding, dong ! Ding, dong ! 

Why can't years come back again, 
Just the same as they have been ? 

Ding, dong ! Ding, dong ! 
Big folks say 't would never do, 
None would live the past anew ; 
But I 'd like it, — would n't you ? 

Ding, dong ! Ding, dong ! 

Just the same ? No, I must be 
Better with each year, you see, 
Old year! Don't you pity me? 
Ding, dong ! Ding, dong, 
Ding ! 

1 84 




By Amalie La Forge. 

It was a calm, still evening. The broad bosom 
of the Thames was scarcely ruffled by the little 
breeze that stirred the drooping sails of some of the 
river craft. Over the city and over the forest of 
masts, the round full moon was rising. Touching 
the dome of St. Paul's, it glanced down over roofs 
and under bridges till it lay a broad path of light 
on the sleeping river. The gas lamps nickered and 
looked pale before its light, and many a weary 
pedestrian, hurrying across the crowded bridges 
which span the river, paused a moment to gaze at 
the full-orbed globe which even to weary eyes was 
a wondrous revelation of beauty. 

It was dark under the bridges, and the water 
lapping against the piers had something mournful 
in its sound. One of the slow river-barges was just 
passing into the shadow. John Briggs, her owner, 
leaned against the tiller, guiding his clumsy craft 
carefully through the arches. Near the bow his 
nephew Ben was seated, pulling one long oar. 

" Steady, Ben !" called out the master, warningly. 

" Steady it is," and Ben drew in his oar a little. 

Out into the light again the boat came slowly 
creeping, eagerly watched by a little figure stand- 
ing on one of the water-stairs. As they came closer, 
he sent out to them a feeble piping hail. 

John Briggs shaded his eyes with his hand. 
" Why, bless my soul, it 's Poppets ! Bring her 
near, Ben, so he can come aboard." 

Then a strong hearty shout was sent back in 
answer, while the boat's head slowly turned toward 
the stair. 

John Briggs took his pipe out of his mouth to 
welcome the new-comer. " Why, Poppets, we 
was gettin' oneasy 'bout you, me an' Ben. We 
thought you'd got lost, mebbe." 

" Me lost ! Why, dad ! " and they both laughed 
heartily in huge enjoyment of the joke, the thin 
treble of the one ringing pleasantly through the 
gruff bass of the other. 

''Well, Poppets," and John Briggs resumed his 
pipe, "wot has you bought fur us, fur 't wont be 
long afore we wants our supper." 

The little boy knelt down beside his basket which 
he had set with great care in a corner, and touch- 
ing each parcel as he took it out with a caressing 
little pat, he went rapidly over his list. 

"There's the tobacco, dad, and the tea and 
sugar, and bacon and herrin's — and oh, dad ! I got 
some cresses. They looked so green and pretty, like 
the fields : I got 'em cos of that." 

" Ho ! ho ! " laughed Ben, who was listening; 
his uncle frowned him into sudden gravity, th 
nodded kinaly at the little flushed, eager face : 

"It 's all right, my lad. Cresses is werry g<fl 
for the health, as my old mother used to say." 

" They 're too pretty to eat 'most," said the b<J 
touching them tenderly. 

"Well, Poppets, what '11 we have for supper.l 
bein' it 's your watch ? " 

" Oh, dad, herrin's ! They 're so good, and l| 
awful hungry." 

" Werry good, my lad. Here, steward," to Bl 
who grinned in appreciation of the never-faill 
joke, " you hear the cap'in. He says herrin's f 
supper, and consequently herrin's it is." 

" Ay, ay, sir ! " — and Ben pulled his foreloclJ 
the little " cap'in," who clapped his hands gleeful 

" Now, cap'in," said John Briggs, gravely, "i| 
be as you '11 mind the tiller a bit, I '11 take the i 
an' by the time Ben 's got supper we '11 be readjl 
anchor. " 

Higher and higher rose the moon, silvering j 
masts and spars of the many vessels crowded 
the docks. The barge was anchored now; 
Ben, his labors ended, was stretched sound asll 
on the deck. Farther aft, John Briggs and Popn 
were seated on a coil of rope, talking in low toil 
— the child holding clasped in both his, the ha 
rough hand of the other. 

" Now, dad, tell me 'bout that night," he was ! 
ing; and "dad," drawing him a little closer, cJ 
menced the often told, yet never tired of, story! 

" Well, Poppets, it was a night just like thil 
clear full moon an' a light breeze not much moij 
to-night, for I remembers the sails o' the vea 
'round hung just like rags. Well, we was kin| 
driftin' along. Ben was at the tiller, an' I 
pullin' wery slow, for I was feelin' uncommon 
Poppets, cos of havin' buried my little girl andl 
mother that werry same week." 

Here the child nestled his head down onl 
speaker's arm. He always did when this pari 
the story was reached. 

" Well, Poppets," stroking his hair softly, 
was sayin', we was driftin' down slow an' std 
like. When we come under London Bridgel 
moon was shinin' werry bright indeed, an' 
looked back kind o' natural like to see if wel 
goin' to clear the bridge, 1 sees somethin' fIo:l 
on the water, right under the bridge, Poppe^ 
floatin' up an' down with the tide." 


C [?' r 5 \ d f,' 8 ,° °" ! " Cned P ° PP ' etS ' eagerly " ' Hu "°' Ben ' hcre ' s somethm' wants lookin' to '- 
y, ^ lad! I m goin on. Well, says I, an' Ben be comes runnin' for'ard ; an' by an' by we 
Vol. IV. — i 3 . 




gets the somethin' out, an' then we finds a shawl, 
an' then we finds some more clo'es, and arter a 
long time we finds a baby, an' that baby was " 

"And that baby was me.'" cries the child, de- 
lightedly. "Go on, dad." 

"An' that baby was my Poppets" — stooping to 
pat the boy's cheek. " Well, then, Ben an' me 
took you off wot you was lyin' on" (he did not 
tell him — poor baby. — that it was his dead mother's 
heart), "an' we rubbed you an' wrapped you up 
warm, an' by an' by you begins to cry ; an' my ! 
how you did go on, Poppets ! Says Ben to me, 
shoutin' out cos I could n't hear cos of you, — 
' Uncle,' says he, ' did you ever hear such a 
screecher?' An' says I, 'No, Ben, an' I hopes I 
never shall again.' You may laugh, Poppets, but 
Ben an' me did n't do much laughin' that night." 

" Dad," said the child, suddenly, " did you ever 
know my mother ? " 

John Briggs turned away with a little embarrassed 
cough. "I've seen her, Poppets; but we was n't 
werry intimate, so to speak." 

"'Cause you said ///is" — touching a little ring 
hanging from his neck by a faded ribbon — " was 
hers, and she left it for me." 

"Well, Poppets, an' so she did; she was a 
werry respectable woman, your mother, an' she 
did n't want to have nothin' to leave you, I s'pose." 

" What was she like ? " questioned Poppets. 

"Well, she was all dressed in black w'en 1 see 
her, with a widow's cap on. She was a werry nice 
woman, I makes no doubt, Poppets, but she got 
poor an' werry discouraged afore she died." 

Then seeing another question moving on the 
child's lips, he went on hastily : 

"Look here, lad; this here isn't goin' on with 
our story. Well, you just screeched and screeched, 
till Ben an' me was 'most worn out, but I would n't 
give you up, — no, I would n't ; an' you was that 
hungry, there was no satisfyin' you ; so I says one 
day, 'Ben.' says I, 'go an' buy a goat;' so Ben 
he goes an' buys a goat, an' the next day overboard 
it goes, an' Ben arter it, an' gets near bein' drown- 
ded on account of its bein' so contrary. Well, at 
last I takes you to a woman 1 knows, an' I asksTier 
wot 's the matter. 

" She looks at you awhile, an' then says she, 
' He do screech like a good one, don't he ? ' An' 
says I, ' Nobody knows that better nor me, mum.' 

" Then she looks at you again, an' says she, 
' His mind wants amusin', that 's it,' says she. 

" 'As how, mum ?' I says. 

" ' Lord love you, man,' says she, 'how should I 
know ? You Ml have to find out. Children is werry 
different about that,' she says. 

" So I walks off with you in my arms, not havin' 
learned so werrv much arter all. Howsomever, I 

makes you a soft ball, and I hangs it by a striijj 
an' you 'd lie dabbin' at that there with your li 
fists; like a kitten for all the world. Arter a wh 
you gives up screechin', an' you 'd laugh to me 
pretty like, you cured the pain in my heart w 
derful ; an' then w'en you growed, I sent you 
school evenin's, and my ! how proud you was w 
you could read to yer dad, an' yer dad, Poppc 
was just as proud, every bit. Then arter a whj 
you say you wants to do something to help yer 
dad, so I takes you to the shops and shows 
what to buy, an' then you says you wants to 
alone, so one day go alone it is. Well, arter yot 
got started, I says to Ben, 'Ben,' says I, 'I 
awful oneasy 'bout Poppets.' An' says he, 
knowed it; s'pose you go arter him.' So ol 
starts. Well, I kept you in sight for a good 1 
sneakin' 'round corners an' skulkin' behind barn 
for I did n't want you to see me, ye see. If 
kept at that business long, Poppets, I 'm sure 
ha' took to pickin' pockets. Somehow I felt j 
like a thief. Well, you goes about, lookin' as 
as anybody, an' I was just laughin' at myself 
bein' so oneasy 'bout you, when all at onct I se 
lot o' boys stop you, an' one on 'em tried to t: 
yer basket, but you held on to that, an' by an' 
a big fellow steps up an' says he, ' I say, youngsi 
just give up yer basket, or 1 11 punch yer 'ead,' 
then you begins to cry, an' says you, ' Oh, I w 
dad was here ! ' 

" I was only waitin' for that, so I sings t 
' Stand by, my hearties ! ' an' I makes a rush 
knocks over the big fellow with a cuff on his ( 
an' then they all takes to their heels like a lot 
little fishin'-boats if a man-o'-war bears down \ 

" Well, you walked on quiet for a bit, an' tl 
you says, ' Dad, how did you come here?' 

" ' Well,' says I, ' Poppets, I thought I 'd lib 
take a walk.' ' Now, dad,' you says, lookin' strai 
at me, ' you know you come to look arter t 
Well, I had to say I did. You thought awhile, 
then says you, ' Dad, s'pose you do that fur a lit 
fur I aint goin' to give it up,' says you, clutel 
yer little basket — ' an' then some day you leave 
when I don't know it, an' then I '11 feel just as i 
thinkin' you 're there, an' then arter a while I vvj 
mind.' Oh ! you always was a terrible straj 
child, Poppets ! 

" So we does that, an' sometimes I 'd see 
looking back fur me, an' I 'd make b'lieve I did| 
see you, an' walk on an' take no notice, an' so 
got to go alone, an' now there aint nobody can! 
it better than my Poppets." 

" And that ; s all about me, dad ? " 

" An' that 's all about you yet awhile, my lacl 

The shadows were denser under the bridjij 



I8 7 

d the water lapped the piers a little more quickly, 
• the tide was coming in. Red and green lights 
re twinkling in the rigging of the vessels, and 
3 crowd in the streets was thinning, and still John 
iggs and the child sat talking together. 
Once and again the child's thoughts would turn 
his dead mother, and he would ask earnest, 
zzling questions, and always gently, always skill- 
ly, would the other lead him away from the sub- 

There aint no use tellin' the child his mother 
s drownded," he had said to Ben long before, 
f she fell in a-purpose, — which aint no ways 
likely, them London bridges bein' a dreadful 
mptation to folks as is worrited in their minds, — 

must n't never know it ; an' if she fell in by 
ident, which may be too, why he 'd always be 
nkin' if there 'd been somebody there they might 
I, got her out, so we jist wont tell him at all." 
They had sat silent for some time, when suddenly 
: child spoke. 

'Now, dad, I'll tell you a story, such a nice, 
le one," said Poppets, who had been gazing for 
ong time at the moon shining so quietly down 

' Ay, lad, that '11 be prime ! Why, come to 
ik, Poppets, you 've never told yer old dad a 
ry yet." 

' Well, I 'm going to now," answered the child, 
Iding his head gravely. " Once upon a time — 
t 's the way all the stories begin in the fairy-book 
1 bought me, dad." 
'All right, deary ; now then, go on. ' Once upon 


' Once upon a time, there was a good, good 
n, who was very, very lonely, 'cause of havin' 
ied his little girl and her mother." 

That's me," said the listener, under his breath, 

'inly I don't know 'bout the ' good.'" 

if-' Hush, dad; you mustn't stop me," warned 

ipets, shaking his head at him. "Well, this 

id man was sailin' on the river one night, and he 

feelin' very low and very unhappy, and he was 

n' to himself, ' There aint nobody left, and I 
1 I was n't left neither.' " 
';i Why, Poppets ! " said John Briggs, with a 
.0, " how 'd you know?" 
I Never mind ; I know. Well, he was thinkin' 

I, and the moon looked down at him, and she 
w all about it, and she'd sparkle up the water, 

« she'd smile at him, and still he did n't notice 
lin'. So she kept thinkin', thinkin' what she 

: d do for this good, good man. And by and by 
autiful angel came along, holding a little girl ; 
the little girl had long yellow curls and blue 

I I, and she called the pretty angel ' mother.' " 
he child paused a little, for his listener had 

shaded his face with his hand, and Poppets' little 
tender fingers went up to stroke it gently. 

" Well, then, the moon and the angel talked 
about the man ; and by and by, the moon made a 
little boat out of the moonlight, and she put a baby 
in it, and then she sent it sailin', sailin' down a 
streak of light till it came to the water ; and there 
it was rockin' up and down, and the moon watchin' 
it. And then another angel comes along, and she 
says to the moon, ' Where have you sent my baby ? ' 
And the moon says, ' I 've sent it to that good, 
good man, to be a comfort to him.' " 

"An' so you are, my blessed Poppets!" mur- 
mured the other, fondly. 

" Hush, dad ; I 'm not done. So the moon and 
the two angels and the little girl all stood watching 
the man. And when he came to the bridge, the 
moon shone out very bright and showed him the 
little baby ; and they saw him take it up and hold 
it in his arms, and then the two angels and the little 
girl went away together. Well, the baby was a 
very bad baby for a while, and most wore out the 
good, good man ; but he took care of it all the 
time. And by and by it grew to be a little boy, 
and then the man used to send it to school in the 
winter, so it could learn to read for him nights. 
And after a while he let this little boy go errands 
for him — and oh, how glad the little boy was to do 
it ! for he used to lie awake nights, wonderin' what 
he could do for this good man. Well, the little 
boy grew and grew till he got to be a big, strong 
man, and he worked hard and saved up his money; 
and one day he and the good man, who had got to 
be an old man then, left the boat with Ben, who 
was a very good man too. And they went off to- 
gether, and they got a little home by some trees, 
and a pretty field near, with buttercups in it, and a 
brook with cresses. Dad, think o' that ! And the 
little house had a garden, and the young, strong 
man used to work in it ; and then he used to bring 
all kinds of nice things to the old man, who sat in 
a big chair by the door. And they had a goat — 
no, a cow ! Dad, was n't that good ? Wait, dad, 
the story 's most done. And they lived there to- 
gether a long, long time, and the little boy that 
had grown to be a big, strong man was so very, 
very happy, 'cause now he could take care of the 
good man who had taken care of him. And the 
old man he was happy too, and there was nobody 
in all the world he loved so well as the little baby 
the moon had sent him. And often and often, 
dad, the two angels and the little girl used to come 
there too, though the young man and the old man 
could n't see them ; and they were all so happy, 
'cause the good, good man was happy too. And 
that 's all. Dad, do you like it ? Why, dad, you 
are cryin' ! " 



[Janim j 

" Bless my little Poppets ! " — and "dad" stooped 
to kiss the flushed cheeks again and again. 

And still the moon shone softly, steadily down. 
Ben had long ago tumbled into his bunk, and the 
two were left alone together. Poppets had laid his 
head on his protector's breast, and was watching, 
half asleep, the sparkle of the light upon the water. 

Soon the bells rang out over the city, chimijl 
the hour of twelve. Poppets was asleep. The otlJ 
only drew him a little closer; he had often slil 
the night through so before. In his dreams, ll 
child was seeing the little cottage of his hopes, al 
far into the night John Briggs sat holding him i\m 
puffing silently at his pipe. 

a <f f ^% j l^/^Q^Ofl 

Gregory Griggs, Gregory Griggs, 

Had twenty-seven different wigs. 

He wore them up, and he wore them down, 

To please the people of London town. 

He wore them east, and he wore them west, 

But he never could tell which he liked the best. 





By Hezekiah Butterworth. 

LD stories are now in fashion, 
and here is a Christmas story 
that was told to my grand- 
mother by her grandmother, 
who heard it from an old 
lady once in attendance upon 
the royal family in the days 
of King Charles I. 

Charles I., you remem- 
ber, founded a colony in this 
jntry in very early times, and in honor of his 
Ling and beautiful Queen, Henrietta Maria, he 
led it Terra Marias, or Mary-land. He gath- 
:d fifteen hundred orphan children from the 
;ets of London, and sent them to Mary-land ; 
1 these settlers, in the long-forgotten Christmas 
re, loved to hear and recount the legends of the 
irt of Charles ; and so this story came from a 
irt lady who visited Maryland in early colonial 
ies, and who, as I have said, told it to my grand- 
ther's grandmother. 

Hampton Court Palace, which is still in perfect 
servation, was a grand old English manor in 
■s that are dim in history. It was the palace of 
mptuous old Cardinal Woolsey; and here, after- 
•d, kings were born, and queens were married, 
I disappointed princes grew gray and died. 
•Hoody Mary celebrated Christmas here on one 
asion, when she had the great hall illuminated 
1 one thousand lamps. 

lere Charles I. and his beautiful girl-queen 
sed their honeymoon. Marriages for love are 
common in old royal families, but Charles had 
:d Henrietta Maria ever since he had seen her 
ng face at a splendid reception at the court of 
nee, and when his ministers failed to arrange a 
riage for him, he let his heart speak for itself, 
offered his hand to the princess, whose beauty 
i first enchanted him. So Henrietta was mar- 
to him in France while he was yet in England, 
leer old way of doing things that royal families 
1 to practice. It was called marrying by proxy. 
wedding took place one fair spring day in the 
id old cathedral of Notre Dame, which was 
g with rich tapestry and tissues of gold and 
;t satin, figured with golden lilies or fleurs-de- 
Henrietta at this time was about fifteen years 
ge, so she was hardly more than a little girl 
n Charles first fell in love with her. 
r e cannot stop to tell you of the gala days that 
wed the marriage, or the gay ship that bore 

the girl-queen over to England, to meet the king 
she had wedded. The pageants faded as she drew 
near to London, for the plague was in the city, and 
bells clanged and tolled every minute of the day. 
But the gay Duke of Buckingham made a splendid 
banquet for the royal pair at his residence at Bur- 
leigh-on-the-Hill, and it was on this occasion that 
Jerfry Hudson, the famous dwarf of Charles's court, 
was first presented to the queen, being served in a 
large pie on the table. When the pie was cut, 
Jeffry jumped out, armed cap-a-pie. 

But the honeymoon went by, and the best days 
of the king's life passed, and the storm of the 
English revolution began to gather. There were 
riots in London, and long and angry Parliaments, 
and the queen fled away for safety, and the king 
found himself a prisoner at last in Hampton Court 
Palace, where the happy days of his honeymoon 
had passed, when life lay fair before him. 

Two of his children were with him much of the 
time in these perilous days — the Princess Elizabeth 
and the young Duke of Gloucester. They were his 
hand-in-hand companions in his walks in Paradise, 
as the Hampton Court Palace gardens were called. 
The Princess Elizabeth was her father's favorite, a 
tender-hearted, fair-haired child, frail as a flower, 
her pure soul shining through her pale face like a 
lamp through a vase of alabaster. It was to her, 
as he took her on his knee, that the king confided 
his last messages to the queen before his execution. 
"Tell' her, sweetheart," he said, "I loved her to 
the last." 

The Duke of Gloucester was younger than the 
princess, but older in heroic appearance and larger 
in stature, for Elizabeth was a wee, frail thing. 

The king had a favorite hound. It was always 
with him when he was alone or with his children ; 
it guarded the door of his chamber at night ; its 
only delight seemed to be to do the bidding of his 
royal master, and to receive his caresses. 

Charles was one day amusing himself with his 
children in the Hampton Court garden, when a 
wild-looking woman drew near, and, holding out a 
thin hand, said : 

•' Alms?" 

She was a strange fright of a creature, and the 
children thoughtlessly laughed at her, which sent 
the blood tingling into the furrows of her cheek. 

" Who are you ? " asked the king. 

" They call me a gypsy," answered the woman, 
assuming a mysterious look. " I foretell events." 




The king was not overawed by her air of mys- 
tery, but told her that she must at once leave the 

She moved away darkly and sullenly, when the 
children uttered an audible laugh. She caught the 
sound, and turned sharply. 

The king was caressing the hound. The fact 
that a brute was faring better than she, seemed to 
increase her bitter feeling. 

"He can play now," she said, looking enviously 
toward the dog. " Let him. A dog will howl one 
day, and then the kingdom will want for a king ; 
then the kingdom will go." 

The king seemed to be disturbed by the evil 
prophecy. He addressed the strange woman in a 
softer tone, and offered her money. 

The black lines faded partly out of her face, and 
she courtesied lower and said : 

"A dog will die in this palace one day; then 
the kingdom shall be restored again." 

People were very prone to believe in omens, 
signs and fortune-telling at this time, and the 
gypsy's words became known in the palace, and 
were treasured up to see if they would come to 

There was nothing remarkable in the prophecy. 
If one were to say that a dog would howl in Queen 
Victoria's park at Balmoral before the Queen 
should die, or that the cock should crow in the 
grounds of Windsor Castle before the Prince of 
Wales should take the throne, it would probably 
all come to pass, and if so common an event were 
looked for, it might seem to unthinking people 
quite a remarkable thing. 

The civil war grew more fierce ; the king's life 
was threatened ; the king began secretly to plan 
an escape from Hampton Court, and from this tur- 
bulent part of the kingdom. He was really a 
prisoner in his palace; old friends were everywhere 
turning against him, and he was sometimes made 
to feel that his only friend, except his children, was 
his faithful hound. 

" Poor thing, poor thing ! he is faithful to me," 
said the king one day. " But how can I be faith- 
ful. I may leave you one day, good fellow, and 
then a* dog will howl. It is a pitiable case when 
a king cannot be true even to his dog." 

The hound seemed to understand the king's 
great trouble, and at such times would lick his 
master's hand, and would press his knee and whine, 
as though to break the reverie. 

It was toward the close of a dark afternoon on 
the nth of November, 1647. Night came early, 
with no ray of sunset. The palace gardens were 
obscured in a deep mist, and the river ran dark 
below them, with hardly a ray to penetrate the 

The king ate an early supper, and then retird 
with his favorite dog. It was his custom to go 
his chamber for devotions immediately after tl 
evening meal. 

It was very still in the palace ; very gloom 
with the dull sound of the November rain ince 
santly falling. Occasionally the step of the gua 1 
was heard on the corridor. The little duke ai 
the princess were waiting the return of their fath 
in a dimly lighted room near the banquet hall. 

He did not come. The foot of the guard sound 
firmer, and became impatient. 

Suddenly the pitiful howl of the king's hou 
broke the silence of the palace. 

The little duke heard it, and started to go to '. 
father's chamber. The young princess follow 
him, a strange look of terror in her baby face, a 
her eyes filled with tears. 

The children came to the main stair-way, wh 
they were ordered back by an attendant. In th 
retreat they again heard the hound in their fatht 
chamber utter the same friendless, piteous howl. 

There was a back staircase that led up to t 
same room. The children passed silently throu 
the empty apartments that led to it, and wi 
startled again and again on their noiseless way 
the pitiful howling of the dog, which now began 
be piercing in its distress. 

Just as they arrived at the foot of the stairca 
a heavy sound was heard at the chamber di 
above. It was answered by a sharp bark from 

" Father must have gone," said the little prince 
" what made the dog howl so?" 

There was a crash at the door above. The yoij 
princess clasped her brother in fear, and tried | 
draw him back. 

"They are breaking into his room," said 
prince ; "let us go to him ; let us defend him."| 

There was a hurried step and a cry on the stal 
The children drew back; the hound came bouj 
ing down and ran up to them and around then j 
anxiety and terror. There were more footsteps! 
the stairs, and another cry : 

" Give the alarm ; the king has escaped ! " 

Years pass. The stormy scenes of the Engl 
Revolution are over. King Charles I. has 
slept in the silent vaults of St. George's Cha;| 
and his separated children have grown to manhi 
and womanhood in exile. 

There came to Hampton Court Palace one 
summer day, Oliver Cromwell. Protector of 
Commonwealth of England. He, too, was attenl 
by a faithful dog. He slept in the old royal apl 
merit, and his dog kept guard at the door, 
awoke one morning, but his dog did not comJ 


I 9 I 

m. He arose and found that the trusty animal 
is dead. 

■ Oliver Cromwell was a stern man, but, like most 
en of that day, he was superstitious. He believed 

signs and omens and witchcraft, and he had 
:ard of the withered gypsy's prophecy. 
He was shaken in health, and the sight of the 
:ad dog awakened his nervous fears. " Alas ! " 

said, " the kingdom has departed." 

Cromwell soon died, and. as all our school- 
children know, Charles II., son of the first Charles, 
came back to the throne, amid great rejoicings 
and celebrations. 

And this is the old story — a curious mingling of 
true history and superstition — that was told over 
and over again in the Christmas-tide to open- 
mouthed groups around Maryland firesides in the 
old Colonial times. 






By II . E. Scudder. 

I HAVE just been looking at an " Indestructible. 
Picture Book of Mother Hubbard and her Dog," 
which is the first book in my little girl's library. I 
am afraid it will not last many days more, in spite 
of its name, and it is very certain that her great- 
grandchildren will never see it, though I hope they 
will see one like it ; at least I hope they will care 
for Mother Hubbard and her Dog, and I am pretty 
sure they will. There are books read by children 
to-day which their great-grandfathers were reading 
a hundred years ago ; and there is one little book 
not so much read by children now, which was not 
only well known to their great-grandfathers but to 
the great-grandfathers of their great-grandfathers ; 
that is, to such as were born and bred in New Eng- 
land or of New England parents. It is " The New 
England Primer," a little book not much largerthan 
a baby's hand, which was once almost universally 
used in New England as the first book for children. 
You would not think it a very bright-looking book, 
but it was a useful one, for it had all the let- 

Iri A d a m ' s Fall 
We finned all. 

Heaven to find, 
The Bible Mind, 

Chrift crucify'd 
For finners dy'd. 

The Deluge drown'd 
The Earth around. 

Elijah hid 
By Ravens fed. 

The judgment: made 
Felix afraid. 

letters, which are enough to make one's head ach 
as they stand in a row : 

t\, ft, fi, fl, ffi, ffl, fh, fi, fk ffi, (1, ff, ft, 

The primer was the entrance to spelling an 
reading for all children : with its alphabet to sta 

As runs the Glass, 
Our Life doth pass. 

My Book and Heart 
Must never part. 

Job feels the Rod, — 
Yet bleffes GOD. 

Proud Korah's troop 
Was fwallowed up 

Lot fled to Zoar, 
Saw fiery Shower 
On Sodom pour. 

M oses was he 
Who Israel's Hofb 
Led thro' the Sea. 

ters of the alphabet, not only the regular letters 
from A to &, which brought up the rear with a 
lively flourish of its little tail, but a list of the double 

with, it gradually led the way, by column afl 
column of easy syllables, up to words of six syl 
bles, and then began the reading. But I do r 
believe that children then waited to spell all t 
easy and hard words before they looked at the pi 
ures further on. There was a picture for eve 
letter of the alphabet except &, and against ea 
picture two short lines, which rhymed, were easy 
learn, and impossible to forget. I suppose the 
are thousands upon thousands of grown people ni 
in America who, when they were children, learn 
these lines, and could say them to-day without kx 
ing at the book. But as the New England Prin 
has been crowded out by the picture-papers a 
magazines and books, now so plentiful, you mi 
not have seen it. Therefore, St. Nicholas ri 
made exact copies for you of the twenty-four qu< 
little pictures and stories which great-grandfatl 




sed to look at. J, you see, is not here, because 
.; was only I with another name ; U and V, too, 
'ere called the same letter ; and &, as I said, has 
picture ; more 's the pity, for they might have 
dded : . 

An Drew his net 
For men did set. 

By a little study you can make out all the fig- 
res, though the pictures are rather dim. 
The pictures are small, and so the one who drew 
lem had to make haste to get in everything that 
:lped to tell the story. The apples are on the 
pee; Adam is known from Eve by his hat ; Noah's 
, k is the only dry thing in the Deluge ; Elijah 
( in scarcely wait for the eager raven ; and both 
lul and Felix see the judgment as plain as if it 
sre in the same room. 

Many of the rhymes, you sec, tell the stories 
lich the children had heard from the Bible, and 
e pictures would make the scenes very vivid ; 
at troop of Korah's — one can almost hear them 
y out as the ground gives way; then how ashamed 
b's friends look, and one shudders at the narrow 
.:ape of Lot ; while the dripping Israelites are 
iking every exertion to get up to Moses. 
I suppose, in the picture below. Noah sees the 
Ir. in the midst of the black waters — the old 
irld — and then holds his hand up in admiration 
he sees the ark upon dry ground upon the top 

Noah did view 
The old world & new 

Young Obadias, 
David, J o sias 
All were pious. 

Peter deny'd. 
His Lord and cry^d. 

Queen Esther fues 
And faves the Jews. 

Young pious RtjtHj 
Left all for Truth. 

Young Sam':, dear 
The Lord did fear. 

The story about him, David and Josias is brief, 
but it would take great-grandfather's mother a long 
while to tell the whole story about each. When 
she finished, she could have summed them up no 
more completely. So, these three having been 

Young Timothy 
Learnt fin to fly. 

V a s t h 1 for Pride, 
Was fet afide. 

Whales in the bea, 
GOD's Yoice obey. 

Xerxes did die, 
And fo muft I. 

YOUTH forward Hips, 
Death fooneft nips. 


Did climb the Tree 
Our Lord to fee. 

Ararat, the new world, which he and his sons, 
are huddled in the corner, are to enter upon, 
ng Obadias must be the one without a crown. 

boys, the story of Ruth is suggested, and one sees 
the house left behind ; she is going off with Naomi, 
and she was sincere. 

Sin, in the picture, is certainly not made win- 
ning and beautiful, but the meaning is that young 
Timothy saw sin just as hideous as it really was. 

You will not think these pictures beautiful, andi 
they are not ; but, like the lines at their side, they 
are direct. The book was a little book, and when 
it was made there were very few books at all made 
expressly for children, so that the makers tried to 
put as much as they could into this small compass. 
They did not expect that children would get all 
their reading out of it, but they meant that when 
children were learning to spell and to read, they 
should be taught something about good living, and 
learn some of the things that were n*~ .rest their 
fathers' hearts. The Bible was the boo., that their 
fathers went to most of all, and so this primer is 
full of bits about the Bible, as in the pictures we 
have been looking at, and also about religion and 
duty, as their fathers understood these. Just after 
this picture alphabet is another "Alphabet of Les- 
sons for Youth, beginning: " A wise son maketh a. 
glad father, but a foolish son is the heaviness of his. 
mother." and ending: "Zeal hath consumed me,. 




because thy enemies have forgotten the word of 
God." There was a Cradle Hymn, a part of which 
many children still hear, beginning: 

" Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 
Holy angels guard thy bed." 

But this was not in the very old primer, for it was . 
not then written, and there were other verses and 
short proverbs which those who learnt probably 
remembered long after they had forgotten larger 

There was but one other picture, and that was to 
keep alive the remembrance of terrible times in 
England, which had been suffered by the great- 
grandfathers of those who first used the New Eng- 
land primer. It was the picture of John Rogers, 
as follows : 

Beneath it was printed : " Mr. John Rogers, 
minister of the gospel in London, was the first 
martyr in Queen Mary's reign, and was burnt at 
Smithfield, February 14, 1554. His wife, with 
nine small children, and one at her breast follow- 
ing him to the stake ; with which sorrowful sight 
he was not in the least daunted, but with wonder- 
ful patience died courageously for the gospel of 
Jesus Christ." 

The first people who came to New England had 
grave fears lest the times of Queen Mary were 
coming again in England, and it is not to be won- 
dered at that they should keep alive the memory 
of these things. How many children have counted 
that little flock, to see if the nine were all there, 
and have looked with terror at John Rogers in the 
fire, and the pleased, smiling faces of the soldiers 
who kept guard over Mrs. Rogers and her children ! 

The New England primer was not the only little 
book which great-grandfather had. There were 
not many books made in America then, and this 
was almost the only one made expressly for chil- 
dren ; nor were there very many made or written in 

England for children alone in those days. Ii 
reading the lives and recollections of those 
lived at the time of the revolution, or shortl 
after, one finds mention of a few books for littl 
children which are still read. " Mother Goose 
Melodies " is an American book, and was mad 
more than a hundred years ago. Many of th 
rhymes in it, most indeed, are English nurser 
songs, brought over in the head to this country 
but there was a real Mother Goose in Bostor 
who sang the little ditties to her daughter's ch 
dren, and her daughter's husband, who was 
printer, collected them into a book. Then we red 
of " Goody Two Shoes," which was quite we' 
known, and there were a good many scraps of hit 
tory, and anecdotes in almanacs, as there are now 
But then, as now, children read the same books th; 
their fathers read. Indeed, that was much moi 
common then, for it is only within the last hut 
dred years, more especially the last twenty-five 
thirty, that there have been many books and maj 
azines especially for children. But there were Ion 
ago books written, like "'The Arabian Nights 
" Robinson Crusoe," and "Gulliver's Travels," tl 
authors of which were not thinking of children 
all; and yet these books have come to be res 
almost entirely by the young. Great-grandfath 
had these books, and he read besides many boo 
which children to-day, with books of their own, a 
less likely to see. There was John Randolph, 
Roanoke, for instance, a notable Virginian, wl 
was born in 1773. The first book that fell in 
way was Voltaire's "History of Charles XII. 
Sweden." He found a closet full of books, z\ 
before he was eleven years old he had read "T 
Spectator," " Humphrey Clinker," " Reynard t 
Fox," " The Arabian Nights," " Tales of t 
Genii," "Goldsmith's Roman History," and an ( 
"History of Braddock's War," "Don Quixoti 
"Gil Bias," "Quintus Curtius," " Plutarch's Live 
" Pope's Homer," " Robinson Crusoe," " Gullivt 
Travels," " Tom Jones," " Orlando Furioso," a! 
" Thompson's Seasons " — a queer lot, but some 
them great books, which it would be well to re 
now, instead of weak and foolish ones. 

Then there were parents in those days vi 
thought much of what their boys were readi 
and thinking about. Listen to what John Qui 
Adams — which President was he? — says of 
mother : 

" In the spring and summer of 1775, she tan 
me to repeat, daily, after the Lord's Prayer, bef 
rising from bed, the Ode of Collins on the pati 
warriors who fell in the war to subdue the Jacob 
rebellion of 1745 : 

" ' How sleep the brave who sink to rest, 
By all their country's wishes blest!'" 




' And here is a letter from the same John Quincy 
hdams, written, when he was ten years old, to his 
ither, John Adams, absent then at Congress : 

Braintree, June 2, 1777. 

'Dear Sir: I love to receive letters very well, much better than I 

b ve to write them. I make but a poor figure at composition ; my 

tad is much too fickle: my thoughts are running after birds' eggs, 

ay, and trifles, till I get vexed with myself. Mamma has a troublc- 

me task to keep me steady, and I own I am ashamed of myself. 

' have but just entered the third volume of Smollett [History of 

igland], though I had designed to have got half through by this 

lie. I have determined this week to be more diligent, as Mr. 

Sacher [his tutor] will be absent at court, and I cannot pursue my 

icr studies. I have set myself a stent, and determine to read the 

xd volume half out. 

When the Revolution was over, the schools of 
e country were in a very bad way. The country 
is poor, there were very few books of an)- kind, 
id school-books were of the poorest sort. It was 
? this time that Noah Webster, who made the dic- 
inary later in his life, and was now a poor school- 
aster, determined to make a speller, a grammar 
'.id a reader for schools. His grammar and reader 
'ire long since forgotten, but his speller is still 
ed all over our country. It is a different book, 
1 Iwever, from the first speller which he made, 
tat, like " The New England Primer" of his 
andfather, not only taught the alphabet and 
felling, but tried to teach the little American some 
> ) the lessons in goodness and patriotism, which 
bah Webster saw were much needed. It was the 

ly book that a great many children had, and it 
'd pictures — pictures a little bigger than those 

the primer, but very much of the same kind. 

om a very early time fables have been written 

d told to teach simple truths, and Webster put 
few fables into his book, and a picture to each. 

:re are some of them : 


Of the Boy that stole Apples. 

&N old Man found a rude Boy upon one of hla 
es stealing Apples, and desired him to come 

down ; but the young Sauce-box told him plainly 
he would not. Won't you? said the old Man, 
then I will fetch you down ; so he pulled en soma 
tufts of Grass, and threw at him ; but this only 
made the Youngster laugh, to think the old Man 
should pretend to beat him down from the tree 
with grass only. 

Well, well, said the old Man, if neither -words 
nor grass -will do, I must try what virtue there is 
in Stones ; so the old man pelted him heartily with 
stones ; which soon made the young Chap hasten 
down from the tree and beg the old Man's pardon. 


If good words and gentle means will not reclaim (Tie 
wicked, they must be dealt with in a more severe manner 




The Country Maid and her Milk Pail. 

WHEN men suffer their imagination to amuse 
them, with the distant and uncertain improvements 
of their condition, they frequently sustain real losses, 
by their inattention to those affairs in which they arc 
immediately concerned. 

A country Maid was walking very deliberately 
■with a pail of milk upon her head, when she fell 
into the following train of reflections : The money 
for which I shall sell this milk, will enable me to 
increase my stock of eggs to three hundred. These 
eggs, allowing for what may prove addle, and what 
may be destroyed by vermin, will produce at least 
two hundred and fifty chickens. The chickens 
will be fit to carry to market about Christmas, 
when poultry always bears a good price ; so that by 
May day 1 cannot fail of having money enough to 
purchase a new Gown. Green — let me consider — 
yes, green becomes my complexion best, and green 
it shall be. In this dress I will go to the fair 
where all the young fellows will strive to have me 
fc* a partner ; but I shall perhaps refuse every one 
of them, and with an air of disdain, toss from them. 
Transported with this triumphant thought, she 
could not forbear acting with her head what thus 
passed in her imagination, when down came the 
pail of milk, and with it all her imaginary happi- 




The Tex and the Swalter. 

ARISTOTLE informs us, tliat tire following 
Fable was spoken by Esop to the Saimans, on a 
debate upon changing theh-.ministers, c\vho were ac- 
cused of plundering the commonwealth. 

A Fox swimming across a river, .happened to be 
entangled in some weeds that grew near the bank, 
from, which he was unable to extricate himself. As 
he lay thus exposed to whole swarms of flies, 
which were galling him and sucking his blood, a 
Swallow, observing his distress, kindly" offered to 
drxvjs them away. By no means, said the 1 Fox; 
for if these should be chased away, which are al- 
ready sufficiently gorged, another more hungry 
swarm would succeed, and X should be robbed of 
every remaining drop of blood veins. 


The Cat and the Hat. 
A CERTAIN Cat had made such unmerciful 
Havoc among the vermin of her neighborhood, that 
not a single Rat or iVIouse dared venture to appear 
abroad. Puss was soon convinced, that if affairs 
remained in their present situation, she must be 
totally misapplied with provision. After mature 
deliberation, therefore, she resolved to nave re- 
course to stratagem. For this purpose, she bus- 
pended herself from a hook with, her head down- 

wards^ ■ pretending to be dead. The Rats and 

.Mice, as they peeped from their holes, observing', 
her in this dangling attitude, concluded she was 
Hanging for some misdemeanor; and with great joy 
Immediately sallied forth in quest of their prey. 
Puss, as soon as a sufficient number were collected 
together, quitted her hold, dropped into the .midst; 
of them ; and very few had the fortune to make 
good their retreat. This artifice having succeeded 
so weli, she was encouraged to try the event of a' 
second. Accordingly she whitened her coat. all 
over, by rolling herself in. a heap of flour, andin 
tills disguise lay concealed in the bottom of "a mea : 
tub. This stratagem was executed in genenurwill 
the same effect as the former. But an. old expeB 
rienced Rut, altogether as cunning as his adversai* 
ry, was not so easily ensnared. I don't much likdji 
said he, that white heap yonder j Something whi< ( » 
pers me there is mischief concealed under it. 'Til 
true it may be meal j hut it may likewise be some 
thing that I should not relish quite so well. Ther 
can be no harm at least in keeping at a proper die : 
tance; for caution, I am sure, is the parent c!n 


The Tax and the Bramble. 

A FOX, closely pursued by a pack of ~Do\ 
took shelter under the covert of a Bramble, li 
rejoiced in this asylum ; and for a while, was vs|J 
happy j but soon found that if he attempted to si 
he was wounded by thorns and prickles on evil 
side. However, making a virtue of necessity, 
forbore to complain ; and comforted himself 
reflecting that no bliss is perfect ; that good :| 
evil are mixed, and flow from the same fount:! 
These Briars, indeed, said he, will tear my si 
a little, yet they keep^ off the dogs. For the si 
of the good then let me bear the evil with 
trence; each bitter has its sweet: and these Brs 
bles, though they wound my flesh, preserve 
life from clanger. 

Like the primer, Webster's speller was small, m 
had no room for long stories ; but you have seen 




nuch could be gotten into these little fables with 
jheir pictures. In the first one of these funny old 
; rood-cuts there is a story that any one can under- 
Hand, and it is told in a very lively fashion. The 
I Id man in his continental coat has only got as far 
Js words in the picture, and the boy is just reach- 
gig out his arm for the round apple near him. If 
tnother picture had been given, the old man's coat 
P'ould have been off, and that boy would have been 
[i;en slithering down the trunk of the tree. But 
/Were was only one picture to a fable. 
" I wonder if the moral of the second fable was 
Tinted at the top for fear it would not be read if 
, came at the end of the story. The poor milk- 
maid looks rather forlorn in the picture. The toss 
;' her head is there still ; she was too shocked with 
:r grief to put her head back again. 
Webster was a man who watched politics very 
osely, and it is not impossible that he put in the 
ird fable with an eye to something then going on 
the country. If he had made the fable longer, 
•rhaps he would have made the fox call upon 
Ime friend to help him cut the weeds away in 
hich he was entangled. But there is no doubt 
at those flies, so orderly and determined, would 
enough to drive any fox wild. 
Did you ever think before reading Fable IV. what 
s the origin of that phrase, " A cat in the meal? " 
was the old experienced rat, you see, that first 
d it, only he said it in rather longer words. It 
iji iuld be pretty hard to tell from the picture what 

all the delicacies were on the table, but there is no 
doubt that the cat made herself look extremely 
like a dead cat. Is that a ham hanging on the 
wall ? I can't quite make it out. 

I am afraid the artist gave up the difficult task 
of showing the dogs in the last picture ; and with- 
out the story it would be rather hard to tell what 
the picture meant. How different all these pictures 
are from the new ones which you see on turn- 
ing the leaves of St. Nicholas ! A great deal 
has been learned in this country about drawing 
and engraving pictures, just as there has been a 
great deal more attention given to writing books 
and stories for children. Yet some of these pict- 
ures, like some of the stories, have this about 
them, that they are perfectly intelligible and are 
easily remembered. When you compare these old- 
fashioned books which great-grandfather had with 
those which you now have, — with St. NICHOLAS, 
for instance, — and remember how much greater 
and more prosperous this country is than it was in 
great-grandfather's day, do not forget that great- 
grandfather helped to make the country what it is, 
and that the books which he read and the pictures 
he looked at, helped to make him what he was. 
So, as we have been reading fables and their morals, 
here is the moral of what I have been saying, and 
you must not skip it : Our books and pictures are 
not only to amuse us, but to make us wise and 
good; if they do not, then the better they are the 
•worse we shall be. 


is' ' 

By C. F. Jackson. 

)orothy Patten Sylvester had come to 

grandfather's to make a visit. A visit to grand- 

1a was to each one of the seven Sylvesters the 

'1 'St delightful thing that could be imagined. They 

e, all of them, always ready to go there when- 

ioiS \ grandpapa and grandmamma sent for one or 

1 of them, only the trouble was to decide which 

:hem should have the pleasure. This time, 

"'jjEpge to say, Dorothy was alone: I will tell you 

.,„! t i' happened. Of course, everybody wanted to 

Philadelphia, to the Centennial celebration ; 

all through the spring, poor little Dorothy was 

Nth a fever. When she was well enough to 

, , ut she was still thin, and weak, and pale ; and 

papa and mamma thought a crowded city was not 
the place in which to find fresh roses for their little 
girl's cheeks ; so they decided to let Dorothy make 
a visit to grandpapa's, while the rest of the family 
went to Philadelphia, and although she was disap- 
pointed at first, she soon cheered up and began to 
talk of all the delightful things she would see and 
do in the country. Then Charley and Frank had 
promised to write her about everything they saw, 
and Phil had given her Prince, his black-and-tan 
terrier, to take care of while he was away. Besides, 
Bessie, the sister nearest her in age, had agreed 
that her doll, Alice Rosamunda Temple, should 
keep a diary of everything of interest that hap- 



[Januak 1 

pened to her, for Dorothy's doll, Susan Araminta 
Lorraine. Then, best of all, they were to bring 
back from Philadelphia some one whom Dorothy 
had never seen, and whose acquaintance she wanted 
very much to make. Agnes Sylvester, her eldest 
sister, had married two years before, and was living 
in Philadelphia, and the children had never seen- 
her baby boy ; so you may imagine how much 
Dorothy wanted them all to come home, particu- 
larly Master Dicky Leigh. There were a few tears 
shed when Dorothy saw them all drive off from 
grandpapa's, where they had left her ; but grand- 
mamma soon comforted her, by taking her over to 
Mrs. Smith's to drink tea, or rather, as far as she 
and little Rose Smith were concerned, rich, yellow 
Aldemey milk, with as many strawberries as their 
plates could hold ; and then the walk home through 
the clover fields by starlight was so pleasant ! 

The next day, Dorothy ran about the farm till 
noon ; now in the barn to look for fresh-laid eggs in 
the hay ; now with grandpapa to the pasture, to pat 
the pretty Alderney calves who would come quite 
close, and lick her hands with their rough tongues, 
and then jump away and pretend to be frightened 
when she came a little nearer to them ; off again 
to the dell behind the house to look for wild flowers, 
until, quite hot, and tired out, she came into the 
cool front room where grandmamma sat reading in 
the middle of the afternoon. "You have run too 
hard, Dot," said grandma, "and have got heated ; 
I can't allow that, or we shall be having the fever 
back, and then papa and mamma will never lend 
you to me again. Come, now, go up to your room 
and take a little rest ; then you can come down 
again when it is cool and pleasant, just before tea." 

" I will, grandma ; but may I take Fuzzy for com- 
pany ?" Consent was given, so Dot and Fuzzy went 
upstairs. Fuzzy was a gray kitten, who considered 
it necessary to be always on the lookout for ene- 
mies; for at the slightest noise she would put up 
her back, and every individual hair on her body 
would stand straight out. She had met with an 
accident to her tail in early youth ; about an inch 
had been cut off, and the rest was very thick and 
bushy ; so when she was angry she would make the 
hairs stand out on it till she looked exactly like a 
fuzzy ball. Dorothy was devoted to her in spite of 
her bad temper, which she declared was soured by 
the loss pussy had met with, and no wonder, for it 
must be very trying and mortifying to be so differ- 
ent from one's acquaintances. Fuzzy and she were 
on the best of terms at all times, so when Dorothy 
caught her up from the porch, where she was com- 
fortably washing herself, she made no resistance, 
but allowed her little friend to carry her off up- 

Dorothy's room looked very quiet and pleasant, 

and she nestled down on the soft, white bed, witl 
Fuzzy in her arms, to rest and grow cool. 

It was a low, old-fashioned room, with a higl 
bureau and heavy carved cabinet, that had stood il 
the same place for generations ; there was one stifl 
straight-backed chair, and two or three others ncl 
so old, but much more comfortable ; a polishc 
floor that had never known a carpet, but which ha 
now a new, pretty rug spread over it ; and best 1 
all, a wide, low, western window through which, th 
hot summer day, came the drowsy hum of insect 
the ceaseless distant noise of falling water, and tt 
steady whir of the mill-wheel. The house was tr 
oldest for many miles around, and there had bet 
fewer alterations in this room than in any othe 
The Pattens had never been a race who lovt 
change, so the high clock that had ticked the mi 
utes, and struck the hours for a hundred years pa; 
still stood at the head of the stairs. The long mi 
ror, with peacocks cut. in relief on its heavy woodi 
frame, yet hung over the dining-room mantel, at 
now reflected the rosy-cheeked Sylvester childre 
as it had reflected the little Ruths, Dorothys, E 
wards, of years ago ; or the ruffles, puffs, brocads 
and powdered hair of their elders ; there was si 
in grandmamma's room the rosewood secretary, wi 
its secret drawer, which little Dot held in such awl 
and about which she had made up so many storicl 
In the dining-room hung the powder-horn whil 
the private in great-grandfather's regiment hi 
given him, with the plan of his native New Englal 
town cleverly cut upon it ; the streets laid out f 
regular order, and the queer old meeting-hous 
steeples, windows, and all marked out with exa| 
ness in their places. 

All these things, and many others, our Dorotl 
loved to look at ; and now her thoughts wandeil 
back to the little girl who had lived in this sai| 
room a hundred years before. Many stories of I 
childhood and girlhood in those exciting, troubkl 
times of the Revolution were familiar to all II 
Sylvesters, as were also those of the calm, swl 
old age, which she had come back to spend in 1 
early home. Grandpapa had often told them, til 
the memory of such a life as hers was a better hil 
tage than old house or lands ; and it always seenl 
to Dorothy that something especially bright i\ 
secret lingered about the place where so much! 
this good life had been spent. Now, as she lay j] 
the bed she began to think about the old room t j 
had looked so nearly the same for so many yeail 

" I wonder, " she thought, " what sort of a lii 
girl that first Dorothy Patten was ! There 's tl 
picture of her down-stairs, in a cap. How funinj 
think she was ever little like me, when she lil 
ever so long ago. There was the first Dorothy tl 
lived in this very room a hundred years ago ; t| 




jiere was her little Dorothy Patten Sylvester; then 
er son, that 's grandpa, had his Dorothy ; then 
lerc 's me, called for Aunt Dorothea; always a 
lorothy for a hundred years. I 'm so glad old Uncle 
dward Patten — 1 Ye never told you this, Fuzzy, 
tad you 're so intimate you ought to know — mam- 
1a says family affairs ought n't to be talked of to 
rangers ; but I don 't mind telling you, Fuzzy, if 
du promise never to tell Mis. Smith's Blackey ; 
ut you see when Uncle Edward, whom I never 
; iw, 'cause it was years and years ago, died, he said 
his will that grandpa was to come and live here ; 
1 tad I 'm so glad, for it 's the nicest place that ever- 
as, and grandma ' said it was so funny that I should 
ave the very room my great — great — great — oh, I 
>n 't know how many greats — grandmother, an- 
her Dorothy had, a hundred years ago. I won- 
ir did they call her Dolly, or Dot, as they do 
e? How many names! Dorothea — Dorothy — 
oily — D-o-t ; " that was the end of the little girl's 
inking; and Fuzzy, who had watched her closely, 
1 she was quite sure she was asleep, bounded from 
e bed, and ran down-stairs to her old place on 
e porch to finish her washing. 

" Dorothy, daughter, come down to me ! " 
" Yes, mother." 

Doroflry answered the call at once, but she 

ought as she went that something unfamiliar had 

ien drawn like a veil over everything she was ac- 

stomed to since the last time she had passed 

; rough the halls and down the stair-way. It was 

'rs. Sylvester, certainly; but her little girl had 

' ver seen her in such a dress. Her dark hair was 

led up very high over a cushion ; she wore a 

aight, narrow, brocaded over-dress, with a petti- 

at of darker stuff showing beneath it ; sleeves, 

ht to the elbow, and flowing below; and muslin 

ded over her neck, showing her white, slender 

"oat. She held an open letter in her hand, and 

iked troubled. 

:'" My child. Deacon Peter Johnson has just driven 
re in his chaise. He left Dalford yesterday, 
.yed the night at the Red Lion tavern, and came 
re the first place. He brings me this letter 

m your grandmother; she writes she is sick, and 
s a wish to see me : I will go this afternoon, 
idng you with me. The coach passes through at 
;lf-past three, so we must at once put our things 
the little hair trunk. Do you go up and lay out 
the bed your tippet and best dress, together with 
ur bonnet ; put out also the other needful things 
yourself and me against I come up, and be care- 
that you do not drop upon the floor the fresh 
'igs of lavender I laid in your drawer the last 
' But, mother, in that gown ? " rose to Dorothy's 

lips. "Assuredly, my child ; one must make a good 
appearance, you know." And her mother looked 
complacently down on the dress that had struck 
her daughter so strangely." Dorothy turned slow- 
ly to go up the stairs, for the habit of obedience 
was strong, but much she wondered to herself. 

" Grandma sick at Dalford ! Why, she had left 
her but a little while before, perfectly well, down- 
stairs. Tippet! Straw bonnet! What did it mean ? 
She felt sure that when she opened the old cabinet 
she would find her pretty brown suit and hat with 
the daisies. She opened it, however, and looked 
in. There, folded neatly away, with a white cloth 
over, on which were scattered sprigs of lavender, 
lay a brocaded dress with a tippet and black silk 
apron ; and in the closet above, a straw hat of im- 
mense size, trimmed with a blue ribbon. Carefully 
did Dorothy lift them out and lay them on the bed. 
"Be quick, Dorothy; be quick. The coach will 
be here presently. Your knitting, child." Doro- 
thy gave her mother the half-knit stocking, and 
stood silently by as she rapidly and neatly packed 
the little hair trunk, closely studded with nails ; 
leaving out the hat for her to wear on the journey. 
A few more preparations for herself, and then they 
both came down to the door. 

" You will take good care of the house, Deborah, 
till my return," said Mrs. Sylvester, turning to the 
old colored woman. "Now call Silas to follow 
with our trunk. Good-day. " 

As Dorothy stepped out of the door she was con- 
scious of a strangeness in the objects around her; 
the country was familiar, and yet not what she had 
ever before seen. Where was the stable? Where 
was Mr. Wright's new house? And, why, there was 
a clover field instead of Mrs. Smith's brown cottage. 
She would have asked her mother ; but Mrs. Syl- 
vester looked so troubled, and walked on so fast, 
that the child could hardly keep up with her. 
Silas marched behind, in a blue coat and knee- 
breeches, carrying the light little trunk. As they 
went on, Dorothy looked in vain for the station and 
the railroad, but presently her attention was at- 
tracted by a singular-looking object that had just 
appeared at the turn of the road beyond them. It 
was some sort of a vehicle, for it was drawn by four 
horses who were dashing along the road quite fast, 
while the driver shouted to encourage them, and 
flourished his whip in the air. 

The stage-coach, for this it proved to be, was 
painted bright yellow, and was very high indeed. 
Mrs. Sylvester exclaimed in delight at seeing it, 
and said : 

"There, I thought if we came on this road we 
would just be in time. We should have missed it 
if we had gone to the tavern. Stop them, Silas." 

They moved to the side of the road and waited, 




while Silas flourished hat and stick and grew quite 
hoarse shouting to the driver to stop. He saw them 
and drew up his horses. The steps were let down, 
and a gentleman sprang out to help them. Dorothy 
thought she could never get up into that high 
thing, but she managed to do it with the assistance 
of the strange gentleman and Silas. There was one 
lady in the coach, but she and the gentleman were 
the only passengers beside themselves. Dorothy 
looked in wonder at the lady's bonnet. It had 
quite a small crown, but flared out to an immense 
size in front, coming away out beyond the face. A 

plete suit of drab, made, however, in the sanl 
fashion as that of Silas ; his hair was quite lorl 
and powdered, and fastened in a queue behind, j 

" Did thee ever travel by coach before, my littl 
friend ? " he said presently. 

"No, sir," answered Dorothy, timidly, "and 
do not like it very much." 

"Perhaps thee is afraid to go so fast; but we ai 
quite safe — there is no need to fear." 

"Oh, that is not it at all," she answered; b 
stopped suddenly, quite unable to tell the gentl 
man that she liked the cars better because th' 

yellow ribbon was fastened around the crown, over 
which curled a white feather, and from it all floated 
a gossamer veil. She also wore slippers and black 
mitts, and carried a reticule. For the first time, 
then, Dorothy noticed that her mother wore a bon- 
net almost exactly similar, but trimmed with pink. 
This surprised her very much, but she was on the 
lookout now for astonishing things. She soon 
became tired out with the jolting and disagreeable 
swaying of the high coach, but her mother and the 
lady talked on serenely, seeming quite at ease and 

Presently the gentleman looked kindly at her, 
and she was struck with the benevolent expression 
of his face ; she also noticed that he wore a corn- 

were so much faster. Somehow she could not 
the words ; she felt that they would be utterly 
meaning to the serene old gentleman opposite, 
she kept quiet and listened to what her mothen 
saying to the lady. 

" My husband is at present at New York w 
General 'Washington. I expect, daily, news fr 
him, for it is three weeks since I have heard, 
there is so much to fear with this continual fig 
ing. Can you kindly tell me, sir," she said, tu 
ing to the old gentleman, "what is the latest ri 
from our troops?" 

" The last I have heard, friend," said he, inre| 
"is that matters are quiet just now. Gerr 
Howe has established his head-quarters at Sti 




and, and an attack is soon expected. It is much 
be desired," he added, earnestly, "that some 
;ans may be found for averting more bloodshed, 
ii d at the same time preserving us in our rights." 
-Dorothy spoke now, but the words came in quite 
different form from that she was accustomed to. 
" Honored sir," she said, sedately, " is there not 
nething at present happening in the city of 
liladelphia ? Many persons whom I know have 

(ne thither to attend the C — C — C " She 

aid not form the word she wanted, and the gentle- 
llin came to her assistance. 

'"Congress," you mean, my child," he said, and 
;>ugh she was perfectly certain she did n't mean 
b 'she was unable to say a single word. " Yes, 
ngress is meeting there, and we may trust it 
1 find some remedy for our sorrows. The state 
our land is indeed miserable." 
Dorothy said nothing more during the journey, 
she was trying to understand what everybody 
i everything meant. They did not stay over- 
lit at the inn, as the coach went on, and her 
ther was anxious to reach Dalford. They said 
jd-bye to the kind Quaker gentleman, whom 
>s. Sylvester called Friend Timothy, and later in 
i evening to the lady. 

!t was quite late when they reached her grand- 
ther's, and Dorothy had not yet been able to ask 
■ mother how it happened that her father was at 
w York, and there was fighting there. Mrs. 
vester engaged a man to carry her little trunk 
Mistress Patten's, and the little girl followed her 
d over unfamiliar paths till they stopped in front 
a low red farm-house. Her mother paid the 
n, who went off, and Dorothy and she entered 
house. The little girl looked round with curi- 
y. The room was long and low, with a huge 
-place at one end ; the floor was well sanded ; 
1 on a table in the middle of the room were set 
is and saucers, while an old colored woman 
3d in front of the fire stirring something in a 
She turned as they entered, and eagerly 
^corned her visitors, saying her mistress was 
a.,.ch better. Mrs. Sylvester hurried into the next 
m to see the old lady, leaving Dorothy in the 
,;hen, and she employed her time in looking 
und her. 

/he room was spotlessly neat ; in one corner 
)d a spinning-wheel, and near it a distaff and 
;idle, and a tall vase of flowers stood in the 

Irs. Sylvester soon returned, and told Dorothy 

50 upstairs and lay off her bonnet and tippet. 

en she came down again, old Rachel, the colored 

, nan was still at work in the kitchen, but she 

s . nothing to the child, who sat down quietly in a 

> ler. Now came a time of confusion to Dorothy. 

Vol. IV.— 14. 

The room was lighted by one tallow candle and 
the' fire-light; the latter made strange dancing 
shadows on the wall and ceiling, which took all sorts 
of forms to Dorothy's imagination. Sometimes 
they made a tumbling coach and dashing horses ; 
sometimes a lady whose bonnet and feather grew 
bigger and bigger ; sometimes a company of sol- 
diers marching, but always, she noticed, they wore 
Continental uniforms ; and through all she would 
catch the old colored woman looking at her with a 
grin, and showing the whites of her eyes. She 
would speak, but Rachel never would answer ; 
again she would try to speak and could not, and 
the old woman would laugh harder than ever at 
her attempts. She would shut her eyes, but all the 
time she was sure she was being laughed at, and 
when she opened them again, there was the old 
woman watching her still. Sometimes it was night 
and sometimes morning, but Rachel's grinning 
never changed or stopped. This went on for 
hours, it seemed to Dorothy, till at last she felt 
herself growing very hungry, and, after making a 
great many vain efforts, she managed to say : 

"I'm so hungry; when are we going to have 
something to eat, and wont you please just stop 
looking at me ? " 

The old woman, still laughing, answered : 

" I's gwine to grin till Congress tells me to stop, 
and when I gets orders from Philadelphy, I '11 git 
yers suthin to eat. We does everything here by 
orders from Congress, and I guess we 's gwine to 
git a message now by the runnin' outside." 

Sure enough there was a tumult in the village, 
and Dorothy, her mother, her grandmother, Rachel, 
and the black cat, all ran out to see what the noise 
was about. It was bright daylight now ; a crowd 
was gathered in the village around a horseman, who 
had spurred his weary horse up to the inn door. 
The man's face was hot and red ; his blue coat, 
yellow waistcoat, and drab knee-breeches, and even 
his cocked hat, were splashed with mud. He looked 
quite exhausted, as if he had ridden day and night, 
as indeed he had, from Philadelphia. He waved 
his whip in the air, however, and shouted: " Hence- 
forth we are Free and Independent States ! The 
Declaration of Independence is signed ! " 

Shouting and cheering followed. 

Dorothy slowly opened her eyes, and looked 
about her in a bewildered way. 

" How I have slept," she said at last, " and what 
a strange dream ! I 've been 'way back to the 

She rubbed her eyes, and looked down on her 
dress, to make sure that she had on her cambric, 
and not that funny straight gown with the black silk 
apron. Then she looked around the room, almost 
expecting to see the lady in the queer bonnet, the 




old Quaker gentleman, or grinning Rachel ; but 
she saw only the carved cabinet standing in the 
corner, the high bureau, the chairs, and the rays of 
the afternoon sun streaming through the window. 
Dorothy sat musing on the bed, then shook herself 
fairly awake, and rose to dress for tea. 

I cannot explain to you the mystery of my story. 
Was the dream intended to have fallen gently upon 
the closed eyelids of Dorothy the first, a hundred 
years ago ; and had it instead lain hidden in the 

old room for a century, perhaps in the queer ol 
carved cabinet, perhaps lingering about the wair 
scotted corners, or in the shadows of the slopin 
roof, waiting till Dorothy the second should fa 1 
asleep in 1876? I cannot tell you how it was, bi; 
I am sure it was very puzzling to our Dorothy I 
leave the sunshine and reality of living childhoo. 
and wander back through the shadows of a hui 
dred years, to enter into the life and borrow tt 
dream of her little girl great-grandmother. 


By Henry Baldwin. 

[This is a shadow-play, which can be performed in any parlor. A sheet is hung between the audience and the performers, who, 1 

the proper arrangement of light (which can best be attained by experiment), throw their shadows on the sheet. 

Somebody hidden from the audience reads the ballad aloud.] 


It was a maiden beauteous — 

Her name was Mary Jane ; 
To teach the district school she walked 

Each morning down the lane. 

[She passes and repasses behind the curtain. 

Well skilled was she in needle-work, 

Egyptian she could speak, 
Could manufacture griddle-cakes, 

And jest in ancient Greek. 


It was the stalwart Benjamin, 
Who hoed his father's corn ; 

He saw the lovely maiden pass, 
At breaking of the morn. 

Deep sighed that bold, admiring swain ; 

The maid vouchsafed no look — 
She munched a sprig of meetin' seed, 

And read her spelling-book. 

[She enters at left, and ha 

A low obeisance made he then ; 
Right bravely did he speak : 
" There is no rose so fair," he said, 
"As that upon thy cheek! 

He enters at left. 


"And many a brooch and silken gown 
Will I bestow on thee, 
If thou wilt leave thy father's house 
And come and marry me." 



Then proudly spake that lovely maid : 
" Thy corn-patch thou may'st till ! 
I haste to teach the infant mind, 
On yonder lofty hill. 

" Though never golden brooch have I, 
Though silken gown I lack, 
I will not wed an husbandman, 
So take thine offer back ! " 

Oh, fiercely blow the icy blasts 

When winter days begin ! 
But fiercer was the rage that filled 

The heart of Benjamin ! 

He tore in shreds his raven locks, 
And vowed he 'd love no more. 
" Smile on," he cried, " thou haughty maid, 
Thou shalt repent thee sore ! " 


The lady turned, she did not speak, 
Her tear-drops fell like rain ; 

[Tears represented by small pieces of paper. 

Those plaintive words at last did pierce 
The heart of Mary Jane ! 


Oh, blithely sang the soaring lark; 

The morning smiled again ; 
Up rose the sun, with golden beams, 

And up rose Mary Jane. 

[The lark should be made of pasteboard, and a 
string, passed through his body, should be 
stretched diagonally across the sheet By an- 
other string fastened to his head, and running 
over the upper nail, he may be made to soar. 
The sun should rise by a string passed over a 
nail in the center, and at the top of the frame- 
work on which the sheet is stretched. The 
lark should be about as large as the sun. 

She gat her lo her daily task, 

As on the former morn ; 
Alack ! she spied not Benjamin 

A-hoeing of the corn. [Enter Mary Jane. 


No longer, as she trips along. 

Her merry songs she sings ; 
The tear-drops dim her pretty eyes, 

Her lily hands she wrings. 

• And art thou gone, sweet Benjamin ? 
Ah ! whither hast thou fled ? 
My spelling-book has charms no more ; 
I would that I were dead ! " 

But soon her bitter moan she ceased ; 

She viewed her doughty knight, 
Delayed not many leagues from thence, 

And in most grievous plight. 

For as he to his husbandry 

That day would fain have passed, 

A monster cow his path beset, 
And sorely him harassed. 

Upon the summit of a wall 

He sits, and dares not flee ; 
The awful beast its sprangling horns 

Doth brandish frightfully. 

[The cow, made of pasteboard, should be fastened 
to a broom handle, and poked in from one side. 
The smaller the cow the better. 


Oh, Mary Jane! " he cried, " if you 

But love me, do not stay- 
To weep, but lend a friendly hand, 
And drive the cow away ! " 




Her apron then she quickly takes, 
And wipes her streaming eyes; 

Not quicker melts the morning dew, 
Than to her love she flies. 


The monster turns at her approach, 

It shakes its ample tail ; 
Take heart, O Benjamin ! thy love 

Will neither quake nor quail. 

Her parasol that venturous maid 

Exalted o'er her head ; 
Thrice waved it in the air, and lo ! 

Straightway the monster fled. 

Then tarried not that joyous pair 

Fond vows of love to make, 
But to the house of Mary Jane 

Themselves they did betake. 

[As the cow runs away, Benjamin gets down and 
approaches Mary Jane till almost close to her. 
Then, if both lean forward, the above affecting 
tableau is produced. They then take hands, 
and the lamp is moved slowly to one side and 
obscured : this gives them the appearance of 
walking, and allows the father to enter; after 
which the lamp is moved back, and the lovers 

And out spake grateful Benjamin : 
" Forsooth, I had been dead. 

Had Mary Jane not saved my life, — 
And her I fain would wed." 

Up spake her aged sire then ; 

Full wrathfully spake he : 
How darest thou, thou popinjay, 

To ask such thing of me ? 

For wert thou but a millionaire, 

Then would I not demur ; 
Now thou art but an husbandman, 

And she — a school-teacher ! " 

Oh, sorely, sorely did they grieve ! 

The cruel parient's heart 
Inflexible as stone remained, 

And they were torn apart. 

[He motions them apa. 


And now has come Lord Mortimer, 

A-suing for her hand ; 
A richer nobleman than he 

Is not in all the land. 


Upon his lordly knees he sank, 
On bended knee he fell ; 
"And wilt thou not, fair Mary Jane, 
Within my castle dwell ? 





" Thou walkest now with weary feet, 
But thou shalt ride in state ; 
And dine and sup, like any queen, 
Off my ancestral plate." 

Right scornfully that angry maid 

Her dainty nose upturned ! 
She waved her lily hand, and thus 

His tempting offer spurned : 

" Get hence ! avaunt ! I scorn thy gold, 
Likewise thy pedigree ! 
I plighted troth to Benjamin, 
Who sails the briny sea." 

[Exit Mortimer, enter father. 


" Nay, verily," her father said, 
" Braid up thy golden hair ; 
Prepare to die, if thou wilt not 
For nuptials prepare ! " 

[Flourishes pasteboard knife. 

She braided up her golden hair 
With jewels bright, eft soon ; 

She clad her in her twice dyed gown, 
And eke her thrice patched shoon. 

" Oh, Benjamin ! Oh, Benjamin ! " 
Was all that she could say; 
She wist not but that he was dead, 
Or thousand leagues away. 

Alack for Mary Jane ! the knife 

Hangs glittering o'er her head ! 
Before the altar, Mortimer 

Waits his fair bride to wed. 

" Who knocks upon the outer gate? 

Oh, father, quickly hie ! " 
" 'T is but the grimy charcoal man; 

We have no time to buy ! " 


" Methinks I hear the area-bell; 

Oh, father, quickly speed ! " 
" 'T is but a pesky book-agent ; 

Thou hast no time to read ! " 

The fatal knife descends, descends ! 

Her shrieks no mercy win ! 
When lo, a shout ! — the door gives way ! 

In rushes Benjamin ! 


Full many a year, a pirate bold, 
I 've sailed the Spanish main ; 

I now return, a trillionaire. 
To claim thee, Mary Jane ! " 




Out spake her happy sire then : 
" Can I my eyes believe ? 
Upon your knees, my children dear, 
My blessing to receive ! " 

Alas for luckless Mortimer, 
Of love the hopeless dupe ! 

He gave up all his title deeds, 
And joined a circus troupe. 

But merrily the bells did ring, 
Loud was the cannon's din, 

Upon the day when Mary Jane 
Was wed to Benjamin ! 

[A low step-ladder, or table covered with a cloth, 
may be used for the wall. Mary Jane's bon- 
net can be made of a newspaper. Her father 
may wear a water-proof cloak, belted in, if a 
dressing-gown is not obtainable. 


(A Fairy Tale.) 


By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 


" I WANT to see things as they are," said I to 

" I don't see how else you can see them," an- 
swered Mabel, with a laugh. "You certainly don't 
see them as they are not." 

"Yes, I do," said I. "I see men and things 
only as they seem. It is so exasperating to think 
that I can never get beyond the surface of any- 
thing. My friends may appear very good and 
beautiful to me, and yet I may all the while have a 
suspicion that the appearance is deceitful, that they 
are really neither good nor beautiful." 

" In case that was so, I should n't want to know 
it," said Mabel. "It would make me very un- 

" That is where you and I differ," said I. 

Mabel was silent for a moment, and I believe she 
was a little hurt, for I had spoken rather sharply. 

" But what good would it do you, Jamie ?" asked 
she, looking up at me from under her wide- 
brimmed straw hat. 

" What would dome good?" said I, for I had 
quite forgotten what we had been talking about. 

" To see things as they are. There is my father 
now ; he knows a great deal, and I am sure I 
should n't care to know any more than he does." 

"Well, that is where you and I differ," said I 

"I wish you wouldn't be always saying 'that is 
where you and I differ.' Somehow I don't like to 
hear you say it. It does n't sound like yourself." 

And Mabel turned away from me, took up a leaf 
from the ground and began to pick it to pieces. 

We were sitting, at the time when this conversa- 
tion took place, up in the gorge not half a mile 

from the house where Mabel's father lived. I wa 
a tutor in the college, about twenty-three years old 
and I was very fond of German philosophy. An< 
now, since I have told who I was, I suppose I ough 
to tell you something about Mabel. Mabel was,— 
but really it is impossible to say what she was 
except that she was very, very charming. As fo 
the rest, she was the daughter of Professor Mark 
ham, and I had known her since my college day 
when she was quite a little girl. And now she won 
long dresses ; and, what was more, she had her hai 
done up in a sort of Egyptian pyramid on the to] 
of her head. The dress she had on to-day I waj 
particularly fond of; it was of a fine light texture 
and the pattern was an endless repetition of a smal 
sweet-brier bud, with two delicate green leavei 
attached to it. 

I had spread a shawl out on the ground when 
Mabel was sitting, for fear she should soil her fini 
dress. A large weeping-willow spread its branche: 
all around us, and drooped until it almost touchei 
the ground, so that it made a sort of green, sun-li 
summer-house for Mabel and me to live in. Be 
tween the rocks at our feet a clear brook cam< 
rushing down, throwing before it little showers o 
spray, which fell like crystal pearls on the water 
sailed down the swift eddies and then vanished 
the next whirlpool. A couple of orioles in brand 
new yellow uniforms, with black epaulets on thei 
shoulders, were busy in the tree over our heads 
but stopped now and then in their work to refresl 
themselves with a little impromptu duet. 

" Work and play 
Make glad the day," — 

that seemed to be their philosophy, and Mabel an<| 




yere quite ready to agree with them,. although 
had been idling since the early dawn. But then 
ivas so long since we had seen each other, that 
thought we could afford it. 

" Somehow," said Mabel at last (for she never 
jld pout long at a time), " I don't like you so 
11 since you came back from Germany. You 
: not as nice as you used to be. What did you 
there for, anyway?" 

"Why," I responded, quite seriously, " I went 
:re to study ; and I did learn a good deal there, 
hough naturally I was not as industrious as I 
ght have been." 

"I can readily believe that. But, tell me, what 
1 you learn that you might n't just as well have 
rned at home ? " 

[ thought it was no use in being serious any 
iger; so I tossed a pebble into the water, glanced 
into Mabel's face and answered gayly : 
"Well, I learned something about gnomes, and 
rmies, and elves, and fairies, and salamanders, 

d " 

"And what?" interrupted Mabel, impatiently. 

" And salamanders," repeated I. " You know 

;: forests, and rivers, and mountains of Germany 

! full of all sorts of strange sprites, and you know 

; :'.' people believe in them, and that is one of the 

■I'.ngs which make life in the Old World so fasci- 

jrting. But here we are too prosy, and practical, 

td business-like, and we don't-believe in anything 

:ept what we can touch with our hands, and see 

:;h our eyes, and sell for money." 

Now, Jamie, that is not true," responded Ma- 
il, energetically; for she was a strong American 
1 heart, and it did n't take much to rouse her. 
1 believe, for instance, that you know a great 
al, although not as much as my father ; but I 
tl't see your learning with my eyes, neither can I 

:ich it with my hands " 

i"But I hope I can sell it for money," interrupted 
r. laughing. 

ji"No, joking aside. I don't think we are quite 
bad as you would like to make us out." 
"And then you think, perhaps, that the gnomes 
a d river-sprites would be as apt to thrive here as 
iithe Old World ? " 

."Who knows?" said Mabel, with an expression 
it seemed to me half serious, half grave. " But 
wish you would tell me something about your 
firman sprites. I am so very ignorant in such 
jngs, you know." 

1 [ stretched myself comfortably on the edge of the 
twl at Mabel's feet, and began to tell her the 
>ry about the German peasant who caught the 
ome that had robbed his wheat-field. 
"The gnomes wear tiny red caps," I went on, 
vhich make them invisible. They are called tarn- 

caps, or caps of darkness. The peasant that I am 
telling about had a suspicion that it was the gnomes 
who had been stealing his wheat. One evening, 
he went out after sunset (for the gnomes never 
venture out from their holes until the sun is down) 
and began to fight in the air with his cane about 
the borders of the field. Then suddenly he saw a 
very tiny man with knee-breeches and large fright- 
ened eyes, turning a somersault in the grass right 
at his feet. He had struck off his cap, and then, of 
course, the gnome was no longer invisible. The 
peasant immediately seized the cap and put it into 
his pocket ; the gnome begged and implored to 
get it back, but instead of that, the peasant caught 
him up in his arms and carried him to his house, 
where he kept him as a captive until the other 
gnomes sent a herald to him and offered him a 
large ransom. Then the gnome was again set free 
and the peasant made his fortune by the transac- 

" Would n't it be delightful if such things could 
ever happen here ? " ex-claimed Mabel, while her 
beautiful eyes shone with pleasure at the very 

"I should think so," said I. "It is said, too, 
that if there are gnomes and elves in the neighbor- 
hood, they always gather around you when you 
talk about them." 

"Really?" And Mabel sent a timid glance in 
among the large mossy trunks of the beeches and 

"Tell me something more, Jamie," she de- 
manded, eagerly. 

Mabel had such a charming way of saying 
"Jamie," that I could never have opposed a wish 
of hers, whatever it might be. The professor called 
me James, and among my friends I was Jim ; but 
it was only Mabel wdio called me Jamie. So I told 
her all I knew about the nixies, who sang their 
strange songs at midnight in the water ; about the 
elves, who lived in the roses and lilies, and danced 
in a ring around the tall flowers until the grass 
never grew there again ; and about the elf-maiden 
who led the knight astray when he was riding to 
his bride on his wedding-day. And all the while 
Mabel's eyes seemed to be growing larger; the 
blood burned in her cheeks, and sometimes she 
shuddered, although the afternoon was very warm. 
When I had finished my tale, I rose and seated 
myself at her side. The silence suddenly seemed 
quite oppressive ; it was almost as if we could hear 
it. For some reason neither Mabel nor I dared to 
speak ; but we both strained our ears listening to 
something, we did not know what. Then there 
came a strange soft whisper which filled the air all 
about us, and I thought I heard somebody calling 
my name. 




" They are calling you, Jamie," whispered Mabel. 

"Calling me? Who?" said I. 

" Up there in the tree. No, not there. It is 
down in the brook. Everywhere." 

"Oh," cried I, with a forced laugh. "We are 
two great children, Mabel. It is nothing." 

Suddenly all was silent once more ; but the 
wood-stars and violets at my feet gazed at me with 

" But you know we were talking about them 
whispered she, still with the same fascinated ga; 
in her eyes. "Ah, there, take care! Don't ste 
on that violet. Don't you see how its mute ey< 
implore you to spare its life ? " 

" Yes, dear, I see," answered I ; and I drd 
Mabel's arm through mine, and we hurried dow 
the wood-path, not daring to look back, for we h3 


such strange, wistful eyes, that I was almost fright- 

" You should n't have done that, Jamie," said 
Mabel, " You killed them." 

" Killed what ? " 

" The voices, the strange, small voices." 

" My dear girl," said I, as I took Mabel's hands 
and helped her to rise. " I am afraid we are both 
losing our senses. Come, let us go. The sun is 
already down. It must be after tea-time." 

both a feeling as if some one was walking cloi 
behind us, in our steps. 


It was a little after ten, I think, when I left tt 
professor's house, where I had been spending tt 
evening, and started on my homeward way. 

As I walked along the road the thought of Mab 
haunted me. I wondered whether I ever shoul 
be a professor, like her father, and ended with coi 




t jding that the next best thing to being one's self 
^professor would be to be a professor's son-in-law. 
,]it somehow I wasn't at all sure that Mabel cared 
,i,ything about me. 

"Things are not what they seem," I mur- 
i.ured to myself, "and the real Mabel may be a 
y.ry different creature from the Mabel whom I 


There was not much comfort in that thought, 
it nevertheless I could not get rid of it. I glanced 
1 to the big round face of the moon, which had a 
:'ge ring of mist about its neck; and looking more 
>sely I thought I saw a huge floundering body, of 
lich the moon was the head, crawling heavily 
ross the sky and stretching a long misty arm 
:er me. I hurried on, not caring to look right 
left; and I suppose I must have taken the wrong 
rn, for as I lifted my eyes, I found myself stand- 
g under the willow-tree at the creek where Mabel 
d I had been sitting in the afternoon. The 
:usts, with their shrill metallic voices, kept whir- 
ig away in the grass, and I heard their strange 
ising sh-h-h-h-h, now growing stronger, then 
akening again, and at last stopping abruptly, 
if to say : " Did n't I do well ? " But the blue- 
lad violets shook their heads, and that means in 
:ir language: "No, I don't think so at all." 
le water, which descended in three successive 
Is into the wide dome-shaped gorge, seemed to 
:, as I stood gazing at it, to be going the wrong 
y, crawling, with eager, foamy hands, up the 
[ges of the rock to where I was standing. 
f I must certainly be mad," thought I, " or I am 
Iting to be a poet." 

In order to rid myself of the painful illusion, 
ich was every moment getting more vivid, I 
ned my eyes away and hurried up along the 
iks, while the beseeching murmur of the waters 
ig in my ears. 

As I had ascended the clumsy wooden stairs 
ich lead up to the second fall, I suddenly saw 
5 little blue lights hovering over the ground 
ectly in front of me. 

'Will-o'-the-wisps," said I to myself. "The 
mnd is probably swampy." 

i pounded with my cane on the ground, but, as 
might have known, it was solid rock. It was 
jitainly very strange. I flung myself down behind 
■ trunk of a large hemlock. The two blue lights 
ne hovering directly toward me. I lifted my 
ie, — with a swift blow it cut the air, and, — who 
1 imagine my astonishment ? Right in front of 

I saw a tiny man, not much bigger than a good- 
:d kitten, and at his side lay a small red cap ; 

cap, of course, I immediately snatched up and 
, : it in a separate apartment in my pocket-book 
. make sure that I should not lose it. One of the 

lights hastened away to the rocks and vanished 
before I could overtake it. 

There was something so very funny in the idea 
of finding a gnome in the State of New York, that 
the strange fear which had possessed me departed, 
and I felt very much inclined to laugh. My blow 
had quite stunned the poor little ereature ; he was 
still lying half on his back, as if trying to raise him- 
self on his elbows, and his large black eyes had a 
terrified stare in them, and seemed to be ready to 
spring out of their sockets. 

"Give — give me back my cap," he gasped at 
last, in a strange metallic voice, which sounded to 
me like the clinking of silver coins. 

"Not so fast, my dear," said I. "What will 
you give me for it ? " 

" Anything," he cried, as he arose and held out 
his small hand. 

"Then listen to me," continued I. "Can you 
help me to see things as they are ? In that case I 
shall give you back your cap, but on no other con- 

" See things as they are ? " repeated the gnome, 

"Yes, and not only as they seem," rejoined I, 
with emphasis. 

"Return here at midnight," began he, after a 
long silence. " Upon the stone where you are sit- 
ting you shall find what you want. If you take it, 
leave my cap on the same spot." 

"That is a fair bargain," said I. "I shall be 
here promptly at twelve. Good-night." 

I had extended my palm to shake hands with my 
new friend, but he seemed to resent my politeness; 
with a sort of snarl, he turned a somersault and 
rolled down the hill-side to where the rocks rise 
from the water. 

I need not say that I kept my promise about 
returning. And what did I find? A pair of spec- 
tacles of the most exquisite workmanship ; the 
glasses so clear as almost to deceive the sight, and 
the setting of gold spun into fine elastic threads. 

" We shall soon see what they are good for," 
thought I, as I put them into the silver case, the 
wonderful finish of which I could hardly distinguish 
by the misty light of the moon. 

The little tarn-cap I of course left on the stone. 
As I wandered homeward through the woods, I 
thought, with a certain fierce triumph, that now 
the beauty of Mabel's face should no more deceive 

" Now, Mabel," I murmured, " now I shall see 
you as you are." 

At three o'clock in the afternoon, I knocked at 
the door of the professor's study. 




"Come in," said the professor. 

" Is — is Mabel at home ? " asked I, when I had 
shaken hands with the professor and seated myself 
in one of his hard, straight-backed chairs. 

" She will be down presently," answered he. 
" There is a newspaper. You may amuse yourself 
with that until she comes." 

I took up the paper ; but the spectacles seemed 
to be burning in my breast-pocket, and although I 
stared intently on the print, I could hardly dis- 
tinguish a word. What if I tried the power of the 
spectacles on the professor ? The idea appeared to 
me a happy one, and I immediately proceeded to 
put it into practice. With a loudly beating heart, 
I pulled the silver case from my pocket, rubbed 
the glasses with my handkerchief, put them on my 
nose, adjusted the bows behind my ears, and cast 
■a stealthy glance at the professor over the edge of 
my paper. But what was my horror ! It was no 
longer the professor at all. It was a huge parrot, 
a veritable parrot in slippers and dressing-gown ! 
I dared hardly believe my senses. Was the pro- 
fessor really not a man, but a parrot ? My dear 
trusted and honored teacher, whom I had always 
looked upon as the wisest and most learned of living 
men, could it be possible that he was a parrot ? 
And still there he sat, grave and sedate, a pair of 
horn spectacles on his large, crooked beak, a few 
stiff feathers bristling around his bald crown, and 
his small eyes blinking with a sort of meaningless 
air of confidence, as I often had seen a parrot's eyes 

" My gnome has been playing a trick on me," I 
thought. "This is certainly not to see things as 
they are. If I only had his tarn-cap once more, 
he should not recover it so cheaply." 

" Well, my boy," began the professor, as he 
wheeled round in his chair, and knocked the ashes 
out of his pipe on the polished andirons which 
adorned the empty fire-place. " How is the world 
using you ? Getting over your German whims, 

Surely the spectacles must in some mysterious 
way have affected my ears too. The professor's 
voice certainly did sound very curious — very much 
like the croak of some bird that had learned human 
language, but had no notion of what he was saying. 
The case was really getting serious. I threw the 
paper away, stared my teacher full in the face, but 
was so covered with confusion that I could hardly 
utter two coherent words. 

" Yes, yes, — certainly, — professor," I stammered. 
" German whims ? — I mean things as they are — 
and — and not as they seem — das Ding an sich — 
beg your pardon — I am not sure, I — I compre- 
hended your meaning — beg your pardon ? " 

" My dear boy," croaked the professor, opening 

his beak in great bewilderment, and showing 
little thick red tongue, which curved upward lili 
that of a parrot, " you are certainly not wel 
Mabel ! Mabel ! Come down ! James is ill ! Ye: 
you certainly look wretchedly. Let me feel yoi 

I suppose my face must have been very muc 
flushed, for the blood had mounted to my hea 
and throbbed feverishly in my temples. As I hear 
the patter of Mabel's feet in the hall, a great drea 
came over me. What if she too should turn o\ 
to be somebody else — a strange bird or beast 
No, not for all the world would I see Mabel — tb 
dear, blessed Mabel — any differently from wh; 
she had always seemed to me. So I tore the spe< 
tacles from my nose and crammed them into tb 
case, which again I thrust into my pocket. In tb 
same instant, Mabel's sweet face appeared in tb 

"Did you call me, papa?" she said; then, i 
she saw me reclining on the sofa, where her fathe 
(now no longer a parrot) had forced me to 1 
down, there came a sudden fright into her beautifi 
eyes, and she sprang to my side and seized rr. 
hand in hers. 

"Are you ill, Jamie?" she asked, in a vok 
of unfeigned anxiety, which went straight to n 
heart. " Has anything happened to you ? " 

" Hush, hush ! " said the professor. " Dor 
make him speak. It might have proved a serioi 
attack. Too much studying, my dear — too muc 
studying. To be sure, the ambition of young m« 
nowadays is past belief. It was different in rr 
youth. Then, every young man was satisfied if 1 
could only make a living — found a home for hin 
self and bring up his family in the fear of Goi 
But now, dear me, such things are mere nursei 

I felt wretched and guilty in my heart ! To 1 
thus imposing upon two good people, who lovc- 
me and were willing to make every sacrifice for it 
comfort ! Mabel had brought a pillow and put 
under my head; and now she took out some so 
of crochet-work, and seated herself on a chair clo: 
by me. The professor stood looking at his watt 
and counting my pulse-beats. 

"One hundred and fifteen," he muttered, an 
shook his bald head. " Yes, he has fever. I sa 
it at once, as he entered the room." 

"Professor," I cried out, in an agony of n 
morse, " really I meant nothing by it. I kno 
very well that you are not a parrot — that yo 
are " 

" I — I — a parrot ! " he exclaimed, smiling knov 
ingly at Mabel. "No, I should think not. He 
raving, my dear. High fever. Just what I saic 
Wont you go out and send Maggie for the doctor 



21 I 

stop, I shall go myself. Then he will be sure 
:ome without delay. It is high time." 
The professor buttoned his coat up to his chin, 
-d his hat at the proper angle on the back of his 

' id, and departed in haste. 
'How do you feel now, Jamie dear?" said 

'.bel, after awhile. 

5 ;' I am very well, I thank you, Mabel," answered 

here and playing sick," muttered I, "then, of 
course, I will do anything to please you." 

" That is right," said she, and gave me a friendly 

So I lay still for a long while, until I came once 
more to think of my wonderful spectacles, which 
had turned the venerable professor into a parrot.. 
I thought I owed Mabel an apology for what I had 


' " In fact, it is all nonsense. I am not sick 


'" Hush, hush ! you must not talk so much," 
laanded she, and put her hand on my mouth, 
.uty excitement. was now gradually subsiding, and 

blood was returning to its usual speed, 
i' If you don't object, Mabel," said I, "I'll get 

and go home. There 's nothing whatever the 

tter with me." 
"Will you be a good boy and keep quiet," re- 

ied she, emphasizing each word by a gentle tap 

my head with her crochet-needle. 
''Well, if it can amuse you to have me lying 


done to her father, and I determined to ease my 
mind by confiding the whole story to her. 

" Mabel," I began, raising myself on my elbow. 
"I want to tell you something, but you must 
promise me beforehand that you will not be angry 
with me." 

"Angry with you, Jamie?" repeated she, open- 
ing her bright eyes wide in astonishment. " I 
never was angry with you in my life." 

" Very well, then. But I have done something 
very bad, and I shall never have peace until I have 
confided it all to you. You are so very good, 
Mabel. I wish I could be as good as you are." 




Mabel was about to interrupt me, but I pre- 
vented her, and continued : 

" Last night, as I was going home from your 
house, the moonlight was so strangely airy and 
beautiful, and without quite intending to do it, I 
found myself taking a walk through the gorge. 
There I saw some curious little lights dancing over 
the ground, and I remembered the story of the 
peasant who had caught the gnome. And do you 
know what I did ? " 

Mabel was beginning to look apprehensive. 

" No, I can't imagine what you did," she whis- 

"Well, I lifted my cane, struck at one of the 
lights, and, before I knew it, there lay a live gnome 
on the ground, kicking with his small legs " 

"Jamie! Jamie!" cried Mabel, springing up 
and gazing at me, as if she thought I had gone 

Then there was an unwelcome shuffling of feet 
in the hall, the door was opened, and the professor 
entered with the doctor. 

"Papa, papa!" exclaimed Mabel, turning to 
her father. " Do you know what Jamie says ? He 
says he saw a gnome last night in the gorge, and 
that " 

" Yes, I did !" cried I, excitedly, and sprang up 
to seize my hat. " If nobody will believe me, I 
need n't stay here any longer. And if you doubt 
what I have been saying, I can show you " 

"My dear sir," said the doctor. 

" My dear boy," chimed in the professor, and 
seized me round the waist to prevent me from 

" My dear Jamie," implored Mabel, while the 
tears started to her eyes, " do keep quiet, do ! " 

The doctor and the professor now forced me 
back upon the sofa, and I had once more to resign 
myself to my fate. 

" A most singular hallucination," said the pro- 
fessor, turning his round, good-natured face to the 
doctor. "A moment ago he observed that I was 
not a parrot, which necessarily must have been 
suggested by a previous hallucination that I was a 

The doctor shook his head and looked grave. 

" Possibly a very serious case," said he, " a case 

of ," and he gave it a long Latin name, which 

I failed to catch. "It is well that I was called in 
time. We may still succeed in mastering the 

"Too much study?" suggested the professor. 
" Restless ambition ? Night labor — severe appli- 
cation ? " 

The doctor nodded and tried to look wise. Mabel 
burst into tears, and I myself, seeing her distress, 
could hardly refrain from weeping. And still I 

could not help thinking that it was very sweet 
see Mabel's tears flowing for my sake. 

The doctor now sat down and wrote a number 
curiously abbreviated Latin words for a prescri 
tion, and handed it to the professor, who folded 
up and put it into his pocket-book. 

Half an hour later, I lay in a soft bed with sno\V 
white curtains, in a cozy little room upstairs. T 
shades had been pulled down before the window 
a number of medicine bottles stood on a chair 
my bedside, and I began to feel quite like an i 
valid — and all because I had said (what noboi 
could deny) that the professor was not a parrot 


I SOON learned that the easiest way to recov 
my liberty was to offer no resistance, and to 
nothing more about the gnome and the spectacle 
Mabel came and sat by my bedside for a f 
hours every afternoon, and her father visited i 
regularly three times a day, felt my pulse and ga 
me a short lecture on moderation in study, on t 
evil effects of ambition, and on the dangerous ter 
encies of modern speculation. 

The gnome's spectacles I kept hidden under i 
pillow, and many a time when Mabel was with ] 
I felt a strong temptation to try their effect up 
her. Was Mabel really as good and beautiful 
she seemed to me ? Often I had my hand on t 
dangerous glasses, but always the same dread cai 
over me, and my courage failed me. That swe 
fair, beautiful face, — what could it be, if it was i 
what it seemed? No, no, I loved Mabel too w 
as she seemed, to wish to know whether she waj 
delusion or a reality. What good would it do 1 
if I found out that she too was a parrot, or a goo 
or any other kind of bird or beast ? The fair 
hope would go out of my life, and I should h 
little or nothing left worth living for. I must c( 
fess that my curiosity often tormented me beyo 
endurance, but, as I said, I could never mus 
courage enough either to conquer it or to yield 
it. Thus, when at the end of a week I was allow 
to sit up, I knew no more about Mabel's real ch 
acter than I had known before. I saw that s 
was patient, kind-hearted, sweet-tempered, — tl 
her comings and goings were as quiet and pleas; 
as those of the sunlight which now stole in unh 
dered and again vanished through the uncurtain 
windows. And, after all, had I not known tl 
always? One thing, however, I now knew bet 
than before, and that was that I never could lc 
anybody as I loved Mabel, and that I hoped sol 
time to make her my wife. 

A couple of days elapsed, and then I was p 
mitted to return to my own lonely rooms. A 
very dreary and desolate did they seem to me af 


2 I 

pleasant days I had spent, playing sick, with 
bel and the professor. I did try once or twice 
effect of my spectacles on some of my friends, 
i| always the result was astonishing. Once I put 
m on in church, and the minister, who had the 
utation of being a very pious man, suddenly 
>d before me as a huge fox in gown and bands. 
• voice sounded like a sort of bark, and his long- 
,ut opened and shut again in such a funny fash- 
that I came near laughing aloud. But, fortu- 
;ly, I checked myself and looked for a moment 
couple of old maids in the pew opposite. And, 
I ither you will believe me or not, they looked 
:tly like two dressed-up magpies, while the 
t old gentleman next to them had the appear- 
; of a sedate and pious turkey-cock. As he 
. out his handkerchief and blew his nose — I 
n his bill — the laughter again came over me, 
I had to stoop down in the pew and smother 
merriment. An old chum of mine, who was a 
jus sportsman and a great favorite with the 
s, turned out to be a bull-dog, and as he ad- 
;d his neck-tie and pulled up his collar around 
hick, hairy neck, I had once more to hide my 
in order to preserve my gravity, 
am afraid, if I had gone on with my observa- 
ji, I should have lost my faith in many a man 
1 woman whom I had previously trusted and 
dred, for they were probably not all as good 
.amiable as they appeared. However, I could 
help asking myself, as Mabel had done, what 
.1 such a knowledge would, in the end, do me. 
it not better to believe everybody good, until 
^inced to the contrary, than to distrust every- 
■ and by your suspicion do injustice to those 
.were really better than they seemed? After 
I thought, these spectacles are making me 
oid and suspicious; they are a dangerous and 
ss thing to possess. I will return them to their 

lis, then, was my determination. A little before 
jit, I started for the gorge, and on my way I 
j a little girl playing with pebbles at the road- 
My curiosity once more possessed me. I 
in the gnome's spectacles and gazed intently 
e chiid. Strange to say no transformation 
red. I took off the glasses, rubbed them 
my handkerchief, and put them on once more, 
rhild still remained what it seemed — a child ; 
feature was changed. Here, then, was really 
^iiture that was neither more nor less than it 
i;d. For some inconceivable reason the tears 
: d to my eyes; I took the little girl up in my 
and kissed her. My thoughts then naturally 
d to Mabel ; I knew in the depth of my heart 
she, too, would have remained unchanged. 
could she be that was better than her own 


sweet self — the pure, the beautiful, the blessed 
Mabel ? 

When the sun was well set, I sat down under the 
same hemlock-tree where I had first met the gnome. 
After half an hour's waiting I again saw the lights 
advancing over the ground, struck at random at 
one of them and the small man was once more visi- 
ble. I did not seize his cap, however, but addressed 
him in this manner : 

"Do you know, you curious Old World sprite, 
what scrapes your detestable spectacles brought 
me into ? Here they are. Take them back. I 
don't want to see them again as long as I live." 

In the next moment I saw the precious glasses 
in the gnome's hand, a broad, malicious grin 
distorted his features, and before I could say an- 
other word, he had snatched up his cap and van- 

A few days later, Mabel, with her sweet-brier 
dress on, was again walking at my side along the 
stream in the gorge, and somehow our footsteps 
led us to the old willow-tree where we had had our 
talk about the German gnomes and fairies. 

" Suppose, Jamie," said Mabel, as we seated 
ourselves on the grass, "that a good fairy should 
come to you and tell you that your highest wish 
should be fulfilled. What would you then ask ? " 

"I would ask," cried I, seizing Mabel's hand, 
"that she would give me a good little wife, with 
blue eyes and golden hair, whose name should be 
Mabel. " 

Mabel blushed crimson and turned her face away 
from me to hide her confusion. 

" You would not wish to see things as they are, 
then," whispered she, while the sweetest smile stole 
over her blushing face. 

" Oh, no, no ! " exclaimed I. " But what would 
you ask, Mabel ? " 

" I," answered she, " would ask the fairy to give 
me a husband who loved me well, if — if his name 
was — Jamie." 

A little before supper-time we both stole on tip- 
toe into the professor's study. He was writing, as 
usual, and did not notice us. Mabel went up to 
his chair from behind and gently put her hands 
over his eyes, and asked if he could guess who it 
was. He, of course, guessed all the names he 
could think of except the right one. 

" Papa," said Mabel, at last, restoring to him 
once more the use of his eyes, "Jamie and I have 
something we want to tell you." 

" And what is it, my dear?" asked the professor, 
turning round on his chair, and staring at us as if 
he expected something extraordinary. 

" I don't want to say it aloud." said Mabel. " I 
want to whisper it " 

"And I, too," echoed I. 




And so we both put our mouths, one on each 
side, to the professor's ears and whispered. 

"But," exclaimed the old man, as soon as he 
could recover his breath, " you must bear in mind 
that life is not a play, — that — that life is not what 
it seems " 

" No, but Mabel is," said I. 

" Is, — is what ? " 

"What she seems," cried I. 

And then we both laughed ; and the professo 
kissed Mabel, shook my hand, and at last a] 



By E. B. M. 

The English harpers, or minstrels, were the 
successors of England's first musicians, the Druid 
bards. Not only in England, but throughout all 
Europe, and especially in Denmark, the sacred 
scalds (or bards) first, and afterward the harpers, 
were persons of the greatest consequence. They 
were constantly sought to attend at the palaces of 
kings, where, to the accompaniment of their rude 
harps, they recounted for royal ears the praises of 
kingly ancestors, or sang the stirring national an- 
thems, which should inspire to deeds of future 
greatness. In return, they were loaded with the 

richest honors and rewards, their vocation was co'i 
sidered divine, and in times of war they were ui 
molested, though traveling freely to and frobetwec 
the encampments of hostile armies. 

Alfred the Great (and he was not the only 01 
who tried the experiment) found, as you know, 
the disguise of a harper, admittance to the cart 
of his enemies, the Danes, and obtained there tl 
necessary knowledge to regain the lost throne. 

On the opposite page is a picture of one of tl 
primitive harpers, giving some idea of the shape 
the instrument used by the musician of the timf 





As early as the tenth century we read of minstrels 
the continent of Europe, who traveled in bands 
companies, glad to offer their united powers of 
nusement to any who would give them audience, 
le Anglo-Saxon minstrels, who come into promi- 
nt notice soon after, were called in the early ages 
minstrelsy by two names — "scop," meaning a 
iker, and "gligman" or " gleeman," which in- 
ides all professional performers for public enter- 
nment. For, to the serious vein of their ances- 
s, these wandering musicians had added a comic 
e of their own, and with the singing of ancient 
roic poems they rendered also the ballads and 
nances of the day, accompanied by exhibi- 
ts of their skill as dancers, joculators or jesters, 
d jugglers. These obtained admission every- 

When we remember how few were the occupa- 
ns of our Anglo-Saxon forefathers, we can inl- 
ine with what satisfaction a cheerful party of 
'sons, possessing such numerous powers of diver- 
n, would be received at the castle gate or the 
y-sidc inn. They frequented mostly the homes 
the great, however ; and though the ancient 
•per, singing only the religious or patriotic songs 
his race, was held in very different esteem from 
t modern gleemen, who cared more for supper 
;n song, yet their society was as eagerly sought 
i rewarded. In addition to their merry-making 
ractions, the minstrels served also the purpose 
a newspaper, carrying items of news from one 
tion of country to another, along with the last 
v tale, all of which they offered their patrons for 
jThey figured prominently also in political in- 
jues, so that, during the middle ages, the dis- 
ise of a minstrel was frequently assumed to enable 
pected or obnoxious parties to pass through diffi- 
ties safely and unchallenged. Some of the class 
re more respectable than others, however, and 
'oted themselves solely to the exercise of their 

The news of an approaching festival was sure to 
rig to the castle gates a large gathering of the 
istrels. Numbers were no bar to admission, and, 
I 'ing successive days of feasting and pleasure, 
'se adroit performers would suit their entertain- 
pnt to the mood of their hearers. Were the com- 
] ly in a quiet humor, they sang the old ballad; 
I chivalry. If gay, as they lingered over the 
! ving bowl, they chanted satirical poems or love- 
1 lances, or exhibited their mountebank shows 
| I powers of jugglery; and at last, presented 

I ir appeals for compensation, sometimes in ways 

I I were neither dignified nor delicate. 

■ n one case, we are told, a minstrel interrupts 
story, probably at the most telling point, to 

inform his hearers, that "whoever wishes to hear 
any more of this poem must make haste to open 
his purse, for it is now high time that he give me 
something." Another makes a still more peremp- 
tory demand. "Take notice," he says, " as God 
may give me health, I will immediately put a stop 
to my song, and 1 at once excommunicate all those 
who shall not visit their purses in order to give me 
something to my wife." The poor fellow had some 
excuse, however, as his poem had already reached 
over five thousand lines without bringing any re- 
sponse from his audience. 

But money was not the only reward sought or 
won by these wandering musicians. The village 
fairs, no less than baronial halls, were enlivened by 
their presence. The first Earl of Chester decreed 
that all minstrels who should come to Chester fair 
were secure from arrest for theft or any other mis- 
demeanor, except the crime were committed during 
the fair. Years afterward, the privileges proved of 
great advantage to one of the noble lord's succes- 
sors, for, besieged by the Welsh in his castle of 
Rothelan, the constable of Chester gathered the 
minstrels, and, " by the allurement of their music, 
got together a great crowd of such loose people as 
by reason of privilege were then in that city, whom 
he sent forthwith to the earl's relief. The Welsh, 
alarmed at the approach of this rabble, suppos- 
ing them to be a regular body of armed and dis- 
ciplined veterans, instantly raised the siege and 

Many of the minstrels were retained in the con- 
stant service of kings and nobles, receiving salaries, 
and even houses and lands, from their royal patrons. 


They were not only required to perform at public 
festivals, as we have seen, but during disagreeable 
operations, which kings as well as common people 
are sometimes obliged to endure. History tells us 
that Edward I., who was the special patron of the 
profession, was at one time very ill and obliged to- 
be bled. In order to soothe his majesty while 
undergoing the operation, his surgeon, Sir John 




Maltravers, summoned his chief minstrel, who exe- 
cuted some of his choicest diversions on the painful 

Among the instruments used by the minstrels, 
the harp, or, as it was called in the old Saxon, the 
"glee-beam" (or glee-wood), stood first in their 
regard. In addition, the trumpet, the pipe (or 
flute), the viol (or fiddle), the horn, the drum (or 
tabor), the cymbals, hand-bells, and a portable 
organ, known as the dulcimer, were all used in the 
middle ages. The troubadours of Europe, how- 
ever, were devoted exclusively to the viol. 

On this page is a picture of a minstrel of the 
fourteenth century, playing upon a tabor, an in- 


strument much in favor with the lower orders of 

The dulcimer, or organ, was much in use, if we 
may judge from its frequent introduction into pict- 

The bagpipe was an instrument mostly used by 
shepherds and rustic musicians, who, in common 
with other classes of society during the fourteenth 
and fifteenth centuries, were given to the cultiva- 
tion of music. In addition to the bagpipe, they 
played upon the pipe and horn ; and so late as the 
reign of Queen Mary, in 1553, they officiated at 


village weddings and merry-makings, and " eve 
sometimes excited the jealousy of the professors 
the joyous science." 

In the effort to raise minstrelsy to a more respeel 
able position, the minstrels of a better class forme 
themselves into societies or guilds, governed b 
laws of their own, and open only 
to the admission of those who by 
special qualification were fitted 
to join the company. The most 
noted of these guilds was the 
ancient fraternity of the minstrels 
of Beverley, in Yorkshire. Their 
officers were an alderman and 
two stewards, and a copy of their 
regulations is still preserved. 

One of these requires, "That they should 
take any new brother except he be minstrel to son 
man of honor or worship, or wait of some tow 
corporate, or other ancient town, or else of sue 
knowledge or honesty as shall be thought laudab 
and pleasant to the hearers there." 

Another of their by-laws declares, "That i 
mylner, shepherd, or of other occupation, or hu 
bandman or husbandman's servant, playing up< 
pipe or other instrument, shall follow any weddii 
or other thing that pertaineth to the said scienc 
except in his own parish." 

In the time of Henry VI., at the building of f 
church of St. Mary's in Beverley, these minstn 
gave one of its pillars, with 
the design, as shown on the 
opposite page, sculptured 
upon it. 

But despite the endeavors 
of such fraternities as these, 
minstrelsy, degraded by the 
immoral lives of many of its 
professors, was, like the state 
of society in which it flour- 
ished, becoming an institu- 
tion of the past. In the lat- 
ter part of the fifteenth cen- 
tury, minstrels were styled 
as "ribalds," "heretics," 
and were considered a " dis- 
graceful " sort of people ; 
while a little later, they 
were proscribed by an Act 
of Parliament as "vaga- 
bonds and rogues." Yet 
even at the beginning of 
the last century there were many people of rd 
who retained minstrels in their retinue, emplo;i 
in duties connected with their old profession. 

In Sir Walter Scott's "Lay of the Last Ml 
strel," the date of the story being about the midtfn 





' the sixteenth century, we have a picture of the 
rlorn condition of the once jovial gleeman : 

" The way was long, the wind was cold, 
The minstrel was infirm and old; 
His withered cheek and tresses gray 
Seemed to have known a better day. 


The harp, his sole remaining joy, 

Was carried by an orphan boy. 

The last of all the bards was he 

Who sung of Border chivalry,—- 

For well-a-day their date was fled, 

His tuneful brethren all were dead; 

And he, neglected and oppressed, 

Wished to be with them and at rest. 

No more on prancing palfrey borne, 

He caroled, light as lark at morn ; 

No longer, courted and caressed, 

High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 

He poured to lord and lady gay 

The unpremeditated lay. 

Old times were changed, old manners gone, 

A stranger filled the Stuart's throne. 

The bigots of the iron time 

Had called his harmless art a crime. 

A wandering harper, scorned and poor, 

He begged his bread from door to door ; 

And tuned to please a peasant's ear, 

A harp a king had loved to hear." 

The minstrel, seeing no humbler resting-place at 
hand, paused sadly at a castle gate. But a kind 
reception awaited him. 

" The duchess marked his weary pace, 
His timid mien, and reverend face, 
And bade her page the menials tell 
That they should tend the old man well." 

So kindly was the aged minstrel cared for, and 
so interested were the duchess and her ladies in his 
lay, that after singing again and again the songs 
of the olden time, we see him once more. 

" Hushed is the harp, the minstrel gone — 
And did he wander forth alone ? 
Alone, in indigence and age, 
To linger out his pilgrimage ? 
No — close beneath proud Newark's tower, 
Arose the minstrel's lowly bower, 
A simple hut; but there was seen 
The little garden hedged with green, 
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. 
There, sheltered wanderers, by the blaze, 
Oft heard the tale of other days ; 
For much he loved to ope his door, 
And give the aid he begged before." 

The troubadours, whom we have mentioned, be- 
longed to the highest order of minstrels. They 
were a school of poets who flourished in the south 
of France and north of Italy, from the eleventh to 
the latter end of the thirteenth century. They 
were principally of noble birth, numbering kings 
and warriors within their ranks, who cultivated the 
arts of poetry and music ; their compositions, for 
the most part, being love romances and ballads. 
Some of them also wrote books on the art of versi- 
fying and the principles of poetry. But, like the 
minstrel, the troubadour in time disappeared. 



Vol. IV.— 15. 




By G. W. B. 

Marie, a sweet-faced French girl, was our chil- 
dren's nurse. Her father, an Austrian, had, when 
a young man, left his native village and traveled to 
a little town in France. Here he married, and his 
wanderings ceased. Years rolled on, time wrought 

Performing her slight household duties, 
chanted gay little airs of her native land, in a sw 
voice that made the canary wild with rivalry, wr 
everywhere her presence was like sunshine. 

Winter passed, — the sunny days of spring,- 


its changes, and at last his eldest daughter came 
to this country. She had been but a few days in 
New York when we engaged her, and she had 
but few acquaintances, but her modest appear- 
ance, her bright cheerful face, were sufficiently 
good recommendations, and she was soon trans- 
ferred to our home. Immediately she won a warm 
place in the affections of the children, so that to 
listen to French stories, or to chat in French with 
Marie, was to them no task. 

when the heats of summer came we left the 
How happy was Marie in our country home ! 
squirrel and the robin were not more gay than :e, 
and the honey-bee not more industrious. She BS 
delighted when the gardener allowed her to a 
him ; but, working or playing, she was alvBj 
happy. Under the tall pines, and beneath & 
beeches, her rippling laughter echoed, while It 
chattering jay-birds ceased their scoldings to liai 
to its music. 

Ill 7.] 



But there came a sad day for our poor Fran<;aise. 
the performance of some duty, she went into the 
jndry, her light dress came in contact with the 
e — a shriek, a sudden bound, and she stood upon 
e breezy lawn, enveloped in flames. With des- 
ration she tore away the blazing fabric; help 
3n came, but not to save her from dreadful injury, 
sr face was not harmed, but her arms were shock- 
gly burned. 

Her first utterance was : ' ' Oh, Madame' B. / 
adamc B. ! je ne pourrais plus jamais, jamais 
ivaillcr ! " 

Kind nursing and tender care were not wanting; 
e best medical skill was employed ; but to save 
r life it was decided that her right arm must be 
cen off near the shoulder. Through all her dis- 
ss and pain the poor girl bore herself with ferti- 
le that awoke the admiration of all who saw her. 
le amputation took place at the hospital, and it 
s only during the Christmas week that she came 
:k to us — pale and worn, her merry smiles all 
anged into a look of anxiety. 
During her absence it had been suggested that a 
:le fund be got together for her benefit. Kind 
arts who heard her sad story gave freely, and 
fore New Year's Day there was a nice sum in hand 
her benefit. The glad morning, and the usual 
le presents of the happy day had been exchanged, 
trie received many little souvenirs, had given the 
ildren some simple tokens of her love and grati- 
le, and was quite cheerful. About the house, 
wever, there was an air of mystery. 
fVfter the holiday dinner, many children of the 
ighborhood, whom Marie knew, came dropping 
all with some kind word for her, until twenty or 
rty were assembled, and playing merry games, 
trie, with her black dress, white apron, and 
ite bonnet, with its single rose, moved around 
ong them interesting herself in their play, until 
:e more the color faintly showed itself in her 
e cheeks. 

Suddenly, there appears from an adjoining room, 
elephant (improvised — two boys and a shawl) 
iring with its trunk a white envelope, and this 
phantsaid: " Marie Schalner ! oil est die?" 
5oing to where she stood, the envelope was held 
: to the astonished girl, and she saw the inscrip- 
1 : " Pour Marie ! 300 francs. " 

Five hundred francs ! Who can picture her 
surprise, the clapping of hands, and the joy of the 
children as they crowded around her while the ele- 
phant disappeared in rather a disordered condition. 

Quiet came, the plays went on, when Marie was 
asked to run upstairs and bring a little box. She 
tripped away and brought it. It was opened. 
" Quelque chose pour vous, Marie ! " and, behold, 
another envelope with " 500 francs! Pour P amour 
de Jesus." Again, laughter and joy and clapping 
of hands, when appears upon the scene a little old 
lady, with antique dress, who demands Marie 
Schalner, for she has again 500 francs, with the 
motto: " Dieu vous gardera toujour "s." The poor 
girl is silent. She cannot express her feelings. 
She is asked to pass a paper from the piano. Be- 
neath it is another envelope : " Pour Marie ! 300 
francs/ iXous vous aimons beaucoup !" Tears, 
unbidden, will come to her eyes. She brushes 
them away bravely, for she had shed none in all 
her great distress. Now conies the boy — her favor- 
ite — with knapsack, his uncle's war-worn epaulets 
and sword : "Je suis soldat de la France! Oil est 
Marie?" And once more: " Pour Marie ! 300 
francs. Le Bon Dieu vous n'oublier jamais ! " 

The rush of joy, the strain, was too great, — from 
sheer happiness she burst into tears. Mrs. B. could 
wait no longer. Running to their depository, she 
seized the remaining packages, and placed them all 
in the lap of the trembling girl. 

" Here, Marie ! The good God has not forgot- 
ten you. Here are five thousand francs ! all yours, 
and with them you have the kind love and sympa- 
thy of all who know you ! " 

Laughter and tears, — how closely they arc allied ! 
and how they mingled on that happy day ! 

Again the holiday games went on, again song 
and story, till the shadows fell, ending the beautiful 
New Year's Day. 

Now Marie has resumed her wonted place. She 
has become quite skillful in the use of her artificial 
arm, with her left hand writes long letters home, 
and uses her needle deftly. She arranges her simple 
toilet jauntily, ties her tasty neck-ribbons without 
assistance, does a thousand things that would seem 
impossible, and again the house is musical with her 
merry songs, which the canary in vain attempts to 





A Happy New Year to you, my chicks ! and 
a good New Year too. If I were a French Jack- 
in-the-Pulpit, you should have a fine New Year's 
card from me, — a card covered with all sorts of 
hearty, loving messages and good wishes. The 
birds tell me how in that sunny land friends send 
pretty New Year's cards to one another, — picture- 
cards, showing the sender in the act of trundling a 
wheelbarrow, or carrying a basket, or leading a 
pony ; anything, so that it can be laden with tablets 
and bundles, each indorsed with a loving thought 
or wish. Sometimes he is shown tugging along 
with great difficulty an enormous sack of money, 
labeled 900,000.000,000,000,000 francs ! This is to 
give a faint idea of the sum he should like to bring 
to his friend, if he could get it. Nowadays, the 
French photographers can take one's likeness in 
this way, so that the funny- card really represents 
the sender himself. 

Now, I should like that. So far, only the birds 
know your Jack's face, exactly ; but a French 
photographer might be able to show me as I really 
am, and in the very act of trundling up to your 
doors $973,430,240,327,800,432.00^ ! 

Would not that be fine ? 


SOME of the children in the red school-house 
made pretty scent-bags for the dear Little School- 
ma'am last Christmas, from directions given in ST. 
Nicholas, I believe ; and these led her to tell 
them how, in old English times, it was quite fash- 
ionable to use nutmegs as a perfume. Yes, a nut- 
meg, set in silver and decorated with pearls and 
precious stones, often was hung from a lady's belt, 
like a modern scent-bottle. 

Another curious scent-bag of those old days 
was an entire orange-skin, filled with a sponge 

saturated with vinegar and spices. It was usedl 
prevent infection, and was hung to the girdle 
carried in the hands of fashionable people. T 1 
was the beginning of vinaigrettes. After a whij 
oranges were discarded, and little jars or cases I 
silver, with holes in the top, were used in th 


Here is a letter from a kind-hearted lady whc 
example is well worth following. Take a h 
from it, my human birdies ! Notice, too, how 1 
feathered creatures, in their turn, cared for th 
poor little prisoner : 

Deak Jack : Several years ago, we lived at a very beautiful p 
about four miles from Washington, near Fort Bunker Hill, 
house was built on the only level piece of ground on the place ; 
was a sloping terrace to our kitchen garden, down which in wi 
the children delighted to coast, and from which in summer 
gathered fine strawberries. The winter of "e6 was of unusual sevi 
for our climate, and for six weeks we had very good sleighing. Dii 
this time the birds suffered greatly. As soon as we discovered! 
trouble, the children and I filled a large waiter with bread-cm 
and seed, and put it on the roof of our porch. After a long time, 
birds flew to the waiter and timidly tasted the seed. Then the) 
their heads together and flew off. In about ten minutes they rem 
with thirty birds, who ate greedily. Then there was a consult: 
between two, and a brown bird was sent off. He returned, brin 
two birds with him, one of which was set in a corner and watche 
die brown bird while his companion ate until satisfied. He 
escorted the prisoner to the waiter, and permitted him to taste ol 
good things. For several mornings this was repealed, and we bet 
convinced that the solitary bird was a prisoner under some sent 
of punishment, which seemed to last a week, during which tiro 
bird approached him but bis guard. The children fed the bin. 
winter; the hungry little creatures finally came by hundreds, an 
lessen the expense we mixed corn-meal and oats with the seed, 
so kept our bird-table constantly spread till mild weather set 
Yours truly, Raymonl 


Bear Jack: I heard our school-teacher say that five "th 
could be used in succession in a single sentence. She did n't con 
it elegant English, by any means, but said there was no rule in g 
mar to forbid the use of them, if any one chose to adopt such a 
of talking or writing. Here is a specimen of " that-iness : " 
"Jane said that that ' that ' that that boy wrote was a conjunct. 
Now, Jack, how would your St. Nicholas children parse 
"that" sentence? — Yours affectionately, M 


One would think that, cold and dreadful as a 
Arctic regions are known to be, the inhabit I 
would need every comfort that could be imagii 
in the way of a house. But no. The first til 
the Esquimaux does in his home-building ij 
clear away the snow and ice from a spot of gro! 
of the right size for his house. This he makejH 
smooth as he can, leaving one end a little hi;; 
than the other. The higher end is to serv' 
parlor and bed-room ; the lower as work-shop 
kitchen. Around this cleared spot of earth bll 
of hard frozen snow are laid in such a fashion 
they form a low round roof, resembling in si 
the half of a hollow ball. By way of a wine 
a small square of rather thin and clear ice is 
into the wall. 

On the side of the house least exposed to \ 
is a long and very low passage-way leading to " 
open air. This passage is so low that the inm 
of the house have to crawl through it on 
hands and knees. The door is only a loose bR 
of snow. 

These huts do not appear to be very charn 




iidcnces, but there are two good things about 
;m. One is, that the high winds of that desolate 
jion cannot possibly blow a hut over, though they 
ly bury it in snow ; the other good thing is that 
one hut can be lived in longer than a season, 
le poor Esquimaux are, unfortunately, a very 
ty people, and if they lived ever so long in one 
use they would never clean it. But the snow- 
use finally cleans itself in the most thorough 
inner, for as soon as the warm days of summer 
lie it melts away, and its inmates must set about 
ilding a seal-skin tent that will shelter them till 
iter comes again. 


Glasgow, November, 1876. 
Iear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : I am spending the autumn in Scot- 
(| J with my mother, and I often see a queer thing in the streets of 
;ij sgow. It is the way the girls jump the rope. They use two 
) I iping-ropes. Two girls turn the pair of ropes, each holding two 
e I dies in one hand, and another girl stands between them and jumps. 


. has to jump twice as fast as if there were but one rope, and these 
igow girls do it splendidly. They beat the American girls com- 
ity. I can't draw as well as the fellow who did Washington and 
iittle hatchet in the Young Contributor part of St. Nicholas, but 
above picture will show you how the girls do it. 

looked so very easy when they did it, that one day I said, 
joh ! let me try." And they did. 

his sort of play, however, is only fit for girls. — Your affectionate 
sr, George Henry Wirt. 


MUST say it ! Human beings, considering how 
:nted they are, are very foolish. If not, why do 
y make other living things afraid of them in- 

, .id of teaching love and confidence by their own 

! ' l mple ? Almost all animals who see men for the 
t time approach them without fear. I am told 
/intelligent birds, that when the naturalist, Dar- 

] '\.i, went to the Galapagos Islands, he there found 
/ks that had never seen men, and they were so 

"ue that he shoved some of them gently off a 
'nch with the muzzle of his gun, while others 

"'"fie to drink from a pitcher he held in his hand. 

■ " 5 only because, for generations, beasts and birds 
e been so often deceived and cruelly treated by 

"j.i that they have become suspicious of them. 

'»'; : of these days, when this becomes a country 



Bird-defenders, we shall see a change for the 
:er. Real birds may then poise themselves fear- 
ly on boys' and girls' hands ; and never again 
11 the ghastly sight be seen of a poor, stiffened 
g stuck on a hat-crown as an ornament. 


In China there grows a fern which bears a curi- 
ous likeness to a lamb. This likeness causes En- 
glish-speaking people who have seen it, to call it 
the Tartarian or Scythian lamb fern. It is covered 
with a dense, soft, vegetable wool, of a yellow color. 
Its main stem, covered with the wool, lies flat, a 
short distance above the ground, and other hang- 
ing stems, look like little legs supporting it. 


The celebrated Prince Bismarck, I am told, has 
a wonderful dog — a large lean fellow, as black as a 
raven's wing, faithful and devoted as it is possible 
for even a dog to be. He is inseparable from his 
dark-browed master, following him everywhere, 
without taking his eyes from him. 

According to my informant, when the Prince 
is called to the Emperor's presence, the dog 
recognizes the helmet which he wears (instead 
of his military cap), and then he does not follow 
him. He knows also that he must not accompany 
his master to the Reichstag (the German parlia- 
ment), whither the Prince ordinarily goes on foot. 
The dog follows him to the gate of the park, and 
then his master turns, and, raising his blue cap 
trimmed with saffron-colored galoon, says briefly, 
'"Reichstag!" The dog understands; he lowers 
his head, droops his tail, and returns sadly to the 


Here is a letter from a bright Princeton boy. 
The little fellow tells the simple truth of the Rafflesia, 
but still your Jack stands up for the Victoria Regia. 
It has beauty and grace, and so is entitled to rank 
w'\i\\JIowers j- but as this big vegetable something 
has neither, it ought to be ruled out. What say 
you, my chicks ? 

Dear Jack : In the July number of the St. Nicholas, in speak- 
ing about the Victoria Regia, you seem to consider it the giant flower 
of the world. I always thought so too until the other day, when, 
reading a book called "The Universe," by Mr. Pouchet, I found I 
was mistaken, and that there was a larger one. The best way to 
describe it is to quote his own words : 

'' But the flower of the Rafflesia Arnoldi, a perfect monster of vege- 
tation, leaves all these far behind. It is found in the forests of Java 
and Sumatra. Its outlines and gigantic proportions separate it so 
widely from every tiling known, that in spite of the assertions of trav- 
elers, botanists refused to believe, and persisted in looking upon the 
colossus as a fetid fungus. The discussion did not cease till one of 
these [lowers was sent to London and examined by R. Brown, who 
dissipated all doubts. Each flower was found to be composed of a 
fleshy mass weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Its border, the 
circuit of which was not less than ten feet, showed five lobes, forming 
a gaping excavation capable of holding a dozen pints of fluid." 

It also says that it exhales a repulshe, carrion-like smell, and that 
the Javanese prostrates himself before it and makes it almost a divin- 
ity. You also say of the Victoria Regia that the leaves are very 
large (eight feet) : but there are some larger ones yet. The plant 
known as the Welwitschia TYlirabilis has two leaves nine or ten feet 
long. It is of a pale green color. The leaves are sometimes much 
larger, being nearly four yards long. It grows in South-west Africa. 
But I fear I am writing too much, so good-bye, dear Jack. — I remain, 
yours truly, A. G. Cameron. 


If you were in England, and saw a black doll 
hung up as a sign, what would you expect to find ? 
Toys ? Not a bit of it. You 'd find a " rag shop ! " 
What an insult to the dolls ! What shall we do 
about it ? And they call it a "dolly shop," too ! 



[jANU^f I 


There were once five little frogs who had a holiday. They all agre 
that it would be great fun to go on a picnic, and so their mothers tc 


them that they might go, if they would be careful and not get their i 
dry. You know that when a frog is right well, his feet always feel c 
and damp. If you ever catch a well frog you can feel his feet, and 
if this is not so. 

So off these five frogs started, all in high glee, and bound to m 
a merry day of it. They soon reached a small woods with a pre 


ream running through it, and there they agreed to have their picnic, 
'hey hid their dinners, which they had brought with them, behind a small 
ush, and then they began to play games. They played a good many 
tt'ery nice games, suitable for little frogs, and enjoyed themselves very 
tu mch, jumping about in the damp grass and among the wet leaves in the 
oods ; for it was yet quite early in the day, and the dew was still on 
le ground. 

But after a while the sun rose higher, and the day became warmer, 
.id then these little frogs did not care so much for jumping and hopping 
Dout on dry land. So they all sat down to rest near the edge of the 

Very soon the smallest frog said he was warm and dry, and he jumped 
|ito the water to take a swim. 

" Come on in ! " he called out to the others. " It 's splendid ! I did 
Dt know how uncomfortable it was out there." 

"Oh, ho!" said the oldest frog, "we're not going in the water. We 
in do that any day. Don't you know this is a picnic ? " 

" Yes, I know it is, and that 's the reason I want to have all the fun 

can. You had better come in before your feet get dry, and you make 

ijurselves sick." 
The other frogs thought that this little fellow was very silly. One of 

■ lem turned her back on him and would not have a word to say to him. 

|:he second largest frog grinned at him until his mouth stretched out nearly 

j[h wide as his body, and said : 

lu " You must be a simpleton ! Going in to swim when we are out on 

•• picnic, and want to have a good time doing things that we don't do 

jy'ery day. You might as well have staid at home." 

|1 But the little frog did not mind what the others said. He just swam 

oout and enjoyed himself. 

! The other frogs thought that this was very ridiculous and improper, 

Ut as they looked at him he seemed so comfortable in the clear, cool 

ream, that they almost wished it was yesterday or to-morrow, or some 

ly which was not a picnic-day, so that they might go in too. 

Sometimes the little frog came out and wanted to play. But they did 

)t care about playing, and as the day wore on they began to feel so 

idly that they agreed to consider that the picnic was over. 

The minute this was settled the five frogs sprang altogether into the 

j,r and came down splash / into the water. 

Oh how delightful and cool it was ! 




" No more picnics for me ! " cried the widest-mouthed fellow. " I 
in for enjoying myself." 

"Well," said the little frog, "I don't see why we can't have a picnii 
without thinking that we must do something uncommon all the time, 
think that frogs can often have lots more fun doing the things that the} 
do every day, than when they try to do something that they are no 
used to." 

That was a very wise little frog. 


A little girl, just four years old, 

Had many a pretty toy, 
And did not try to keep them nice, 

But only to destroy. 

Her mother's scissors she would get 
And clip the things she found, 

Till cloth and pictures on the floor, 
Cut into bits, lay round. 

Her family of dolls, alas ! 

When they were put to bed, 
This one had lost a leg or arm, 

And that would have no head. 

One day, a darling doll came home, 
The prettiest in the world, 

Its eyes so blue, its cheeks so red, 
Its fair locks neatly curled. 



But in one week how sad a wreck, 

For all its cost and care ! 
Its leg's and arms and nose were gfone, 

And its poor head was bare. 


Then her papa hung up a shelf, 
And placed there in a row 

Her broken toys, and, oh ! they made 
A very ugly show. 

But when the mischiefs she had done 

This little mrl had seen, 
Oh, then she cried and said : " Mamma, 

How naughty I have been ! " 





(/« Three Scenes, founded upon the Story of "Bobby Shaftoe." ) 

By G. B. Bartlett. 

Characters and Costumes. 

Five or more pairs of boys and girls as peasants — with bright skirts, 
laced bodices, high-crowned muslin caps, or any picturesque costumes 
for the girls ; knee-breeches with broad suspenders, and white shirts 
(no coats), straw hats with bright ribbons, for the boys. 

Herbert has a suit of same style as the other peasants, over which 
he has a short coat trimmed with yellow braid. 

Bobby Shaftoe also has a coat, much plainer than Herbert's; he 
has light curly hair, and wears large tin, or silver-paper, buckles at 
his knees. In Scene III. he wears a sailor's suit 

Marie, blue skirt, pink bodice, high cap with many ribbons. 

All except Herbert carry covered baskets, which (if in season) can 
have vines of clematis hanging from them and falling over the shoul- 
ders of the peasants, many of whom carry them on their heads. One 
table, three chairs, and one spinning-wheel will be needed. If the 
actors cannot sing, the singing may be performed by concealed per- 

Scene I. 

The peasants are heard singing outside ; the chorus grows loud 
slowly, and they enter, march twice around and form in a semicircle, 
and sing, to the tune of "Dearest May: " 

" It is the pleasant twilight, the sun is setting slow, 

As homeward from our daily task with merry step we go. 
Chorus. It is the close of day; 

With hearts so light and gay, 
In merry row, we homeward go, 
To rest at close of day. " 

After singing, they slowly march out, and the music slowly dies 
away. Bobby and Marie, who have remained as if in earnest con- 
versation, come forward and sing, to the tune of "Lightly row," 
" Yankee Doodle," or any other that may be suited to the words : 

Bobby. " Dearest, will you marry me? 

For you know how I love thee ! 
Tell me, darling, will you be 

The wife of Bobby Shaftoe ? " 

Marie. " Robert, pray don't make me say 
What I 've told you twice to-day ; 
Let us true friends always stay — 

No more, Bobby Shaftoe ! " 

Bobby. " If you will not marry me, 
I will go away to sea, 
And you never more shall be 

Aught to Bobby Shaftoe!" 

Marie. " Dear Bobby, you will never go, 
For you 've often told me so ! 
You will not go far, I know ! 

Good-bye, Bobby Shaftoe ! " 

Bobby runs away, as if in anger. Marie looks after him, smiling, 
as if expecting him back ; grows anxious, follows the way he went 
a few steps, then turns and sadly goes in the opposite direction. 
Herbert enters from the direction in which Bobby ran, and follows 
Marie, as if he had been listening to the conversation. End of 
Scene I. 

Scene II. 

Marie enters very sadly, goes to the table at left, takes up knitting- 
work, throws It down impatiently, draws spinning-wheel to the right 
of the room, begins to spin and sing. 

" Toil is sweet when hearts are light, 
Sunshine follows darkest night; 
Always when the heart is right, 

Trouble will not linger." 


Peasant girl enters in great haste, and sings: 

" Marie, have you heard the news? 
Our dear friend has had the blues, 
And has sailed upon a cruise — 

Our dear Bobby Shaftoe ! " 

Marie rises in confusion, upsets the wheel, and sings : 

" Bobby Shaftoe gone to sea! 
And no message left for me? 
Oh, it cannot, cannot be ! 

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe ! " 

She cries, leaning her head on the shoulder of her friend, and 
two girls sing in duet : 

" Bobby Shaftoe 's gone to sea, 

Silver buckles on his knee; C thee, 
But he'll come back again to I me, 
Pretty Bobby Shaftoe!" 
End of Scene II. 

Scene III. 

Three years are supposed to have passed. Marie sits very sad 
at work. Herbert enters and leans over her chair. Herbert sings 

" Marie, why so cold to me ? 
I was ever true to thee. 
Bobby Shaftoe 's lost at sea; 

Give up Bobby Shaftoe ! " 

Marie. "No, he is not lost at sea! 
Fate cannot so cruel be 
As to tear away from me 

My own Bobby Shaftoe ! " 

Herbert. "Pray, consent my wife to be! 
For I know he 's lost at sea, 
And you '11 never, never be 

Wife of Bobby Shaftoe ! " 

Marie kneels down, resting her head on the chair, as if in teal 

and sings, very sadly : 

" If he 's dead or lost at sea, 
I can never care for thee ; 
Live or dead, I *ll faithful be, 

And true to Bobby Shaftoe ! " 

Bobby comes rushing in, dressed as a sailor. Marie runs tow 
him in rapture. 

Bobby, "Darling. I've come back from sea, 
I 've come back to marry thee, 
For I know you 're true to me — 

True to Bobby Shaftoe ! " 

Marie, " Yes, I always cared for thee ! 

And now you have come from sea, 
We shall always happy be, 

Dearest Bobby Shaftoe!" 

Peasants enter and shake hands with Bobby, then form a 
around him and Marie, and after dancing, sing t* the tune of "I> 
est May: " 

" We welcome home our comrade, who wandered far away, 
To love and peace and rapture upon this happy day ! 
Chorus. O happy day ! with hearts so light and gay, 
We joyous sing in merry ring, 
O happy, happy day ! " 

Note. — In the dialogue, the first singer sings one half of the 
r.nd the other concludes it. 







Away down in the southeastern corner of the .Mediterranean Sea 
! Egypt, a country of absorbing historic interest. Before the founda- 
ons of the magnificent temples of Athens were laid, Egypt was in 
s maturity of grandeur and prosperity; and while the site of what 
'e call ancient Rome was yet an uninhabited waste, the land of the 
'haraohs was already in its old age. Surrounded on every side by 
;as, and mountains, and almost impassable deserts, it was by nature 
efended from the approach of enemies, and seemed intended by 
'rovidence for the abode of a favored people. Watered by a noble 
ver, which traversed its entire length from north to south, it way as 
trtile as a garden, though rain was 
■Imost as unknown within its bor- 
ars as snow is in the tropics. Every 
ear. the river overflowed its banks, 
id covered the surrounding coun- 
y; and when the waters gradually 
lbsided, they left upon the land the 
ch soil which the stream had borne 
om the table-lands of Abyssinia. 

hus Egypt became the great gran- 
y of the world in ancient times. 

ou remember the story of Jacob and 

s sons as recorded in the Bible, 

here it is said that when a famine 

•evailed in the land of Canaan, the 

ttriarch heard that there was " corn 
Egypt," and sent down to get 

■me of it. And for many centuries 

e Mediterranean was dotted with 

ssels carrying to other nations the 
l-oducts of the valley of the Nile. 
pjp you see that in old times, Egypt 

as a place of great importance to 

most all the known world, and you 

ill find the study of its history, as 

Id by its monuments and their in- 

riptions, one of the most interesting 

1 the records of the earth. 

1 But what I wish especially to call 

iuT attention to in relation to Egypt 
one of its systems of writing. I 

y one, because the Egyptians were 

<t satisfied with less than three; 

e, the hieratic, used solely by the 

iests ; another, the enchorial, or 

■pular, used by the people gen- 
ally; and the hieroglyphic. This 

-m is derived from two Greek 

jrds, meaning "sacred" and " to 
' rve ; " and literally means " sacred 

iting," the priests in old times be- 

* the chief, if not the only, writers, 
is commonly used, however, in the 
use of "picture-writing;" that is, 
nveying ideas by pictures of ani- 
ite or inanimate objects. In its 
rliest use, the Egyptians were 
abably contented merely to make 

direct imitation ; thus a picture of 
man would mean a man, and a 
:ture of a camel would mean a 
.tnel. This is very well, so far as 
goes. If you saw a representa- 
n of a man with a big stick run- 
ig after a small boy, you would 
once know that the artist intended 
to be understood that the boy 

uld probably get a whipping. But you would also see that the 
:ture gave you no other information about the matter. Doubtless 
ne Egyptians noticed this, and so the system was further perfected 
making the signs symbolic; that is, causing the representation of 
: object to convey the idea of another For instance : if the boy in 
: supposed case were the son of the man, an egg would be drawn 
ngsidc of him, an egg being understood by the Egyptians to indi- 
e such a relationship. Still, however, the system was open to 
ater improvement, and so the next step was to make the symbols 

* oneiic ; that is, to make them stand for the sound of a letter in 
alphabet. Now you will perhaps wonder how a picture of a 

ise, or a chicken, or a lion, could serve to represent a letter ; but 
1 will see that the plan adopted was very simple, and very intclli- 
le. The main principle of it was this: to find out what alphabet- 
I sound is meant by the picture of any object, take the name of 
t object in the Egyptian dialect, and the Ji'st letter of such name 
he letter indicated by the picture. Thus, in the ancient Egyptian 
guage, tot means "hand; " so that if we find a drawing of a 

hand, it stands for T, that being the initial letter of lot. Or, mooladj 
means " owl," and the picture of an owl represents \l. 

Of course, by this method, each letter of the alphabet could be rep- 
resented by any object of whose name it was the initial; but the 
Egyptians did not take any word, merely because it happened to suit 
in this respect alone. Sometimes they selected names because the 
objects to which they belonged could be more symmetrically arranged 
in a picture ; sometimes they chose a figure which, while it expressed 
the desired letter, also denoted some quality which belonged both to 
the object delineated and to the person or thing whose name it was 
used to spell. To illustrate : suppose we could bring a mummy back 
to life, teach him the English language, and then ask him to write 
the word "America" in hieroglyphics. If he proved to be a very 
intelligent mummy, willing to adapt himself to new circumstances, he 
would proceed thus, using English words, and choosing them with 
reference to their symbolic meanings: 

A. He would draw an nsp — symbolic of " sovereignty." 

M. He would select a mace — indicative of " military dominion." 

E. An eagle, as it is a part of our national arms, and means 

" courage." 
R. A ram — emblematic of frontal power, or "intellect." 
I. An in/ant would typify the youth, and as yet undeveloped power 

of this country. 
C. A cake— the consecrated bread of the Egyptians— significant of 

a civilized region. 
A. The amaranth — typical of " eternal life." 

Thus he would have drawn pictures of the following objects: 

Asp, symbolic of Sovereignty. 

Mace, " " Military Dominion. 

Eagle, " " Courage. 

Ram, " ,( Intelligence. 

Infant, " " Youth. 

Cake, " " Civilization. 

Amaranth, " " Perpetuity. 

You sec that the initial letters of the names of the objects spell the 
word "America." Under the picture would be drawn a diagram, 
somewhat like two rough-hewn boot-jacks placed side by side, that 
being the Coptic character meaning "country." I ought to say, 
though, that the Egyptians had a disagreeable habit of omitting the 
vowels in writing hieroglyphics, so that America would be written 
with the symbols for " M. R C," and the sign for "country." 

With such a method of writing as this, an Egyptian school — had 
there been any — would have been a funny sight. Imagine the 
teacher calling out, "First class in spelling, stand up! " and a row 
of boys make their appearance, each armed with a piece of chalk, or 
some similar article that would make a mark. Then, when the 
teacher gave out a word, a boy would step up to the blackboard of 
that period — whatever it was — and spell the word by drawing figures 
of cats, and dogs, and any other objects which his fancy suggested. 
I think we should have laughed at the sight. 

Upon the whole, I rather think our mode of writing and spelling 
is preferable to that of the Egyptians; but the construction of such a 
system as theirs, at such an early period in the age of the world, 
shows vast ingenuity and a high degree of civilization. H. R, c. 


Close the gates ! A nation's grand pastime is o'er ! 
The goods must be again embarked for Europe's sunny shore. 
Send back to England all her large display of products fair, — 
Her china, silks, and jewels ; her emblazoned silver-ware. 
Do not forget the pictures — Landseer's "Lions." and the rest. 
Wc thank thee, Mother England, for the good and kindly zest 
And interest thou hast shown us in our bright Centennial glee 
And we send thee back thy products in safety o'er the sea. 

France ! we proffer thee our thanks for thy glorious display 

Thou fair and sunny land ! how bright has been thy day ! 

Thy tapestries are marvelous, thy jewels wondrous fair, 

Thy dresses and fine bronzes and painted china rare! 

Well hast thou done thy part; and we pray that thou mayst see 

Full many years of glorious peace. Fair France, farewell to thee! 

Italia! thy display has matched the very fairest there; 

The peace we have so long enjoyed, may 't be thy lot to share! 

Thy bronzes and mosaics, thy gems and sculptures old, 

Thy wondrous old collections, are worth a wealth untold. 

And now we send them back again, in the hope that thou mayst see 

Them safely landed on thy shores. Farewell, O Italy ! 

Germania next, thy fair display has called forth praises rare. 
Thy porcelain and thy painted tiles, thy toys and silver-ware. 




Are wondrous fair. We give thee thanks for all that thou hast done. 
And now, Germania, fare thee well, thou bright land of the sun ! 

Ye nations all ! accept our thanks. God grant ye all may see 
Long centuries of prosperous life and glorious liberty ! 

Nor think America forgets your interest and your zeal; 
She offers up most heartfelt prayers for your good luck and weal. 
Farewell to all ! and Heaven grant that when we meet again, 
It may be still to sing that song of peace on earth to men ! 

a. r. c. (aged 14}. 

There are five fingers on each little hand ; 

Five jolly holidays all through the land. 

There is May-day so sweet, jolly "Fourth" with its noise, 

Thanksgiving and Christmas, for girls and for boys; 
And New Year's so brimful of hope and good cheer,- 
Merry Christmas to all, and a Happy New Year! 


"The Minuet" — our frontispiece for this month— is such a beauti- 
ful picture, that our young readers will all be glad to know something 
about the artist. It is copied from a picture by John Everett Millais, 
a celebrated English painter, born in 1829, who became distinguished 
even in his boyhood. At the age of nine he gained a medal from the 
Society of Art in his native town. At eleven, he entered the school 
of the Royal Academy, where, after three years, he took another 
prize. In 1046, he exhibited his first picture at the Academy, and 
the next year, when only eighteen, he obtained the gold medal for 
the best oil painting. Since that time Mr. Millais has painted many 
beautiful and famous pictures, and is now one of the most noted of 
London painters. ''The Minuet" is among the most graceful and 
pleasing of his works. He is one of the founders of the modem 
Pre-Raphaelite school of art. In addition to his labors with the brush, 
he has employed part of his time in illustrating hooks and magazines. 

Ship "St. Mary's," off Cape May, N. J., Oct. 17, 1876. 

Dear St. Nicholas : It would have done the hearts of the vast 
army of bird-defenders good to have seen our ship off the New Jersey 
coast October 15th. The night before, while our watch was on deck, 
a strong nor' west gale set in, and shortened our visit to the Centen- 
nial Exhibition by a number of days, for it drove us out to sea, and 
we are still some forty miles from land. The gale lasted for two days 
and nights, being the heaviest the last night. 

Our watch was on deck from midnight to four A. m., and as the 
dawn drove off the mists and clouds, we saw that we were not the 
only unfortunates blown to sea, for we could see birds on deck, in the 
rigging, and even on the deck below. Some of the boys commenced 
chasing them, but the officer of the deck was a bird-defender at heart, 

and forbade any interfering with the tired little fellows, and this mad 
them less timid than usual, a few getting so bold as to fly on some c 
the boys' shoulders, and allow themselves to be caressed and handle) 
One little fellow, called a Cape May warbler, I believe, discovere 
the .source of the warmth he felt, and spent a good deal of his time ; 
the side uf the pipe from the ship's galley, or cooking stove. Tl 
following list will give you a faint idea of the number of birds blow 
to sea in a storm and lost. Four warblers, two chippies, two cro 
blackbirds, a wild pigeon, two wax-wings, two cat-birds, two sm; 
woodpeckers, a robin, a golden-crested wren, and a highholde 
eighteen in all, of my own counting, and I do not know how mar 
I niiss.d. One was caught hv a high wave and drowned, one di' 
in captivity, and another still lives; but the rest stuck to the ship I 
equal to the task, when they left us, the larger birds going first. Tl 
morning we were honored by a passing view of six of the largest to 
ties we ever saw outside of a restaurant, swimming slowly over tl 
great waves, and every now and then cutting queer figures with th 
white flippers in the air, as a cunning old roller turned them on th« 
broad brown backs. 

"All hands" have just been "piped to hammocks," which mca 
get and make your beds, and go to sleep as soon as possible, 
must close this letter 


Since the letter above was written, we got a pilot, saili 
the beautiful Delaware River, watching the laden trains carryi 
their living freight to Philadelphia, and are now anchored off Will 
street, Philadelphia. 

Perhaps some of the St. Nicholas young folks would like to v 
the ship at Twenty-third street wharf, E. R., New York, next winl 
and we would be glad to have them come. The ship lies at 
wharf, is reached by the Twenty-third street cars {red light).. ' 
there is nothing but a firm covered "bridge " to walk over to reach ? 

We will get back about the 10th of December. — Yours respecttu 

\V. L. Rodman 

t. 19, 1070, 
ed calmly 




Geo. E. M. — It is impossible to answer, or even notice, one-fiftieth 
" the letters received from our young correspondents, but we en- 
•avor to give attention to those questions which appear to possess 
ie greatest general interest. 

Lyons, October 2j, 1876. 
Dear Little Schoolma'am: My brother was out hunting the 
her day ; he shot six ducks at one shot, and one of them had four 
5s, two of them were smaller than the others, and were right at the 
ie of its tail. Don't you think that was pretty queer ! I will send 
iu a few feathers from its wings to put in your hat. 

Lucv M. Everett. 

Dear Editor: I have been to see Santa Claus. You see we 
ve heard so much during this last year of panics and specie pay- 
:nts, failures and hard times, and everybody has looked so blue, 
it I feared a little for my old friend's prosperity. I found him walk- 
r up and down his den talking to himself after this wise: 
■ To give, or not to give ? " that is the question. Whether better 
s to suffer the slings and arrows of neglected childhood, or to take 
'S against a row of stockings and so with filling leave them. I 
ver have left them, and how can I ! Do I not hear my children 
Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious Christmas 
this good St. Nick, and all the clouds thai lowered round the year 
:he deep recess of a stocking buried ! " Oh, thou departing spirit 
76! thinkest thou because thou art impecunious there shall be no 
re dolls and drums ? 

Should'st thou ask me whence these keepsakes, 

Whence these presents and donations, 

With the odors of the toy-shop, 

With the damp and dew of book-stores, 

With the crunching of confections, 

With the shout of happy voices, 

Saying ever " Merry Christmas! " 

With their frequent repetitions, 

And their sweet reverberations, — 

I should answer, I should tell you, 

From the baskets of the mothers, 

From the needles of the sisters, 

From the pockets of the uncles, 

From the hands of aunts and cousins, 

From the shops of jolly Dutchmen, 

From the stores of Yankee Doodle, — 

Christmas shall be merry Christmas still. 


I travel off across the land 

Between the dark and daylight, 

I hurry up among the roofs 
And slip beneath the skylight. 

I clamber out upon the eaves 

And pass within the dormers, 

By twenty grates, a little store, 

And all the chimney corners. 

I steal by halls and parlor doors 
W r ith many a sweet reminder, 

I deck the spreading Christmas-trees 
That grow for happy kinder. 

And so to all the children bring 
My guesses good and clever, 

For men may come and men may go, 
I 'm Santa Claus forever. 

R. J. 

fFinisterrc, France, night before Christmas, '75. 
: '.AR St. Nicholas : Have you passed a Christmas in a foreign 
try, without dear nieces and nephews, or brothers and sisters, to 
you, in your own language, "A Merry, Merry Christmas'?" 
t, you cannot know how much joy may be expressed — may be 
communicated to another — by repeating those three words. Ynu 
)t even realize what joy your Christmas number, with its merry 
ilng, has carried to hundreds who have received it 
France, the great fete-day is the first day of the new year, and 
vous snihaite une bonne ci heureuse annr'c 1 ' seems cold and 
.1 to one accustomed to our hearty "Merry Christmas " and 
1 :ppy New Year." Only to utter the Christmas greeting brings 
'liions of "Mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap," — of little 
ngs placed so near the chimney corner they cannot be over- 
i by the generous Santa Claus. I fancy I hear the prancing 
e roof of the impatient reindeer. I am tempted to draw the 
ns, darken the chamber, and watch for " the jolly old elf." 
re than a strong desire, a lively faith, are necessary to enable us 
cans to have a visit here from our friend, for St. Nicholas does 
>me to Brittany. Perhaps it is not cold enough for his liny rein- 
P perhaps his sleigh would not glide on the steep, irregular slate 

roofs, without snow. Would it were possible to hear at least an echo 
from over the sea of the " Merry Christmas lo all, and to all a good- 
night," which will be repejted by a host of your young admirers. 
This wild and romantic Brittany would plea-se St Nicholas, I am 
sure ; and then there arc hosts of children, and temptingly large 

But the French children have their Christmas also ; and they think 
the infant Jesus comes to them. Instead of stockings, they place 
shoes to receive their gifts. 

I have seen to-day a new French baby, and a French baby is as 
pretty as a French baby-doll — not a young lady doll. The babies 
are so rolled in flannel, and then folded about with muslin, as the 
petals of a rose are folded, that they resemble in form an Indian 
papoose, and they may be handled in the saute way without the 
slightest danger of injury. They all wear caps. With the peasant 
class the caps are retained until they give place to the coif. 

It is an amusing sight to see little girls of five or six years of age 
trudging along the country roads with their mothers, — an exact copy 
in miniature, — with long dresses, coifs, and kerchiefs folded across the 
breast. The wooden shoes or sabots, which move up and down at 
each step, do not seem to impede their pro Tress or engross their atten- 
tion. I have often seen children six or seven years old walking and 
knitting at the same time. The habits of industry so early acquired 
are retained, and when old enough they will go to market, very pict- 
uresquely, conducting the horse and knitting, seated in a square two- 
wheeled car, with fresh green cabbages and golden carrots forming a 
background; or as fishwomen, carrying the basket on the head — still 
knitting. There is for a stranger much that is picturesque and inter- 
esting in this ancient duchy of Brittany — churches, chateaux, and 
ruins, all well worth a visit from those who come to France. 

The bells are ringing for the midnight mass. Here, as in your 
midst, it is the same beautiful fete we celebrate. 

" There 's a tumult of joy 
O'er the wonderful birth, 
For the Virgin's sweet boy 
Is the Lord of the earth." 

Sincerely your friend, 

F. G. D. de T. 

Minnie Nichols. — Your fraud is discovered. Never send any- 
thing to St. Nicholas again. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Please write my name down among the 
Bird- defenders. I have never been to school. I have lain on my 
back in bed nearly a year, so papa lets me keep birds. We have 
a canary, a goldfinch, and a bob'link. The St. Nicholas is my 
delight, and I wish very much to see my name in it. I am eight 
years old. — Yours truly, Joe H. Dennis. 

May A. Milligan, Beulah Strong, and several others, have sent 
us interesting letters about their trips to the "Centennial." 

Our readers will be interested, we know, in the following letter 
written by a dear little girl, who died before her pleasant words 
reached us. Her heart-stricken mother writes: " I thought perhaps 
the children would like to see the little letter written by my precious 
child, now an angel in Heaven She wrote it some time since, being 
prompted to do so, after reading the letters in St. Nicholas written 
by little girls of about her own age, but delayed sending it." 

Dear St. Nicholas: Last Christmas my papa asked me which 
I had rather have, a large doll or St. Nicholas ? I told him thai I 
had rather have St. Nicholas, and he said that everybody was 
praising it. He commenced taking it for me in January last As 
that other little girl says — whose name is Mary Eichelberger — I can 
scarcely wait until it comes. I had a thousand times rather have St. 
Nicholas than a doll I was thinking the other day that I would so 
like to have the next book. I like that story about "The Cat and the 
Countess " I would like to know if the countess ever got her cat 
again. I hope to see my letter in the St. Nicholas. Good-bye. I 
am only in my eleventh year. My name is Lulie Fowler. I live in 
the town of Snow Hill, Worcester County, Maryland. 

Lulie Fowler. 

Morgantown, N. C. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Perhaps some of your readers who have 
been amused by the account of Mother Mitchel's wonderful tart, 
would like to hear of a cake almost as large that was once cooked 
and eaten by real men, very greedy, perhaps, but belonging to king- 
doms that we find on our maps. This cake was baked at the Camp 
of Radewitz, where, in 1730, King August the Strong, of Poland, 
gave an entertainment, lasting a month, at which Frederick the Great 




and his father were chief guests, with a crowd of lesser folk, all the 
titled people, and the famous people of Europe. It was fourteen ells 
long by six broad, and at the center half an ell thick. There were 
five thousand eggs in it; thirty-six bushels of sound flour : one tun 
of milk, one tun of yeast, one ditto of butter; crackers and ginger- 
bread-nuts, for fillet or trimming, ran all round. After a public din- 
ner, given to all these great folk and thirty thousand soldiers, this 
cake was brought into the field on a wooden frame drawn by eight 
horses. It was cut up by a carpenter, with a gigantic knife, the han- 
dle resting on his shoulder, who received a signal from the head of 
the Board of Works before cutting each slice. How Mother Mitchel's 
tart was cooked we shall not know until December, but I suspect 
that, like this, it was baked by machinery. The whole account of 
the Camp of Radewitz, which is very interesting, may be found in 
Carlyle's " Life of Frederick the Great," vol. 2, book vii, chap. iii. 

Mary F. Dickson. 

Our many Little-Corporal subscribers will be glad to know thai 
Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller has expressly dedicated to them a 
delightful little book, called " What Tommy Did," and just as full of 
bright things as a little book can be. It is prettily issued by S. C. 
Griggs & Co., of Chicago, and we heartily wish it success. 

One of the brightest and daintiest holiday books that we have seen 
this season is " Bits of Talk for Young Folks," by H H., published 
by Roberts Brothers, of Boston. Its few pictures are good, its many 
stories are better, and its beautiful poems and legends are best of all. 
Our boys and girls will find some old friends in it 

The following books have been received ; 

From Macmillan & Co., New York: " Johnnykins and the Gob- 
lins," by Charles Leland — "Carrots; just a Little Boy," by Ennis 
Graham — " My Young Alcides," by Charlotte M. Yonge. 

From S. R. Wells & Co., New York: "David and Anna Mat- 
son," by Abigail Scott Dunning — "How to Sing; or, The Voice, 
and How to L'se It," by W. H Daniell. 

From Loring's, Boston: "Sam's Chance" and "Jack's Ward, 
both by Horatio Alger, Jr. 

From E. Steiger, New York : " Friedrich Froebel," by Matilda 
H. Kriege — " Froebei's Kindergarten Occupations." 

Fmm Ward, Lock & Tyler, London: "Bluebeard's Widow and 
her Sister Anne," by Sabilla Novello. 

From Porter & Coates, Philadelphia: " Snowed-up " and " Frank 
in the Forecastle," by Harry Castlemon. 

From Carleton & Co., New York: "A Comic History of the 
United Slates," by L. Hopkins. 

From Lee & Shepard, Boston : " Fret-sawing and Wood-carving,'* 
by George A. Sawyer. 

From the New York Bird Store, Boston: " Holden's Book on 
Birds," by Charles F. Holden. 

From Hanscom & Co., New York : " Song of America, and Minot ^ 
Lyrics," by V. Voldo. 

From the American Tract Society, New York : " Her Little World," 
by Sarah E. Chester — "Almost a Woman" and "A Happy Sum- 
mer; or, The Children's Journey," by S. Annie Frost — "Tht 
Romance of the Streets," by a London Rambler — " May Stanhopi 
and Her Friends," by Margaret F. Sangster — "A Night and a Day'- 
and "The Storm of Life," by Hesba Stretton— " Under Shelter,' 
by Annette Lucille Noble — "The Victory Won," by C. S. M,- 
" Ruthie's Venture." by the author of "A Summer in the Forest" 
and " Litde Stories for Good Little People." 



Rebus. — " There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the 
flood, leads on to fortune." 
Charade. — Independent. 
Double Diagonal Puzzle. — Butterfly, Asclepias. 

b uTterCu p 
magnEt 1 z e 
c o m p a r i n g 
b lItheFul 
bAnde r oLe 

' As mad as a March hare 

Easy Diamond Puzzle. — 

A T I N 
T I N 

Hidden Word-Square.- 



Cross-Word Enigma. — Liberty-. 

Transpositions. — 1. Repeated — a pet deer. 2. It is a camel — 
calamities 3. I creep— pierce. 4. Anguish — in a gush. 5. Resist a 
— satires. 

Easy Enigma Story. — Sweetbriar Rose. — Strawberries, roses, 
air, sweet, briars, saw, two, browse, its, robs, barrow, bow, arrow, 
breast, bars, sorrier, it, roses, berries. 

Square-Word. iris 



Anagram Proverbs. — 1. "As green as grass." 2. " As busy as a 

bee." 3. "As cold as charity." 4. 
5. "As nimble as a cow in a cage." 

Riddle. — Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. 

Easy Decapitations. — 1. Beagle, eagle. 2. Bear, ear. 3. Fo 

ox. 4. Goat, oat. 5. Swine, wine. 6. Weasel, easel. 7. Lark, ar 

8. Plover, lover. 

Classical Double Acrostic. — Virgil, ^Eneid. 

V — irgin— A 

I — ren — E 

R—hiutho— N 

G — lauc — E 

I —nfer— I 

L — ycome— D 

Word Syncopations. — 1. Terrier — err, tier. 2. Leveret — ev> 

let. 3. Lawless — awl, less. 4. Flashy — ash, fly. 5. Pageant—aj 

pant. 6. Tartan — art, tan. 7. Tendon — end, ton. 8. Swinging 

wing, sing. 

Double Acrostic. — Biscay, Naples. 
B — aro— N 
I — ow — A 
S — thru— P 
C — ow — L 
A — ppl— E 
Y — e— S 
Mathematical Puzzle.— Civil. 
A Christmas Puzzle. — 1. Spectacle-case (specked A — cLei ; . 
ace). 2. Cup and saucer (C upon saw — cer). 3. Shawl (Sh — av 
4. Foot-rest (foot — rest). 5. Breast-pin (B — rest — pin). 6. Diary ( 
— A— rye) 7. Vase {V— ace). 8. Tidy (tied E). 9. Book-m 
(book — mark). 10. Portemonnaie (P o'er T — money). 11. Let 
scales (letters K, L, S). 12. Eye-glasses (I — glasses). 13. Pen 
case (pence — L — K's). 14. Easel (E's L). 15. Boa (bow — A). 
Ear-rings (ear [of comj — rings). 17. Bouquet (bow K). 18. Loc 
(lock — Et). 19. Checker-board (checker bored). 20. Club sk; 
(clubs— K— eights). 21. Base-ball (B— ace— B— awl). 22. St. Ni 
olas (St.— nickel— AS). 23. Jockey Club (Jo— key— club) 
Candy (can — D). 25, 26. Violin, accordeon (vial in a cord — IC^ 


" Mercury " answered correctly all the puzzles in the November number. 

Answers to Special Puzzles in November Number were received, previous to November 18, from Helen Green, Bessie McLa 
T. Marshall Josselyn, Bessie Lyle, Harrie Y., "Alex," Ella G. Condie, Walter T. Lucas, "Beth." Alice B. Moore, Brainerd P. Em 
" Little B.," Forrest E. Libby, Marguerite B. Newton, J. E. Hill, Archie C. Wellington, Josie M. Broun, Emma Elliott, Nessie E Stev 
Rachel E. Hutchins, Elizabeth Sherrerd, Benjamin Taylor, Howard Steel Rodgers, Allie Bertram, Hildegarde Sterling, Ora L. Do- 
Nellie Emerson, Agnes M. Hodges, Manning J. A. Logan, Willie Dibblee, Clyde Fitch, W. C. Spencer, Mary W. Wadsworth, Kath; 
Chapman, Fred Cook, Willie Dunn, Arthur D. Smith, Sallie E. Hewit, Oliver Everett, and Bessie Taylor. 

{ 7-] 



REBUS, No. 1. 


i:ROSS : 1 A consonant. 2. Distant. 3. A city in Europe. 4. A 
ious stone. 5. A consonant. 

iwnward : 1. A consonant. 2. A fruit. 3. A city in the United 
4, An animal. 5. A consonant. black prince. 


My first is in hand, but not in eye ; 
My second is in breath, but not in sigh ; 
My third is in pencil, but not in pen ; 
My fourth is in peacock, and also in hen ; 
My fifth is in plant, but not in tree; 
My sixth is in latch, but not in key; 
My whole is a girl's name. 


Syncopate a covering for the head, and leave noisy collision ; 
1, and leave what we all yeam for. 2. Syncopate to clutch, and 
to struggle for breath ; again, and leave an opening. 3. Synco- 
' an Eastern monarch, and leave a vehicle. 4. Syncopate a divi- 
}f verse, and leave a noted Roman. 5. Syncopate an iron fasten- 
ind leave a lodging-place ; again, and leave a covering for the 



A custom. 3. A fruit. 4. An article of furniture. 

To shape 

. lift. 

wuward, from left to right: A kind of tree 

■ to left ; A word meaning swift. 

1 apples. 


I AM composed of fourteen letters. My 1 and 10 is an article ; my 
3, 4, and 7 is an animal ; my 3, 12, 8, and 13 is a kind of bread ; my 
5, 9, and 7 is a pronoun ; my n, 12, 3, and 14 is a kind of grain; 
my 2, 6, 3. and 10 is a building. My whole is the name of a Presi- 
dent of the United States. j j, t. 


Bf.head and curtail words having the following significations: 1, 
a liquor ; 2, a leave-taking ; 3, long, thin pieces; 4, dances; 5, cun- 
ning; and leave a diamond puzzle composed of — 1, a consonant; 2, 
something used in backgammon ; 3, a part of the body; 4, a fish; 
5, a consonant. l. e. 


I 'm a very little thing, but oh, how smart ! 

If you do not see my head, then will your heart 

Find me the greatest treasure that the world can hold, 

Far better than are house, or lands, or gold. 

If now my head be changed, you may declare 

I am a pleasant thing for you to wear. 

If to me as at first you add one letter, 

You then would say that nothing could be better 

To pass a happy life in — naught more sweet 

Could ever be pressed down by weary feet. h. 

Upward, from 
L. e. d. 


Is Eli on the fence ? 2. You came late to-day. 3. Give me that 
4. Look ! what a pen ! 5. Do good to all men. 6. Isaac ate 
7. Be at ease ; all is well. t. d. d. 


My first is a god of mythology, 

Or (making trie god an apulogy) 

A common vessel, small and rude; 

To do my second is much use — 

So thought the famous Robert Bruce ; 

My whole is where you keep your food. 


V. friend of Romeo's and kinsman to Escalus. 2. A noted 
ly. 3. The Pope's legate in "King John." 4. The principal 
i character in " Much Ado About Nothing.*' 5. The rank of 
Jley in " Richard the Second." 6. A fast friend of Shylock. 
riend of Hamlet, 
(j ! ; initials and finals form two of Shakspeare's best tragedies. 


r. That 

will not — 


■ I ofte 

— my sincerity. 
4. I had several 
with entire . 

i hear. 2. 
3. There i 

- of money 

trust me, and you 
— for a mouse in 
-. 5. I heard the 


I. — The following words are concealed in the sentences: 1. Fash- 
ions, z. To eject. 3. The last. 4. At no time. 5. Even. 6. A 
vowel repeated. 7. A crew. 8. A meadow. 9 A small, flat surface. 

II. — Between the primals and finals there are complete words to 
each line, save the sixth, viz. : 1. A song. 2. A pronoun. 3. A girl's 

nickname. 4. A girl's name. 5. Twilight. 6. . 7. An article. 

8. To consume, c. Competent. 

III. — PrimaUand finals form a double acrostic, and name two things 
which are only seen at ni^ht. 

1. Young ladies slmuld be modest at all times. 2. Does Lou state 
the truth, ever? 3. Come gather flowers for the Little Schoolma'am. 
4. Is this cane very strong? 5. I have for sale velvet and satin. 6. 
Tell George I invented this puzzle. 7. Is Meg angry with either of 
us ? 8. Is he at Henry's new stable ? 9 This table totters as if the 
floor was uneven. cyril deane. 


1. A graceful tree. 2. To worship. 
5. Aids. 

Regal. 4. A sharp pain. 




REBUS, No. 2. 

(Read the inscription on this ancient stone.) 


Find the first word : drop the first syllable, and add a new syllable 
to the second, to form the second word. Then drop the first syllable 
of that word, and add a new syllable to the second, to form the third 
word, and so continue until you have all the words. 

i. Rancor. 2. A variety of feldspar. 3. A common bird. 4. Part 
of a spur. 5. Part of the arm. 6. An arbor. 7. A mission. 



Seven letters. My whole is the chief beauty of a tree. My 1, 4, 6 
is a foreign fruit tree. My 5, 3, 2, 7 is a tree found in warm climates, 
-valued more for its juices than fruit. B - 


1. The capital of an ancient country famed for its statues. 2. The 
largest country in South America. 3. The largest republic in Europe. 
4. The capital of a small country in Europe. 5- A country noted for 
its handsome shawls. 6 A part of North America. 

The diagonals, read from left to right, name a famous Oriental 
country. J- J' T- 


The initials and finals form the names of two cities in Sout 

Europe. Jj 

1. A grain. 2. What murderers try to prove. 3. A lady s 
ment. 4. A boy's nickname. 5. A coloring matter. 6. A plac 

concealment B - 
A Bunch of Flowers. 

Transpose each sentence into the name of a flower Thui 
letters of "Beaver N" maybe made to form "Verbena." 

r. Beaver N. 2. Love it. 3. He sees a rat. 4. O ripe hotel 
To be sure. 6. Run as the colt " Bob." 7. O sur, I am green. 



Except the central letter from expectations, and leave far 
implements ; from a vision, and leave a measure ; from sounds 
leave parts of the body ; from an animal, and leave a row ; lrc 
waken, and leave a flower; from Indian corn, and leave conlu 
from trees, and leave something good to eat. 

The excepted letters, read downward, name a bird. 




DL. IV. 

FEBRUARY, 1877. 

No. 4. 

[Copyright, 1877, by Scribner & Co.] 

By Charles Barnard. 

CVERY American boy has read the story, — has 
.rd how the great fort on the Hudson so nearly 
into the hands of the enemy. The British war- 
3S had crept up the river, and lay at anchor, 
- and gloomy, while the Americans manned the 
s, anxious and watchful. At West Point the 
tinels paced up and down, up and down, all 
long days and nights, that none might come 
r" to take away the fort and destroy the hopes 
he country. All this was in the fall of 1780, 
our fortunes were low, and many thought the 
I and weary war soon would come to a sad and 
zr end. 

:'ne night, a boat crept down the river and ap- 
jtched the war-ship "Vulture," at anchor near 
"ib's Ferry. There was one passenger in the 
it, and when they rowed up to the black sides 
he ship, he got out and went on board. After 
e delay, he returned to the boat, and took with 
a young man, a British officer. Silently the 
crept over the dark water toward the west- 
shore, as if seeking to make a landing in the 

he sentinel, poor, ill-clad, and sorrowful for 
country, might pace the bleak parapets, clasp 
"old musket, and watch — and watch in vain, 
commander was not in his quarters. None 
'V where he had gone ; but far down the river 
lid himself among the fir-trees, as if waiting 
fci-ome one. The boat crept nearer and nearer 
H Jgh the calm, still night. At last, it broke in 
V ng the bushes on the water-side. The two 
f>i ;ngers got out and climbed the wooded bank, 
ati the boatmen, weary with their labors, lay down 
Vol. IV.— 16. 

in their boat and soon fell asleep. The British 
officer soon found some one waiting for him among 
the trees. So they two met, Major Andre and 
Benedict Arnold, secretly in the night, because 
their deeds were evil. 

You know all the rest. How Andre and Arnold 
went to a house not far away, and there arranged 
the miserable bargain. Money and rank for the 
traitor, the fort and all its arms and soldiers for the 
British. Not at once and without a fight, but as 
soon as they chose to come and take it ; for the 
great chain in the river was broken, the fort was 
torn down in places, the guns were turned away, 
and everything was ready for an easy capture. 
Then you remember the morning came, and a 
party of Americans on the shore began to fire on 
the "Vulture," and the ship was obliged to slip 
her anchor and drift away on the tide. Andre saw 
it all from the window of the house, and his heart 
sank within him, for it was his only hope of escape. 
He was within our lines and liable to capture at 
any moment. He made an effort to get on board 
the ship, and it was useless. Then, you remem- 
ber, the flight across the river and the journey in 
disguise toward New York, and, at last, the capt- 
ure. And that was the end ; it was all found out, 
and Andre was taken away, a prisoner, to the 
American head-quarters. Arnold escaped on board 
the "Vulture," and sailed away in safety and dis- 
grace. Andre was tried as a spy and was executed 
on the second of October. Finally, so late as the 
year 1821, his remains were taken to England, and 
now they sleep in Westminster Abbey. 

Such is the story as we commonly read it, but it 




tells nothing of Andre himself. It tells nothing of 
the manner of man he was, how he looked, how he 
dressed, and what he said and did. Here is a 
picture of him, not as a soldier, for his sword is 
laid on the drum, and he has dropped a glove on 
the floor and is writing a letter. No, making a 
picture — a pen-and-ink sketch of himself from his 
likeness in the mirror. Look at the curious fashion 
in which, like other men of his day, he fastened his 
hair behind with a ribbon. And his ruffled shirt 
and cuffs, and the military boots and spurs. He 
seems half soldier, half artist, and that must be the 
reason they used to call him the artist-soldier. 

We read of him as the spy. He was one at the 
time of his death, but that he believed to be his 
military duty ; he tried to serve his king as well as 
he could, and perhaps we cannot blame him so 
very much, even if we did punish him so sadly. 
He was something else than a mere spy, and it is 
more agreeable to think of him as an artist than a 
soldier. He did not love war as some soldiers do, 
and while in this country he many times tried to 
soften the hardships and troubles of the times. 
Once he found a poor little boy who had been 
captured by the British soldiers in Westchester 
County, and brought to New York to be put into 
the dreadful prisons the British then kept in our 
city. Such a little fellow could do no harm, and 
Andre took him away from the soldiers and sent 
him back to his mother in safety. 

Besides painting and drawing, Andre could sing, 
and make charming verses, and cut out portraits in 
silhouette. Many of his pictures and letters are 
still preserved, and could you read the letters, you 
would see that he was a genial, lively, and enter- 
taining man. While he was in this country he kept 
a journal, and, it is said, it was full of pictures of 
plants and insects and animals, people and places, 
bits of scenery, and plans of cities and towns. He 
used often to give his pictures away as presents to 
his friends ; and once, when he was a prisoner in 
our hands, and was sent to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, 
for safety, he taught the children in the village to 
draw. One of the Lancaster boys pleased him so 
much, and displayed so much talent, that Andre 
offered to make an artist of him, and to take him 
to England when the war was at an end. The 
boy's father would not consent to this, though he 
was pleased to think the English officer should take 
so much interest in his son. The prisoners were 
afterward removed to Carlisle, and Andre had to 
leave his pupil. He did not forget him, for he 
afterward wrote a letter to the boy's father, in which 
he said that the boy " must take particular care in 
forming the features in faces, and in copying the 
hands exactly. He should now and then copy 
things from the life, and then compare their pro- 

portions with what prints he may have, or wha 
rules he may remember." 

All this was during the war, and Andre himsel 
was an enemy ; but we can hardly think of him i 
that way. He regretted all the troubles of th 
times, and, unlike his brother officers, he neve 
called us " the rebels," but " the colonists." Ev. 
to this day, his letters and little pictures, his si 
houette portraits, and sketches and verses are pre 
served in some families in remembrance of th 
kind, merry, and cultivated English gentlema 
whom we now call Major Andre, the spy. 

When he was exchanged, he went back to tt 
British army stationed at Philadelphia, and thei 
he again displayed his many talents. He painte 
a drop-scene for the theater that was thought to I 
very fine, and they said of it that "the foliage w 
uncommonly spirited and graceful." He also wro 
verses to be recited in the theater, and even toe 
part in the plays. Once there was a grand pageai 
in Philadelphia — a water procession on the Del 
ware, with gayly trimmed boats, and bands 
music, and ladies in fancy costumes — all ending 
a grand ball. Andre took an active part in 
these pleasurings, designed the costumes for til 
ladies, wrote verses, and helped to put up tl, 

All this happened when our poor and discourage 
troops were having a sad time of it, waiting ai 
watching for a chance to strike a blow for t 
country. At last, the British were obliged to lea 
Philadelphia. Andre went away with them to N> 
York, and it was there that he received the cot 
mission to treat with Arnold for the surrender 
West Point, and that only ended in his captt 
and sad death. 

Look at the picture again. See the old Colon 
furniture and the face in the little glass. It is s; 
to be a good likeness of Andre ; he often ma 
pictures of himself for his friends, and many 
them were preserved long after he died. On fi 
last day that he lived he drew his own porti 
from memory with a pen, — that is, without the 
of a mirror, — and the picture is still in existen 
While in New York, just before he went up 
see General Arnold, he made several silhou 
portraits of ladies who then lived there, and 
were said to be remarkably correct likenesses, ; 
were, of course, greatly prized afterward as 
work of the young, genial, and light-hearted Bril| 

Those Revolutionary days are now very old. 
the handsome English gentleman has been dl 
long, long years. We can forgive his efforts aga I 
us now, and perhaps it will be more agreeabltl 
think of him as the artist-soldier rather than 
spy at West Point. 





By Margaret Eytinge. 

1 SAID a Shrimp to a Sandhopper, one summer's day And up in the air he proceeded to jump, 

(They were walking along the beach) : While the Hermit Crab shouted " Hurrah !' 

I am told that you dance in a wonderful way ; And old Mr. Lobster applauded so hard, 

a Pray, would you be willing to teach ? " He broke off his handsomest claw. 

\rv x^ 

3i t'.uite willing, my dear," Sandhopper replied, " My stars ! " cried the children of good Mrs. 

,( As merry and pert as a grig ; Shrimp ; 

sail your little ones here, and I'll show 'em the " We none of us, little or big, 

steps Could learn, we are sure, the very high jumps 

Of the rollicking Sandhopper Jig." Of the rollicking Sandhopper Jig. 

" All alone must you hop your remarkable hops." 
Said Mr. Sandhopper, " I will." 
And I have n't a doubt, if you go to the beach, 
You will find him there frolicking still. 






By Henry L. Williams. 

»VER so long ago, there was a 
country, and that country had 
a king, and that king had a 
lovely little daughter whose 
name was the Princess Gay. 
This name had been chosen 
for the princess by her god- 
mother, who was a fairy, be- 
cause, even when a baby, 
Princess Gay was never seen 
without a smile upon her 
face, two dimples in her rosy 
cheeks, and another in her 
chin. In those days, too, the 
king was so happy that he 
might with equal propriety have been called King 
Gay. He was good-natured always, and beamed 
so with fun that his courtiers and servants, down 
to the least scullions, beamed also, as if to keep 
him company. Nothing was to be heard in the 
palace but laughter and jests, and the giving of 
conundrums. Melancholy persons, and those 
afflicted with a passion for gloomy reading and 
blue-pills, used to be brought by their friends and 
set under the windows, in hopes that the joyous 
frolic going on inside might prove contagious and 
cure them. And all over the world the land had 
the reputation of being the jolliest in existence and 
the pleasantest to live in. 

This was when Princess Gay was a baby. Be- 
fore she had grown to be sixteen, all this charming 
state of things was ended. The king had become 
crusty, cross, and subject to fits of violent rage. 
The courtiers were sullen and frightened, the ser- 
vants scarcely dared speak above a whisper. No 
more cases of melancholy were brought to the palace 
windows for cure, and a gloom lay over the land. 
Shall I tell you the reason of this sad change ? Ah, 
how truly is it written that the love of money is the 
root of all evil ! The reason was that the king's 
treasury, in which he stored all his valuables, had 
been robbed, and had kept on being robbed day 
and night ; how, nobody could discover. 

New locks were put on the doors, new bars on 
the windows, the police were instructed to watch 
the palace, guards were set, the king himself staid 
up all night, but nothing made any difference. The 
treasury continued to be robbed, and its contents 
dwindled so fast, that there was danger, if the 
thieves were not stopped, that the king would soon 
be poorer than his own subjects. It is scarcely to 

be wondered at if, under these circumstances, th 
court ceased to be a merry one, and if all its in 
mates forgot how to smile. All, that is, except th 
Princess Gay, whose charming nature carried he 
through all sorts of trouble without a shadow. Sh 
laughed and joked, petted her gloomy father, core 
forted him as well as she could for his losses, an 
every day mounted her little strawberry-red pon; 
and went forth for a ride in the fresh air, to reviv 
her own spirits for the task, daily growing moi 
difficult, of keeping up an appearance of cheerfu 
ness in the .dismal circle which surrounded her, 

The palace was built upon a hill, and at the fo( 
of the hill was a baker's shop, behind which, in 
small house, lived the baker, his wife, and their soi 
a youth of seventeen. This youth, though hone 
and industrious, had the reputation of being vei 
stupid ; so the neighbors, out of derision, had name 
him Clever Joe. Stupid though he was, Clevi 
Joe had eyes in his head, and he used those rour 
blue eyes very hard indeed every day when tl 
lovely little princess rode past the shop on h 
pony. She seemed to him like a vision of fair 
land, — so gay, so beautiful, so very, very happ 
His gaze followed her as long as she was in sigl 
and he thought about her all the time he w 
kneading his loaves or mixing the ginger-nuts, f 
which the shop was famous. 

" How delightful it must be, being a princess 
he said one day. 

" I don't know about princesses," replied 1 
mother, "but it is n't particularly nice being 
king, — not when he 's like our king, at least. I 
frets so over his money, and the thieves that st< 
it, that he can hardly eat or sleep. Better be 
baker, and keep your appetite, say I." 

" How queer that a king should fret ! " sigh 
Clever Joe, opening his eyes wide with wonder 
the idea. 

Stupid people when they fall in love sometirr 
grow clever. Joe was in love with Princess G; 
though you have probably guessed that alreac 
because, being a princess, somebody must fall 
love with her, and as Joe's name heads this sti 
of course he is the hero of it. Yes, Clever Joe 
in love. He meditated on the princess all day 
dreamed about her all night. His romantic 
longed for occupations more congenial than 
making of household bread and two-penny twis 
so he invented a new kind of cream-cake, or w 
with a dab of quince jelly in the middle, aroui 




lich rose walls of paste white as snow, brushed 
-er with egg, and flavored with cinnamon and 
non. Such tarts were never seen before in the 
lgdom. First, the common people tasted and 
proved, next the mayor of the city got hold of 
.e, smacked his lips and ordered a dozen, and 
(dually the servants of the palace fell into the 
bit of coming down the hill to buy them. "The 
; own-Princess Tart," was the fine name Joe in- 
■lted for these dainties, and as they grew in favor, 
'• father, the baker, rubbed his hands and proph- 
'sd that fame and fortune were about to de- 
nd on the family, and all because of his Clever 

One aay, when, having missed two gold cups and 
jag of money out of his treasury which were 
're when he locked up the night before, the king 
> unusually cross, and the courtiers in conse- 
^tnce unusually low-spirited. Princess Gay came 
in her waiting-maid, seated in a corner and 
icking her lips over some article which she 
med to be enjoying very much. She jumped 
hastily when she saw her mistress, and hid the 
lg, whatever it was, under her apron. 

You seem to have something nice there," said 

princess good-naturedly. " May I inquire what 


Only a tart, please your royal highness ; one 
tae new tarts which are just now so fashionable." 
I' And pray what are they ? 1 never heard of 

n before." 

Oh ! I beg your royal highness's pardon for 
rig ' oh,' but it is so queer that you should not 

5 heard of them before ! Why, they are named 
■r your royal highness ; ,', Crown-Princess Tarts ' 

hat the baker calls them. They are the most 
'derful and delicious tarts ever made on earth, 
<t highness." 

Really ? You excite my curiosity. I must 

: these tarts. Please send or go at once to the 

) and get one for me." 

'One ! I beg your royal highness's pardon, I 

sure, but one would never satisfy your royal 

ness at all. They melt away in your mouth 
like nothing, please your highness. I could 

wo dozen of them myself ! " 

I could n't," said the princess. " That is, I 
c I could n't, though really, what with robbers, 
(policemen, and worry and confusion, our meals 
* been so irregular of late, and, I may say, so 
1 that I should really enjoy something nice. 

therefore, Beltira, and get two dozen of the 
since you are sure that is the proper number. 

II probably leave a few, and those will fall to 
' share. Bring the tarts up here, and I '11 have 

l my room. You can order the second equerry 
1 the first usher to ask the third lord of the 

bedchamber to say to his majesty that I have a 
headache to-night, and am not coming down." 

Off went Beltira, gave her message and sped 
down the hill to the baker's shop. You can fancy 
Joe's feelings when informed that the princess was 
going to try his tarts. His fingers trembled with 
eagerness, he seized a piece of Swiss muslin and 
with it dusted out the oven. 

" I 'II make a batch on purpose," he cried, " and 
bring them up myself at five o'clock." 

When Beltira returned to the palace she found 
it in great confusion. Another theft had been dis- 
covered. The king was raging to and fro with a 
spiked club in his hand, declaring that he would 
brain the first ghost of a robber whom he came 
across. The lord high treasurer had hidden him- 
self, the courtiers had scuttled away like frightened 
sheep. At the gates stood the guards, armed and 
doubled, and a proclamation was pinned on the 
front door which stated that not a soul was to 
leave or enter the palace that night without being 

" And what will poor Joe do ? " thought Beltira, 
"they will open his basket, and then I know well 
what will happen, for those guards have a passion 
for pastry ! Not a crumb will be left for the poor 
princess — or myself, unless I can hit upon some 
plan for getting the tarts in unnoticed." 

Just then she recollected that in the princess's 
work-basket was a little key which unlocked a small 
garden gate, so hidden by rose-bushes that no one 
would be likely to remember anything about it. 
This key she easily smuggled into her pocket, and 
at five o'clock, creeping out quietly, she unlocked 
the gate, ran down the hill, met Joe coming up, 
and laid hold of the handle of the precious basket. 

" Here," she said, " I wont trouble you to come 
any farther. In fact, you can't, for the king has 
ordered that not a soul shall be allowed to pass the 
gates to-night. I '11 carry the cakes in, and you 
shall have your basket again to-morrow and the 

" But," said Joe, keeping fast hold of his wares, 
" I 've set my heart on handing the tarts to the 
princess with my own hands. If I can't come in 
to-night, I '11 just carry my load home, and fetch 
them up again in the morning." 

Beltira peeped under the lid. The tarts were 
smoking hot and smelt delightfully. " They wont 
be fit to eat to-morrow," she thought to herself. 
So she coaxed, and pleaded, and urged ; she even 
cried, but the obstinate Joe would not give up his 
point. Either the crown-princess must take the 
tarts from his own hands or she must go without 
them ; nothing could shake his resolution. 

At last, "Come along, then, you obstinate fel- 
low," cried the girl. " I shall lose my place if we 

2 3 8 



are caught, and you will lose your head. But no 
matter ; I 'm not going to have my mistress disap- 
pointed of her treat." 

So in at the little gate and upstairs they crept, 
treading softly that none should hear them. At 
last they came to the private apartments of the 
princess. They were grand rooms, tapestried with 
satin and peacocks' feathers. 

Joe had no eyes for anything but her royal high- 
ness ; and how he saved the basket of pastry from 
falling out of his frightened hands he never could 

She was indeed beautiful, in her blush-colored 
satin wrapper, trimmed with pearls and garnets ; 
diamond necklaces, bracelet, and shoe-buckles, and 
her crystal crown (for she only wore her gold one 
out-of-doors) balanced artfully on one side of her 
curly head. However, she smiled in such a wel- 
come manner that Joe was very soon at his ease. 

"May it please your royal highness," said Bel- 
tira, "this stupid fellow would not give up his 
cakes to any one but yourself, so I was forced to 
bring him upstairs." 

She locked the door as she spoke, for she was 
mortally afraid that some one would come in, and, 
producing a silver dish, attempted to open the 
basket. But Joe waved her back and knelt at the 
feet of the princess, and, lifting the lid, displayed 
the tarts, arranged in two lines on a snow white 
napkin. There were twenty-six, two bakers' doz- 
ens, in all, and the savory smell which they sent 
forth would have made a hermit hungry enough to 
forget his vows. 

The princess bent over them and gave a little 
cry of surprise and delight. No wonder, for she 
had never seen pastry like this before — nor, for that 
matter, had any one else. Each tart was made 
with jam of a different kind, and in each dab of jam 
was traced in white sugar a letter, which, taking 
the tarts in order, made up this sentence : " Peace 
and joy to our all-beloved." 

Still more curious, each tart was flavored with a 
jam whose name began with the letter traced upon 
it. Thus, p was peach, a apricot, b blackberry, 
/ lemon, and so on. It was in fact a declaration 
of love written in pie-crust ; but the princess was 
so hungry, and the cakes smelt so nice, that she 
did not at first find out what they meant. 

Beltira brought a plate and fork. The princess 
seated herself at the table, and commencing with 
the first letter, p, began to eat the tarts one after 
another, while happy Joe stood by and rubbed his 
hands. At the letter r in "our," which was fla- 
vored with rose-juice, the princess stopped. 

"You can have the rest, Beltira," she said, 
rather faintly, for sixteen tarts at a time is a good 
many for even a princess to eat. 

Nothing loth, Beltira began her share, and a; 
she gobbled even faster than the princess, the lasl 
crust soon vanished between her lips. But just as 
she ended, and shook out the napkin, — whack ! 
bang ! came a terrible thump at the door. It was 
the king, who, having been told by one of his spies 
that a strange man with a basket had been seer 
stealing down the corridor which led to the prin 
cess's rooms, had come, war-club in hand, to lool 
into the matter. 

" It 's papa ! " cried the princess, wringing he! 

" It's his majesty! " cried Beltira, wringing hers 
" What shall we do?" 

" Let me in ! " bellowed the king. 

" Yes, dear papa, — in one moment," faltered 
Gay. " Beltira, what is to be done with this poo 
boy. We must hide him somewhere." 

"Yes, but where?" replied Beltira, weepin; 
like a fountain. " You can't stow away a great fel 
low seven feet long in a bandbox. I shall — lose- 
my — place, — I know I shall. It's all your faull 
you horrid boy ! I told you how it would be." 

" Let me in ! " vociferated the king, with anothe 
bang on the door. Crash went the panel ; Joesa' 
one of the spikes of the war-club come througl 
and his flesh crept. 

"The window!" whispered Gay. "Quick! 
am coming, dear papa ; have patience ! " — and st 
moved toward the door. Like lightning Beltira fle 
to the casement, opened it, pushed Joe out, close 
and re-bolted it ; and, just as the king rushed in' 
the room, Joe alighted on the lid of the water-but 
which, luckily, stood beneath the window and brol 
his fall. He could hear the king raging over b 
head, and demanding to know where was the thie 
the man with the basket ; while Beltira loud 
declared that no such man had been there, ai 
the princess, with soft words, sought to soothe h 
angry sire. Unluckily, his majesty, in his furio 
career round the room, stumbled upon the bake: 
basket, which Beltira had hidden behind the wi 
dow curtain. The king glared at the inoffensi 
object as though it had been a wild beast, an 
with one tap of his war-club, dashed it into bi 
while Beltira in vain protested that she could r 
imagine how such a thing could gel there. 
of the largest pieces of the basket flew through t 
window, and in company with a goodly quantity 
broken glass, descended on Joe's head as he sto 
on the water-butt beneath. 

Terribly afraid that the king would next look ( 
and see him, he was about to fly, when a 
hoarse barks were heard, and into the court-y; 
bounded as many huge mastiffs as big as calv 
The noise had aroused these ferocious watch-d( 
and brought them from their kennels. 





2 39 

' Well," thought Joe, " one needs be clever, in- 
;d, to escape now." 

On came the dogs, and above, the king was 

dng his head out of the window. There was 

K one way of escape. Joe slipped into the water- 

.t, and pulled the lid over his head. The mon- 

h looked out from above, but saw nothing. 

' Good dogs," cried he, " at him — seize him : " 

i the dogs were worrying the fragments of basket. 

e king ordered lanterns, and went down to see 

bit they had caught. The dogs had torn the 

)kin which had lined the basket into a thousand 

r>; the king flattered himself that these were 

ces of the thief's clothing, and that the mastiffs 

I eaten the rest of him up ! 

i' But he may have confederates," said the kindly 
iereign; "so, to make sure, leave the pack in 

court-yard all night" 
i oe's heart sank within him at this command, 
1 he settled deeper in the tank. 
."he water was ice-cold. It reached above his 
jjst, and made him so uncomfortable, that a little 
r midnight, he could bear it no longer, and lift- 
; the lid of the tank he peeped out. The dogs 
::d him in a moment — ran at the tank, jumped 
and tried to sieze him. To cool their ardor, 
joined his hands, filled them with water and 
!hed it down their throats. This made the pack 
5ze and howl, till at last the disturbance reached 
n to the king's bedroom and interrupted his 
:il slumbers; at length he sent down to order 
dogs chained up at once. This was a great re- 
to poor Joe, who had half emptied the butt in 
ending himself from his canine enemies, 
.arly in the morning came the palace servants, 
!pt the mosaic floor of the court-yard clean, and 
ihed out all sorts of rugs and carpets, which 
If beat with long canes. The sound of the blows 
is more terrible than even the howling of the 
s to poor Joe, who cowered closer in his chilly 
lion as he listened to them, 
t last all went away save two, who were beating 
urge and splendid carpet made of velvet, with an 
;>roidered pattern upon it of all sorts of gems, 
as, in fact, the best carpet of the palace, and 
It kept for the floor of the state drawing-room, 
only used when other kings came to tea. Joe 
ijust thinking whether it would not do to appear 
it throw himself upon the mercy of these men, 
n, looking about to see if they were observed, 
i drew from their pockets a couple of sharp 
I'es, and working fast, cut from the jeweled car- 
some long, narrow strips, which they wound 
id their waists under their clothes. 
Aha!" thought Clever Joe, "I begin to see 
:h way the king's property goes. However, 
no use to cry ' stop, thief! ' at present, those 

knives look quite too well ground to make it safe to 
do that. But I shall remember their faces, and the 
time may come when it will do to give the king 
a warning." 

The two men went away together, probably to 
hide their plunder, and Joe took the opportunity to 
climb out of the tank. He was so stiff from his 
long soaking in the cold water that he could hardly 
stand, far less walk. There was no time to exer- 
cise his limbs, however — all he could do was to 
seek another hiding-place, and this he found in 
the heart of the roll of carpet, stowing himself away 
all the quicker, from the fact that one of the mas- 
tiffs, spying him from his kennel, began to bark 
furiously, and tug as though he would break his 
chain. In fact, he did break it, but Joe was safe in 
the carpet, and the servants coming back just then, 
and seeing the dog capering to and fro, and the 
traces of water on the pavement, fell upon the ani- 
mal and thrashed him soundly. Then they took 
up the carpet and carried it in-doors. 

" This is a clever way to get out of the palace, I 
must say," observed Joe to himself, creeping from 
the roll the moment he was left alone. 

Beyond the state drawing-room was another 
magnificent apartment, where stood a table spread 
for the king's breakfast. The sight of food was too 
much for Joe after his long fast. He soon made 
such havoc with the viands generally, that in a few 
minutes scarcely enough was left to satisfy a fly. 

At that moment, while still a cup was in his 
hand and a last mouthful of ham-and-egg between 
his lips, a blast of trumpets was heard and a voice 
in the passage outside cried : 

" Make way, ladies and gentlemen of the court, 
make way for his majesty the king and her high- 
ness the princess royal, coming to breakfast!" 

In another moment the king and the whole court 
entered the room. 

His majesty's first exclamation was of dismay 
over the disappearance of the breakfast ; his next 
of wrath, for he spied Joe. 

"Who is this villain?" he cried, "guards, se- 
cure him ! " 

The guards, ten at a time, secured poor Joe, 
who was too stupefied to move. 

" Well, abominable miscreant, detestable marau- 
der," began the king, in a tone not calculated to 
set any prisoner at ease, " what business brought 
you here ?" 

Joe's mouth opened. He was about to utter the 
truth when, suddenly, he caught sight of the prin- 
cess's face, very pale, and looking so terrified that 
he changed his mind and told the first lie that came 
into his head. 

" I am the robber who has stolen your majesty's 
treasure," he replied. 




"Wretch!" said the king, purple with rage, 
" where have you hidden your ill-gotten gains ? 
Who are your confederates? Confess all at once ! 
Off with his head, guards ! off with his head ! " 

"But, papa," whispered the princess, "if you 
take off his head, he can't confess." 

"True!" said the king. "Don't off with his- 
head, guards, till further orders. So you are the 
robber, fellow, eh ? " 

"Exactly;" said Joe, "but I am not the two 
robbers who are stealing your majesty's best car- 
pet piecemeal. 

" Oh, are not you? Then, pray, who is?" 

" That is telling," said Joe, shaking his head 
wisely, with a side glance at the dishonest servants, 
who turned pale as they stood among the rest. 

Neither threats nor bribes could make Joe say 
more, so at last the king ordered him to the deep- 
est dungeon in the palace, "for his impudence," 
as his majesty remarked. He had the consolation 
of a little grateful look from Princess Gay as the 
guards led him off; likewise, he had secured a 
breakfast, which was something pleasant to think of. 

And though he was not aware of it, his answers 
to the king had really been clever. For in the 
middle of the night, as he lay soundly sleeping in 
his dungfeon, the door opened, and two men stole 
in. These men were the dishonest servants. 

"Hush," said one of them. " Speak low. You 
are a good fellow not to give up our names to the 
king. He would have our ears if he guessed that 
we were the thieves." 

" I fancy he would," said Joe. "So it will be 
well for you to leave the palace before I am exam- 
ined in the morning, you know." 

" Oh, we don't want to leave the palace. There 
is some excellent picking and stealing here still, 
and we prefer to stay awhile longer. You shall 
leave the palace instead ; that will do quite as 


"We will give you a chance to escape." 

"That's very kind, I'm sure. But I shall be 
going away with less than I came in with," said 
Joe, thinking of his basket and his napkin. 

The thieves whispered together. 

"Well, then," said one, "since nothing else 
will content you, you shall have a peep at the 
Treasury yourself, and as much plunder as you can 
carry off, provided you will clear out at once, and 
never come back. Do you agree ? " 

"Yes," said Joe. "But how will you manage 
about the guard? He comes every half hour to 
the door, and I have to answer, that he may know 
I am here. One of you will have to take my place 
and reply to him for an hour or so, till I am safely 

"Very well, Buglecord, you stay. Come along 
my fine fellow. Oh, your chains? We '11 soon ric 
you of these; " and the thief cut the fetters loosi 
with a pair of nippers. " Make haste," he wen 
on. " I '11 come back and let you know, Buglecord 
as soon as he 's gone." 

So the thief and the baker's son left the dungeoi 
noiselessly. As they passed out of the door, Jo 
felt for the bolt, and quietly shot it into its staplei 
unperceived by his companion. By many windini 
ways, upstairs and down-stairs they went, and a I 
last came to the Royal Treasury. There were thl 
guards, bolts, bars, man-traps and signals, all il 
their proper places ; but what good did they doB 
for the old thief simply touched a spring, and ul 
went one of the big marble flags of the pavemen ■ 
letting them in as easily as possible. Joe stood i \ 
the middle of the treasure-chamber, with his ey< 
almost popping out of his head for wonderment 
the store of gold and silver vessels, coin, and otht 
precious things. It seemed to him that all tl 
thieves in the world might come there daily an 
steal and steal, and still there would be no end I 
the riches of the place. 

" Hurry ! hurry ! " said the thief, impatiently. 

" I don't know what to choose," said Joe, st 
staring about him. 

" Oh, well, get down upon the ladder by whi<i 
we entered, and I '11 hand you the things," sa 
the thief, chuckling over Joe's silliness. 

So Joe stood on the ladder under the trap-dot 
and the thief began to pass down the articles whi; 
were the least valuable, but which he thought go\ 
enough for such a stupid youth as Joe. J 
received a few things, then, while the other's ba 
was turned, he softly lowered the flag-stone an 
made it fast on his side. The thief, perceivi; 
that he was entrapped, beat on the stone a if 
implored Joe to release him ; but Joe went 
way chuckling ; for the funny part was, that t? 
robber dared not raise his voice above a whisp. 
for fear of rousing the guards outside the door. 

Joe hid his booty in his pockets, all except ci: 
silver cup. With this in hand, he boldly marchl 
up to the first sentinel he met. 

" Hush ! " he said. " Here 's your share 
keeping quiet." 

The man stared ; but supposing that Joe \va:ij 
new-comer added to the band of robbers, he si 
nothing, and allowed him to pass unmolest. 
They were close to an old chimney, and hasy 
rubbing his hand upon the soot, Joe made a mil 
on the back of the fellow's uniform, that he rnijj 
know him again if he had the chance. Thus f 
went on, doing the same to each guard he itl 
till he reached the gate, where he emptied 
pocket in paying the porter. To each man vfl 




■ eceived his bribe he applied his blackened hand 
s he passed ; and once out of the palace, he took 
3 his heels and ran down the hill toward home. 

Early as it was, the baker and his journeymen 
ere already up and kneading bread. 

Joe rushed in, wild with excitement. 

"All of you come here," he cried, "and do 
xactly as I say, and we shall make our fortunes." 

" How ? What do you mean ? " they demanded, 
rowding about him. 

helped themselves to out of a neighboring field, 
the procession rode solemnly up to the palace, and 
Joe, giving a thundering rap on the knocker, 
desired the porter to inform the king that the 
renowned wizard Baricold Maxmaxfarogafarmax, 
Duke of Shadows and Master of the Night, desired 
the honor of an immediate audience. 

The king, much impressed with this message, 
made haste to receive the sage in his sleeping- 
chamber, clapping on a crown over his night-cap, 


«"Ask no questions, but do as I say," was all 
' reply Joe would make ; but so earnest and 
:ided was his air, that they obeyed, and did as 
directed, without farther delay. 
'What he directed was, that each man should 
•:ss himself in some outlandish way at once, 
me of them wrapped themselves in sheets, others 
fur blankets ; two or three who had old masks 
: them on, and Joe himself improvised a hasty 
tume out of flour-bags, which, being yellow let- 
id with red, had a very odd and fantastic appear- 
:e. Then mounted on donkeys, which they 

by way of grandeur, and sitting up on his pillows, 
holding his scepter, which he always took to bed 
with him, in his hand. Joe went at once to the 

" Your majesty," he said, bowing profoundly 
before the monarch, " I am come to relieve you of 
a great perplexity. No natural means will enable 
you to discover the thieves who desolate your 
treasury; but I, the great Baricold Maxmaxfaroga- 
farmax, I can, and I will." 

"Will you, really, Mr. Barifaxicomaxy ? " cried 
the overjoyed king, leaping up and falling on the 




neck of the baker's son. "Heaven indeed has 
sent you. I have been at my wit's end about those 
same thieves. Rid me of them, and take what 
you will, even to a quarter of my kingdom." 

" Your majesty." replied the sorcerer in a majes- 
tic tone, "I don't want a quarter of your king- 
dom. I would n't have it if I might. I want only 
one single thing within your majesty's power to 
grant, and that thing I must have, or the thieves 
must go on thieving." 

"And what is that?" inquired the king, trembling 
with impatience." 

"The hand of your beautiful daughter, the 
Princess Gay," replied Joe, with a magnificent 

" Well," said the king, who, much as he loved 
the child, loved money better, and was delighted 
that the magician's views took this sentimental 
turn, "my daughter's hand, eh? Well, it is a 
bargain. Rid me of the robbers, and you shall 
have her and welcome." 

"I must first trouble your majesty to put on 
your clothes," observed Joe. 

His majesty, who was usually something of a 
dawdle, dressed with the speed of light. 

"And now," observed Joe, "to the dungeons." 

He led the way, and pausing before the door of 
that in which he had been himself confined, thus 
addressed the king: 

"The poor youth you shut up here was inno- 
cent. By my magic art I have removed him, and 
have put in his place one of the real culprits who 
have robbed your majesty." 

"What!" cried the 'king, as the door opened; 
" one of my most trusted servants ! Oh, you vil- 
lain, you monster of ingratitude ! " and he hit him 
such a rap with his scepter, that it echoed through 
the vault. " Put chains on him at once ! " roared 
the king. " I vowed that the rogue should feel 
the weight of my indignation, and he shall." 

It was done. 

" And now to the Treasury," said Joe. 

When that door was opened, inside sat thief 
number two, with his pocket-handkerchief at his 

" How did you get here ? " demanded the king. 

" Your majesty, I cannot tell," faltered the man. 
" Perhaps I walked in my sleep. I used to as a 
child ! " 

" I '11 walk you ! " roared the irate king. " Pack 
him off, guards, and serve him like the other 

It was done. 

"Now," proceeded Joe, "your majesty will 
please have all your guards, sentinels, and porters 
called in and caused to defile before me." 

In they came, amazed and wondering. 

" By my magic art," said the wizard, " I have 
set a black mark between the shoulders of all 
among these men who are confederates of the 
gang who have so long plundered your Royal 
Treasury. Right about face, my men ; march for- 
ward and let us see." 

The guilty guards wriggled fearfully, and twisted 
their heads nearly off in the attempt to catch a 
glimpse of their own backs. All was in vain ; 
there were the fatal marks, and each in turn was 
marched off to prison. 

By this time, Princess Gay, beautiful as the 
morning, had joined the group. The sorcerer, 
with his false beard, red-and-yellow robes, and 
pointed cap, made her shudder with fear; and 
when the king, taking her hand, led her forward 
and said, " My daughter, behold your husband," 
she began to cry piteously. 

"Oh, no, no!" she sobbed. "I cannot,- 
indeed I cannot ! " 

" Why not ? " demanded the king, knitting his 
brows. " The only possible pretext for disobeying; 
me would be a previous attachment, and I know 
perfectly well there is nothing of that sort." 

" Oh, yes, there is ! " cried the princess, at hei 
wit's end for an excuse. " I have an attachment. 
I love " (and she racked her brains to think 0! 
some one), " I love — a boy who brought mf 
some cream-cakes yesterday. Lovely cream-cakes 
Never did I see their like. That boy is m; j 
choice, and him only can I wed," — for, though- 
Gay to herself, " he is miles off by this timej 
probably ; and while they are searching for him, 
can invent some other excuse." 

" A baker's boy ! " began the king, in his deepes I 
tones, but the magician plucked his sleeve. 

"Your majesty, say nothing," he whispered^ 
" My art can compass even this miracle." 

Saying this, he tore away his false beard, flun 
his cloak of flour-bags aside, pulled the conic; j 
cap from his head, and stood there in his props 
person, rosy and youthful. 

The princess gave a scream. The king gav I 

" Is it you ? " said Gay. 

" Is it you ? " demanded the king. 

" It is I," replied Joe, winking secretly at each. 

The king joined their hands. 

" Be happy, my children ! " said he. 

And they were happy. Whether the prince 
ever knew positively if her husband was wizard 
was baker's son, I cannot tell. Sometimes si I 
fancied him one, and sometimes the other, f 
more money disappeared from the royal treasur 
The king recovered his temper, and the court 
merriment. Gay went on smiling, as befitted li 
name ; and she and Joe agreed admirably. 



■ ling was observable : on the anniversary of their key-hole, used to hear a clinking of forks and 

edding-day, they always had a private frolic, plates, and smell a strange, delicious fragrance, 

jc.iut up in their own rooms, with only Beltira to which nobody could explain. Some persisted that 

I ait upon them. No one knew what was done on this fragrance was the smell of freshly-baked 

■:. tese occasions ; but the courtiers, listening at the cream-tarts. I wonder if it was ? 

• M » k^I 







By George W. Ranck. 

Once upon a time, there was an Indian who 
lived in a big woods on the banks of a beautiful 
river, and he did nothing all day long but catch 
fish and hunt wild deer. Well, this Indian had 
two lovely little daughters, and he named one Sun- 
beam, because she was so bright and cheerful, and 
the other he called Starlight, because, he said, her 
sweet eyes twinkled like the stars. 

Sunbeam and Starlight were as gay as butterflies, 

She could not play, for Starlight was gone, sh 
knew not where ; so she took the bright feather 
out of her hair, and sat down by the river and crie- 
and cried for Starlight to come back to her. Bu 
when her father told her that Starlight was gone t 
the Spirit-land of love and beauty, and would b 
happy for ever and ever, Sunbeam was comforted. 
" Now," said she, " I know where darling Stai 
light is, and 1 can kiss her and talk to her again.' 1 

~^ #1$ 


and as busy as bees, from morning till night. They 
ran races under the shady trees, made bouquets of 
wild flowers, swung on grape-vine swings, turned 
berries and acorns into beads, and dressed their 
glossy black hair with bright feathers that beautiful 
birds had dropped. They loved each other so much, 
and were so happy together, that they never knew 
what trouble meant until, one day, Starlight got 
very sick, and before the big moon came over the 
tree-tops, the sweet Indian child had closed her 
starry eyes in death, and rested for the last time 
upon her soft little deer-skin bed. And now, for 
the first time, Sunbeam's heart was full of grief. 

Sunbeam had heard her people say that 
birds were messengers from the Spirit-land, 
she hunted through the woods until she found 
little song-bird, that was too young to fly, f; 
asleep in its nest. She carried it gently home, p 
it into a cage, and watched over it and fed it tt 
derly day after day until its wings grew strong a 
it filled the woods with its music. Then she carri 
it in her soft little hands to Starlight's grave ; a 
after she had loaded it with kisses and messages 
love for Starlight, she told it never to cease 
sweetest song or fold its shining wings until it b 
flown to the Spirit-land. She let it go, and t 

,3 7 7-] 



lad bird, as it rose above the tall green trees, Then Sunbeam ran swiftly over the soft grass 

oured forth a song more joyful than any that to" her father, and told him, with a bright smile 

unbeam had ever heard. Higher and higher it and a light heart, that she had talked with dear 

ew, and sweeter and sweeter grew its song, until Starlight, and had kissed her sweet rosy mouth 

last both its form and its music were lost in again ; and Sunbeam was once more her father's 

le floating summer clouds. bright and happy little Indian girl. 


By Thomas Hughes, 

Author of "Tom Brown's Schooldays," etc., etc. 

A SUMMONS from St. NICHOLAS ! One of those 
:sh and sincere voices, which seem to me to be 
ry truly characteristic of the New World, comes 
ross the three thousand miles of sea rolling and 
,.ping under these wild south winds. It reminds 
: of certain good intentions of mine, of pledges 
If given years ago, and never even half re- 
;med. It asks, not indeed for payment in full, 
t for some small installment, some acknowledg- 
mt of the debt, which will serve to prevent the 
tute of limitations from running. It tells me of 
rowd of eager and bright young listeners, who 
nk I may have some word to say to them which 
y want to hear, — an eager, bright young crowd 
American boys, from nine to eighteen years of 
, — and asks " if I can have the heart to refuse " 
say it. 

4ot I, indeed ! For I never had the heart to 

tse anything to such applicants. But how to 

eem my pledge — what word to say to such an 

ience — how to reach the hearts of ''the youth 

t own the coming years" in a land which is not 

own, though I can scarcely look on it as a 

. ign land, — there lies the puzzle. 

'he sight of an ordinary crowd, we are told, is 

ll England, at least — always a sad one, if you 

i note of the expression of the faces in repose ; 

lgh it may be inspiring enough when any 

■tig wave of feeling is passing through or over 

n. I should say, from my own experience, that 

;' ithetic " rather than "melancholy" is the true 

i, even for a grown-up crowd, and it most cer- 

ly is with a crowd of boys. Who can help 

g roused and lifted out of the humdrum jog- 

of the daily life of middle age when he gets in 

h with them — lifted, though it may be only for 

a short hour or so, by the inspiring contact of over- 
flowing health, and joy and hope, into the breezy, 
buoyant atmosphere of early morning? 

When all the world is young, lads, 

And all the trees are green, 
With every goose a swan, lads, 

And every lass a queen, — 
Then heigh for boot and horse, lads, 

And round the world away ! 
Yuung blood must have its course, lads, 

And every dog his day. 

Yes, pathetic is the true word. For even while 
looking on the young faces, and feeling the pulse 
and inspiration of the dawn of life down to one's 
finger ends, thoughts of another kind will crowd 
up into the mind, — " thoughts that do often lie too 
deep for tears," — of beginnings cut short, of projects 
abandoned, of designs marred, of expectations un- 

But fair, and softly ! How soon one's pen runs 
away with one ! These are not the words I meant 
to say, or the thoughts I meant to suggest, to you, 
the young readers of St. Nicholas. You will 
touch the pathetic side of life, all of you, soon 
enough. Why should I thrust it on you before the 
appointed hour ? 

Meantime I say, revel in the dawn. Rejoice in 
your young strength and life ; aim high, and build 
your castles like brave young architects, only taking 
care to dig the foundations deep, and to lay them 
with care and patience. Whether you will ever be 
able to build on them such brave and lofty towers 
and halls as you dream of now, matters compara- 
tively little to you or your country. A thousand 
accidents and chances will determine in the coming 
years what the superstructure shall be, — accidents 



[Februak 1 

and chances we call them for want of a better 
name, — which you cannot control in the outset, 
but which will be controlled and settled for you. 

What materials you will have to work with who 
can say ? To one clay, to another wood, to another 
marble, to another jewels and precious stones, will 
be served out in the great workshop of the world.. 
You cannot make your choice ; it will be made for 
you. But this you can and may do, and should be 
doing now : You can so prepare the ground and 
the foundations, that whatever material shall come 
to your hand hereafter, shall surely be made the 
most of, and used in the best way ; so that whether 
you have to build marble palaces, or brick houses, 
or log huts, the work shall be faithful and strong, 
and fit to stand the stress of the wildest weather, 
and the wear and tear of time. 

What are these foundations but the principles 
and habits which underlie the character of the 
man, and which can only be laid to good purpose 
.by the boy ? Truthfulness, self-control, simplicity, 
obedience, — these are the great corner-stones, to 
be welded and bound together by the cement of 
patience. " If I had only one word to speak to my 
boys," said one of the wisest and best educators of 
our time, ''it should be Patience, Patience, Patience, 
over and over again." The world is getting into 
such a feverish hurry, and we are going so fast, 
that we are all in danger of missing the best things 
in life — the common sights and sounds which lie by 
the way-side on every stage of the journey, and no- 
where in greater profusion than on the first stage. 
This is our trouble, and likely to be more and more 
the trouble of our children. 

But, happily for us, our boys are the least affected 
by the disease of any section of society. The upper- 
school boy, unless he is a mere shiftless ne'er-do- 
well (a very small section of any community), is, 
as a rule, more than content with his daily life ; 
he is rejoicing and glorying in it. And his daily 
life repays him with interest. He stands there, at 
seventeen or eighteen, on the verge of manhood, — 
a boy still in heart, full of enthusiasms and aspira- 
tions, but with an intellect and body patiently 
and carefully trained, looking hopefully to the next 
step in life, but unwilling to hurry- it, — the best 
poised and most equally developed human creature, 
take him all round, that our life can show. He has 
not sold his birthright, and the grand morning 
hours of life, when boyhood is maturing, have 
passed slowly over him, leaving behind them a 
bouquet and fragrance which will sweeten the com- 
ing years, and a reserve of strength for the labor 
and heat of the approaching midday. 

"Ah, your boy keeps his birthright, and ours 
sells it for a very poor mess of pottage," writes 
one American friend to me ; while another says, 

"You, in England, have a proverb, 'Boys will b 
boys ; ' ours should run just the other way, ' Boji 
wont be boys,' — I wish to heaven they would, an 
no one would grudge paying for broken glass an 

" Have you had any American boys under you ? 
I asked of one of the ablest English masters, wh 
has had great experience at two of our best publ 

" Yes," he said, " I have had several as pupil 
and have known a good many more ; and nice 
clever fellows they were. Very like our own bov 
too, but older of their age, as a rule." 

"Ah, you found it so!" I said. "I suppo. 
they did n't care so much for games. Is that wh 
you mean ? " 

" Well, partly so ; but not exactly. They seemt 
rather to endure than to enjoy their lives, not on 
in the playing-fields, but in the schools. The 
were several promising cricketers, for instanc 
amongst them ; but they did n't work at it as mc 
of our boys do, or get the same zest out of 
And it was much the same with their school-wot 
They did it because they were sent there to do 
and did n't care to be left behind. But th 
could n't throw themselves into the life with a 
enthusiasm, and so lost much of the pleasure 
well as the profit, of it." 

" But might n't that come from early associatic 
and training ? Our boys have a world of their oi 
which is sufficient for them. To be captain of t 
school, or of the eleven, or of bigside football 
of the boats, is to be famous in that little wo 
which they have heard their big brothers talk 
ever since they were breeched. But an Americ 
boy has not been reared in the traditions, and 
can't care so much for our boy's world. He fe 
like an outsider at an English school." 

" Possibly. At any rate, it's a great loss, £ 
would hinder me from sending over a boy of m 
if I were an American." 

" What ! Not even to learn to write Greek ; 
Latin verses ? I fancy that art is ignored on 
other side, and you know you think in your set 
soul that life must be a poor thing to a man v 
can't amuse himself in a leisure half-hour by tu 
ing the last popular song into iambics, or lo 
and shorts." 

" Well, so be it. Great, I own, are iamb 
and great are longs and shorts ; but you may 
too much for them, and the Yankee boy, 
afraid, buys our culture too dear. It does n't sat) 
him. It is n't what he wants. Over here he i 
willing to remain a boy ; very likely, as you 
because he feels like an outsider in our boy's wcj 
Probably at home he would find something ans'! 
ing to it, in which he could let himself out, and 





iisfied, without wanting to discount life, and be a 
in before his time." 

How is it, my boys ? Are my correspondents 
d friends right ? Are you hurrying up your own 
as, and therefore, so far as you can, spoiling the 
: of your country ? Well, if so, the only word I 
ve to say to you (like my friend above referred 

is — patience, patience, patience ! But I am a 
anger, and know little of your needs or your 
cpes. Let me cite, then, one who has the best 
1 ht to speak to you, and whose words ought to 

straight to the heart of every American boy. 
ke down your Lowell, and look out a little poem 
>t one of his best in workmanship, but a gem 
[spirit and motive) called "Hebe." The gods' 
ssenger descends to earth, bearing in her hands 
iir choicest gift, the cup brimming with nectar — 

piration, and solace, and strength — for the lip 

n 1 


of him whom the gods approve. The youth rushes 
to meet her — will snatch the cup from her hand. 
In his haste it is broken, and the precious contents 
spilled on the ground. 

" O spendthrift haste ! await the gods : 

Their nectar crowns the lips of Patience ; 
Haste scatters on unthankful sods 

The immortal gift in vain libations. 
Coy Hebe flies from those that woo. 

And shuns the hand would seize upon her ; 
Follow thy life, and she shall sue 

To pour for thee the cup of honor." 

Yes, follow your lives, and you will control them ; 
get ahead of them, and they will slip from under 
your hand. You are bred with a strong faith in 
your country and her destiny ; justify that faith 
then, and remember that "he that believeth shall 
not make haste." 






■a t 







By Louis Munson. 

The stars are tiny daisies high, 
Opening and shutting in the sky ; 
While daisies are the stars below, 
Twinkling and sparkling as they grow. 

The star-buds blossom in the night, 
And love the moon's calm, tender light ; 
But daisies bloom out in the day, 
And watch the strong sun on his way. 


By Ernest Ingersoll. 

' is so long ago, that now we do not know just 
1 the canary-bird first began to be a favorite 
-bird in Europe, but it was some time in the 
:eenth century. Its native land is Southern 
:a and some of the islands off its Atlantic 
:, including Ascension. Cape de Verde, and 
Helena, where Napoleon Bonaparte was im- 
ned. It is curious that it should have received 



its name from the Canary Islands, which are also 
in that part of the world, for it is said to have 
been unknown there until some tame ones escaped 
to the shore from an Italian ship which was wrecked 
near by. Since then "Canaries" have become 
abundant on those islands. 

The plumage of the wild male bird varies from 
greenish-yellow on the throat and breast, to golden- 




yellow lower down ; the sides and thighs are dirty 
white ; the top of the head and back brownish- 
ash, streaked with brown ; the wing-feathers are 
brown-black, with pale edges. The color of the 
female is more dingy and indistinct. It builds its 
nest in thick bushes, lays from four to six pale- 
blue eggs, and hatches five or six broods in a sea^ 
son, the first appearing in March. Its habits are 
very much like those of our yellow thistle-bird, or 


goldfinch. This is a very different bird, you will 
notice, from our larger, clear-yellow cage-bird ; yet 
the one familiar to us in the United States is per- 
haps nearer the original form than the majority 
of the thirty or forty known varieties of the canary 
which have been produced by the skill of per- 
sons accustomed to rearing them, many of which 
greatly differ from the ordinary bird not only in 
shape, as you see displayed in the group of 
" fancy" varieties on the next page, but also in the 
tints of their coats, and the character and arrange- 
ment of the markings. 

The bird in the upper right-hand corner of the 
picture is known as the " Manchester coppy," from 
the city of Manchester, England, where it orig- 
inated ; the hooded, or crested, one under it is a 
" Norwich buff-crested fancy," named after Nor- 
wich, England ; the big-shouldered one at the left 
is a favorite in Scotland, under the name of the 
"Glasgow don ; " but the " Belgian " variety in the 
center of the group, which is so slender that it can 
almost pass through a finger-ring, is the highest 
prized and most delicate of all. It is cultivated 
chiefly in Belgium. 

The common canary is known throughout the 
civilized world, and is so common as to be cheap 
in all bird-stores ; but many of the varieties are 
rare, and very expensive; these varieties are mostly 
cultivated in England, however, where the song 
of a canary is not so much valued as its elegant 

shape or brilliant color. Germany is the grc 
center whence the world is supplied with singin 
birds, and in Germany the business of raising t] 
birds and getting them ready to send abroad 
chiefly cai ied on in the villages among the Hai 
Mountains if Hanover. The people there a 
miners and c-~ le-drovers, but, being poor, almc 
every family d^ otes its spare time to rearir 
canaries and making the little wooden cag 
in which they arc carried to the distant ra 
way station or sea ort. The houses are sma 
but one corner of ti. ■ principal room is sa 
arated from the rest b : a light partition, ai 
given to the birds for t»..'r own use, whe 
in cups, boxes, and gourd-shells, they bu 
their nests and hatch their eggs, secure frc 
all harm. When the breeding season is ov 
all the young birds are taken to Bremen 
Hamburg, to be sent across the ocean 
England, America, or away round to In( 
and China. These voyages are made only 
the winter, however, because it was found tl 
in summer traveling the birds lost their vok 
and plumage ; but that season is so cold a 
stormy that usually from a quarter to a half 
the cargo perishes before reaching our sho 
So many birds are sent, nevertheless, that pn 
ably twenty-five thousand came to New York al 1 
last year from Europe. These are distribul 
through a large number of bird-shops in the ci 
and the deafening chorus which is kept up fn 
dawn till dark by a hundred or two birds singi 
at the top of their voices in a single room, add 
to the din of a small menagerie of other anim< 
is something surprising to one the first time 

The bird-shops are always a curious sight, ; 
some curious people keep them, — usually kin 
old Germans, who have become so used to ha 
ling tenderly the delicate little creatures, that i 
doubtful whether they could be harsh and rot 
if they tried. 

And this is just one of the beautiful things ab 
having a canary in the house, that it is all 
time preaching us a cheery little sermon. It si 
to us, "Be happy, be happy, be happy! K 
cool, keep cool, keep cool ! Be contented, be g 
tie, be pure, be true, be trustful ! " And it set: 
a beautiful example every hour. Why, a cana 
good-nature is something wonderful ! Next t 
you' are " blue," go and listen to his melody b 
bling up out of his throat, the notes tumb 
head over heels out of his mouth as though t 
could n't get out fast enough to tell how gay| 
feels, — and see if you don't catch his jollity 
begin to whistle and sing, too, before you knoi 
He does n't bother himself if his breakfast or 1 





ate! Not he. He says, "Oh! well, I 'spect 
1 Hie has something bigger than I am to look 
;r ; I '11 put in the time singing" — and at it he 
;s, calling so loud and strong that Nellie soon 
irs him, and rewards him with fresh seed. He 
1 peace-maker, too. Try to quarrel with your 
ither some day. If you are going to ''fight it 
," you must put the bird away ; he will drown 
ir angriest words with his music, until you both 
and laugh at the little chap, who is scolding 
lself hoarse. And then what sweet pictures 
Id themselves about his cage in the still sum- 
;r afternoons, as you sit with your work in the 
nn window where the scent of the rose and 
!.Mmbine comes to you upon the lightest of 
rezes, and the golden little minstrel tunes his 
;s low and sweet, answered by the fine trill of 

fold the little trouble he costs, by the sunshine 
he brings into the house, and by the gentle, loving 
care for all sweet and tender things which he 
teaches us day by day. 

If we keep a canary, of course we want it always 


hippy whispering to his mate in the lilac- 
and the loving talk of pretty warblers which 
annot see, but only hear in the tall shade- 
of the garden ! Our Pet pays us a hundred- 
OL. IV.— 17. 

to be just so healthy and happy; but whether it is so 
or not, will depend almost entirely on the care we 
take of it; and it is quite useless — or rather very 
wrong — for us to undertake for our pleasure the 




charge of a little prisoner, even though only a 
bird, unless we are prepared to spend time and 
labor enough to make its captivity just as pleasant 
as possible. When even decently attended to, a 
canary probably does not feel its confinement ; and 
there is no doubt that if it is properly cared for, it 
has not one hour of sadness all day long. 

First as to the cage : It should be suited to the 
birds which are to inhabit it, setting off their 
attractions. Airiness, space, light and ease of 
cleaning, should be the main recommendations, 
both for our interest and that of the birds. In 
general, the plainer and simpler a cage is, the 
better. Fantastic shapes, — Swiss cottages, Chi- 
nese pagodas, and the like, — dangling with orna- 
ments and sparkling with points and spangles, are 
an abomination ; they run away with our money, 
and hide the little fairy within. The bird itself is 
the first one to discover the bright points, and 
peck at the glittering spangles, until it poisons or 
chokes itself to death in trying to eat them ; and 
lastly, the many corners and crinkles are just so 
many lodging-places for vermin and dirt. This 
last is the most serious objection of all, for clean- 
liness — absolute purity — is essential to every cana- 
ry's health and happiness. A plain, simple cage is 
therefore the best, and usually the cheapest. But 
it is better to go to a little greater expense in get- 
ting the right article at first, even if you have to 
have it made to order, than to waste money and 
risk your birds by experimenting with unsuitable 
cages. Wooden cages are to be avoided also, 
because, if pretty, they cost high, but more es- 
pecially because it is so difficult to cleanse them. 
The best are the simple, square, German, metal- 
lic-enameled cages, — prettiest, lightest to carry, 
most economical in the end, airy and commodious. 
The disadvantage is, that it is not easy to get them 
in this country, where they are rather costly. 

The color is a matter of taste, but white, or a 
combination of white and green, is perhaps most 
pleasing and best adapted to the colors of most 
birds ; light chocolate is good also. In these Ger- 
man cages the color is burnt into the wires, and 
not painted on where Pet can peck it off and make 
himself sick. Brass cages are bad also, because 
the poisonous green rust or verdigris, which is 
likely to collect upon them, is sure to be eaten by 
the bird. Your cage must allow of being taken 
apart, for thus only can it be thoroughly cleaned. 
The door should be sufficiently large to admit a 
good-sized bathing tray. As to food and drinking 
vessels, the conical " fountains " for seeds are to be 
avoided ; they become foul. Pet can only get at 
the top seeds, and so starves in the midst of seem- 
ing abundance. Tin cups rust, and are otherwise 
bad, so that the only proper arrangement are cups 

of glass or porcelain, square or circular, two in< 
deep by one across. The perches should be p 
round sticks, unvarnished, and no two of the si 
thickness ; if the cage is a large one, a swim 
enameled metal or polished wood is a source 
endless amusement to the occupant. 


Pet scatters seed-husks with a liberal bill in ( 
direction through the wires of his cage, and 
sometimes becomes so annoying as to preve 
keeping him near us in the parlor or library, i 
ingenious person has devised a cover to catch 
crumbs. A strip, either of thin gauze, or of 
is called "wash-illusion" lace, wide enough 
loosely about the cage, when its edges are sew 
lapped together, is gathered in a bunch lik 
neck of an old-fashioned work-bag, and att; 
six inches above the top of the cage, and al 
inches below it, where it is tied with a ri 
Whenever the cage is cleaned the bottom o 
lace bag or curtain is untied and the seed- 
shaken out. If you feel that your bird has a 
tie air by this arrangement, you might susper 
lace from the wires about the middle of the 
the upper half of which is thus left open, pucl 
and tying the covering below as in the other 

In aviaries much trouble is often caused h) 
eating the seed intended for the birds, and 
will even climb down the rope by which a 
is hung, if they can get into it no other w; 
fond are they of the hemp and rape. Tin, 
engraving shows how this thieving may hi 
vented by passing the cord through a disk of 
pasteboard, tin, or glass, which will sway wi 
weight of the mouse and afford him no chaj 
hold on to its smooth surface. 





'Another matter is where you put your cage or 

lary. The place should be neither too hot, nor 

cold, nor in drafts. In summer, especially at 

time of nesting, a high sunny window, out of 

reach of cats, and where cooling breezes blow 

iut him all day, will bring out Pet's gayest songs 

[warm into their richest beauty the golden hues 

lis plumage. In winter a window would be the 

■st possible place for him, for there he is exposed 

he dozen steady drafts of cold air which inces- 

tly pour in through the crevices in sashes and 

es. In cold weather the best place for birds is 

wall of a dwelling-room on which the sun shines. 

:re their spirits are kept gay by human compan- 

hip, and, being always in sight, their supply of 

1 and water is less likely to be forgotten. Stove- 

:, however, and particularly the presence of gas 

(he room, is bad for canaries, and to avoid the 
effects of the last, which makes the air near the 
ng insufferably hot, causing the canary to molt 
of season, to droop, etc., a good plan is to 
: the cage suspended from a pulley, and in the 
ing to lower it to within four feet or so of the 
. An even temperature, summer and winter, 
it, if possible, to be secured for the birds. At 
t, if the room is to become cold, the cage 
Id be wrapped in a woolen shawl, or, at least, 
aick paper, leaving an air-hole. It is always 
,r, where possible, to have a little room devoted 
e birds alone, but this, of course, is only prac- 
4e where you have plenty of space and money, 
iw, having your pet comfortably and prettily 
'sd, comes the duty of his daily care. I say 
for if we undertake to keep an innocent 
ure in captivity, we are bound to make its life 
'-as joyous as we can. A canary will manage 
e for a long time, and even be cheerful now 
''hen, surrounded by filth and half starved, for 
s a wonderfully buoyant disposition ; but it 
tot be happy, and no person has a right to 
limself a bird-lover, or even fancier, who will 
Miis canaries to suffer from neglect. 
s first essential is cleanliness, — scrupulous 
ess all the time. The cage must be thor- 
y cleansed every morning, or every other 
.ng, in all parts, and care should be taken 
ihe seed is free from dirt, the water pure, 
he sand on the floor of the cage well cleaned 
:ing previously boiled in water. The corn- 
nd wooden parts should be particularly 
1 at, the perches well scraped, and twice a 
: plunged in boiling water to kill any of those 
the red mites, that may have got there. Pet 
have a bath every day in a sufficiently large 
at it will not do to let him bathe whenever he 
5, and hence the water must not be left in 
ge after he has once finished. He jnust not 

lack a good supply of seed and plenty of the purest 
drinking-water. A bird is so tirelessly active and so 
warm-blooded that it uses up its heat and strength 
a great deal faster than any other animal. It there- 
fore needs constant nourishment, and a simple 
morning or evening meal will not do at all; it must 
have seed all the time, and in return will reward 
you by songs of thanksgiving without end. A 
starved bird not only will not sing, but his coat 
loses its plumpness and gloss, his manner becomes 
listless, and some morning you find him dead and 
stiff in the bottom of his cage. 

This introduces the subject of food. Canary- 
seed is their bread and butter — the wild food of 
their native land. They can hardly live without 
this, but they need a variety — not made up of rich 
biscuit, cake, bread and butter, or the like, which 
will soon ruin a bird's delicate digestion — but of the 
seeds and green parts of many other plants, such as 






hemp, rape, millet, linseed and poppy, and the 
crushed seeds of many garden vegetables, mixed 
with the canary-seed, or given separately. Canary 
and rape seed mixed is called "black-and-white 
bird-seed." The .seeds of many of our road-side 
weeds, — chickweed, plantain, feathery heads of 
grass, — and fresh, tender young leaves of water- 
cress, plantain, lettuce and cabbage are appreci- 
ated ; while a perfectly ripe strawberry or pieces of 
mellow sweet apples and pears are dainties to a 
canary. Plums, cherries, stone-fruits, and rinds are 
objectionable for the acid they contain. The green 
food given should be perfectly fresh, and if you live 
in the city a good plan is to plant a quantity of 
bird-seed in saucers of earth, and when the canary, 
hemp, rape, or millet is sufficiently grown to look 
green at the top, pull it up, roots and all, and 
throw it into the cage. You shall see how quickly 
your pets will seize it ! These are so tough that a 




canary needs still harder substances to aid his diges- 
tion, and will naturally resort to the sand in the 
bottom of the cage ; you must therefore choose 
your sand carefully— sea-sand is the best, because 
saltish — and wash it clean. The bird needs lime 
also, out of which to build the shells of its eggs; 
supply this want with hens' egg-shells, except dur- 
ing the nesting season. Daily and regularly fed 
with plenty of seed, and saved from devouring 
"jim-cracks" in the shape of meat and other un- 

stroy his health, or we have been over-indulgent i 
injured his stomach with rich food, or else we h: 
allowed him to associate with some diseased 
and so catch the malady. It is always one of th 
three causes that kills our birds, — leaving accide 
and old age out of the question, — and all three 
these we can avoid. 

The symptoms by which you can tell whet! 
or not your canary is in the enjoyment of hes 
are : The general appearance of his plumage, 


wholesome things, there is no harm in once in a 
while allowing Pet a taste of hard-boiled egg, or a 
lump of sugar, but such sweets must be sparingly 
supplied. If you are watchful, you will soon come 
to know what effect certain food has upon your 
bird, and to understand that what he can eat at one 
season is not good for him at another — when molt- 
ing, for example. 

It is disagreeable to have anything to say about 
disease in such dear little objects as our birds ; but, 
unfortunately, they sometimes fall sick, yet may 
occasionally become mopish and ill for a few days 
in spite of all we can do ; but permanent disease is 
always due to some neglect on our part. Either 
we have allowed his cage to be so dirty as to de- 

color of his eyes, beak and legs, and last, thj 
not least, his liveliness or his lack of it. A 1 
health is usually most delicate at the tiinl 
the yearly renewal of the coat of feather! 
"molting," which in the Northern States b| 
in August, or earlier in hot weather. Too 
molting should be checked by removal ol 
bird to a cooler room and by frequent bathil 
not by medicine. Unless the time is very 
out of the way, however, it is generally best I 
nature have its own course, only guarding aj| 
chills ; for if Pet catches cold at this time, hif 
dead bird ! Strong light — but not the direcl 
of the sun — is of the utmost importance \ 
deepening the colors of the new feathers. 





siting, your bird should have plenty of water 
ib drinking and bathing; and if he seems to suffer 
im having a skin so tough that the growing 
ll liills will not push through readily, anoint the sore 
rts with a brush dipped in slightly warm castor- 
. A generous diet, some stimulant in the drink- 
j-water, like a rusty nail or an addition of a trifle 
ifji. brandy or sherry wine, an extra allowance of 
seed, and unusual attention on 
jr part, will help your favorite 
ough this trying season. 
Sometimes the feet and legs 
:ome tender, sore, and scaly. 
is is caused by foul perches ; 
1 the treatment is to hold the 
t frequently in warmish water, 
netimes adding a trifle of ar- 
a to it, and to anoint them 
h oil. Inflammation in vari- 
parts of the body, hoarseness 
he voice, and dizziness are not 
:ommon complaints ; but to 
5 full instruction about half of 
se troublesome diseases would 
uire a whole number of St. 
iIHOLAS ; and where care and 
iimon sense do not prevent or 
e them, there are books to be 
isulted on the subject, especially those published 
England. After all, " an ounce of prevention is 
th a pound of cure," and the tender care which 
her neglects nor frightens the canary is worth 
■hole college of doctors. So much for their 
ily troubles. 

anaries show a great aptitude for tricks, some- 

:s learning to do many amusing and difficult 

gs, and also to sing tunes very well. They 

1 come to know their masters or mistresses, 

1 will often follow them about. I "mind," as 

cotch girl would say, a little lassie who had a 

bird so tame that in pleasant weather she used 

y day to open the window and let it go out of 

isu lihouse, for it would always return at evening, 

/ling on the window-panes to be let in, if the 

i happened to be closed. An English gentle- 

oll i had a canary for several years which never 

kept in a cage, and in summer was always 

g out to the gate or down the road to meet its 

:er, perching on his finger, nestling in his 

[t tm, or, best of all, clinging in his hair, where 

is completely happy ; at the same time only 

• other person in the house would it allow to 

lit, resenting any attempt at familiarity with 

fiercest anger. At last, however, this bold 

fellow got bewildered in a sudden dense fog, 

times join the families of wild birds ; but their 
house-bred constitutions can hardly stand the cold 
of winter, and escaped birds probably all perish 
before spring. They are very affectionate little 
creatures, always prefer companions, and will make 
friends even with their natural enemies. A fan- 
cier in London had a cat which, with her kittens, 
would eat out of the canaries' dish in the bird- 



,v t was lost. Canaries can live out-of-doors 
1,(11 I :limate very well in the summer, and some- 

room, and never think of harming them, while 
the birds seemed to enjoy Tabby's society. The 
picture of the bird in the dog's mouth tells a true 
story of a canary in France which really would go 
into Old Tray's open mouth, and sit there in per- 
fect security ; reminding us of the birds which 
venture into the horrid jaws of the crocodiles dozing 
on the banks of the Nile, finding some kind of 
food there, and never being harmed by the lazy 

On the other hand, canaries are easily fright- 
ened. I knew of one which was thrown into con- 
vulsions and died simply because a gentleman 
placed his white hat suddenly near the cage. 
What must have been the terror of that poor bird 
I saw in Thirty-fifth street. New York, the other 
day ! Its cage had been placed close up against 
the broad pane of a front window, outside of which 
there was a little balcony. A large cat saw it. 
and thought he had a fine prize ; so he crept 
stealthily across the balcony until he thought he 
was near enough, when he made a spring, and to 
his surprise pounced hard against the strong plate- 
glass, which evidently he had not seen in his 
way — it was so clear: It was amusing to watch 
the cat sneak away, abashed, and sore-headed, but 
the canary was terribly shocked. There is always 
danger from cats in hanging cages out-of-doors, 
and also danger from small hawks and butcher- 




birds, which frequently drag Pet through the wires 
and devour him. 

To tame birds and to train them to perform 
tricks are two very different things. Any one may 
do the first by constant, quiet kindness, endless 
attention, and patience. Accustom the bird to 
your presence, and let it understand that, what- 
ever you do about it, nothing is intended for its 
terror or harm. This learned, teaching it to perch 
on your finger, or come to your whistle and call, is 
only a matter of time and gentle patience. Some 
odd tricks may be taught them if they are 'cute, — 
for different birds differ very greatly in their ability 

to learn, as well as in their natural talents a 
dispositions, — but the astonishing exploits of so: 
troupes of ''performing birds" which are exh 
ited about the country are all taught to them b 
terribly cruel course of lessons, and you ought ; 
to make your Pet emulate these performances. 

The Germans often teach young birds tunes a 
the songs of other birds ; but the operation i: 
slow and tedious one, and the result not very sa 
factory. It seems to me that our highest v. 
should be to perfect all that is natural to a can," 
and not try to make him something else than 
is, or was intended to be. 


By Josephine Pollard. 

MISS Annabel McCarty 

Was invited to a party, 
Your company from four to ten," the invitation said; 

And the maiden was delighted 

To think she was invited , 

To sit up till the hour when the big folks went to bed. 

The crazy little midget 

Ran and told the news to Bridget, 

Who clapped her hands, and danced a jig, to Annabel's delight, 
And said, with accents hearty, 
" 'T will be the swatest party 

If ye 're there yerself, me darlint ! I wish it was to-night ! " 

The great display of frilling 

Was positively killing ! 
And, oh, the little booties ! and the lovely sash so wide 

And the gloves so very cunning ! 

She was altogether '•stunning," 
And the whole McCarty family regarded her with pride. 

They gave minute directions, 
With copious interjections 

Of " Sit up straight ! " and "Don't do this, or that ! — 
But, what with their caressing, 
And the agony of dressing, 

Miss Annabel McCarty did n't hear a single word. 

t would be absurd ! 

There was music, there was dancing, 
And the sight was most entrancing, 
As if fairy-land, and floral band, wer; holding jubilee ; 



There was laughing, there was pouting ; 
There was singing, there was shouting ; 
And old and young together made a carnival of glee. 

Miss Annabel McCarty 

Was the youngest at the party, 
And every one remarked that she was beautifully drest ; 

Like a doll she sat demurely 

On the sofa, thinking surely 
It would never do for her to run and frolic with the rest. 

The noise kept growing louder ; 

The naughty boys would crowd her ; 
I think you 're very rude indeed ! " the little lady said ; 

And then, without a warning, 

Her home instructions scorning, 
She screamed: "I want my supper! — and I want to go to bed!" 

Now big folks, who are older, 

Need not laugh at her, nor scold her, 
For doubtless, if the truth were known, we 've often felt inclined 

To leave the ball, or party, 

As did Annabel McCarty, 
But we had n't half her courage, and we could n't speak our mind ! 


By Joy Allison. 


ITIKIN had a way of calling her home " my 
," as if she were the owner of, the Parsonage, 
II that was in it. Ask her where she lived, 
le would say, " Up to my house." Ask where 
er hat, when she was found out bareheaded 
\ sun, and she would point her cunning, 
ed finger and say, "In my house." So we 
oved Pattikin, and thought her baby ways 
.'insome and sweet, came to call the old red 
that sheltered us " Pattikin's house." I 
rau will be pleased with the story of some of 
od times we had there. 

Chapter I. 


! minister tipped the sugar-bowl toward him, 
out a lump and put it into Pattikin's mouth, 

and then leaned his elbow on the table, and his 
head on his hand, reflectively. 

" We must economize ! " said he. 

" Now, father," said his wife, " that makes three 
lumps of sugar you 've given Pattikin since we sat 
down to supper, and it is n't good for her. Besides 
that, the firkin's empty." 

•' Out of sugar again, are we ! Why, I thought 

it was only a week ago But never mind ! 

We may as well begin to economize there as any- 
where, perhaps. We can go without' sugar." 

."Oh no, father!" said Thirza, and Tilda and 
Pattikin, "we can't!" And. "Oh no. father, — 
not go without any sugar ! " was echoed by Seth, 
Samuel, Simon and Sandy. 

" We might do with less, I suppose," said their 

" Look here ! " said the minister, — and he took 
his wallet out of his pocket, and inverted it over 
his plate and shook it well. From one of the com- 




partments a tiny, shining half-dime fell, and jingled 
down on the plate. ' ' That five-cents is a happy 
surprise to me ! I thought there was absolutely 
nothing there," said he. "What do you think 
about the sugar, and economizing, now ? " 

" I think we 'd better have begun a little sooner," 
said his wife. 

" Pho ! you '11 get more money right off! " said 
Pattikin. " You always do. We could n't go 'thout 
no sugar in our tea." 

She might have been rewarded for her hopeful 
and encouraging view of the matter with another 
lump, if her mother had not seized upon the bowl 
and carried it off, and shut it up in the cupboard. 

" So much must be kept sacredly for company 
and the baby." said she, " if we are really to have 
no more at present." 

" But you don't mean it, father?" said Thirza. 

" I don't see but I must mean it, unless we have 
a windfall or a wedding." 

" Oh, I hate economizing ! " said Seth, in a tone 
of great disgust. "I'd a great deal rather earn 

" Well, young man, suppose you do earn some, 
for a change," said his father. 

" I could, if you 'd let me," said Seth. " Milan 
Straw says blackberries are thicker than spatter up 
in Johonnet's Acre." 

" And they 're selling for ninepence a quart in 
Chester," said Simon. 

" And you had rather have sugar than the black- 
berries ? " said his father. " I am not so sure I had." 

" I 'd rather have some sugar and some black- 
berries," said Seth. 

" Well, you can have Old Gray and go there 
blackberrying to-morrow morning, as early as you 
please ; and in the afternoon you may go to Ches- 
ter and sell them. And there 's a dollar's worth of 
sugar, and a half-bushel (or less) of blackberries 
besides, for you, mother, and not a cent to pay." 

"Oh, father, don't go to counting the chickens 
before they are hatched ! " said Thirza. " We 
sha' n't have good luck if you do." 

"A fig for luck, and a fortune for faithful, per- 
severing work." said the minister, gayly. "That 
pony should be caught to-night, children, if you 
are to get an early start." 

" May we all go with you to the pasture, father?" 
asked Tilda. 

" To be sure ! The more the merrier, if mother 
does n't need you ! " 

"We'll do our work after we get home. It's 
'yes,' is n't it, mother? That's good!" — and 
away they flew from the table in search of hats and 

" Suppose we all go ! " said the minister to his 
wife, while he stood waiting. " Could n't you ? " 

"What, blackberrying? And take the"bab| 
No, indeed ! But I hope they will get some. y[ 
might go with them. The girls will want to g 
and Pattikin 's too little to be trusted with the: 
unless you do." 

" Oh yes ! " put in Pattikin, who stood bonnetl 
already at her father's elbow. " I must go. I neJ 
went blackberryin' 'n all my life." 

" We '11 see," said the minister. 

It was a charming walk to the pasture ; and 
was n't the least trouble to catch the pony. T 
minister had put some gray beans into a two-qu 
measure, and when he shook the beans about 
the measure, the gray pony heard and came 
ning to them, and as her nose went down into 
measure the bridle went over her head. T 
was n't cheating, for she liked gray beans, and 
minister let her eat them all up. It was, in fai 
bargain, and the pony understood perfectly 
she was being bridled for work ; but still she wan 
the beans. 

" Now, if anybody wants to ride home on 
gray pony, let them be on hand ! " said the n 

They were all on hand already, but they crow 
up a little nearer and called out, "I do!"— 
do ! " — " I do ! " to show that they were on h 
and were lifted one by one to the gray pony's b 
and set in a row from her head to her tail. P 
kin, being the least of the children, sat nearest 
head, and held on by the mane with both h; 
Her father also held her by one foot, as he wa 
along beside her. Thirza held on to Tilda 
Tilda held on to Simon, and the boys all 
together, with their knees pressed hard againsl 
pony's sides, and so they reached home in safe 

Then they all worked like bees to get everytj 
ready for an early start. The empty sugar- fj 
was packed with cold beef, johnny-cake, and pij 
for their luncheon ; and baskets, pails, and di 
were collected, and all the chores done up 
then they went early to bed, as Pattikin said 
morning would come quicker." 

I do not know by what arguments the mi 
prevailed upon her ; but when the breakfast' 
over, in the gray dawn of the next mornind 
children were delighted to see their mother pu 
on her green calash (that 's what the women 
their sun-bonnets when I was a little girl) 
wrapping the baby in his blanket, to go with t! 

Johonnet's Acre was three miles off, anc' 
wildest, most delightful spot in all Pemigeu 
Valley. And it was just as Milan Straw had 
Every bush was bending low under its weig! 
plump, dark, luscious berries. Baskets, pail: 
dippers were filled again and again, and eir 
into the firkin after the luncheon was taken 





jrt H they ate as many as they possibly could, and ister picked faster than any of them, till the sugar- 

their lips and fingers royally purple. firkin, and another they had brought, were both full. 

! "heir mother laid the baby down in his blanket and heaped up so they could n't get the cover on. 

, ail ! ; ler a shady bush, and picked too ; and the min- Then they sat down on the grass and rested and 



[February, I 

ate their luncheon, and wished there had been 
more, and picked berries off the top of the firkins 
till the covers would go on. And their father told 
them the wonderful story of Samson ; how he car- 
ried off the gates of the city on his shoulders ; 
how he killed the lion, and all about the riddle, 
and also about the foxes with firebrands tied to 
their tails. The children never tired of this story, 
though they had heard it many times. 

And then it was time to go home, for the pony 
must have dinner and a good rest before he went 
to Chester. 

Only Seth and Samuel were to go to Chester. 
This was so well settled that there was no teasing 
even from Pattikin. Very manly and important, 
the two set off, armed with directions how and 
where to tie Old Gray, — what to do, and what not 
to do, in every possible emergency. 

Very proud and satisfied they came back at 
sundown, and delivered the firkin, heavy with the 
coveted sugar, into the eager hands of the bevy of 
brothers and sisters who came out to meet them. 

Chapter II. 


One afternoon in the spring, before the black- 
berrying, of which I told you, Thirza and Tilda 
went across the road to visit Mrs. Vesta Preston. 
Mrs. Vesta was young Mrs. Preston's aunt, and 
lived upstairs, and never got out of the chair be- 
cause she had had paralysis. Mrs. Preston took 
good care of her. But the poor lady often got 
very tired of sitting all alone in her room with no 
one to speak to, for Mrs. Preston must be about 
her work down-stairs ; so Thirza and Tilda went to 
see her quite often, and their visits were always 

They carried their work and sewed this time, 
because they had not finished their shirt, and Mrs. 
Vesta liked to see them sew. Sometimes they 
carried her flowers in the summer time, and in 
autumn the gayly colored maple leaves, or bunches 
of wintergreen berries, or, if nothing else was to be 
found, bits of the red-tipped moss. There was no 
season that the woods did not yield something to 
reward their search — no, not even when the ground 
was thickly covered with snow, for wasn't there 
always spruce gum on the trees ? 

But this time it happened they had nothing to 
bring. On the contrary, Mrs. Vesta had some- 
thing for them. 

" It 's a new kind of seed," she explained. " My 
niece sent them from down below. She says they 
produce a vine that bears a beautiful red fruit larger 
than a plum or an apple, — not at all like either, — 

but very nice, stewed for sauce or eaten raw. Th 
city folks set great store by them. They call them! 
tomatoes, and they must be planted early in a hot- 
bed, if you want them to do much up here." 

" But we have n't any hot-bed," said Tilda. 

"But you can plant them in a box, and keepl 
them in the window," said Mrs. Vesta. 

" Yes 'm ; so we can. And we've got earth 
enough in the box I had my geranium in last fall 
It 's down cellar yet," said Thirza. 

They went home, very proud of the six preciou; 
seeds that they carried carefully wrapped in paper. 

The minister entered into their project with zea 
He showed them how to make small birch bar! 
boxes, in each of which they could plant one seed 
Then when the garden was ready the boxes couk 
be cut apart and the plant set in the ground with 
out disturbing its roots. 

The boxes were set in a row along the soutl 
window, and watched, and tended and watered 
and the result was five strong, healthy plants t 
set in the garden when the middle of May came. 

" I hope the 'matos wont smell so, as the vine 
do. If they do, I sha' n't want any, I 'm sure, 
said Pattikin. 

It was not long after that blackberry excursio 
that the first fruits of the tomato-vines were ripene( 
The minister went out to the garden in the afte 
noon, followed by Thirza, Sandy, Tilda and Pal 
tikin, to gather them. 

"They are beauties, anyhow; and I'm sure 
shall like them," said Thirza. 

"So am I," said Tilda. 

But Pattikin smelled them, and withheld hi 

They did n't know about scalding off the skin 
so the minister pared them with his pocket-kni( 
Then they put them into the stew-pan, and ve 
soon they were cooked. 

" I wonder whether they should be sweetened 
said the minister, bending over them and stirrin 
for in such an important affair he could n't lea 
the cooking entirely to the feminine departmer 
He dipped out a spoonful and cooled it with 1 
breath, and tasted. He just restrained a wry fac 
The children, watching, knew that too. 

"Run over, Tilda, and ask Mrs. Preston wb 
we should use for seasoning." 

Tilda came back in a minute, breathless : 

" Salt and pepper, and a bit of butter." 

" Oho ! Here goes, then." 

And he was about to feston the condiments \vi 
lavish hand. 

" Let me," said his wife, who better understo 
the proper proportions to use. 

So she salted, and peppered, and buttered, a 
then they were poured out into the best saui 




;h, which had been brought from the parlor cup- 
ard for this grand occasion. 

"T think it smells kind o' good," said Simon, as 
=y drew their chairs about the table. The best 
rce-plates were out too, and the father served a 
rtion to each. Then there was a general tasting; 
,:n queer, doubtful looks at one another; and 
on a general smiling, which quickened into 
[ghter, and a merry peal rang out through the 
: open windows, the echo of which reached even 
j.poor Mrs. Vesta's cars as she- sat in her lonely 
stairs apartment. 

' To think we 've worked, and watched, and 
;ed all summer for those things," said Seth, 
ning away the tears his mirth had brought. 



ie minister had laughed with the rest, but he 
fnot, like the rest, inclined to give it up so. 
' were said to be very healthy ; the city people 
i them highly, and he -was going to like them. 
: tasted, and tasted again, till by dint of per- 
it trying, he almost thought he did like them 

Vhat shall I do with those that are left ? " asked 
ife, when the meal was over, 
iive 'em to the pigs," said Simon. 
t Mrs. Jones (have I told you the family name 
ones?) still looked at her husband and waited 
Veil," said he, ''there will be more ripe in a 

few days, and then I will try them cut up raw, 
with salt and vinegar and pepper. 1 think I should 
like them better that way." 

So the pigs had the remaining portion, which 
was the largest part of the cooked tomatoes. 

The vines were astonishingly prolific. They 
gave their fruit lavishiy, prodigally, recklessly, and 
still kept on blossoming and forming new fruit, as 
if there always would be more behind, till frost 
came. By that time the minister had really learned 
to like them ; and Simon and Thirza and Tilda, 
who always wished to do as their father did, liked 
them too. But nothing could induce Pattikin to 
taste them again. 

They learned to dry them, to make catsup of 
them, to seal them up in bottles ; and, in short, 
the tomato was from this time an institution in the 
minister's family. 

Chapter III. 


The minister had a farm — a very little one — 
three or four acres. One-half was devoted to corn 
and potatoes, and a few scraggy old apple-trees. 
The other half was devoted chiefly to mineralogy. 
There was plenty of the " testimony of the rocks " 
there, if the children could have read it. They 
often wondered about them. How did they all 
come there ? — sugar-loaf rocks ; low flat-topped 
rocks large enough to be called ledges; big, high 
masses, equal in size to a moderate dwelling-house, 
cleft down the middle as smoothly as if done with 
a knife. Was that done when ''the earth did quake, 
and the rocks rent, and darkness was over all the 

There were, too, miniature caves, which the lit- 
tle girls furnished after their simple fashion, and in 
which they played through many a bright summer- 
day, where they bestowed their treasure of gray 
moss and green, and the mineral collections with 
which they were forever loading down their pockets. 

But, more than all the rocks and caves, they 
prized the frog-pond that lay beyond the ledges, 
and reached away out into Mr. Iturbide's pasture. 
Such plays as they had there on Saturday after- 
noons, or in vacation after the corn was got in ! 
But speaking of the corn reminds me that I in- 
tended to tell you in this chapter about work 
and not about play. For it was all ready to be 

Seth, and Samuel, and Simon cut the stalks. 
Seth had a. long knife with a red handle that he 
thought looked like a sword, and he led his army 
out to invade the field, with all the dignity and 
confidence of a great general. Simon had a sickle 
shaped like a half-moon. Simon had a nondescript 




sort of knife, which had been freshly sharpened, 
and could be made to do great execution. 

Sandy guided the gray pony, which was har- 
nessed to the green wagon to carry up the corn to 
the barn, where they would husk it. The girls 
gathered the stalks into bundles, which they tied 
with pumpkin-vines, and loaded the wagon with, 

Pattikin thought she helped amazingly, but 
the most she did was to stub her toes against the 
corn-stubble and fall over the great yellow pump- 
kins, and gnaw sweet apples. Once she said, 
" Oh, dear ! I keep stubbin' my toes for ever 'n' 

Then Thirza said, " I would n't work. Sit down, 
and rest awhile." So Pattikin sat down. 

While she was resting, the gray and white kitten 
came down into the field, and went about rubbing 
herself against the children. Pattikin caught her 
and held her in her lap. and whispered in her ear: 
"You stay here with me, and when the load goes 
up to the barn, we '11 have a ride. They don't 'low 
anbody but me to ride ; but I '11 smuggle you up in 
my apron so they wont see." 

The kitty nestled down in Patty's lap, and pur- 
red as if she understood. Pretty soon the load was 
ready, and Pattikin scrambled up on top by the 
help of Thirza, who pushed her up from behind. 
She was a little slow and awkward about it, be- 
cause of the load in her apron. 

And Seth called out, " Come, hurry. We want 
to get started quick. We 've got so much to do." 

Because their father was going to Association 
next day, and must use the gray pony, he had 
promised them, if they could get the corn all in 
that night, in the evening he would help them 
make molasses candy. 

When Pattikin was up, she chose her seat on 
top of a bundle of stalks, and they went bumping 
along. Once or twice, Kitty, who wasn't used to 
riding over such rough ground, tried to get out of 
the apron and jump down to run away on her own 
feet, which, I suppose, she thought much the safer 
way of getting through the world. At length she 
really did get out, and gave a daring leap right 
over the wagon wheel, and coming to the ground 
right side up, as they say a cat always will, scam- 

pered for the house. Pattikin had reached ou 
a little too far in trying to recover her, the bundl 
of stalks she was sitting on rolled and went off ove 
the wheel, and Patty after it. 

There was a deal of shouting and whoaing befor 
the pony was stopped. The children gatherei 
round to see if any bones were broken. To thei 
great joy, Pattikin had escaped with only a littl 
bump on her forehead and a bruise on her kn 
from some stones that lay in the way. 

'"They are always coming all over the field 
those stones!" said Sandy. "We pick them a 
out clean — bushels and bushels of 'em — after ever 
plowing, but there are always just as many, 
believe they grow." 

" Our farm will be all stone-wall after awhile, i 
it goes on so many years," said Samuel. 

"I suppose there'll have to be another ston 
picking this fall," said Sandy. 

"Yes," said Seth, "after the crops are all i 
You'd better walk the rest of the way, Patty." 

"Oh, I don't want to," said Pattikin. "M 
knee aches awful, and I should n't wonder if I g< 

So, as Pattikin was rather spoiled by the res 
they helped her up again, and cautioning her 
take a safer seat, they went on. 

" We're going to dig pertaters, to-morrow," sa 
Sandy. " I heard father say so." 

"Pertaters! I can talk better grammar th 
that myself," said Pattikin. 

"Better be looking out that you don't fall c 
the load than minding my grammar," said Sand 
tickling the bottom of her foot with a straw, by w 
of retaliation. 

" Poh ! I 'm not going to fall off again," s 
Patty, curling her feet up under her dress 

" I would n't talk about grammar till I could £ 
association," said Sandy. 

" I can — sosation," said Pattikin. 

All the chilren laughed. 

"There!" said Thirza. "You be still, nc 
Sandy ! Father said we were not to quarrel." 

They got the corn all into the barn by sunduv 

and after supper, the minister said But t 

must come in the next chapter. 

(To be continued.) 





By Howard Pyle. 

A CERTAIN fox was extremely desirous of gain- 
\g admission into a poultry-yard, the lord of which 
as a cock of good blood and extremely aristocratic 
,ays, so the sly animal soon contrived to secure 
s acquaintance and even friendship. 
One day as the gosling (who was a protege of 

" Well, sir, you are abrupt in your manners, 
and overbearing to your inferiors. 

" Am I, indeed ? " said the cock still more coldly. 

" Yes, sir ! And then you are excessively quar- 
relsome, beside being very selfish." 

" Hah !" exclaimed the cock, angrily. 


cock's), the cock himself, and the fox were to- 
iler, the conversation turned upon the subject 
icrsonal faults. 

aid the cock: "I feel conscious that I have 
/ many faults, and nothing would I so much 
le as some real friend who would show them to 
Now, I dare say, gosling," continued he, turn- 
to that humble creature and smiling blandly. — 
dare say, gosling, that even you have noticed 
presence of some few small faults in me. Is it 
so? Speak frankly, my little friend." 
he gosling was immensely elated at this chance 
roving himself the true friend desired. 
Oh yes, sir;" he said, eagerly, "I have no- 
1 the presence of a great many, indeed." 
Oh, have you? "said the cock, coldly, "And 
t are they, pray ? " 

" Then, sir. not only do you treat your children 
badly, but you neglect your wife also. Beside all 
these " 

" Stop ! " cried the cock, in a violent rage, "What 
do you mean by charging me with faults that I 
never possessed ? You are an insolent scoundrel 

and a sneak — you — you " And unable to 

contain himself longer, he fell upon the unhappy 
gosling and tore three beakfuls of down from his 

" I marvel," said the fox, as the wretched gosling 
made his escape, screaming loudly with pain and 
terror, " I marvel that one so constantly associated 
with you could thus malign you to your face. 
Those are not your faults." 

" Well, what are they then ?" said the cock, still 
somewhat ruffled. 




" Did I not know your extreme patience under 
correction, I should hesitate to tell them, or rather 
it, for I have only noticed one in my acquaintance 
with you. You are, sir, I grieve to say it, but you 
are, sir, extremely haughty and exclusive in your 
manners. Your blood, your aristocratic breeding, 
your culture, and your refinement all tend to cause 
you to look upon your more vulgar yet still honest 
fellow-creatures with a courteous haughtiness, if 
I may so express it. It is a fault to which your 
superior station may plead some extenuation ; still 
it is a fault. Let me beg you, honored sir, to cor- 

he would scarcely deign to notice the other barn 
yard creatures. 

One day the fox said : "It has always been a sub 
ject of much wonder to me why a creature of so mucl 
intellect, and with such a proper amount of sell 
respect as yourself, should submit, as you do, t 
the absolute rule of human beings. Now here ar 
I. a simple-minded, jog-trot animal, with not onf 
half the wit and shrewdness of the least one o 
you here in the barn-yard, and yet I am absolutel 
free and untrammeled in my movements. I ow 
allegiance to no one and am my own master, whil 

^b s \«. 


rect this one failing, and so render yourself the 
model of perfection you would then be. Recollect, 
sir, that though humbler, we are still your fellow- 

The cock stood upon one leg meditating for a 
long while upon this speech; at length he heaved 
a sigh, and said : 

" I feel that you are correct; you have acted the 
part of a true friend. Yes, I confess that you are 

From that time the cock's friendship for the fox 
greatly increased, while his overbearing manners 
toward the other creatures in no wise diminished. 

The crafty fox frequently turned the conversation, 
in their subsequent interviews, upon the subject of 
family distinction, and cunningly contrived so to 
flatter the vanity of the cock that, in time, he be- 
came puffed up with pride to such an extent that 

you and your humbler associates are dependent 
the very necessaries of life upon the will of yi 

" That is very true," said the cock, reflectivel 
" Now," continued the fox, " I have thought 
a most excellent idea. I know a delightful ; 
secluded spot, sir, where a little colony could 
started far away from the habitation of man. ; 
where you could soon show the world that inti 
gent pQiiltry need not be entirely subservient to 
will of these miserable human beings. Here 
you with blood, breeding and great natural dig: 
of bearing (I need hardly mention such a well-kni 
quality of yours as intelligence), a born rulei 
fact. If, now, some of your mentally advar 
creatures — such, for instance, as the geese and 
keys, and even the ducks — would only be persus 
to start a small community somewhere, you, 



ive the very making of a king or even an em- 
:ror in you, and might prove yourself an excellent 
p;tample of a noble and generous ruler." 

This plan pleased the cock amazingly. 

"I shall consider your proposition," said he. 
'And you can guide us, you say, to such a spot as 
,iu have mentioned ?" 

"Certainly, sir! I know the very place," said 

e fox. 

The idea of the colony took root in the poultry- 

yard immediately, and spread in popularity amaz- 
ingly, for each creature imaginec that he himself 
had the ability, mentally, to become in time a 
prominent politician, if not a leader. One night, 
accordingly, everything was arranged, and the 
crafty fox guided the poor deluded creatures to a 
most secluded portion of the adjoining forest. 

None of them ever returned again, yet it was 
rumored, far and wide, that the crafty fox was sub- 
sisting entirely upon the little community. 

By Richard A. Proctor. 

The northern heavens present no change of 
?cial importance since last month. The Dragon 
i been carried away from his former hovering 
iiition, and now appears as if swooping down- 
ird, though in a direction contrary to that of his 
1 motion around the pole. The ancient ob- 
vers do not seem to have attached any impor- 
ce, by the way, to the direction in which the 
:-sphere turns ; and, indeed, a motion so slow 
not to be perceptible by ordinary vision might 
1 be left out of account in forming imaginary 
■-groups. Some of the figures go forward, as 
ion, the Great Bear, Bootes (the Herdsman), the 
n, and so forth ; others go backward, as the 
igon, the Ram, the Bull, Pegasus (the Winged 
rse), and so on; while others, like Ophinchus, 
Serpent-Bearer, are supposed to face the ob- 
■er and so travel sideways ; and others, again, 
ttej on their head, as Hercules, Cepheus, and 
Iromeda. It is quite clear that those who in- 
ijted the constellation figures did not trouble 
unserves much about the rotation of the star- 

; t . 

L here may be noticed in the northern heavens, 
seen in February, a vacant space above the 
i, girt round by the constellations Auriga (the 
doteer) overhead, Perseus (the Rescuer), Cas- 
sia (the Seated Lady), Cepheus (her royal hus- 
1), and the two Bears. In this poverty-stricken 
i )n there are no stars of the first three magni- 
s, and only four or five of the fourth magnitude, 
ancient astronomers couid imagine no con- 
ations in these spaces. It is to the moderns, 
. especially to Hevelius, that we owe the con- 
itions which have been figured in these barren 


districts. The Cameleopard, or Giraffe, is one ; the 
Lynx another. I cannot say, for my own part, that 
I see either a giraffe or a lynx there. Certainly, if 
you draw the connecting lines shown in the map, 
you get as fair a picture of a giraffe (inverted at 
present) as can possibly be made with a couple of 
lines ; but it seems to me — though I do not claim 
to be an artist — that rather more than two lines are 
needed to picture a respectable giraffe. Besides, 
the lines are not on the sky, and the liveliest fancy 
would not think of connecting these stars by im- 
aginary lines, so widely remote are the stars, and 
so insignificant. 

The Little Bear is now gradually getting round 
(at the selected hour of evening observation) to a 
position such as a bear might reasonably assume. 
Last month, this small bear was hanging head 
downward by the end of his absurdly long tail. He 
is now slowly rising from that undignified position, 
and by next month he will have fairly placed him- 
self on his feet. For the present we can leave him 
to his struggles; but next month we shall consider 
his history and the duties which he has discharged 
for many hundreds of years. 

Turning to the southern skies, we find full com- 
pensation for the relatively uninteresting aspect of 
the northern heavens. The most resplendent con- 
stellation in the heavens is now in full glory in the 
south. There, close to the meridian, or mid south, 

" Begirt with many a blazing star, 
Stands the great giant Algebar, 
Orion, hunter of the beast. 
His sword hangs gleaming by his side, 
And on his arm the lion's hide, 
Scatters across the midnight air 
The golden radiance of its hair." 



No one can mistake this most beautiful constella- 
tion. The two bright shoulder stars, Betelgeux (n) 
and Bellatrix (j), the brilliant star Rigel on the 
giant's advanced foot, the triply gemmed belt (C, e, 
and 6), and the pendent sword tipped with the 
bright star t, distinguish Orion unmistakably. But, 

say nothing of numbers of faint stars scattered al 
over it, justify the words of the poet, who sang: 

" Orion's beams! Orion's beams! 

His star-gemmed belt, and shining blade ; 
His isles of light, his silvery streams, 
And gloomy gulfs of mystic shade." 

O is the'pomt overhead' '~ . o isffiepointm-erheadlbrr/ic 

for die latitude of -Philad*^^ — ~9^\ '^—^Jat'f'ofBostori Ojfy-lat'hfWrAam 

^Starof/stJlfa^JX ( A^ R1GA o \Starof2i,il]lfc,^'it 
* „, „3rd„/i\ ' 

/ Ca/jeua. 

V » 4d> » + 


,\ r n 

■''' 'ot^ 

v -Pole Star 


t < 


% +* 

1 ■»„■ w -.J 
URSA *--. . 
MINOR ' - if.g 


* 4 v*£ 

i V' if 

^ ,';:■: i' 


■ Horizon 0/ \London ffifay) 

TheNorthernSkjat/0vMJa?i£O,at£vu_Fel> 4 f and at 8 p. m JFed 19. 

besides these glories, there are others ; the curve 
of small stars forming the giant's shield (a lion's 
hide), the misty light of the great nebula which 
lies on the sword (where shown), and on clear 
nights the dappled light of the Milky Way, which 
really extends over a part of this constellation, to 

From the first beginning of astronomy, and pi 
ably long before astronomy was thought of, 
constellation was figured as a giant; sometim 
giant hunter, a sort of celestial Nimrod ; someti 
as a warrior. He commonly wielded an im 
club in his right hand (the star v marked the ha: 



the club), and a shield (formed by the stars ir,, 
'etc.) in his left. The star of the constellation 
idanus really marks the giant's bent knee ; and 
ginally the constellation Lepus (or, the Hare) 
med a chariot in which the hunter or warrior 
od. In some old manuscripts of the middle 

The cut on the next page shows Orion as lie is 
now generally pictured. He is somewhat out of 
drawing, because of the necessity of keeping cer- 
tain stars in particular positions with respect to 
him. Thus Betclgcux is derived from the Arabic 
ibt-al-jauzd, the giant's shoulder. Liellatrix, or the 

O vptIi p f\ c\ 1 ' 

O is the point overhead v'bijwou ols (ftgpgintoYcrJieadJlirthe 

fort/ie latitude of ffiilad? 

Jat'ofjBosCon OfortaiiaWeaiis 

* „ „Jrd „/ 

Starof2ndMay & '% 
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a ;*? 




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O R I ,'0 N J *j 

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\*,-.-ri + columba 

PUFgflS *w —.Horizon o^ondon/ihyj— 

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-Horizon of JVew Orleans — 


r/ieSoutherniSRyat?OvMJan.J?0;at9v uFeb 4 ; andatdv. M.Iei fj>. 

the stars of Lepus formed a throne for Orion. 

ict, this little constellation, although named 

'■[are from time immemorial, has been called 

1 ' feral other names, insomuch that Ideler, after 

11 lg several names, wrathfully adds, "And God 

5 how many more there are." 

"OL. IV. — 18. 

Amazon star, belongs of right to the other shoulder, 
and Rigel to the advanced foot, while the three 
stars of the belt fix the position of the giant's waist. 
To tell the truth, he is an ill-shaped giant, anyway, 
and cannot be otherwise depicted. 

Below Lepus (the Hare) you sec the neat little 




group Columba, or ihe Dove. This is one of 
the younger constellations, and was invented by 
Hevelius, perhaps to show that the ship Argo, 
which you see low down on the left, is no other 
than Noah's Ark. In fact, the name given to the 
small group originally was Columba Noachi, or 
Noah's Dove. Approaching the mid south, you 
now see the brightest star in the whole heavens — 
Sirius, the famous Dog-star. The constellation 
Canis Major, the Greater Dog (which might much 
better be called simply Canis), was one of Orion's 
hunting-dogs, Canis Minor being the other; but 
we can hardly suppose Lepus was the sole prey 
pursued by so great a giant and two such fine dogs. 
The constellation Canis Major is chiefly remarkable 
for the Dog-star. In old times this star was thought 
to bring pestilence. Homer speaks of it (not by 
name, however) as the star 

"Whose burning breath 
Taints the red air with fevers, plagues, and death." 

Many among the ancients supposed that this star 
was in reality as large as the sun. Thus Manilius 
said : 

" 'T is strongly credited this owns a light 
And runs a course not than the sun's le=s bright; 
But that, remov'd from sight so great a way, 
It seems to cast a dim and weaker ray." 

It has been show-n in our own time, however, that 
even this estimate, which was by many thought too 
daring, falls far short of the truth. It has been 
calculated that Sirius gives out three hundred times 
as much light (and doubtless three hundred times 
as much heat) as our sun. So that it would make 
us rather uncomfortable if our sun were removed 
and Sirius set in his place. Sir W. Herschel says 
that when he turned his large four-feet mirror on 
this star, the light was like that of the rising sun, 
and it was impossible to look at the star without 
pain to the eye. Sirius is in reality in rapid motion, 
though, owing to his enormous distance, he seems 
at rest. He is rushing through space at the rate 
of about thirty miles in every second of time ! In 
a year he traverses nearly six times the distance 
which separates our earth from the sun. But this 
enormous annual journey is only about TTn'ouoth 
part of the distance which separates him from our 
earth; and as he is traveling away from us, we 
need not be greatly troubled on account of him. 
He is so far from us that his light has been no less 
than twenty years on its way to us, so that in reality, 
instead of saying we see Sirius, we ought to say we 
see where Sirius was some twenty years ago. Most 
of the stars are even farther away, so that if every 
one of them were in a single instant destroyed, we 
should still see them — that is, their light — for many 

years, and probably the greater number of then 
would still seem to be shining in the heavens lonj 
after the youngest of us were dead ; perhaps evei 
after our great-grandchildren had passed away. 

Canis Minor, the Lesser Dog, is a much less im- 
portant star-group than Canis Major ; but still it i 
one of the old constellations. Its chief star is calk' 
Procyon, or the Fore-dog, because this star is see 
as a morning star earlier than Sirius. The Arabia 
astronomers gave it a name of similar meaning, ! 
wit, Al-kelb-al-mutekaddem j but I think Procyo 
sounds almost as well, and as it is the name b 
which the star is usually called, it may, perhaps, f 
better to use it instead of the Arabian name, thoug 
this is very pretty. Procyon, like Sirius, was suj 


posed to be a star of evil omen, especially as brii 
ing bad weather. " What meteoroscoper," s 
Leonard Digges, the astrologer, "yea, who thai 
learned in matters astronomical, noteth not 
great effects at (he rising of the star called 

The constellation Gemini, or the Twins, is r 
approaching the south, but will be more fully wit 
the range of our next monthly map. The s 
marked c is that of Cancer, or the Crab, wh 
the sun enters at midsummer. You will obse 
that we have now reached the part of the ecli] 
highest above the equator, which is, of course, 
part reached by the sun at midsummer. The pi 
marked c is at its highest in the south at noon 



about June 21st, and is then occupied by the 
1 ; it is at its highest in the south at midnight on 
about December 20, and the sun is then exactly 
josite to this point, or at his lowest below the 
rthern horizon. 

irhose who live as far south as New Orleans, see 

\i raised above the horizon the star Canopus, in 

stern of the good ship Argo. There is pre- 

' ted to them, at this season, a view of more first 

magnitude stars than can be seen at any other time 
in one quarter of the heavens. For besides the 
splendid equal-sided triangle formed by Procyon, 
Betelgeux, and Sirius, they see Aldebaran, Rigel, 
and Canopus, the last-named surpassing every star 
in the heavens except Sirius alone. 

Next month, the great ship Argo will have come 
better into view ; and I defer till then my account 
of this fine constellation. 

[See " Letter- Box. "] 


By A. E. C. 

If you will be my valentine, 
My charming little dear, 

The sun can never help but shine 
Throughout the coming year. 

If you will be my valentine, 
You '11 see in all your walks 

Fresh lemon-drops on every twig 
And peanuts on the stalks ; 

The lessons all will put themselves 

Into your little pate ; 
The hardest sums you have, you '11 see 

All answered on vour slate. 

While hot mince-pies, all hand in hand, 

Meet you at every stile ; 
With raisins marching on in front, 

And figs in single file. 

P. S. — But if from you I never hear, 
Nor even get a line, 
I '11 ask some other nicer girl 
To be my valentine. 






T. Trowbridge. 

Chapter VIII. 


The boy lay perfectly still and tried to go to 
sleep again. But exciting thoughts kept him 
awake. He lived over again the events of the past 
few days, — the funeral, the auction, the journey, — 
and thought many times of all that Florie and her 
mother had said to him. 

As it grew lighter he got up, dressed himself 
noiselessly, and leaving Alphonse asleep, went out 
upon deck. 

The pilot's bell was tinkling fitfully. The paddle- 
wheels — motionless for a moment, then reversed — 
dashed the boiling water into foam. The steamer 
was coming to a landing at the foot of a large town 
(to Jacob's eyes it looked large) on the Ohio shore. 
A few passengers were preparing to land. Among 
them Jacob was rejoiced to see the tall Kentuckian. 

"We shall be rid of him ! " he thought, and 
looked with impatience to see the colonel set foot 
upon the gangway plank. 

But what was that which Corkright carried in his 
hand ? A violin-case ! It resembled Pinkey's so 
much that Jacob observed it with a start of sus- 
picion and alarm. He drew near, to get a closer 
look at it. He felt sure it was the professor's. 

The deck-hands already had hold of the plank, 
or " bridge," to push it out. In less than a minute 
Corkright would be gone. There was not an in- 
stant to lose. The boy ran back to the state-room, 
and made a hasty search. The violin was not 

" Mr. Pinkey ! Oh, Mr. Pinkey ! " cried Jacob, 
shaking his friend, who lay asleep in his clothes. 

" What 's wanting ? " snarled the dancing-master, 
starting up, and seeing Jacob. 

" That man — Colonel Corkright — has got your 
violin ! " 

" What of it ? Can't a gentleman have a fiddle, 
but you must " 

" But he is going off with it ! — going ashore ! " 
said Jacob, all excitement. " I '11 stop him ! I '11 
tell the captain ! " 

He was hurrying out. Alphonse called after him 
sharply : 

" You wont do anything of the sort ! Come 
back here, you ninny ! It 's all right." 

Perfectly bewildered. Jacob turned and stared at 
his friend. 

" I 've sold him the violin," said Alphonse. " He 

took a fancy to it, and offered me a right smart 
price — and I 've a much better one than tha)l 
Don't make a fool of yourself. Let me sleep." I 

Pinkey sank back upon the pillow, in which h * 
buried his rumpled ringlets. Jacob could not hel . 
speaking a word in self-defense. 

'• I had heard you say you thought so much ( . 
that violin — you would not part with it for anythil 
— it was worth twice its weight in gold ! So whj , 
I saw him going ashore with it, of course I J • 

But here Alphonse made an impatient mov : . 
ment, and Jacob withdrew, reaching the gangw< , 
just in time to see Corkright move off with tl 

Pinkey did not appear at breakfast, nor inde 
for some hours after. Jacob looked into the stal 
room two or three times during the forenoon, a 
saw him still lying in the berth, with his disorder 
curls about his face. 

At last, going in about dinner-time, he fou 
him disentangling the said curls before the glass, 

"Hallo! Come in, boy!" said the profess 
as Jacob hesitated. " I took cold on deck last nij 
— had a horrible headache this morning — but I 
all right now." 

The charming Alphonse was himself again 
boy sat down on a stool and watched his friend 
his toilet. 

" How are the ladies?" said Pinkey, twirlin 
ringlet round his finger. 

" Rather lonesome without you, I should thi 
— for I suppose you mean the sisters." 

" To be sure I do. I lay awake half the ni 
trying to decide in my mind which to choose." 

Jacob knew that this was a prodigious fib ; 
he was too glad to see Alphonse in a chee 
mood again, to question the accuracy of his st- 

"Lonesome, did you say? What makes 
think so ? " 

" They are not half so gay as they were ye; 
day ; and I heard them inquiring about you.'' 

" No doubt of it ! " laughed Alphonse 

"And about Colonel Corkright." 

" Bah ! " Pinkey shook his ringlets, wit 
shrug. "Well, what did anybody tell 'em a' 
me and the colonel ? " 

" Somebody said Corkright got off the bo< 
take the cars ; and then Dory — or Doshy — I 
tell 'em apart " 

" Dory is the one in green, — no, the one in 









s she ?" said Alphonsc. " I did know, but 

Ho ! what in the name of " 

5 inkey did not finish his sentence, for the reason 

t lie suddenly went reeling over against the 

ths with the water-pitcher, which he had just 

:d for the purpose of filling a glass. 

acob also, seated upon his stool, found himself 

ried over against the lower berth, with a strange 

mentum ; and at the same time there resounded 

horus of screams and a clashing of chairs in the 

oining cabin. 

t happened that the passengers were just sitting 

i/n to dinner, when everybody and everything 

tit swaying and lurching all one way, toward the 

This singular pressure of all objects forward 

ed three or four seconds, the boat meanwhile 

ininsr from stem to stern. Then it ceased. The 

ine was silent. The steamer had stopped. 
S : An accident ! " cried Jacob, starting up wildly. 
*<■ Got aground, that 's all," said Professor Pinkey, 
coolly proceeded to fill his glass. 

Chapter IX. 


\COB ran out to make an observation, and soon 
ie hurrying back with news. 
J We 're fast aground on a sand-bar, between a 
sandy island — what they call a tow-head— and 
Ohio shore. There was plenty of water where 
ire a few days ago, and they say the bar has 
ly been formed." 

The sand-bars in the river are constantly shift- 
" replied Alphonse. "I've been aground on 
before ! " 

IThe woods here are close to the shore," said 
ib; "and there seems to have been a sort of 
s in one place, where some trees have fallen 
i into the water. We had just passed the fallen 
3 when we struck. There 's a broader passage 
i the other side of the tow-head, but there are 
there too ; and, besides, there was a steam- 
: in there, with ten flat-boats in tow, loaded with 

Well, what 's the prospect of our getting off? " 
Pinkey, putting on his coat and buttoning it 
ie waist. 
Poor, I think. The engine is backing water 

Vusly, but we don't move. I heard the mate 

;he captain — who was just sitting down to din- 
when we struck — that it's a serious business." 
No doubt," said Alphonse, gayly. "Serious 
he boat, and for people who are in a hurry, 

iM)t for gentlemen of leisure like us, Jacob. Be 
in your mind, my boy. Pleasant weather — 

!'l company — and we get our board and lodgings 
takes a month to make the trip. All ready- 

now, Jacob, my boy ! " — and Alphonsc walked out 
to dinner. 

The passengers, many of whom had gone out 
like Jacob to observe the situation, had now re- 
turned and taken their seats at the table. Pinkey 
found his place with the ladies at the upper end, 
where an obsequious waiter had kept his chair 
tipped forward for him ; while Jacob went humbly 
to a seat near the foot. 

The accident afforded an agreeable topic of con- 
versation ; and after dinner everybody went out to 
witness the efforts making to get the steamboat 
off the bar. 

A hawser had been stretched to the shore, and a 
gang of men were heaving away at it, while the 
reversed paddle-wheels revolved. But all to no 
purpose. The steamer did not move. 

" If they don't get her off soon, they can't in all 
summer," said Mr. Pinkey, cheerfully. " The river 
is falling, and we shall soon be high and dry here. 
I was once two weeks aboard a steamboat aground 
on a bar above Paducah. We had to wait for the 
river to rise. We hired another steamboat to help 
us off, but it was no use, — it snapped the big cable 
like a thread. We had lively times, though ; we 
gentlemen used to go ashore every day and hunt 
wild turkeys. But it was n't so pleasant for old 
ladies without any knitting. Think of two weeks 
on a sand-bar, Mrs. Chipperly ! " 

" Dreadful ! " said Mrs. Chipperly. " What shall 
we do ? " 

" Have some music, for one thing," cried Dory. 
" Oh, Mr. Pinkey ! where 's your violin ? " 

Jacob watched Alphonse, and wondered what he 
would say. 

" Ladies," replied the professor, with his sweet- 
est smile, "you know how delighted I should be to 
gratify you. But I am distressed to be obliged to 
say that I have broken three strings to my instru- 
ment, and I have n't another with me." 

" How mean ! " said Doshy. " It 's dreadful, 
here in the hot sun. Wish we were over in those 
nice woods on the bank ! Oh, Mr. Pinkey ! why 
can't we get the boat of these men, and have a little 
fun ashore ? " 

" Oh, daughters ! I can't hear of your going in 
the boat ! " said Mrs. Chipperly, fanning herself. 
" It 's so dangerous ! " 

•' We shall be perfectly safe in Mr. Pinkey's 
care," said Dory. 

" Certainly," said Alphonse. " I pledge my own 
life, madam, that I will bring back your lovely 
daughters unharmed. I '11 see the captain. He '11 
do anything for me. If we can't have the small- 
boat, I '11 make 'em launch the yawl." 

He went off, and returned presently. 

" All right ! we can have the boat and a couple 




of men to row us over, as soon as they 've got some 
new kink in their hawser, which does n't work right 
where it is." 

" Oh, Mr. Pinkey, that 's just lovely ! " exclaimed 
Dory. " Now let 's make up our party." 

The twins having proposed the excursion, and 
Mr. Pinkey having engaged the boat, they invited . 
whom they pleased to go with them, and a party 
of seven was soon formed. 

Jacob looked wistfully at Alphonse. Of course 
he wanted to go too ; but Alphonse took no notice 
of him. And when, after considerable delay, he 
saw the boat with its merry occupants push off 
without him, his heart swelled with a sense of 

Avoiding the cable, which was stretched from 

not go. He was getting a little acquainted with her 
now. She came up to him as he stood gazing ovec 
the rail at the pleasant woods where the distant 
laughter was. 

" Why did n't you go ? " she said. 

" I was n't asked to," Jacob replied. 

" Why did n't you go without being asked ? " 

"Oh, I didn't like to invite myself where 1 
was n't wanted." 

Florie looked into his face with an arch, quizzica 

" You are a kind of goose ; don't you think yen 
are ? " 

" Yes, I suppose I am," said Jacob, humbly. 

" Do you think," she cried, "if I had wanted t< 
go in that boat, I would n't have jumped in am 


the stern to the farthest of the fallen trunks on the 
Ohio side, the boat kept on up-stream until it 
reached a landing-place which suited Alphonse. 
There the bow was run ashore, and the ladies 
helped up the slope. 

Jacob heard their gay voices as they gathered 
on the bank, and had glimpses of them as they 
climbed up into the woods that covered the terrace- 
like bluff. He could hear the laughter of the 
sisters long after they disappeared from view. 
There was a romantic charm about it all, which 
kept alive his grief at being left behind. 

His only solace was in thinking that Florie did 



gone ? I mean, if I were a boy like you. 
can do anything, and nobody minds him." 
"Don't you do about everything you 
notion to ? " Jacob asked. 

" Oh no, not half the things ! " 

" What is there you deny yourself?" 

" Oh, for one thing, I 'd like to step up to yo 

friend Mr. Pinkey, almost any time of day, and s 

to him, ' Please, don't make a fool of yourself a 

more.' It's a dreadful temptation. But I reSl 

it. I shut my teeth hard ! " She showed ho 

laughing and shaking her curls, as she ran awayl 

A steam-tug now appeared, coming up the rivil 

HIS O W N M A S T E R . 


d it was soon engaged in helping the grounded 
at off the bar. Still but little progress was made, 
he afternoon was hot and sultry, and it was very 
11 on board the steamer. 

Chapter X. 


The boat which had taken Pinkey's party ashore 
w lay unused under the gangway. Jacob, boy- 
e, got into it. When the men came to use it 
>iin, he stayed in. He soon began to pull an 
r with them. Then when they left the boat, he 
ved about in it a little on his own account, keep- 
; it within easy reach of the steamer, in case it 
mid be wanted. 

The captain came to the rail and spoke to him. 
:ob held his oars, and looked up, expecting a 

Can you pull that boat up to the bank where 
LJtkey's party is ? " 

Yes, I think so," said Jacob. 
I Well, we don't want it now, and you might 
it up there and keep it till they want to come 
:k. We 're fast working off now. Tell Pinkey 
blow the whistle for him when we 're about 
Idy to start." 
acob was delighted. He dipped the oars with a 
He had never had much practice in rowing 
ore, and it had a great fascination for him. To 
■t off now with an actual commission from the 
tain — to pull up against the stream to the boat's 
vious landing-place — was something to make 
1 proud. 

' Oh, let me go with you ! " cried a girlish voice, 
i Florie's bright eyes and dancing curls appeared 
r the steamer's side. 

' Be still, Florie ! " said her mother, drawing 

1 I shall be glad to have her go, if you are will- 
," said Jacob. 

Torie was accustomed to having her own way, 

she had it now. The mother consulted the 

tain, who said there was no danger. Florie 

le running down to the lower deck, where Jacob 

.ed the skiff alongside, and she was lowered 

k it. 

Take good care of her, Jacob ! " said the 

her, earnestly. 

Oh, I will, — don't fear!" cried the lad as he 
ed joyfully away, seated on the middle thwart. 
-h Florie's sunny face beaming on him from the 

>(e ran under the end of the cable, gave the 

boat, which was astern of the steamer, a wide 

h. and then pulled over toward the Ohio shore. 

" y were soon quite close to the other end of the 

cable, but on the upper side of it, just above the 
fallen trees, — their leafy tops, still green, half im- 
mersed in the water ; while the wooded hill rose 
high above. 

•' Is n't this nice ? " said Florie. 

" I like it," said Jacob, happier than he had ever 
been before. 

There was no breeze stirring, but the sun had 
gone under a cloud, and the air seemed cool there 
by the shore. 

" Let 's not go for Pinkey's party yet," said 
Florie, " but row away up the river, and have a 
nice little adventure ! " 

Nothing would have suited Jacob so well. But 
he thought he ought to report to Pinkey first. So 
he pulled to the landing-place, where he got sight 
of two or three of the party up in the woods. 

" Tell Pinkey the boat is here," he called out to 
them. " I '11 be rowing a little way up the stream 
till you 're ready to start. But you must start any- 
way, the captain says, when the whistle blows." 

Having delivered his message, he pushed off 

" Oh, now I hope the whistle w'ont blow for an 
hour ! " exclaimed Florie. 

Jacob hoped so too. And they had their wish. 
Evening was coming on, while the skiff glided in 
and out and up and down by the shore, in the 
yellowish current ; and still there was no call from 
the beach, no signal whistle from the boat. 

Suddenly Florie exclaimed : " How dark it is 
growing ! Is it night ? " 

A vast black shadow had fallen upon the river. 
Jacob looked up at the sky. 

" It 's near night, but it 's that thunder-cloud 
that makes it so dark. There 's going to be a 
storm. I think we'd better put back." 

" Oh yes ! " said Florie. " I 'm not afraid, but 
mamma will be afraid for me." 

Jacob did not fail to notice this evidence of a 
tender and thoughtful heart under all the gay 
young creature's fun and nonsense. He also re- 
membered his own pledge to her mother. 

The boat, propelled by his sturdy young arms, 
glided rapidly down the stream to the landing- 
place, which it reached just as Pinkey's patty — 
probably alarmed by the sudden darkness— came 
scrambling down the bank ; all but Pinkey himself 
and one of the sisters. 

The blackness of the sky and river became ap- 
palling. Just then the steamboat's whistle sounded. 
A vague fear fell upon Jacob, as he sat by his oars, 
impatiently waiting for the passengers. It was 
Dory who was missing ; and Doshy scolded her 
and Alphonse well in their absence, and called 
them with loud screams. 

A prolonged growl of thunder shook the sky. 




Before it had died away, another signal shriek from 
the steam-whistle came sweeping across the water, 
and died in hollow echoes along the winding and 
hilly shores far up the river. At last Dory and 
Alphonse came rustling and crashing through the 
woods and down the bank. 

They were soon aboard. But it was some little 
time before the boat, laden with its full freight of 
passengers, could be got off. Alphonse appeared 
to be out of spirits, — perhaps in consequence of 
Doshy's sharp words, — and did not seem to know 
what to do. There were two other men aboard, 
but they were afraid of muddying their boots. 
The management of the whole matter fe