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Wot JLibvavp 

of H)E 

?Bnitier£Jit j» of i^orti? Carolina 

""'tj ■ ■" 

From the engraving, by Samuel Cousins, of the painting by Creuze. 

By permission of the Fine Art Society, London. 




Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks. 




Part II., May, 1SS2, to October, 18S2. 


Copyright, 1882, by The Century Co. 

Press of Francis Hart & Co, 


Library, univ. w 
North Carolina 




Six Months — May, 1882, to October, 1882. 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 

in 2012 with funding from 

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 



Abbotsford. (Illustrated) Mrs. P. L. Collins 774 

^Esthetic Young Lady. The Jingle. (Illustrated by F. W. Lamb) Joel Stacy 708 

Agassiz Association. The (Illustrated) Harlan H Ballard . . .... . 585 

663, 743, 823, 903, 983 

" A Lady who Lived by the Shore." Jingle. (Illustrated) Thomas S. Collier 756 

Amateur Newspapers. (Illustrated by A. C. Redwood, L. Hopkins, W. 

r Harlan H. Ballard 71 7 

Taber, and others) ) ' ' 

Ambitious John Thomas. Jingle. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) A. IV. Harrington . . . S51 

Andrea del Sarto. (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement 522 

"An Old Man who Lived by a Gate." Jingle. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Thomas S. Collier 515 

April and May. Poem. ( Illustrated) Celia Thaxter 564 

Arbalist. The Story of the (Illustrated by C. Mettais and H. P. Share) . . .Maurice Thompson S61 

Art and Artists. Stories of (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement . . 522 

S51. 931 

" Aurelius Wellington Wilks." Jingle. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) S35 

Bakertown. Jingle. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) 959 

Balloon Story in Four Chapters. A Picture, drawn by H. McVickar 780 

Base-ball Nine. The Captain of the Orient CM. Sheldon 931 

Bee-CHARMER. The Poem. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) 1/. M. D 591 

Boy in THE Moon. The Jingle. (Illustrated by F. S. Church) Clara Louise Burn/mm . . . 654 

Boy' who Lost the P'ourth of July. The Sophie Swell 709 

Brunelleschi. (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement 851 

Burdock was Good for. What the Verses A. S. R 532 

Cellini. Benvenuto Clara Erskine Clement . . . . S57 

Cloister of the Seven Gates. The E. S. Brooks 789 

Clovers. Magic. (Illustrated by the Author and H. E. Thompson) Margaret B. Harvey 618 

Cockatoos. The Poem. (Illustrated) Celia Thaxter S36 

Conscientious Correggio Carothers. Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins ) Malcolm Douglas 679 

Consolation. Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author) Wi/lielinina Grant 631 

Correction Box. The , , , . .Ada Neyl 635 

Correggio. (Illustrated) , Clara Erskine Clement 524 

Cross-patch. An Old Picture 942 

Curious Rolling Bridge. A (Illustrated) 653 

Dandelion. Poem . //'. B. Allen S96 

Dantzic. The Origin of (Illustrated by Alfred Ivappes and John Steeple Davis) A. M. Cook. 511 

Designs for Little Artists to Copy. Drawn by H. McVickar , 607 

Doll that Could n't Spell her Name. The (Illustrated by Jessie Curtis ) 

Shepherd) ^Sophie Swell S29 

Domenichino Clara Erskine Clement . . 936 

Donald and Dorothy. (Illustrated) Mary Mapes Dodge . . . 556 

644, 72S, Sio. 885, 959 

*J Donatello. (Illustrated) - Clara Erskine Clement ... S54 

~J Do You Know Such Boys? (Illustrated by W. L. Taylor) Eliot McCormick S67 

qc Dozen Squirrels. A Verses. ( Illustrated by H. P. Share) J. H. Hubbard . S47 

— Early American Rebellion. An (Illustrated) F. X. Doubleday 6S0 



Electric Light. The ( Illustrated by F. H. Lungren, and others) Charles Barnard 566 

Elephants. (Illustrated) John Le-ivees 838 

Eleven or None. Verses. (Illustrated by H. P. Share) Malcolm Douglas 838 

Erring Scientist. The Jingle IV. L 516 

Extra Train. The (Illustrated by H. Sandham) ; Edwin Lassetter Bynner . . 689 

Famine among the Gnomes. The (Illustrated by R. B. Birch). Hjalmar If. Boyesen 909 

Famous Sea-fight. A (Illustrated by Julian O. Davidson) Noah Brooks 714 

Fourth of July. The Boy who Lost the Sophie Swett 709 

Ghiberti. (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement 853 

Going to the Fair. Verses. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 788 

Good Time on the Beach. A Picture, drawn by G. F. Barnes , 787 

Grab-bag. Poem. (Illustrated by Francis Miller and H. P. Share) H. H 540 

Great Tub-race at Point No-point. The (Illustrated by W. T. Smedley). Ellen IV. Olney 5S7 

Guido Rf.NI. ( Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement 939 

Handkerchief. What can be made with a (Illustrated by the Author) D. C. Beard ... . 972 

Hassan's Water-melon David Kcr 763 

How a Hoosier Boy Saw the Tower of Pisa. (Illustrated by Granville \ 

Perkins) t A. If. Frelageot 784 

How Burt Went Whale-hunting. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards and ) 

Daniel C. Beard) \ Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 749 

How Far Yet ? Poem. (Illustrated) Celia Thaxter S08 

How Toe Benti.y Won a Bouquet from the Queen of Portugal. ) „ ,., _, , „ 

, T1 , ,,___,,,,. > H. II. I lark 80s; 

(Illustrated by J. E. Kelly and others) \ J 

How the Children Earned Money for Charity G. B. Bartlelt S75 

In School Again. Jingle. (Illustrated by Miss Rose Muller) E. L. Sylvester 877 

Inside a Fish-net. (Illustrated by V. Nehlig) ... Sarah J. Prichard . 669 

In the Garden. Verses. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 636 

In the Harvest-field. Picture, drawn by Miller and Ilayden 784 

Iron-clad Pie. The Jingle. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) A. IV. Harrington 810 

Jabberwocky. To the Author of Verses £. P. Matthews 930 

Jane and Eliza. Verses. (Illustrated) 621 

Japanese Boy. Jiro — A (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) C. A. IV 848 

Jiggles 515, 519, 530, 539, 563,613, 617,620, 654, 708, 756, 810,835,851, 873,877 

Jiro — A Japanese Boy. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards) C. A. IV. 848 

July. Poem Susan Hartley Swett ...... 728 

King Midas. Poem. (Illustrated by Alfred Brennan) Ceha Thaxter 515 

Lake George. Summer Days at (Illustrated by J. H. Cocks and F. S. Church). Lucy A. Millington 794 

LAND OF NODDY. The Verses Rossiter Johnson 873 

LAUGHING Lill. Verses. ( Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 872 

Leap-frog in the Woods. Picture, drawn by Palmer Cox 793 

Learning to Ride. (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Charles Barnard 920 

Lesson of the Briers. The Joel Stacy 754 

Little Brown Betty. Poem. (Illustrated by Miss C. A. Northam) Ada Neyl 845 

Little Girl's Idea. A Picture, drawn by Addie Ledyard 522 

Little Guido's Complaint. Verses , Margaret J. Preston 941 

Long Ago. Poem. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott). ..... Margaret Johnson 884 

Longfellow and the Children. (Illustrated) Lucy Lctrcom 637 

Longfellow's Last Afternoon with Children. (Illustrated) Hezekiah Butterworth 641 

Magic Clovers. (Illustrated by the Author and H. E. Thompson) Margaret B. Harvey 61S 

Maid of Honor. The Poem. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Eva L. Ogden 602 

Man from Paris. The Jingle. (Illustrated) J. B. C 563 

Marlborough Sands. A Tale of the (Illustrated by W. L. Taylor) Eliot McCormick 867 

Mary Jane Tells About the Spicers' Cows. (Illustrated by J. H. Cocks) A. G. Plympton 592 

" Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary." Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author) . . . .Adelia B. Beard 530 

Master Theodore. Verses. (Illustrated) B. II 566 

Mentor. Play-day at (Illustrated) Frederic G. Mather 532 

Midas. King Poem. (Illustrated by Alfred Brennan) Ceha Thaxter . . 515 

Mrs. Peterkin in Egypt Lucretia P. Hale 756 



A. M. Cook 511 

Mysterious Barrel. The (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Paul Fort 781 

New Light. The ( Illustrated by F. 1 1. Lungren, and others) Charles Barnard 566 

New Red Riding-hood. The Play. (Illustrated) E. S. Brooks 572 

Nightingale. The Poem. (Illustrated) Celia Thaxter 755 

Noddy. The Land of Verses Rossiter Johnson 873 

Nonsense Song. Jingle. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) A. R. Wells 845 

Northern Myths. Stories from the (Illustrated by Robert Blum and R. B. } 

B; ^ James Baldwin . .534, 766, 879 

" Oh, What are You at, Little Woman ? " Jingle. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) 931 

Orient Base-ball Nine. The Captain of the C. M. Sheldon 931 

Origin of Dantzic. The (Illustrated by Alfred Kappes and John Steeple 


Our Largest Friends. (Illustrated) John Lewees 838 

Peterkin in Egypt. Mrs Litcretia P. Hale. ... 756 

Picus AND HIS Pots. A (Illustrated by John S. Davis) . . .Maurice Thompson 916 

Play-day at Mentor. (Illustrated) Frederic G. Mather 532 

Pleasant Surprise. A Ada Neyl 530 

Private Rehearsal. A Picture, drawn by L. Hopkins 883 

Problem. A Verses Bessie Chandler. 612 

PuNJAUBS OF SlAM. The Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Mrs. S. C. Stone 761 

Queen of Prussia's Ride. The Poem. (Illustrated by John Steeple Davis) A. L. A. Smith 700 

Queen's Repartee. The Poem. (Illustrated by H. McVickar ) Jay Allison 935 

Queer Fly. A True Story about a L. H. 655 

Radishville William O. Stoddard 913 

Rain-man. The Poem. (Illustrated by J. H. Cocks) Augusta Lamed 520 

Realized Hope. A Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Clara Louise Bui nham ... 915 

Red Riding-hood The New Play. (Illustrated) E. S. Brooks 572 

Rem. Guido (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement 939 

Riddle. The Poem. (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) M. P. D 953 

Ride. Learning to (Illustrated by J. E. Kelly) Charles Barnard 920 

Scholar. A Verses Sydney Dayre 925 

Scott. A Visit to the Home of Sir Walter. (Illustrated) Mrs. P. L. Collins 774 

Sea Baby-houses. ( Illustrated by James C. Beard) Mrs. H. M. Miller 764 

Seals and Seal-hunting in the North-Atlantic. (Illustrated by Jas. 

Mrs. Caroline M. Harris . . . . 772 

C. Beard, Daniel C. Beard, W. Taber, and M. J. Burns). . . . <, Er " cst rn S erso11 62 4 

Sea-side Turn-out. A Picture, drawn by F. S. Church «• S04 

Secretary Bird. The Story of the ( Illustrated) Paul Fort 51S 

September. Picture drawn by John Steeple Davis S74 

September Number — Just Out. The Picture S71 

Seven Idle Little Men. Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) E. Vinton Blake S60 

Silverhair's Quest. Verses Ruth Hall 620 

SlRANI. Elisabetta Clara Erskine Clement 940 

Sisters Three and the Kilmaree. The (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) . .Frank R. Stockton 943 

Song of the Swing. The Poem. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott and \ 

Jessie Curtis Shepherd) 

Spring Story. A Verses. (Illustrated by Alfred Brennan) Kate Kellogg . 555 

Stories from the Northern Myths. (Illustrated bv Robert Blum and R. 7 

B. Birch) \ Ja "" :s Bald ' i '<" 534, 766. S79 

Stories of Art and Artists. (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement 522, 


Story of a Very Naughty Girl. A; or, My Visit to Mary fane. (Illus- ) 

trated by the Author) '. \A. C. Plympton 925 

STORY of the Arbalist. The (Illustrated by C. Mettais and H. P. Share). .Maurice Thompson S61 

Story of the Secretary Bird. The ( Illustrated) Paul Fort 5 iS 

Sudden Shower. A Picture. (Drawn bv L. Hopkins) ." 919 

Sultan of the East. The Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox . . 6SS 

Summer Days at Lake George. (Illustrated by J. H. Cocks and F. S. 


Lucy A. Millington 794 



Surprise Party. A Play Mrs. Abby Morton Diaz .... 956 

Sweet, Red Rose. The Verses. (Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) Joel Stacy 766 

Swords. (Illustrated) John Lewees 701 

Tag's 'Coon. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard) Frank R. Stockton 683 

" The Sail-boat and the Catamaran." Jingle. (Illustrated by C. Weaver) . C. May Smith 873 

Tinkey. ( Illustrated by A. B. Frost) S. A. Sheilds 674 

Tit for Tat. Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) Eva F. L. Carson 804 

Tower of Pisa. How a Hoosier Boy Saw the (Illustrated by Granville \ 

Perkins) : \ A - IL F '^S™t 784 

True Story About a Queer Fly. A L. II 655 

Tub-race at Point No-Point. The Great (Illustrated by W. T. Smedley) . .Ellen W. Olney 587 

TwiNEGRAMS. (Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill) Mrs. E. C. Gibson 613 

Visit to the Home of Sir Walter Scott. A (Illustrated) Mrs. P. L. Collins 774 

What One Year Makes of a Little Kitten. Verses. (Illustrated by 

H. P. Share) 

What the Burdock was Good For. Verses A. S. R 532 

" When my Ship Comes in. " Jingle Emily A. Braddock 617 

Whirligig Club. The (Illustrated by H. Sandham) L. A. B 607 

Why the Clock Struck One. ( Illustrated by W. T. Smedley) Sophie Swett 505 

Wings of Things. The Verses Kathari7ie Hanson 596 

Wise Professor. The Jingle. (Illustrated by H. McVickar) Malcolm Douglas 620 

Witch-trap. The (Illustrated by Hermann Faber) Felix L. Os^vald 596 

Wolf-reared Children. (Illustrated by W. M. Chase, R. B. Birch, W. T. 

Smedley, H. P. Share, J. H. Cocks, and others) 

Working by the Day. Picture, drawn by S. G. McCutcheon 701 

Yellow Pane. The Poem Walter Learned 680 

Young Wolves at Play. Picture 878 

} Airs. Fanny Barrow 539 

/ Charles L. Brace . . . 542 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit (Illustrated). 

Introduction — The Bottle-fish — A Living Life-buoy — Watch the Saturdays — ATen-legged Torment (illus- 
trated) — For the Inquisitive — Can't hold a Candle to him — The Owl's-head Butterfly (illustrated) — If So, 
How ? 57S ; How do Birdies Learn to Sing ? — Ho, for a New Candy ! — The Origin of the Nail-mark — Some 
Queer Facts About Chickens — A Village Captured by Bees — Music-loving Rats — Side-saddles for Men — 
The Sperm-whale (illustrated), 660; The Eagle Month — Eagles' Food — A Warm-weather Puzzle — Orbits — 
Is This the Reason Why? — Busy at the California Trees (illustrated) — Three Noted Ravens — Baby 
Lions — Natural Apartment-houses, 740; Introduction — A Little Exercise — A Young Gardener — A Two- 
legged Steed (illustrated) — That "Cloudy Saturday" Question — Ancient and Modern, 81S ; Tread Lightly — 
Woven Wind — Who Has Tasted It? — The Trembling Tree — Ways of Thinking — A Tide 1296 Feet 
High — How the Flat-fish Disappeared — What Would You Do If? — Babies Among the Flowers — What are 
They? 900; Introduction — The Troubles of the Telegraph — The Squirrel and her Children — The Last of 
the Seven Wonders — A Tricycle Journey — A Sharp Trick in Self-defense — A Fable with a Moral, 980. 

For Very Little Folk (Illustrated). 

Master Self, 575 — Mayo's Mice; The Letter " B," 656 — How Santa Claus Came to Harry in Summer-time; 
Fourth of July, 738 — Making a Big Hill; Neddie and Lillie Melville; Herbie's Gardening; Fannie and 
Johnny, 820 — A Queer Boat and a Funny Crew, 896 — The Poor Dolly, 977. 


The New Red Riding-hood £. S. Brooks 572 

A Surprise Party Mrs. Abby Morton Diaz. . . . 956 

The Letter-box (Illustrated) 581, 662, 742, 823, 902, 982 

The Riddle-box (Illustrated) .583, 665, 745, 825, 905, 985 

Frontispieces "Ninette," facing Title-page of Volume — Mr. Longfellow and his Boy Visitors, 587 — The 
Queen of Prussia's Ride, 669 — Summer Days at Lake George, 749 — What Makes It Go? 829 — When We 
were Boys, 908. 


Vol. IX. 

MAY, 1882. 

No. 7. 

[Copyright, 1882, by The CENTURY CO.] 

By Sophie Swett. 

Keturah was in the kitchen making a chicken- 
pie of the Plymouth Rock rooster, whose domi- 
neering disposition had become unendurable. 

She had been making pop-overs, which would 
soon come out of the oven, in all the crispness, 
and flakiness, and general toothsomeness which 
made Keturah's pop-overs famous ; so the kitchen 
was not a bad place to be in, just now. But Ke- 
turah had her apron on her head, and that was a 
sign that she was in the doleful dumps, and small 
boys and girls had better keep out of the way. 
That apron of Keturah's cast a shadow over the 
whole house, especially when Aunt Kate and Uncle 
Rufe had gone to Boston, and Keturah had all the 
small fry under her thumb. 

Sam put his nose in at the crack of the kitchen 
door, and sniffed. The pop-overs allured, but Ke- 
turah's apron waved a warning, and Sam, being a 
wise boy, retreated. 

Polly was in the garden hanging out the clothes. 
Sam, looking out of the hall window, saw her, and 
wondered if a blackbird had nipped her nose, it 
was so red. But the next moment a big tear 
dropped past it, and he saw that she was weeping, 
and there was her lover, Jake Pettibone, beating 
a hasty retreat, looking very sheepish. Keturah 
had "shooed" him off, just as she "shooed" the 
chickens. Keturah was Polly's aunt, and had 
been "more 'n a mother to her," as she was 
always reminding her. 

Sam did wish that Polly had more spirit, and 
would n't allow her lover to be "shooed" away. 
Jake was such a good fellow, and owned such 
delightful boats. 

Ike was down by the currant-bushes, now, dig- 

Vol. IX.— 33. 

ging worms for bait, preparatory to going fishing 
with Jake. Sam had been invited to go, but Ke- 
turah would n't let him, because it might rain, 
and he had had the croup when he was six months 
old. (This was the very worst attack of doleful 
dumps that Keturah had ever had.) 

Kitty was in the garden, too, trying to put salt 
on a robin's tail; somebody had told her she 
could catch a robin so, and she believed it, because 
she was only a girl ; and she did n't care if she 
could n't go fishing, for the same reason. It was 
almost as well to be a girl, as to be a boy, under 
Keturah's thumb ; and Aunt Kate would be away 
for three weeks more, and there was no hope that 
Keturah would come out of the doleful dumps, 
and be her usual good-natured self — unless that 
provoking old clock should get over its mysterious 
habit of striking One, and unless she should find 
her saffron-colored silk stockings ! 

For Keturah was superstitious ; she believed in 
signs and omens, and nobody could reason, nor 
laugh, nor coax her out of the belief. Nothing 
could induce her to begin any undertaking on 
Friday; she would not burn egg-shells, lest she 
should come to want: and, if she spilled salt, she 
was sure she should quarrel. If she saw the new- 
moon over her left shoulder, or the first robin on 
a low bough, ill-luck was certain. If a mirror was 
broken, or a whip-poor-will sang on the roof, some- 
body in the house would die before the year was 
out. If a fork or a pin that was dropped stood up 
on the floor, or Casabianca, the cat, washed his 
face, she made preparations for company. She 
carried a horseshoe in her pocket to ward off 



witches, and a potato to ward off rheumatism. 
She was always hearing mysterious noises, and 
was very scornful when anybody suggested rats. 
When she saw a "calico" horse, she wished, and 
she was sure that she would get her wish ; and she 
always made a bow to the new moon, that it 
might bring her a present. 

Uncle Rufe and Aunt Kate — who were like the 
best of parents to their little, orphaned nephews 
and nieces — were always telling them, privately, 
that Keturah's signs were all nonsense, and they 
must not listen to them; but so many signs "came 
true " that Ike and Kitty more than half believed 
Keturah was right. Did n't Ike have that fight 
with Neddy Forrester the very day that he spilled 
all his salt at breakfast? And did n't he get his 
velocipede, and Kitty her walking doll, — presents 
from Uncle Jack, — only two days after they bowed 
to the moon ? Sam declared it to be his belief that 
they would have had the presents, even if they had 
failed to pay their respects to the moon, and, as for 
the salt, Neddy Forrester had been threatening to 
"whip" Ike for a long time. 

Sam was almost ten, and Aunt Kate had told 
him that she depended upon him to teach the 
other children not to mind Keturah's nonsense. 

But he did quake, inwardly, whenever Keturah 
heard very strange noises, and prophesied dreadful 
things. However, he hadn't quaked half so much 
since Keturah had twice called him to the door, in 
the evening, to sec a ghost in the garden ; and one 
ghost was the Bartlett pear-tree, all blossomed out 
white, and the other was a stray white cow that 
had taken a fancy to the cabbages ! Then Sam 
had concluded that there was something as sub- 
stantial and commonplace as a pear-tree or a cow 
at the bottom of all ghost stories, and he had felt 
sure that Keturah could n't scare him again — but 
it was queer that that clock should strike One ! 

The disappearance of Keturah's saffron-colored 
silk stockings — which had been given her by her 
first and only lover, a sailor, who was drowned on 
his second voyage — was not so unaccountable. 
Keturah had a great many bundles and budgets; 
she was, as she declared, "uncommon savin'," 
and hoarded all the scraps that would otherwise 
have found their way to the rag-bag. Sam sus- 
pected that in one of Keturah's budgets the 
saffron-colored silk stockings, which she felt sure 
had been spirited away as a warning of impending 
evil, were hiding themselves. 

But what could make that clock strike One? 

It was a tall old hall-clock, that had been in 
the family for generations; it had not been in 
working order for years, and was supposed to have 
outlived its usefulness. Some people admired it 
very much, but the children thought it very ugly, 

with its great gilt griffin on the top, and its gilt 
claw feet, just like a beast. Keturah had always 
felt there was something queer about that clock. 

And now it did seem as if there was something 
queer about the clock ; for it had struck, on five or 
six occasions, just one loud, solemn stroke, which 
could be heard all over the house. 

It struck the very first night after Uncle Rufe 
and Aunt Kate went away, between nine and ten 
o'clock at night. Sam and Ike were awakened, 
and got out of their beds to see what was the mat- 
ter. Keturah was as white as a sheet, wringing 
her hands, and bewailing that something was 
going to happen, whereupon Ike got back into bed, 
and covered his head with the clothes. 

Sam slipped into his pantaloons, so as to be ready 
for emergencies, and crept down two or three stairs. 
He peered over the balusters at the clock. A 
moonbeam fell exactly across the griffin's head. It 
did n't wink, but its eyes flashed like coals of fire. 

I am sorry to say that Sam followed Ike. 

Keturah said that something dreadful must have 
happened to Uncle Rufe or Aunt Kate. But the 
next day she received a telegram, saying that they 
were well, and had had a very pleasant journey. 

And Sam thought that something might have 
jarred the clock, and made it strike, and he wished 
he had n't covered up his head with the bedclothes. 
If he 'd only had time to think, he 'd have marched 
boldly up to the clock, and found out what was 
the matter ! He lay awake for more than an 
hour, mourning that he, the man of the family, 
should have let the others think he was afraid. 

He was awakened by another stroke of the 
clock. There was a faint glimmer of dawn creeping 
in at the window — not enough to give the cheerful 
courage that comes with morning, but just enough 
to make the furniture take on ghostly shapes. 

Instead of going boldly down-stairs, Sam sat up 
in bed, with his teeth chattering ; and when the 
door-knob turned slowly, and the door opened 
softly, Ike or even Kitty could not have popped 
down under the clothes more quickly than he did ! 

It was only Keturah. Sam felt wonderfully 
re-assured when he heard her voice, and he 
emerged from his retirement, and assumed as easy 
and confident a manner as a boy could assume 
while his teeth were chattering. 

"That clock wa' n't never struck with hands! " 
announced Keturah, solemnly. 

" Of course it was n't the hands that made it 
strike," began Sam, but his feeble attempt at a 
joke was promptly frowned down by Keturah. 

" I felt in my bones that something was a-goin' 
to happen, even before them saffron-colored silk 
stockin's was sperited away," said she, in a doleful 
voice, and with many shakings of the head. " And, 



as if them stockin's wa' n't warnin' enough, there '5 
that old clock, that haint been wound up nobody 
knows when, and with its insides all gi'n out, any- 
how, a-strikin' out loud and solemn enough to 
wake the seven sleepers of Christendom ! I haint 
no expectation that we shall ever 
see your aunt and uncle ag'in ! " 

" I say, Keturah, if I were 
you, I 'd go down and take 
a look at that clock ! You 
might find out what makes 
it strike," said Sam. 

" I sha' n't meddle nor 
make with the works of dark- 
ness, and I 'd advise you 
riot to, neither," said Keturah. 

Sam scarcely needed that ad- 
vice. He felt even less like in- 
vestigating the matter than he had 
the night before. Even in the broad, 
cheerful daylight he gave that 
clock a wide berth. 

After that, the clock struck, once 
or twice, every night ; and three 
times it had struck in the day- 
time, — each time when Jake Petti- 
bone, Polly's lover, was in the house; 
and from this, Keturah had become pos- 
sessed of the idea that Jake had something 
to do with the impending evil of which they were 
warned by the clock. And 50 she had forbidden 
Polly to have anything to say to him. Polly was 
almost broken-hearted, in consequence, and Jake 
was as much under the weather as such a jolly 
sailor could be. 

Sam and Ike and Kitty all thought it was a 
great shame. If there ever was a sweetheart that 
was worth having, Jake was one. Indeed, Kitty 
had resolved to marry him, herself, when she 
should grow up, if Polly did n't — unless Ike and 
she should keep a candy store, for which enter- 
prise she was willing to forego matrimony. Jake 
had been "'round the world and home again," 
when he was only a boy. He had seen cocoa- 
nuts, and bananas, and dates, growing; he had 
been down in the ocean, and brought up great 
branches of coral, and shells that looked as if they 
were made of pure gold ; he had been on intimate 
terms with monkeys, and wild men, and alligators, 
and earthquakes, and volcanoes ; he had been half 
cooked by cannibals, scalped — in a mild way — by 
Indians, and had had a piece of his arm bitten out 
by a shark; he had been on a fishing expedition 
to "the Banks"; had killed, with his own hands, a 
shark as big as — well, I am obliged to confess that 
the size of that shark varied with each time that 
Jake told the story; but it was never smaller than 

a whale, and it was once as large as the fabulous 
sea-serpent ; he had caught a cod-fish so heavy 
that it nearly sank the vessel; had got wrecked, 
and escaped drowning only by a hair's breadth. 

After all those good times, he had settled 
quietly down in Northport, and, wonderful man as 
he was, had become so condescending as to 
wish to marry Polly, the children's nurse. 
Polly was a nice girl enough, and pretty, 
too; but she did not know what a 
volcano was, and seemed to 

think it was an animal ; she 
said she saw one stuffed in a 
menagerie, once ; and she would 
say, " Oh, la, now, I know you 're 
jokin' ! " while Jake was relating 
his most thrilling adventures, 
which was very disagreeable. 

To say nothing of his past greatness, Jake was 
now the proprietor of three boats ; in one, he went 
fishing ; the other two he kept to let. If there 
could be a happier or prouder position in life than 
Jake's, Sam and Ike would like to know what it was. 

The fishing vessel was "as tidy a craft as you 
often run afoul of," as its owner often remarked, and 
the children were very fond of going fishing in it, 
although, to tell the truth, there was a fishy smell 
about it, which grew very strong just about the time 
the water began to break up into hills, and the boat 
began to make dancing-school bows, and you began 
to wish you had n't come. The little pleasure-yacht, 
the " Harnsome Polly," was "desarvin' of her name, 
and more 'n that you could n't say." That was 
Jake's opinion. The children thought Polly ought 

5 o8 



to be very proud and grateful for the honor of hav- 
ing such a beautiful boat named for her. Jake's 
third boat was only a row-boat, named the " Racer," 
which he had made for himself; but it was every- 
thing that a row-boat ought to be, and he often 
lent it to Sam and Ike to row in, by themselves. 

It will readily be seen that Jake was a valuable as 
well as a distinguished friend, and his marriage to 
Polly was an event greatly to be desired, especially 
as Jake threatened, if Aunt Keturah persisted in 
"cutting up rough," and preventing him from see- 
ing Polly, to go off to the Cannibal Islands, and get 
himself wholly cooked, this time, and eaten; a har- 
rowing possibility, the thought of which caused 
Kitty to dissolve into tears, and made Sam and Ike 
lose their zest for fishing, even, for a whole day. 

And that queer, ridiculous old clock was at the 
bottom of all this trouble ! 

As Sam, looking out of the hall window, saw 
Jake being " shooed " away from Polly, he beck- 
oned to him, slyly. He wanted to see whether 
that clock would strike as soon as he set foot in 
the house, as on former occasions, and he also 
wished to cheer Jake a little, lest he should, in des- 
peration, set sail at once for the Cannibal Islands. 

Poor Jake's round, rosy face was elongated until 
it looked like the reflection of a face in a spoon, 
and its jollity had given place to a woe-begoneness 
that was enough to make your heart ache. 

He came cautiously around to the door, anxious 
lest Polly's vigilant aunt should espy him; but 
Keturah had returned to her chicken-pie, without 
having the faintest idea that Jake would be so 
audacious as to enter the house by the front door. 

Jake stood still, just inside the door, and sur- 
veyed the clock. He was superstitious, as sailors 
usually are, and he seemed to prefer to keep at a 
respectful distance from that clock. 

" She 's an onacountable cre'tur', now, aint she ? " 

Sam understood that he meant the clock, for 
Jake had a way of considering clocks, as well as 
vessels, as of the female sex. 

"But it did n't strike, Jake ! It did n't strike 
One when you came in ! " exclaimed Sam. 

"She did n't, that 's a fact ! " said Jake, bright- 
ening a little. " Mebbe she 's gi'n over her pesky 
tricks. I don't see what nobody 's got ag'in' me to 
go to bewitchin' on her like that, anyhow ! " 

"I don't think it has anything to do with you, 
Jake. It strikes every night, and you are not here 
then," said Sam. 

" But it 's kinder cur'us that she don't never set 
up to strike in the day-time, onless I be here. 
But there is folks, Sammy, that says none o' them 
things don't happen without nateral causes, and if 
there is a nateral cause for that there clock's per- 

formances, I 'd gin somethin' harnsome to find it 
out ! For there haint nothin' but jest clearin' up 
this here mystery that '11 ever fetch the old woman 
'round "— with a nod toward the kitchen. "As 
for them saffron-colored silk stockin's, — she says, 
mebbe I haint got nothin' to do with their bein' 
sperited away, but that pesky clock's strikin' is a 
warnin' ag'in' me. Well, if Polly 'n' me has got 
to part, there 's the Cannibal Islands for me, and 
the sooner I 'm off the better ! " 

"Oh, Jake, don't go ! " cried Sam, in distress. 
"Perhaps we shall find out what makes it strike. 
I 'm going to try ! " 

"Sammy, if you will find out, and fetch Keturah 
'round. I '11 — I '11 take you mackerelin' clear'n 
outside the shoals, and I '11 — Sammy, I '11 make 
you a row-boat that '11 beat the ' Racer ' all hol- 
ler, and as pretty as new paint can make her ! " 

This was a dazzling offer, indeed ! Sam felt 
ready to brave all the ghosts he had ever heard of, 
for such a prize. And to keep Jake away from 
the Cannibal Islands ! — though he must be a great 
goose to let cannibals eat him, just for Polly. 

"Of course, it is nothing but what can be 
accounted for, and I '11 find out for you, for noth- 
ing, Jake," said he, grandly. Just at that moment 
a sudden breeze, blowing through the open 
window, slammed the hall door. 

A moment afterward the clock struck One ! 

Jake's ruddy face actually changed color, and he 
gazed at Sam in awe-stricken silence. Sam did n't 
feel so brave as he had felt a few moments before, 
but he marched up to the clock, and had his hand 
on the door when he heard Keturah's voice. He 
turned to look for Jake, but he had vanished. 

" It 's jest because that Jake Pettibone was 
hangin' 'round here, though he did n't set his foot 
in the house. I did n't send him off none too 
soon, for it 's as true as preachin' that that warnin' 
has got somethin' to do with him ! Sakes alive, 
child, you aint a-touchin' of it ! Come right away, 
this minute ; it 's a-flying in the face o' Providence 
to meddle with such things ! " 

Sam was not at all sure that he would have 
opened the clock door if Keturah had not ap- 
peared, for he felt very queer and " shaky." 

His heart sank. He had a "presentiment," 
like Keturah. He felt sure that he should never 
have a boat that could beat the " Racer," that Polly 
would die of a broken heart, and the cannibals 
would dine off roasted Jake. 

" Hickory, dickory, dock, A mouse ran up the clock ; 
The clock struck one, and down he ran, Hickory, dickory, dock ! " 

Sam awoke in the dead of the night, with this 
poem of Mother Goose running in his head. It 



had, in some way, mingled itself with his dreams. 
It was no wonder, for Kitty was continually repeat- 
ing Mother Goose's poetry, and the clock, which 
was in everybody's mouth, figuratively speaking, 
had probably put that verse into her head. Indeed, 

tiresome old lady, whose poetry was of very little 
account — by which it will be seen that Sam's 
literary taste was poor. But now it occurred to 
him that a mouse might make a clock strike One, 
if it got in and frisked about among the works. 


Sam remembered, now, that he had heard her 
singing it over and over the day before. It had 
not suggested any idea to him then ; he only 
wished that he need not hear quite so much about 
clocks, and he thought that Mother Goose was a 

A mouse might be the " nateral cause " that 
Jake would give so much to find. Sam might 
possibly make a discovery that would bring Ke- 
turah out of the doleful dumps, keep Jake from the 
cannibals, dry Polly's tears, take them all mack- 




ereling out beyond the shoals, and last, but not 
least, give him a row-boat of his own that could 
beat the " Racer" all hollow. 

He must be a queer boy who would not dare 
something with a chance of gaining all that. 

He might wait until morning to investigate, but 
Keturah seemed to know, by instinct, when any- 
body went near that clock, and she would be sure 
to interfere, and, besides, he could n't wait. 

He slipped out of bed and lighted his candle 
(Keturah did not allow him to have a lamp, lest he 
should break it and set the house on fire), and he 
stole softly down-stairs. The one small candle 
had very little effect upon the darkness of the great 
hall. There seemed to be shadowy shapes in 
every corner, and the stillness was awful. It re- 
quired all the courage that Sam could muster to 
force himself to go forward. 

But at last he did stand before the clock, with his 
heart in his mouth, and his hand trembling so that 
he could scarcely hold the candle. You may think 
it strange that he was afraid, but you have n't 
heard Keturah talk about ghosts and witches until 
your blood ran cold. Sam knew there were no 
such things, just as well as you do, but he felt very 
" shivery." 

It was not too late to turn back ; but that was 
not the kind of boy that Sam was. 

He thought of the boy that stood on the burning 
deck, of Daniel in the lions' den, and, queerly 
enough, of the Plymouth Rock rooster that would 
fly around after its head was cut off. People do 
think of queer things at great crises, you know. 

Then, with a bold little jerk, he opened the 
clock door. 

The clock struck One ! 

The stroke came in the midst of a rushing and 
scrambling noise, and Sam saw a mouse's tail 
whisking out of sight ! 

Sam put his head inside the clock, and there, 
down in one corner, was a nest, full of tiny mice, 
scarcely as large as your little finger ! And what 
do you suppose the nest was made of? A great 
quantity of bits of paper came first, but sticking 
out at the side was a strange something that 
caught Sam's eye. He pulled, and out came — 
just as true as you live — Keturah's saffron-colored 
silk stockings ! 

Sam was a brave boy, then, you may be sure ! 
You could n't have made him believe that he 
ever had been otherwise; and happy? — if he had 
had anything to set the candle on, he would have 

turned a somersault, then and there. As it was, 
he had to content himself with uttering a shout ; it 
was what Ike and he called a Camanche war- 
whoop, and it raised the whole household. 

Keturah came first, with her night-cap strings 
flying, a Bible under one arm, and a horseshoe 
under the other. Ike came next, in his night- 
gown, with his hair standing upright, from terror, 
but tugging his velocipede along, because, as he 
afterward explained, "if everything was going to 
smash, he was going to save that, anyhow." 
Then came Kitty, half awake and sobbing ; and 
Polly brought up the rear, her face as white as her 

Keturah sat down flat on the hall-floor, when 
she heard Sam's report, and saw her saffron- 
colored silk stockings, soiled and tattered, but still 
her precious treasures. 

" Seein' that wa' n't a warnin', I '11 never believe 
in warnin's no more ! " she exclaimed. 

"Oh, don't! please don't, Keturah!" cried 
Sam. " Nor hear raps nor have doleful dumps — " 

" Nor turn ag'in' poor Jake ! " interrupted Polly. 

" It was just because he is big, and stepped 
heavily, and jarred the clock, and scared the 
mouse, that the clock struck One when he came 
here ! Don't you see ? " cried Sam. 

" I 'm a foolish old woman, and I 'm free to 
confess I 'd ought to put more trust in Providence, 
seein' things mostly turns out to be jest what you 
might have known, and as nateral as life ! " 

With this not very clear confession, Keturah 
retired. She dropped her horseshoe on the way, 
and did n't stop to pick it up ! 

Keturah wanted to let Casabianca have those 
wee mice, but Sam begged them off; he thought 
it was mean to take the advantage of such little 
bits of things, and he declared they should have a 
fair chance for their lives. But the next time that 
they went to look at them, — lo and behold! 
their mother had carried them all off! She evi- 
dently thought a quieter tenement was better 
suited to a growing family. 

And so the clock never struck again. 

That new boat is a beauty. Sam and Ike agree 
that the "Racer" "is n't anywhere" beside it. 

The Cannibal Islanders will have to go hungry 
for a long time, before they make a meal off Jake. 

If you '11 believe it, Keturah washed, darned, 
and patched those saffron-colored silk stockings, 
and danced in them at Jake and Polly's wedding ! 




(A West-Prussian Legend.) 

By A. M. Cook. 


On the spot now occupied by the great commer- 
cial port of Prussia, the strongly fortified city of 
Dantzic, there stood, in ancient times, a little fish- 
ing-town named Wieke. 

The inhabitants of this place supported them- 
selves mostly by trading in eels and smoked her- 
rings ; there were, however, a good many soldiers 
in the town, and their presence made the fishermen 
turbulent and quarrelsome. When, as had been 
their custom from time out of mind, all the towns- 
folk assembled, with their wives and children, to 
celebrate their ancient festivals, and kindled great 
fires, around which they danced, there was pretty 
sure to be a disturbance and a fight before the 
frolic was over, and not unfrcquently it ended in 
the death of one of their number. 

The " grundherr," or landed proprietor of 
Wieke — that is, the nobleman to whose estate the 
village and all the surrounding country belonged — 
was a man of high rank, but very uncertain tem- 
per. His name was Hagel, and he had built for 
himself a large castle, made entirely of wood, and 
situated upon the top of a high hill that was called, 
from him, " The Hagelsberg. " But of neither cas- 
tle nor village can the smallest trace now be found. 

Hagel was a powerful and hard man, for whom 
his dependents felt no affection. He punished the 
slightest offenses with great severity, and it must 
be confessed that the rough conduct of the villagers 
too often gave him an excuse and opportunity. 
But he was not only severe, he was also unjust, and 
insisted upon having, as a sort of tribute, the best 





of all that the people obtained by their fisheries, people were their tenants and dependents. Some- 
in addition to their labor in cultivating his land, times they paid their rents in produce, sometimes 
, . . „ ... . . .. _ by their services, some- 

times in both, but within 
certain limits. Money they 
seldom used — it was too 
scarce. Their condition 
depended entirely upon 
the character of the land- 
lord, who in different coun- 
tries had different titles, 
but all signifying the same 
thing, — the "lord," or 
" owner," of the soil. 

However dissatisfied a 
peasant might be with his 
landlord, he could not 
move away and go to 
another. Peasants never 
thought of such a thing. 
In the first place, they 
could not go unless by the 
consent and permission of 
the man under whom they 
were living; and then the 
landlord who would treat 
them the worst would be 
most unwilling to part with 
a good tenant. So that for 
peasants to remove was a 
sort of disgrace, for it at 
once raised the suspicion 
that they bore a bad char- 
acter, and had, perhaps, 
been sent off. Therefore, 
they got along as they 
best could, and lived and 
died where their fore- 
fathers had lived and died 
before them, — often in the 
same house. 

In some countries there 
still is but little change, not, in these days, be- 
cause they might not remove if they wished, but 
simply from habit and custom. Now that all parts 
of Europe are governed by good laws, the land- 
owners have no longer such absolute power over 
their tenants as they had in what are called the 
"feudal" times, — an expression which means the 
times when affairs were in the very state just de- 
scribed. Besides this, the peasants feel a natural 
pride in having lived for many generations on the 
same estate, and therefore they are very unwilling 
to remove, unless driven to it by the most urgent 

Now to return to the legend. 

For ten long years the " Wieker," or inhabitants 

Even the women had to do their share whenever 
extra help was wanted at the castle, and as the 
work up there seemed to have no end, there was a 
general alarm whenever the boigt (or steward) of 
Hagelsberg was seen coming down to the village, 
for no one could tell who or what would be wanted 

But, before going on to tell the rest of the 
story, I must stop and explain to the little Ameri- 
can reader that in those old times in Europe the 
country people, or " peasantry," as they are called, 
did not own their farms, as most American farmers 
do. Nowadays, some of the richest own their land, 
but in former days the whole country belonged 
either to the king or to some great man, and the 



of Wieke, — with impatience and murmurs, it is 
true, — had borne the weight of the yoke laid upon 
them by their grundherr. But at last it got to 
be past bearing, and they determined to put an 
end to his oppressions, either by force or stratagem. 
They would much have preferred to use force, for 
to their honest, manly hearts there was something 
mean and small in stratagem ; but it was only too 
evident that they would not be able to accomplish 
their purpose in that way. For how could they, 
undisciplined villagers, hope to make their way to 
the top of the Hagelsberg, in the face of the strong 
garrison within the cas- 
tle-walls ? And if they 
gained the summit, 
how could they effect 
an entrance through 
bars and iron-bound 
doors and armed serv- 
ing-men, to get at the 
tyrant hidden within ? 
Muskets and cannon 
were things altogether 
unknown in those 
days ; arrows shot up- 
ward would only fall 
back, and perhaps in- 
jure those who sent 
them. So they came 
to the conclusion that 
there was nothing left 
for them but to try 

It was again time for 
one of their great fes- 
tivals, the remains of 
the old heathen wor- 
ship of their ancestors, 
but which their de- 
scendants still contin- 
ued to observe for mere 
amusement and frolic. 
The evening before the 
festival they always 
assembled to light a 
huge bonfire, — former- 
ly kindled in honor of 
their gods, — and all 
the night they danced 
around it with songs 
and all sorts of wild 
antics. Accordingly, 
on this occasion, they 
ascended to the usual 
place, — the open space 

in front of the castle. The selection of this spot an- 
ciently had been made as a mark of respect to the 

nobleman who owned the castle, implying a degree 
of valor and heroism on his part so great as to en- 
title him to a share in the honors offered to their 
deities. This compliment custom obliged him to 
acknowledge by sending out to the revelers a cask 
of beer, which, with loud shouts and hurrahs, they 
drank to his health. 

The Wieker had long fixed upon the present 
festival as the time for carrying out their plan of 
vengeance; and when the appointed day came, 
they ascended the Hagelsberg, as they had often 
done before, built and kindled their bonfire, began 


their dance, and seemed to be enjoying themselves 
to the utmost. But scarcely had the cask of beer 




made its appearance when they seized upon the 
serving-men who brought it, and having secured 
and fastened them, made a rush toward the castle, 
hoping to effect an entrance through the gate, 
which still stood open. 

All were armed with swords and axes concealed 
under their clothes, and not a doubt was enter- 
tained of their success, for no one in the castle 
could have had the least suspicion of their inten- 
tions; but the watchman on the tower happened 
to detect the flash of some of their weapons just 
in time to spring forward and close in the face of 
the assailants the iron-bound gate, against which 
they now stormed in unavailing fury. The raging 
towns-folk were finally obliged to retire, having 
accomplished nothing but the capture of the two 
serving-men, about whom Hagel cared not a straw. 

Sorely against their own wills, they were now 
under the necessity of keeping themselves quiet 
until another opportunity should offer for carrying 
out their plans. But the outbreak had taught the 
oppressor some respect for the courage of the vil- 
lagers, whom he did not think it wise to imbitter 
by further exactions. He even began to believe 
that it was worth his while to make some efforts to 
conciliate them, and therefore he determined to 
give his daughter Pechta in marriage to one of 
the most distinguished among them, hoping by 
this means to form with them a bond 'of mutual 
interest which they would be slow to break. 

Now, it was a custom that the bridegroom, at- 
tended by his friends and family, should go with 
great rejoicing to carry away the bride from the 
home of her parents, and take her to the great 
square in the center of the village, where the com- 
pany were assembled to witness the betrothal. 
Hagel knew this well, but, still mistrusting the 
Wieker, was not willing to allow any large body of 
them to come together up the hill and into the 
castle. He therefore gave orders that the mother 
of the bridegroom should come in his stead to carry 
away the bride, and intimated that she could bring 
with her as many young maidens for her attend- 
ants as she might choose. 

Accordingly, on the day appointed for the cere- 
mony, a long train of women, laden with rich 
presents for the noble bride, slowly and wearily 
ascended the Hagelsberg. Hagel, on his part, 
received them with the most flattering cordiality, 
and conducted them to the great hall of the castle, 
where a numerous and richly dressed company was 
assembled, musicians were in attendance, and the 
bride in her marriage robes awaited the villagers. 

The master of the house and the bride's mother 

immediately led off the " ehren-tez " (literally the 
honor dance), and the principal members of the 
castle household, whose duty it was to fall in at a 
certain point and follow their movements, began 
to seek among the newly arrived damsels for 
partners. But at that moment the pretended 
young women, throwing off their disguises and 
grasping the weapons concealed beneath, rushed 
upon the unwary Hagelsbergers, with so much 
promptness and vigor that few escaped with 
their lives. Hagel himself was slain, and with 
his dying breath exclaimed: "O dance! O 
dance ! How hast thou betrayed me ! " Not long 
aftenvard, the great wooden castle of the oppressor 
was demolished and burned to the ground. 

The country at this time was subject to Sub- 
islaus, the first Duke of Pomerellen, who was 
threatened with a war by King Waldemar, of 
Denmark. As Subislaus had no fortified city 
in which he could make a stand against the 
enemy, he called upon his subjects to erect 
the necessary fortifications in their several 
towns, promising them land and timber for 
the purpose, together with whatever else thev 
might need. He made them such representa- 
tions of the advantages which they, as towns, 
would derive from these defenses, that the inhabit- 
ants of Wieke were quite captivated by the idea, 
and offered to build and fortify a town themselves, 
if Subislaus would give them for it as much land 
as they could inclose with their arms. 

The duke did not exactly understand what it 
was they wanted, but he unhesitatingly granted 
their petition for so small a bit of land, and ap- 
pointed a day for them to come to select and 
measure it off. At the time named, the inhabitants 
of Wieke all assembled — men, women, and chil- 
dren, old and young, masters, mistresses, and serv- 
ants — no one was left out, not even some strangers 
who happened to be spending a few days among 
them ; and, forming a circle around the spot 
chosen, they took hold of hands and stretched out 
their arms to the utmost. The space thus encom- 
passed was very large, but Duke Subislaus had to 
keep his word, cost him what it might. 

But the Wieker kept theirs also, and in an in- 
credibly short time the given ground was covered 
with houses and strong defenses. 

In remembrance of their agency in building it, 
and of the cry that accompanied the death of their 
oppressor and left them at liberty to give their aid 
to their good duke, they called the new city 
" Tanz-Wieke," which has since been corrupted 
into its present name — " Dantzic." 




An old man who lived by a gate, 

On the passers-by promptly would wait ; 

And when no one would ride, 

He would open it wide, 
And march through himself in great state. 

By Celia Thaxter. 

Heard you, O little children, 

This wonderful story told 
Of the Phrygian king whose fatal touch 

Turned everything to gold ? 

In a great, dim, dreary chamber, 

Beneath the palace floor, 
He counted his treasures of glittering coin, 

And he always longed for more. 

When the clouds in the blaze of sunset 

Burned flaming fold on fold, 
He thought how fine a thing 't would be 

Were they but real gold ! 

And when his dear little daughter, 
The child he loved so well, 

Came bringing in from the pleasant fields 
The yellow asphodel, 

Or buttercups from the meadow, 

Or dandelions gay, 
King Midas would look at the blossoms sweet, 

And she would hear him say : 

"If only the flowers were really 
Golden as they appear, 
'T were worth your while to gather them, 
My little daughter dear ! " 

One day, ■ in the dim, drear chamber, 

As he counted his treasure o'er, 
A sunbeam slipped through a chink in the wall 

And quivered down to the floor. 

Si 6 



" Would it were gold," he muttered, 
" That broad, bright yellow bar ! " 
Suddenly stood in its mellow light, 
A Figure bright as a star. 

Young and ruddy and glorious, 
With face as fresh as the day, 

With a winged cap and winged heels, 
And eyes both wise and gay. 

" O have your wish, King Midas," 
A heavenly voice begun, 
Like all sweet notes of the morning 
Braided and blended in one. 

But out he went to the garden, 

So fresh in the morning hour, 
And a thousand buds in the balmy night 

Had burst into perfect flower. 

'T was a world of perfume and color, 

Of tender and delicate bloom, 
But only the hideous thirst for wealth 

In the king's heart found room. 

He passed like a spirit of autumn 
Through that fair space of bloom, 

And the leaves and the flowers grew yellow 
In a dull and scentless gloom. 

' And when to-morrow's sunrise 

Wakes you with rosy fire, 
All things you touch shall turn to gold, 

Even as you desire." 

King Midas slept. The morning 

At last stole up the sky, 
And woke him, full of eagerness 

The wondrous spell to try. 

And lo ! the bed's fine draperies 

Of linen fair and cool, 
Of quilted satin and cobweb lace, 

And blankets of snowy wool. 

Back to the loft)- palace 

Went the glad monarch then, 

And sat at his sumptuous breakfast. 
Most fortunate of men ! 

He broke the fine, white wheaten roll, 
The light and wholesome bread, 

And it turned to a lump of metal rich- 
It had as well been lead ! 

Again did fear assail the king, 
When — what was this he heard? 

The voice of his little daughter dear, 
As sweet as a grieving bird. 

All had been changed with the sun's first ray 

To marvelous cloth of gold, 
That rippled and shimmered as soft as silk 

In many a gorgeous fold. 

But all this splendor weighed so much 

'T was irksome to the king, 
And up he sprang to try at once 

The touch on every thing. 

The heavy tassel that he grasped 

Magnificent became, 
And hung by the purple curtain rich 
Like a glowing mass of flame. 

At every step, on every side, 

Such splendor followed him, 
The very sunbeams seemed to pale, 

And morn itself grew dim. 

But when he came to the water 

For his delicious bath, 
And dipped his hand in the surface smooth, 

He started in sudden wrath ; 

For the liquid, light and leaping, 

So crystal-bright and clear, 
Grew a solid lake of heavy gold, 

And the king began to fear ! 

Sobbing she stood before him, 

And a golden rose held she. 
And the tears that brimmed her blue, blue eyes 

Were pitiful to see. 

" Father ! O Father dearest ! 

This dreadful thing — oh, see ! 
Oh, what has happened to all the flowers ? 
Tell me, what can it be ? " 

"Why should you cry, my daughter? 
Are not these blossoms of gold 
Beautiful, precious, and wonderful. 
With splendor not to be told ? " 

" I hate them, O my father ! 

They 're stiff and hard and dead, 
That were so sweet and soft and fair, 
And blushed so warm and red." 

"Come here," he cried, "my darling." 
And bent, her cheek to kiss, 
To comfort her — when — Heavenly Powers! 
What fearful thing was this ? 

He sank back, shuddering and aghast, 

But she stood still as death — 
A statue of horrible gleaming gold, 

With neither motion nor breath. 




The gold tears hardened on her cheek, 

The gold rose in her hand, 
Even her -little sandals changed 

To gold, where she did stand. 

Then such a tumult of despair 

The wretched king possessed, 
He wrung his hands, and tore his hair, 

And sobbed, and beat his breast. 

Weighed with one look from her sweet eyes 
What was the whole world worth ? 

Against one touch of her loving lips, 
The treasure of all the earth ? 

The Stranger listened — a sweeter smile 

Kindled his grave, bright eyes. 
' Glad am I, O King Midas, 

That you have grown so wise ! 

' Again your wish is granted ; 

More swiftly than before, 
All you have harmed with the fatal touch 
You shall again restore." 

He clasped his little daughter — 

Oh, joy! — within his arms, 
She trembled back to her human self, 

With all her human charms. 


Then came that voice, like music, 
As fresh as the morning air, 
''How is it with you, King Midas, 
Rich in your answered prayer?" 

And there, in the sunshine smiling, 

Majestic as before, 
Ruddy and young and glorious, 

The Stranger stood once more. 

" Take back your gift so terrible ! 
No blessing, but a curse ! 
One loving heart more precious is 
Than the gold of the universe." 


Across her face he saw the 

Beneath his kiss begin, 
And steal to the charming dimple 

Upon her lovely chin. 

Again her eyes grew blue and clear, 

Again her cheek flushed red, 
She locked her arms about his neck. 
" My father dear ! " she said. 

Oh, happy was King Midas, 

Against his heart to hold 
His treasure of love, more precious 

Than a thousand worlds of gold ! 






By Paul Fort. 

It must not be supposed that the Secretary 
Bird, which has its home in South Africa, received 
its name because it is in the habit of writing letters 
for other birds, or attending to the correspondence 
of any living creature. On the contrary, there is 
no other reason for his singular name than the 
fact that he has behind one ear a tuft of feathers, 
somewhat resembling a quill pen stuck behind 
the ear of a clerk. This bird has another 
name — that of Snake-Eater — which seems 
much more suitable ; for the most remark- 
able thing about the Secretary Bird is his 
habit of feeding upon large snakes. He is 
a good-sized bird, with long, powerful legs, 
like those of a crane. When he attacks a 
snake, which he does with great swiftness 
and apparent fury, his usual way of killing it 
is to stamp it to death with his feet. There 
are many birds which eat small snakes, but 
it is very unusual for any of the feathered 
tribe to pick out large serpents, and feed 
exclusively upon them. 

There is a story told about the way the 
Secretary Bird came to be a snake-eater, 
which is, I am quite sure, nothing but a mere 
fable, but which may be of interest to those 
who have heard of the peculiarities of this 
curious and interesting creature. The story 
runs as follows : 

There was a time when the Secretary Bird 
lived on fish, like the other long-legged and 
crane-like birds, and he was so well satisfied 
with this fare that he never cared for any 
other kind of food. 

One day, a large Secretary Bird was stand- 
ing in the water, on the edge of a river, 
busily engaged in fishing. When he saw a 
fish pass by, he would dart down his head 
and seize it in his bill, which was strong and 
hookeJ, like that of a fish-hawk. As soon 
as he had caught a fish, he would wade 
ashore, and there eat it. While he was thus 
engaged in fishing, a large serpent came 
winding his way along the river-bank, and, 
as soon as he perceived the bird, he stopped 
to see what it was doing. When the Secretary 
Bird came out of the water to eat the fish, the 
Snake remarked : 

"Friend, it seems to me you would make a 
pleasanter meal if you would toss your fish upon 
the bank as fast as you catch them, and then. 

when you have enough, come out and eat them at 
your leisure." 

" I should like that plan very well," said the 
Secretary Bird; "but if I should toss a freshly 
caught fish upon the bank, he would flop into the 
water as soon as I had gone to catch another. Thus 
I should always be catching fish, and eating none." 

"There need be no trouble of that kind to-day," 


for, if you will throw the fish on 
that they do not get into the 

said the Snake ; ' 
shore, I will see 
water again." 

"Thank you very kindly," said the Secretary 
Bird. " If you will do that, it will save time, and 
I shall soon catch enough fish for a dinner." 



" I shall be only too glad to oblige you," said 
the Serpent. 

Thereupon the Bird waded into the river, and as 
soon as he caught a fish he threw it ashore, where 
the Snake took care that it did not get into the 
water again. When the Bird thought he had 
caught enough fish, he came on shore and saw the 
Snake slowly moving away. 

'■What is your hurry?" he cried. '' Stop and 
take dinner with me. I have now caught twelve 
fish, and as I had eaten some before you came, six 
will be all I shall want. You can have the other 
six, and we can take a pleasant meal together." 

"I am very much obliged to you," said the 
Snake, still moving away; "but I do not believe 
that anything could induce me to eat a fish at 
present. I have no appetite at all for such food." 
And he glided into the bushes, and was lost to 

" He need not be so dainty," said the Secretary 
Bird to himself ; ' ' for fish is very good food, indeed ; 
but, since he will not accept my invitation, I shall 
have all the more dinner for myself. But where are 
the fish ? " 

The Secretary Bird looked anxiously about, on 
the shore and in the grass, but he could find no 
sign of the fish he had caught. At length he came 
to a little pile of twelve fish-tails lying behind a 
bush. The Snake did not like fish-tails, and had 
bitten these off before eating the fish. Instantly 
the truth flashed through the mind of the Secretary 

"That wretched Serpent ! " he exclaimed. " He 
has, indeed, taken good care that my fish shall not 
escape into the water. He has eaten them, one by 
one, as fast as 1 threw them on shore. I never 
heard of such an infamous trick. But I will be 
revenged on him. I will find him, no matter where 
he has hidden himself." So saying, the angry 
Bird rushed away in pursuit of the crafty acquaint- 
ance who had taken care of his fish. 

The Snake, who had made an unusually heavy 

meal, felt very lazy and sleepy ; and when he had 
gone a little distance from the river, he crept 
among some tall grass and reeds, and coiled him- 
self up to take a nap. But the Secretary Bird was 
not far away, and he saw a movement among the 
tall reeds. 

"There he is!" he shouted, and he dashed 
toward the place. 

In a moment he had pounced among the reeds, 
and attacked the Snake with great fury. 

" You infamous creature ! " he cried. "I will 
teach you how to deceive a bird of my standing." 
And in spite of the Snake's efforts to get away, he 
stamped upon him and pecked him until he had 
killed him. 

" You have cheated me of my dinner," said the 
angry Bird, " and it would serve you right if I were 
to make a dinner of you." 

So saying, — his appetite whetted by the morn- 
ing's work, — he began to eat the Snake, and did 
not stop until he had entirely devoured him. 

" Upon the whole," said the Secretary Bird, 
when he had finished, " I prefer snakes to fish, 
and I think that for the future I shall make my 
meals upon these deceitful creatures, who go about 
playing tricks upon honest folk." 

After that, this bird gave up eating fish, and fed 
entirely upon snakes. He did not trouble himself 
to catch the little ones, because it took too many of 
them to satisfy his hunger ; but he preferred the 
large ones, as one of them was enough for a 
meal. His wife and children soon learned that 
snakes were easy to catch and good to eat, and they 
also gave up eating fish. 

This Secretary Bird was a very influential mem- 
ber of his tribe, and the new diet soon became 
quite fashionable ; and the descendants of the 
Secretary Birds of that day have since lived 
entirely upon large snakes. 

It may be noticed, also, that the serpents of that 
part of the country, remembering, perhaps, this 
old story, have a great distaste for fish. 


A student of great enterprise 
Went out early to see the sun rise ; 

But he faced the wrong way. 

And stood there all day, 
Yery much to his neighbors' surprise. 




Wash the strawberries in their bed, 
Make them ripe and round and red 
Wash the cherries 'neath the eaves, 
Blushing under thick green leaves. 


Lay the dust upon the street, 

Send up odors clean and sweet 

From the earth and new-mown grass, [ 

When the little breezes pass. 





Send the doves, that love not rain, 
Trooping to their cote again ; 
But the sparrows chatter more 
When you beat upon their door. 

Steal into the robin's nest, 
Make the nestlings seek her breast; 
Make the chickens run and hide 
'Neath the mother-wings so wide. 

Rain-man, 'neath your cloudy hat, 
Come and clatter, pat, pat, pat ; 
O'er the roofs, and chimneys, too, 
Let us hear your tramping shoe. 

I Put your cloak on, Goodman Gray, 
J Come and visit us to-day ; 

Pour your buckets down the sky ; 
J When you 're through, we '11 shout : " Good-bv ! " 

--;.■-— --■':■■.. ,:-^--- 

Vol. IX.— 34. 




■v ; — «v 


By Clara Erskine Clement. 


THE true family name of this painter was 
Vannucchi. He was called del Sarto because his 
father was a tailor, or an Sarlo, in Italian. An- 
drea was born in 1488, and, when quite young, was 
employed as a goldsmith and worker in metals; 
but his great desire was to become a painter, and, 
when he finally studied art, he was untiring in his 
efforts to learn its rules and to understand its prac- 
tice. Andrea was the pupil of Pietro di Cosimo, 
but his style of painting was not like that master's. 
He seems to have had many original ideas, and 
to have formed his soft and fascinating manner 
for himself. 

Andrea del Sarto can not be called a truly great 
painter, but his pictures are sweet and lovely, and 
would be more pleasing to many persons than 
those of artists of higher fame. He was very suc- 

cessful in his fresco-painting, and was employed in 
Florence in decorating the convent of the Nunziata, 
and in a building called the Scalzo ; the last was 
named from the Scatei, Barefooted Friars, who 
held their meetings in it. These frescoes are con- 
sidered the finest of Andrea's works, although 
some of them are now much injured. 

Andrea had so much sorrow in his life, that one 
is moved to think he might have painted better 
had he been a happier man. He loved his wife 
devotedly, though she was a selfish and mean- 
spirited woman, who never appreciated his talents, 
and seemed only to think of how she could get 
money to spend in a showy and extravagant way of 
living. She was even unwilling that he should 
care for his aged parents, and it was owing to her 
that he at length deserted them, although formerly 
he had been a kind and dutiful son. 

After a time (about 1 5 iS) Francis I., the king 

1 Copyright, 1881, by Clara Erskine Clement. All rights reserved. 



of France, invited Andrea to go to Paris and exe- 
cute works for him. The artist consented, and 
was treated with great consideration in the brilliant 
French capital. Soon, however, his wife insisted 
that he should return to Florence. Francis I. was 
very unwilling to allow Andrea to leave France, 
where he had engaged already to do many decora- 
tive paintings ; but Andrea was so much under the 
influence of his wife that he did not dare to 
remain. So, when he had made a promise, and 
solemnly sworn with his hand on the Bible, that 
he would soon return and bring his wife with him, 
and remain as long as might be necessary to finish 
the works he had engaged to do, the king con- 
sented. Francis also intrusted to Andrea a large 
sum of money, with which he was to buy works of 
art and other beautiful objects for the king. 

When Andrea reached Florence, his wicked 
wife not only refused to go to France, but 
persuaded him to give her the money which 
belonged to Francis I. This she soon spent, 
and, although Andrea had been so weak in 
listening to her wicked advice, he still was 
not so base that he could forget the wrong 
he had done in giving the money to her. He 
lived ten years longer, and painted many 
more pictures, but he was always very un- 
happy. Francis I. never forgave him for his 
breach of trust; and, to this day, all who 
read the story of Andrea can not but feel 
sorrow in remembering how weak he was and 
how wickedly he came to act, in consequence. 

In 1530, Andrea was attacked by a conta- 
gious disease ; his wretched wife abandoned 
him, and he died alone, and was buried with- 
out a funeral or even a prayer, in the same 
convent of the Nunziata in which he had 
painted his finest frescoes. One of these 
pictures is a " Repose of the Holy Family," 
which is usually called the "Madonna del 
Sacco," because in it St. Joseph is repre- 
sented as leaning on a sack. 

Now, there are so man)' different pictures 
of the Holy Family, that they are divided 
into classes, and such as are called, in Italian, 
Jl Riposo, and, in our own tongue, The Re- 
pose, all represent an incident of the flight 
into Egypt, when St. Joseph, his wife Alary, 
and the child Jesus halted in their journey 

Crusaders were in the habit of bringing branches 
of it into Europe as sacred mementos of the grove 
near the "Fountain of Mary," as the spring is 
called. When I was in Egypt, I visited this spot, 
which is a few miles from the city of Cairo, and is 
always pointed out to the Christians by the Arab 

The oil paintings by Andrea del Sarto are very 
beautiful ; the finest one hangs in the Tribune of 
the Uffizi Gallery, in Florence. This is a place 
of great honor, because some of the most re- 
markable works of art which exist in any collec- 
tion in the world are in this same building — such 
as the " Venus dei Medici," the "Dancing Faun," 
and other beautiful antique statues, as well as 
some of the finest pictures by Michael Angelo, 



rest and refreshment. The legend, in telling 
of this episode, says that, near the village of 
Matarea, where they were resting, a fountain 
sprang forth by miracle ; and near by was a syca- 
more grove, beneath which the family found shade 
and protection. The story has given a peculiar 
religious significance to the sycamore tree, by 
associating it with the mother of Christ ; and the 

Raphael, Titian, Van Dyck, and other great 
masters. This painting, by Andrea, is called the 
" Madonna di San Francesco," and represents the 
Virgin Mary seated on a throne, with the child 
Jesus in her arms, while St. John the Baptist and 
St. Francis stand, one at each side. 

The Madonna with her Child was Andrea's 
favorite subject, and he represented it in a great 
variety of ways, and always made sweet and at- 

5 2 4 



tractive pictures. Occasionally he painted single 
figures of saints, such as St. Barbara and St. 
Agnes ; one of these is in the Cathedral of Pisa. 

There are two churches in Rome dedicated to 
St. Agnes, besides many others in various parts of 
the world, and, after the Apostles and Evangelists, 
she is a very important saint. She is usually 

place, and Lieto and Allegri are his family names, 
and are Italian words which have the same mean- 
ing as the Latin word latits, or joyful. He was 
born in 1493, and was so clever that, when thirteen 
years old, he had not only studied many things 
such as other boys learn, but had mastered the 
rudiments of art. so that he could draw very well. 


. '■- 
•• •- 




■' '0 :: 

.::■■ ' 






. ■ ■ ■ ■. ■ ..; 






represented in works of art with a lamb by hei 
side, because the lamb is the type or symbol of 
modesty, purity, and innocence. * 


Antonio Allegri — for this is the true name 
of this great painter — is called Antonio Allegri da 
Correggio, or Antonio Lieto da Correggio. The 
name Correggio is taken from that of his birth- 

He received his first lessons in drawing from his 
uncle, Lorenzo Allegri, and then he studied under 
the famous Andrea Mantegna, and, after the death 
of this artist, under his son, Francesco Mantegna. 
From these men Correggio acquired wonderful 
skill in drawing, especially in foreshortening — that 
is, in representing objects seen aslant. These 
masters all had what is termed a dry, hard style, 
which is so different from Correggio's that we are 
sure he soon added to what they had taught him the 

For list of the principal works of Andrea del Sarto still in existence, see page 527. 

1 882.1 




grace and movement, and exquisite management I shall now try to explain further what is meant 
of light and shade, which appear in his paintings, by foreshortening, because it is a very important 




element of good drawing, and all who wish to learn 
how to appreciate the works of others should under- 
stand what it is, as also should those who them- 
selves practice drawing. It is especially proper to 
speak of this in connection with Correggio, as he is 
often said to be the most skillful of artists, in this 
particular, since the days of the ancient Greeks. 

The art of foreshortening is to make the objects 
which are painted or drawn on a plane surface 
look as they do in nature when one is farther back 
than another, and where one part is thrown out 
much nearer the eye than others. To produce 
this effect it is frequently necessary to make an 
object — let us say, for example, an arm or a leg — 
look as if it was thrown forward, out of the can- 
vas, toward the person who is looking directly at 
it. Now, in truth, in order to produce this appear- 
ance, the object is oftentimes thrown backward in 
the drawing, and sometimes it is doubled up in a 
very unnatural manner, and so occupies a much 
smaller space on the canvas than it appears to do, 
for as we look at it, it seems to be of full size. 

The picture of "Christ in Glory," painted by 
Correggio in the cupola of the church of San Gio- 
vanni Evangelista, in Parma, photographs of which 
are easily got, is a fine piece of foreshortening, 
because the head is so thrown back and the knees 
are so thrown forward that the figure seems to be 
of full size; yet, if the space from the top of 
the head to the soles of the feet, in the painting 
itself, were measured, it would be found to be 
much less than the full height of the figure would 
be if it were represented erect. 

Another characteristic of this master is his deli- 
cate manner of passing gradually from light to 
shade, and so softening the whole effect of his 
work as to produce what is called in Italian chiaro- 
oscuro, which must be literally translated clear- 
obscure — or a sort of mistiness which has some 
light in it, bu' is gradually shaded off into either 
full light or deep shadow. It is remarkable that, 
in the early works of Correggio, his peculiar quali- 
ties were evident ; this is seen in the beautiful 
Madonna di San Francesco, now in the Dresden 
Gallery, which was painted when he was but eight- 
een years old. 

When Correggio was twenty-six years old, he 
married Girolama Merlini, and during the next 
eleven years he was occupied with his great fresco- 
paintings in Parma and with works in Mantua, to 
which city he was summoned by the rich Duke 
Federigo Gonzaga, who reigned there. In 1530, 
the artist returned to Correggio, where he passed 
the remainder of his life. In 1533, he was one of 
the invited witnesses of the marriage of the Lord 
of Correggio, so he doubtless w T as much esteemed 
by that nobleman. In 1534, he died of a fever, 

and was buried in his family tomb in the Francis- 
can convent at Correggio ; his grave is simply 
marked with his name and the date of his death. 
Correggio had but one son, named Pomponio 
Ouirino Allegri; he also was a painter, but he did 
not make himself famous. 

There are several anecdotes related of Correg- 
gio, the father ; one is that, when he first saw one 
of Raphael's great pictures, he gazed upon it a 
long time, and then exclaimed, enthusiastically: 
"I also am a painter!" and, I dare say, he then 
felt himself moved to try if he, too, might produce 
pictures which should live and bear his name 
through future centuries. 

'When Titian saw Correggio's frescoes at Parma, 
he said: "Were I not Titian I should wish to 
be Correggio." Annibale Caracci, another great 
artist, said of Correggio, more than a century 
after that master's death: "He was the only 
painter ! " and he declared that the children 
painted by Correggio breathe and smile with such 
grace that one who sees them is forced to smile 
and be happy with them. 

At Seville, in Spain, there was a large picture 
by Correggio, representing the " Shepherds Ador- 
ing the Infant Saviour," and during the Peninsular 
War (1S08-14), when the people of Seville sent 
all their valuable things to Cadiz for greater safety, 
this picture was cut in two, so that it could be more 
easily moved. By some accident the halves were 
separated, and afterward were sold to different 
persons, each being promised that the correspond- 
ing half should soon be delivered to him. Great 
trouble arose, because both purchasers determined 
to keep what they had, and each claimed that the 
other part belonged to him ; and as they were both 
obstinate, these half-pictures have remained apart. 
It is very fortunate that each of them forms a fine 
picture by itself, and perhaps they thus give 
pleasure to a greater number of people than if 
they were united. 

It is very interesting to visit Parma, where the 
most important works of Correggio are seen. He 
painted much, not only in the church of St. John 
the Evangelist, but also in the cathedral of Parma, 
and in the convent of the Benedictine nuns, 
where he decorated a parlor with wonderful fres- 
coes. Over the chimney-piece is a picture of 
Diana, Goddess of the Moon, and protector of 
young animals. Sometimes she has been repre- 
sented as a huntress, but in this picture she is 
Goddess of the Moon, which is placed above her 
forehead. The ceiling of this parlor is high and 
arched. The pictures on pages 52S and 529, showing 
in the semicircles a Satyr and Ceres, the Goddess 
of Plenty, will help you to understand how elabo- 
rately and beautifully the ceiling is decorated. 




It is painted to represent an arbor of vines, hav- 
ing sixteen oval openings, at each of which some 
frolicking children appear, peeping in and out, as 
if they were passing around and looking down into 
the room. Each child bears some sign or symbol 
of Diana. Beneath each of the openings is a 
half-circular picture of some mythological story 
or personage, such as " The Three Graces," 
" The Nursing of Bacchus," " Ceres," " Minerva," 
"The Suspension of Juno," "A Satyr," and oth- 
ers. All the frescoes in this wonderful room 
have been so often engraved and photographed 
that they must be known already to many readers 
of St. Nicholas. 

Some of the oil paintings by Correggio are very 
famous. Among them is one called the " Notte," 
or Night, which is in the Dresden Gallery. It 
represents the "Nativity of the Saviour," and has 
received its name because the only light in the 
picture shines from the halo of glory around the 
head of the infant Jesus. In the same gallery is 
Correggio's "Mary Magdalene," represented as 
lying on the ground and reading the scriptures 
from a book lying open before her on the sward. 
Probably no one picture in the world has been 
more generally admired than this. 

Another masterpiece is the " Marriage of St. 
Catherine," in the Louvre, at Paris. According 
to the legend concerning her, this saint, during the 
persecution of the Christians in Alexandria, bravely 
went up to the temple and there triumphantly- 
maintained her cause in argument against the 
Emperor Maximin, and also against fifty wise men 
whom he then called upon to oppose her reasoning. 

But her courage, wisdom, and saintliness availed 
not to save her from the rage of persecution, for 
she was beheaded by the tyrant's order. There 
are two important saints by this name ; one is St. 
Catherine of Siena, the other, of whom we now 
speak, is St. Catherine of Alexandria, and when 
the marriage is represented it always refers to 
this saint. 

The following is a list of the principal works of Andrea del Sarto 
to be seen in European galleries. Pitti Palace, Florence: 
Eleven pictures, among which are two of the Holy Family, two of 
the " Assumption of the Virgin," and portraits of Andrea and his 
wife, which are attributed to Andrea, but are not positively known 
to be his work. Uffizi Gallery, Florence : Madonna di San 
Francesco, his own portrait, and two other pictures. Dresden 
Gallery : Marriage of St. Catherine, Sacrifice of Isaac, and 
others. Pinaeothek, Munich: Four studies for the frescoes in 
the Scalzo at Florence. Museum, Madrid : Portrait of his wife, 
Sacrifice of Abraham, Holy Family, and others. The Louvre, 
Paris: Charity, two pictures of the Holy Family. National 
Gallery, London : His own portrait. The Hermitage, St. 
Petersburg : Holy Family and Saints, St. Barbara. 

The following are the principal works of Correggio, known to be 
still in existence. In the Uffizi Gallery, Florence : The Re- 
pose in Egypt, Virgin Adoring the Infant Christ. Museum, 
Naples : The Madonna della Zingarella, Marriage of St. Cath- 
erine, A Pieta. Pinacoteca, Parma : Madonna della Scala, 
Madonna della Scodella, Madonna di San Girolamo, called "II 
Giorno " or "The Day," and several others. Museum, Berlin: 
Leda and Nymphs, and a copy of the Io, which is at the Belve- 
dere, Vienna, where there are several other works of Correggio's. 
Dresden Gallery: Enthroned Madonna, Virgin and Child in 
Glory, Repentant Magdalene, "La Notte," a portrait called "Cor- 
reggio's Doctor," and others. Museum, Madrid : Noli Me Tan- 
gere. Louvre, Paris: Marriage of St. Catherine, Antiope 
Asleep. National Gallery, London: Mercury Instructing 
Cupid before Venus, Ecce Homo, Holy Family, called " au 
panier"(a very beautiful picture), Christ's Agony in the Garden. 
Hermitage, St. Petersburg: Madonna "del Latte," Study of 
the Assumption, and another small mythological subject. 

; 2 8 











Mary. Mar y- Q%J e . a- o rta^A r v. 

piil wpp™"^^ 

By Kitty White. 

' y brother Johnny says he would 
do for a first-class bumble-bee ; 
he 's as hot all over as if he had 
forty stings. We 've been talking 
through the stove-hole to com- 
fort each other. This hole is in 
the wall at the side of my bed; so, if I 
put a chair on the bed, and then climb up 
and stand on tiptoe, I can see into Johnny's 
room, and we can have a good talk. 

We 're in trouble ; and this is how it 
happened : 

One day last week, our teacher read us a story 
about a good little girl who had a sick father ; and 
he was going to starve to death 'cause he had n't 
any money to buy oranges ; and everything had 
gone wrong inside. Well, the good little girl 

heard that a dentist wanted some teeth, and would 
pay well for them. (I don't see why he should pay 
money for teeth, when he could havo his own for 
nothing.) The little girl had fine teeth, so she 
went to the dentist and asked him to take some out 
and pay her the money they were worth, for her 
poor father. Then the dentist made her tell him 
all about her father; and he would n't take the 
teeth, but he gave her the money all the same, and 
went to see her father, and got a doctor for him, 
so he did n't die. 

It was a beautiful story, and made me cry. 
Johnny said it was n't anything to cry about; 
stories like that were for examples, and when we 
had a chance we must just go and do likewise. 

Well, this morning, when Father was putting on 
his overcoat, Johnny and I asked him for a penny. 




And Father, he said we were always wanting pen- 
nies, and he was n't made of money ; and then he 
went out. 

Sister Em began to cry, 'cause Father said she 
could n't have a new dress this Easter. Everything 
was going wrong, and he did n't know what would 
become of him, and he was sick of everything. 

Johnny and I did n't cry; we only looked at 
each other. 

While we were going to school, Johnny said this 
was our chance. Now we could do like the good 
little girl, and be a support to our parents. Den- 
tists always wanted teeth, and we 'd go to the den- 
tist right away after school, and have it over. 

"And then," says Johnny, " if we 've made five 
dollars for Father, perhaps he '11 give us our penny, 
'cause it '11 be such a pleasant surprise to him." 

We could n't hardly wait for school to be out. 
I got a black mark in arithmetic, 'cause when 
Miss Stevens asked me if you had an apple, and 
if Samuel Smith ate it up, what had you left ? I 
said, " Your teeth." 

After school we walked about till we came to a 
dentist's, and we went in, and asked him if he 
wanted some teeth. And he said, "Why? Did 
we want to lose some ? " And we told him, " Yes." 

We thought he would sit down and ask us all 
about it, just as the other dentist did with the 
good little girl ; but he only said : 

" Let 's look at em." 

Then he made Johnny climb up in the high 
chair, and tip his head back ; and then he said, 
"You want these two out that crowd the rest." 
Then he put an iron thing into Johnny's mouth, 
and pulled out one tooth, and then he pulled an- 
other. And he said Johnny was a brave boy 'cause 
he did n't holloa. 

I asked Johnny if it hurt, and he said, "Not 
much, and don't you disgrace the family, Kitty 
White, by howling." 

"Now, my little lady," says the dentist, "get into 
the chair, and I '11 be as gentle as I can." So he 
helped me up, and tipped back my head, and 

"Your teeth are crowded just like your brother's," 
says he ; and then he begins to pull. 

My, how it hurt ! And did n't I make a noise ! 
1 thought my head was coming off. But it was 
over in a minute, and the dentist told Johnny not 
to laugh at me, 'cause my teeth came harder than 
his did. 

When our teeth were out, we thought the dentist 
would pay us. He asked us whose little boy and 
girl we were, and where we lived, and said this 
was pleasant weather for little folks. 

After a while he said : " It 's four dollars." 

We thought he had four dollars for us, and 
held out our hands, but he did n't give us any- 
thing. Instead of that, he said: "Have n't you 
got any money ? " 

Then Johnny explained to him that we thought 
he would pay us for our teeth, so that we could help 
our poor father. 

The dentist began to laugh, and said he did n't 
pay for teeth ; but he would give us a letter that 
would make it all right. 

So he wrote a letter, and sealed it, and told 
Johnny to be sure to give it to Father. He kept 
laughing all the time he was writing it, and we 
thought he was the pleasantest man in the world. 

When we got home, Johnny said we 'd better 
wait till after dinner to give Father his pleasant 
surprise. And at first I was glad we 'd waited ; 
for the roast beef was too brown, and Father said : 
" There never could be a piece of beef done right 
in this house, and Mrs. White, my dear, if you 
could only have a carving knife that would cut ! 
I believe your son uses the carving knife for a 

We felt so sorry for poor Father that we thought 
we 'd give him his surprise then, so he 'd feel 
better. Johnny took out the letter and gave it to 
him. He sits next to Father, and I sit next to 
Johnny. Father took the letter, and said : 

" What's this, sir?" 

And Johnny said : " Read it, dear Pa. and 

Then Father read it, and wrinkled his forehead 
all up, and we thought he was going to burst into 
tears," like the sick man did when the good little 
girl brought him the oranges. But he did n't burst 
into tears. He threw the paper across the table, 
and said : 

"What's this, Mrs. White? Have you been 
running me into debt, after what I told you this 
morning? " 

And Mother said: "I 'm sure I don't know 
what you mean, dear." Then she read the letter, 
and called us naughty children, and " how dare 
you go and have sound teeth out without my 
consent ? " 

And Father said that, "What we had done was 
catamount to robbery ; going and getting him into 
debt of our own accord ; and you may go to your 
rooms and think about it till your mother and I 

We 've been in our rooms ever since, and both 
Father and Mother said they were under the n'ces- 
sity of 

Well, Johnny says a switch is the worst, but he 
does n't know anything about a slipper. Anyhow, 
it 's over for this time. 

53 2 




By A. S. R. 

" Good for nothing," the farmer said, 

As he made a sweep at the burdock's head ; 

But then, he thought it was best, no doubt, 

To come some day and root it out. 

So he lowered his scythe, and went his way, 

To see his corn, to gather his hay ; 

And the weed grew safe and strong and tall, 

Close by the side of the garden wall. 

"Good for a home," cried the little toad, 
As he hopped up out of the dusty road. 
He had just been having a dreadful fright, 
The boy who gave it was yet in sight. 
Here it was cool and dark and green, 
The safest kind of a leafy screen. 
The toad was happy; "For," said he, 

" The burdock was plainly meant for me." 

" Good for a prop," the spider thought, 
And to and fro with care he wrought, 
Till he fastened it well to an evergreen, 
And spun his cables fine between. 

'T was a beautiful bridge, — a triumph of skill; 
The flies came 'round, as idlers will ; 
The spider lurked in his corner dim, 
The more that came, the better for him. 

■ Good for play," said a child, perplext 
To know what frolic was coming next. 
So she gathered the burs that all despised, 
And her city playmate was quite surprised 
To see what a beautiful basket or chair 
Could be made, with a little time and care. 
They ranged their treasures about with pride, 
And played all day by the burdock's side. 

Nothing is lost in this world of ours ; 
Honey comes from the idle flowers ; 
The weed which we pass in utter scorn, 
May save a life by another morn. 
Wonders await us at every turn. 
We must be silent, and gladly learn. 
No room for recklessness or abuse, 
Since even a burdock has its use. 


By Frederic G. Mather. 

One very hot day, last July, I left the Lake 
Shore Railway train at Willoughby, a little station 
eighteen miles east of Cleveland, in the State of 
Ohio. Some business took me to Mentor, three 
miles away, and, while the boy was driving me over 
there, I thought I should like to make a call for 
pleasure also. You know that President Garfield 
lived in Mentor, and you will guess that I wished 
to call upon his two youngest boys, who were then 
at the Garfield homestead. 

The house does not seem like a farm-house at 
all. It is more like a dwelling in a village, or in a 
city, set in a little piece of lawn, and sheltered by 
three great locust-trees. I knocked at the door, 
and was asked to enter the parlor. After a little 
talk, I asked about the boys, and was told that 
they were in " the office," a little one-story build- 
ing, back of the house, used by their father for a 
study, or working-place. 

Then I was led out through a long hall, where a 
tall clock looked down on me, and just outside the 

rear door was the office. A narrow path led out 
to it, and I followed along and stepped upon the 
floor of the little porch that covered the only door 
there was, which was the front door. The study 
was a very small building, with a window on each 
side of the door, a window at each end, and a 
window just opposite the door. A mite of a chim- 
ney came out of the middle of the roof. 

The door was open as I stood on the porch, 
and I could see four boys playing on the floor. I 
said to them : 

"Well, boys, is this a fort? " 

Now the reason I thought it was a fort was that 
I saw some pieces of white chalk, that the boys 
had mounted on blocks and set on the floor, so as 
to look like cannon. 

This was all that I could see from the door when 
I asked the question. 

But when I was inside the room, I saw a lot 
of paper soldiers standing up, and found out my 
mistake before this answer came to my question : 



" Not much a fort. We are deploying troops 
in the field," said one of the two Garfield boys — 
whether Irvin or Abram, I forget just now. The 
other two boys were cousins of theirs, and they 
were rather younger. 

I then looked more closely. Besides using cray- 
ons for cannon, they also had brass casters for 
cannon-wheels, and their soldiers had been cut out 
of card-board, with jackknives. Small stones, 
nails, and peas were the bullets and cannon-balls. 
Small paper flags showed which side was the 
enemy, and which the American. 

''And who is the enemy in this game?" I 

" My brother," the elder Garfield replied. " He 

upon it an inkstand and pen that had seen better 
days. The floor was bare and painted. 

"How long have you been here?" I asked. 

" We came here on the 2d of July," they said. 
"The very day papa was shot." 

" And do you like living here as well as in 
Washington ? " 

"We like it better here," said they ; "because 
there are more boys, and because we can play out 
of doors more." 

I should say, here, that at the time of my visit 
a great many people thought the President would 
get well. 

"Now, then," I said, "go on with your fun, and 
let me see how vou fight the battle." 


does n't want to be, but he has to be, because he is 
beaten so much." 

" But I beat you the other day," chimed in the 
younger Garfield. 

" Yes, and the way you did it was to bring out a 
lot of soldiers that had been sent to the hospital 
the day before. That was no fair." 

By this time, the boys were again sprawled upon 
the floor, and ready to begin the battle over again. 

While they were picking up the stones to throw, 
I looked about the room. Several large book-cases 
were filled with the President's books, and a 
desk at the back window, opposite the door, had 

You should have seen the stormy time that came 
when I said this. First, one side would throw at 
the other until all the soldiers were knocked over, 
and then the other side would begin. This made 
the enemy beat for a while, and then the Ameri- 
cans. The sport lasted for a long time, and when 
I went away it was not because I wanted to, but 
because I had to, in order to take the train on the 
railway. As I sat in the car, I thought over the 
pleasant afternoon that I had spent ; and I could 
not help saying : 

"Well, after all, boys are boys, and they play 
much alike, whether Presidents' sons or not." 





By James Baldwin. 

Story the Third, 
how siegfried fared to nibelungen land. 

Jarl Ronvald smiled good-humoredly on the 
circle of listeners about the blazing hearth in his 
castle-hall. For the little family party had asked 
him to go on with his story. 

"I see," said he, "that I shall hardly escape 
without telling you the whole story of Siegfried, 
from beginning to end. But I could not do that 
in one evening. The hero's life was so full of advent- 
ures that the telling of them would fill a volume. 
One of the greatest and most daring deeds that he 
ever did was to ride through flaming fire into the 
castle of Isenstein, and awaken the Princess Brun- 
hild from the deep slumber into which Odin, in 
his wrath, had cast her. But our time will not 
allow me to tell you much about that adventure. 
The old Norse story of Sigurd and Brynhild, 
which you often have heard, is very much like it. 

' ' You are anxious to know what became of the 
treasure, of which I told you that Fafnir guarded 
it so long on the Glittering Heath? Well, to 
please you, I shall relate how, after awakening the 
Princess, Siegfried escaped from Isenstein and 
came to the mysterious land of the Nibelungs." 

Every one in the castle of Isenstein, from the 
Princess, whom he had awakened to life, to the 
lowest kitchen-maid, felt grateful to the young 
hero for the deliverance he had wrought so val- 
iantly. The best rooms were fitted up for his use; 
and a score of vassals were set apart to do his bid- 
ding, and ordered to be mindful of his slightest 
wish. All the warriors and brave men, and all the 
fair ladies, and Brunhild, fairest of all, besought 
him to make his home there, nor ever to think 
of going back to Rhineland. Siegfried yielded to 
their persuasions, and for six months he tarried in 
the enchanted land of Isenstein, in one long round 
of merry-making and gay enjoyment. But his 
thoughts were ever turned toward his father's 
home in the Lowlands across the sea, and he longed 
to behold again his gentle mother, Sigelind. 

At length he grew tired of his life of idleness 
and ease, and wished that he might go out again 
into the busy world of manly action and worthy 
deeds. And, day by day, this feeling grew stronger 
and rilled him with unrest. 

One morning, as he sat alone by the sea-shore, 
and watched the lazy tide creep up the sands, two 
ravens lighted near him. Glad was he to see 
them, for he knew them to be Hugin and Munin 
— Thought and Memory — the sacred birds of 
Odin, and he felt sure that they brought him 
words of cheer from the All-Father. Then Hugin 
flapped his wings and said: " In idleness the stings 
of death lie hidden; but in busy action are the 
springs of life. For a hundred years, fair Brun- 
hild slept ; but why should Siegfried sleep ? The 
world awaits him, but it waits too long." 

Then Munin flapped his wings, also, but he said 
nothing. And busy memory carried Siegfried 
back to his boyhood days in Rhineland, and he 
called to mind the wise words of his father, Sieg- 
mund, and the fond hopes of his gentle mother. 
And he rose in haste, and cried : " Life of ease, 
farewell ! I go where duty leads. To him who 
wills to do, the great All-Father will send strength 
and help." 

While he spoke, his eyes were dazzled with a 
flash of light. He looked, and out of the sea there 
came dashing up the beach a wondrous creature, 
such as he had never before seen — a milk-white 
horse, from whose long mane a thousand sun- 
beams gleamed and sparkled in the morning 
light. As the noble steed sprang forward, and 
stood in all its strength and beauty before the 
Prince, Siegfried knew that it must be the horse 
Greyfell — the shining hope which the All-Father 
sends to those who dare to take in hand the doing 
of noble deeds. All uncertainty now fled from his 
mind, for he felt that with such a trusty steed to 
aid him every hindrance would vanish, and every 
hardship would be overcome. 

Then he looked toward the sea again, and saw, 
in the blue distance, a white-sailed ship, drawing 
swiftly near, its golden-dragon stem plowing 
through the waves like some great bird of the 
deep. And as, with eager eyes, he watched its 
coming, he felt that Odin had sent both the horse 
and the ship, and that the time had come for him 
to be up and doing. The hourafor thriving action 
comes to us once ; if not seized upon and used, it 
may never come again. 

The ship drew near the shore ; the sailors rested 
on their oars. Siegfried and the steed Greyfell sprang 
upon the deck. Then the sailors silently bent again 
to their rowing; the flapping sails were filled and 




tightened by the strong west wind, and the light 
vessel leaped from wave to wave as if it were alive, 
until Isenstein, with its tall towers and green marble 
halls, sank from sight in distant mist. And Sieg- 
fried and his noble steed seemed to be the only 
living beings on board ; for the sailors who plied 
the oars were so silent and phantom-like that 
they might have been but ghosts of the summer 
breezes. As the ship sped swiftly on its way, all 
the creatures in the sea paused to behold the sight. 
The mermen rested from their search for hidden 
treasures, and the mermaids forgot to comb their 
long tresses, as the radiant vessel and its hero 
freight sped past them. And even ^Lgir, the god 
of the sea, left the brewing kettle in his banquet- 
hall, and bade his pale-haired daughters, the 

around both hero and horse, and they dared not 
stir, but stood long hours in the silent gloom, 
waiting for the appearance of the dawn. 

At length the morning came, but the light was 
not strong enough to scatter the thick vapors that 
rested upon the land. Then Siegfried mounted 
his steed, and the sunbeams began to flash from 
Greyfell's mane and from the hero's glittering 
armor ; and the hazy clouds fled upward and away, 
until they were caught and held fast by great mist- 
giants, who stood like sentinels on the mountain- 
tops. As the shining pair came up from the sea, 
and passed through the woods and valleys of the 
Nibelungen Land, for that was the name of the 
mysterious country, there streamed over all that 
region such a flood of sunlight as had never before 


white-veiled Waves, cease playing, until the vessel 
should safely reach its haven. 

When, at length, the day had passed, and the 
evening twilight had come, Siegfried saw that the 
ship was nearing land. But it was a strange land. 
Like a fleecy cloud it appeared to rest above the 
waves, midway between the earth and the sky ; a 
dark mist hung upon it, and it seemed to be a land 
of dreams and shadows. The ship drew nearer 
and nearer to the mysterious shore, and, as it 
touched the bank, the sailors rested from their row- 
ing. Then Siegfried and the horse Greyfell leaped 
from the vessel and stood upon the land; but, when 
the)- looked back, the fair vessel which had carried 
them was nowhere to be seen. Whether it had 
suddenly been clutched by the greedy fingers of 
the Sea-queen, Ran, and dragged down into her 
deep sea-caverns, or whether, like the wondrous 
ship " Skidbladner," it had become invisible to the 
eyes of men, Siegfried never knew. The thick 
mist and the darkness of night closed over and 

been seen. In every leafy tree, and behind every 
blade of grass, elves and fairies were hidden ; and 
from under every rock, and out of every crevice, 
lurked cunning dwarfs. But Siegfried rode straight 
forward until he came to the steep side of a shad- 
owy mountain. There, at the mouth of a cavern, 
a strange sight met his eyes. Two young men, 
dressed in princes' clothing, sat upon the ground ; 
their features were haggard, gaunt, and pinched 
with hunger, and their eyes wild with wakefulness 
and fear ; and beside them was a heap of gold 
and precious stones, which they had brought out 
of the cavern. And neither of the two Princes 
would leave the place, to get food, nor close his 
eyes in sleep, lest the other should seize and hide 
some part of the treasure. And thus had they 
watched and hungered through man)' long days 
and sleepless nights, each hoping that the other 
would die ; for the whole inheritance would then 
become his own. 

When they saw Siegfried riding near, thev called 




out to him and said: "Noble stranger, stop a 
moment ! Come and help us divide this treasure. " 

'•Who are you?" asked Siegfried; "and what 
is your treasure ? " 

" We are the sons of Niblung, who, until lately, 
was King of this Mist Land. Our names are Schil- 
bung and the young Niblung," faintly answered 
the Princes. 

" And what are you doing here with this gold 
and these glittering stones ? " 

" In this cavern lies the great Nibelungen 
Hoard, which our father, long ago, found upon 
the Glittering Heath. And now he is dead, and 
we have longed to bring the hoard out of the cav- 
ern where it was hidden, in order that we might 
share it between us equally. But we can not 
agree, and we pray you to help us divide it." 

Then Siegfried dismounted from the horse Grey- 
fell, and came near the two Princes. 

"I will gladly do as you ask," said he; "but 
first tell me how the King, your father, obtained 
the hoard of the Glittering Heath, and how he- 
brought it to this Mist Land." 

Then Niblung answered feebly, while his brother 
fell back upon the ground from weakness : 

" Our father was, from the earliest times, the 
ruler of this land, and the lord of the fog and the 
mist. Many strong fortresses and noble halls had 
he in this land; and ten thousand brave warriors 
were ever ready to do his bidding. The swarthy 
elves, and the trolls of the mountains, and the 
giants of the cloudy peaks were his vassals. But 
he did more than rule over the Nibelungen Land. 
Twice every year he crossed the sea and rambled 
through the Rhine valleys, or loitered in the wet 
Lowlands ; and, now and then, he brought rich 
trophies back to his island home. Once on a 
time, he ventured past the unknown boundaries of 
Hunaland. Upon a dry and cheerless moorland, 
which men call the Glittering Heath, he found this 
treasure, which had been long guarded there by a 
vile snake-dragon, whom men called Fafnir. A 
brave young hero slew the monster and gave the 
treasure back to its rightful guardians, the swarthy 
elves of the mountains. But the chief of the 
elves, the dwarf Andvari, had, long before, cursed 
the treasure; and now the elves dared not touch 
it, nor possess it, unless some man would take 
upon himself the dreadful risk of incurring the 
curse, and should assume ownership of the hoard. 
This thing our father did. Then the dwarf Al- 
berich and the ten thousand swarthy elves that live 
in the mountain caves gathered up the treasure 
and brought it to this cavern, where, with the help 
of the twelve giants whom you see like sentinels 
on these mountain-peaks, they guarded it for our 

" This is the story of the hoard as we know it, 
although men tell it quite differently. They say 
that our father obtained it unjustly and by guile 
from his brother, whose vassals had digged it from 
out of the earth, in the sunny valleys of the upper 
Rhine. But be this as it may, the treasure lies 
here within, and lo ! for man)- days we have 
watched it and hoped to divide it equally. But 
we can not agree." 

" What hire will you give me if I divide it for 
you? " asked Siegfried. 

"Name what you will have," the Princes an- 

"Give me the sword which lies before you on 
the glittering heap." 

Then Niblung handed him the sword, and said : 

" Right gladly will we give it. It is a worthless 
blade that our father, last year, brought from the 
low Rhine country. They say that it was forged 
by Mimer, the Knowing One, and that in the south- 
land it is considered a most wondrous blade. Be 
that as it may, it is of no worth to us ; it turns 
against us when we try to use it." 

Siegfried took the sword with joy, for it was his 
own Balmung. 

Forthwith he began the task of dividing the 
treasure ; and the two brothers, so faint from hun- 
ger and want of sleep that they could scarcely 
lift their heads, watched him with anxious, greedy 
eyes. First, he placed a piece of gold by Nib- 
lung's side, and then a piece of like value he gave 
to Schilbung. And thus he did again and again, 
until no more gold was left. Then, in the same 
manner, he divided the precious stones, until none 
remained. And the brothers were much pleased, 
and they hugged their glittering treasures, and 
thanked Siegfried for his kindness and for the 
fairness with which he had given to each his own. 
But, one thing was left which had not fallen to the 
lot of either brother. It was a ring of curious 
workmanship — a serpent coiled with its tail in its 
mouth, and with ruby eyes, glistening and cold. 

"What shall I do with this ring? " asked Sieg- 

" Give it to me ! " cried Niblung. 

" Give it to me ! " cried Schilbung. 

And both tried to snatch it from Siegfried's 
hand. But the effort was too great for their strength. 
Their arms fell helpless at their sides, their feet 
slipped beneath them, their limbs failed: they sank 
fainting, each upon his pile of treasures. 

" O my dear, dear Gold ! " murmured Niblung, 
trying to clasp it all in his arms. "My dear, dear 
Gold ! Thou art mine, mine only. No one shall 
take thee from me. Here thou art, here thou 
shalt rest. O my dear, dear Gold ! " And then, 
calling up the last spark of life left in his famished 



body, he cried out to Siegfried: "Give me the 
ring ! The ring, I say ! " He hugged his cher- 
ished gold nearer to his bosom ; he ran his thin 
fingers deep into the shining, yellow heap ; he 
pressed his lips to the cold and senseless metal ; 
he whispered, " My dear, dear Cold!" and then 
he died. 

"O priceless, priceless gem-stones!" faltered 
Schilbung, " how beautiful you are ! And you are 
mine, all mine. I will keep you safe. Come ! 

and sun-bright diamonds, and two thin, starved 
corpses stretched upon them. Some men say that 
the brothers were slain by Siegfried, because their 
foolish strife and greediness had angered him. 
But I like not to think so. It was the gold, and 
not Siegfried, that slew them. 

" O Gold ! Gold ! " cried the hero, sorrowfully. 
"Truly thou art the world's curse! Thou art 
man's bane ! But when the spring-time of the 
new world shall come, then will the curse be taken 



Come, my bright Beauties ! No one shall harm 
you. You are mine, mine, mine ! " And he chat- 
tered and laughed as only madmen laugh ; and he 
kissed the hard stones and sought to hide them in 
his bosom. But his hands trembled and failed, 
dark mists swam before his eyes ; he fancied that 
he heard the black dwarfs clamoring for his 
treasure, he sprang up quickly, he shrieked, — and 
then fell lifeless upon his heap of sparkling gems. 
A strange, sad sight it was. Immense wealth, 
and miserable death. Two piles of yellow gold 
Vol. IX.— 35. 

from thee, and thy yellow brightness shall be the 
sign of purity and enduring worth : and thou 
shalt be a blessing to mankind, and the plaything 
of the gods." 

But our hero had little time for thought and 
speech. A strange sound was heard on the mount- 
ain-side. The twelve great giants, who had stood 
as watchmen upon the peaks above, were rushing" 
down, to avenge their masters and to drive the 
intruder out of Nibelungen Land. Siegfried 
waited not for their onset, but mounted the noble 




horse Greyfell, and, with the sword Balmung in 
his hand, he rode forth to meet his foes, who, with 
fearful threats and hideous roars, came striding 
toward him. The sunbeams flashed from Grey- 
fell's mane and dazzled the dull eyes of the giants, 
who were unused to the full light of day. Doubtful 
they paused, and then again came forward. But 
they mistook for an enemy every tree in their way, 
and every rock they thought a foe, and in their 
fear they fancied a great host to be before them. 
One and all they dropped their heavy clubs, and 
cried for quarter. And Siegfried made each of 
the giants swear an oath of fealty to him ; and 
then he sent them back to the snow-covered 
mountain-peaks, to stand again as watchmen at 
their posts. 

And now another danger appeared. Alberich, 
the dwarf, the master of the swarthy elves who 
guarded the Nibelungen Hoard, had seen all that 
had befallen the two young Princes, and when he 
beheld the giants driven back to the mountain- 
tops, he lifted a little silver horn to his lips and 
blew a shrill bugle-call. And the little brown 
elves came trooping forth by thousands. From 
under every rock, from the nooks and crannies and 
crevices in the mountain-side, from the deep cavern 
and the narrow gorge, they came at the call of their 
chief. Then, at Alberich's word, they formed in 
line of battle, and stood in front of the cavern 
and the bodies of their late masters. Their little 
golden shields and their sharp-pointed spears were 
thick as the blades of grass in a Rhine meadow ; 
and Siegfried, when he saw them, was both pleased 
and surprised, for never before had such a host of 
pygmy warriors stood before him. 

While he paused and looked, the elves became 
suddenly silent, and Siegfried saw that Alberich 
stood no longer at their head, but had strangely 
vanished from sight. 

" Ah, Alberich ! " cried the Prince, " thou art 
cunning. I have heard of thy tricks. Thou hast 
donned the Tarnkappe, the cloak of darkness, 
which hides thee from sight and makes thee as 
strong as twelve common men. Come on, thou 
brave dwarf ! " 

Scarcely had he spoken, when he felt a shock 
which almost sent him reeling from the saddle, 
and made Greyfell plunge about in fright. 
Quickly did Siegfried dismount, and, with every 
sense alert, he waited for the second onset of the 
unseen dwarf. It was plain that Alberich wished 
to strike him unawares, for many minutes passed 
in utter silence. Then a brisk breath of wind 
passed by Siegfried's face, and he felt another blow ; 
but, by a quick downward movement of his hand, 
he caught the plucky dwarf, and tore off the magic 

(To be co 

Tarnkappe, and then, with firm grasp, he held his 
struggling little enemy. 

" Ah, Alberich ! " he cried ; " indeed thou art 
cunning ! . But the Tarnkappe is now mine. What 
wilt thou give for freedom and life ? " 

'• Worthy Prince," answered Alberich, humbly, 
" you have fairly overcome me and made me your 
prisoner. I and all mine, as well as this great 
treasure, belong rightfully to you. We are yours, 
and you we shall obey." 

" Swear it ! " said Siegfried. " Swear it, and 
thou shalt live, and be the keeper of my treas- 
ures ! " 

And Alberich made a sign to his elfin host, and 
every spear was turned point downward, and every 
shield was thrown to the ground, and the ten thou- 
sand little warriors kneeled, as did also their chief, 
and owned Siegfried to be their rightful master, 
and the lord of Nibelungen Land, the owner of the 
Nibelungen Hoard. 

Then, by Alberich's orders, the elves carried the 
hoard back into the deep cavern, and there kept 
faithful watch and ward over it ; and they buried 
the starved bodies of the two Princes on the top of 
the mist-veiled mountain. Heralds were sent to all 
the fortresses and strongholds in Nibelungen Land, 
and they proclaimed that Siegfried, through his 
wisdom and strength, had become the rightful Lord 
and King of the land. 

Then the Prince, riding on the horse Greyfell, 
went from place to place, scattering sunshine and 
smiles where shadows and frowns had been before. 
And the people welcomed him with glad shouts 
and music and dancing ; and ten thousand Nibel- 
ungen warriors came to meet him, and plighted 
their faith to him. And the pure brightness of 
his hero-soul, and the gleaming sunbeams from 
Greyfell's mane, lifted the curtain of mists and 
fogs that had so long darkened that land, and let 
in the glorious glad light of day and the genial 
warmth of summer. 

"Did he stay there all the rest of his life?" 
asked Leif, after a pause. 

" Did they leave the treasure buried in the 
cave ? " asked Rollo. 

"What became of the fair Brunhild? " asked 
little Ingeborg. " Did Siegfried ever go back to 
Isenstein ? " 

" Yes, tell us all about it ! " cried the three 

'• As I have said," answered their father, "one 
evening will not afford time to tell of all Sieg- 
fried's strange adventures. I will answer your 
questions by telling you one or two stories more ; 
and, with those, you must rest satisfied." 




By Mrs. Fanny Barrow. 

At first, a bail of fluffy fur, 
All black, or gray, or white, 

Trying to catch its little tail 
With all its little might. 

Four pretty little velvet paws, 
That leap, and catch, and pat ; 

But presto I in a year you see 

A dignified old cat ! 



G R A B - B A G . 


By H. H. 

A fine game is Grab-bag, a fine game to see ! 

For Christmas, and New Year, and birthdays, and all. 

Happy children, all laughing and screaming with glee ! 

If they draw nothing more than a pop-corn ball, 

'T is a prize they welcome with eyes of delight, 

And hold it aloft with a loud, ringing cheer; 

Their arms waving high, all so graceful and white ; 

Their heads almost bumping, so close and so near. 

The laughter grows louder ; the eyes grow more bright. 

Oh, sweet is the laughter, and gay is the sight — 

A fine game is Grab-bag ! a fine game to see ! 

A strange game of Grab-bag I saw yesterday ; 

I '11 never forget it as long as I live. 

Some street-beggars played it, — poor things, not in play! 

A man with a sack on his back, and a sieve, — 

A poker to stir in the barrels of dirt, — 

A basket to hold bits of food he might find, — 

'T was a pitiful sight, and a sight that hurt, 

But a sight it is well to keep in one's mind. 

His children were with him, two girls and three boys ; 

Their heads held down close, and their eyes all intent ; 

No sound from their lips of glad laughter's gay noise : 

No choice of bright playthings to them the game meant ! 

A chance of a bit of waste cinder to burn ; 

A chance of a crust of stale bread they could eat ; 

A chance — in a thousand, as chances return — 




The baby that yet could not totter alone 
Was held up to see, and, as grave as the rest, 
Watched wistful each crust, each cinder, each bone, 
And snatched at the morsels he thought looked the best. 
The sister that held him, oppressed by his weight — 
Herself but an over-yeared baby, poor child ! — 
Had the face of a woman, mature, sedate, 
And looked but the older whenever she smiled. 

Oh, a sad game is Grab-bag — a sad game to see ! 

As beggars must play it, and their chances fall ; 

When Hunger finds crusts an occasion for glee, 

And Cold finds no rags too worthless or small. 

O children, whose faces have shone with delight, 

As you played at your Grab-bag with shouting and cheer, 

And stretched out your arms, all so graceful and white, 

And gayly bumped heads, crowding near and more near, 

With laughter and laughter, and eyes growing bright, — 

Remember this picture, this pitiful sight, 

Of a sad game of Grab-bag — a sad game to see ! 





By Charles L. Brace. 



A TRAVELER who has recently journeyed in 
India, a man of science, Mr. V. Ball, gives an 
account of a very curious matter which before had 
been somewhat discussed by the celebrated scholar, 
Mr. Max Miiller — that is, the history of ''Wolf- 
reared Children." 

It appears that, in the province of Oude, the 
wolves are exceedingly destructive. They creep at 
night from the jungles and mountains into the vil- 
lages of the poor people, and, crawling into the 
little huts, will often snatch the babe from the 
mother's arms, sometimes even without awaking 
her ; or they will pick up an infant that has been 
left for a moment during the day by the hard-work- 
ing mother. Wolves are said to have an especial 
appetite for young and tender infants, and so de- 
structive are their ravages that, in one district men- 
tioned by Mr. Ball, it is estimated that one hundred 
infants are carried off annually by wolves ; and the 
business of smoking out wolves from their dens, in 
order to find the golden and other ornaments worn 
by the unfortunate babies, is an extensive and 
profitable one. 

It seems that now and then a wolf captures and 
carries home an infant to his cubs, and that they do 
not at once eat the child ; perhaps because they 
have recently eaten a kid or a lamb, or other food. 

The baby probably suckles with the young wolves, 
and the mother-wolf comes to have a wild affection 
for the child, and he grows up with the wolf-cubs. 
At length, the mother-wolf is smoked out of her 
cave, or the cubs are killed or caught, or they are 
all hunted down, and the wild little human being is 
caught also — sometimes after he has lived six or 
eight years among his four-footed companions. 

Mr. Ball saw two of these wild children in an 
orphan asylum at Sekandra, in Oude, and in differ- 
ent orphanages in India there have been others 
whose history was well known. At first they 
appear like wild beasts ; they have no language, 
and only keep up a curious whine, creeping around 
on hands and feet like the young wolves, and 
smelling everything before eating it, as an animal 
does. For a time they will eat nothing but raw 
flesh, and they snatch eagerly at a bone, and gnaw 
it like a dog. Their hands and the skin of the 


knees are hard and callous from constant creeping, 
and the fore-arms of "one whom Mr. Ball saw had 
become short from the same habit. A photograph * 
was made of one, who, with his open mouth and 

"Jungle Life in India," by V. Ball, of the Geological Survey of India. Page 459. London, 18 



vacant expression, looks like an idiot. Rescued 
wolf-reared children have a constant desire to get 
back to the jangles, and to creep into holes, and 
they have not been able to learn much, nor to 
become used to civilized habits ; and then, too, 
they die early. It is said, though for this we can 
not vouch, that when a wolf conies to a house 
where is a wolf-reared child, he seems to know it 
by its odor, and never harms it. 

The wolf-child has no language ; its morals and 
habits are wolfish ; it has drawn into its body wolf- 
milk; it hates the dwellings and ways of men ; it 
loves creeping instead of walking, and jungles and 
caves and the forest, rather than fields and cot- 
tages and houses. It is a wild beast, but with the 
brain and soul of a human being. The wolf-child 
of India has all the capacities and possibilities of 
any ordinary boy or girl. No doubt, if he were 
left with his step-mother, the wolf, his brain would 
make. him more cunning than his wolf play-fellows, 
and he would show the savageness of the beast 
with the skill of the man. He would become the 
most dangerous wild animal — worse than tiger or 
leopard — of the Indian jungles. 



the children who read St. Nicholas in comfortable homes ever 
that there are wolf-reared children in such a city as New York? — 
boys and girls who were born to hunger, and cruel treatment, and who live in miserable dens and 
holes ; who are as ignorant of love and hope, and of the missions, and churches, and schools of this 





city as are the infants found in the wolves' dens of 
the mountains of Oude ; who have been taught 
only in the schools of poverty, vice, and crime ; 
whose ways are not our ways, and who have wolf- 
ish habits ; whose brain makes them more cun- 
ning, more dangerous, than the animal, and who, 
if they grow up thus, will be more dangerous to 
this city than wolf or tiger to the villages of India. 

But, fortunately for us, these children have not 
lost our language, like the poor babies of Oude, 
and, though wolves in human shape have brought 
them up to crime and sin, they can be saved and 
made into reasonable human beings. 

Would you like to hear how this is done ? 

Well, here comes one of the wolf-reared children 
to the office of the Children's Aid Society, in 




Fourth street, New York. He has no cap, but his 
tangled hair serves as a covering for his head ; 
bright and cunning eyes look out from under the 
twisted locks ; his face is so dirty and brown that 
you hardly know what the true color is ; he has no 
shirt, but wears a ragged coat, and trousers out at 
the knees and much too large for him ; he is bare- 
footed, of course. He is not at all a timid boy, 
small as he is, but acts as if nothing would ever 
upset his self-possession, whatever might happen. 
The benevolent Mr. Macy, who has been dealing 
with poor children for the last quarter of a century, 
meets him, and asks : 

" Well, my boy, what do you want ? " 

"A home, please, sir." 

" What is your name ? " 

" Haint got no name, sir ; the boys calls me 

" Well, Pickety, where do you live ? " 

" Don't live nowhere, sir." 

" But where do you stay ? " 

"I don't stay nowheres in the day-time, but 

and jist now a cove has taken me in at the iron 
bridge at Harlem." 

" Iron bridge ! What do you mean? " 

" Why, them holler iron things what holds the 
bridge up. He got it first, and he lets me in." 

" Pickety, who is your father? " 

"Haint got no father, sir; he died afore I 
knew, and me mither, she drinked and bate me, 
and we was put out by the landlord, and she died, 
and the City Hall buried her ! " And something 
like a shadow came over the cunning blue eyes. 

" Pickety, did you ever hear of God? " 

'• Yes, sir; I have heared the fellers swear about 
Him, and I know it 's lucky to say something to 
Him when you sleep out in bad nights." 

" Did you ever go to school, Pickety, or to 
church ? " 

" No, sir ; I never went to no church nor school. 
I should kind o' like to learn somethin' ! " 

"Well, Pickety, we '11 make a man of you, if 
you will only try. You will, I see ! " 

So Pickety is sent by Mr. Macy down to a clean, 


I sleeps in hay-barges, sir, and sometimes in 
dry-goods boxes, and down on the steam-gratings 
in winter, till the M. P.'s [policemen] come along, 

beautiful "Lodging House," put up by a generous 
lady for just such homeless children. It stands at 
No. 287 East Broadway. A kind, experienced 




Superintendent, Mr. 
Calder, meets him, 
and a matron — Mrs. 
Calder — takes him in hand. 
Her smile alone would take 
the wolf-feeling out of him and 
make him more of a human 
child. In his secret heart, lit- 
tle Pickety thinks they must 
be a very soft set, or else that 
they want to make money out 
of him by and by, but he takes 
their kindness very quietly. 
Perhaps, too, he is watching 
for a chance to pocket a handy 
little article or so, or to slip 
out-of-doors with something. 

And now, first, he is put 
into a bath and made clean, 
and his hair is cut short by a 
■cutter such as those used for 




clipping horses. He feels much better after 
all this, and quite enjoys a clean check-shirt 
given him ; but he finds that he must wear 
his old trousers again, so his hastily formed 
plan of slipping away with a whole suit of 
new clothes is nipped in the bud. 

He then enjoys a plain, wholesome supper 
in company with a number of other boys, who have 
been in the house longer; and when he sees the 
sweet face of the matron who is serving them, he 
finds his feelings change a little, and he almost 
thinks she is too good for him to try to cheat her. 

Presently, he goes up willingly to a large, cheer- 
ful school-room. It is the prettiest place he ever 
saw ; there are many lights, and large windows, and 
beautiful flowers in a conservatory at the end, and 
pot-flowers at the sides, and a nice library, and 

long rows of neat boxes, where the boys keep their 
books and things. 

Every part of this room is as clean as wax-work, 
and Pickety is very glad he has had that thorough 
washing; it begins to dawn upon him, too, that 
the people must be good who have made such a 
nice room for poor boys. But he still keeps a 
lookout, lest he should be entrapped in some dis- 
agreeable way. 

By and by, the Superintendent, a handsome, 
benevolent-looking man, talks to the boys about 




things our little waif never 
heard of before — of doing 
right, and making true 
change in selling newspa- 
pers, and not stealing other 
people's property, and of 
a God above who is pleased 
if a street-boy is honest 
and good. Little Picket)- 
thinks this is meant for 
him, for only yesterday a 
customer gave him a ten- 
cent piece by mistake for 
a penny, and he never told 
him, but pocketed the 
money ; and he remembers 
a poor old woman, whose 
apples he used to steal, till 
she had to break up her 
stand and go to the Island 
Almshouse ; so he feels 
very uneasy at the Superin- 
tendent's words. 

After this came the les- 
sons, and for the first time 
he was introduced to all the letters, though he had 
known enough before to tell one newspaper from 


another ; and he was very glad to find that he 
learned them quickly, and that in counting and 




suras he was quicker than the others ; of course, 
this was because he had sold papers and so had 
had to make change so often. 

Little Pickety's greatest surprise, however, was 
when he was taken up to the sleeping-room — a 
large, handsome, airy dormitory, clean as a ship's 
deck, with nice, springy wire-beds arranged on 
iron frames, one over another, like ships 
bunks. He saw some boys kneeling down 
before climbing into bed, and he thought 
he, too, might say something to the 
Great Being above, of whom he had 
heard, and who seemed to care even 
for such poor creatures as he — and 
he made his prayer. He had had 
some intention of ranging around 
at night and playing some trick, or 
stealing something, but his new 
feelings drove the idea out of his 
head ; and, besides, he saw pres- 
ently that strict watch was kept. 

ness, and others had paid for their lodgings and 
meals (five cents each), and he began to feel he, 
too, must do something. He did not wish to be a 
" pauper," nor to have anybody think of him as 
one, and he saw lads as small as he who said they 


After his breakfast next morning, he heard that 
some boys had put their money into the " savings- 
bank" in the audience-room; and others had 
borrowed from the fund for starting boys in busi- 

earned from fifty cents to a dollar a 
clay, and that they bought their own 

One bright little fellow especially ex- 
cited his envy by declaring that he 
"belonged to the upper ten," as it 
appeared he slept in the ten-cent dor- 
mitory, and had his own special 
"ten-cent locker" for his clothes, with 
a private key. 

Hearing all this, Pickety at length 
ventured to speak to the Superin- 
tendent, who kindly explained to 
him that each boy was expected to 
do all he could to pay his own way, 
that idle and pauper boys were not 
wanted there, and that some kind 
gentleman had supplied money with 
which to help boys who might wish 
to start in business. 

Pickety knew all about the boot- 
blacking business, but, as he 
explained, " a big boy had 
punched him and stolen all his 
kit." He could sell newspapers, too, but he had 
been ''stuck" with his last lot, and had lost all 
his money ; and after that piece of bad luck he 
had lived on bits of bread that a hotel- waiter had 








given him, and once or twice he had been fed by 
one of the other boys. 

Mr. Calder was ready to supply him with a boot- 
blacking outfit, or to give him checks which would 
entitle him to so many copies of the Telegram or 
Daily News, the boy to return the value of the 
checks, after a few days, when he should have made 
some money. 

Pickety chose the newspaper checks, and cleared 
twenty-five cents, and then invested again, and 
came back at night with fifty cents made, 
feeling very proud and independent, since 
he was now able to 

pay for his lodging -..;• 

and meals. 

buy " policy-tickets," and thus take a short path 
to fortune. Other boys were after him to " go on 
/ ' -p the lay," as they called it — that 

j I I ,, . , *|£r=s. ' s > t0 break open 

\"^ » iff stores, and so gain 

fifty or a hundred 
dollars at once, in- 
stead of working 
hard every day 
and all day, for 
the sake of get- 
ting a few pen- 
/ nies. But in 
the Sunday- 
evening meet- 
ings of the 



The next day and the next, he appeared at the 
Lodging House, for he rather liked the place and 
the people, and, wide-awake as he was, he saw that 
he got a great deal for his money, and could not 
hope to do better anywhere else. In a few days 
he had repaid the loan, had a little capital ahead, 
and actually found himself rich enough to afford 
a pair of new trousers. 

Then, later, having some money, he was sorely 
tempted to pitch pennies and make more, or to 

Lodging House, Pickety heard a great deal about 
the sin of stealing and the folly of such "short 
cuts to fortune," and he began to see how wrong 
and foolish all these things were ; and that he 
ought to try in his humble way to lead a straight- 
forward and manly life, and to please the wonderful 
Being of whom the teacher read in the Testament, 
and who had lived and died on the earth for men. 
So Pickety broke away from bad companions, 
and, finding that liberal interest was offered in the 




savings-bank of the Lodging House, he put his 
money there ; and when, after some months, they 
would no longer keep it there, because, they said, 
it was too much to risk, he felt very proud to place 
it in a big savings-bank in the city. 

Little Pickety happened to be sent one day to 
the Superintendent's sitting-room; he knocked at 
the door, and heard a harsh voice cry : 

" Come in ■! " 

So he opened the door and entered. 

To his surprise, he found no one in the cozy, 
tasteful little room. But a deep, sepulchral voice 
from a dark Corner of the room asked : "Who are 
you ? " 

The little street-rover was not afraid of human 
enemies, but of ghosts he had heard many a fear- 
ful story ; and he now began to quake in his shoes. 
Suddenly, however, he discovered, in a cage in the 
corner, a strange, weird-looking bird, about as 
large as a crow, dark as night, with a most beauti- 
ful metallic luster on its feathers. The bird held 
its great head sidewise, and, after peering at the 
boy in a most searching fashion for a minute, it 
unexpectedly exclaimed, in a tone of the deepest 
misery : 

" P-o-o-r M-i-n-o ! " and again: "M-i-n-o 
w-a-n-t-s a drink of w-a-ter ! " with various other 
plaintive speeches, which seemed to come from 
the throat of some stout, heavy alderman. The 
creature ended by whistling, in not at all a melan- 
choly manner, that lively air called "Captain Jinks." 

Pickety rah back in great haste to describe his 
wonderful discovery to his comrades, when Mr. 
Calder brought down the cage among them, and it 
was a source of endless amusement, as it often had 
been before to other sets of lads. The mischiev- 
ous boys took special delight in having Mino in the 
school-room; for whenever the Superintendent had 
begun a prayer, or was making some serious 
remarks, the bird was sure to give vent to an 
unearthly scream, or to call out in its harsh voice : 
"Who are you ?" or otherwise break in upon the 
sobriety of the occasion. 

Pickety was especially touched, one day, by see- 
ing poor sick women and children come up to 
Mr. Calder's desk for the little bouquets of flowers 
furnished to the Flower Mission by kind people in 
the country. The lad knew that these beautiful gifts 
were carried home to the dark cellars and miser- 
able attics of that neighborhood, and that these 
bunches of bright, sweet-smelling flowers came like 
gifts from God, gladdening the bedside of many a 
sick and dying creature in the poor quarter around 
the Lodging House. 

Pickety had now lost much of his former wolfish, 
savage nature : he did not wish to go back to his 

jungle and den; he had learned to eat with his 
knife and fork, and to sleep in a bed, like a civil- 
ized human being; he was less cunning but more 
bright, and was kind to other boys ; he had begun 
to have a desire to earn and own something, and 
to get on in the world. Besides, he had some idea 
of religion, and a great longing to be considered a 
manly fellow ; and he was beginning to read in 

At length, one day, the Superintendent called 
him and told him he could not be always in the 
Lodging House, for they did not keep boys long, 
and he must soon strike out by himself and en- 
deavor to make his own way in the world. 

The Superintendent also explained to the bright 
young lad that the best possible employment for a 
young working-boy in this country was farming, 
and that there were kind-hearted farmers in the 
West who would be glad to take him, and teach 
him their business, giving him at first only cloth- 
ing and food, but paying him fair wages later on. 
In this way he would have (for the first time in 
his life) a home, and might grow up with the 
farmer's family, and share in all the good things 
they had. 

Pickety at first thought he might be sent where 
bears would hunt him, or Indians catch him, and 
that he would earn very little and would lose all 
the sights and fun of New York, so he was almost 
afraid to go ; but, on hearing all about it, and see- 
ing that he would never come to much in the city, 
and especially hoping to get more education in the 
West, and by and by to own a bit of land for him- 
self, he resolved to join a party under one of the 
western agents of the Children's Aid Society and 
go to Kansas — which to the New York boy seems 
the best State in the West. 

We have not time nor space to follow his fort- 
unes there : everything was strange to him, and 
he made queer work of his duties in a farmer's 
house; but the strangest thing of all to him was to 
be in a kind, Christian family. He wondered what 
made them all so good, and he began to think he 
would like to be as they were, and most of all like 
the One he had heard of in the Lodging House 

He was careful to write to his New York friends 
about his new home, and here is one of the letters 
received from him, after he had been in the West 
a few months : 

" , , Kansas. 

"Mr. Macy — Dear Sir: I write you these 
few lines hoping you are in good health at present, 
and not forgetting the rest of the gentlemen that 
I remember in the Children's Aid Society. I am 
getting on splendid with my studies at school, and 
I send you my monthly report, but please return 




Vol. IX.— 36. 




it, as I want to keep all my reports. I have a 
good place and like my home, and am glad I came. 

" The first time I rode a horse bare-back, he 
slung me off over his head and made me sick for 
a week. I also had diphtheria but I am all right 
again and in good health, and can ride or gallop a 
horse as fast as any man in town. When summer 
comes I will learn to plough and sow, and do 
farmer's work. I will get good wages out here. 
It is a nice country, for there is no Indians, or 
bears, or other wild animals — 'cept prairie-wolves, 
and you can scare them with anything. 

" If any boy wants a good home, he can come 
here and have plenty of fun. I have fun with the 
mules, horses, pigs and dogs. No pegging stones 
at rag-pickers or tripping up men or tramps in the 
Bowery or City Hall Park. 

"Tell ' Banty ' I send him my best respects. Tell 
him it is from ' Pickety,' and he will know me. 
" Yours truly, ." 

He learned his farm-work fast and soon made 

himself very useful ; the next winter he went to 
school again, and became a very good scholar. He 
knew how to make money, too: when the farmer 
gave him a calf, or a lamb, or a sheep, he took 
good care of it, and by and by sold it, and bought 
other stock with the proceeds, and in this way, 
after a few years, he had saved a considerable sum. 
With this he bought some "Government land," 
on which he built a shanty ; and so he began to be 
a "landed proprietor." 

He was no longer "Pickety," but had a Chris- 
tian name, and for his last name he took that of 
the kind people to whom he felt like a son. He 
had acquired a fair education, too; and the neigh- 
bors liked and respected the "New York orphan," 
as they called him. He had quite lost his wolfish 
nature by this time, and now had a new one, which 
had come to him from the Good Being he had 
heard of in the Lodging House, through the civil- 
izing, Christian influences that had been thrown 
around him. And here we will leave him, — 





By Kate Kellogg. 

A Lady-bug and a Bumble-bee 

Went out in the fine, spring weather ; 

They met by chance on a lilac-bush, 
And talked for a while together. 

"These days are warm," said the Bumble-bee, 
"But the nights are damp and chilly." 

" So damp, indeed," the Lady-bug cried, 
" I should think you 'd rent the lily. 

I know it 's To Let, — I 've seen the sign. — 
But it wont be long un taken ; 
The wonder is, that so sweet a place 
Should ever have been forsaken." 

A thousand thanks," said the Bee in haste, 

" And if you '11 excuse my hurry, 
I '11 go and secure the house at once, 
Before there 's a rush and flurry." 

So off he flew toward Marigold street 
(The way was not long, nor hilly), 

But just as he passed the pinks, he saw 
A little girl pick the lily. 

The only house he could find to rent ! 
And this is the pitiful reason 
Why out on a cold, bare clover-leaf 
He slept the rest of the season. 

You call this story too sad to tell ? 

Perhaps it is ; but it teaches 
A little rule to the little heart 

Of each little girl it reaches. 

And the rule is this : When spring-time 

And the nights are damp and chilly, 
Be very sure that it 's not To Let, 

Before you gather a lily. 





By Mary Mapes Dodge. 

Chapter XVI. 


" Is Miss Dorothy in ?" 

" I think she is, Miss Josie. And yet, it seems 
as if she went over to the Danbys'. Take a seat, 
Miss, and I '11 see if she 's in her room." 

"Oh, no, Nora! I '11 run up myself and sur- 
prise her." 

So the house-maid went down-stairs to her work, 
for she and Liddy were " clearin' up" after the 
house-picnic of the day before; and Josie Manning 
started in search of Dorry. 

"I '11 look in her cozy corner first," said Josie to 

Only those friends who knew the Reeds inti- 
mately had seen Dorry's cozy corner. Mere ac- 


quaintances hardly knew of its existence. Though 
a part of the young lady's pretty bed-room, it was 
so shut off by a high, folding screen that it formed 

a complete little apartment in itself. It was deco- 
rated with various keepsakes and fancy articles — 
some hanging upon the walls, some standing on 
the mantel-shelf, and some on the cabinet in 
which she kept her "treasures." With these, and 
its comfortable lounge and soft Persian rug, and, 
more than all, with its bright little window over- 
head, that looked out upon the tree-tops and the 
gable-roof of the summer-kitchen, it was indeed 
a most delightful place for the little maid. And 
there she studied her lessons, read books, wrote 
letters, and thought out, as well as she could, the 
plans and problems of her young life. In very 
cold weather, a wood fire on the open hearth 
made the corner doubly comfortable, and on 
mild days, a dark fire-board and a great vase of 
dried grasses and red-sumac branches made it 
seem to Dorry the brightest place in the world. 

Josie was so used to seeing her friend there that 
now, when she looked in and found it empty, she 
turned back. The cozy corner was not itself with- 
out Dorry. 

"She 's gone to the Danbys' after all," thought 
Josie, standing irresolute for a moment — 

"I '11 run after her. No, I '11 wait here." 

So, stepping into the cozy corner again, but 
shrugging her pretty shoulders at its loneliness, 
she tossed her hood and shawl upon the sofa, and, 
taking up a large book of photographic views that 
lay there, seated herself just outside the screen, 
where she would be sure to see Dorry if she 
should enter the room. Meantime, sitting in the 
sunshine, a pleasant heat came in upon her from 
the warm hall ; not a sound was to be heard, and 
she was soon lost in the enjoyment of the book, 
which had carried her across the seas, far into 
foreign scenes and places. 

But Dorry was not at the Danbys' at all. She 
was overhead, in the garret, kneeling beside a 
small leather trunk, which was studded with tar- 
nished brass nails. 

How dusty it was ! 

" I don't believe even Liddy knew it was up 
here," thought Dorry, " for the boys poked it out 
from away, 'way back under the rafters. If she 
had known of it, she would have put it with the 
rest of the trunks." 

Dorry laid the dusty lid back carefully, noting 
as she did so that it was attached to the trunk by 
a strip of buff leather inside, extending its entire 
length, and that its buff-paper lining was gay with 

* Copyright, i88i, by Mary Mapes Dodge. All rights reserved. 




sprays of pink rose-buds. In one of the upper cor- 
ners of this lid was a label bearing this inscription : 

"Oh!" exclaimed Dorry, under her breath, as, 
still kneeling, she read the words, — "it 's Aunt 
Kate's own writing ! " 

"Papa," ran her thoughts, "that was Donald's 
and my grandpapa. October, 1849 — ten whole 
years before we were born ! when she was a little 
girl herself ! " 

Then with reverent hands Dorry lifted the top 
article — a soft, pink muslin dress, which had a 
narrow frill of yellowish lace, basted at the neck. 
It seemed to have been cast aside as partly worn 
out. Beneath this lay a small black silk apron, 
which had silk shoulder-straps, bordered with nar- 
row black lace, and also little pockets trimmed with 
lace. Dorry, gently thrusting her hand into one 
of these pockets, drew forth a bit of crumpled rib- 
bon, some fragments of dried rose-leaves, and a 
silver thimble marked "K. R. " She put it on her 
thimble-finger ; it fitted exactly. 

" Oh, dear ! " thought Dorry, as, with flushed 
cheeks and quick-beating heart, ihe looked at the 
dress and apron on her lap; "I wish Don would 
come ! " Then followed a suspicion that perhaps 
she ought to call him, and Uncle George, too, 
before proceeding further; but the desire to go on 
was stronger. Aunt Kate was hers, — "my aunty, 
even more than Don's," she thought, "because 
he's a boy, and of course does n't care so much," — 
and then she lifted a slim, white paper parcel, 
nearly as long as the trunk. It was partly 
wrapped in an old piece of white Canton crape, 
embroidered with white silk stars at regular inter- 
vals. Removing this, Dorry was about to take off 
the white paper wrapper also, when she caught 
sight of some words written on it in pencil. 

" Dear Aunt Kate ! " thought Dorry, intensely 
interested; "how carefully she wrapped up and 
marked everything! Just my way;" and she 
read : 

My dear little Delia : I am fourteen to-day, 
too old for dolls, so I must put you to sleep and lay 
you away. But I HI keep you, my dear dolly, as 

long as I live, and if I ever have a dear little girl, 
she shall wake you and play with you and love 
you, and I promise to name her Delia, after you. 
Kate Reed. August, 1852. 

With a strange conflict of feeling, and for the 
moment forgetting everything else, Dorry read the 
words over and over, through her tears ; adding, 
softly: "Delia ! That 's why my little cousin was 
named Delia." 

And, as she slowly opened the parcel, it 
almost seemed to her that Cousin Delia, Aunt 
Kate's own little girl, had come back to life, and 
was sitting on the floor beside her, and that she 
and Delia always would be true and good, and 
would love Aunt Kate forever and ever. 

But the doll, Delia, recalled her. How pretty 
and fresh it was! — a sweet rosy face, with round 
checks and real hair, once neatly curled, but now 
pressed in flat rings against the bare dimpled 
shoulders. The eyes were closed, and when 
Dorry sought for some means of opening them, 
she found a wire evidently designed for that pur- 
pose. But it had become so rusty and stiff that 
it would not move. Somehow the closed eyes 
troubled her, and before she realized what she 
was doing, she gave the wire such a vigorous 
jerk that the eyes opened — bright, blue, glad 
eyes, that seemed to recognize her. 

" Oh, you pretty thing ! " exclaimed Dorry, as 
she kissed the smiling face and held it close to her 
cheek for a moment. " Delia never can play with 
you, dear ; she was drowned, but / '// keep you as 

long as I live Who's that? Oh, Don, how 

you startled me ! I am so glad you 've come." 

" Why, what 's the matter, Dot?" he asked, 
hurrying forward, as she turned toward him, with 
the doll still in her arms. " Not crying?" 

"Oh, no, no, I 'm not crying," she said, hastily- 
wiping her eyes,- and surprised to find them wet. 
"See here! This is Delia. Oh, Don, don't 
laugh. Stop, stop ! " 

Checking his sudden mirth, as he saw Dorry's 
indignation, and glancing at the open trunk, 
which until now had escaped his notice, he began 
to suspect what was the matter. 

" Is it Aunt Kate's?" he asked, gravely, as he 
knelt beside her. 

"Yes, Don; Aunt Kate's doll when she was a 
little girl. This is the trunk that I told you about 
— the one that the diary fell out of." 

A strong, boyish step was heard coming up the 
garret stair: "Who is it? Run, Don, don't let 
any one come up here ! " begged Dorry. 

" It 's Ed Tyler, — Hold up, Ed! " cried Don, 
obediently. "I'll be there in a minute." Then 
hurriedly kissing Dorry, and with a hearty "cheer 
up, little sister! " he was gone. 




Don's pleasant tone and quick step changed the 
current of Dorry's thoughts. More than this, a 
bright beam of sunlight now shone through the 
dusty window. Sobbing no longer, she carefully 
wrapped the doll in the same paper and piece of silk 
that had held it for so many years. As she arose, 
holding the parcel in her hand, the pink dress and 
black silk apron on her lap fell to the floor. 

A sudden thought came to her. 
Dorry never could remain sad very 
long at a time. She hastily opened 
the parcel again. 

" Lie down there, Delia dear," she 
said, gently placing the doll on the 
rose-buds of the still open trunk-lid. 
"Lie down there, till I put on these 
things. I 'm going to take you down 
to see your uncle ! " 

' ' Wont he be astonished, though !" 
murmured Dorry, as, half smiling, 
half sighing, she took off her dress in 
great excitement, and put on, first 
the pink muslin, and then the black 
silk apron, fastening them at the 
back as well as she could, with many 
a laborious twist and turn of her 
white arms, and with a half-puzzled 
consciousness that the garments were 
a perfect fit. 

The dress, which was high at the 
neck, had short sleeves, and was 
gathered to a belt at the waist. 
Tying the apron at the back, so that 
the ends of its black ribbon bow 
hung down over the full pink skirt, 
she proceeded to adjust the silk 
straps that, starting in front at the 
belt, went over the shoulders and 
down again at the back. 

As she did this and perceived that each strap was 
wide on the top and tapered toward the belt, it 
struck her that the effect must be quite pretty. 
Bending, to take up Delia, she saw, for the first 
time, among the bits of calico and silk lying in the 
bottom of the trunk, what proved to be a wide- 
brimmed straw hat. In another moment it was on 
her head, and, with a quick little laugh, she caught 
up Delia and ran down the stairs. 

He sprang to his feet in amazement. 

" Don't be frightened. It 's only Dorry. I just 
wanted to surprise you ! See," she continued, as 
he stood staring wildly at her, " I found all these 
things upstairs. And look at the dolly! " 

By this time the hat had fallen off, and she was 
shaking her tumbled hair at him in a vehement 
manner, still holding Delia in her extended arms. 

right nor left, Dorry sped 
across the hall, on tiptoe 

Looking neither to 
down the next flight ; 
now, and so on to the study door, which stood 
ajar just enough to admit her slight figure. 

Mr. Reed, who sat at the table busily writing, 
did not even look up when she entered. 

"How d' ye do?" she exclaimed, courtesying 
to her uncle, with the doll in her arms. 


" Good-bye, Ed ! " rang out Donald's clear 
voice from the piazza, and in an instant he was 
looking through the study window, much surprised 
to see a quaint little pink figure folded in Uncle 
George's embrace, while Dorry's voice was calling 
from somewhere : "Be careful ! Be careful ! 
You '11 break Delia ! " 

Ed Tyler, sauntering homeward, met Josie Man- 
ning on her way to the Danbys'. " I think Dorry 
has gone to see Charity Danby," she said, "and 
I 'm going after her. I 've been waiting at her 
house, ever so long." 

" I 've been at Don's, too," said Ed. " Just 
come from there." 

Josie laughed. " As if I did n't know that," she 
said. " Why, I was in Dorry's room all the time. 
First I heard Don run up to the garret for some- 

i88 2 .] 



thing, then you went up after him, and then you 
both passed down again, and out upon the piazza. 
I suppose you went to the old carriage-house, as 
usual, did n't you ? " 

" Of course we did. We 're turning it into a 
first-class gymnasium. Mr. Reed has given it to 
Don outright, and I tell you it will be a big 
thing. Jack 's helping us. Don has saved up 
lots of pocket-money, and Mr. Reed gives him 
all the lumber he wants. Just you wait. But, by 
the way, Dorry is n't out. Don told me himself 
she was rummaging up in the garret." 

"Why, that's queer!" was Josie's surprised 
exclamation. "Then it must have been Dorry 
who ran down-stairs. It could n't be, though — ■ 
some one with a hat on and a short-sleeved pink 
dress went by like a flash." 

"Don't you know Dorry Reed yet?" laughed 
Ed — " she is always dressing up. Why, one day 
when I was there, she came into Don's room 
dressed like an old woman — cap,, crutch, corked 
wrinkles and all complete — never saw anything 
like it. What a little witch she is ! " 

"I think she 's an angel! " said Josie, warmly. 

" A pretty lively angel ! " was Ed's response. 

But the tone of admiration was so genuine that 
it satisfied even Josie Manning. 

"Well!" exclaimed Donald, noting Dorry's 
strange costume as he entered the room, after 
shouting a second good-bye to Ed Tyler. 

"Well!" echoed Dorry, freeing herself from 
her uncle's arms, and facing Donald, with a little 
jump — "what of it? I thought I 'd pay Uncle a 
visit with my pretty doll-cousin here " (hugging 
Delia as she spoke), " and he started as if I were a 
ghost. Did n't you, Uncle?" 

"I suppose I did," assented Mr. Reed, with a 
sad smile. " In fact, Dorry, I may as well admit 
that what is fun to you happened, for once, not to 
be fun to me." 

" But it was n't fun to me ! " cried that aston- 
ishing Dorry. " It was — it was — tell him, Don ; 
you know." 

There was no need for Don to speak. Dorry's 
flushed cheeks, shining eyes, and excited manner 
told their own story — and both her brother and 
uncle, because they knew her so well, felt quite sure 
that in a moment Dorothy's own self would have 
a word to say. 

Still folding the dolly to her heart and in both 
arms, just as she would have held it years before, and 
with the yearning look of a little child, the young 
girl, without moving from the middle of the room, 
looked wistfully toward the window, as though she 
saw outside some one whom she loved, but who 
could not or would not come to her. Then she 

stepped toward her uncle, who had seated himself 
again in the big chair, and laying her hand upon 
his shoulder, said earnestly : 

" Uncle, I 've been brought nearer to Aunt 
Kate to-day than ever in my life before, and the 
lonely feeling is almost all gone. I found a little old 
trunk, far back under the rafters, with her doll in 
it, her clothes and her writing, and now I see how 
real she was, — not like a dream, as she used to 
seem, but just one of us. You know what I mean." 

"A trunk, Dorry! What? Where?" was all 
the response Uncle George made, as, hastening 
from the room, he started for the garret, keeping 
ahead of the others all the way. 

Chapter XVII. 


DONALD and Dorothy followed their uncle 
closely, though he seemed to have forgotten them; 
and they were by his side when he reached the 
little treasure-trove, with its still opened lid. 

Paying no attention to their presence, Mr. Reed 
hurriedly, but with the tenderest touch, took out 
every article and examined it closely. 

When he came to the diary, which Dorry that 
day had restored unopened to the trunk, he eagerly 
scanned its pages, here and there ; then, to the 
great disappointment of the D's, he silently laid it 
down, as if intending soon to take it away with 

" May we see that, Uncle ?" asked Dorry, softly. 
" Is n't it right for us to read it ? We found out it 
was her diary — but I put it back " 

Without replying, Uncle George went on with 
his examination. Finally, replacing the last arti- 
cle in the trunk, he closed the lid with a hopeless 
air, and turned toward Dorry, saying : 

" Dorothy, where is that doll ? It must go back 
where you found it, and the clothes, too." 

She handed it to him without a word — all her 
hope turned to bitterness. 

But as he took it, noting her grieved expression, 
he said : 

" Thank you, my dear. You are too old to 
play with dolls " 

"Oh, Uncle, it is too bad for you to speak so ! 
You know I did n't mean to play with it. It is n't 
a dolly to me — she 's more like — like something 
with life. But you can shut her up in the dark, if 
you want to." 

" Dorry ! Dorry ! " said Don, reproachfully. 
" Don't be so excited." 

In a flash of thought, Dorry made up her mind 
to speak — now or never. 

" Uncle ! " said she, solemnly, " I am going to 




ask you a question — and, if it is wrong, I can't 
help it. What is the reason that you always feel so 
badly when I speak of Aunt Kate ? " 

He looked at her in blank surprise for an instant ; 
then, as she still awaited his reply, he echoed her 
words, " Feel badly when you speak of Aunt Kate ! 
Why, my child, what do you mean ? " 

" I mean, Uncle dear, that there is a secret in 
the house : something you have never told Don and 
me. It 's always coming up and making mischief, 
and I don't think it 's right at all. Neither does 

" That 's so, Uncle," said Donald, emphatically; 
" we feel sure there is something that gives you 
trouble. Why not let us share it with you ? Re- 
member, we are not little children any longer." 

The uncle looked quickly from one to the other, 
mentally deciding that the children could be told 
only the facts that were positively known to him ; 
then seating himself on the corner of a large chest, 
he drew Don and Dorry toward him. 

" Yes, my children," he said, in his own hearty 
way, as if already a load had been taken from his 
mind, "there is something. It is right that I 
should tell you, and this is as good a time as any. 
Put the doll away, Dorry " (he spoke very gently 
now), "wherever you please, and come down-stairs. 
It is chilly up here — and, by the way, you will 
catch cold in that thin gown. What have we been 
thinking of all this while ? " 

"Oh, I 'm as warm as toast, Uncle," she re- 
plied, at the same time taking her pretty merino 
dress from the old chair upon which she had 
thrown it, scarcely an hour ago; "but I suppose 
it 's always better to be on the safe side, as Liddy 

" Much better," said Uncle, nodding with forced 
cheerfulness. " Down with you, Dot. We '11 join 
you in a minute." 

Dorry saw her uncle stooping low to peer into 
the far roof-end of the garret, as she left them ; 
and she had time to place Delia carefully in her 
treasure-cabinet, put on the warmer dress, and be 
ready to receive her uncle and Donald before they 
made their appearance. 

'' May we be your guests, Dot ? " asked Uncle 
George, at her door. 

"Oh, yes, sir; come right in here," was her 
pleased response, as, with a conflict of curiosity 
and dread, Dorry gracefully conducted them into 
her cozy corner. 

" It is too pretty and dainty here for our rough 
masculine tread, eh, Don ? " was Mr. Reed's re- 
mark, as, with something very like a sigh, he 
seated himself beside Dorry upon the sofa, while 
her brother rested upon one of its ends. 

"Well," began Dorry, clasping her hands 

tightly, and trying to feel calm. " We 're ready, 
now, Uncle." 

"And so am I," said he. "But first of all, I 
must ask you both not to magnify the importance 
of what I am going to reveal." 

"About Aunt Kate ? " interposed Dorry. 

"About Aunt Kate. Do not think you have 
lost her, because she was really, no — I should say 
-—not exactly." 

"Oh," urged Dorry, "don't stop so, Uncle! 
Please do go on ! " 

" As I was about to say," resumed Mr. Reed, in. 
a tone of mild rebuke at the interruption, "it 
really never made any difference to me, nor to 
your father, and it should make no difference to 
you now. You know," he continued, with some 
hesitation, "children sometimes are adopted into 
families — that is to say, they are loved just the 
same, and cared for just the same, but they are 
not own children. Do you understand?" 

"Understand what, please, Uncle? Did Aunt 
Kate adopt any one ? " asked Dorry. 

"No, but my father and mother did; your 
grandfather and grandmother Reed, you know," 
said he, looking at the D's in turn, as though he 
hoped one of them would help him. 

"You don't mean, Uncle," almost screamed 
Dorry, " that it was that — that horrid " 

Donald came to her assistance. 

"Was it that man, Uncle? " he asked, quickly. 
" Ben Buster told me the fellow claimed to be 
related to us — was he ever adopted by Grandfather 
Reed ? " 

" Ugh ! " shuddered Dorry. 

Very little help poor Uncle George could hope 
to have now from the D's. The only way left was 
to speak out plainly. 

"No, not that man, my children; but Aunt 
Kate. Aunt Kate was an adopted daughter — an 
adopted sister — but she was in all other respects 
one of our family. Never was daughter or sister 
more truly beloved. She was but two years old, 
an orphan, when she came to us. Grandpa and 
Grandma Reed had known her parents, and when 
the little" — here Mr. Reed hastily resolved to say 
nothing of Eben Slade for the present — "the 
little girl was left alone in the world, destitute, 
with no relatives to care for her, my father and 
mother took her into their home, to bear their 
name and to be their own dear little daughter. 

"When Aunt Kate was old enough, they told her 
all, but it was her wish that we boys should for- 
get that we were not really her brothers. This 
was before we came to live in this house. 

" Our Nestletown neighbors, hearing nothing of 
the adoption, naturally supposed that little Kate 
Reed was our own sister. The secret was known 




only to our relatives, and one or two old friends, 
and Lydia, who was Kate's devoted nurse and 
attendant. In fact, we never thought anything 
about it. To us, as to the world outside, she was 
Kate Reed — the joy and pride of our home — our 
sister Kate to the very last. So it really made no 
serious difference. Don't you see ? " 

Not a word from either of the listeners. 

" Of course, Dorry dar- 
ling," he said, coaxingly, 
" this is very strange news 
to you, but you must meet 
it bravely and as I said be- 



fore, without giving it undue importance. I wish 
now that, from the first, you and Donald had been 
told all this ; but indeed your Aunt Kate was always 
so dear to me, that I wished you to consider her, as 
she considered herself, a relative. It has been my 
great consolation to think and speak of your father 
and her as my brother and sister, and to see you, 
day by day, growing to love and honor her 
memory as she deserved Now, do you not 

understand it all ? Don't you see that Aunt Kate 
is Aunt Kate still ? " 

"Yes, indeed, /say so, most decidedly," broke 
forth Donald. " And I am very glad you have 
told us, Uncle. Are n't you, Dorry?" 

Dorry could not speak, but she kissed Uncle 
George and tried to feel brave. 

" Mamma and Aunt Kate were great friends, 

were n't they?" 
Donald asked. 

" Yes, indeed. 
Though they be- 
came acquainted 
only a few months 
before your par- 
ents married and 
departed for Eu- 
rope, they soon 
became very fond 
of each other." 

"Then, Uncle," 
pursued Donald, 
"why did n'tyoie 
know Mother, 
too? I should 
think she would 
have come here to 
visit Aunt Kate, 

"As your moth- 
er was an only 
child, living alone 
with her invalid 
father, she was 
unwilling to leave 
him, and so Aunt Kate visited her instead. 
I wish it had been different, and that I could 
speak to you and Dorothy more fully of 
your mother, whom I rarely saw. \Ye all 
know that she was good and lovely, but I should 
like to be able to bring her familiarly to your 
minds. This old home would be all the dearer 
if it could be associated with thoughts of your 
mother and happy days which she had passed here 

with Aunt Kate " 

At this point Mr. Reed was summoned to his 
study. A gentleman from town had called to see 
him on business. 

" Keep up a good heart, my girl," he said, ten- 
derly, to Dorry, as he left her, "and as soon as 
you feel like it, take a run out-of-doors with 
Donald. The bracing air will drive all sad 
thoughts away." 

Dorry tried to smile pleasantly, as she promised 
to follow his advice. She even begged Don not to 
wait any longer, assuring him that she would go 
out and join him very soon. 




" That 's a good old Dot," said Don, proudly. 
"I '11 wait for you. Where 's your hat ? " 

" No, you go first, Don. I '11 be out soon. I 
really will." 

" All right. Ed 's out there again by this time. 
You '11 find us in the gymnasium," and off he ran, 
well knowing that Dorry's heart was heavy, but 
believing that the truest kindness and sympathy 
lay in making as light as possible of Uncle 
George's revelation — which, he felt, was n't so 
serious a thing after all, if looked at in the right 

Dorothy waited until he was out of sight, and 
then sat down to think it all over. 

The result was that when Liddy chanced to pass 
through the hall, a few moments later, she was 
startled at hearing half-suppressed sobs. 

According to the custom of the house, which 
made the cozy corner a sort of refuge for Dorry, 
the good woman, upon entering at the open door, 
stood a moment wondering what to do. But as 
the sound of another little sob came from behind 
the screen, she called out in a cheery voice : 

" May I come in, Miss Dorry, dear ? " 

" Y-yes," was the answer. " Oh, Liddy, is that 

you r 

Uncle has told us all about it." 


" Sakes alive!" cried Liddy, holding up 
hands in dismay — "not told you everything?" 

" Yes, he has," insisted Dorry, weeping afresh, 
as Lydia's manner seemed to give her a new right 
to consider that an awful fact had been revealed to 
her. "I know now all about it. I haven't any 
Aunt Kate at all. I 'm a-all alone ! " 

" For shame, Miss Dorry; how can you talk so ? 
You, with your blessed uncle and your brother, to 
say nothing of them who have cherished you in 
their arms from the day you were a helpless baby 

— for shame, Miss, to say such a thing ! " 
This put matters in a new light. 

" Oh, Liddy, you don't know about it. There's 
no Aunt K-Kate, any way," sobbed Dorry, rather 
relieved at finding herself the subject of a good 

" There isn't, eh ? Well, I 'd like to know why 
not ! " retorted Lydia, furtively wiping her eyes. 
" I guess there is. I knew, long before you were 
born, that she was a dear little adopted girl. But 
what of that — that doesn't mean she wasn't ever 
a little girl at all. Don't you know, Miss Dorry, 
child, that a human being 's a human being, and 
folks care for 'em for what they are ? It was n't 
just belongin' to this or that family made Miss 
Kate so lovely — it's what she was herself, and I 
can certify to her bein' as real as you and me are 

— if that 's all that 's wanted." 

By this time Dorry, though half comforted, had 
buried her face in the sofa-pillow. 

" Not that I can't feel for you, poor dear," 
Liddy continued, gently patting the young girl's 
shoulder, but speaking more rapidly — " many 's 
the time I 've wept tears, just to think of you, 
longing with all your little heart for a mother. 
I 'm a rough old body, my dove, and what are 
your dear good uncle and Master Donald but 
menkind, after all, and it 's natural you should 
pine for Aunty. Ah, I 'm afraid it 's my doings 
that you 've been thinkin' of her all these days, 
when, may be, if I 'd known your dear mother, 
which I did n't, — and no blame to me neither, — 
I would n't always have been holding Miss Kate 
up to you. But she was a darling, was your Aunt 
Kate, as you know by her picture down-stairs — 
don't you, dear ? " 

Dorry nodded into the cushion, by way of reply. 

Liddy gazed at her a moment in sympathizing 
silence, and then, in a more cheerful tone, begged 
her to rouse herself: 

" It wont do any good to fret about it, you 
know, Miss Dorry. Come, now, you '11 have the 
awfulest headache that ever was, if you don't 
brighten up. When you 're in trouble, count 
your blessings — that 's what I always say, and 
you 've a big share of 'em, after all, dear. Let me 
make you a nice warm cup of tea — that '11 build 
you up, Miss Dorry. It always helps me when 
I Sakes ! what 's that ? " 

"What's what, Liddy?" said Dorry, languidly 
raising her head from the pillow. "Oh, that's — 
that 's her — that 's Aunt Kate's frock and apron. 
Yes, and here 's something else. Here 's Delia — 
I '11 show her to you." 

And so saying, she rose and stepped toward the 

" Show me Delia ? Merciful heavens," cried 
Liddy, " has the child lost her senses ! " 

But the sight of the doll re-assured her. 

"Oh, that 's Delia, is it?" she asked, still won- 
dering; "well, where in the world did it come 

Dorry told her all about the discovery of the 
little trunk that had been hidden in the garret so 
many years. 

" Oh, those miserable house-cleaners ! " was 
Liddy's wrathful comment. " Only to think of 
it ! We had 'em workin' up there when you twins 
were too little to spare me, and I 've never felt easy 
about it since, nor trusted any one but myself to 
clean that garret. To think of their pushing things 
in, 'way out of sight and sound like that ! " 

This practical digression had a good effect on 
Dorry. Rousing herself to make the effort, she 
bathed her face, smoothed her hair, and seizing her 
hat and shawl, started with a sigh to fulfill her 
promise to Donald. 



And all this time, Liddy sat stroking and folding 
the little pink dress and black apron. 

Chapter XVIII. 


WHEN Dorry reached the "gymnasium," as 
Ed and Don called it, she could not help smiling 
at the grand title they had given prematurely to a 
very unpromising looking place. 

The building had been a fine carriage-house in 
its day, but of late it had been used mainly by 
Jack as a sort of store-house for old barrels, boxes, 
wheels, worn-out implements, and odds and ends 
of various kinds. Its respectable exterior had 
saved it from being pulled down when the new 
carriage-house was built. As Donald had planked 
off one end for his own special purposes, — first as a 
printing-office, later as a carpenter's shop, — and as 
Dorothy had planted vines, which in summer sur- 
rounded its big window with graceful foliage, it had 
become the special property of Jack and the D's. 

Consequently, when Donald asked Mr. Reed to 
allow him to sell or send away the rubbish, and, 
with the proceeds of the sale of the old iron added 
to his own saved-up pocket-money, to turn the 
place into a gymnasium, his uncle not only gave 
free consent, but offered to let him have help and 
material, in case the young man should fall short 
of funds — as he most undoubtedly would. 

The project was but a few days old at the time 
of the house-picnic, but being a vigorous little proj- 
ect, with life in its veins, it grew and prospered 
finely. Sailor Jack entered heartily into the work 
— the more so as his gallant fancy conceived the 
idea of some day setting up near by a sort of ship's- 
rigging with shrouds and ratlins, in which to give 
the boys lessons, and occasionally disport himself, 
by way of relief, when his sea-longing should 

become too much for him. Plans and consulta- 
tions soon were the order of the day, and Dorry 
becoming interested, learned more about pulleys, 
ropes, ladders, beams, strength of timber, and 
such things than any other girl in the village. 

The building was kept moderately warm by an 
old stove, which Jack had set up two years before, 
when Don and Dorry had the printing-press fever 
(which, by the way, had broken out in the form of 
a tiny, short-lived newspaper, called The Nestle- 
town Boom), and day after day the boys spent 
every odd moment of daylight there, assisted in 
many ways by Dorothy. But perhaps more 
efficient help was rendered by Jack, when he could 
spare the time from his horses, and by the village 
carpenter, when he would deign to keep his 

Above all, it was decided that the new tutor 
should not begin until after the Christmas holidays, 
now close at hand. 

Under this hearty cooperation, the work pros- 
pered wonderfully, 

Pretty soon, boys who came to jeer remained 
to try the horizontal bar or the "horse," or the 
ladder that stretched invitingly overhead from one 
end of the building to the other. By special 
request, Don's and Dorry's Christmas gifts from 
Uncle were a flying-course, a swinging-bar, and a 
spring-board. Jack and Don carted load after load 
of saw-dust from the lumber-mill, and presto ! the 
gymnasium was in full operation. 

All of which explains why Josie Manning and 
Dorothy Reed bought dark-blue flannel, and sent 
to town for the latest pattern for gymnasium 
dresses, — why Don and Ed soon exasperated them 
by comfortably purchasing suits ready-made, — why 
Dorry's cheeks grew rosier, why Uncle was pleased, 
why Jack was happy, and why Lydia was morally 
sure the D's would break their precious necks, if 
somebody did n't put a stop to it. 

(To be continued.) 


There once was a man from "Par-ce," 
Whose reply to all questions was "Out/" 
When told he 'd go wrong, 
Should he not change his song, 
He replied very much as you see. 




By Celia Thaxter. 

Eirds on the boughs before the buds 

Begin to burst in the spring, 
Bending their heads to the April floods, 

Too much out of breath to sing ! 

They chirp, " Hey-day ! How the rain comes down ! 

Comrades, cuddle together! 
Cling to the bark so rough and brown, 

For this is April weather. 

" Oh, the warm, beautiful, drenching rain ! 
I don't mind it, do you ? 
Soon will the sky be clear again, 
Smiling, and fresh, and blue. 

" Sweet and sparkling is every drop 

That slides from the soft, gray clouds; 
Blossoms will blush to the very top 
Of the bare old tree in crowds. 

" Oh, the warm, delicious, hopeful rain ! 
Let us be glad together. 
Summer comes flying in beauty again, 
Through the fitful April weather." 




Skies are glowing in gold and blue , 
What did the brave birds say ? 

Plenty of sunshine to come, they knew, 
In the pleasant month of May! 

She calls a breese from the South to blow, 
And breathe on the boughs so bare, 

And straight they are laden with rosy snow, 
And there 'a honey and spice in the air ! 

Oh, the glad, green leaves ! Oh, the happy wind 1 
Oh, delicate fragrance and balm ! 

Storm and tumult are left behind 
In a rapture of golden calm. 

From dewy morning to starry night 
The birds sing sweet and strong, 

That the radiant sky is filled with light, 
That the days are fair and long ; 

That bees are drowsy about the hive — 

Earth is so warm and gay! 
And 't is joy enough to be alive 

In the heavenly month of May! 

5 66 



By Old Nursey. 

ittlebat titmouse theodore van horn 
Was the prettiest baby that ever was born. 
I bathed him and fed him and taught him "Bo-peep," 
Rocked him and trotted him, sang him to sleep. 
Then I bade him good-by, and crossed the wide sea, 
And it rolled twenty years 'twixt that baby and me ; 
Till at last I resolved I would cross the blue main 
And hug my own precious wee baby again. 

Well, that old ship creaked, and that old ship tossed,- 
I was sure as I lived that we all should be lost, — 
But at last we saw sea-gulls, and soon we saw land; 
And then we were in ; and — if there did n't stand 
My own blessed baby ! He came there to meet me ! 
Yes, when we all landed, he hastened to greet me ! 
And wonder of wonders ! that baby had grown 
To be bigger than me, and he stood all alone ! 

" Why, Nursey ! " he said (he could talk, think of that !), 
As he bowed like a marquis and lifted his hat. 

"Ah, how did you know your old Nursey? Oh, my! 
You 've changed very much, and no wonder," says I; 
When I spied of a sudden his mother, behind, — 
Sweet lady ! She 'd helped him Old Nursey to find. 
And he told me, right there, he 'd a sweet little wife 
And that I should live with them the rest of my life. 

So I 'm here, and right happy. You just ought to see 
The dear little fellow that sits on my knee. 
He has beautiful dimples and eyes like his Ma, 
And a nose and a chin just the same as his Pa. 
Ah, me ! He 's a beauty ! There never was born 
A prettier babe than this latest Van Horn. 


By Charles Barnard. 

"It 'S too bad that the fairies and giants died 
so long ago. It does seem as if all the wonderful 
things happened before there was a chance to see 
them. If a gnome or a nixie would appear in the 
woods near the fairy ring, and send word that 
it would do something; we could go to the tele- 
phone in the library, and tell all the boys and girls 
in the neighborhood to meet at the railway depot 
and take the train for the woods, so as to be in 
time to see. That would be something like ! 
They have put an electric light on a tall mast near 

the Town Hall. They say you can see it from 
Perkins's Hill where the fairy ring was found, and 
that 's more than nine miles from the Town Hall. 
Perhaps if there were any gnomes or fairies there, 
they could see it. What do you suppose they 
would think about it ? It is very bright, and 
it makes the streets look like fairy-land." 

You see, the boy who made this long speech 
was a great talker. He certainly mixed things 
up in a strange fashion. — fairies and telephones, 
gnomes and electric lights. He was sure nothing 



wonderful happens now, and yet he spoke of 
three things that leave poor Mr. Aladdin quite out 
of sight. What was the good of his old brass 
lamp? If you rubbed it well, you could fly away 
wherever you wished ; but there 's nothing to show 
that even the wonderful flying carpet was half as 
fast as a train of cars. As for talking through 
a wire ten miles long, there is nothing like that 
in any fairy story ever written. 

There are men and women still living who re- 
member the time when there were no railways. 
It was at the Centennial Exhibition that the tele- 
phone was first shown, and some of you can 
recall the day the men brought the wires over 
the top of the house and put up that little box 
in the library. Now comes this mysterious electric 
light. It is queer and strange, bright as a small 
chip split off the sun, and they say the small white 

perimenting," and it is in this way that nearly all 
the strange new things were discovered. Faraday 
knew the battery would give him sparks and 
flashes of light. By trying the wires of the bat- 
tery in a particular way, he found he could make 
the sparks stand still, while a great and wonderful 
light flashed up, burning and dazzling, before him. 
Franklin, you remember, went out one day, just 
as a thunder-shower was coming, and sent up his 
kite. The lightning ran down the kite-string and 
gave him a tiny spark from a key tied to the string. 
That was a famous experiment, for it proved that 
lightning and electricity were the same thing. 

From Faraday's experiment we learn that a thun- 
der-storm is a grand show, similar to the electric 
lights that shine in the streets. The lights in the 
clouds are not steady; — the lightning is not a good 
lamp to read by. Yet these three are the same — 


flame is so hot that it will burn up hard metals, 
like platinum, or tough stones, like diamonds. 
The gnomes never did anything like that, and, if 
they could do it, they never said so, or never took 
the trouble to try. Giants and nixies and gnomes 
don't amount to much, after all, nowadays. 

It was Faraday who first saw the electric light. 
He was one day at work with his battery, trying 
experiments. He was continually trying things to 
see how they would behave. We call this " ex- 

the sparks from the battery, the lightning from the 
clouds, and the new lamps in the streets. 

Place a needle near the ends of a magnet, and it 
will be pulled toward it. If the needle touches 
the magnet, it will stick to the ends. Something 
draws the needle to the magnet and makes it cling. 
The attraction of' the magnet for the needle we 
call " magnetism." We can see nothing of it : it 
has no light and no motion of its own. We can 
not hear it, and yet we know there is force of some 




kind. This force that drags the needle to the mag- 
net we call magnetism. In trying our experiment 
we have been, as it were, asking a question, as if 
we said, " Mr. Needle, what would you do if you 
met Mr. Magnet?" Air. Needle is not very talka- 
tive, but the pointed way he has of clinging to Mr. 
Magnet speaks more loudly than words. Could 
he speak, he might say: "There is a force I must 
obey, and it draws me to the magnet. In nature 
there is a law of attraction, and in nature nothing 
ever breaks a law. " 

Put a two-cent piece in the mouth, on the tongue, 
and lay a nickel five-cent piece under the tongue, 
so that the edges of the two coins will just touch. 
In a moment you will have a curious bitter taste 
on the tongue. Neither coin by itself will have 
this taste. When the two pieces touch each 
other in the mouth, something happens besides 
their touching. You feel a strange, biting sensa- 
tion on the tongue. Look at the coins. Nothing 
seems to have happened to them, yet you feel sure 
that something did take place when you held them 
in your mouth. 

Another way to perform this experiment is to 
wind a short piece of fine copper wire around each 
coin, and then to drop them in a cup of vinegar. 
Take care that the bundles do not touch each 
other, and bring the ends of the two wires close 

One wire does not have this effect, but, when 
both wires touch the tongue, something happens, 
for you feel it plainly. What does this experiment 
tell us? That here is force of some kind. This 
kind of force is called electricity. The coins on 
the tongue or in the vinegar make what is termed 
a " battery," that is, a fountain, of this force, and 
the taste on the tongue is caused by electricity. 

If, in place of the coins, you use a sheet of cop- 
per and a sheet of zinc, each with its copper wire, 
and if in place of the vinegar a stronger acid, like 
sulphuric acid, is used, there will be more force, 
and the electricity will give us light and sounds. 
If the ends of the wires are brought together, there 
will be a tiny spark and a low sound, like the 
snapping of a bit of wood. There is nothing new 
to be seen or felt in the wires. They are cold and 
silent, yet, when they touch, they seem for an instant 
to be full of crackling fire. If the battery is a strong 
one, and you place a piece of paper between the 
ends of the wires, you will find after the flash 
that a small hole, with blackened edges, has been 
made through the paper. This shows that there is 
heat as well as light, for the spark burned a hole 
in the paper. From these experiments you can 
prove for yourself that electricity is something that 
can be tasted, and that it gives light and sound 
and heat ; and yet, it can not be seen. 


together. Now, holding the cup in the hand, 
touch the ends of the two wires to the tongue. 
Again you feel the strange, biting, bitter taste. 

At one time it was imagined that electricity was 
a kind of fluid, like water, and that it could, in 
some way, flow through the wires of a battery. 





It is better to think that electricity is merely 
energy displaying itself; but no one can tell what 
it really is. We can see its light ; we can feel 
it in the hands and arms — as when you touch 
a Leyden-jar ; we can taste it, as you know ; and it 
will burn and give out terrible sounds. We see the 
lightning strike a barn, and the barn burns down, 
and we hear the pealing sound when the flash 
has darted from the black clouds. These things 
are only the ways in which it shows itself to us, 
and we say these are displays of energy. The 
acid in the battery bites and eats up the copper and 
zinc. This process releases force or energy, and 
this force gives light and heat and sound. Electric- 
ity is the name we give to this strange force that 
comes from the copper coins in your mouth ; that 
streams from the battery ; that flashes from the 
clouds ; and burns with such beautiful fires in the 
Northern Lights. It is this force that is now used 
to light the new electric lamps in the streets. 

Faraday knew that the battery would give 
sparks, and he discovered a way of making them 
stand still and burn like a lamp. After this, for a 
long time, nothing more was done with the light. 

A strange thing was next discovered. If the 

wire from a battery were wound around a piece 

of iron, the iron would become a magnet. If the 

wire were cut in two, so that it did not reach the 

Vol. IX.— 37. 

battery, the iron would cease to be a magnet, and 
become mere ordinary iron, for which needles did 
not seem to care. If the wire were again joined 
to the battery, the needles found it out quickly 
enough. Now, here is a curious matter. A piece 
of iron may be a magnet at one time, and not at 
another. While the electricity runs through the 
wire, around and around the iron, the iron is a 
magnet. When the electricity stops, the iron loses 
its magnetic power. So it appears that the kind 
of energy which we call electricity may create 
magnetism in a rod of iron. We might say, Mag- 
netic force and Electric force are brothers. It 
seems so ; and a magnet made by passing elec- 
tricity through copper wire wound around iron, we 
call an electro-magnet, and the attractive power 
it has over a needle, we call electro-magnetism. 

If Electricity is brother to Magnetism, perhaps 
the magnet can give us electricity ? This appears 
to be so ; for if a coil of wire is placed near a mag- 
net, and then made to revolve rapidly, electricity is 
found in the wire just as if it had come from a 
battery. Electricity obtained in this new way 
was therefore called magneto-electricity. Then, 
working on this discover)-, inventors made machines 
for producing electricity. These machines gave 
more electricity than could be obtained from a bat- 
ter)', and it was much cheaper to make a steam- 




engine turn the new machines, than to put costly 
metals like zinc and copper into batteries. 

These electrical machines are now very common, 
and it is from them we get the electric force for the 
new lights. They are called dynamo-electrical 
machines, because the science of making engines 
work is called dynamics, and the motion or en- 
ergy of the engine is used to drive the machines. 
They are sometimes called "dynamos " — for short 
— or, as we might say, " work machines." 

These "dynamos" are of various kinds, but all 
are much alike. There is one large magnet, or a 
number of small ones placed together, and near 
the ends are set bundles of insulated wires — that 
is, bundles of wires, each wire being coated with 
gutta-percha, which shuts in, or insulates, the elec- 
tricity, and prevents its escaping from the surface 
of the wire. These bundles of wires are called 
"armatures," and they are placed on axles, as if 
they were wheels. The steam-engine is connected 
with the armature of a machine, and when the 
engine is at work the armature turns around many 
hundred times in a minute, close to the end of the 
magnet. The armature feels the magnetism of 
the great magnet, and every bit of the winding 
wire seems to thrill and quiver with electricity. 

cloth, are fastened to the machine, and are car- 
ried along the street on telegraph poles. Outside, 
in the dark, gleam and shine the fiery lamps, look- 
ing like baby moons glowing on the lamp-posts, 
or like clusters of brilliant stars burning on tall 
masts above the trees in the park. 

If we examine one of these electric lamps in the 

streets, we shall find it consists of two rods, one 

pointing upward from the bottom of the lamp, the 

other hanging downward. The rods seem to 

touch, and the brilliant flame is exactly where they 

seem to meet. The man in the picture on -the next 

page is just putting these rods into place in the 

lamp. Once a day he comes around with a bag of 

the rods. He takes out the old rods that were 

burned the night before, and places a new set in 

each lamp. After he has gone about, as if he 

were putting new wicks into the lamps, and each 

is ready for its night's work, all the lamps are 

lighted in broad day, to see that every one is in 

proper trim. They are allowed to burn until the 

men have walked about in the streets and looked 

at each lamp. If all are burning well, they are 

put out till it begins to grow dark. If one fails to 

burn properly, a man goes to that lamp to see 

what is the matter. The rods are made of a 

curious black substance, 

like charcoal, that is called 

carbon. When the lamp 

is out, the two rods touch 

each other. In order to 

light the lamp, they are 

pulled apart ; and if you 

look at the flame through 

a smoked glass, you will 

see that the rods do not 

quite touch. There is a 

small space between their 

points, and this space is 

filled with fire. Look at 

the other parts of the 

rods, or the copper wires 

that extend along the 

streets. They have no 

light, no heat, no sound. 

The wires are cold, dark, 


Brilliant sparks leap from the ends of the flying 
wire, and crackling blue flames seem to dance on 
the copper brushes that touch the armature, as 
it whirls swiftly around. On page 567 is a picture 
of one of these strange machines. You can not 
distinguish the parts of the armature as it spins 
around and around near the magnets. There must 
be something going on inside, for the whole 
machine is hot, as if it were in a terrible excitement 
over its work. Big copper wires, covered with 

push the two rods in the lamp close together, the 
light and heat would disappear, and the curious 
hissing sound would stop. Why is this ? Let us 
go to the woods near some brook, and it may be 
that we can understand this matter. 

Here is the brook, flowing quietly along, smooth, 
deep, and without a ripple. We walk beside the 
stream, and come to a place where there are high 
rocks, and steep, stony banks. Here the channel 
is very narrow, and the water is no longer smooth 




and silent. It boils and foams between the rocks. 
There arc eddies and whirlpools, and at last we 


V;l \ 

over the hindrance in its path, and it grows white- 
hot with anger, and flames and hisses as it leaps 
across the narrow space between the rods. 

One of the pictures gives a good idea of the way 
some of the lamps are placed on tall masts, 
high above the trees and houses, and of the curi- 
ous cone-like effect produced by the rays shining 
across the rain-drops at night, making each one 
glisten like a diamond falling out of the sky. 
Another view was taken from the windows of the 
tall building in Union Square where St. NICHOLAS 
may be found at home ; it shows how the masts 
and lamps look in the day-time. Besides these, we 



... f.-,,-f 

' >". 



j OF THE MAST IN MADI- ', "'". = 


come to the narrowest part of all. Here, the once 
dark and silent water roars and foams in white, 
stormy rapids. There are sounds and furious 
leaping and rushing water and clouds of spray. 
What is the matter? Why is the smooth, dark 
water so white with rage, so impetuous, so full of 
sounds and turmoil? The rocks are the cause. 
The way is narrow and steep. The waters are 
hemmed in, and there is a grand display of flash- 
ing white foam and roaring water-falls, as the 
waters struggle together to get past the narrow 

It is the same with the electricity flowing 
through the large copper wires. It passes down 
one wire into the other, through the lamp, in 
silence and darkness, so long as the rods touch and 
the path is clear. When the rods in the lamp are 
pulled apart, there is a space to be got over, an 
obstruction, like rocks in the bed of the brook. 
The electricity, like the water, struggles to get 



have a picture of an electric light on board an 
Italian war-ship in the bay of Naples. These 
lights are also used on steam-boats on the West- 




ern rivers. The pilot moves the light about until it 
shines on the trees or houses upon the bank, and in 
this manner picks out his way along the stream. 

There is another kind of electric lamp, used in 
houses ; it has a smaller and softer light, steady, 
white, and very beautiful. 

In these lamps, also, we have something like the 
narrow place in the brook. They are made with 
slender loops of carbon, inclosed in glass globes. 
The electricity, flowing silently through a dark 
wire, enters the lamp, and finds only a narrow 
thread on which it can travel to reach the home- 
going wire, and, in its struggle to get past, it heats 

the tiny thread of carbon to whiteness. Like a 
live coal, this slender thread gives us a mild, soft 
light, as long as the current flows. It seems calm 
and still, but it is enduring the same fury of the 
electricity that is shown in the larger lamps. 

This is the main idea on which these lamps are 
made : A stream of electricity is set flowing from a 
dynamo-electric machine through a wire until it 
meets a narrow place or a break in the wire. 
Then it seeks to get past the obstruction, and there 
is a grand putting forth of energy, and in this 
way the electric force, although itself invisible, is 
made known to our eyes by a beautiful light. 


By E. S. Brooks, Author of "The Land of Nod," etc. 


CHARACTERS: Jenny, a girl of eight years. Johnny Stout, 
a boy of sixteen or eighteen years. Jimmy Bings, a Tramp. 

The argument shows that wolves are just as designing, little 
girls just as heedless and helpful, and the chances of rescue just as 
possible to-day as at the time of the original Red Riding-hood. 
Scene: A neatly furnished parlor. Jenny discovered dusting fur- 
niture, arranging flowers, and making things look nice generally. 

Jenny, survcyiitg her work critically : 

There! — my mamma 's gone away, 
To be gone, she said, all day, 

And so I am keeping house. Oh, what fun ! 
I shall have no time to play, 
But must work and work away, 

And be busy as a mouse, till I 've done. 

But my mamma said to me — 
Now, what was it? Let me see: 

Jenny, darling, don't go out all the day; 
But keep close at home till tea, 
When I '11 come and set you free ; 

So just mind what you 're about, dear, I pray. 

"And keep Bridget right in call; 
And mind this, dear, most of all : 

Don't let in any stranger while I 'm gone. 
Lock the windows and the hall, 
And be careful not to fall, 

And don't get into danger here alone." 



Well, I '11 try my best, I 'm sure, 
To keep everything secure; 
But I 've no need for Bridget, that I know ; 
Girls are such a bore about, 
And she might as well go out ; 
I '11 just go down and tell her she can go. [Exit. ] 

[Jimmy Bings appears outside at window {or door, 
if a window is impracticable) ; h e peers in, looks around; 
then tries the window, opens it, and enters cautiously. 

Jimmy Bings : Well, now, here 's a lucky go ! 

With that window open so, 
I just skipped right in the house as slick as soap. 

Why, here 's loads of pretty things. 

You 're in luck, old Jimmy Bings, 
And can do a stroke of business here, I hope. 

\_A noise outside.'] 

Hello ! Who 's that coming here ? 
\_Goes to door, and looks out cautiously. ] 

Men ? No ! Dogs ? No ! Well, that 's queer ! 
Why! it 's only just a pretty leetle gal. 
Jimmy Bings, slip out, and then 
Just walk in here bold again — 

Play your game, and make that little chick your pal ! 
[Exit through door cautiously.] [Reenter Jenny.] 

Jenny : There ! Now Bridget 's gone away, 
And I '11 have a quiet day, 
Fixing everything up lovely while I wait; 
So that Mamma, she will say, 
When she comes back home to-day : 
"What a lady is my little girl of eight! " 
[Enter by door Jimmy Bings, hat in hand. lie makes 
Jenny a low bow. 

Jimmy B. : Ah ! Good-morning, little miss ! 
You look sweet enough to kiss. 
Is your Ma at home this morning, may I ask ? 

Jenny: Why, sir, no. She 's gone away, 
To be gone the livelong day, 
And I 'm keeping house alone. 

Jimmy B. : A pleasant task. 

And you '11 do it, I 'II be bound. 
Well, I 'm sorry Ma 's not 'round, 
For I wanted quite pertickeler to see her. 

Jenny: May not I, sir, do as well? 
Is it — anything to sell? 
Pray sit down, sir, so that we may talk the freer. 

Jimmy B., sitting: Thank you, Miss, I '11 sit awhile ; 
P'or I 've traveled many a mile, 
Just to see your precious Ma, if you '11 believe me. 

Jenny: She '11 be sorry, sir, I know, 

When she hears she 's missed you so. 
Can't you tell me, sir, your business, ere you leave me? 

Jimmy B. : Well, the fact is, I 'm her cousin ! 
[Jenny looks surprised.] 

Oh, she 'd know me in a dozen. 
I 'm her cousin, come to see her, from Nevada. 

Jenny, suspiciously : 

In those clothes? — Oh, sir, — I fear ! 

Jimmy B. : Oh, a railroad smash-up, dear, 

Mussed me up a little — never was jogged harder! 

Jenny: Oh, I ! m sorry! Are you hurt? 

Jimmy B. : Not the least. It 's only dirt ; 
But I always am so neat, I quite despair ; 

And my wardrobe all is down 

At the Clarendon, in town, 
Where I 'm stopping: I am Algernon St. Clair. 

Jenny: My, though! What a pretty name! 
Well, it really is a shame 
You should have to go to town in such a plight. 
There now, would n't Papa's do ? 
Oh, please look the papers through, 
And I '11 run upstairs, and soon fix you all right. 

Jimmy B. : No, don't fret yourself, my dear; 
I prefer to have you here, 
Though perhaps I may accept your offer later. 
Is your Pa as big as me ? 

Jenny, surprised : Don't you know him ? 

Jimmy B. : Well, you see, 

I 've been West so long I 've kind of lost my data. 

Jenny : Wont you have a bit lo eat ? 
Jimmy B. : Well, I do feel rather beat. 

Then I "11 go and bring you up a little luncheon. 
Jimmy B., carelessly : 

Have you silver, dear — or plate ? 
Jenny: Mostly solid, sir. 

Jimmy B. : Fust rate! 

Bring it up, and let me see it while I 'm munchin'. 

Jenny, surprised : Bring up all the silver, sir ? 

Jimmy B. : Why, that 's what I come here fur, 
Just to make your dearest Ma a little present, — 

Silver service lined with gold, — 

And if her's 's a trifle old 
I '11 have it all fixed over. 

Jenny, delighted: Oh, how pleasant! 

I will get it right away. 
My ! 1 'm glad you came to-day, 
It will be, oh, such a nice surprise to Mamma. 

Jimmy B. : Well, I rather think so, too. 
JENNY : Now, your luncheon. [Exit.] 

Jimmy B., looking after her and rubbing his hands: 
Good for you ! 
What a blessed little chick you are, my charmer ! 
Just the cream of tender things ; 
You 're in luck, old Jimmy Bings — 
Oh, hexcuse me, Mr. Algernon St. Clair ! — 
Just you turn an honest penny. 
Now, let \s see if there are any 
Of these things worth my packing up with care. 

[ Takes the table-cloth off the table and begins filing it 
with ornaments, knickknacks, and valuables, look- 
ing at each article sharply. Suddenly he stops, both 
hands full, as if struck by a brilliant idea. 

Jimmy Bings ! Why, that is grand, — 

Here 's a fortune right at hand! 
For contriving little schemes you are the boss. 

Scoop in all the things you can, 

And then, like a prudent man, 
Take the little girl off too — like Charley Ross ! 

[Hurries the rest of the things into the table-cloth, stop- 
ping occasionally to express his approval of his great 
plan by sundry slaps and nods. Enter Jenny with 
a tray of luncheon, nicely set. She stands in the 
door-way amazed. 

JENNY: Mr. Algernon St. Clair, 

Why — what are you doing there ? 
Jimmy B. : 

Only clearing off the things to help you, dear. 

JENNY : But the table "s large enough. 




Jimmy B. : Oh, well ! Just set down the stuff, 

And I '11 make the reason very, very clear 

Brought a lot for me to eat? 

Jenny : Bread and cake, preserves and meat. 
Jimmy B. : What a handy little chick you are, — 
\_Nods at her, his mouth full. ] That 's so ! 

Don't you want to come with me — 

And your little cousins see ? 

Oh, no, thank you, sir; from home I can not go. 

JIMMY B., eating rapidly : 

Well, we '11 speak of that birne-by. 
Vittles, fust-class — spiced quite high. 
Yes — they're most as good as what I get in town. 
[Pushes his plate away.] 
Now, then ; I will tell you, Miss, 
What 's the meaning of all this. 

[Points to his bundle.~\ 
Where 's that silver service ? 
[JENNY opens sideboard and shcnus the silver service.] 
All right — pack her down. 

[ Stuffing it into the bundle. ] 
Well, you see, it is n't fair 
That a sister of St. Clair 
Should have to use things when they 're worn and old. 
So, I think I '11 take them down 
To my jeweler's, in town, 
And just swap 'em off for nicer things in gold. 

Jenny: O — h ! But that will cost so much! 

Jimmy B. : Now, then, Sissy, don't you touch 
On that question, 'cause the new ones / shall buy ; 
But I 'd like to have you go 
And help pick them out, you know; 
'Cause you know what Mamma likes best, more 
than I. 
Jenny- : But I really can't leave home. 

Jimmy B. : Oh, I think you 'd better come; 
For it wont be long before I bring you back. 

Jenny, hesitating: I have half a mind to go. 
Mamma 'd let me. 

JlMMY' B. : That I know. 

So get ready, while I go to work and pack. 

Jenny, deliberating : 

She said: "Jenny, do not go." 
But, of course, she could not know 
That her cousin, Mr. Algernon St. Clair, 
Would come here to take me out. 
Oh, I know what I 'm about, 
And I '11 go along with him, I do declare. 
[ Goes to closet and brings out her red cloak and hood. ] 
Jimmy B. : What a pretty cloak and hood ! 
Jenny : Mamma made them. She 's so good ! 
Jimmy B. : Good as gold! Just wear them, wont you? 

That 's a dear. 
JENNY' : But I must n't get them wet. 
Jimmy B. : I wont let you ; don't you fret. 

I 'II take care of them when once we go from here. 
Now, then — are you ready, Sis ? 
Jenny: Yes — but, then, I must n't miss 

To see everything locked up all safe and tight, 
So that none of those old tramps — 
My! but are n't they horrid scamps? — 
Can sneak in before we both get back to-night. 

Jimmy B., looking at doors and windows: 
Oh, well ! Everything 's secure. 
Jenny: Did you look? 

Jimmy B. : Oh, yes. I 'm sure. 

So let 's both be off at once, without delay. 

[Noise outside — Jimmy starts, guiltily. ] 
Jimmy B. : Hello, there, now ! What was that ? 
Jenny- : Where ? 
Jimmy B. : Out there ! 

Jenny : It was the cat ! 

Jimmy B. : No, it was n't. 
Jenny : P'r'aps it 's Mamma ! 

JlMMY B., starting for the door: Get away! 

[Door opens suddenly. Johnny Stout bursts in and 
then stops, astonished. 

Johnny : Goodness, Jenny ! What 's this mean ? 

Jenny : What ? 

Johnny': Why this confusing scene? 

Are you moving? 
Jenny : No, I 'm going out to walk. 

Johnny': Going out? Whom with? and where? 
Jenny, points to J. B. : Mr. Algernon St. Clair. 
Jimmy B., loftily : 

So don't keep us here, young feller, with your talk. 
Johnny, suspiciously : 

Jenny, who 's that party there? [Points to J. B. ] 

Jenny, pouting: Mr. Algernon St. Clair — 

Mamma's cousin, who has come here from Nevada. 

Johnny: From Nevada! — How you talk! 

[Suddenly to JlMMY' B. ] 

Well, my friend, you '11 have to walk ! 
Pretty quick, sir, too, before I make it harder ! 

Jimmy B. : Why ! You saucy little cub, 

Why ! — I '11 have to thrash you, Bub. 
Just you scatter, or I '11 help you with my toe, sir ! 

JOHNNY-, quickly pulling out a pistol from the table- 
drawer, and pointing it at Jimmy B. : 
Do you see this little toy ? 
There 's six pills for you, my boy, 
Unless you drop that stuff at once and — go, sir! 

Jimmy B., to Jenny, appcalingly : 

Look here, Sis, this is n't square ! 

JENNY, protesting : Mr. Algernon St. Clair! 
Johnny', contemptuously: 
Mr. Algernon St. Fiddlesticks, my Jenny ! 
Why, this sneaking fellow, here, 
Is just out of jail, my dear ! 
He 's a tramp, without a single honest penny. 
Jimmy' B., stepping toward him: 
That 's a lie ! 

JOHNNY levels pistol at him: Hush! don't you talk. 

Drop your bundle, sir, and walk, 
Or I '11 shoot you like a dog, without objection. 

Now, then — go, sir, or I '11 fire! 

Put your hands up! — higher! higher! 
Wait here, Jenny : I '11 just sever this connection. 

[He backs J. B. out of the room at the muzzle of the 
pistol : Jenny- listens for a while, and then sinks on 
a chair and cries. 

Jenny' : Just a horrid, dirty tramp ! 

What an awful, awful scamp ! 
Oh, what shall I say to Mamma ? Dearie, dear ! 

If I 'd only minded her 

Such a thing could not occur, 
And she '11 never trust me so again, I fear. 




\_Cries a little longer. Then jumps up, indignantly. .] 

Oh, but what a horrid bear ! 
Mr. Algernon St. Clair! [Contemptuously.] 
What an awful, awful, awful wicked story! 

[Enter JOHNNY.] 
Oh, but Johnny, where is he ? 
Johnny: He 's as safe as safe can be. 

Fast in jail, now, all alone and in his glory. 
I just marched him to the gate; 
There I made him stand and wait 
Till I saw a big policeman come along ; 
Then, when I had told the tale, 
He just walked him off to jail, 
And so there your cousin 's locked up, good and 
Jenny : Oh, don't say my cousin, please ! 
Johnny: Well, 'twas just the tightest squeeze! 
But how did he, Jenny, get you in his snare ? 
Jenny: Fie was so polite and kind! 

Johnny: -Oh, you goosey! Oh, how blind! 

Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Mr. Algernon St. Clair ! 
Jenny : Now, don't laugh, please ; for, you see, 
It did seem all right to me ; 

And I thought he meant to do just what he said. 
Dear ! but what will Mamma say, 
When she comes back home to-day ? 

Oh, I wish, I wish that I could hide my head ! 

Johnny : Why, just tell the whole thing out, 

And say how it came about. 
Jenny : 

Well, I will. And Johnny, I will tell her, too, 
How you came, so bold and brave 

Johnny, interrupting: Oh, no ! that '11 do to save. 


But I should n't have been saved, dear, without you ! 

Johnny : Never mind, my Jenny, then ; 
But I guess you '11 know again 
That to mind what Mamma says, alone is good. 

Jenny : Yes, I shall! 

Johnny: And, now it 's through, 

I shall always think of you, 

[ Taking her hand.] 
Little Jenny, as the New Red Riding-hood. 



" There was once a lit-tle boy," said Mam-ma, " and he loved Some-bod-y 
ver-y much. It is n't a ver-y large Some-bod-y, but it has bright blue eyes 
and curl-y hair." " Why, it 's me ! " said Char-lie. " It 's me, my-self." 

"So it is," said Mam-ma, laueh-ingf. "And it 's ' Mas-ter Self whom 
Char-lie loves best. He even does n't love Sis-ter so much as ' Mas-ter Self.' 
So he keeps all his pret-ty toys and does n't give them up. He loves ' Mas-ter 
Self bet-ter than Mam-ma, for when Mam-ma says ' Go to bed,' and ' Mas-ter 
Self says ' No,' — Char-lie likes best to please that naught-y ' Mas-ter Self.'" 

"I wont please 'Mas-ter Self "said Char-lie, and he kissed Mam-ma, 
and said " Good-night." Next day, Mam-ma gave Char-lie a bright, new 
ten-cent piece, and said he might go with Nurse to buy some can-dy. 

When Nurse and Sis-ter were read-y, and Char-lie had taken his lit-tle 
stick, they set out. Char-lie was think-ing. He was think-ing ver-y much, 
and he was say-ing to him-self : " I don't love ' Mas-ter Self " 

He walked qui-et-ly by Nurse's side. Now and then he looked at the 
mon-ey in his hand ; it was ver-y bright and ver-y white. It seemed a long 
way to the can-dy store. "What will you buy, Char-lie?" asked Nurse. 

" Some can-dy for my-self," said Char-lie, as they reached the Park. 

" Keep close to me while we cross the road," said Nurse ; but just then 
Char-lie pulled her dress and whis-pered : "Look, Nurse! Look there!" 
and Nurse saw a lit-tle girl stand-ing near a tree, a-lone and cry-ing. 


" What 's the mat-ter with her, Nurse ? " asked Char-lie. 

" I '11 ask her," said Nurse. "What are you cry-ing for, dear? " 

But the lit-tle girl on-ly cried the more, and Char-lie went close to 
her and said : " What 's the mat-ter, lit-tle girl ? " 

The lit-tle girl could not speak, she was sob-bing so much. " Don't cry," 
said Char-lie, in great dis-tress. " It makes me want to cry too." 

" Oh, dear ! Oh, dear ! " said the lit-tle girl. " I have lost my mon-ey ! 
All my mon-ey." But soon she be-gan to tell Nurse how it was. She was 
go-ing to get some bread, and she had the mon-ey in her hand, — " and," said 
she, "a boy pushed me, and I fell, and lost my ten-cent piece, and I can't 
buy the bread, and Moth-er will be so an-gry." 

"I 'm glad I did n't lose my piece," said Char-lie, squeezing it hard. 

" I am ver-y sor-ry for you," said Nurse. " If I were you, I 'd run home 
and tell Moth-er." 

" I can't ! I can't ! " cried the lit-tle girl. " It was all Moth-er had, and 
we 're so hun-gry ! " 

Char-lie held his mon-ey tight-ly. What was he think-ing of, all the 
time ? He was say-ing to him-self : " I don't love ' Mas-ter Self " He pulled 
Nurse's dress, and said : "Nurse, can't you give the lit-tle girl some mon-ey?" 

" I have n't my purse, dear," said Nurse. 

The lit-tle girl moved a-way, cry-ing. Char-lie walked on be-side Nurse. 
They were near the can-dy store. He could see the sweets in the win-dow, 
— sticks and balls and creams ! Char-lie turned his head. He saw the 
lit-tle girl look-ing back too. She was still cry-ing. Char-lie pulled Nurse's 
dress. "Nurse," he said, " I want to turn back." 

"What do you want to turn back for?" asked Nurse. "Here is the store." 

Char-lie raised him-self on tip-toe to get near-er to Nurse's ear, and 
whis-pered : 

"I want to please the lit-tle girl and not 'Mas-ter Self!" 

Nurse knew what he meant. She turned back. Char-lie looked once 
more at the can-dy store, then he ran a-cross the street. When he came 
close to the lit-tle girl, he held out his bright ten-cent piece and said : " It is 
for you, and not for ' Mas-ter Self !" 

The lit-tle girl stopped cry-ing and be-gan to smile ; then she tried to say 
" Thank you," to Char-lie ; but Nurse said : " Run, now, and buy your bread," 
and she ran off, aft-er look-ing back to nod and smile at Char-lie. 

But Char-lie was even hap-pi-er than she. He walked brisk-ly home 
and sat on Mam-ma's lap, and told her all a-bout it. Mam-ma kissed him, 
and said: "Is n't Char-lie hap-py now? " 

And Char-lie said : " Yes ; be-cause I did n't please ' Mas-ter Self " 






J A C K - I N - T H E - P U L P I T . 



Hurrah ! May is here once more, my darlings, 
and has gone to work at once, as we knew she 
would, a-decorating this great, big, lovely Home 
of ours. She is as busy an artist as you ever saw, 
just at this present moment, for there are still a 
good many April-y cobwebs to be swept from the 
walls before the colors can be put on. But May 
will make short work of that — bless her ! 

Yes, May is here — and not too soon for your 
Jack ; no, nor for you neither, my hearties ! Here 
you are, too — the girls with new spring dresses 
and their hands full of arbutus ; and the boys with 
kite-strings instead of sled-ropes in their sturdy- 
grip, and a suspicious creak of marbles in their 
pockets as they crowd close up to my pulpit. 
Well, it 's a sight for any May to be proud of — and 
we 're all ready for her. So we '11 begin with a 
cheer all round, for the opening of the season. 

And now for 


NOT bottled fish, my dears, nor a fish made of 
glass and sold in apothecaries' shops, nor a candy- 
fish shaped like a bottle. No, indeed, but a verita- 
ble, live, sly fellow, who, it appears, contrives to 
be either a fish or a bottle, or both, according to 
the whim of the moment. Just hear this: 

" One day, last summer, when I was fishing in Long Island 
Sound, where the water was ahout ten feet deep, and so clear that I 
could see the bottom perfectly well, a queer-looking fish came creep- 
ing slowly up toward my hook. He moved very stupidly, but pres- 
ently he took the bait and I caught him. He was about five inches 
long, a little larger around than my thumb, and very prettily colored 
with green and yellow and black. 

"As I took the hook from his mouth he began to grind his teeth, 
or rather his jaws, together, and at the same time his body was 
swelling. I found that at each motion of his jaws he was drawing 
in air, until, instead of being as large as my thumb, he was like the 
largest orange you ever saw, with a slender bit of body and a tail 
projecting from one side of it. 

"The fisherman with me called him a ' Bottle-fish,' or as he 
phrased it, a l Bpttk-cy. ' When the fish was fully blown up, I laid him 
on the water, where he floated, back downward, as light as a bubble. 

Forthwith he began to blow out the air, but before enough was gone 
to enable him to go under water, I took him into my hand again I 
then held him just below the surface, and on my touching him lightly 
he swelled as before, only that now he was filled with water instead 
of air, and of course was now heavy. I took my hand from him, 
and he came up spouting a stream of water from his mouth clear 
above the surface As soon as he had thrown it all out, he turned 
head downward, went to the bottom, swam straight to my hook, 
took the bait, and I caught him the second time, apparently not at 
all troubled by his past experience. W. O. A." 

Queer fellow, Mr. Bottle-ey. Another queer 
thing about him is that, according to all accounts, 
he 's never found in the neighborhood of Cork. 
Speaking of animated floating things, what do 
you think of 


Here is the story of it just as it came to me: 
"A living life-buoy recently saved a sailor from 
drowning. A seaman on board a British ves- 
sel, sailing to Australia, fell overboard when the 
vessel was crossing the Southern Ocean, and al- 
though a boat was lowered immediately, a long 
pull was necessary before reaching the sailor. 
When the boat got near the man, he was seen to 
be supporting himself in the water by clinging to 
a large albatross which he had seized on coming to 
the surface after his plunge. Albatrosses in the 
Southern Seas are, as a rule, most fierce, and 
have, in several cases, killed men by blows from 
their terrible beaks. But in this case the sailor 
had evidently obtained a good grip of the bird's 
neck with both hands, preventing it from using its 
beak, and converting a would-be foe into an unwill- 
ing friend." 


Dear Jack; I heard something very singular about the weather 
the other day. One Saturday, when it was raining, a lady who 
lived in the country said to me, as we remarked about the rain: 
"The sun must shine some time to-day" " How so ?" I asked. 
" Why," she replied, " there is only one Saturday in the year when 
the sun does not shine some time in the day." After the lady went 
away, I laughed at what I supposed was a foolish whim, while I 
watched the rain falling ever faster — but how surpnsed I was to 
find, as the hours went on, that the clouds were dispersing, and 
finally the sun came out bnght — all fair at three o'clock Would 
the readers of St. Nicholas notice the Saturdays and see if this 
mystery holds good 9 Remember, the saying is, not that "it will 
rain but one Saturday fn the year," but that " there is only one Sat- 
urday in the year when the sun does not shine some part of the 
day." L. B. G. 

Follow this up, my youngsters, — keep a record 
of it, some of you, and report to me next May. 


You all have heard about the terrible floods in 
the South and West, this spring, and how they 
have made many families homeless, and caused 
dreadful destruction and suffering. But you may 
not have heard that lesser floods of this sort are 
sometimes caused by a ten-legged torment. 

My learned brother, Professor Froshey, of New 
Orleans, calls it "a perpetual nuisance and damage " ; 
and he ought to know, for he has had the honor of 
its acquaintance during more than forty years. It is 
the ten-legged craw-fish, or cray-fish, and it brings 
destruction upon immense tracts of fertile country. 

You know that for about three hundred miles of 
the Lower Mississippi, the rich land at each side is 
low and flat ; but that it has many lovely homes, 

J A C K - I N - T H E - P U L P I T . 


broad cotton-fields, and gardens of sweetly scented 
flowers; and the sunlight glitters and flashes from 
acres and acres of satin-leaved sugar-cane. In the 
early spring, when the great 
stream is swollen with rain and 
with melted ice and snow 
from the far north, the water 
is several feet higher than 
the land, and is 


only prevented from overflowing by high side- 
banks of earth, or levees, built for that purpose. 

Well, it appears that it is through these walls of 
defense that the craw-fish loves to drive his tun- 
nels ; and the earth being soft, the holes are quickly 
enlarged by the running of the water through 
them. The sides of some of these tunnels wash 
away, and one large hole is made, through which 
a strong stream pours itself upon the plain. Sud- 
denly, the bank caves in, the river plunges through 
the gap, and the yellow floods spread out and lay 
waste the farms. 

Then comes the long and toilsome labor of mend- 
ing the levee, and all the while the yet unbroken 
parts must be watched night and day, so that every 
leak may be stopped as soon as it shows. 

Of course, the river sometimes breaks through 
its banks without the aid of mischievous Mr. Ten- 
legs; but he so often is the guilty party, that it is 
little wonder his victims call him hard names. 

The craw-fish in the picture does n't appear to 
have ten "legs"; but that is what the naturalists 
call them, saying there is a pair in front with large 
nippers, — next, a very short pair with small nip- 
pers, — then, a long pair with small nippers, — and, 
lastly, two pairs of thin legs, each with a single 


How does a cat come down a tree ? Why don't 
cats and squirrels descend trees in the same man- 
ner ? And why can not animals of the dog tribe 
climb trees ? 


The other day, Deacon Green was poring over 
a big book he has, and I heard him read, that in 
old times in England it was the fashion for a serv- 
ant or an inferior to stand and hold a candle for 
his master to see by. Hence, the saying, "You 
can't hold a candle to him," is as much as to say 

you are so inferior to that person that you are not 
fit even to serve him in the capacity of candle- 


In November last, my dears, I told you about 
the curious Butterfly branch, and showed you a 
picture of it; and now, here is another butterfly 
picture, quite as curious in its way. The queer 
creature shown in this picture is perched head-down- 
ward on a branch, the under-part of him turned 
toward you in such a way as to appear to be the 
head of an owl peering at you over the branch. In 
the dim forests of his South American home, this 
butterfly might easily be mistaken for an owl, for 
in this position his body outlines a beak, his wings 
are like the 
bird's feathers " 
in color, and 
the big, dark- 
blue spots that 
form the 

shine al- 
most as beauti- 
fully as a dove's 
neck. The width 
across the wings 
is about seven 
inches, and to 
think they see 
an owl with a 
head of that size 

must be disagreeable for small South Americans, 
who may happen to be strolling in the woods at 


L. M. D. SAYS, in answer to my January ques- 
tion : " What becomes of all the old moons? " 
'• I think they turn to new moons." 
But if so, — how? — and when? 


5 8o 









As most of our readers know, the St. Nicholas pages have to 
be made-up far in advance of the date of publication ; and so it was 
impossible for us to finish, in time for the April number, the pictures 
of the new Baby Elephant, which we present on the opposite page. 
Many of our readers will have seen the delightful little creature him- 
self before this number reaches them, but they will be none the less 
interested in taking a second peep at him in the comical positions in 
which our artist caught him. Further than this, all that need be 
said of him is told in the following interesting letter from a girl cor- 
respondent who lives in the city which was the Baby Elephant's 
birthplace : 

Bridgeport, Conn. 

Dear St. Nicholas: Having read all the interesting letters that 
your contributors have written about their pets, I thought perhaps 
you would like to hear a little about Bridgeport, and its accompani- 
ment, as you might now call the " Baby Elephant." We were so 
fortunate as to receive a "permit" from Mr. Barnum (only a few 
are given), which admitted Mamma, a friend, and myself to see this 
wonderful curiosity. We walked to the show building, and were 
ushered in with about fifty others, among whom were professors and 
scientists. The first room was filled with cages, in which were all 
the animals you could think of. We staid here but a few minutes, 
being impatient to see the "Baby Elephant," so we went right 
through that room, to the next, where was a large ring, in which 
were the "baby" and its mother. It is about the size of a large 
Newfoundland dog, very playful, and ran all around the ring. I 
felt of it. It is covered with coarse black hair, which feltjust like 
bristles. It did not know what to do with its trunk, sometimes try- 
ing to lift the hay to its mouth, like its mother. 

The mother was much annoyed when the keeper touched it ; she 
flapped her ears and trumpeted very loudly- After we had looked 
to our hearts' content at them both, they were led out of the ring, 
and eight small elephants were called in. They drilled very nicely, 
answering to roll-call, lying down and snoring, standing on their 
heads, and then on their hind legs, etc. After they had performed 
as much as they knew, they were sent back to their stalls, and 

eight large ones were led in. Then followed quite a scene. One 
elephant turned a hand-organ, three teetered on a board, one stand- 
ingin the middle. Some stood on barrels, — one sat in a big arm- 
chair, rang a dinner-bell which stood on a table in front of him, 
poured the contents of a bottle down his throat, wiped his mouth 
with a napkin, and then fanned himself. It was very fine, and very 
funny. After we had seen all we could of the elephants, we went 
to see the other animals fed. They made the most horrible noises, 
jumping over one another, and fighting to get the first piece of meat, 
as they are fed only once a day, and on Sundays not at all — which 
they do not make any fuss about. I heard a hyena laugh. It was 
terrible, so we did not stay any longer. The hyena is the ugliest- 
looking animal you can imagine. 

Hoping you will give this a place in your letter-box, I remain, your 
constant reader and admirer, Sallie E. H. 

A Toy Symphony for children ought to be a timely recreation at 
this season, when so many of the grown folk are interested in the 
May Music Festivals, with their mighty choruses and grand orches- 
tras. So we are glad to print the following little letter, which calls 
attention to a toy symphony by Romberg. Some of our readers 
will remember that St. Nicholas already has printed an article 
concerning " Haydu's Children's Symphony" (see the number for 
May, 1874), and we should be glad to hear that Rudolf Holtz's 
note had caused both that pretty musical exercise and the one by 
Romberg to be performed in many households: 

Dear St. Nicholas: Romberg's toy symphony is more effective 
than Haydn's, though Haydn's is quite as pretty. There are 
eight toy instruments, first and second violins, a violoncello and 
piano. It is better to have two first violins, as the toys overpower 
the string instruments. The first and second movements are very 
pretty and rather easy, but call for careful playing. The adagio is 
difficult and not very pfetty, but it is very short. The rondo is gay 
and effective, and is very pretty ; it is longer than the other move- 




ments. The presto is also lively, and played very quick. The 
eight toy instruments are the cuckoo, the triangle, the drum, the 
quail, the schnarre, the trumpet, the rattle, the nightingale. The 
cuckoo, the nightingale and the quail are the most difficult of the toy 
instruments. Everything depends on time, because if you come in 
a moment too early or a moment too late i: spoils the effect. I was 
one of the many performers ; we did it in a large room, and the effect 
was beautiful. Rudolf Doran Holtz. 

Those of our readers who remember the true story of " Rebecca, 

the Drummer," printed in St. Nicholas for July, 1S74, will be 
interested in the following item, which we clip from a newspaper: 

Miss Rebecca Rates died at Scituate, Mass., Tuesday, aged 
eighty-eight years. Miss Bates and her cousin, Abbie, were the 
heroines in the British "scare," in 1812, when the two gi$ls, hidden 
behind rocks on the beach, with fife and drum sounded the roll-call, 
and put to flight several boat-loads of troops from a British man-of- 
war, who were about to make a landing. Miss Bates' cousin, 
Abbie, is still living, and is eighty years of age. 

The article in St. Nicholas gave a full account of the two girls' 
brave stratagem, and was illustrated with a frontispiece showing the 
"American army of two." 

Here is a very interesting letter from a young correspondent in 
Philadelphia : 

Dear St. Nicholas: I had an incident told me the other day, 
which convinced me that dumb creatures have some mode of commu- 
nicating. The house of Mr. C, a friend of mine, was troubled greatly 
with rats, so he brought home a very large rat-trap, which he set 
with cheese. The next day, Mrs. C. and her daughter saw a very 
large rat walking up and down outside the trap. The trap hav- 
ing a wire bent open a little, the rat stuck its head in ; but he 
could not reach the cheese, so he pulled his head out and went down 
his hole, and in a few moments returned with a very slim rat, which 
went into the trap and got the cheese ; and then they both went 

down the hole together. This I know to be true. Can any of my 
friends tell me how they communicate ? 

Your constant reader, Geo. T. Cathell, Jr. 

We gladly print the following quaint and charming little story, 
just as it was told by a little girl five years old. It was sent to us by 

her mamma, who wrote it down for her : 

The Lion that Taught Singing-school. 

A Lion wanted to teach singing-school. 

They asked him what could he sing ? 

And he said, " Roo-oo-00." 

They asked him what else could he sing? 

And he said, " Roo-oo-00." 

They said they didn't want a singing-teacher who couldn't sing 
nothing, but 'cept just one song. 

Then the Lion went to a horse-race. 

All the other animals were there; the mouse that squeaked, the 
kitten that mewed, the puppy that bow-wow-ed, the lamb that 
baa-cd, the pig that yi-yi-ed, the colt that ha-ha-ed, the wolf that 
boo-ed, and the bear that ur-ur-cd. 

The prize of the horse-race was a russet apple. 

The mouse thought he 'd exprise the other animals, so he ate the 
apple up. Then all the other animals hollered out, " No fair ! No 
fair!" And the mouse was scared and ran round the track, and 
the kitten that mewed ran after and ate the mouse up, and the puppy 
that bow-wow-ed ate the kitten up, and the lamb that baa-ed ate the 
puppy up, and the pijj that yi-yi-ed ate the lamb up, and the colt 
that ha-ha-ed ate the pig up, and the wolf that boo-ed ate the colt up, 
and the bear that ur-ur-cd ate the wolf up — and the Lion ate the 
bear up. 

Then the Lion came around again and wanted to teach singing- 

They asked h'mi what could he sing? 

And he sang: 1( Squeak squeak, mew mew, bow wow, baa baa, 
yi yi, ha ha, boo boo, ur ur, and roo 00 00 ! " 

Then they said, " Your voice has reproved." 

And they all let him be their teacher. Maria M. C. 







Wtth the twenty-one letters on the five vases, form five words 
descriptive of the month of May. Two of the words remain un- 
changed. G. F. 


I am composed of forty-eight letters, and am a soldier's proverb. 
My 9-14-26-4-7-28-33 is pursuing. My 30-11-35-47-45-19-8-20- 
38-12 has been called the "city of magnificent distances." My 34- 
39-22 is color. My 48-24-23-36-43-13 is a garden vegetable. My 
1-21-18-10-37-31-2=1-32-40-29 is conversing in a low tone. My 41- 
6-3-15 is a church dignitary. My 16-42-5 is the noise made by a 
crow. My 2-27-44-46-17 is the joint on which a gate turns. 



When the right word is set in one of the blanks, the letters of 
that word may be transposed to fill each of the remaining blanks, and 
make sense 

caught a snake which he put in an empty box, over 

which he tied a of his mother's; with the hope that the 

creature would not survive to do . MAGGIE philps. 


3 3 

I. Across: i. A mineral salt. 2. A troublesome insect. 3. 
Vessels for holding the ashes of the dead. 4. Christmas time. 
Diagonals, downward from right to left, and from left to right, 
each name a queen of England. 

II. Across: i. A dandy. 2. Small round masses of lead. 3. A 
piece of metal bent into a curve. 4. Period. Diagonals, downward, 
from right to left, and from left to right, each name an article 
necessary to pedestrians. "summer boarder." 


Each of the words described contains five letters, and the synco- 
pated letters, placed in the order here given, spell the name of a 
celebrated Athenian who was twice banished, and who at length 
died in poverty, 467 B. c 

1. Syncopate a country of Europe, and leave to revolve rapidly. 
2. Syncopate fatigued, and leave fastened. 3. Syncopate to color, 
and leave to gasp. 4. Syncopate a kind of cement, and leave the 
top of the head. 5. Syncopate an appellation, and leave a thin 
piece of baked clay. 6. Syncopate a traveling tinker, and leave an 
instrument for combing wool or flax. 7. Syncopate a Scotch penny, 
and leave the body or stem of a tree. 8. Syncopate a name by 
which the white poplar tree is known, and leave having ability. 9. 
Syncopate speed, and leave to abhor. ernest b. cooper. 



I. 1. Important parts of a ship. 2. A girl's name. 3. To 
breathe with a hoarse sound in sleep. 4. Fatigued. 5. Parts of a 
plant. II. 1. To make choice of. 2. A large basin. 3. To escape. 
4. Surrenders. 5. A ringlet. MABEL k., and " alcibiades." 

Across: i. A cluster of leaves. 2. A sheet of paper once folded. 
3. Antique. 4. In spring. Downward: i. In foreign. 2- A 
preposition. 3. Three-fourths of a swimming and diving bird of the 
Arctic regions. 4. What "flesh is heir to." 5. Succor. 6. To 
proceed. 7. In foreign. MABEL white. 





The answer to this rebus is a couplet describing the fate which may overtake the heedless. 


Illustrated Domino Puzzle. b 

To-bring-out the-flowers we-need good-showers of- April- rain, 
Of-rain good-showers for-fragrant flowers we-must-obtain. 

■2. We-need good-showers of-April-rain to-bring-out the-flowers. 
For-fragrant flowers we-must-obtain of-rain good-showers. 

3. The-flowers to-bring-out of- April-rain we-need good-showers, 
Good-showers of-rain we-must-obtain for-fragrant flowers. 


aFt. 7. 

:ple. 2. 


SPoke. 3. 
8. TOpic. 

Diagonals. — April Fool. Across : 
MeRle. 4. Frail. 5. PeriL. 6. Cra 
9. Lilac. 

Easy Cross-word Enigma. — Music. 

Transpositions. — Shakespeare. 1. Disk — S-kid. 2. Shoe — 
H-ose. 3. Daze — A-dze. 4. Leek — K-eel. 5. Bone — E-bon. 
6. Host — S-hot. 7. Neap — P-ane. 8. Tide — E-dit. 9. Rave — 
A-ver. 10. Cork — R-ock. n. Seat — E-ast. 

Charade. — Mint-drop. 

Inverted Pyramid. — Across: 1. Partial. 2. March. 3. Pie. 
4. P. Diamond. — 1. L. 2. LAd. 3. LaTin. 4. Dig. 5. N. 

Concealed Central Acrostic. — April Fools. 1. rAFt. 2. 
uPOn. 3. fROg. 4. fILl. 5. aLSo. 

Shakespearean Enigma. — "This above all, — to thine own self 
be true." Hamlet, Act 1, Sc. 3. 
Illustrated Puzzle. 

Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard^ 
To get her poor dog a banc ; 

When she got there, the cupboard was bare (bear), 
And so the poor dog had none (nunj. 

Rhomboid. — Across: 1. Cave. 2. Home. 3. Time. 4. Rede. 

Metagrams. — I. B-ark. D-ark. H-ark. L~ark. M-ark. 
P-ark. II. D-ine. F-ine. K-ine. L-ine. M-ine. N-ine. P-ine 
T-ine. V-ine. W-ine. III. B-one. C-one. D-one. G-one. 
H-one. L-one. N-one. T-one. IV. B-ear. D-ear. F-ear. 
G-ear. H-ear. L-ear. N-ear. P-ear. R-ear. T-ear. W-ear. Y-ear. 

Phonetic Spelling-lesson. — 1. Ivy. 2. Pique\ 3. Easy. 4. 
Essay. 5. Empty. 6. Excel. 7. Essex. 8. Envy. 9. Obe. 
10. Array, n. Aye-aye. 12. Ogee, 

Raebit Puzzle. — For answer, see preceding page. 

The names of solvers are printed in the second number after that in which the puzzles appear. 

Answers to February Puzzles were received too late for acknowledgment in the April number, from " H. M. S. ' St. Vincent,' " 
Portsmouth, England, 5 — Maggie Philps, Essex, England, 3. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the March number were received, before March 20, from "Fire-fly" — A. B. C. — Genie J. 
Callmeyer — Bessie C. Rogers — Marna and Bae — Fran,' — Scrap — Effie K. Talboys — John Kirkman — Clara J. Child — Little John, 
Kittie, and Minnie — Clara and her Aunt — Lyde W. McKinney — Aidyl Airotciv Trebor — Ernest B. Cooper — Engineer — Appleton H. 

— Florence Leslie Kyte. 

Answers to Puzzles in the March Number were received, before March 20, from Little Ida Brown, 3 — " Greene Ave.," 1 — 
W. P. B. Jr. , 1 — Helen Dexter, 3 — Cambridge Livingston, 2 — Maidie R. Lang, 1 — Somebody, 4 — Edward Ly tton, 2 — Robert Hamilton, 

1 — Walter A. Hopper, 2 — H. M. Folger, 1 — O'Flannigan and Huggins, 2 — Alice B. Summer, 1 — Harry A. Burnham, 2 — Jennie and 
Bessie, 6 — V. P. J. S. M. C, 7 — Lillian Virginia Leach, 1 — Kittie Corbin, 1 — E. Y. Thorp, 2 — Weston Stickney, 7 — Margaret W. 
Stickney, 6 — G. H., 7 — Livingston Ham, 1 — Daisy, 1 — Warren, 5 — "The Blanke Family," 12 — Minnie B. Murray, 10 — Ernest W. 
Hamilton, 3 — Grace and Blanche Parry, 8 — Mattie and Kittie Winkler, 4 — Ralph A. Hoffman, 9 — " Lode Star," 9 — Gilman S. Stanton, 

2 — Amy and Edith, 9 — R. T. L., 12 — Mary B. Dykeman, 2 — Pollywog and Tadpole, 5 — " Alcibiades," 11 — Anna and Alice, 9 — 
Grahame Hume Powell, 2 — " Bunthorne and Grosvenor," 8 — " Rory O'Moore," 2 — " Celleta," 3 — Joseph Wheless, 2 — Nellie R. 
Sandell, 13 — Allie C. Duden, 1 — Emma D. Andrews, 10 — Anna K. Dessalet, 3 — Nellie Caldwell, 5 — Virginia M. Giffin, 2 — Freda, 11 
— "Shumway," 6 — Lulu Graves, 9 — Charlie Townsend, 4 — Rubie and Marion, 7 — Ray Thurber, 5 — Delaware and Mary, 7 — Harry 
LeMoyne Mitchell, 3 — Elbe Suesserott, 5 — J. Ollie Gayley, 2 — Algernon Tassin, 6 — B. B., 9 — Bessie Watson, 2 — Anna Clark, 2 — 
J. S. Tennant, 13 — W. M. Kingsley, n — Busy Bees, n — Sallie Viles, 13 — Fred Thwaits, 14 — Charlie Power, 7 — Isabel Bungay, 6 
— "Two Subscribers," 12 — Queen Bess, 13 — Professor and Co., 12 — " Pat and Kid," 6 — Maud and Sadie, 2 — Paul England and Co., 3 

— Nicoll Ludlow, Jr., 14 — Tommy and Jack, 5 — Curdycie, 8 — Henry E. Johnston, Jr., 4 — Daisy and Buttercup, 9 — Mother and I, 6 — 
L. F. Barry, 11 — H. M. S. "St. Vincent," 11. The numerals denote the number of puzzles solved.- 



The Swiss cross proposed by Kenneth Brown meets with univer- 
sal favor, and is hereby adopted as the badge of the Agassiz Asso- 
ciation. (See St. Nicholas for February, page 342.) It may be made 
of any metal preferred, and worn with or without a ribbon. It may 
be of any desired size, and plain orwith engravings of fern, butterfly, 
and crystal ; but it must bear the letters A. A. and the name or num- 
ber of the Chapter. 

Reports of Chapters. 

Manhattan Chapter, N. Y. (B). 

Since its organization, May 15, 18S1, our Chapter has been very 
prosperous. Beginning with five members, we now number seven- 
teen, and other names are before our committee for consideration. 
We have a cash balance of $18.05. 

Our cabinet is quite extensive, and we have started a library. 

All our meetings have been full of interest; sometimes reports are 
read ; and we have had compositions, lectures, and discussions. Be- 
sides the members of the Association, a number of persons have 
become interested in our project, and several donations have been 
" received from them. Edward B. Miller. 

[The Manhattan is one of the banner Chapters.] 

Our line of work has been chiefly in answering questions. At 
every meeting each member is to bring in at least two questions. The 
answers are filed monthly. 

We are going to celebrate Agassiz's birthday. Would it not be 
a good plan for all the Chapters to do this? 

Geo. Terence Marston, Depere, Wis. 

[A most excellent plan, and one adopted last year by only a few 
Chapters. Accounts of Agassiz's life should be read, poems recited, 
an excursion and picnic, perhaps, taken. We hope to hear reports 
from all the Chapters, of some such observance of the 2Sth of May.] 

We have added to our collection a Tarantula and its house; 
gold ore from Colorado; some rubies and pottery from Aztec ruins 
in Mexico. Nellie Hughes, Cor. Sec, Fairfield, Io,va. 

Notes by Members and Friends. 

Dewitt, Mich. 
I have kept three caterpillars ; one was gray, one white, black, and 
yellow, and one yellow. No. 1, I found on a cucumber vine ; 2, on 
a milkweed ; 3, on a rag-weed. No. 1 ate up No. 2, and the yellow 
one got away. After the gray one had eaten up the black one, he 
began to spin a cocoon, but a neighbor's little boy spoiled it. 
1 found four cocoons, but they all died. Harry Townsend. 

[Truly, the way of the young naturalist is hard! Try again, 
Harry. If you once succeed in seeing a butterfly come out from 
his chrysalis, you will be repaid for all your misfortunes.] 

Do spiders change their color? Sometimes I see a yellow spider 
on a yellow lily, and once Mamma found a snow-white spider on 
white paper. I have found six kinds of snails. One of them lies on 
bits of coal in the cellar. I call it a coal snail. The only time I saw 
it move it put out two little black horns. 1 have seen mosquitoes 
leave the water a good many times, but I never saw a dragon-fly do 
it. Irene Putnam, Bennington, Vt. 

[Most boys and girls grow old and die without seeing either mos- 
quitoes or dragon-flies leave the water ; yet how many millions of 
them leave it every summer ! Who next will catch them at it ?] 

I have several tadpoles changing to frogs. 

E. G. Brown, Angola, Ind. 

[Then, please tell us what becomes of the tadpoles' tails.] 

Exchanges Desired. 

The Lenox Chapter has for exchange geodes, crystals of tour- 
maline, quartz, cryolite from Greenland ; woods, eggs, and shells, 
for which are especially desired four or five ounce, labeled specimens 
of diorite, dolomite, labradorite, and the ores of tin, zinc, and gold. 

Peacock coal and Florida moss, for sea-side specimens, insects, 
or minerals.— K. S. M., Box 98, Wilkesbarre, Pa. 

Clear winged sesia, phanaeus carnifex, Misippus butterfly, and 
glass threads, for sea-weed, rare shells, or star-fish. — Inez R. 
Knowlton, Hope Villa, East Baton Rouge, La. 

Labeled minerals and mosses, for good sea-shells. I will send 
directions for photographing ferns and leaves cheaply at home, if 
desired. — Catherine R. Way, East Leinpster, N. H. 

Birds' eggs. — Fred. H. Clark, Box 113, Poultney, Vt. 

Correspondence and mineral exchanges. — J. F. Glosser, Cor. 
Sec, Berwyn, Pa. 

Bird's-eye maple, white holly, black-walnut, oak, ash, red cedar, 
butternut, and birch-bark, for other sorts of woods. — Frank Rama- 
ley, Sec St. Paul (A), 595 Cedar St., St. Paul, Minn. 

I have a lot of geodes, from two to five inches in diameter, which I 
should like to exchange for marine curiosities, sea-shells, corals, 
whales' teeth, etc — L. L. Goodwin, Waverly, Bremer Co., Iowa. 

[A rare opportunity for those who can offer good specimens in 
exchange, as we know by experience. The geodes are fine. By 
the way, what are geodes, and how are they formed ? We are sure 
that not all can tell.] 

Drawings of snow-crystals, with accurate record of temperature, 
wind, etc., for the same. — H. H. Bice, Utica, N. Y. 

Petrified shells, for quartz crystals, agates, or tourmaline. Cor- 
respondence desired on geological subjects. Ellington (A), N. Y. 

— W. H. Van Allen, Sec 

P. S. — Everybody here seems to like the Agassiz Association. 

[Sensible people !] 

Fossil shells and graphite, for other minerals and ores, except 
iron. — W. H. Van Allen, Ellington, N. Y. 

Fossil coral, kianite, pyrites, copper, for fossil ferns, amethysts, 
crystals, and red corals. — H. W. DuBois, 1527 N. 20th St., Phila. 

Eggs and minerals. — Chas. G. Carter, Titusville, Pa. 

Soil, stones, and wood, from noted parts of Philadelphia, for gyp- 
sum, birds' eggs, and tin ore. — R. P. Kaighn, 2014 Ridge Avenue, 

Water-color paintings from nature, for labeled sea-weed (pressed 
but not mounted), and labeled birds' eggs. — John L. Hanna, 219 
Madison St., Fort Wayne, Ind. 

Flicker's egg for a snow-bird's. I also wish a humming-bird's 
eg%- I can furnish excellent specimens of plumbago and iron. — 
Ellis P. Oberholtzer, Cambria Station, Pa. 

Minerals. I especially desire a moss-agate. — E. S. Foster, 18 
Chestnut St., Boston. 

A sand-dollar and a shark's egg, for good specimens of insects. 

— Frank C. Baldwin, 17 Montcalm St., Detroit, Mich. 
Birds' eggs. — Robert Beach, Albion, Orleans Co., N. Y. 
Eggs. Aurora, 111., Chapter (A). — Lilian Trask. 

Minerals and curiosities. — F. H. Dodge, 590 Huron St., Toledo, 

Answers to Questions in Report No. 10. 

1. A fly has two .compound eyes, each containing about four 
thousand facets, or simple eyes. 

2. The Vervain humming-bird (IMellisuga minima), of Jamaica. 
Stripped of feathers, its body is not much larger than a hickory-nut. 

3. The lizard has three movable eyelids. 

4. The sperm-whale (Pkyseter maci-ocephalns) has from forty to 
fifty teeth, all in the lower jaw. The true whale has no teeth. 

5. "Quadrumana" means four-handed, and is a term applied to 
monkeys, apes, etc. 

6. Zoophyte means "animal plant." The name has been given 
to minute animals which bear a strong resemblance to plants. 

7. Quartz, feldspar, and usually mica. 

8. Crystallized carbon. 

9. Leoiitopodinm Alpinum, or Gnaphalium Lco?ztopodium. Lit- 
eral meaning of Edelweiss, "nobly white." The flower belongs 
to the Gnaphalium family. 

10. Clove is from Lat. clavis — a nail, from the shape. 
Best answer, Frances M. Heaton. 


r. How do bees carry their honey ? 

2. What is the Apteryx, and where found? 

3. How do pea-nuts grow? 

4. What is the season in Brazil, Nov. 3d ? 

5. Why is a leopard spotted? 

6. How does an ostrich hide itself? 

7. Name five amphibious animals. 
S. Name five useless things. 

9. Where do flies go in winter ? 

10. Describe a beaver's house. 

11. How many mouths has a spider? 

12. How many degrees of heat are needed to melt copper, lead, 
and silver? 

13. At what point does salt water freeze ? 

14. W r hat do sponges feed on ? 

[Best set of answers will be noticed.] 

This has been by far our most prosperous month. We now num- 
ber over one thousand nine hundred, and have one hundred and 
sixty-three chapters. This great number of correspondents neces- 
sarily demands much time. We are compelled again to remind our 
young friends to be concise. We are also compelled to insist rigidly 
upon the following rules ; 

1. ///close in each letter a scif-addressed and stamped envelope. 
(Hitherto we have answered all letters, whether their authors have 
complied with this rule or not. But our numbers have so increased 
that this is becoming impossible. A litde reflection will show that, 
to answer each of our one thousand nine hundred members once, 
costs fifty-seven dollars, without taking account of paper or envel- 
opes. Recollect that we charge no fee for membership in our Chap- 
ters, and hereafter none can expect to receive answers unless this rule 
is observed.] 

2. Use note paper — not letter paper. 

3. Write on only one side of your paper. 

4. Give your name and full address in each letter. 

5. Whenever you send specimens, state from whom they come, 
and what you wish in exchange. 

6. Address— not St. Nicholas — but Harlan H. Ballard, 
Principal of Lenox Academy, Lenox, Mass. 

5 86 

New Chapters. 
No. Cliaj>ter. Members. Secretary's Address. 

143. E. Bridgewater, Mass 6.. Geo. S. Young. 

144. Mt. Vernon, N. Y 12. .Aubrey Tyson. 

145. Indianapolis, Ind 6. .Frank Bildenmeister, 

265 E. N. Y. St. 

146. Ellington, N. Y 20. .W. H. Van Allen. 

147. Cleveland, Ohio — . -F. Kendall, 768HarknessAve 

148. De Pere, Wis. (B) 10.. Mrs. R. W. Arndt. 

149. Abington, Mass 6. .Geo. C. Beal, Box 16. 

150. Flushing, L. 1 4 . . Frances M. Heaton. 

151. Brooklyn, N. Y. (B) 6. .Ernest Osburne, 

761 DeKalb Ave. 

152. Wilmington, Del 6. . John H. Rollo, 10 E. 7th St. 

153. Chicago, 111. (D) 4. .Frank Wentworth, 

1337 Michigan Ave. 





Chapter, Members. Secretary's Address. 

Jefferson, Ohio 20.. Clara L. Northway. 

Heyworth, 111 7 . . Samuel E. Low. 

Peoria, 111 is..Tobey Van Buskirk, 

104 Pennsylvania Ave 
Detroit, Mich. (C) 7. . A. T. Worthington, 

44 Marion St 

Davenport, Iowa 5 . . Edwin K. Putnam. 

Greenville, 111 7. .Frank Tathan. 

Toledo, Ohio 7. . Fred. Dodge, 590 Huron St. 

New York, N. Y. (D) 4. .C. R. Burke, 

224 West 3,1th St. 
Boston, Mass. (B) 4. .A. C. Chamberlain, 

99 Revere St, 
Hartford, Conn. (C) 4. .H. M. Penrose. 


Very cheering are the reports this month. It might have been 
feared that, after the novelty had worn off, many Chapters would 
quickly have fallen to pieces. But, on the contrary, the oldest Chap- 
ters are the most active and wide-awake, and nearly all report addi- 
tions in membership, while never were so many new branches formed 
in a single month. We now number more than two thousand one 
hundred, and more than twenty letters have been received in a 
single day. 

Reports from Chapters. 

We have four new members this month. A scrap-book has been 
bought, and we are collecting clippings to fill it. Our meetings 
have been held regularly. Wm. Carter, Waterbury, Conn. 

Chicago (C) has two new members. We have held our meet- 
ings every Saturday, and have had our badges made. We have 
some new books for our library, one of which is " Woods's Natural 
History." Nelson Bennett, Chicago, III. 

[Many Chapters have begun to form libraries — a most excellent 

At one of our late meetings a paper was read, descriptive of the 
manufacture of steel rails at the Edgar Thomson Steel Works, in 
Allegheny County. With the paper were samples of the various 
kinds of ores, coals, coke, lime-stone, etc., used. The reading and 
examination of specimens occupied the entire evening, and was in- 
teresting to young and old. J. F. Glosser, Berwyn, Pa. 

We can not organize a Chapter here unless you will accept our 
family as such. We number six, and all are interested in natural 
history. We live in the vicinity of extinct volcanoes. Here are 
hills of lava, and others of ancient ashes, with pieces of obsidian. 
In the mines we found round balls of hardened clay, or, sometimes, 
partly iron ore. These are hollow, and filled with ashes. We call 
them volcanic geodes. Mrs. E. H. K. 

[You are heartily welcome as a Chapter, and are number 166. 
We have several such family chapters, and they are one of the 
most delightful features of the Association. Obsidian is a word 
calculated to arouse the curiosity of our Eastern friends. Will some 
one write a report on it ?] 

Chapter 13S, Warren, Maine, Miss J. L. Crocker, Sec, has 
now nineteen members. By an error we gave this Chapter credit 
for a dual existence, at Orono, Me., as No. 122, as well as at War- 
ren. There is no Chapter at Orono. 

Norristown, Pa. 

We have organized a Chapter with seventeen members. The 
principal of the High School is our president. The directors have 
given us the use of one of the school-rooms in the evening, with 
gas and fire. We meet once in two weeks. Anna Schall, Sec. 

Notes by Members. 
1 think the wasp described by W. R. Edwards in the February 
report was Crabro cribarhis. It feeds its young with the larvae of 
the leaf-rolling caterpillar (Tortrix chbrana), which lives in the 
oak. Will anybody tell me what the food of the caterpillar is 1 

Clarence L. Lower, Denver, Col. 

For the past month we have been assigning questions to members. 
For instance, " Take twenty insects, give their scientific names, and 
tell all you know about each. Get twenty different kinds of woods 
and give their names." The members also take turns in preparing 
papers to read. We have two papers every meeting. The last 
ones were on "Ants and their Habits " and " Snakes," 

Walter S. Slagle, Sec, Fairfield, Iowa. 

I have a piece of oak containing a bullet which must have been 
shot into it more than forty years ago, for there are forty-three rings 
between the last trace of a scar and the bark. 

Fred. C. Ransom, Jackson, Mich. 

Exchanges Desired. 
Birds' eggs. — Wm. G. Talmadge, Plymouth, Conn. 
We have a fossil found thus far inland. We will exchange it for 
a lizard. — Warrick R. Edwards, Hillsboro, 111. 

Coral limestones, autumn leaves, and ferns, for marine curiosi- 
ties. Ypsilanti, Mich., Chapter A. — E. R. Shier, Sec. 

[We have seen some of these "coral limestones." They are 

Fossils of Lower Silurian, for marine curiosities, or for such 
specimens of walking fern, trailing arbutus, or ground-pine as 
would live after they reached us, if properly cared for. — L. M. 
Bedinger, Greenwood Lake, Ky. 

Minerals, woods, and photographic views, for United States and 
foreign exchanges. — Ledru Lewis, Box 174, Copenhagen, N. Y. 

Eggs, bird-skins, woods, and minerals. — Chas. C. Carter, Sec, 
Titusville, Perm. 

Mounted birds and eggs of this locality for sale. Send for price- 
list. — A. B. Averill, Colfax, Washington Ter. 

Minerals, calamites, bird-skins, eggs, nests, corals, algae, in- 
sects, lichens, ferns, and grasses. — H. G. White, Taunton, Mass. 

California specimens for specimens from Palestine. — Lenox 
Academy, Lenox, Mass. 

Clay stones, for pressed and labeled sea-weed, or a star-fish. — 
C. H. McBride, Rexford Flats, N. Y. 

Shells, sea-mosses, and marine curiosities, for minerals. — Howard 
Cook, 21 Harbor St., Salem, Mass. 

Suggestions for Work. 

And now the snow-flakes have taken their northward flight, and the 
singing birds have come back from the south. " The winter is over 
and gone," and the " A. A." is out-of-doors. 

I wish every member of our society would catch one bee, and 
steal the pollen from his thighs. Examine this pollen under the mi- 
croscope, and make accurate drawings of the grains. Examine also 
the pollen from some one flower, and make drawings of it in the 
same way, writing underneath the name of the flower. Then send 
the drawings to me, and we may thus ascertain, perhaps, some facts 
regarding the number and variety of the flowers that furnish the 
honey which the Queen in her chamber eats on her bread. 

Additional Chapters. 
No, CJiaptcr. Members. Secretary's Address. 

164. Jackson, Mich. (B.) 16. .Mrs. Norah Gridley, 

cor. Main & Fourth. 

165. Plymouth, Conn- (A) 6. .Wm. G. Talmadge. 

166. St. Helena, Cal. (A) 6. .Mrs. E. H. King. 

167. Rochester, N. Y. (A) 4. .Miss Monica Curran, 

2 Prince St. 

16S. Buffalo, N. Y. (C) 5. .Miss Claire Shuttleworth, 

35 North Pearl St. 

169. Norristown, Pa. (A) 17. .Miss Anna Schall. 

170. No. Brookfield, Mass. (A). 6..H. A. Cooke, Box 610. 

171. New London, Conn. (A).. 7..R. L. Crump. 

172. Hoosac, N. Y. (A) 14. .Wm. C. Langdon, Jr., B0X53. 

173. Fitchburg, Mass. {B) 14. .Miss Mary L. Garfield. 

174. Easton, Pa. (B) 10. . Frank Starr, 60 So. College. 

175. Easton, Pa. (C) 14. .W. F. Kennedy, 

122 North 2d St. 

176. Nashua, N. H. (D) 12.'. Fred. A. Burke, Box 1063. 

177. Andover, Mass. (A) 6. .N. H. Douglass. 

178. Farmington, Minn. (A)... S..H. N. Wing. 

179. Sacramento, Cal. (A) 15. -Harry Larkin, P. O, 

180. Milford, Conn. (A) 11.. Miss S. E. Frisbie. 

181. Nashua, N. H. (E) 6 .Geo. M. Tinker. 

182. Warren, R. I. (A) 5..H. L. Warren. 

183. Salem, Mass 5..M. E. Burrill, 4 Cherry St. 

Important Notice. 
Hereafter, Chapters number 1-50 are a requested to send their 
reports to W. P. Ballard, Easton, Pa.; Chapters number 51-100, to 
M. J. Taylor, Lenox, Mass.; 101-130, to Mr. John F. Glosser, 
Berwyn, Chester Co., Pa. All other letters, including requests for 
exchange, will be received, as before, by Harlan H. Ballard, Lenox 
Academy. Lenox, Mass. 


[See page 642.] 


Vol. IX. 

JUNE, 1882. 

No. 8. 

[Copyright, 1882, by The CENTURY CO.] 


Bv Ellen W. Olney. 

Any one might have thought, that summer 
morning, that all the summer boarders at Point 
No-Point were ambitious to do their week's 
washing at once. From the time breakfast was 
over until the first dinner-bell rang, at half-past 
twelve, the boys at Mrs. Crane's were rushing 
about in every direction in couples, vanishing down 
the road or up the lane, to re-appear, after an 
interval, carrying tubs between them. These tubs 
were deposited on the tennis-ground, where they 
immediately became a center of general interest, 
and were inspected by a committee of critics, who 
discussed their merits, and decided whether or not 
they might be called "sea-worthy." There were 
new tubs and old tubs ; painted tubs and un- 
painted tubs ; tubs with rusty iron hoops and tubs 
beautifully bound in brass and shining with fresh 
nails. Some of them suggested the excursion of 
the famous three men of Gotham, and in view of 
the disasters of that melancholy voyage were at 
once set aside and labeled " dangerous." 

But, finally, eleven were pronounced fit for use, 
and were marshaled into rank and file like a fight- 
ing regiment. 

By this time the second bell had rung, and din- 
ner was ready. Although intense excitement pre- 
vailed, dinner seemed by no means a matter of 
indifference to any of the boys. Fifteen of them 
had a table together at one end of the long dining- 
room which accommodated Mrs. Crane's houseful 
of boarders. It was always a noisy table, but 
Vol.. IX.— 38. 

to-day, with so much to talk about, there was a 
perfect babel of voices discussing the coming con- 
test, until Mr. Long, the lame gentleman with 
spectacles, limped over and sat down among them, 
and talked so pleasantly that they were, all glad 
to be quiet and listen. In fact, all the boys felt 
that he was a person worth propitiating, for he 
was to be umpire of the great tub-race coming off 
at three o'clock. 

It was not quite two when they arose from the 
table, and, as a great deal remained to be accom- 
plished during the next hour, and no more minutes 
could be wasted in mere forms and ceremonies, 
the boys trooped out. In the first place, it was 
necessary that they should all change their ordi- 
nary dress for bathing-suits ; then the tubs had to be 
carried to the river-bank ; finally, Mr. Long was 
to meet the contestants there, and settle certain 
questions concerning the management of the race, 
— questions which could be decided only on the 

Frank Sedgwick and his brother Will were the 
first to come forth, full)- equipped. They were the 
best swimmers, cricketers, and ball-players, and the 
handsomest fellows at Mrs. Crane's that summer. 
Their mamma had no daughters to make beautiful, 
so she spent all her pains on Frank and Will, and 
their bathing-suits were handsome — of white flan- 
nel, with blue trimmings, cut short in the arms, 
and ending at their knees, displaying the well- 
rounded, muscular limbs of the wearers. Each 

5 88 



of the brothers seized his tub — the best of the lot, 
you may be sure — and carrying it aloft at arms' 
length, as if it had no weight whatever, strode 
rapidly down to the water's edge. 

Next scrambled along Jo Paddock, dragging his 
tub behind him. There was nothing of the dandy 
about Jo. Although only fifteen, he was already 
within an inch of being six feet tall, and it was 
no easy matter to cover his long neck and arms and 
ankles, all of which protruded from his rusty, gray 
flannel suit, making him look like a disjointed 

Following him were the Holt boys, all neat, 
sober, trim little fellows, each — like the affectionate 
brothers they were — helping the other to carry his 
tub. Then, racing down, appeared Lemuel Shep- 
herd, rolling his tub before him like a hoop, and 
after him came Sam Tyson, munching an apple at 
his ease, while Timothy, Mrs. Crane's man, 
ambled behind, carrying his burden for him. It 
was always Sam Tyson's way to escape the trouble 
of things ; somebody seemed always at hand to 
look out for his comfort. He had a knack of get- 
ting twice as much at table as the other boys, and 
he always kept a supply of dainties besides, bought 
with his pocket-money, which he thought was well 
spent in luxuries for himself. He was no favorite 
among his mates. Before he reached the river-side 
the two Crane boys passed him, with Jack Loomis. 

" Why don't you take it as easily as I do ? " cried 
out Sam, who was in an excellent humor. " I 
gave Tim ten cents to get my tub this morning, 
and five more to bring it down here for me." 

"Why not send him out in it ?" asked Jack 
Loomis. " I would n't have the bother of paddling 
myself, if I were you. " 

"When the race really begins, I '11 take care of 
myself," returned Sam, who, it must be confessed, 
excelled in all athletic exercises. " I have been in 
these races before, and know a thing or two about 
them. 1 might let you into the secret of winning, 
boys, but I prefer to keep it to myself." 

He looked around at the others with a quiet 
smile of superiority. They all knew that smile and 
what it meant, and they did not like him for it. 
He was not a good-looking boy ; he had yellow, 
freckled, flabby cheeks, which hung down, and 
small eyes, with an expression of lazy scorn in 
them, and a wide, disagreeable mouth. As he 
stood there boasting of his skill, every one of the ten 
who listened had but one feeling in his heart, and 
that was — no matter who won the race, it must 
not be Sam Tyson. They all felt an antagonism 
against him, remembering affronts he had put 
upon them at tennis, cricket, and base-ball. 

Mr. Long now appeared on the long bridge 
which led out to the floating dock, followed by 

twenty or thirty boarders, who had come to look 
on and see the sport. 

And with the Sedgwicks and the Crane boys he 
fell to discussing the points still unsettled. 

It was decided that the boys were to set out 
from the bank, among the rushes, and paddle 
to a certain buoy, an eighth of a mile down the 
stream, go around that, then return, and land at the 
floating dock. They were to start when he should 
give the word. Each must keep five feet clear of 
his rivals, and must on no account jostle his neigh- 
bor. In gaining the goal, it was enough to touch 
the planks of the dock with the hand. 

"It is five minutes to three,"said Mr. Long. "To 
your tubs, boys, and be ready to start promptly." 

The boys all dashed to their places, took their 
tubs, and held them over their heads, ready to 
plash them into the water when Mr. Long should 
give the word. As they stood waiting, a faint 
cry arose among the spectators. A speck of blue 
had appeared in the distance. 

" It is little Teddy Courtney," said somebody. 
" He seems to be pushing a tub along." 

"Teddy Courtney!" cried Jo Paddock, and 
throwing down his own tub, he set off up the bank 
like a long streak of lightning. Yes, there came 
Teddy, in a bright blue boating-dress of the dainti- 
est cut and fit, dragging, with enormous difficulty, 
an old, rusty, battered tub. The little fellow was 
alternately red and pale, his lip was trembling, and 
two or three great tears rolled down his cheeks. 
He was only nine years old, and had been sent 
down to Mrs. Crane's, with his French nurse, 
while his father and mother were in Europe. 
Everybody petted and made much of the young- 
ster, but to-day he had been overlooked. 

" Oh, Jo ! " he cried, trembling with joy, as his 
friend appeared. "I was so afraid I could n't get 
here in time ! Marie would n't hurry, and this tub 
is so heavy." 

"I should think it was," growled Jo. "Poor 
little Ted ! " He took the battered old thing in 
his own hands. "The worst of the lot," said Jo. 
" However, my baby, you shall have mine. This 
will do well enough for me." 

There was no time to be wasted. Everybody 
was impatient. All the boys were drawn up in 
line, holding their tubs ready to be launched. Jo 
led Teddy down the bank and gave him his own 
place ; then he went to the end of the row with the 
little fellow's battered hulk. 

There was a pause. Then, " Are you ready? 
Go ! " cried Mr. Long, and the boys were off. 

That is, of course, they had waded out half a doz- 
en feet from the shore to a spot where they could 
clear bottom, and had got into their barks — that 
is to say, I mean some of them had got in. Until 



one tries, he does not know how difficult a matter 
it is to get into a floating tub successfully, and to 
stay there. A few had contrived to keep up ; the 
others had keeled over. But those who went 
down came up manfully, turned their tubs upside 
down to get the water out, righted them, and 
tried again. 

Frank and Will Sedgwick had had their usual 
good luck. They sat well into their tubs, their 
legs astride, and were now paddling along with 
short, clean strokes, which at once carried them 
briskly in advance of the rest. Everybody looking 
on at once declared that one of the two was sure 

doing very well indeed. He had seemed to be afraid 
of being upset by somebody, so he had steered 
his craft far to windward, but was now nearing the 
buoy, which he promised to round almost at the 
time the Sedgwick boys would reach it. 

His chances grew better and better every 
moment. He was almost as much of a favorite as 
the Sedgwicks, and there could be no chagrin at 
his good luck. Yet it was, nevertheless, a melan- 
choly thing to see Frank reach the stake at the 
very same moment as his brother. Then, as they 
paddled around it, how could he avoid jostling 
Will ? Then what hindered his getting upset 


to win. The pretty young lady who had made 
the badges for the gainer of the race looked with 
satisfaction at the handsome lads, and thought 
how well either would wear her blue-and-cardinal 

After the Sedgwicks came the two Cranes — 
stout, manly fellows, used to all sorts of exploits on 
sea and land, but rather too heavily built for the 
present race ; for, no sooner had they got forty or 
fifty feet from the shore, than at the same moment 
down went their tubs, and both were lost to sight. 
They came up, spluttering and laughing, and, 
drawing their perfidious tubs after them, waded 
back to begin again. Meanwhile, Jack Loomis was 

himself, and, in going down, carrying his brother 
along with him ? 

The Sedgwicks for once were thrown out of a 
competition. They were so used to success that 
they could hardly believe in their present ill-luck. 
But, having to confess it, they took it good-nat- 
uredlv, and, feeling sure that their chances were 
over, and that Jack Loomis had won the day, they 
waded to the dock, climbed up the sides, and sat 
on the edge, ready to cheer and applaud him when 
he should make fire goal. 

Jack was now indeed monarch of all he sur- 
veyed. But unseen dangers lurked ahead. All 
at once, without any premonition of disaster, fate 




overtook him ; down went his tub ! Twice he was 
soused from head to foot before he could find bot- 
tom and recover himself. Emerging finally, he 
looked dazed, confounded, at such an overthrow 
of all his hopes. 

While a race is going on, however, one has no 
time to waste pity on fallen heroes. For a good 
while, now, nobody had thought of watching any 
of the competitors save the Sedgwicks and Loomis. 
After their mischances, the spectators simultane- 
ously turned to see if anybody else was coming 
up, like the tortoise, to claim the victory lost by 
the hare. There soon arose a loud murmur of 
discontent. Mr. Sam Tyson followed the three 
who had gone down, and now was first in the pro- 

Jo Paddock was nowhere; he had, in fact, 
gone back and sat down resignedly on the bank. 
Even if he had had a good tub, his long legs put 
out of the question any sort of successful paddling. 
The two Crane boys sat beside him, one of them 
trying to mend his tub, which had started a hoop. 
Lemuel Shepherd was still trying to get into his. 
He was a roly-poly sort of a boy, so round that 
there was no more chance for him than for an 
apple-dumpling. The three Holt boys had gone 
on very well, and might have held their own, had 
not Sam Tyson run them down. One after another 
each had drifted in his way, and when the question 
arose in his mind whether his chances or theirs 
should suffer, he had not hesitated for a single 
moment, but- devoted them to destruction by an 
adroit kick of his foot. 

A trifle behind Sam was Teddy Courtney, float- 
ing beautifully. Now and then he leaned over 
and paddled a little with his baby-hand, but in 
general he was happy enough that he was up- 
borne, and did not get overturned ; so he made 
no effort to get on. He looked like a Cupid, with 
his golden curls, blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and 
smiling lips. 

There could now be no sort of doubt in any- 
body's mind that Mr. Sam Tyson not onlv in- 
tended to beat, but was certain to do so. He made 
progress very slowly, as he had declared he under- 
stood the secret of winning a tub-race. He knew 
that by eager paddling the tub constantly shipped 
water through the holes in the handles, and that 
thus becoming "swamped," it was ready to go 
down at the least jar. This danger he avoided, 
keeping his lower edge well above the ripples. No- 
body wished him well, yet, as if wafted by the most 
earnest good wishes, he sailed on serenely. Every 
other boy at Mrs. Crane's had friends, but he had 

none. Yet he was not more than half a bad fellow, 
if he could have been less selfish and greedy. 

And now, with a long sigh, they all whispered to 
themselves he was going to win. He had made 
the buoy easily. He was well on his way back. 
He was not more than three yards from the goal. 
His heavy face had not for a moment lighted up 
with hope or expectation. He bore his honors 
calmly so far. He always took everything calmly, 
which made it all the more exasperating for those 
whom he conquered. 

He was within four feet of the floating dock. 
Every one watched him, feeling more or less un- 
happy. The pretty young lady with the badge of 
crisp blue-and-cardinal ribbons, had seated herself 
on a camp-stool, and was fanning herself, with an 
air of indifference and patience. Apparently the 
results of the race were not to justify her disinter- 
ested efforts for it, since Mr. Sam Tyson was to 
have the badge. 

All at once, however, while the crowd looked on, 
muttering wrath in whispers, Sam was seen to 
move convulsively ! A sneeze burst from him in 
spite of all his efforts to suppress it. The tub turned 
over and sank, carrying him down with it. 

Ah , the cruelty of it all ! For a triumphant cheer 
burst from the party on shore ! Victory had been 
almost in Sam's grasp, but he had lost it. Alas ! 
alas ! And there was no sympathy for him. All 
the others who went down had had the grace of a 
kind " Poor fellow ! " but not a word for Sam. He 
took his reverse coolly, however, as he took every- 
thing else. He scrambled to his footing, got into 
his tub, and began to paddle himself back. 

And was everybody out of the race ? Was no 
one to have the blue-and-red ribbons ? Why, yes ! 
There was Teddy Courtney, who had, by this 
time, passed the buoy. 

"Carefully, Ted! Paddle carefully!'' shouted 
Jo Paddock, from the shore. " You '11 beat us all 

Teddy looked up in amazement. A winning 
smile broke over his face. He leaned over, and 
did paddle carefully. And a wind came up out of 
the south, and floated him straight toward the 
dock. His little hands seemed to work wonders, 
but. besides, as if some irresistible force bore him 
along, his tub went straight toward the goal. 

" Touch it, Ted, touch it ! " cried Will Sedg- 
wick, as he got alongside. And the little fellow 
leaned out and touched it. 

Then what a cheer broke forth, and how pretty 
the young lady looked as she put on his blue-and- 
red ribbons ! 




IiY M. M. D. 

A frisky little faun of old 

Once came to charm the bees — 
A frisky little faun and bold, 

With very funny knees: 
You '11 read in old mythology 

Of just such folk as these, 
Who haunted dusky woodlands 

And sported 'neath the trees. 

Well, there he sat and waited 

And played upon his pipe, 
Till all the air grew fated 

And the hour was warm and ripe, — 
When, through the woodland glooming 

Out to the meadow clear, 
A few great bees came booming, 

And hovered grandly near. 

Then others, all a-listening, 

Came, one by one, intent, 
Their gauzy wings a-glistening, 

Their velvet bodies bent. 
Filled was the meadow- sunny 

With music-laden bees, 
Forgetful of their honey 

Stored in the gnarled old trees, 
Heedless of sweets that waited 

In myriad blossoms bright, 
The)- crowded, dumb and sated 

And heavy with delight ; 
When, presto! — with quick laughter 

The piping faun was gone ! 
And never came he after, 

By noon or night or dawn. 

Never the bees recovered ; 

The spell was on them still — 
Where'er they flew or hovered 

They knew not their own will ; 
The wondrous music filled them, 

As dazed they sought the bloom ; 
The cadences that thrilled them 

Had dealt them mystic doom. 
And people called them lazy, 

In spite of wondrous skill. 
While others thought them crazy, 

And strove to do them ill : 
Their velvet coats a-fuzzing 

They darted, bounded, flew, 
And filled the air with buzzing 

And riotous ado. 

Now, when in summer's season 
We hear their noise and stir, 

59 2 



Full well we know the reason 

Of buzz and boom and whirr — 
As, browsing on the clover 

Or darting in the flower, 
They hum it o'er and over, 

That charm of elfin power. 
Dire, with a purpose musical 

Dazing the sultry noon, 

They make their sounds confusical, 

And try to catch the tune. 
It baffles them, it rouses them, 
It wearies them and drowses them ; 
It puzzles them and saddens them, 
It worries them and maddens them : 
Ah, wicked faun, with funny knees, 
To bring such trouble on the bees ! 


By A. G. Plympton. 

They had lots of cows, the Spicers had, — and 
they passed most of their time in our garden. 
The reason they did n't stay in the pasture was 
because the fences were all broken down ; for the 
Spicers were the most shiftless folks in Tucker- 
town. Why I cared about the cows was because 
I had to drive 'em out. 

It was the summer that Lucy was sick, and Dot 
and I were sent to Grandpa's. 

Well, one day, Grandpa said : 

" If those cows get into my corn again, I '11 
drive 'em up to the pound." 

'• What 's the pound ?" asked Dot. 

''It 's a pen," said Grandpa, "where you can 
drive any cattle you find on your land ; and the 
owner can't get them out without paying a fine." 

"Oh, I think that's elegant!" said I. "I 
know lots of people's cows I should like to get 
into the pound." 

When Grandpa went out, I said I would go and 
tell Sarah Spicer just what he had said. 

" Now, Mary Jane, you just stay where you are. 
You want your fingers in everybody's pies." It 
was Aunt Jane — you might know — who said 

1 might have answered that she was so sparing 
with hers (especially mince) that I never could 
touch titan. But I did n't. I often think of real 
smart things, and it 's mean that I can't say them. 

But, I declare, there is never any use at all in my 
arguing with Aunt Jane ; for, when I get the best 
of her, she always stiffens up and says: "There, 
that will do, Mary Jane ! Not another word ! " 

Besides, it is n't right to answer back. So I 
just said nothing, but took Dot and marched 
straight off to the Spicers'. 

We found Sarah and Sam playing in front of 
their house. Mercy me ! I never saw such a gone- 
to-wreck-and-ruined place. Half the window-panes 
smashed, and the shingles coming off, and the wall 
broken down, and not so much as a path up to the 
front door ! I suppose that is so that folks will go 
to the back door, as Aunt Jane did that day I 
went there with her and found the hens picking 
up the crumbs in the kitchen. I should have 
thought Mrs. Spicer would be ashamed of that ; 
would n't you ? But, la, she was n't ! She said 
the hens were company for her, and, besides, 
they "saved sweeping." 

Aunt Jane says Sarah Spicer 's " not a pretty- 
behaved little girl," and I should n't think she was. 
So saucy ! And she swings her skirts when she 
walks, and it 's real aggravating. Besides that, 
she makes up faces at real nice folks. Beth Hall 
and I turned round quick once, and caught her 
at it. 

I thought she was looking more saucy than ever 
on this particular day, and I determined to be very 
dignified and distant. 

" How d' ye do, Mary Jane ? " said she. 

" How d' ye do, Miss Spicer?" said I. 

" Mercy me, Mary Jane ! what airs ! " said she. 
" It 's no use to put 'em on here in Tuckertown, I 
can tell you, for folks know all about you." 

"There, that will do," said I, as like Aunt 
Jane as ever I could. " I only came over here to 



tell you that vvc arc going to have your cows put 
in the pound, the very next time we find 'cm in 
our garden." 

" Poh ! " cried out that Hop-o'-my-thumb of a 
Sam. "Your grandfather has said so, lots of 
times, but he never does." 

" Does n't dare to ! " snapped Sarah. 

I was just boiling mad. The idea of my being 
treated so by those low Spicers ! 

" Dare to ? " said I. " I wonder who you think 
would be afraid of such a poor, shiftless set as you 
are ? My grandfather says your farm does n't 
raise anything but weeds and potato bugs. But 
I '11 tell him it raises plenty of ' sarce ' besides." 

And then I took Dot's hand, and just ran for 
home, so as not to give Sarah a chance to have 
the last word. 

Oh, but don't I 'spise her ! 

Well, that afternoon, Dot and I went into the 
barn to play. We played that we were angels, 
and made the loveliest crowns of burs, and real 
nice wings out of newspapers. When we wanted 
to fly, we went to the top of the loft, and flew down 

the fun with all our might, when Aunt Jane 
screamed out : 

" Mary Jane ! Mary Jane ! The cows arc in the 
garden. Run and drive them out." 

" Is n't that mean ! " said I. " The idea of 
asking an angel to drive cows ! " 

"Play they are evil sperits," suggested Hiram, 
who was cleaning out the stalls. 

"No, they're not," said I. "They are just 
nothing but cows. Besides, it makes me hot to 
run after them, and angels ought never to be hot." 

Then Aunt Jane began to scream at me again, 
and, of course, I had to go. 

"It's too bad!" cried Dot. "Those Spicers' 
cows spoil all our fun." 

"I '11 tell you what," said I, after I had shoo'd 
them into the road. " I 'm going to drive 'em 
right up to the pound. I '11 show that Sarah 
Spicer ! " 

" Why, Mary Jane Hunt ! " cried silly Dot. 
"What '11 Grandpa say ? I wont go." 

"Say? Why, that he is much obliged to me, 
to be sure. And if you don't come right along, 


to the hay on the barn-floor; but we did n't care I '11 take off my little crown and stick the prickles 

to fly much, it was so much nicer to bounce up into you, Miss!," 

and down on the clouds — I mean the hay — and That 's what I said, but I knew I could n't get 

play on our harps and sing. the crown out of my hair — the old burs stuck so. 

We were just in the midst of it, and enjoying I got some out, though, and tied my hal on, set 




my wings against the wall, and got a stick to 
drive the cows with. Dot trotted after me, 
as meek as a lamb. 

It was n't far to the pound : but there was 
one cow and her calf that would n't hurry, 
and, besides, we walked very slowly along 
the sunny parts of the road, and rested every 
time we came to a shady place ; so it was late 
in the afternoon when we left the pound, and 
turned to come home. 

" Let 's go 'round by the Spicers'," said I. 
" I don't care if it is farther. Perhaps we 
shall see Sarah." 

" I don't want to see Sarah," answered 
Dot. " I saw 'nough o' her this morning. 
'Sides, Aunt Jane said, if we got through 
supper in time, she would take us to see Mrs. 
Green, you know. And she is going to give 
us some pears." 

But I was bound to go past the Spicers' ; 
so I said: " We '11 hurry, and go 'cross-lots, 
and I know we sha'n't be late." And I 
had my way. 

We went quite a distance by the road, and 
then through Mr. Hall's corn-field and the 
woods beyond, and came out right 
in the Spicers' pasture. The 
sun had just gone down, 
and there was a bright 
light behind the row of 
old, jagged apple-trees 
along by the stone 
wall, which was so 
broken down in 
places that it was 
an easy matter for 
the cows to stray 
away. Dot and I 
noticed that there 
was only one left 
now in the pasture. 

" I hope Sarah 
and Sam will have 
a good time hunt- 
ing after the oth- 
ers ; and good 
enough for 'em," 
said I. "Perhaps 
her father is just 
scolding her now 
for letting 'em 
stray away." 

" Well, he is n't, 
for there he is 
now." Dot point- 
ed, and I saw 
Sarah in the swing 




on the butternut tree in front of their house, and 
her father was swinging her, up ever so high. 

When she saw us she jumped out and ran to 
the fence. 

"Hope you '11 find your cows to-night, Sarah," 
said I. 

" You had better go for 'em," chimed in Dot. 

" Hope you '11 find yours," retorted Sarah. " If 
you don't keep 'em out of our garden, we are going 
to drive 'em to the pound." 

" Te, he," giggled Sam. 

What could they mean ? I wondered, as I hur- 
ried on, if our cows had got into their garden ; and 
it worried me so that I told Dot. 

" But, la, it 's no use to wait any longer. I '11 use 
morning's milk." 

" Yes," said Grandpa, who was washing his 
hands at the sink. " Do let 's have supper. Chil- 
dren, have you seen the cows ? " 

•'Why, no," I answered, "not ours; but Dot 
and I drove the Spicers' cows up to the pound." 

"Those that were in our garden?" demanded 
Aunt Jane, looking straight at me. 

I nodded. 

" Well, of all the little mischief-makers ! Those 
were our cows." 

" My gracious, goodness me ! " said I ; " and 
Grandpa 's got to pay a fine to get his own cows out 



"I don't believe it, at all," said Dot. "They 
just wanted to scare us and get even with us." 

Although we hurried so, it was late when we got 
home. We were afraid that supper would be all 
over, and Aunt Jane would scold us for being late. 
But though the table was set, and Grandpa was 
home from work, no one had sat down to it. 

" Been waiting for the milk," said Aunt Jane. 

of the pound ? Oh dear ! I do hope Sarah Spicer 
wont find out about it." 

Dot and I did n't go to Mrs. Green's for pears 
that night, I can tell you. Instead, we went to bed 
an hour earlier than usual ; but Sarah Spicer 
does n't know anything about it ; and after Aunt 
Jane went down-stairs, Dot and I had a real good 
time playing angel. 





By Katharine Hanson. 

As MOLLY sat by her mother, 

She heard of some curious things. 
For one lady said to another : 
" Yes, money has certainly wings." 

' Oh, has it ? " thought little Molly, 
" I never knew that before ! " 
And, questioning, looked at her dolly. 
Who calmly sat on the floor. 

Then entered a breathless caller, 

With shawl hanging quite unpinned ; 

Lest a thunder-storm should befall her, 

She had come "on the wings of the wind." 

'I wonder where she would leave them," 
Thought Molly, and looked about ; 

From the window she could n't perceive them — 
They had flown right along, no doubt. 

Two facts quite reconciled Molly 

To this confusion of things : 
She was safely tied to her dolly, 

And her mamma had no wings. 

By Felix L. Oswald. 

"There she is!" cried Bennie Ruan. "She 
was in that patch behind the mulberry-tree when 
I saw her first ; but I am going to cover the patch 
with that big fish-net of Father's, so that she can 
not rob us any more." 

"Oh, it's not about the pine-apples I mind," ex- 
claimed Mrs. Ruan, "but her wickedness is enough 
to make anybody cry ! — the miserable witch!" 

" What witch ? " I asked. " Who is it ? " 

"There she is again!" cried Bennie, before 
anybody could answer my question. " I believe I 
heard her chattering near the big fig-tree ! " 

We all ran out on the porch, Mrs. Ruan with a 
kitchen-knife, Bennie's brother Carlos with a stick, 
and his sick father with his crutch. They were 
poor Mexican farmers and had no fire-arms. On 
the porch, Martin, an old negro servant, was husk- 
ing corn, but when the boys ran toward the fig- 
tree, he got up and followed me into the garden. 

"What is all this about?" I asked him, as we 
reached the orchard. The old negro put his finger 
to his mouth, to enjoin silence, but when we got 
behind the copse of currant bushes, he stopped 
and began to chuckle. 

" Well, sir, to de best ob my knowledge, it 's 
nothing but a common monkey," said he. 

" What monkey ? " 

" De witch, as dey call her. Dere wuz a Miss 
Gonzales used to live down in Benyamo, an' dey 
tried to arrest her for witchcraft, and she has been 

missin' ever since. Dey hev got a notion dat she 
changed herself into a monkey — de one dat 's 
robbin' us all de time. Hush ! Here comes that 
boy Carlos." 

"Come over this way, Doctor," whispered Car- 
los — " we shall have some fun now; she 's at the 
lower end of the corn field, right where my father 
put up the trap. Father is behind the mulberries 
back there. Take care — we must keep on this side 
of the trees, where she can not see us." 

The old farmer was sitting on a wheelbarrow 
behind a clump of leafy mulberry-trees, while his 
wife was peeping through the branches. 

"There are four or five in the weeds, over yon- 
der," said she ; "they are near the trap right now." 

" The witch, too?" I asked. 

" Yes, sir, "said the farmer — "she 's somewhere 
in the corn field." 

" Where 's the witch ? " asked Bennie. 

"Keep still," whispered his mother. "There 
she is now, at the end of the fence there ; look ! do 
you see her red necklace? Here she comes ! She 's 
going for the trap." 

I could see her, too. A lean, long-legged capuchin 
monkey, with a sort of red collar around her neck, 
went skipping along the fence till she reached the 
top of the corner rail, where she stopped, and rose 
on her hind legs to get a view of the field. Find- 
ing the coast clear, she hopped down and slipped 
behind a pile of boards at the end of the furrow. 



quick ! 
— I saw 

"Oh, Father!" cried Carlos, "quick, 
Let 's get the dog ! She 's coming this way 
her just now in the melon patch." 

" Here 's de dog," said the negro. " Come on 
— if he does n't get her, she knows more about 
witchcraft than I do. Let 's head her off." 

Our plan was to take the dog to the lower end 
of the orchard, where he could intercept the witch 
on her way to the high timber, while Carlos was 


to watch her 
movements from 
behind the bake- 
house, to let us know 
when we ought to slip 
the dog. The farmer was 
his wife brought with her 

too lame to join us, but 

a club and a twisted rattan. 

" I '11 teach her manners, if we catch her," said 
she, with a flourish of her weapons. 

We had already reached the outskirts of the 
wood, and passed the first tall trees, without any 
signal from Carlos ; but when we were in the act of 
climbing the fence a little below the log-trap, the 
farmer on the porch gave a great shout, and, at 
the same moment, we saw the capuchin dash out 

of the melon patch, with Carlos at her heels. He 
was driving her straight toward us, and through 
the middle of the corn field, when the dog suddenly 
broke away before Uncle Martin could grab him. 
He had caught sight of her and she of him, for 
she turned sharp around, passed Carlos like a flash, 
and disappeared in the copse of currant bushes. 
In the next second, the dog reached the thicket, 
but while he was racing up and down with his nose 
on the ground, the sly 
witch slipped out at the 
other end, and made a 
break for the high tim- 
ber. Our shouts and yells 
brought the dog on her 
track, and, spying her in 
the open field, he came 
sweeping down the furrow 
like the wind, and went 
over the fence with a fly- 
ing leap, but a moment 
too late. The capuchin 
had reached the first tree, 
and mocked him with 
chattering grimaces from 
a height of sixteen feet. 

"Just look at her ! " 
laughed Uncle Martin. 
" She 's too smart for us, 

" Yes, she has fooled 
us again," groaned Mrs. 
Ruan. " Oh, what a 
shameful crime is witch- 
craft ! " 

"Too bad," said I. "It 
seems these monkeys bother you 
all day, madam ? " 
"Yes, Doctor, she keeps worrying me from 
morning till night ; yesterday evening we had to 
turn out at half-past seven to drive her out of the 
orchard. Just think of that ! Getting on top of a 
tree at that time of the day — a person in her cir- 
cumstances ! She has n't the least bit of self- 
respect, sir." 

When we returned to the cottage yr.rd, Mrs. 
Ruan's eldest daughter came running out of a side 
building. "Oh, Mamma," cried she, "Miss 
Gonzales was in our bakehouse last night ! " 
" Why, what has she been about, now?" 
"Cook made a dozen dough-dumplings." said 
the girl, " and there are only ten left, now. They 
were covered up in a dish on the oven-bench, and 
Bennie says he .never came near the oven, and I 'm 
sure I did n't, either, so it must have been Miss 

"Oh, the wretch ! Oh, mercy, what shall we do 




about it ? This must be stopped, somehow ! Why, 
she is robbing us night and day ! " 

"What!" cried the farmer, "you do not be- 
lieve that she would eat raw dough, do you ? " 

" Oh, you do not know her yet," wailed the 
good wife ; " there 's nothing too wicked for her — 
nothing too wicked. A person that will resort to 
witchcraft is capable of anything. " 

" Why don't you borrow a gun and shoot her?" 
I asked. 

"Bless you, no, sir!" said the farmer; "they 
would discharge me right off." 

"Who would?" 

"The gentlemen in the convent, sir; all this 
land belongs to their game-preserve, and they do 
not permit their tenants to use an)' kind of fire- 
arms. " 

" Oh, Doctor," said Mrs. Ruan, "could n't you 
be kind enough to send us some kind of a charm — 
a witch-charm, I mean? We would pay you the 
full value of it, and be ever so much obliged to 
you. If you say so, we can send Uncle Martin 
along, and pay you the next time you " 

" Never mind," I interrupted, "but let me tell 
you what I can do. I will see Mr. Cardenas, and 
borrow his American steel-trap for you." 

" Will that do any good against a witch?" said 
the farmer, doubtfully. 

" Indeed it will, seiior," said Uncle Martin. " I 
saw them catch wolves and bears with such traps 
down in Texas, and a witch does n't know more 
than a cinnamon bear does, I don't care how smart 
she is." 

" It will cripple her if she puts her foot in," I 
added. " Judge Cardenas lives somewhere out in 
the country, and I shall have to hunt up a guide 
in San Juan to find his place, or I would get you 
the trap before night." 

"Judge Cardenas? You mean Judge Pedro 
Cardenas?" asked the negro. "Well, seiior, you 
need n't go very far for a guide, den : he lives on 
dis side of de river, an' I can take you to his place 
in about three-quarters of an hour. Start now, 
ef you say so, sir ? " 

" Yes, let 's go right now," I said; " we should n't 
find him at home after three o'clock. Come on." 

We passed the convent hill and a thicket of tali- 
pot-palms, and then entered a caucho grove. The 
tropical forests are strangely quiet during the noon- 
tide heat ; every living thing seeks the shade, and 
even the parrots sit under the thick foliage, or hide 
in hollow trees, like owls, and do not stir till the 
day cools off. The air was so still that we could 
hear the buzz of a gnat, and the rustling of the 
small lizards that skipped from tree to tree through 
the dry leaves, but when we entered the caucho 
grove we suddenly heard a piercing scream from 

the depth of the woods — a curious shrill and long- 
drawn screech, like the yell of a big tomcat, and 
soon after the deep-mouthed bark of a hunting- 

" Listen ! That 's Mr. Cardenas's deer-hound," 
said the old negro. " The judge must be some- 
where in that thicket down there. Let 's hail 

Our call was answered by a loud halloo from a 
wooded glen on our right, and, before long, a 
hunter stepped from the thicket, and waved his hat 
when he recognized us. 

"Hello, Judge," I called out, "what 's the 
matter — have you been cat-hunting on that creek 
down there ? " 

" No, I was hunting pheasants," cried the judge, 
" and what do you suppose I caught ? " 

" What was it — a wild-cat ? " 

"No, no," said he. "Come along — I '11 show 
you ; it takes three witnesses to prove it. " 

" My wood-choppers captured a sloth this morn- 
ing," said the judge, as we walked toward the 
ravine — "a big black sloth — a 'bush-lawyer,' as 
the Indians call them. They tied him to the 
stump of a tree, and what do you suppose I found, 
when I came out to fetch him ? Here we are ! 
Just look at this happy family ! " 

The old sloth lay on his back, near the stump 
where the wood-choppers had left him, but in his 
claws he held the strangest animal I ever saw in 
my life — a black, hairy little brute, about the 
shape of a young bear, but with a big tail that 
turned and twisted left and right like a snake. 

" What in the world do you call that ? " I asked 

— "a monkey or an overgrown squirrel? " 

" No, it 's a honey-bear," laughed the judge — 
" a kinkayou, as we call them. Just look up 

— there 's half a dozen of them in that tree ! " 

On a catalpa-tree, near the stump, a whole fam- 
ily of the strange long-tails were eating their 
dinner, not in the least disconcerted by our pres- 
ence, as it seemed, though two of them eyed us, 
with outstreched necks, as if they desired us to 
explain the purpose of our visit. 

I stepped back to get a better look at them. 
They had snouts and paws like fat young bears, 
but in their movements they reminded me of a 
North American opossum ; they could hang by 
their tails and use them as rope-ladders in lower- 
ing themselves from branch to branch. Now and 
then, one or two of them came down to take a 
look at their captive comrade, but the least move- 
ment of the old sloth would send them scamper- 
ing up the tree with squeals of horror. 

" That lawyer of yours has taken the law into 
his own hands," said I. 

" Yes, I suspect those little imps kept fooling 








with him until he grabbed one of them," said the 
judge. " Let 's set that thing free, or he will 
squeeze it to death." 

The old sloth held his prisoner as a spider holds 
a fly, encircling him completely with his long- 
clawed legs, and while the captive mewled and 
snarled, the captor uttered grunts that sounded 
like inward chuckles. It needed our combined 
efforts to unclasp his long grappling-hooks, and 
we were afraid the prisoner would die before we 
could liberate him, but as soon as his feet touched 
the ground, he bounced up the tree as if the fell 
fiends were at his heels. 

" That fellow wont forget the day of the month," 
laughed the judge; "he will know better than to 
meddle with a lawyer the next time." 

I explained to the judge that we had come to 
borrow his trap, and he told Uncle Martin to go 
and fetch it. 

" Well, Judge, I 'm much obliged to you," said 
the old negro, "but I guess we had better try dis 
four-legged trap first. You may call her Miss 
Gonzales or whatever you like, but if dis here 
lawyer would n't squeeze de witchcraft out of her, 
we might as well give it up for a bad job. Why, 
I could hardly get his claws off at all ; I never 
saw the like before." 

" It 's only the old males of the black variety 
that will do that," explained the judge: "the 
brown ones are almost helpless, if you turn them 
over on their backs. Well, I must go along and 
see the fun," said he, " but if you catch that 
monkey, please do not kill her; if she can dance, 
I should like to take her home, and let my chil- 
dren make a pet of her." 

The afternoon was far advanced; so when we 
reached the farm, all hands were promptly set 
to work to get the witch-trap ready without loss 
of time. 

Near the log-trap, and just below the place where 
the monkeys used to cross the fence, we drove 
four short stakes into the ground and fastened the 
old sloth securely, but in a way that did not inter- 
fere with the upward and sideward movement of 
his arms and legs. All around him we strewed 
the ground with raisins and bits of bread, and 
Mrs. Ruan added a large slice of ginger-cake, 
which we fastened on a separate stake behind the 
living trap. 

" We might as well try a wood-lawyer, since the 
other lawyer would n't help us," Mrs. Ruan told 
me. " Here 's my neighbor, Mrs. Lucas, she 
knows a recipe for curing such hags : You must 
make them drink a quart of boiling pepper-sauce, 
with sulphur and garlic. I Ye got a potful on 
the stove there, and if we catch her, she will have 
to swallow every drop of it. I '11 hold her nose 

and make her do it. Yes, sir, witchcraft must be 

" Here, Carlos, you take this ax," said his 
father, " go to the wood-shed, and make all the 
noise you can. That witch has a way of turning 
up as soon as she hears us chopping wood," he 
added. " I suppose she calculates that we can't 
watch her as long as we are hard at work." 

Mr. Ruan then tied the dog to the bed-post, the 
good wife went to the bakehouse, and the rest of us 
marched to the south corner of the garden, where 
Uncle Martin posted us behind a clump of banana- 

Carlos, in the wood-shed, kept up a noise as if a 
company of lumbermen were at work with axes 
and cudgels, and, before long, the judge tapped 
me on the shoulder and pointed to the farther end 
of the fence. " There 's one now," said he — " a 
raccoon or a young monkey." 

" Hold on ! Dat 's de witch herself," whispered 
Uncle Martin. " I can see her now — she 's peep- 
ing over de top rail. Dere she comes — do you 
see her collar ? ' ' 

The old capuchin took a good look at the trap, 
and then raised herself to her full length and 
surveyed the garden silently and carefully. Some- 
how, the prospect did not seem satisfactory, for 
instead of jumping down, she jogged along the 
top rails to the next corner and peered about the 
field once more. The coast seemed clear, and, 
after a last furtive glance in the direction of the 
cottage, the old marauder leaped down and disap- 
peared in the weeds. Was she going to content 
herself with corn-ears ? She could not possibly 
have overlooked the tidbits near the trap. 

No, she had n't, nor forgotten them neither, for, 
two minutes later, she re-appeared at the right 
place, took up a piece of bread, examined it care- 
fully, and then eyed the prostrate sloth with evi- 
dent surprise. 

" She does n't know what to make of all that," 
whispered the farmer. 

" She will find it out mighty suddenly, if she 
aint kerful," chuckled Uncle Martin. "De lawyer 
is getting ready for her." 

The "witch" approached the trap with great 
caution, peeped under the boards, smelled them, 
and looked thoughtfully in the direction of the 

" What if it should be some new trick? Mon- 
keys can not be too careful nowadays — farmers are 
so cunning; that poor fellow on his back, there, 
seems to have fallen a victim to their wiles," she 
appeared to be saying to herself. 

She tapped his head and stole a look at his face. 
The lawyer never budged. She went around 
and examined him from the other side. " Where 


60 I 

did he come from? Is he dead? Why does n't 
he try to get away ? " 

The lawyer lay low. 

" A queer customer ! How did he get fast 
there, anyhow ? What keeps him down ? " She 
nosed around the strings, scrutinized the stakes, 
and tried to step over the corpse, or whatever it 
might be, in order to acquaint herself with the 
interior mechanism of this novel kind ot trap. 
Perhaps she imagined it would take her only a 
moment, but in that moment the four arms 
clasped her like the fangs of a steel-trap, and a 
horrified screech announced the success of our 
stratagem. The lawyer had her. 

Uncle Martin started off with a whoop, the boys 

ft -■' 


broke from the cottage with a simultaneous rush, 
and, a second after, the population of the farm 
galloped toward the trap, like race horses on the 
home stretch. 

When the witch saw us come, the recollection 
of her sins made her redouble her shrieks and 
struggles, but she might as well have tried to 
break out of a straight-jacket and a pair of iron 
handcuffs ; the old sloth neither stirred nor made 
the slightest noise, but held her with the merciless 
grip of a boa constrictor. Before we liberated her, 
Uncle Martin slipped a stout leather strap through 

her collar, fastened it with a triple knot, and 
opened a big linen Hour-bag, to have it ready for 
use. When we got her free, she leaped backward 
with a sudden jerk, but finding she could not 
break the strap, the poor creature crept into the 
sack of her own accord, glad to get out of sight 
at any price; but in the bottom of the bag we 
could hear her teeth chatter with fear, as if she 
expected every moment to be pulled out and shot. 

" We have got her!" Mrs. Ruan called to the 
cook, who had watched us from the porch. " Run, 
Carlotta ! Get the pepper-sauce ready ! " 

" I believe she is going to burn her alive," 
laughed the farmer, who had hobbled out with the 
help of a crutch. 

"No, no, my friends; that would never do," 
said Mr. Cardenas. "You can not burn a witch 
that still has the form of a monkey — it would be 
cruelty to animals, and that 's against the law." 

" You hear that ?" said the farmer. " The judge 
is right ; we must n't get ourselves into trouble. 
We 'd better sell her, or set her free on the other 
side of the river; witches can not swim, you know, 
so she would never get across the Rio Lerma." 

"No, sir: that would n't do, neither," said the 
judge. " She can not be permitted to run at 
large. We must teach her a useful trade, and keep 
her locked up for the rest of her life." 

"That's right! Lock her up and keep her 
hard at work, the miserable huzzy ! " cried Mrs. 
Ruan, shaking her fist at the bag. 

"Yes," said the judge; "but she must n't be 
maltreated, and I '11 see if I can take her to board 
in my family. Look here, my friends, suppose I 
pay you four dollars for the damage she has 
caused you, and engage that she shall bother you 
no more ? Will that be satisfactory ? " 

"Why, certainly," said the farmer. "I am 
much obliged to you. Judge." 

" You are kind, sir," said Mrs. Ruan ; " but " 

"But — what?" 

" Step this way, sir, please," said Mrs. Ruan. 
with an uneasy glance at the bag. " I want to 
talk to you privately, where that creature can not 
overhear us." Then, stepping aside with the judge, 
she whispered : " You know more about law busi- 
ness than we do, but I must warn you that you 
must keep your eye on her. And it is not enough 
to lock the doors — the likes of her find other ways 
of escape. If they get hold of a broom, they make 
a rush for the nearest chimney, and off they go, 
whistling before the wind." 

" Make your mind easy, my good woman," 
laughed the judge. " I am going to watch her 
closely. The first time I catch her on a broom- 
stick, I shall turn her over to the police." 




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By L. A. B. 

The Whirligig Club had been in existence more 
than two months, and the citizens of West Ridge, 
one and all, had several times called it a nuisance, 
although they could not help smiling with admira- 
tion at the boys as they whizzed past the houses 
and street-corners on their "bikes." 

As for the mothers and sisters of the members, 
they had gradually become reconciled to it, and 
were no longer in hourly expectation of having the 
youngsters brought home insensible on shutters or 
cellar-doors, nor in dread of having to reach out 
and pick them off the iron fence, on the sharp 
points of which they had seemed determined to 
impale themselves at first, so wildly had their 
unmanageable steeds wabbled about. 

Johnny had just joined the ranks. He had been 
an honorary member ever since the Club started ; 
but now, the ownership of a machine made him at 
once a most active working member. 

It was a proud day for Johnny when he found 
himself the possessor of a bicycle. He was a favor- 
ite with all the " Whirligiggers," so, when he came 

into view, mounted on his new "steed," the group 
greeted him with a hearty cheer, and he was taken 
into full membership on the spot. 

" It 's even taller than mine, too," said Bob, as 
the)- all gathered around to admire it ; and he said 
it so unselfishly that Johnny inwardly resolved to 
be his friend as long as he lived ; for Bob had 
until now enjoyed the distinction of having the 
largest bicycle in the Club. 

"We ought to do something to celebrate his 
initiation," said Frank, after each member had 
taken a trial trip on the new machine, and ex- 
pressed an opinion on the working-powers. 

"We must have a grand ride all together, 
some day soon," suggested Bob. 

This proposal met with instant favor, and re- 
ceived the approbation of the entire Club ; but 
when Joe suggested that they should go at night, 
and that nobody should know a word about it, 
some demurred. The proposal was rather start- 
ling. But the more they talked it over, the bet- 
ter thev liked it ; and even those who had at first 




objected, came at length to the conclusion that it 
was the one proper way to have a celebration. So 
the Club stifled any whisperings of conscience 
about the propriety of going without leave, and 
unanimously declared the matter settled. 

It took a great deal of talking to arrange the de- 
tails of the plan ; but it was finally decided that 
they should go out on the Mill road, and then 
cross over and come in on the West road, and that 
Thursday evening, at ten o'clock, would 
be the best time for the start. 

Johnny and Ned, because the windows 
of their rooms were not adapted to a silent 
departure, were to get permission to spend 
the night with Bob and Joe, who possessed 
windows opening upon low roofs, which 
made a quiet exit easy. They were to 
meet at the cross-roads a little before ten, 
and to start as near that hour as possible. 

When the evening came, the roads were 
found to be all that the most exacting bi- 
cycler could ask. Joe and Ned were the 
first at the place of rendezvous, but they 
had not long to wait until all the others 
came speeding up to them, either singly or 
in pairs. 

" Call the roll ! " said Ben, as the last 
two rolled into the circle — for the Club, 
although it numbered only seven members, 
never started on any expedition without 
attending to this important duty. 

" Ned Alvin, Johnny Ellis, Joe Gaddis, 
Frank Long, Ben Webster, Davie Faxton," 
called Bob Gridley, just above a whisper, 
and so rapidly that the owner of a name 
had barely time to answer before the next 
was called. 

"Now we 're ready," added Bob; and 
on the instant the entire seven mounted 
their machines, and as Bob, who was leader 
for the evening, blew three notes softly on 
his whistle, away they flew. 

Their place of meeting had been just on 
the edge of the town, and a few minutes' 
ride took them past the last house and 
out upon the country road. 

They had not gone half a mile when two 
notes from Bob's whistle made them slacken 
speed, and, as they drew up in a group 
around him, Bob suggested that when they 
came to the Mill road, which was only a 
little way ahead, they should turn off, and go 
around by Long Pond. The proposal took away 
their breath ; but finally Davie found enough to 
exclaim : "Why, that is fully an eight-mile trip ! " 

" What is eight miles? " asked Bob ; " there is 
n't one of us but can do it. To be sure, it is a 

little farther than we ever have been, but of course 
we can make it." 

"But how long will it take?". "More than 
twice as far ! " " There '11 be a hill to go over," 
came from several members at once. But these ob- 
jections were followed by an instantaneous "Let's 
go, any way," from the entire Club. And they 
filed into line again. 

The road was smooth, and away they glided, 


Bob leading and the others following, two and 
two. Their course lay straight ahead for a few 
paces, and then they turned squarely to the right, 
and on again. The moon was shining brightly, and 
hundreds of stars twinkled down on them through 
the tree-tops which leaned over the road. It was 




just the evening for such a trip. They did not. 
stop a minute to rest, but wheeled industriously 
on, sometimes in single file, when the road was 
not so good, then again two and three abreast. 
Many a clear, boyish laugh and loud halloo echoed 
through the woods. 

Johnny and Bob regaled them with the air 
of " Row, brothers, row," sung to words like : 

"Wheel, brothers, wheel ; the night goes fast, 
The road is long and the bridge not past," 

which was received with much admiration by the 
other members, although the singers' voices were 
rather gaspy, owing to their being somewhat out 
of breath from a short race. 

"Let 's stop at the split-oak for lunch," called 
Frank, who was in the rear. 

" All right ! " came from the others, and they 
made their wheels spin until they came to the split- 
oak, full five miles from their starting-point. 
There the brigade stopped; the "bikes" were 
stood up against trees, and the boys settled down 
in a grassy place by the oak, where the moonlight 
was brightest, and where they applied themselves 
vigorously to demolishing the cheese and crackers 
which they had brought with them. 

" Say, boys, do you know it 's almost twelve ? " 
said Joe, looking at his watch, which was the pride 
of his heart. The bright moonlight shone full on 
its face, and left no doubt of the time. 

" Well, we ought to start," said Ned. " We 've 
been nearly half an hour eating our lunch and 

" I tell you, boys, we have got to make pretty 
good time the rest of the way," said Johnny, as 
each rider brought up his steed and prepared to 

" Oh, we can easily be home in an hour and a 
half; we did n't start until after ten, and the oak 
is more than half-way," said Bob. 

The road lay straight for the next mile ; then 
came the hill, up which the Whirligiggers found 
it much the easier plan to walk. On the other side, 
the hill sloped by an easy grade to the foot, where 
the road crossed the pond by a long bridge. So 
they mounted again at the top, and made a quick 
run to the bottom, their speed increasing every 
moment, until, when they reached the foot, they 
were going so fast that they rushed across the 
planked bridge with a rumbling like distant 

The Club was at length beginning to feel the 
effects of the unusually long ride ; and, as the 
party came to the railway, Ben said : 

"Let 's rest here until the expresses pass." 

" Agreed ! " said Bob. " What time is it, Joe ? " 

"After one — ten minutes after. It must be 

time for the train now," he answered, looking down 
the track. 

The up-express was due at fifteen minutes after 
one, and the down-express at almost the same 
hour, but they seldom were on time. In a few 
minutes the trains would surely pass the spot 
where the boys now were, and they thought the 
sight worth waiting for, because the trains were 
through expresses, and always dashed along as if 
speed was the only thing cared for. 

The boys agreed to wait. Two of them stretched 
themselves on the ground by the side of the 
wagon-road, and the others sat around on logs, 
glad to take a breathing spell, as Joe called it. 

" I say," said Davie, suddenly, " the railway would 
be a splendid place for our machines to run' on." 

" So it would," said Bob. " The places between 
the ties have been filled and packed, and so many 
people use it as a foot-path, that it 's as smooth 
and solid as a floor." 

Just then, the up-express came whistling and 
roaring along the track, and dashed past them at 
tremendous speed, raising clouds of dust, twigs, 
and dry grass. The boys held their breath as the 
monster swept by them, without slackening speed 
even to cross the long bridge over the creek and 
the trestle-work beyond. 

And then followed a strange crashing sound, as 
of earth and rocks rolling down-hill ; but soon all 
was still again. 

"Where are you going, now?" asked Ben, as 
Johnny and Ned suddenly jumped up, moved by 
the same impulse. 

" To see how the track will do for our ' bikes,' " 
answered Johnny, as they trundled their machines 
toward the railway. 

Bob had his mouth wide open to suggest that 
all the Club should follow, when a startled call 
from Johnny, echoed by one from Ned, caused 
them to rush down to where the two boys were. 

Their faces turned as pale as were Johnny's and 
Ned's, when, in answer to their "What 's the 
matter?" Ned pointed to a dark heap across the 
track, close to the bridge. A moment's glance 
showed them that one of the great rocks from the 
hill, no doubt shaken loose by the train which had 
just thundered past, had rolled down upon the 
track, carrying with it a mass of dirt and gravel. 
The rock was so large that the boys could not 
move it, although the)- at once tried their best. 

" It 's of no use," said Joe, as they gave up, 

"We must do something; it 's time the down- 
express was here, now," cried Davie. 

"We must signal them in some way. If we 
only had a lantern ! " cried Frank, breathlessly. 

" There is no time to lose ! " cried Bob. 




" Hay ! " and with the word Ben and Ned were 
off, and, before the others could think what they 
meant, they were back with their arms full of dry 
hay, from a little shed which they had remembered 
seeing a short distance up the hill. 

"We had better go beyond the fallen rock, 


and then, when we see the train coming, we '11 
set fire to the hay," said Joe, as they hurriedly 
divided the hay into several small bundles. 

They had just started up the track, when there 
came a sound which made them stop. It was a 
faint whistle, far away around the curve. 

" The train is coming now, and, besides, our 
light wont be seen from around the bend ! " cried 
Xed, as the boys stood staring blankly at one an- 
other, for at last they fully realized the danger. 

" Some of us must cross the bridge and signal 
them from the other side of the river," said Joe. 

" The ties are out from 
some places, and we should 
have to jump the gaps. Men 
were setting blocks under the 
rails when I came past there 
this evening ; they were then 
going to leave the gaps, and 
replace the ties to-morrow," 
said Johnny. 

''There wont be time to 
climb down and up the banks, 
and cross on the little foot- 
bridge, nor to swing across 
the gaps by holding to the 
rails," said Bob, his voice 
shaking as he talked. 

"There were boards laid 
lengthwise across. I '11 go 
over on them," cried Johnny, 
remembering that he had 
seen men wheel gravel, from 
the hill on the other side, 
along the whole length of 
the bridge, on a narrow path 
made of two boards ; and he 
determined to cross by it, 
mounted on his wheel ; there 
was not time for running. 

"Get out all your handker- 
chiefs, tie 'em together, and 
put them in this pocket. Give 
me some matches, Davie — 
here, in my mouth. Hurry ! 
hurry ! " he went on, his fin- 
gers trembling as he looped 
his own handkerchief around 
a bundle of hay, so as to carry 
it on his arm and leave both 
hands free. 

"You must n't 
'11 be killed!" 
cross on 'em ! " 
trying to dissuade him while 
yet they went on doing as 
he told them. 
It was a perilous undertaking; but the need was 
urgent, — not a second was to be lost ! As Johnny 
reached the bridge, he felt like giving up ; but the 
thought of what would happen if he should not go, 
gave him fresh courage. 

" Tell 'em at home that I tried to do the best I 

jo ! " "You 
' You can't 
they cried, 



could, if " he shouted, but a choke in his 

voice would not let him finish. And he was off. 

The loose boards rattled and shook as the wheels 
spun over them, and where the ties 
were out they seemed to bend be- 
neath the weight. Johnny could 
hear the sound of the water far be- 
low him, but he did not dare to 
look down. When he was half-way 
over, he could hear the roar of the 
train as it echoed back from the 
hills, and lie was almost afraid to 
look toward the turn of the track, 
for fear he should see the head-light 
of the engine gleaming around the 

If he could only get over in time ! 

Faster and faster spun the wheels, 
and faster and faster beat Johnny's 
heart, as he reached the end of the 
trestle-work, and turned the bend. 

The head-light of the coming 
train shone bright and clear up the 

"Oh, why do they go so fast?" 
said Johnny to himself, as he stopped, 
and leaped from his bicycle to light 
his signal. He crouched down beside 
the track and struck a match against 
the rail ; but his hand shook so that 
the head of the match flew off. The 
next one burned, and he sheltered 
the flame between his hands until 
the hay and handkerchiefs were in 
a blaze. It seemed a long time to 
Johnny, but it really was only a 
moment until he was up and away 
again, on a run along the track, 
waving the flaming bundle back 
and forth. 

" They must see it ! Yes, they 
are whistling. They '11 surely stop, 
now ! " cried Johnny, half aloud, still 
waving the fiery signal. The flames 
blew against his hand, but he was 
too excited to mind the heat. The glaring eye of 
■ the engine grew brighter and brighter. But not 
until the train was close enough for him to see the 
anxious face of the engineer looking out from his 
window, did the brave boy jump from the track. 

" They 're stopping," was the last thing he 
thought, for he heard them whistle " down brakes," 
as he jumped off the track ; and he knew nothing 
more until some men raised him in their arms and 
asked him if he was hurt. Then he opened his 
eyes to find his head on some one's shoulder, and 
a crowd of strange faces around him. 

" Here, little chap, what did you stop us for? " 
asked an important man in blue uniform and brass 
buttons, coming up to the group around Johnny. 


" Rock 's tumbled down just across the bridge," 
answered Johnny, wondering why he felt so tired 
and weak. " Where is my machine?" he added, 
trying to look around. 

The conductor looked puzzled. 

" Reckon this is it," answered the engineer, 
coming up with the bicycle and standing it against 
a tree. 

" Well, he 's'a plucky chap, sure 's I 'm a-livin', 
an' I can tell you some of us came pretty near 
gettin' dished," went on the engineer, who had 
been taking a view of the situation, and had 




learned from the other Whirligiggers what a nar- 
row escape the train had had ; for the boys had 
run swiftly across on the foot-bridge, and had now 
reached the scene, out of breath from their rapid 
climb up the stgep bank. 

" If it had n't been for him, we 'd all 'a' been 
down there," finished the engineer, with an ex- 
pressive wave of his sooty hand toward the creek, 
and a nod to the crowd of passengers. 

Johnny did not hear the words of explanation 
and praise which followed, for when the conductor 
tried to help him to his feet, he fainted away again. 

" Let me see — I am a doctor. He has had a 
rough tumble, and I am afraid he has broken 
some bones," said a passenger, stepping forth from 
the crowd. 

The doctor was right ; for Johnny's ankle was 
badly sprained, and one arm had been broken by 
striking against a stump as he fell. 

But Johnny knew nothing more of what went 
on around him, until he opened his eyes again in 
his own room, in his own bed. The first thing he 
saw was his mother's face bending over him, and 
the first thing he heard was old Dr. Clark's voice 
saying, " He '11 do now." 

"I know we ought n't to have gone without 
asking leave," said Johnny, at the end of a confi- 
dential talk with his mother, a few days later, when 
he was beginning to feel better. "I '11 never go 
again, that way, but I 'm glad I was there then." 

" I 'm not afraid of my boy breaking his prom- 
ise," said his mother, "but proud as we are of 
your courage, there are two kinds of bravery, 
Johnny, and it may be harder for you to keep your 
promise than it was to cross the bridge." 

" I don't know," said Johnny, shaking his head, 
doubtfully. "I was badly scared, and my heart 
just thumped all the time I was going over. It 's 
a good thing I practiced so much at the gymna- 
sium, and walking beams and things, or I could 
not have done it," added Johnny, hoping to recon- 
cile his mother to the ruinous wear and tear his 
clothes suffered from athletic performances. 

It was weeks before Johnny was able to be out 
again ; for the ankle got well slowly, and for a time 
he had to use a crutch, even after his arm was well 
enough for him to leave off the sling. 

The members of the Club were faithful in their 
visits, and came every day to see him, as soon as 
he was able to have company. They brought him 
all the school news, and did everything they could 
think of to make the time pass more quickly. 

One day, about two weeks after their eventful 
ride, a box came by express, marked "John R. 
Ellis." When it was opened, there appeared a 
great roll of pink cotton, and nestled snugly in 
this was a solid silver cup, quaintly shaped and 
daintily engraved; but what gave it its greatest 
value was the inscription on the plain oval front : 

"A testimonial to John R. Ellis, from the pass- 
engers who owe their lives to his bravery." 

By Bessie Chandler. 

Sandy and Ned were brothers ; 

Ned was older than Sandy ; 
And they were busy dividing 

A stick of peppermint candy. 

Ned was earnestly trying 

To make the division true, 
And he marked the place with a fish-hook, 

Where the stick ought to break in two. 

But, alas, for little Sandy 

And his poor painstaking brother ! 
'T was a long and short division — 

One piece longer than the other. 

Ned gravely looked at the pieces 
And their quite unequal length, 

And he wrestled with the problem 
With all his mental strength. 

And, at last, he said: "Oh, Sandy! 

I can make it come out right, 
If I take the piece that 's longest, 

And bite off just one bite." 

Their four eyes beamed and brightened 
At this plan, so very handy, 

Of disposing of the problem 
And distributing the candy. 

So Ned ate the pieces even — 

'T was the simplest way to do it ; 

And he cheated little Sandy — 

And they neither of them knew itl 



O O N s ° k \T I O N 

y • KitteM- Gftpf/'TO'tt yj -GAT •* 
' \^£Ll ■ -SVfr»w/\s - NoWh • TH^ -Ws^SE 


v, jMy- cat- ALAS' she- -7iA|J-AwAy-' J 

,,r 5H E,rv l^y 'COME - 

.BAGrV AM^' 

SoME-DAy 1 " 


By Mrs. E. C. Gibson. 

" Well, Miss Tragedy ! What 's happened 
now ? " exclaimed Stevie. He was busy over his 
table and tool-chest in the piazza, near the library 
window, where his mother sat reading the morn- 
ing paper. He had stopped in his merry whistling 
at his work when he had seen his sister come into 
the room with a very downcast face, and, throwing 
her hat on a lounge, sit down dejected beside it. 

" Well, you may stop working at that trunk," 
she said. " She wont want it." 

" Goldilocks not want her trunk ! What ails 
her? — prostrated by the heat? — nose melted off? 

— collapse from loss of saw-dust ? Do tell a fel- 
low ! I 'm her uncle, you know." 

" Miss Bailey has shut May up in her room, and 
locked her in. I 've been over there, and Miss 
Bailey says she 's got to stay there all day." 
" What has the little witch done, this time ? " 
"Why, coming home from school, yesterday, 
she wanted me to go with her to Nelson's bird- 
store, to look at the parrots and squirrels. I said 
no, for I knew Miss Bailey would n't like it. — and 
do you know, after she left me here, she went 
straight to Nelson's, and staid there till the clerk 




brought her homo at dark. He was afraid she 
might get lost. Miss Bailey means to punish her. 
So our fun 's all over. " 

" Did you see May ? " asked Stevie. 

"No; Miss Bailey would n't let me. I begged 
her to let May off this time ; but, dear me ! there 
was no use in my saying anything to her." 

" Suppose I go over and try," said Stevie, his 
eyes twinkling. "'I '11 make my best bow, you 
know; and" — turning quickly as his mother sud- 
denly appeared at the door — " Mamma ! Let me 
go over to Miss Bailey's, please ? " 

"Mamma! Would you go yourself?" asked 
Gracie, pleadingly. " We can't take our new dolls 
with us on Wednesday, unless we finish their things 
to-day. They have n't enough to go visiting with." 

" Gracie, I don't like to ask Miss Bailey not to 
punish May. She 's an unmanageable little thing, 
and a great charge. She 's been perfectly spoiled 
at her grandmother's while her father was abroad ; 
allowed to stay home from school whenever she 
liked, and to grow up an ignoramus. She does n't 
know what obedience is, and it is best she should 
learn it. Miss Bailey is strict, but she is kind, 
and it 's May's own fault if she has to be shut in. 
But I '11 go over and ask if you may take your 
work and stay with her, if you like. Will that do ? " 

" No, Mamma, it would n't. I have to show- 
May so much about sewing, and it takes time ; and 
we could never finish without my little machine: 
besides " 

"Stevie, what in the world ails you ?" inter- 
rupted his mother. "Are you in pain? — and 
what are you upsetting all those boxes for? " 

" Oh, I was spoiling for the chance to put in a 
word," said Stevie. "There's an idea got hold 
of me, and it 's tearing me all to pieces. Now 
Gracie, look here : all you Ye got to do is to run 
up to your room, and get to work as soon as you 
please. Leave all the rest to me. I '11 have you 
and May fixed in no time." 

" What do you mean ? " asked Gracie, wondering. 

But Stevie was hurriedly poking into the recep- 
tacles in his tool-chest. "I mean," he said — 
" I mean to set up a line of communication be- 
tween the outposts. I 'm going to work a charm 
for the princess in prison (here is n't twine 
enough, either) — Gracie, does Miss Bailey go 
into the kitchen, mornings? Does she keep in the 
back part of the house, doing things? " 

"Yes; why?" 

" Is May's room the one over the porch, with 
the wistaria round it ? " 

"Yes; why?" 

" Stevie ! What are you going to do ? " asked his 
mother. "I can't have any mischief going on, 
you know — any annoyance to Miss Bailey." 

" No, Mamma, indeed," said the lad, feeling in 
one pocket after another. " I would n't do Miss 
Bailey the least harm in the world, and I 'm only 
going to comfort May's little soul and keep her 
from crying her eyes out " 

He emptied his pockets inside out, and began 
selecting some small change from the miscellany 
usual in such depositories. 

"Five, seven, nine," he murmured. "Mamma, 
lend me ten cents on next week's allowance? — Oh, 
please, do ! " 

" Tell me what you want it for?" 

"'Oh, 'never mind the why and wherefore,' 
Mamma. There is n't a minute to spare — and 
1 'm not going to do the least mischief in the 
world, I promise you." 

" 1 'm to be the judge of that, Stevie. You and 
I might not think alike about it. I certainly shall 
not give you the money till I know what you are 
planning to do with it." 

"Well, then; see here," said the boy, and he 
began a description to his mother and sister, illus- 
trating it with various motions and gestures, which 
seemed very amusing to them. 

"But, after all," objected his mother, when he 
had finished, "is it worth while? Perhaps I had 
better try to get May excused this time. It will 
be such a trouble, Stevie ; you wont have it ready 
till noon." 

"Oh, no. Mamma! Don't say a word to Miss 
Bailey!" exclaimed Gracie. "Why, we'll be 
glad May 's shut in, now. This '11 be such fun! " 

" And I '11 have everything ready an hour after 
I begin," urged Stevie. "Oh, thanks," he said, 
taking the change his mother handed to him. 
" Now, Gracie, fly up to your room, and cut out 
your knife-fixings and what d' ye call 'ems. I '11 be 
back in no time." 

And Gracie ran gleefully upstairs, while Stevie 
caught his hat and dashed out into the street. As 
for Mamma, she sat reflecting a moment, and then 
she put on her bonnet, and stepped quietly over to 
Miss Bailey's. 

In a few minutes Stevie came hurrying back to 
his sister's room. He hastened to her window and 
began operations there — boring two gimlet holes, 
one a few inches above the other, and into these 
firmly fastening two pulley-screws. " Now, I 'm 
off — to May's," he said, and was gone. 

Mischievous May had flung herself down on her 
bed, when Miss Bailey had locked her in, and had 
cried, mightily. But this was dull business, and 
did no good. Then she began to cast about for 
something to do to amuse her solitude, and she 
thought she would play baby-house. She was 
busily engaged with her dolls, when suddenly 
Goldilocks and her voung ladv friends tumbled 

T W I N E G R A M S . 


in a promiscuous heap, one over another. May flew to the window, hearing a familiar whistle. There 
stood Stcvie, looking up at her. He checked her by a rapid sign, as she was going to call out eagerly 
in her joy, and began to climb to the roof of the porch. She watched him with wild delight, clapping 
her hands noiselessly, till soon he came close to where she stood, 
lie shook his head gravely, looking at her, and 

" May, May, the runaway ! 
Clot to stay in her room all day! " 

" 'Cause she went to see the squirrels play," addec 
May, laughingly, and in a Ikud whisper. 

"Aren't you sorry?" asked Stevie. "Will you 
ever do so any more ? 

May nodded her curly head many times, 
roguishly. "And I wish I 
had some of 'em here to play 
with this morning," she said. 
"But what are you going to 
do? " she asked, 
wonderingly, see- 
ing Stevie 
bore into 
her window- 

He sighed — 
and made no 

"Tell me," 
she said, as he 
fastened in a 
pulley- screw. 
"What are 
you doing ? " 
"Why, you 
see, it 's so 
hard to make 
a good girl of 

you, we " 

he sighed and 
looked at her 
mournfully ; 
' ' there 's go- 
ing to be a 
cord fastened 
to this." 
"What for?" 
asked May, with intense inter- 
est, as Stevie carefully set the second 
pulley-screw perpendicular to its mate. 

He then drew a ball of twine from his pocket, 
and held it gravely before her. 

May giggled softly. " And what are you pull- 
ing out another cord for? " she asked, as Stevie continued his work. 
" Now do tell me, please." 
>ft> "Yes, I '11 tell you." Passing two ends of the balls over the 

*- pulley-wheels, Stevie firmly knotted them together. "Now," he said, 
" stand here at the window, and don't let the twine slip off the wheels; 
be sure you keep it in the grooves of the pulleys ; when I draw on it, let it run freely, but always 
keep it on the wheels. That 's all you have to do till you hear from me again. It wont be long." 




He let himself down to the ground, and walked 
fast toward his own home, the balls meanwhile 
unwinding themselves in his hands, till, when he 
came opposite his sister's window, only a yard or 
two remained. He whistled his signal, and called 
to her to lower a string, by which he sent them up. 
In a moment more he had joined her. There was 
little left to do. The ends were passed through 
the pulleys, and then both lines were shortened till 
they rose high in the air, floating between the two 
windows. Still they were tautened till they could 
be drawn no tighter. Then they were tied together, 
and the work was done. 

" Hooray ! " cried Stevie. *' Now, let 's send the 
first twinegram across — high and dry. Talk of 
cablegrams ! Who wants a thing after it 's been 
drowned? Where 's your parcel, Gracie? — and 
the note? I want to add a postscript." 

He fastened them to one of the cords, and, draw- 
ing the other toward him, the little roll rapidly 
began its transit and was soon at its destination. 

May could hardly believe her eyes, as she stood 
wondering to see it coming nearer and nearer, till 
it was stopped against one of her pulleys. She un- 
tied it in excited haste, and eagerly read the note : 

"Is n't this as good as being let out? Now, May, we can get the 
things done just as if you were over here. There 's a lot of work all 
fixed for you in the parcel. Make another of your stuffs for me to 
cut out, and send it over. Tie it to one of the cords and draw the 
other one toward you." 

Stevie had added : 

" Dear Madame. Your patronage is respectfully solicited. All 
parcels and dispatches safely delivered. Orders promptly attended 
to. Terms, one cent for each twinegram. Payable on demand. 
Your obedient servants, 

" The Stevens' Twinegraph Co." 

May flew to make up her return parcel and write 
her reply. She fastened them to the twine, and 
hardly had it begun to move when she felt it 
hasten under her fingers, impelled from the oppo- 
site side. Soon it had disappeared. 

There was a good laugh at the other terminus 
when her note was read : 

"It 's like farie storys. It 's the best fun in mi life. I was dread- 
iul lonesum, an cride and cride. Now I don't care a bit. mister 
twinegraph, did yoo think it up yoorself. I think yoor the smartes 
boy I ever noo. I don't no abowt those turms. yoo must exkuze 
mi riting, fur I kant stop to think how to spel it. I wish wurds 
dident hav to be spelt only wun wa. if yoo no wot thay meen wi 
isant wun wa as good as another. I wos so glad I jumped wen 
I herd steevy wissle we sale the oshun bloo. I noo it wos him then. 
Send me anuther note pritty soon." 

Work went bravely on. Parcels and messages 
passed to and fro, and Stevie went down to finish 
his carpenter-work, for he saw Goldilocks would 
want her trunk. 

After a while he appeared at his sister's door. 
" Want something nice ?" he said ; and, behold — 
pleasant sight to a busy little sewing-woman on a 

hot May day — a glass pitcher, with great lumps of 
ice tinkling against it, floating about in lemonade. 

" Oh, is n't it good? " exclaimed Gracie, tasting 
it. " How 1 wish May could have some ! " 

"A bright idea!" shouted Stevie, promptly. 
"Happy thought! May shall have some," and 
he rubbed his hands merrily together. 

"What!" says Gracie. "Lemonade! On the 
twine ? " * 

" Lemonade, on the twine," he replied. " Wait 
a minute and see." He darted out and down 
the stairs, returning shortly with his hands full 
— a dish with large pieces of ice in one, a bowl 
of sugar in the other, and a lemon, with some of 
his father's lined envelopes held under his arm. 
On one of these he wrote : 

" Have some fresh water brought to your room. We 're going to 
send you some iced lemonade." 

Then he filled it with sugar, and, pinning it 
firmly round the twine, sent it over. 

Hardly, in her amazement, had May taken it off, 
when the cord moved again. The next arrival was 
a row of envelopes, containing the lemons, rolled 
soft, and lumps of ice. 

By and by came May's answer : 

"I never laft so in oil mi life: the lemunade is bewtiful: 
thares a pitcher full, an don't yoo beleeve I ges Mis Bailey noes. I 
powndid on my dore fur Soozun to cum. She wos sweping. I told 
her to fech me a picher, an wen she brot it she was lafing. I made 
her wate an hav sum, an i told her not to tel Mis Eailey, and she 
sed she gest tbare wosent much to tel, fur yoor mama an Mis Bailey 
wur standing by the parlor windo a wile ago, an looking out an 
lafing an wispring abowt sumthing. Ant it fun. send me sum more 

The next note was from Stevie : 

" Gracie is n't up from lunch yet. I 'm afraid she 's eating more 
berries and milk than is good for her. When she comes she will 
send you the work; you must puff the basque, and put on a shirred 
fold. Have a Pompadour kilt-pleating, and trim it with lace fichus, 
lake your time ; we shall get through nicely, and I 've finished 
Goldilocks' trunk. I 'm glad the lemonade was good. You see 
I 'm running up a big bill Don't forget the terms." 

Next came a note from May, and one of Stevie's 
envelopes filled with chocolate creams. She wrote : 

" Ime real glad to have sumthing to send yoo, Cappen Bailey gav 
them to me. don't yoo beleeve Ive been to lunch an i ges thay noe. 
wen I went in Mis Bailey was saying, 'now, father, don't ilood to it 
before the child; you musentkowntnuns her' — wotdoos that meen. 
Mis Balee dident say ennything to me abowt it; she kep her lips 
the wa Stevy ses as if she sed prizzum, but her ize lookt as if thay 
was lafing; an sumtimes Cappen Bailey lookt at me and laft; he 's 
fat an shakey all over, but he dident say ennything, an wen he went 
awa he put a big paper of choklit creems bi mi plate, an sed thare 
was too menny fur me to ete all bi miself, and he gest Ide hav to giv 
awa sum an wen he got behind Mis Bailey he kep pointing his thum 
over yoor wa, an laft all over. I ges if Mis Bailey noes she dont care, 
becoz it kepes me out of mischeef, an wen I wos going to pore out 
a lot of the choklits bi her plate, she sed, ' no, mi deer, Ime not 
edicted to sweets,' but her ize lookt as if she wantid to laf tel 
.stevy yes ; weel make the things as he ses, an then tel peepl thats 
the wa thare tinkle wantid it. ask him if I don't pa the turms, if 
He hav to go to jale." 

T W I N E G R A M S . 


Rosalie, Grade's new doll, was worthy to be an 
example, that busy day, to all little girls in dress- 
making time. She had no rest, so to speak. So 
many things had to be fitted and tried on ; and as 
she was the same size with Goldilocks, she had to 
do double duty. But her face kept all its sweet- 
ness through the long ordeal. The smile never 
left her lips ; and she merely opened her large 
blue eyes every time she was lifted, and closed 
them tranquilly again when she was laid down. 
At last all the cutting and fitting and sewing were 
done ; and work was laid aside. 

Stevie brought up a light basket, filled with 
great red and golden raspberries, bordered with 
green leaves. He carefully tied soft paper over 
basket and all, and fastened it to the cord. The 
twine sank downward with its weight, and the 
basket began to swing back and forth Jike a tra- 
peze performer. People at the windows stared. 
People in the street looked up in wonder, and 
stopped to see what that strange thing might be. 
Still it moved on, more steadily, however, as Stevie 
drew the cord more slowly, and at last it safely 
reached May's hand. 

And now came one and another of the chil- 
dren's neighboring school-mates to inquire how 
they, too, could have twinegrams and express 
lines. Captain Bailey looked on. laughing, from 
his easy chair in the porch. 

"Why," he said to a lad, "I expect you'll 
have as much rigging overhead in a week's time, 
among you, as there is in my ship. Ho ! ho ! " 

There was no question about Miss Bailey's 
" noeing" now, — as May would have written it. — 
for when May took down her basket of beautiful 
fruit at dinner, and laid at each plate a saucerful, 
with a smile and a kiss for Miss Bailey, that lady 
returned both affectionately, and said : 

" I think these must be a kind of enchanted 
raspberries, that climb into little girls' windows 
without coming up from the ground. Don't you, 
Father ? " 

And then she inquired of May if she had passed 

,1 pleasant day, adding that, as for herself, she 
did n't know when she had had such an enjoyable 
Saturday, with no wild little runaways to be 
anxious about. 

Gracie was sitting on her father's knee, in the 
library, chatting with him, after the) 1 all had left 
the dining-room. Stevie had gone down street 
only a few minutes before, with a school-mate who 
had called for him. 

When he came back he found Captain Bailey 
and May upon the piazza with his father, mother, 
and sister; and to them he imparted the news 
that many more of the twine arrangements were 
going up in the village. 

" Why, Charlie Morse is rigging one between 
his window and Dick Leslie's, and Harry Barnes 
says Emma wont give him any peace till he has 
put one up for her and Bessie Denison. I 've 
been showing half a dozen fellows how to do it, 
and the clerk at Steel & Cutter's wants to know 
what 's up, with all this demand for twine and 
pulley-screws. And we told him there were three 
or four hundred yards of linen twine up, already, 
and there 'd be several more hundred yards wanted 
pretty soon.'' 

And then May, with the Captain's aid, settled 
her account for the day with the Stevens' Twine- 
graph Company, by handing to Stevie the sum of 
eighteen cents in silver and copper coins. Where- 
upon that young gentleman immediately returned 
them all to her, telling her to present them to Miss 
Bailey, with his compliments, as payment of dam- 
ages to her property. 

I am sorry to say, however, that May never gave 
the money to Miss Bailey, preferring to return 
it to the Captain, who had given it to her. And 
the business of the Stevens' Twinegraph Company, 
as well as of all the other companies, soon after 
came to a disastrous failure on account of the 
powerful opposition which suddenly developed 
among the grown people of the village. 

But Stevie was always proud of his invention, 
even although its success lasted onlv one dav. 

" WHEN my ship comes in from over the sea, 
Such wonderful things it will bring to me ! " 
So he launched his shoe in the water-pail. 
And over the sea his ship set sail. 






By Margaret B. Harvey. 



FROM time imme- 
morial it has been 
considered good luck 
to find a four-leaved 
clover. Some have 
said that the discov- 
erer of one was cer- 
tain to become wealthy 
and wise ; others, that 
the fairies would grant 
him every wish ; and 
others, that the little 
magic leaves could 
show where gold was 
lying buried in the 
earth. And certainly 
there does seem to be something very wonderful in 
the fact that, in a large field containing millions of 
little plants furnished 
with groups of three 
leaflets, there should 
be only one or two of 
the four-leaved vari- 
ety. I do not mean 
that some varieties of 
clover bear leaves all 
in groups of four or 
five, for this is not 
the fact. Perhaps one 
four-leaved clover will 
grow upon a plant that 
has fifty threes, although occasionally several fours 
or fives will be found in a bunch on the same plant. 

If the finding of 
four-leaved clovers is 
a sign of good luck, 
I, truly, am very 
lucky, for I have 
found more than 
anybody I know. 
And I am of the 
opinion that very few 
persons are aware of 
the variety of forms 
in which they are 
sometimes seen. 

Figure No. I shows 
the usual type of a 
As a general thing, three leaves 
are nearly of a size, while the fourth is somewhat 
smaller — though this does not always follow. I 

have seen several like 
Figure No. 2, in which 
the fourth leaflet is borne 
out on a separate stalk. 
Figure No. 3 shows it 
growing on the stem, :\ 
considerable distance be- 
low the other three. Fig- 
ure No. 4 represents it 
very much smaller than 
they; Figure No. 5, 
smaller still, and grow- 
ing directly upon one of 
the larger ; Figure No. 
6, as set upon a distinct 
stem above the main 

leaves ; while Figure No. 7 depicts a four-leaved 
clover with two leaflets grown into one. 

The clovers 
shown at Fig- 
ures Nos. 8 and 
9 are quite un- 
common. The 
former specimen 
has four leaflets, 
one rolled in- 
ward, and borne 
on an upright 
stem, at the base 
of which is a lit- 
tle bract. The 
leaves of ordinary size ; a fourth, 

and a fifth, roll- 


l '// 

5i, I /- 

- Ik 


■ • ,- 


four-leaved clover. 

latter has three 
smaller and turned upward 
ed inward, 
and spring- 
ing upon a . .■.<!;> '- M, 
tiny stalk 
from the un- 
der side of 
the fourth. 
clovers, like 
Figure No. 
10, occur al- 
most as often 
as four. Fre- 
quently fours 

and fives are found growing together. Some say 
that you must not pick a five-leaved clover — it 
will neutralize all the good luck brought by a four. 
Others assert the direct contrary, and say that it is 




ff K 

very much more potent 
for good than the four- 
leaved stalk. Accord- 
ing to one legend, only 
the holder of a five- 
leaved clover can be ad- 
mitted to the fairy-court. 
Several pretty stories de- 
scribe the fortunate one 
as standing out on the 
grass at midnight, hold- 
ing up the magic wand, and presently finding 
himself wafted away on invisible wings to Elf-land. 

Once I found a seven-leaved 
clover, like Figure No. 1 1 . 
The leaflets were arranged 
in two rows, three growing 
upon four. I have heard of 
fifteen-leaved and seventcen- 
leaved clovers, — and seeing 
as many as I do of the won- 
derful freaks of nature, 1 do 
not doubt that there are such 

Aside from the wide-spread 
interest attaching to the duplication of the leaflet, 
clovers seem special favorites of poets and ro- 
mancers. It is said that, when St. Patrick was 
preaching to the uncon- 
verted Irish, some of them 
ridiculed the idea of the 
Trinity. For answer, he 
caught up a trefoil from 
the sod, and told them that 
here was a leaf exemplify- 
ing three in one. Hence, 
the three-leaved clover, or 
shamrock, was adopted as 
the national emblem of 
Ireland. Some say that the 
common wood-sorrel (Oxalis acetosella) shares 
with the white clover the credit of being the true 
shamrock. One authority says that this oxalis is a 
native of Ireland, while the clover is of compara- 
tively recent introduction. In a song by the Irish 
poet, Thomas Moore, the shamrock — whether 
oxalis or clover he does not say — is mentioned 
as "Old Erin's native shamrock." 


The scientific name of clover is Trifolium, or 
" three-leaved." The most familiar varieties are 
the pink, or field-clover, noticeable for its full, 
rich heads and large, dark green leaves, with a 
light green crescent in the center of nearly every 
leaflet ; the white, or 
shamrock, with its 
smaller, white heads, 
and plain, green 
leaves ; the rabbit- 
foot, with its long- 
haired, silky heads 
and narrow, folded 
leaves ; and the 
larger and smaller 
yellow clovers, each 
with bright, golden 
heads and small, 
dark leaves. I can 
not say whether the 
leaflets of any of 
these latter are ever grouped in tours or fives or 
not — but these varieties, so far as I know, are to be 
found mostly among the red and the white clovers. 

As I said at first, the discovery of a four-leaved 
clover was regarded, 
even centuries ago, as e 

an omen of good luck. 
But in a poem by 
Robert Herrick, who 
wrote a short time 
after Shakespeare, is a 
mention of "lucky four- 
leaved grasse " ; and, 
in another very old 
volume, it is soberly 
stated that, "if a man 
walking in the fields 
finds any four-leaved 
grass, he shall, in a 
small while after, rind 
some good thing." Several mentions to the same 
effect are made in the writings of other poets. 

I hope you will have many a hunt for magic 
clovers in the sweet-smelling summer fields; for I 
find, in that charming occupation, "luck" suffi- 
cient, — even when no "lucky four-leaved grasse " 
rewards my search. 

VOL. IX.— 40. 





By Ruth Hall. 


DOWN in the meadow-land, far and fair, 
I met, this morning, sweet Silverhair. 

" What do you here?" I asked the small rover. 

" Oh, I am seeking a four-leaved clover!" 


"What will that do for you, little one?" 
" Give me all good things under the sun, — 
Not me, only, but Mother, moreover: 
That 's why I look for a four-leaved clover ! " 


" Would not your service, these morning hours. 
Do her more good than a field of flowers ? " 
Ah, she but murmured over and over : 

"No, I must find her a four-leaved clover!" 


All about us the larks were singing, 
Roses their sweet warm breath were flinging: 
Heedless of duty, and pleasure, moreover, 
Silverhair looked for a four-leaved clover. 


Ah, older seekers, the broad land over, 

Are looking, to-day, for a four-leaved clover ! 




here was, an old rrofes-sor who was wondrous wise £ 
i*^j&¥ti-r- And noted, for his recipe to make the restless sleeU— 

If- ■ $--_ " 

^V s ^|?-'?ii.ack night , when in your little bed", said he , ' 

hum o'er hr der 

I *h% 

JJo,re,ini,fe.,solJa ) si,dQ > -until ycm*-/" W^^m^ 

— - >iH^mm. 

knoMk/ no more , 

^fe Tvra st 3 stouncl lTl Q itl a. xLy ^ >n ff 
|hu.r q |,<?' — " 
-Ariel. ir ; you II persevere) you II f'i 

||3mel Uio-i sleep is S>ur>e to-come J 

.Tor, bless me, there issomethmcj ( 





Many of our readers, doubtless, remember a very 
entertaining paper by Mr. Horace E. Scudder, printed 
in St. Nicholas for January, 1877. It was entitled 
"Great Grandfather's Books and Pictures," and was 
illustrated with pages taken from the New England 
Primer and Webster's Spelling-book. All who read 
the article, we are sure, must have enjoyed the absurd 
little pictures and Mr. Scudder's interesting account of 
the school literature of those days. 

Now we propose to copy, word for word, a little book 
printed in Newark many years ago. It bears the 
romantic title of "Jane and Eliza," and has a picture 
on every page. Doubtless, it was considered quite a 
delightful little work by many a girl and boy of that day. 

The art of engraving on wood has advanced very 
rapidly of late, but in the days of our grandparents and 
great-grandparents it seems to have not been considered 
worthy of attention. Certainly, in those times, the 
illustrations of cheap books for little folk were ex- 
tremely crude, as you will see by the specimens shown 
on this page and the two that follow. 

We now leave you to enjoy the thrilling story, witli 
all its sore temptations, punishments, and repentances ; 
and you surely will hope, with the distinguished author 
of " fane and Eliza," that 

Ever since, as he has heard, 
Eliza faithful kept her word. 

Jane and Eliza. 

Come, children, come, the mother said, 

Let 's wash your face and comb your head. 

For as it is the first of May, 

You both must go to school to-day. 

Jane and Eliza, 'though yet small, 

Obedient to their mother's call, 

Were wash'd and dress'd all in a trice 

From head to foot, in clothes so nice, 

Now hand in hand together walk 
Of school and Madam sprightly talk : 

New frocks, new' gloves and aprons too, 
New shoes, new capes and bonnets blue. 
And as the school would last 'til night, 
That they might stay their appetite ; 
Two little baskets were well stor'd 
With what the pantry could afford. 
Fresh bread and butter and smok'd beef. 
But apple-pie it was the chief. 
They on their arms their baskets hung, 
Then round their mother's neck they clung; 
Each kiss'd good bye. nor sullen pout 
Mark'd either face as they set out. 

And scarce two prettier girls are seen, 
Among the whole who trip the green. 

But as the}' wend their way along 
Some Butterflies a puddle throng, 




These caught Eliza's wand'ring eyes, 
"Oh.! sister, see those Butterflies; 

" Let 's catch them," eagerly she cried. 
"No! sister, no," Jane stern replied, 

"Let 's go to school as good girls should, 
"Nor stop to play along the road." 
"O yes I will! Sweet Butterflies!" 
" I '11 go and leave you," Jane replies. 

" Go ! " said Eliza in a pet, 
And on the grass her basket set, 
Then slyly crept to seize her prize, 
But as she crept she saw them rise 
And fly a little further on, 
And there again they settle down. 
To catch them she seem'd fully bent, 
And in pursuit again she went, 
And that she might the more command, 
She took her bonnet in her hand, 
And when within her reach she thought, 
Her bonnet quickly o'er them brought, 
But soon to her surprise she found, 
Her bonnet only caught the ground. 
The Butterflies again took flight. 
And very soon were out of sight. 
Nor was it all she thus was foiled, 
Her bonnet with the mud was soiled. 
For Jane she called in sad affright, 
But Jane alas ! was out of sight. 
With saddened heart her steps she traced 
To where her basket she had placed : 
When lo ! a hog with muddy snout, 
Had turned her basket inside out ; 
Her bread and butter, beef and pie, 
All scattered on the ground did lie. 
Jane ! O ! sister Jane ! she cried — 
Jane had beyond her hearing hied. 
In spite of all could do or say, 
The hog, her dinner bore away. 
Sobbing and crying now she stood 
When trav'ling along the road, 
A gentleman saw her distress 
And ask'd her what the matter was ? 
She told as plain as she could tell, 
The mishaps on her way befel. 
Ah ! naughty girl ! the good man said, 
This had not happ'd had you not play'd 
The truant, like a little fool, 
Instead of going straight to school. 
But as it is your first offence, 
1 hope yon '11 learn a lesson hence. 
Eliza owned she had done wrong 
In staying from her school so long, 
And freely promised o'er and o'er 
That she would never do so more. 
" Here," then said he, " this sixpence take, 
"And buy yourself some ginger cake, 
" At old Dame Goodie's on the green, 
"Which from your school house door is seen. 
Eliza, thankful, curtsied low, 
Whilst he returned it with a bow ; 
She onward skipp'd with new delight, 
And he soon gallop'd out of sight. 
But as the school house now she viewed, 
The anguish of her heart renewed. 
An angry Madam fancied there, 



And little school-mates' scornful sneer. 
At length she gain'd the school house door, 
Where many a truant stood before ; 
Trembling she stood nor ventured in, 
So great she thought her crime had been. 
Her little heart went pitty-pat, 
Thinking of this and now of that, 
'Till Madam came to chide her stay, 
And heard what happen'd on the way. 

" You see, my child," the good dame said, 
Eliza trembling with dread, 

" How naughty children are repaid, 

' " Who have their mother disobey'd ; 

" But as you seem repentant now, 

" I will your punishment forego." 
So saying, she with tender look. 
Seated Eliza at her book. 
Nor long she sat ; for very soon 
The school was out, for it was noon ; 
And all in playful sports are seen 
Among the trees upon the green. 
Eliza now old Goodie's sought. 
And with her sixpence cookies bought, 
Round hearts, long cakes and cookaroos, 
And many others which she chose. 
Then seated at her sister's side, 
She freely did her cakes divide. 
Some she exchang'd with a little Miss 
For apple-pie, brown bread and cheese. 
Thus did the cakes her sixpence cost 
Supply the dinner which she'd lost. 
Amidst the rambles on the green 
Eliza now is foremost seen. 
'Till old Good Dame does loudly call 
To school ! to school ! when one and all 
With one accord are quickly seen 
To leave their sports and quit the green. 
Now all are seated at their book. 
Nor does the one at t' other look, 
Nor can you hear a whisp'ring sound, 
Such perfect stillness reigns around. 
They conn'd their lessons o'er and o'er. 
Until the Village clock struck four : 
When all again from school are free, 
And hie them home right merrily. 
Jane, as she entered, 'gan to tell 
Her mother, what mishaps befel 
Eliza on her way to school. 
Eliza look'd like little fool, 
Nor could she now from tears refrain, 
To hear her faults rehearsed by Jane. 

She sobb'd as if her heart would break: 
Her mother now did pity take, 
And kindly said "come, my dear child, 
Though you have thus your bonnet spoil'd 

And truant 'long the road have play'd, 
Dry up your tears, be not afraid : 
Your first offence 1 '11 overlook. 
If you '11 hereafter learn your book, 
And always mind what I shall say, 
And ne'er again the truant play, 
Nor let your little wand'ring eyes 
Be gazing after Butterflies." 
I will, dear mother, as I live, 
If you will only now forgive." 

Her mother clasp'd her to her breast, 
And on her lips sweet kisses press'd : 
And ever since, as 1 have heard. 
Eliza faithful kept her word. 





By Ernest Ingersoll. 

ARDLY five years ago 
I knew ablue-eyed, 
brown-haired, and 
peach-cheeked lit- 
tle girl, just now- 
beginning to read 
in St. Nicholas, 
whom her father 
used to call his 
"harbor-seal." If 
you had ever seen her 
lying face down in the 
cradle, — her favorite posi- 
tion, — holding up her 
round, fuzzy little head, 
you would have understood 
at once why he called her 
so ; for that is precisely the way a seal looks, 
when he is resting on a rock or a piece of ice. 

Scores of years back, before the settlement of 
North America by Europeans, seals were wont 
to come to its shores even as far southward as 
the Carolinas, and were common visitors from 
New Jersey northward. Robin's Reef, in New 
York Bay, passed by all the Coney Island steam- 
boats, gets its name from the Dutch word robin or 
robyn — "seal," because those animals used to 
resort there in great numbers. To-day they are 
uncommon even along the coast of Maine, scarcely 
abundant in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and are 
slowly being driven inside the arctic circle. 

Now, this disappearance of the seals from our 
own coast has been brought about by incessant 
persecution, and it seems to me very unfortunate. 
How much it would add to the pleasure of a 
voyage down the bay, or a ramble along the 
weedy and wave-polished beach, if we could see, 
here and there, trim, brown animals creep up 
from the water on some projecting rock, and gaze 
at us with no fear in their mild eyes, while 
shaking the drops of water from their coats ! But 
sadly for our amusement, and for the seals them- 
selves, their bodies have a value in the market — 
and great fleets every year are fitted out to engage 
in this fishery. 

The word "fishery" ought to imply a "fish" to 
be caught ; but the term has become perverted : 
for instance, we speak of whale, sponge, coral, crab, 
and oyster, or clam fisheries, yet none of these 
animals is in the least a fish. Neither is the seal, 
although it lives in the water, swims and dives. 

It is, indeed, nothing but a warm-blooded, fur- 
coated mammal, with all the internal organs and 
outside structure of a quadruped. 

" What ! " you exclaim, " ' all the outside struct- 
ure ' of an otter, for example ? " 

Yes, but not the same appearance. Let me 
explain to you how this is : If we study the outlines 
of the two heads, and the pictures of the two skulls 
— the first, those of the common harbor-seal, and 
the second those of the otter, — we shall see at once 
how the bones, and the shape and arrangement of 
the teeth in one, resemble those in the other. And 
if we had also a picture of the skull of a cod-fish, 
we should see how different from it are the skulls 
of the otter and seal. 

Now look at the limbs. I have heard of a boy 
who defined a quadruped as an animal having a 
leg at each corner. Perhaps that would fit the 
otter, but you think that, certainly, it would not 
describe the seal, "which has n't legs at all," you 
say, " but fins or ' flippers.' " 

If I had the time, I could prove to you that 
the difference between the fin of a fish and the 
bone-leg of an otter or of a dog, or your own arm, 
is not so very great ; and it would be easy to show 
how nearly alike the flipper of the seal and fore 
leg of a land mammal really are. On examining 
diagrams of the bones in a seal's flipper and an 
otter's fore leg, you will find that you can match 
every bone of the one by a similar bone of the 
other. The shapes of the bones, to be sure, are 
altered to suit the varied uses of swimming in the 
water and walking on the land; but all the parts 
of the arm and hand (or fore foot) of the otter, or 
any other mammal, are seen also in the flipper of 
our subject — only there they are shortened, thick- 
ened, and covered with a membrane which con- 
verts them into a paddle instead of a paw. 

The same comparison will hold good for the 
hind feet of the otter and the hind flippers or 
"tail" (which is not a tail) of the seal; and it is 
equally true of the walrus and of the whale, por- 
poise, grampus, blackfish, and other cetacea. 

Of course, being mammals, these animals must 
breathe air. You could drown any of them by 
forcing it to remain under the water too long. 
Whales can stay down an hour or more, if neces- 
sary, and seals can hold their breath for fifteen or 
twenty minutes, though they do not like to be 
under as long as that. Of course, it is necessary 
for seals, therefore, in the arctic seas, where mainly 




is their home, to be able to reach the air, even in 
spite of the sheet of thick ice which for half the year 
covers the whole ocean. But in large bodies of 
ice there always are some holes, no matter how 
cold the weather may be ; and these holes afford 
the seals of that region an opportunity to come to 
the surface to breathe. There are some species, 
however, that keep round, smooth-edged air-holes 
open for themselves by continually breaking away 
the young ice as fast as it is formed ; these holes 
are never very large at the surface — sometimes 
only big enough to let one animal poke his nose up 
through ; they arc much like chimneys, indeed, for 
the ice may sometimes be a hundred feet thick. 

Before I go further, let me say that the 
word " seal " applies to several families of 
Pinnipeds, only one of which concerns us 
at present. This is the Phocidac, or family 
of earless seals, of which the common har- 
bor-seal, the ringed seal, the harp, or Green- 
land seal, and the bearded, or hooded seals, 
are chiefly to be remembered. Concerning 
the gigantic sea-elephant of the antarctic 
pole, the huge sea-lions of the Pacific, and 
the various "fur" seals, we have no occa- 
sion to speak. All our subjects inhabit the 
arctic zone, and principally the coasts of 
Greenland and Newfoundland, — washed by 
the North Atlantic. 

While the breathing-holes in the ice afford 
the seals their only possibilities of life, they 
often prove to be death-traps, since many 
foes lie in wait near them. 

The enemies of seals, other than man, are 
not a few, both on land and in the water. 
The polar bear, finding their holes, watches 
as quietly and vigilantly as a cat for a mouse, 
and leaps upon them as the)' rise to breathe, 
or even chases them into the sea, and so capt- 
ures a great many. The arctic wolves and 
foxes, the raven, and probably also the great 
snowy owl, attack the young before they are 
able to defend themselves or escape. These 
enemies arc so active that the heavy and 
awkward parents have hard work to defend 
their babies. The full-grown seals, as well 
as the young, are seized in the water by 
sharks and sword-fish, and also bv killer- 
whales, which, though of small size, are 
able to murder the monstrous right whale 
by biting out his tongue. 

Travelers say that when a sword-fish sees a seal 
upon a floating " pan," or cake of ice, he will get 
on one side and tip the pan down to such an angle 
that the seal must slip off, and then will devour 
it. So great is a seal's terror of these water-foes 
that, should a man be on the pan when sword- 

fish and sharks are after him, the seal will run 
between his feet for protection. Many seals are 
killed, too, by fighting among themselves, and by 
the fierce storms of the frozen zone. 

The most ingenious and dreaded enemies of the 
seal, however (leaving out of sight for the pres- 
ent the white men), arc the Eskimos. To them 
seals are of the utmost importance, and we may- 
say that in many parts of the arctic world men 
could not live without these animals. The Eski- 
mos' methods of hunting" this game, and the hun- 
dred ways in which they utilize its body, will be 
interesting matters to look into. 

The harbor-seal [see page 627] is, perhaps, the 


least serviceable of seals, since he is not common 
very far north of Labrador ; but his flesh is consid- 
ered the best, and on the Pacific coast the Indians 
take whole herds at once, by stealing upon them 
when they are basking on the beach or in shallow 
bays, and drawing a seine around them. The hides 





of the old ones are good only for tents, but those 
of the young are highly prized ; and no present is 
more acceptable to a Greenland damsel than the 
prettily mottled skin of a kassigiak (as she would 
call it), out of which she will make the wide, warm 
trousers that serve her in the place of petticoat. 

Another seal, of which the Greenlanders do not 
get many, — the bearded seal, — is very large, and is 
especially prized on account of the thickness of its 
skin. Out of it they make not only the slender- 
pointed canoe-like boats, called " kayaks," in which 
they chase this and other wandering species, but 
also the stout lines to which their harpoons are at- 
tached. It makes durable soles for their boots, too, 
and strong harnesses for the dogs, besides which the 

in order to tell you something of the babyhood of 
the Greenland seal. 

Of the different sorts of seals I have mentioned, 
all but two are migratory — that is to say, the 
whole body of them move from north to south 
each autumn, and back from south to north each 
spring. Upon this important fact the great fleets 
of fishermen, of which I shall give an account 
presently, depend for their success. The annual 
southward journey of the restless harp-seal fur- 
nishes a vivid picture of these great migrations 
which are so prominent a feature of polar history. 
Keeping just ahead of the "making" of the ice, 
or final freezing up of the fiords and bays, at the 
approach of winter they leave Greenland, and begin 

flesh is sweet. It is one of the most easily killed of their passage southward along the coast of Labra- 

all seals, because it is not watchful. The harp-seal 
is also readily killed along the edges of the ice-floes, 
by the kayaker, but he values it little, excepting to 
eat; the hooded seal or" square- flipper," on the con- 
trary, shows fight, taxing the courage and skill of 
the bravest of those hardy natives to overcome its 
tierce resistance and avoid its terrible bite. 

The one seal useful above all others to them, 
and eagerly pursued, is their favorite netsick, one 
of the smaller species. It is the one called in our 
books the ringed seal, or floe-rat.* It is confined to 
the polar seas, rarely wandering south of Labrador, 
but it belongs also to the arctic shores of Europe, 
Asia, and Alaska, so that not only the Eskimos 
proper, but many arctic Indian tribes, regularly 
hunt it. 

Although it is hunted throughout the year, the 
most profitable time for killing the netsick is in 
April, when each mother seal is accompanied by a 
young one. Here, perhaps, I may digress a little 

dor, freely entering all the gulfs and bays. They 
appear first in small detachments of half a dozen 
to a score or more of individuals ; these are soon 
followed by larger companies, until in a few days 
they form one continuous procession, filling the 
sea as far as the eye can reach. Floating with the 
Arctic current, their progress is extremely rapid, 
and in but one short week the whole multitude 
has passed. Arriving at the Straits of Belleisle, 
some enter the gulf, but the great body move on- 
ward along the eastern coast of Newfoundland, 
and thence outward to the Grand Banks, where 
they arrive about Christmas. Here they rest for 
a month, and then the)' turn northward, slowly 
struggling against the strong current that aided 
them so much in their southward journey, until 
they reach the great ice-fields stretching from the 
Labrador shore far eastward — a broad continent 
of ice. 

During the first half of March, on these great 

A field of floating ice, in the arctic phrase, is a "floe." so long as it remains a firm sheet; when it breaks 
up it becomes a "pack," or "pack-ice." 

I \ 111 K NO [('[' II AT LAN T I < . 


floating fields of ice, are born thousands of baby 
seals — only one in each family, to be sure, but 
with plenty of play-fellows close by — all in soft 
woolly dress, white, or white with a beautiful golden 
luster. The Newfoundlanders call them "while- 
coats." In a few weeks, however, they lose this 
soft covering, and a gray, coarse fur takes its place. 
In this uniform they bear the name of "ragged- 
jackets''; and it is not until two or three years 
later that the full colors of the adult are gained, 
with the black crescentic or harp-like marks on 
the back which give them the name of " harps." 
The squealing and barking at one of these im- 

makes a mistake nor feeds any bleating baby 
until she has found her own. If ice happens to 
pack around them, so that they can not open holes, 
nor get into the water, the whole army will labori- 
ously travel by floundering leaps to the edge of 
the field; and they show an astonishing sagacity 
in discerning the proper direction. It is supposed 
that they can smell the water at a long distance. 

Sometimes great storms come, breaking the ice- 
floes in pieces and jamming the fragments against 
one another, or upon rocky headlands, with tre- 
mendous force. Besides the full-grown seals that 
perish in such gales, thousands of the weak babies 


mense nurseries can be heard for a very long dis- 
tance. When the babies are very young, the 
mothers leave them on the ice and go off in search 
of food, coming back frequently to look after the 
little ones ; and although there are thousands of 
the small, white, squealing creatures, which to you 
and me would seem to be precisely alike, and all 
are moving about more or less, the mother never 

are crushed to death or drowned, notwithstanding 
the dauntless courage of their mothers, in trying 
to get their young out of danger and upon the 
firm ice. And it is touching to watch a mother- 
seal struggling to get her baby to a safe place, 
" either by trying to swim with it between her fore 
flippers, or by driving it before her and tossing it 
forward with her nose." The destruction caused 




by such gales is far less when they happen after 
the youngsters have learned to swim. 

Does it surprise you that seals, which arc con- 
stantly in the water, have to learn to swim ? Well, 
it might stagger the phocicte to be told that men 
have to be taught to walk. The fact is, a baby seal 
is afraid of the water ; and if some accident, or his 
mother's shoulder, pushes him into the surf when 
he is ten or a dozen days old, he screams with 
fright and scrambles out as fast as he can. The 
next day he tries it again, but finds himself very 
awkward and soon tired ; the third day he does 
better, and before long he can dive and leap, turn 
somersaults (if he is a bearded seal), and vanish 
under the ice, literally " like a blue streak," the 
instant danger threatens. But he had to learn 
how, to begin with, like any other mammal. 

It is when the seals are busy in caring for their 
helpless babies and giving the better-grown young- 
sters their early lessons, that the Eskimo hunters 
seek most diligently to kill them. This is not 
merely for the pleasure of it, — not that at all, per- 
haps, — but because their flesh and skins are im- 
peratively needed. Those pursued by the Eski- 
mos, however, are not the species that make the 
great southward migrations which I have just 
described, but the ringed seals (Plwca fwtida) 
which remain on the far arctic coasts all the year 
round. Upon this animal the Eskimos place 
almost their entire dependence for food, fuel, light, 
and clothing. Its capture is therefore exceedingly 
important to every family. 

At the end of winter each of the female seals 
creeps up through the breathing-hole (which is 
named alluk) ; and under the deep snow overlying 
all the ice-field she digs a cave, eight or ten feet 
long and three to five feet wide. At one end of the 
excavation is the breathing-hole, affording a ready 
means of retreat in case of danger. In this cave 
the young seal is born, and though protected from 
the sight of its enemies, here it is often captured. 

About the first of April the Eskimo hunter 
leaves his winter encampment, taking his family 
and a few bits of furniture on his dog-sledge, and 
goes to some locality where he expects to find seals 
abound. Arrived there, he cuts out square blocks 
of hard snow, piles them up into a round hut with 
a domed roof, clearing away the snow from the 
inside, down to the hard ground or ice-surface. 
Over this hut he throws water, which, in freezing, 
cements all the blocks together ; and then he has 
a good tight house — as warm as though made of 
stone, as soon as he has built his fire. This done, 
he and his family are as comfortable as if they 
were at their winter home, and if his hunting is 
successful, he is contented and happy. 

The old-fashioned native manner of hunting — 

some of the Eskimos now have guns, and this 
spoils the interest — called for much skill and 
patience. In it, each hunter has a trained dog 
which runs on ahead, but is held by a strap around 
his neck from going too fast and far. The dog 
scents the seal lying in its excavation under the 
snow (the level surface of which of course gives 
no sign of the cave), and barks ; whereupon the 
hunter, who is close behind, hastens forward, and 
by a vigorous jump breaks down the cover before 
the young seal can escape. If he succeeds in cut- 
ting off its retreat, it is an easy prey, for he simply 
knocks it on the head ; otherwise he must use his 
seal-hook very quickly or his game is gone. 

" It sometimes happens," says Mr. L. Kumlien, 
"that the hunter is unfortunate enough to jump 
the snow down directly over the hole, when he gets 
a pretty thorough wetting. The women often 
take part in this kind of sealing, and become quite 
expert. The children begin when they are four 
or five years old : the teeth and flippers of the 
first catch are saved as a trophy, and are worn 
about the little fellow's neck ; this they think will 
give him good luck when he begins the next year. 

" As the season advances and the young begin to 
shed their coats, the roof of their igloo or cave is 
often or perhaps always broken down, and the 
mother and young can be seen on sunny days 
basking in the warm sunshine beside their atluk. 
The mother will take to the water when the hunter 
has approached within gunshot, and will leave the 
young one to shift for itself, which generally ends 
in its staring leisurely at the hunter until suddenly 
it finds a hook in its side. A stout seal-skin line is 
then made fast to its hind flipper and it is let into 
the atluk. It of course makes desperate efforts to 
free itself, and is very apt to attract the attention 
of the mother if she is anywhere in the vicinity. 
The Eskimo carefullx watches the movements of 
the young one, and, as soon as the mother is 
observed, begins to haul in on the line; the old one 
follows nearer and nearer to the surface, until, at 
last, she crosses the hole at the proper depth, when 
the deadly harpoon is planted in her body and she 
is quickly drawn out. If, however, the mother 
has seen the hunter approaching the atluk, she 
will not show herself." 

If you were to examine the weapons by which 
the Eskimos manage to capture these and other 
seals, — specimens of them are in the National 
Museum at Washington, — you would be aston- 
ished at their roughness. It is very difficult, espe- 
cially for the northern bands, to get any wood, 
excepting sticks that are washed ashore, and a 
piece long enough to make a good spear-handle is 
extremely rare. In most cases, therefore, they are 
obliged to splice two or three short pieces together, 

1 N T 11 K No R.T II AT LA NT I C. 


and this they can only do by slanting both ends, 
and binding the pieces at their juncture with 
strings of raw-hide or strips of intestine. The 
striking end of the spear usually consists of a long 
and pretty straight piece of bone, such as can be got 
from a whale's or walrus's skeleton, and this is 
tipped with a sharp point of bone, or flint, or 
(nowadays generally) of iron. Sometimes this tip 
is movable, so that when it penetrates the prey it 
will come off and only be held by the line, while 
the handle floats, secured by a loop. Other spears 
have each a skin buoy attached, this making it 

up and the Eskimos can go out in their kayaks, 
the crankiest of primitive craft, on the ugliest of 
voyages ; but this is an adventure they never shirk, 
and one that their acquaintance with Europeans 
has not changed at all. The kayak is eighteen 
or twenty feet long, but is so light that it can be 
carried by the one man who forms the crew. It 
is all decked over, excepting a little round hole 
through which the young Eskimo squeezes his 
legs and sits down. Then he puts on a tight oil- 
skin coat over his garments, and ties it down to 
the deck all around him. so that no water can pour 


more difficult for the poor animal to swim away, and 
also helping to float the weapon if the hunter misses 
his aim. The stout lines are made of seal-hide, or 
sometimes of braided spruce roots. The "hooks" 
mentioned above have wooden or bone shafts, to 
the end of which a curved and sharpened hook of 
bone is firmly bound. Besides, there are other rough 
weapons, and a kind of net, in all of which the seal's 
hide and bones contribute to his tribe's destruction, 
and which are marvels of savage ingenuity. 

Many of them are used later when the ice breaks 


[see page 626.] 

in " 'tween decks." But, on the other hand, he 
must untie the knots before he can get out : so if 
by chance he capsizes, he must either be content 
to navigate head down and keel up, or else must 
right himself by a sort of somersault, which shall 
bring him up on the opposite side — and this he 
often actually does. 

When the kayaker catches sight of a seal, he ad- 
vances within about twenty-five feet of it, and hurls 
his harpoon " by means of a piece of wood adapted 
to support the harpoon while he takes aim." This 




is called a throwing-stick, and curiously enough the 
Australasians had a similar contrivance for hurling 
their javelins. As he throws, the kayaker loosens 
the bladder and tosses it off. The animal struck 
dives, carrying away the coiled-up line with great 
speed ; if in this moment the line happens to 
become entangled, the canoe is almost certain 
to be capsized and dragged away with no chance 
of rising again, and many an Eskimo has lost 
his life through a similar mischance. But if the 
attack has been successful, the bladder moving on 
the surface of the water indicates the track of 
the frantic animal beneath it, and the hunter fol- 

Late in the summer, when the young seals have 
grown able to take care of themselves, and the 
herds are away enjoying the open sea and getting 
fat on the abundant food they find at that sea- 
son, the Eskimo has to pursue them with great 
caution, crawling over the ice face downward, and 
imitating their awkward, tumbling play until near 
enough to hurl his spear ; or he must get into his 
frail kayak and chase the herds far up glacial fiords 
and away across the rough and chilling sea, where 
they are living on the floating ice. 

The food of seals is various, but consists chiefly 
of fish, though the young ones, when companies 


lows with the large lance, which, when the seal 
re-appears, he throws like the harpoon. This he 
does again and again, the lance always disengaging 
itself, until the poor seal becomes so weak that it 
can be overtaken, and killed by a lunge of the knife. 
The flesh of the nctsick serves for food all 
through the summer, and is "cached," or concealed, 
in the snow, or dried for winter use. From the 
skins of the old seals the arctic natives make their 
summer clothing, while under-garments are fash- 
ioned from those of the young netsick. Children 
often have entire suits of the white skins of the baby 
seals in their first fuzzy coat. With the flesh and 
skins of the netsick, too, the Eskimo travels south- 
ward to the Danish settlements, and trades for 
such civilized articles as he is able to buy. 

of them first begin to hunt in the shallow water 
near shore, seem to like crabs better than anything 
else : and to several species of shrimps, abounding 
in northern seas, the observant sailors have given 
the name ''seals' food." Shell-fish of various 
sorts, too, are cracked in their strong jaws and 
devoured — especially the arctic mussels. They 
swallow many pebble-stones also, not for food, but, 
it is supposed, in order to aid digestion. 

Now I must force myself to leave this hasty 
sketch of the natural history of these most interest- 
ing and serviceable animals, regretting that I can 
not dwell longer upon many of its features, and 
turn to the exciting incidents of the chase con- 


6 3 . 

ducted against them every spring by ships and crews larger in point of numbers than any that go out 
from America and Europe. In this case, however, now, consisted wholly of sailing vessels, many of 
I am obliged to sav that I must not go greatly which were of small size, notwithstanding the long 


into details, since they would present a horrible 
picture of blood and cruel warfare against one of 
the most innocent and child- like creatures that 
ever breathed. But I suppose that, much as we 
might wish it, it will be impossible always to keep 
out of our sight objects and acts that make us 
shudder ; that is, if we are to know what is actually 
going on in the world. 

The phocine seals of the Atlantic are not hunted 
for their fur, as are their Alaskan cousins, but 
chiefly for their oil, and secondarily for their skins. 
It is an industry which profitably employs hun- 
dreds of ships and thousands of seamen, and it 
receives the name of "sealing." The principal 
sealing-grounds are Newfoundland, Labrador, and 
the islands which lie between, but especially the 
ice-floes off the coast of Western Greenland, the 
Spitzbergen and Jan Mayen seas ; Nova Zembla, 
the White Sea, and the Caspian Sea. Of these the 
most important is that first-named, where, as long 
ago as half a century, three hundred and seventy- 
five vessels assembled annually, and, twenty-five 
years ago, five hundred thousand seals were taken 
in a single season. These earlv fleets, which were 

and tempestuous voyages they had to endure. The 
most of them hailed from Newfoundland. All 
these were concerned in " ice-hunting," which is 
the most extensive and profitable, though by far 
the most dangerous, of all the methods in vogue 
for capturing seals. 

You will remember that at the end of winter 
enormous herds, chiefly of the harp-seals, come 
down and congregate upon the floating fields of 
ice eastward of Newfoundland, where the young 
are born in March. These are the place and sea- 
son of the largest fishery, but the locality is never 
fixed nor certain ; the fields, approached simulta- 
neously by sailing fleets and steamers from New- 
foundland, Nova Scotia, Scotland, England. France, 
Germany; and Norway, must be sought for even- 
year as though for the first time. This is in the 
icy, tempestuous North Atlantic, at the most 
stormy period of the year. Dreadful gales may 
drive the ships anywhere but where they seek to 
go, bergs may be hurled against them, the ice 
may jam them between its ponderous edges and 
crush the doubly braced hulls into splinters, or 
cleanly cut away parts of the bottom, and leave the 





vessels to sink and the men to save themselves as 
best they may upon broken and drifting ice. 
Strange to say, steam-ships are more liable to 
harm from the ice than sailing ships, which will 

path. Then the ship dashes into it as far as its 
power can force it. When it sticks, the crew leap 
overboard, chop and break the field into cakes 
which are shoved under the floe or hauled out on 
top: or, if it is too thick to be broken, saws are 
brought out, and a canal is slowly made for the 
ship's progress. This is a time of great desire 
for haste, and you may well believe that every man 
works with all his might. 

"Sometimes," writes an eye-witness, "a crowd 
of men, clinging around the ship's bows, and hold- 
ing on to the bights of rope . . . would jump and 
dance on the ice, bending and breaking it with 
their weight and dragging her on over it with all 
their force. Up to their knees in water, as one 
piece after another sank below the cut-water, they 
still held on, hurrahing at every fresh start she 
made, dancing, jumping, pushing, shoving, haul- 
ing, hewing, sawing, till every soul on board was 
roused into excited exertion. " 

Well, when all this toil and danger are passed, — 
sometimes greatly prolonged, and in the midst of a 
frozen sea and the most violent storms, — and the 
ship has the good luck to sight a herd, then begins 
for the crew of hardy sailors a season of about the 
most arduous labor that one can imagine. 

If the weather permit, the vessel is run into the 
ice, and moored there ; if not, it sails back and 
forth in open spaces, managed by the captain and 
one or two others, while the remainder of the crew, 
sometimes sixty or seventy, or even more in num- 
ber, get into boats and row swiftly to the floe. The 



W^ ,- 


be lifted up instead of crushed. Often a field of young seals lie scattered about here and there, bask- 
thin "bay-ice," or a solid floe, will lie right in the ing in the sun or sheltered under the lee of a hum- 



mock, and they lie so thickly that half a dozen endurance, his nerves to peril, and his heart to 
will often be seen in a space twenty yards square, bitter cruelty ; —but every pelt is worth a dollar ! 

By night, after a "seal-meadow" has 
been attacked, the decks of the vessel are 
hidden under a deep layer of fat, slippery 
pelts. After these have lain long enough 
to get cool, they are stowed away in the 
hold in pairs, each pair having the hair 
outward. The hold is divided by stout 
partitions into compartments,or"pounds," 
in order to prevent the cargo from mov- 
ing about and so rubbing the fat into oil, 
which would speedily fill every part of 
the hold and the cabins, spoiling all the 
provisions. A vessel once had to be 
abandoned from this accident, because it 
had not been "pounded." The European 
ships, however, generally separate the fat 
at once and stow it in casks. 

Sometimes, instead of bringing the 
pelts to the ship as fast as they are ob- 
tained, the hunters pile them up and 


They can not get away, or at most 
can only flounder about, and their 
plaintive bleatings and white coats 
might almost be those of lambs. 
The old seals are frightened away 
by the approach of the sailors, and 
never show fight, and the young- 
sters are easily killed ; so the men 
do not take guns, but only clubs, 
with which they strike the poor 
little fellows a single blow on the 
head, usually killing them at once. 
Having struck down all they can 
see within a short distance, the 
small squad of men who work to- 
gether then quickly skin, or (as 
they call it) "sculp" them, with 
a broad clasp-knife, cutting clear 
through the thick layer of fat 
which lies underneath the hide, 
and so leaving a surprisingly small 
carcass behind. Bundles are then 
made of from three to seven 
"pelts," and each man drags a 
bundle toward the boat. This is 
sometimes miles distant, the ice is 
rough and broken, he must leap 
cracks, trust himself to isolated 
cakes, and often he falls into the 
freezing water, or loses his way in 
a sudden squall of snow. It is limb-cracking 
and life-risking work, and, to accomplish it suc- 
cessfullv, a man must school his muscles to 


place a flag on the heap, so that no other crew 
will take them, for there may be a score or two of 
vessels all attacking the herd at once : and this 




claim is respected. But in very many cases a snow- 
storm hides these heaps, or they break away from 
the floe, or the ice "jams" and crushes them, or 
the ship itself is driven too far off to return, so 
that they are lost and wasted ; hence the practice 
of thus piling up the pelts is ceasing. 

Perhaps I have given you the impression that it 
is only the young seals 
that are taken on these 
expeditions, but that is 
not wholly correct. Two 
voyages are ordinarily 
made, each lasting 
about two weeks. The 
first voyage brings 
home few old seals, but 
on the second voyage 
the sealers find the 
youngsters pretty well 
grown, and as will able 
to escape as the old 
ones. They must there- 
fore use gunssomewhat, 
and otherwise manage 
to secure adult, or near- 
ly full-grown seals, if 
they are to get an)- at all. 

Besides the skins and 
the fat, parts of the flesh 
are preserved for food, 
and those who are ac- 
customed to it recom- 
mend it highly. The 
flesh is a "universal 
remedy " among the 
Eskimos. When the 
"Pandora" left Eng- 
land on her arctic ex- 
pedition in 1874. her 
interpreter, Joe, an Es- 
kimo, had a bad cough, 
but he refused all medi- 
cine, saying, "Bimeby, 
eat seal, get well. " And, 
sure enough, his cough- 
ing was heard no more 
after he had feasted on 
his favorite food for a 
few days. " For young 
ladies and gentlemen 

who can not succeed in making their features suffi- 
ciently attractive on chicken and cheese-cakes, no 
diet is likely to succeed so well as delicate cutlets 
from the loin of a seal." 

There are several methods of capturing these 
animals along the shore, by driving companies of 
them into nets, set among rocks or spread under- 

neath the ice at their breathing-holes ; by surpris- 
ing them asleep on the shore and cutting off their 
retreat; by shooting, harpooning, and so on; but I 
can not weary you in detailing them, although they 
are exciting and picturesque. 

When a cargo of pelts is brought home, the fat 
is carefully removed and converted into oil, either 


by the sun or, in less time, by the aid of steam; 
but the latter produces a quality poorer in some 
respects both for lamps and for the lubrication of 
machines. The skins are salted and packed, and 
become cured in three weeks, finding ultimate use 
as shoe-leather, and as covering for knapsacks, 
valises, small trunks, etc. It would be interesting 




to enlarge on this point, too, but readers must be 
content with only a skeleton of a history of seals 
and the seal industries, which they can fill out with 
all the more pleasure to themselves by independent 
reading in books of arctic travel, of zoology, and of 
the fisheries. 

The sealing in the North Atlantic alone gives 
employment every spring to, say, twenty-five steam- 
ers from Newfoundland, built expressly for the pur- 
pose, besides unnumbered sailing vessels ; the crews 

of this fleet making a navy of about ten thousand 
eager young men. The starting is a scene of the 
greatest bustle, and when the men return with rich 
cargoes, and get their pockets full of money, there 
is great hilarity around the usually dull towns of 
that far-northern island. It is said that in one year, 
recently, a round million of seals were taken in the 
North Atlantic alone. Yet there seems to be little 
or no diminution in the crowds that throng the 
ice-floes as each March comes round. 

By Kitty White. 

Yesterday morning a missionary man came to 
our Sunday-school, and told us all about the little 
heathen. They don't have to be dressed up, nor 
learn the catechism, nor sew patchwork, nor be- 
have, nor do anything disagreeable. And they 
don't know the value of money ; they 'd a great deal 
rather have a bright button than a gold dollar. 

In the afternoon, when we were ready for church, 
Mother gave us each a five-cent piece. "That's 
to put in the correction box," says she. "The 
missionary is going to preach, and your father and I 
want you to give him something for the heathen." 

On the way to church, Johnny said : " It is n't 
the least use to send five centses to the heathen. 
They 'd rather have a bright button than a gold 
dollar, and of course they would n't care about five 
cents. And there 's no candy in heathenland, so 
what do they want of money, anyhow ? " 

Then I said: "If I only had my button-string, 
we could each give a button, and spend the five 
centses for candy, and so we 'd be pleased all 
'round." Johnny said that was a good idea; and 
"there 's a button loose on my jacket this minute ; 
and if I can twist off another before the correction 
box comes 'round, I '11 give it to you, Kitty." 

I thought it was a lovely plan, for Johnny's but- 
tons are just beauties. I heard Mother tell sister 
Em that they cost two dollars a dozen. They look 
like gold. But when we got to church, they made 
me go into the pew first, and Father put Johnny 
beside him next the door, so 's we could n't talk. 

The missionary talked a long time, and then 
they sang " Greenland's Icy Mountains," and then 
they went 'round with the correction boxes. Father 
takes one of them, and they 're on long sticks 
like a corn-popper, and deep, so 't other folks 
can't see what you put in. I had to drop in my 

Vol. IX.— 41. 

five cents, and then Mother and Em put in their 
money, and last of all Johnny put in his button. 
He held his hand close to the box when he did it, 
and then he looked at me behind the others, and 
nodded, so I 'd know he had his five cents all safe. 

This morning we bought five lovely squares of 
taffy. We did n't have time to eat it before school, 
and when we were going home, Johnny said : "Let 
us wait till after dinner, and then give everybody a 
piece ; and then I '11 tell Father what the mis- 
sionary said, and may be after this he '11 give but- 
tons, and it '11 save him a great deal of money." 

So we waited, and after dinner, just as we took 
out the candy to divide it. Father pulled something 
bright out of his pocket, and rolled it across the 
table to Mother. She thought it was money, and 
said, "Just what I wanted!" But it was n't 
money; it was a brass button. 

" How did you come by this ? " said she. 

" I found it in the correction box, yesterday 
afternoon," said Father. "Some little rascal put 
it in, I suppose, and spent his money for candy, 
and whoever he is, he ought to have a wholesome 
lesson. If he was my son " 

And then Mother said, " Why. it is just like 
Johnny's buttons!" And sister Em said, "Well, 
there 's one gone off his Sunday jacket. I noticed 
it this morning, and meant to speak about it." 

Everybody looked at us. Father asked what we 
had in that paper, and "John, is this your but- 
ton?" And what could we say but yes? They 
called us unhappy children, and sent us upstairs. 

We Ye both had a wholesome lesson. I had 
one 'cause they said I put it into Johnny's head. 
For two weeks, Father is going to put our pennies 
away for the heathen, to make us remember. 

Johnny says he wishes he was a heathen. 

6 3 6 



T V — j \ — 

1—1 -X lhfBfo:C<C 

V)i"Lg})t >)oUy^)oc)^s "that ^grow 5 o "tall 
"QegLcl© "tlje Tr)o 5S \y _£arder? wall, 
. Ijepa clov/p with glerjdev c^err) ^o nje 

( ) b°^}y n oc \s dha_-b 2T°^^ so ■ca.ii; 

p>a q<H)Q wee Nell or>& glimmer day 
YyUWn d)je j?cuvden o(dL at tacay . 
"y)j& vellovy s ur) s yjijr)e 5 lapiecL dowrj 

flrjd -touched her cuW s irjto a crowr) - 

a D2_ 

ip^orr)0 T*eU. dWt ^.un^rrjor day 


Bv Lucy Larcom. 


The poets who love children are the poets whom 
children love. It is natural that they should care 
much for each other, because both children and 
poets look into things in the same way, — simply, 
with open eyes and hearts, seeing Nature as it is. 
and finding whatever is lovable and pure in the 
people who surround them, as flowers may re- 
ceive back from flowers sweet odors for those 
which they have given. The little child is born 
with a poet's heart in him, and the poet has been 
fitly called " the eternal child." 

Not that all children or all poets are alike in this. 
But of him who has just gone from us — the hon- 
ored Longfellow — we think as of one who has 
always been fresh and natural in his sympathy 
for children, one who has loved them as they 
have loved him. 

We wish he had given us more of the memories 
of his own childhood. One vivid picture of it 
comes to us in "My Lost Youth," a poem which 
shows us how everything he saw when a child 
must have left within him a life-long impression. 
That boyhood by the sea must have been full of 
dreams as well as of pictures. The beautiful bay 
with its green islands, widening out to the Atlantic 
on the east, and the dim chain of mountains, the 
highest in New England, lying far away on the 
north-western horizon, give his native city a roomy 
feeling not often experienced in the streets of a 
town ; and the boy-poet must have felt his imag- 
ination taking wings there, for many a long flight. 
So he more than hints to us in his song: 

" I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 
And catch, in sudden gleams. 
The sheen of the far-snrronnding seas, 
And islands that were the Hesperidts 

Of all my boyish dreams. 
And the burden of that old song, 
It murmurs and whispers still: 
' A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' " 

" I remember the black wharves and the slips, 
And the sea-tides tossing free ; 
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, 
And the beauty and mystery of the ships. 

And the magic of the sea. 
And the voice of that wayward song 
Is singing and saying still : 
' A boy's will is the wind's will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.' 

Longfellow's earliest volume, "The Voices of 
the Night," was one of the few books of American 
poetry that some of us who are now growing old 

ourselves can remember reading, just as we were 
emerging from childhood. " The Reaper and the 
Flowers" and the "Psalm of Life," — I recall the 
delight with which I used to repeat those poems. 
The latter, so full of suggestions which a very 
young person could feel, but only half understand, 
was for that very reason the more fascinating. It 
seemed to give glimpses, through opening doors, 
of that wonderfid new world of mankind, where 
children are always longing to wander freely as 
men and women. Looking forward and aspiring 
are among the first occupations of an imagina- 
tive child; and the school-boy who declaimed the 
words : 

" Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime," 

and the school-girl who read them quietly by her- 
self, felt them, perhaps, no less keenly than the 
man of thought and experience. 
Longfellow has said that — 

I'oth in sermon and song 

'Sublimity always is simple 
a child can seize on its meaning,' 

and the simplicity of his poetry is the reason why 
children and young people have always loved it ; 
the reason, also, why it has been enjoyed by men 
and women and children all over the world. 

One of his poems which has been the delight of 
children and grown people alike is the " Village 
Blacksmith," the first half of which is a descrip- 
tion that many a boy might feel as if he could 
have written himself — if he only had the poet's 
command of words and rhymes, and the poet's 
genius ! Is not this one of the proofs of a good 
poem, that it haunts us until it seems as if it had 
almost grown out of our own mind ? How life-like 
the picture is ! — 

" And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to sec the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar. 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor." 

No wonder the Cambridge children, when the old 
chestnut-tree that overhung the smithy was cut 
down, had a memento shaped into a chair from its 
boughs, to present to him who had made it an 
immortal tree in his verse ! It bore flower and 
fruit for them a second time in his acknowledg- 
ment of the gift : for he told them how — 

6 3 8 



" There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street 
Its blossoms white and sweet, 
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive. 
And murmured like a hive. 

" And when the winds of autumn, with a shout 

Tossed its great arms about, 
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath, 
Dropped to the ground beneath." 

In its own wild, winsome way, the song of 
''Hiawatha's Childhood" is one of the prettiest 
fancies in poetry. It is a dream of babyhood in 
the " forest primeval," with Nature for nurse and 
teacher; and it makes us feel as if — were the 
poet's idea only a possibility — it might have been 
very pleasant to be a savage baby, although we 
consider it so much better to be civilized. 

" At the door on summer evenings 
Sat the little Hiawatha ; 
Heard the whispering of the pine-trees, 
Heard the lapping of the water, 
Sounds of music, words of wonder: 

Light me with your little candle, 

Ere upon my bed I lay me, 

Ere in sleep I close my eyelids ! ' 

" Then the little Hiawatha 
Learned of every bird its language. 

Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How they built their nests in summer, 
Where they hid themselves in winter, 

" Of all beasts he learned the language, 
Learned their names and all their secrets, 
How the beavers built their lodges, 
Where the squirrels hid their acorns, 
How the reindeer ran so swiftly, 
Why the rabbit was so timid ; 
Talked with them whene'er he met them, 
Called them 'Hiawatha's Brothers.'" 

How Longfellow loved the very little ones can 
be seen in such verses as the "Hanging of 
the Crane," and in those earlier lines " To a 
Child," where the baby on his mother's knee 
gazes at the painted tiles, shakes his " coral rattle 


' Minne-wawa ! ' said the pine-trees: 

' Mudway-aushka ! ' said the water. 
Saw the fire-fly, Wab-wah-taysee, 
Flitting through the dusk of evening, 
With the twinkle of its candle 
Lighting up the brakes and bushes. 
And he sang the song of children, 
Sang the song Nokomis taught him : 
' Wah-wah-taysec, little fire-fly, 
Little, flitting, white-fire insect, 
Little dancing, white-fire creature, 

with the silver bells," or escapes through the open 
door into the old halls where once 

" The Father of his country dwelt." 

Those verses give us a charming glimpse of the 
home-life in the historic mansion which is now so 
rich with poetic, as well as patriotic associations. 
Other glimpses of it he has given ns also. Some 


6 39 

years ago, many households in our land were made 
happy by the pictured group of Longfellow's three 
children, which he allowed to be put into circula- 


tion, — three lovely little girls, who became known 
to us through the poet's words as — 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair." 

How beautiful it was to be let in to that twilight 
library scene described in the " Children's Hour " : 

" A sudden rush from the stair-way, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 
By three doors left unguarded, 
They enter my castle wall ! 

" They climb up into my turret, 

O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 
If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

" Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 
Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all? 

" ~ have you fast in my fortress, 
And will not let you depart, 
But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

" And there will I keep you forever. 
Yea, forever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin 
And moulder in dust away ! " 

Afterward, when sorrow and loss had come to 
the happy home, in the sudden removal of the 
mother of those merry children, the father who 
loved them so had a sadder song for them, as he 
looked onward into their orphaned lives : 

" little feet, that such long years 

Must wander on, through hopes and fears, 

Must ache and bleed beneath your load, 
I, nearer to the wayside inn, 
Where toil shall cease, and rest begin. 

Am weary, thinking of your road 1 " 

And later, as if haunted by a care for them that 
would not leave him, he wrote the beautiful sonnet 
beginning : 

" I said unto myself, if I were dead, 

What would befall these children ? What would be 

Their fate, who now arc looking up to me 

For help and furtherance? Their lives, I said, 

Would be a volume wherein I have read 

But the first chapters, and no longer see 

To read the rest of their dear history. 

So full of beauty and so full of dread." 

Very sweet to those children must be the 
memory of such a father's love ! 

Longfellow loved all children, and had a word 
for them whenever he met them. 

At a concert, going early with her father, a little 
girl espied Mr. Longfellow sitting alone, and 
begged that she might go and speak to him. Her 
father, himself a stranger, took the liberty of intro- 
ducing his little daughter Edith to the poet. 

" Edith? " said Mr. Longfellow, tenderly. " Ah ! 
I have an Edith, too ; but my baby Edith is twenty 
years old." And he seated the child beside him, 
taking her hand in his, and making her promise 
to come and see him at his house in Cambridge. 

" What is the name of your sled, my boy ? " he 
said to a small lad, who came tugging one up the 
road toward him, on a winter morning. 

"It 's ' Evange//V/('. ' Air. Longfellow wrote 
' Evange////t'. ' Did you ever see Mr. Longfellow ? " 
answered the little fellow, as he ran by, doubtless 
wondering at the smile on the face of the pleasant 
gray-haired gentleman. 

Professor Monti, who witnessed the pretty scene, 
tells the story of a little girl who last Christmas 
inquired the way to the poet's house, and asked if 
she could just step inside the yard ; and he relates 
how Mr. Longfellow, being told she was there, 
went to the door and called her in, and showed her 
the "old clock on the stairs," and many other 
interesting things about the house, leaving his 
little guest with beautiful memories of that Christ- 
mas day to carry all through her life. This was 
characteristic of the poet's hospitality, delicate and 
courteous and thoughtful to all who crossed his 
threshold. Many a trembling young girl, fright- 
ened at her own boldness in having ventured into 
his presence, was set at ease by her host in the most 
genial way ; he would make her forget her- 
self in the interesting mementos all about her, 
devoting himself to her entertainment as if it were 
the one pleasure of the hour to do so. 




It is often said, and with reason, that we Ameri- 
cans do not think enough of manners — that 
politeness of behavior which comes from genuine 
sympathy and a delicate perception of others' feel- 
ings. Certainly our young people might look to 
Mr. Longfellow as a model in this respect. He 
was a perfect gentleman, in the best sense of that 
term, always considerate, and quick to see where 
he might do a kindness, or say a pleasant word. 

A visitor one day told him in conversation of a 
young lady relative or friend, who had sent to Mr. 
Longfellow the message that he was the one man in 
the world she wanted to see. 

" Tell her," said the poet, instantly, " that she 
is the one young lady in the world whom I want 
to see." 

Some young girls, from a distant part of the 
country, having been about Cambridge sight-see- 
ing, walked to Mr. Longfellow's house, and ventur- 
ing within the gate, sat down upon the grass. He 
passed them there, and turning back, said : 

"Young ladies, you are uncomfortably seated. 
Wont you come into the house ? " 

They were overjoyed at the invitation, and on 
entering, Mr. Longfellow insisted upon their tak- 
ing lunch with him. They saw that the table was 
set for four, and were beginning to be mortified at 
finding themselves possible intruders upon other 
guests. They so expressed themselves to their 
host, who put them at ease at once, saying that it 
was only his regular lunch with his children, and 
that they would be happy to wait. 

One of a group of school-girls whom he had 
welcomed to his house sent him, as a token of her 
gratitude, an iron pen made from a fetter of the 
Prisoner of Chillon, and a bit of wood from the 
frigate " Constitution," ornamented with precious 
stones from three continents. He wrote his thanks 
in a poem which must be very precious to the 
giver, — "Beautiful Helen of Maine," — to whom 
he says of her gift that it is to him — 

" As a drop of the dew of your youth 
On the leaves of an aged tree." 

Longfellow's courtesy was as unfailing as the 
demands upon it were numerous and pressing. 
Very few imagine what a tax it is upon the time 
of our more prominent authors simply to write 
the autographs which are requested of them. He 
almost invariably complied with such requests, when 
made in a proper manner, wearisome as it must 
often have been to do so. Not long since, he had 
a letter from a Western boy, who sent his name, 

desiring him to translate it into every language he 
knew, and send it back to him with his autograph ! 
The poet was much amused at the request, but it 
is doubtful whether he found time to gratify that 

Still another incident related of him is that he 
was one day walking in a garden with a little five- 
years maiden who was fond of poetry and occasion- 
ally " made up some " herself. 

" I, too, am fond of poetry," he said to her. 
" Suppose you give me a little of yours this beauti- 
ful morning ? " 

"Think," cried he, afterward, to a friend, throw- 
ing up his hands, his eyes sparkling with merri- 
ment, — " think what her answer was ! She said : 
'Oh, Mr. Longfellow, it does n't always come when 
you want it ! ' Ah me, — how true, how true ! " 

The celebration of Longfellow's seventy-fifth 
birthday by school-children all over the country 
is something that those children must be glad to 
think of now — glad to remember that the poet 
knew how much they cared for him and for what 
he had written. Even the blind children, who 
have to read with their fingers, were enjoying his 
songs with the rest. How pleasant that must have 
been to him ! Certainly, as it seems to me, the 
best tribute that the young people of the country 
can pay to his memory is to become more familiar 
with his poems. 

Of our older poets, whose greatness time has 
tested, only a few remain. One of them, writing 
of Longfellow's departure, says sadly : " Our little 
circle narrows fast, and a feeling of loneliness 
comes over me." 

We should not wait until a great and good man 
has left us before giving him honor, or trying to 
understand what he has done for us. A dreary 
world ours would be, if there were no poets' songs 
echoing through it ; and we may be proud of 
our country that it has a poetry of its own, which 
it is for us to know and possess for ourselves. 

Longfellow has said : 

" What the leaves are to the forest 

With light and air and food, 
Ere their sweet and tender juices 

Have been hardened into wood, 
That to the world, are children": 

and something like this we may say of his songs. 
There is in all true poetry a freshness of life which 
makes the writer of it immortal. 

The singer so much beloved has passed from 
sight, but the music of his voice is in the air, and, 
listening to it, we know that he can not die. 




By Hezekiah Butterworth. 

' He is dead, the sweet musician ! 
He the sweetest of all singers ! 
He has gone from us forever: 
He has moved a little nearer 
To the Master of all music, 
To the Master of all singing." 

IN the early part of March, some lads belonging 
to the Dwight School, Boston, wished to visit 
Professor Longfellow, with whose poems they were 
becoming familiar. 

" Let us write to him," said one of the boys, 
"and ask his permission to call on him some holi- 
day afternoon." 

They consulted their teacher, who favored the 
plan, and the following note was sent to the poet: 

"Henry W. Longfellow — Dear Sir : Would it he agreeable 
to you to receive a call from four boys of the Dwight School ? . , .* 

Four names were signed to the note. 

In a few days the following answer was returned : 

" Mr. Longfellow would be pleased to meet the boys of the 
Dwight School on Saturday afternoon." 

The boys were delighted. They procured a 
choice bouquet of flowers to give to the poet, and 
on Saturday afternoon, March 1 8th, went to Cam- 
bridge, and made the last visit to Longfellow that 
he ever received. Soon after they left him, he 
walked on the piazza of the ancient house, and 
being there exposed to the raw March winds, he 
contracted the sudden illness that ended his life. 

On their way to Cambridge, the boys left Boston 
by the Charles River bridge, over which inces- 
santly day and night a procession of footsteps 
goes and returns, as restless as the tide that ebbs 
and flows among the wooden piers and there 
makes its ceaseless murmur. 

Many years ago, in loneliness and despondency, 
the great poet himself had been accustomed to go 
over the wooden bridge in the same place ; and 
often he went at night, when the city clocks around 
Beacon Hill solemnly announced the hours. There 
was a great furnace then on the Brighton Hills, 
and its red light glowed weirdly in the shadow)- 
distance. That sad time and lonely scene were 
in his mind when he wrote : 

" I stood on the bridge at midnight, 

As the clocks were striking the hour, 
And the moon rose o'er the city, 
Behind the dark church-tower. 

" I saw her bright reflection 
In the waters under me, 
Like a golden goblet falling 
And sinking into the sea. 

" And far in the hazy distance 
Of that lovely night in June, 
The blaze of the flaming furnace 
Gleamed redder than the moon." 

A horse-car ride of half an hour took the boys 
past Harvard College, where the poet had spent 
many happy years as a professor, to his home — the 
mansion that Washington made famous in history 
as his head-quarters. It resembles the one de- 
scribed in " The Old Clock on the Stairs" : 


back from 

the village 

Stands the old-fash- 
ioned country-seat. 
Across its antique 

Tall poplar-trees their 

shadows throw ; 
And from its station in 

the hall 
An ancient timepiece says to 

' Forever — never ' 
Never — forever! ' 

This poem 
was suggested 

by the French words, " Toujom 
mats! toujours-/" 

In that house the " Psalm of Life " was written. 
This poem, which to-day is known and admired 
wherever the English language is spoken, was at 


jamais .' Ja- 




first not intended for publication, but was merely 
an expression of the poet's own views and purposes. 

Longfellow once told the writer of this article the 
story of the composition of this poem, and added 
the following pleasing incident : 

" As I was returning from my visit to the Queen 

M<iA~uj jy»i .cj' o-^-ciPi 


in London, a laborer came up to my carriage and 
extended his hand. ' I wish,' he said, ' to shake 
hands with the author of " The Psalm of Life ! " 
Few incidents of my life have been more pleasing. 
That was a compliment I could appreciate ! " 

In this house, too, "Evangeline" was written, 
the story being given to the poet by his friend, 
Nathaniel Hawthorne. Here, also, was written 
" Excelsior," after the poet had been reading 
a letter, from Charles Sumner, full of noble 
sentiments ; here, besides, Longfellow wrote the 
" Wreck of the Hesperus," when the sad news of 
the loss of the Gloucester fishing-fleet, and the 
mournful words " Norman's Woe," so haunted 
him that he could not sleep. Here were produced 
nearly all of his poems that have become house- 
hold words in many lands. 

The poet received the boys most cordially and 
graciously, accepted their present of flowers, and 
expressed his pleasure in it. He then showed them 
the historic rooms, and the articles associated with 
Washington's residence there. He was accus- 

tomed to exhibit to older visitors a piece of Dante's 
coffin, Coleridge's inkstand, and Thomas Moore's 
waste-paper basket. 

The old poet, crowned with his white hair, chat- 
ted pleasantly awhile with the four boys, whose 
faces wore the beauty and inquisitive intelligence 
of the years that had vanished from him forever. 

One of the lads, a Master Lane, then asked him 
a question which must have revived tender memo- 
ries : "In your poem on the River Charles," he 
said, " there is a stanza beginning in some books 
with the line ' Four long years of mingled feeling. ' 
In other books it begins with ' For long years with 
mingled feeling.' Will you please tell me which 
is right ? " 

" ' Four long years,' " answered the poet, 

"Is that the River Charles?" asked one of 
the boys, pointing outside. 

The poet looked out on the flowing stream. It 
was almost the last time that he gazed upon it ; 
perhaps the last time that his attention was directed 
to it. " Yes," said he, mournfully, in answer, 
"that is the Charles." 

Years before, when his manhood was in its 
prime, he had sung of this river : 

"Thou hast taught me, Silent River! 
Many a lesson, deep and long ; 
Thou hast been a generous giver: 
1 can give thee but a song. 

" Oft in sadness and in illness, 

I have watched thy current glide. 
Till the beauty of its stillness 
Overflowed me, like a tide 

" And in better hours and brighter, 
When I saw thy waters gleam, 
I have felt my heart beat lighter, 
And leap onward with thy stream. 

" Not for this alone I love thee, 
Nor because thy waves of blue 
From celestial seas above thee 
Take their own celestial hue. 

" Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, 
And thy waters disappear. 
Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, 
And have made thy margin dear. 

" More than this; — thy name reminds me 
Of three friends, all true and tried ; 
And that name, like magic, binds me 
Closer, closer to thy side. 

" Friends my soul with joy remembers ! 
How like quivering flames they start, 
When I fan the living embers 

On the hearth-stone of my heart ! " 

And again, after the death of his friend Charles 
Sumner, when age had silvered his hair : 



" River, that stealest with such silent pace 
Around the City of the Dead, where lies 
A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes 
Shall see no more in his accustomed place, 

Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace 

And say good-night, for now the western skies 
Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise 
Like damps that gather on a dead man's face. 

Good-night ! good-night ! as we so oft have said 
Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days 
That are no more and shall no more return. 

Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed; 
I stay a little longer, as one stays 
To cover up the embers that still burn." 

The poet bade the lads an affectionate farewell, 
and for the last time he saw the forms of children 
depart from his door. He gave them his au- 
tograph, and copies of the poem he had written 
for the children of Cambridge, after they had pre- 
sented to him a chair made from a tree that stood 
near the shop of the village blacksmith, whose 
honest history he had taken for the subject of one 
of his poems. 

The last view of the River Charles and of happy 
children ! How the scene must have awakened in 
the poet's mind memories of the past, even al- 
though he could not then know that the shadow of 
death was so near ! 

The hand that wrote "The Children's Hour" 
now rests in sweet Auburn, Boston's city of the 

dead. The River Charles flows by, and its banks 
will still grow bright with every spring-time. 
Charles Sumner, for whose name the poet loved the 
river, sleeps there, and Cornelius Felton, of Har- 
vard College, whom also the poet loved. There, 
too, rests the universally loved and honored Louis 
Agassiz, another of those "three friends," each of 
whom left him for years but a'" majestic memory." 
The birds will come there in summer, and sing 
among the oaks and the fountains. The children 
will go there, too, and never by them will their 
own poet be forgotten. They may love to remem- 
ber that his last reception was given to children, 
and that with them, when the friends of other 
years had passed away, he looked for the last time 
upon the River Charles. 

" Come to me, O ye children ! 
And whisper in my ear 
What the birds and the winds are singing 
In your sunny atmosphere. 

" For what are all our contrivings, 
And the wisdom of our books, 
When compared with your caresses, 
And the gladness of your looks ? 

" Ye are better than all the ballads 
That ever were sung or said ; 
For ye are living poems, 
And all the rest are dead." 


6 4 4 




By Mary Mapes Dodge. 

Chapter XIX. 
the "G. B. c." 

DOROTHY' was made very happy one day by 
Uncle George handing her the little copy-book 
diary, and saying that she and Donald could 
read as much of it as they wished. 

"Oh, Don; see here ! " she exclaimed, holding 
rip the book as Donald, by invitation, joined her 
in the Cozy Corner. " It 's all right. Uncle says 
so. We '11 begin at the first page and read every 
single word ! " 

The diary, it seemed, contained nothing start- 
ling, but it gave them an excellent idea of Aunt 
Kate's happy girlhood. She spoke of many things 
familiar to them, and above all they were interested 
in her frequent allusions to "our new dog, Nero," 
evidently her own special pet. 

Poor Nero ! So young then, and now so very 
old ! This was his last winter. He had become 
blind of late and very feeble ; but, nevertheless, 
when the end came, it was a shock to all, and a- 
sore trial to Don and Dorry. Many a time after 
that day they would stop in their sports to bend 
beside the little head-stone under the evergreens 
and talk of him — the faithful friend they had 
loved all their lives, who had reached his prime 
and died of old age during their own youth. 

We must pass rapidly over the next few months, 
only pausing to say that they were busy ones for 
the D's. In the first place, the new tutor, as Don 
expressed it, was "worked by steam" and was 
"one of the broad-gauge, high-pressure sort " ; but 
Uncle George noted that his nephew and niece 
made great advancement under' what he called 
Dr. Sneeden's careful and earnest teaching. 

But they had, too, their full share of recreation. 
Don and Ed found the gymnasium not only a 
favorite resort in the way of pleasure, but also a 
great benefit to their physical development. After 
a few weeks' exercise, their muscles began to grow 
stronger and harder, and the startling climbs, leaps, 
tumbles, hand-springs, and somersaults which the 
boys learned to perform were surprising. 

When the summer came, Don and Ed Tyler 
secretly believed themselves competent to become 
members of the best circus troupe in the country, 
and many a boy- visitor was asked to "feel that, 
•will you ? " as each young Hercules knotted the 

upper muscles of his arm in order to astonish the 
beholder. Even the girls caught the spirit, and, 
though they would not for the world have had 
the boys know it, they compared muscle in a mild 
way among themselves, and Dorry's was declared 
by admiring friends to be " awfully hard." 

Little Fandy Danby, too, became so expert that, 
after giving himself numberless bruises, he finally 
attained the summit of his ambition by hanging 
from the horizontal ladder and going hand over 
hand its entire length, though not without much 
puffing and panting and a frantic flourishing of 
little legs. 

Don and the boys had great fun in " stumping" 
each other, which consisted in one performing a 
certain feat and challenging the others to do it, 
and if matched in that, then daring them to some 
bolder and more difficult attempt. 

LTncle George himself took part in these con- 
tests, and, though often beaten, threatened to 
distance them all after a few months' practice. 
"There's a plentiful share of limberness tied up 
in these old muscles," he would say, "and when 
it 's set free, boys, look out for your laurels ! " 

Well, the spring passed away and no bones were 
broken. Boating and bathing, berrying and other 
sports came with the advancing season ; but 
the great feature of the summer was the G. B. C, 
or Girls' Botany Club, of which Dorry was presi- 
dent, Josie Manning secretary, and Dr. Sneeden 
inspirer, advisory committee, and treasurer, all in 
one. Nearly all the nice girls joined, and boys 
were made honorary members whenever their 
scientific interest and zeal in hunting for botanical 
treasures entitled them to that distinction. 

Ah, those were happy days ! And if the honor- 
ary members were troublesome now and then, 
scaring the girls half to death with lizards, toads, 
or harmless garter-snakes, why it was only " the 
boys"; and after all it really was fun to scream a 
little by way of lightening the more solid pursuits 
of the club. Besides, the boys often were a real 
help, especially in rocky pk.ces and in the marshes, 

and Well — it was Jess troublesome to have 

them than to do without them. 

So far, only one real shadow had fallen across 
the sunny hours, and that was when Dorry had 
proposed Charity Danby as a member, and some 
of the foolish girls had objected on the plea that 
the Danbys were " poor folks." 

" Poor folks," indeed ! You should have seen 

" Copyright, 1S81, by Mary Mapes Dodge. All rights reserved. 



their president then ! You should have heard her 
spirited remarks, her good, wholesome arguments, 
and seen her glowing, indignant presidential coun- 
tenance ! The opposition had been stubborn at 
first, gathering strength in secret and losing it in 
public, until at last good sense and kindliness pre- 
vailed. The motion to admit Charily as a mem- 
ber of the G. B. C. was carried unanimously, and 
almost the first she knew about it she was a full 
member, eagerly searching hill-side and meadow 
with the rest, and wondering deep in her inmost 
soul whether she ever, ever could "catch up" to 
the other girls. They knew so much from books, 
and she had been able to study so little ! 

Poor Charity — she was wiser than she knew. 
Her habit of close observation, and her eager desire 
to learn, soon made her a valuable addition to the 
club. She knew where to find every wild flower 
of that locality in its season, from the trailing 
arbutus in the spring to the latest bloom of the 
autumn, and "Charity Danby says so" soon 
became a convincing argument in many a dis- 

But we must now go back for several weeks, and 
learn how it happened that our busy Charity was 
able to accept the invitation of the G. B. C. 

It was early in July; remnants of exploded fire- 
crackers still lingered in the trampled grass near 
Mrs. Danby's white-washed fence. She — busy 
soul! — was superintending the mending of her 
home-made chicken-coop, now trembling and 
quivering under the mighty strokes of Daniel 
David. With one breath the mother w-as making 
suggestions to her young carpenter, and with the 
next screaming to Helen and Isabella to be careful 
or they would tumble into the pig-pen, when, 
suddenly, she saw Dorry at the back gate. 

" Massy ! Here comes Dorothy Reed, looking 
like a fresh rose, as she is, and not a thing in the 
house to rights. Well, I can't help it — ten chil- 
dren so, and everything to — Ah, Dorothy ! " con- 
tinued Mrs. Danby, exchanging her silent thoughts 
for active speech, " walk right in, dear, and do 
please excuse everything. Charity 's in the house, 
picking up and putting away; I 'd call her out, 
but " 

No need to finish the sentence. Dorrv. with 
a cheery: "Oh, no, indeed, thank you!" had 
already vanished under the morning-glory vines 
that shaded the door-wav. 

" Bless her heart ! " pursued Mrs. Danby, now 
talking to Daniel David, "but she's a beauty! 
Not that my own are humly, either. Charity 's no 
fright, by no means, and there 's your sister 
Amanda — why, only last summer Master Donald's 
teacher drew a picture of her, because she was so 

picturesky, which I '11 keep to my dying day. 
There, Dan Dave, you don't need no more slats on 
that side ; take this broken one out here, that 's a 
good child ; it scrapes the old hen every time she 
goes under. Look out ! You '11 break the whole 
thing to pieces if you aint careful. My ! How 
strong boys are ! " 

Meantime, Dorry, as we know, had entered. 
The house was out of order, but Charity was doing 
her best to improve matters. With one hand she 
was " picking up and putting away," and with the 
other stroking the bumped head of baby Jamie. 
Though now able to walk alone, the little one had 
just experienced one of his frequent tumbles, and 
was crying and clinging to Charity's skirts as he 
trotted beside her. No one else was in the room, 





and perhaps this was why the busy sister was softly 
saying to herself, as she worked : 

" Queen Elizabeth was one. William-and-Mary's 
Mary was another, and Lady Jane Grey and 
Queen Victoria — Oh, do hush, Jamie, dear, I 've 
kissed it twice already — there ! " 

Suiting the action to the word, she pressed her 
lips of healing once more upon Jamie's yellow 
hair, and lifting her head again, she saw Dorry in 
the door-way, laughing. 

" Oh, Dorothy, how you startled me ! I did n't 
hear you coming at all. I 'm so glad ! But you 
need n't laugh at me, Dorry — I 'm only trying to 
remember a little hist'rv. " 

" I 'm not laughing at you," Dorry protested, 
merrily. "But it was so funny to hear you put- 
ting the English queens into the pots and pans ; 
that was all. ' Here, let me help a little. Come, 
Jamie, sit on Dotty's lap, and she '11 tell you all 
about Bluebeard." 

"Oh, no; that's too old for him. Tell him 




about the chickies," suggested Charity, in a busi- 
ness-like way, as, disengaging her gown from his 
baby clutch, she sprang upon a chair, in order to 
put something away on the highest shelf of the 

" It 's no use," she said, jumping down again, 
almost angrily, and raising her voice to be heard 
above Jamie's outer)-. " Oh, dear, what docs 
make you so naughty, Baby ? " 

" He is n't naughty," said Dorry, soothingly ; 
" he 's only tired of being indoors. Come, Jamie, 
we '11 go out and play chickie till Charity gets 
through, and then we '11 all take a nice walk." 

Jamie seized Dorry's hand instantly, and out 
they went. 

" Be careful ! " called Charity, after her, setting 
a chair down hard at the same time. ' ' Look out, 
or he '11 get right under the cow's feet ; he always 

"1 '11 be careful," sang out Dorry. " Come as 
soon as you can. This delightful air will do you 


good." Then, seeing Ellen Eliza, the ten-year-old 
Danby girl, standing not far from the house, she 
led Jamie toward her. 

Ellen Eliza had a very tender heart. Every one 
who knew Mrs. Danby had heard of that tender 

heart more than once ; and so Dorry was not in 
the least surprised to find Ellen Eliza in the act 
of comforting a draggled-looking fowl, which she 
held tenderly in her arms in spite of its protest. 

" Is it hurt ? " asked Dorry. 

Ellen Eliza looked up with an anxious counte- 
nance as she murmured : 

" Oh, no, not exactly hurt ; he 's complainin'. I 
think he 's hungry, but he wont eat." 

" Dear me ! " was Dorry's unfeeling comment : 
"then I 'd let him go hungry, I declare if I 
would n't." 

" Oh, no, you could n't be cruel to a poor sick 
rooster ? " Here Ellen Eliza pressed the uneasy fowl 
to her heart. "May be, he '5 got a sore throat." 

" Do you know what / think?" said Dorry, quite 
disregarding the patient's possible affliction. 

"What?" asked Ellen Eliza, plaintively, as if 
prepared to hear that her feathered pet was going 
into a rapid decline. And Dorry went on : 

" / think that if people with tender hearts 
would remember their sisters sometimes, it would 
be " 

" What do you mean?" interrupted the aston- 
ished Ellen Eliza, releasing the now struggling 
bird as she spoke. 

Dorry laid her hand kindly on the little girl's 

" I '11 tell you," she said. " If I were you, I 'd 
help Charity more. I 'd take care of this dear 
little brother sometimes. Don't you notice how 
very often she is obliged to stay from school to 
help with the work, and how discouraged she feels 
about her lessons ? " 

" No ! " answered Ellen Eliza, with wide-open 
eyes. " I did n't ever notice that. I think it 's 
nice to stay home from school. But, anyhow, 
Charity would n't trust me. She dotes on Jamie 
so. She 's always been afraid I 'd let him fall." 

Dorry smiled. 

"Oh, that was long ago, Ellen. Jamie can 
walk now, you know, and if you look after him 
sometimes, you '11 soon be able to help Charity 

"All right!" was Ellen Eliza's cordial answer. 
" I '11 do it. Somehow, I never thought of it. 
But I often help Mother. She says I 'm the best- 
hearted of all the children, and so I am. You 
see if I don't help Charity after this." 

The conversion seemed too sudden to be very 
lasting ; but Ellen Eliza, who was really sincere, 
proceeded at once to put her new resolution into 
practice. To be sure, her renowned tender heart 
did not make her all at once an experienced house- 
maid, seamstress, and nurse, as Cha...y was; but 
from that day it made her, at intervals, a willing 
little hand-maiden, and so gave her sister many a 



leisure hour for reading and study. More than 
this, Ellen Eliza and Dorry became close friends 
in Charity's behalf, and one thing .led to another, 
until Charity actually attended school regularly. 
She was behind most of the scholars, of course ; 
but many a day she spent an hour in the Cozy 
Corner, where Dorry helped her to study her 
lessons. Her progress was remarkable. 

"You make everything so beautifully plain, 
I can't help improving," she would say to Dorry. 
And Dorry would laugh and protest that the 
teacher was learning as much as the pupil, and 
that they were a wonderful pair, any way. 

All this while, Charity, bright and hopeful, was 
doing a goodly share of house duties, and making 
the Danby home more sunny with her happiness. 
Little Jamie was her delight, as she was his ; but 
she was no longer jaded and discouraged. Ellen 
Eliza looked at her with pride, and willingly sub- 
mitted to the school-teaching that Charity, in turn, 
was able to give her. 

" I can't bear 'rithmetic," was the tender-hearted 
one's comment. " but I have to learn my tables, 
else Charity 'd worry and Dorry would n't like it. 
And jography 's nice, 'cause Pa likes me to tell 
him about it, when he comes home. Soon 's I 
get big, I mean to make Helen and Is'bella learn 
their lessons like everything." 

Alas ! The new educational movement met 
with a sudden but temporary check in the shape 
of the measles. One fine day, that unwelcome 
visitant came into the house, and laid its hand on 
poor little Helen. In a few days, Isabella and 
Jamie were down beside her — not very ill, but all 
three just ill enough to require a darkened room, 
careful nursing, and a bountiful supply of Dorry's 
willing oranges. 

This was why Charity, for a time, was cut off 
from her studies, and why she was quite taken by 
surprise when word came to her of the G. B. C, 
and that she was to join it, as soon as the little ones 
could spare her. 

You have seen Charity botanizing on the hill- 
side with the other girls, but to understand her 
zeal, you should have heard her defend the science 
against that sarcastic brother of hers — Daniel 
David. In vain that dreadful boy hung dried 
stalks and dead branches all about her room, and 
put dandelions in her tea-cup, and cockles in her 
hair-brush — pretending all the while that he was 
a good boy bringing "specimens" to his dear 
sister. In vain he challenged every botanical re- 
mark she made, defying her to prove it. She 
always was equal to the occasion in spirit, if not in 

One Saturday morning, though, she had her 
triumph, and it was an event to be remembered. 

Daniel David had listened, with poorly concealed 
interest, while Charity was describing a flower to 
Ellen Eliza, — how it has calyx, corolla, stamens, 
and pistils; how some flowers have not all these 
parts, but that all flowers have pistils and stamens, 
— when he, as usual, challenged her to " prove it." 

" Very well," said Charity, with dignity, and yet 
a little uneasily; "you bring the flowers, and I 
think I can satisfy Your Majesty." 

Out he ran, and in a moment he came back, 
bearing defiantly a fine red-clover blossom. 

" Ha, my lady ! " he said, as he handed it to 
her. "There's the first flower I came to; now 
let 's see you find your pistils and stamens and 
thingamies. " 

Instead of replying at once, Charity looked in- 
quiringly at the pretty flower in her hand. She 
seemed rather puzzled and crestfallen. Daniel 
David laughed aloud ; even Mrs. Danby and 
the poetic Amanda smiled. 

"Oh!" said Charity, at last, with an air of 
great relief. "I see it now. How funny! I 
never thought of it before ; but the clover-blos- 
som isn't one flower at all — it 's a good many 
flowers ! " 

"Ho! ho!" cried Daniel David. "That's a 
good one ! You can't get out of it in that way, 
my lady. Can she, Ma?" 

Ma did n't know. None of the rest knew ; but 
they all crowded about Charity, while, with trem- 
bling fingers, she carefully pulled the blossom to 
pieces, and discovered that every piece was a 
flower. " See ! " she exclaimed, eagerly. " Doz- 
ens of them, and every single one complete. Oh, 
my ! Is n't it wonderful ? " 

" I surrender," said Daniel David. 

" But you Ve helped me to find out something 
that I did n't know before," said the enthusiastic 
sister, forgiving in an instant all his past taunting. 
" I wonder if Dorothy knows it. Let 's go right 
over and ask her." 

"Agreed," said Daniel David. "Wait till 1 
slick up a bit." Off he ran, whistling, and in 
fifteen minutes he and Charity were with Dorry in 
the Reed sitting-room, examining the separated, 
tiny clover-flowers through Donald's microscope. 

Dorothy explained to them that the clover-blos- 
som or head is a compound flower, because a head 
is made up of many flowerets, each complete in 

But when she went further, and told them that 
not only the clover, but every dandelion and daisy 
in the field is made up of many flowers, even Char- 
ity appeared incredulous, saying: "What! Do 
you mean to say that the daisy, with its yellow 
center and lovely white petals, is not a flower?" 

" No, 1 don't mean that," said Dorrv. " Of 




course, the daisy is a flower. But it is a com- 
pound flower. What you call white petals are 
not exactly petals. Anyhow, the yellow center is 
made up of hundreds of very small flowers. That 
's what I mean. I have seen them magnified, and 
they look like yellow lilies." 

Daniel David hardly dared to say "prove it " to 
so elegant a creature as Dorry, but his looks were 
so expressive that the president of the G. B. C. at 
once proposed that he should go and gather a dan- 
delion and a daisy, for them to pull to pieces and 
examine the parts under the microscope. 

All of which would have come to pass had not 
Donald rushed into the house at that moment, 
calling : 

" Dorry ! Dorry ! Come up on the hill ! We 're 
going to set up the targets." 

Chapter XX. 


THE targets, eight in number, which had been 
made by the boys a few days before, were really 
fine affairs. They were painted on sheets of 
strong pasteboard, and were each about eighteen 
inches in diameter. Every circle from the bull's- 
eye to the outer ring was carefully made out, and 
all the targets were of exactly the same measure- 
ments. Eight rough tripods already awaited them 
at the shooting-range, and each tripod had its 
upright piece of eighteen-inch plank at the top, to 
which a pasteboard target was now to be firmly 

On any ordinary occasion one or two tripods 
would have been considered sufficient, but on 
this special day there was to be a real " match," 
and a target to each man would be required, so 
that the contestants could show a clear record of 
every shot. Experience had proved this to be the 
best plan. 

The spot selected for the shooting-range was 
well adapted to the purpose. It was a plateau or 
broad strip of level land, forming the summit of the 
long slope that rose from the apple-orchard back 
of the Reed mansion. At the rear or eastern limit 
of this level land was a steep, grassy ridge, called 
by the D's the second hill. 

Perhaps you will see the plateau more clearly if 
you read this description which Dorry afterward 
wrote to a friend at boarding-school : 

" * Don and the boys have made a lovely summer- 

house by an apple-tree on the second hill, back of the house. It 's 
so high up that you can look across our place from it, and see the 
lake in front and the village far down at the left. It is beautiful, 
looking from the summer-house at sunset, for then the lake some- 
times seems to be on fire, and the trees in the orchard between us 
and the road send long shadows that creep, creep up the hill as if 

they were alive. You see we really have two hills, and these are 
separated or joined, whichever you please, by a long level strip 
more than a hundred feet wide, lorming a grassy terrace. I often 
imagine a long row of enormous giants resting there on the grass 
side by side, sitting on the great wide level place, with their backs- 
leaning against the second hill and their feet reaching nearly to 
the edge uf the first hill. Now, I hope you understand. If you 
don't, you will when you come here to visit me this fall. Well, it 
was on this level ground that we had the shooting-match I 'm going 
to tell you about, and where something happened that I '11 never, 
never forget as long as I live. * * J; " 

While Don and Ed, assisted by the doughty 
Daniel, are at work setting up the row of targets 
close to the base of the second hill, so that stray 
bullets may be safely buried in the soft earth- 
wall, and while Dorry and Charity are watching 
the boys from the shady summer-house, we may 
look into Mr. Reed's study. 

He is sitting in his arm-chair by the window, 
but the warm breeze stealing through the closed 
blinds is not lulling him to repose ; his face is 
troubled, and he holds something in his hand 
which he is studying intently, though it seems to 
give him no satisfaction. It is a small gold chain 
or necklace, with an old-fashioned square clasp. 
On a graceful mahogany stand near by are several 
articles carefully laid together beside an open box, 
as though he had been examining them also. They 
were there when Donald knocked at the door, a few 
moments ago, to ask his uncle to come up later and 
see the completed arrangements for the shooting- 
match. But Mr. Reed, without unlocking the 
door, had said he was very busy, and begged Don 
to excuse him. 

" Certainly, Uncle ; but I 'm sorry," Don had 
replied, and even while trudging up the hill with 
the targets his mind had been busy : 

" What is the matter? Something is troubling 
Uncle George yet. I 've noticed it very much of 
late. There 's more to be told, and I must soon 
have a good square talk with him about it. 
There 's no use. in putting it off forever. I can't 
excuse him from the match, though. Why, it 
would spoil the whole thing not to have Uncle 
see it. Would n't it, Dot ? " he asked aloud, as 
Dorry at that moment joined him. 

"Would n't what?" 

" Why, not to have Uncle here at the match." 

" I don't understand," she said, looking puzzled. 

" Why, the study door 's locked and he 's very 
busy. I was just thinking it would be a pretty go 
if he should n't come up this afternoon at all." 

"What a ridiculous idea!" said Dorry, with a 
laugh. " Why, of course, Uncle will come there. 
I '11 bring him myself." 

And she did. 

Of all the company of boys and girls that came 
trooping up the green slope to the shooting-range 
that afternoon, not a brighter, happier-looking pair 



of faces was seen than Mr. Reed's and Dorry's. 
The little maid evidently had chased away his 
troubles for that day. 

Donald was too busy to do much more than 
glance at them, but that glance did him good ; his 
hearty " Ho, Uncle ! " did Mr. Reed good, too. 

After a careful inspection of the arrangements, 
and a few words with Don and the other boys con- 
cerning the necessary rules and restrictions for the 
general safety, Mr. Reed retired to the grassy seat 
of honor that had been prepared for him. The 
other spectators stood beside him, or settled them- 
selves comfortably upon the turf near by. 

Sailor Jack stood at a respectful distance with 
the smallest youngsters about him, explaining to 
them "as to how they 'd best stand close, and keep 
a sharp lookout, for dry land was a pesky dang'rous 
place at all times, and now, with bullets flyin' 
about, there was no tellin' what might happen. 
But if they wanted to see right clever shootin', 
they could just wait a bit, for Master Donald had 
the sharpest eye he ever seed in any youngster on 
sea or shore." 

There were to be eight contestants. All had 
arrived excepting Ben Buster. He had been in- 
vited to shoot, but had loftily replied that he had 
other affairs on hand, but he 'd come if he could. 
Anyhow, they 'd best have a substitute ready. 

Mr. Reed's two rifles and Don's and Ed Tyler's 
were the only arms to be used ; for Mr. Reed had 
objected to a fully equipped party of young gunners 
ranging across his estate. But they were not like 
Creedmoor shooters, who must not only use their 
own special rifles, but must clean them after every 
shot. The Nestletown boys were used to trying bor- 
rowed weapons, and though a few had grumbled 
at a fellow not being allowed to bring his own gun, 
the spirit of sport prevailed, and every face wore a 
look of eager interest in the occasion. 

Ben Buster was missing, but a substitute was 
soon found, and the match began in earnest, four 
on a side, — the Reds and the Blues, — each wear- 
ing ribbon badges of their respective color. 

Dorry had made the four red rosettes and Josie 
Manning the four blue ones. Besides these, Josie 
had contributed, as a special prize to the best marks- 
man, a beautiful gold scarf-pin, in the form of a tiny 
rifle, and the winner was to be the champion shot of 
the club, ready to hold the prize against all comers. 

Ed Tyler had carefully marked off the firing line 
at a distance of forty paces, or about one hundred 
feet from the targets, and it was agreed tljat the 
eight boys should fire in regular order, — first a 
Red, then a Blue, one shot at a turn, until each 
had fired fifteen times in all. This was a plan of 
their own, "so that no fellow need wait all day 
for his turn." 

As Ed Tyler was a " Blue," and Don a " Red," 
they found themselves opponents for once. Both 
were considered "crack shots," but Don soon dis- 
covered that he had a more powerful rival in 
another of the " Blues" — one Barry Outcalt, son 
of the village lawyer. It soon became evident that 
the main contest lay between these two, but 
Don had gained on him in the sixth round by 
sending a fourth bullet, to Barry's second, into the 
bull's-eye, when Ben Buster was seen strolling up 
the hill. Instantly his substitute, a tall, nervous 
fellow, who had outgrown his strength, proposed to 
resign in Ben's favor, and the motion was carried 
by acclamation, — the " Blues " hoping everything, 
and the "Reds" fearing nothing, from the change. 

Master Buster was so resolute and yet comical, 
in his manner, that every one felt there would 
be fun if he took part. Seeing how matters stood 
as to the score, he gave a knowing wink to Barry 
Outcalt, and said he " did n't mind pitchin' in." 
He had never distinguished himself at target 
practice, but he had done a good deal of what 
Dorry called "real shooting" in the West. Be- 
sides, he was renowned throughout the neighbor- 
hood as a successful rabbit-hunter. 

Shuffling to his position, he stood in such a 
shambling, bow-legged sort of an attitude that 
even the politest of the girls smiled; and those 
who were specially anxious that the "Reds" 
should win felt more than ever confident of success. 

If Don flattered himself that it was to be an 
easy victory, he was mistaken. He still led the 
rest; but for every good shot he made after that, 
Ben had already put a companion hole, or its 
better, in his own target. The girls clapped ; the 
boys shouted with excitement. Every man of the 
contestants felt the thrill of the moment. 

The Blues did their best ; and with Outcalt and 
Ben on the other side, Don soon found that he 
had heavy work to do. Moreover, just at this 
stage, one of the Reds seemed to contract a sudden 
ambition to dot the edge of his target with holes. 
This made the Blues radiant, and would have dis- 
concerted the Reds but for Don's nerve and pluck. 
He resolved that, come what might, he would keep 
cool, and his steadiness inspired his comrades. 

"Crack!" went Don's rifle, and the bull's-eye 
winked in response. A perfect shot ! 

"Crack! " went Ed's, and his bull's-eye did n't 
wink. The second ring, however, showed the bul- 
let's track. 

" Crack ! " The next Red left his edge-dot on 
the target, as usual. 

" Crack ! " went Outcalt's rifle, and the rim of 
the bull's-eye felt it. 

Another Red went straight to the left edge of the 




The third Blue sent a shot between targets, clean 
into the earth-wall. 

" Crack ! " went the next Red. His target made 
no sign. 

Ben Buster, the Blue, now put in his third center 
shot. He was doing magnificently. 

In the next round, and the next, Donald hit the 
center, but it was plain that his skill alone would 
not avail to win the match, unless his comrades 
should better their shots ; so he tried a little general- 
ship. He urged each of the three in turn not to 
watch the score of the enemy at all, nor to regard 
the cheers of the Blues, but to give attention solely 
to making his own score as high as possible. This 
advice helped them, and soon the Reds once more 
were slightly ahead of the Blues ; but the ad- 
vantage was not sufficient to insure them a victory. 
As the final rounds drew near, the interest became 
intense. Each marksman was the object of all 
eyes, as he stepped up to the firing-line, and the 
heat of the contest caused much wild shooting ; 
yet the misses were so evenly divided between the 
two companies that the score remained almost a 

Don stepped to the firing-line. Bull's-eye again ! 

Ed Tyler next. He gave the Blue's score a lift. 

Now for the rim-dotter. He pressed his lips to- 
gether, braced every nerve, was five minutes taking 
aim, and this time put his dot very nearly in the 
center ! 

Outcalt was bewildered. He had been so sure 
Jones would hit the rim as usual, that now he 
seemed to feel bound to do it in Jones's stead. Con- 
sequently, his bullet grazed the target and hid its 
face in the earth-wall. 

The third Red fired too hastily, and failed. 

Third Blue — a bull's-eye ! 

Fourth Red — an " outer." 

Ben Buster stepped to the line. The Blues 
cheered as he raised his gun. He turned with a 
grand bow, and leveled his piece once more. But 
triumph is not always strength. His previous fine 
shooting had aroused his vanity, and now the 
girls' applause quite flustered him. He missed his 
aim ! Worse still, not being learned in the polite 
art of mastering his feelings, he became vexed, 
and in the next round actually missed his target 

Poor shooting is sometimes "catching." For 
a while, neither Reds nor Blues distinguished them- 
selves, until finally only one shot was left to be fired 
on each side ; and, so close was the contest, those 
two shots would decide the day. 

It lay between Ben Buster and Donald. 

Each side felt sure that its champion would score 
a bull's-eye, and if both should accomplish this, the 
Reds would win by two counts. But if Ben should 

hit the center, and Don's bullet even should fall 
outside of the very innermost circle, the Blues 
would be the victors. It was simply a question of 
nerve. Ben Buster, proud of his importance, 
marched to position, feeling sure of a bull's-eye. 
But, alas, for overconfidence ! The shot failed to 
reach that paradise of bullets, but fell within the 
first circle, and so near the bull's-eye that it was 
likely to make the contest a tie, unless Donald 
should score a center. 

Don had now achieved the feat of gaining nine 
bull's-eyes out of a possible fifteen. He must make 
it ten, and that with a score of voices calling to 
him: " Another bull's-eye, Don ! " " One more ! " 
" Don't miss ! " 

It was a thrilling moment, and any boy would 
have been excited. Don was. He felt his heart 
thump and his face flush as he stepped up to 
the firing-line. Turning for an instant he saw 
Dorry looking at him proudly, and as she caught 
his glance she gave her head a saucy, confident 
little toss as if sure that he would not miss. 

"Aye! aye! Dot," said Don under his breath, 
as, re-assured by her confidence, he calmly raised 
the gun to his shoulder and took careful aim. 

It seemed an age to the spectators before the 
report sounded. Then, those who were watching 
Don saw him bend his head forward with a quick 
motion and for a second peer anxiously at the tar- 
get. Then he drew back carelessly, but with a 
satisfaction that he could not quite conceal. 

A few moments later, the excited Reds came run- 
ning up, wildly waving Don's target in their arms. 
His last bullet had been the finest shot of the day, 
having struck the very center of the bull's-eye. 
Even Ben cheered. The Reds had won. Donald 
was the acknowledged champion of the club. 

But it was trying to three of the Reds, and to the 
Blues worse than the pangs of defeat, to see that 
pretty Josie Manning pin the little golden rifle on 
the lapel of Donald's coat. 

Little he thought, amid the cheering and the 
merry breaking-up that followed, how soon his 
steadiness of hand would be taxed in earnest ! 

Mr. Reed, after pleasantly congratulating the 
winning side and complimenting the Blues upon 
being so hard to conquer, walked quickly home- 
ward in earnest conversation with Sailor Jack. 

Chapter XXI. 


THE company slowly dispersed. Some of the 
young folk cut across lots to their homes ; others, 
remembering errands yet to be attended to in the 
village, directed their course accordingly. And 



finally, a group of five boys, including Donald and 
Ed Tyler, started off, being the last to leave the 
shooting-range. They were going down the hill 
toward the house, talking excitedly about the 
match, and were just entering the little apple- 
orchard between th» hill and the house, when 
they espied, afar off, a large dog running toward 

The swiftness and peculiar gait of the animal 
attracted their attention, and, on a second look, 
they noted how strangely the creature hung its 
head as it ran. 

" Hello ! " exclaimed Don, " there 's something 
wrong there. See ! He 's frothing at the mouth. 
It 's a mad dog ! " 

" That 's so ! " cried Ed. " Hurry, boys ! Make 
for the trees ! " 

A glance told them plainly enough that Don 
was right. The dog was a terrible foe, indeed, for 
a party of boys to encounter. But the apple-trees 
were about them, and as all the boys were good 
climbers, they lost not a moment in scrambling up 
to the branches. 

All but Donald ; he, too, had started for one of 
the nearest trees, when suddenly it occurred to 
him that the girls had not all left the second hill. 
Most of them had quitted the range in a bevy, 
when the match was over ; but two or three had 
wandered off to the summer-house, under the 
apple-tree, where they had been discussing the 
affairs and plans of the Botany Club. Don knew 
they were there, and he remembered the old step- 
ladder that leaned against the tree ; but the dog 
was making straight for the hill, and would be 
upon them before they could know their danger ! 
Could he warn them in time ?. He would, at least, 
try. With a shout to his companions : " The 
girls ! the girls ! " he turned and ran toward the 
hill at his utmost speed, the dog following, and 
the boys in the trees gazing upon the terrible 
race, speechless- with dread. 

Donald felt that he had a good start of his 
pursuer, however, and he had his gun in his hand, 
but it was empty. Luckily, it was a repeating-rifle ; 
and so, without abating his speed, he hastily took 
two cartridges from his jacket and slipped them 
into the chamber of the gun. 

" I '11 climb a tree and shoot him ! " he said to 
himself, "if only I can warn the girls out of the 
way. " 

" Girls ! Girls ! " lie screamed. But as he 
looked up, he saw, descending the hill and saun- 
tering toward him, his sister and Josie Manning, 
absorbed in earnest conversation. 

At first he could not utter another sound, and 
he feared that his knees would sink under him. But 
the next instant he cried out with all his might : 

Vol. IX. — 42. 

" Hack ! Back ! Climb the tree for your lives ! 
Mad dog ! Mad dog ! " 

The two girls needed no second warning. The 
sight of the horrible object speeding up the slope 
in Donald's tracks was enough. They ran as they 
never had run before, reached the tree in time, 
and, with another girl whom they met and warned, 
clambered, breathless, up the ladder to the shel- 
tering branches. 

Then all their fears centered upon Donald, who 
by this time had reached the plateau just below 
them, where the shooting-match had been held. 
He turned to run toward the apple-tree, when, to 
the dismay of all, his foot slipped, and he fell 
prostrate. Instantly he was up again, but he had 
not time to reach the tree. The dog already was 
over the slope, and was making toward him at 
a rapid, swinging gait, its tongue out, its blood- 
shot eyes plainly to be seen, froth about the 
mouth, and the jaws opening and shutting in 
vicious snaps. 

Dorry could not stand it ; she started to leave 
the tree, but fell back with closed eyes, nearly 
fainting, while the other girls clung, trembling, to 
the branches, pale and horrified. 

To the credit of Donald be it said, he faced the 
danger like a man. He felt that the slightest 
touch of those dripping jaws would bring death, 
but this was the time for action. 

Hastily kneeling behind a stump, he said to 
himself: " Now, Donald Reed, they say you 're a 
good shot. Prove it ! " And, steadying his nerves 
with all the resolution that was in him, he leveled 
his rifle at the advancing dog and fired. 

To his relief, the poor brute faltered and dropped 
— dead — as Don thought. But it was only 
wounded ; and, staggering to its feet again, it 
made another dash toward the lad. 

Don was now so encouraged, so thankful that 
his shot had been true, that, as he raised his gun a 
second time, he scarcely realized his danger, and 
was almost as cool as if firing at the target on the 
range, although the dog was now barely a dozen 
feet away. This was the last chance. The flash 
leaped from Don's rifle, and at the same moment 
he sprang up and ran for the tree as fast as his 
legs would carry him. But, before the smoke had 
cleared, a happy cry came from the girls in the 
tree. He glanced back, to see the dog lying flat 
and motionless upon the ground. 

Quickly reloading his gun, and never taking his 
finger from the trigger, he cautiously made his 
way back to the spot. But there was nothing to 
fear now. He found the poor brute quite dead, its 
hours of agony over. 

The group that soon gathered around looked at 
it and at one another without saving a word. 




Then Dorry spoke : " Stand back, everybody. It's Uncle know. Ask him if we shall bury it right 
dangerous to go too near. I 've often heard that." here." "That 's the best," cried Dot, excitedly, 


" Yes," said Don, "the body must be dis- 
posed of at once." 

" Bury it right here where it lies," sug- 
gested Ed ; and Donald nodding a silent 
" Certainly," added, aloud : " Poor fellow ! 
Whose dog can he be ? " 

"Why it 's our General!" cried one of 
the boys. "As sure as I live it is! He 
was well yesterday." Then, turning pale, he 
added: "Oh, I must go right home " 

" Go with him, some of you fellows," Don said, as she started off. " Jack and I '11 bring spades." 
gravely; "and Dot, suppose you run and let "Yes; but tell Uncle !" Don shouted after her. 

(To be continued, ) 





SOME of our readers may remember that in 
Robert Browning's famous poem of " Herve Riel," 
which was reprinted in our " Treasure-box of 
Literature" for September, 1881, the poet men- 
tions the town and roadstead of St. Malo. This 
old sea-port town of Normandy is situated upon a 

made up his mind to be buried on it. At the 
extreme end of the rock, so close to the edge that 
it is a wonder how the grave was ever dug, stands 
a plain granite cross, — his only monument. 

" I had often admired the pretty bay, and won- 
dered to see so many islands near the land; but 

lovely little bay, and the curious contrivance shown 
in the above picture was used as a bridge across 
part of this bay. 

We do not know whether this queer bridge still 
exists or not, but you will be interested in the fol- 
lowing description of it by an English traveler : 

" A little after midday, our vessel steamed into 
the bay so famous for its beauty and its oysters. 

"Just before we entered it, we had passed a 
French lightship, and I had been much amused 
by watching our union jack being hauled up and 
down, to say 'Good-morning' in nautical language 
to our foreign friend. 

" The bay is studded with islands of various 
sizes and forms, the largest of all being surmounted 
with a fort, while another, near enough to land to 
be reached on foot at low water, contains the 
grave of the great French writer Chateaubriand. 

" He was born at St. Malo, and the towns- 
people presented this rocky island to him. 

" It was rather an awkward present, after all — 
too small to live upon, and too large to carry 
away and put in a museum; so Chateaubriand 

now for the first time I learned the cause of this, 
being told by a Frenchman that formerly there 
was no bay, but that centuries ago the main- 
land had been split by a great earthquake, which 
had let in the ocean. 

" I was interested by this account, and was 
wondering over it, when the sight of a ghostly 
looking machine, creeping along across our path, 
roused me. 

" It was the rolling bridge that plies between 
St. Malo and St. Servan. The ' bridge ' is a sort 
of railed platform, bearing a small covered cabin, 
and supported high in air by slender trestle-work ; 
beneath the trestle are set the wheels, which run 
on rails laid upon the bottom and visible at low 
water. The passengers being all on board, a man 
sounds a trumpet, and then the machine glides 
silently and swiftly across, worked by a little 
engine on one side of the harbor. When it is 
high water, and the lower part of the bridge can 
not be seen, it is most peculiar to watch the 
spidery-looking contrivance making its way across 
without any visible propeller." 




By Clara L. Burnham. 

A WEE baby boy sitting up in his cradle, 

With fleecy cloud-curtains draped high o'er his head.— 

He blinks at the " dipper," that big starry ladle, 

Nor fears that the "great bear" will tread on his bed. 

But night after night, as he sails through the heavens, 

His cradle is changed to a golden balloon, 

And baby, grown older, leans out and looks earthward, 

Where children hail gayly the Man in the Moon. 

A T RUE S T R Y A B O U T A Q U E E R K I , Y . 



By L. H. 

It was on Little Snake River, near the Colorado 
line, that I saw my queer fly, one bright, sunny 
day, in the early summer, when the vegetation was 
just blossoming in that high latitude, although 
much further advanced in more favored regions. 
On a well-beaten path in the alkaline soil, which 
the sun had warmed and dried, the fly was hurry- 
ing along, dragging, with its slender legs, another 
insect, apparently dead, which seemed a heavy bur- 
den for it. The little creature would stop every 
few minutes to take a breathing-spell, and at these 
times it would spread its wings upon the ground 
and lie perfectly motionless ; then, as if receiving 
increase of strength from contact with the earth, 
it would shake itself, and return to its wearisome 
task. We soon discovered that its purpose was to 
find a perfectly dry and safe spot in which to bury 
its burden, until the occupant of the egg that she 
was about to lay in it should come to life, feed on 
the entombed insect, and at last rise from its 
grave, expand its iridescent wings, and fly away. 

There were four of us, officers of the army, 
watching the performance, which was new to all. 
and, as the sequel proved, very interesting. After 
a few moments, the fly dropped her burden and 
went off to select a spot suitable for her purpose. 
But, in a short time, apparently fearing that her 
treasure might be disturbed during her absence, 
she started to fly back. While she was gone, how- 
ever, one of us moved her prey a short distance 
away from where it had been left, and when she 
returned and did not find it, she fell into a flutter 
of excitement. She flew swiftly about in circles, 
widening at every round, until she became wear- 
ied, when she spread herself prone on the ground 
until rested, and then retraced her path, lessening 
the circles and never becoming confused. Soon 
the insect was placed where she could find it, when 
she seized it with unmistakable pleasure and bore it 
away to the site of the grave, and, after resting a 
second or two, began to dig with might and main. 
Her manner of excavating was peculiar ; she stood 
on her head and, spinning swiftly around like a 
top, bored into the ground like an auger, making a 
humming noise with her wings. When exhausted 
by this violent exercise, she was not satisfied with 

merely resting on the ground, but sought the shade 
cast by a blade of grass or a leaf of a tiny shrub, 
which afforded a cool retreat to her slender body. 

The hole was soon bored out, and smoothed to 
exactly the right width and depth to receive the 
seemingly dead insect, although no measurements 
had been made by this Lilliputian engineer, who 
had worked with unerring skill, unheeding the 
giants watching her. Having completed her task, 
she took a good rest within the shadow of her 
favorite leaf, and then sought her burden. But, 
again, it was gone ! 

At this, she acted precisely as if she were say- 
ing : " Oh, dear, dear ! I laid the thing there, close 
by the grave, as sure as sure. And yet I must be 
mistaken ; for I had paralyzed it with my sting so 
that it could neither fly nor walk ; and those hulk- 
ing giants standing around here would not be so 
mean as to steal it from me. Oh, fie ! There it 
is. I fear my brains are in a whirl from overwork 
in this hot sun. I could have sworn I laid it on 
this side, instead of on that."' (One of us had 
moved the insect again.) Then she laid an egg 
in the insect. 

The burial did not take her long : deftly she 
patted down the dust, and butted at it, using her 
small head as a battering-ram ; but before she had 
half finished, she was forced from sheer weakness 
to seek again the shady covert of the leaf 

And during this interval, — so eager were we to 
observe the little worker's queer ways, — we took 
advantage of her absence to remove the insect from 
its hole and lay it on the ground alongside. When 
she returned, she looked at it intently for a mo- 
ment, and then patiently went to work to put it 
back ; and this was repeated twice, with the same 
result. Finally the patient fly, after resting a longer 
time than usual, returned to give the finishing 
touches to the grave, and finding it again despoiled, 
seemed to become terribly enraged, as if convinced 
that the insect was trying to make a fool of her. 
She fell upon it and stung it again and again, and 
finally destroyed it by repeated blows. 

At this unexpected denouement, we walked away 
to our tents, amazed that so small a head should 
contain such a volume of wrath. 

6 5 6 



By Aunt Fanny. 

"What you fink I clot in dis box?" asked Ma-yo, hold-ing out a lit- 
tle yel-low pa-per box that once had held ice-cream. 

" I don't know," said Aunt Ni-na. 

"Well, you dess," said Ma-yo. 

" Oh, must I ? I euess it is ice-cream ! " 

" No ! " shout-ed Ma-yo. " It is two 'it-tie mous-ies." And o-pen-ing the 
box, he dropped in his aunt's lap two ti-ny mice, quite dead. 

"Where did you get these? " asked Aunt Ni-na. 

" Mar-gy gave dem to me. She shaked 'em out of a 'it-tie red box." 


" Oh, poor lit-tle things ! That red box was a trap ; it killed them, and 
now their moth-er is look-ing for them. Poor mam-ma mouse !" 

" Tell me 'bout it," said Ma-yo, ea-ger-ly, and he climbed to his aunt's 
lap and put the mice back in the box. Aunt Ni-na began : 

" Once up-on a time, there lived un-der the pan-try floor a brown mouse, 
and she had two lit-tle mous-ies named Brown-ie and Black-ie. They were 
ver-y hap-py. They played hide and go seek, and they had plen-ty to eat, 
for the serv-ant let ma-ny crumbs of bread and cake fall on the floor. The 
moth-er mouse was al-ways tell-ing her chil-dren nev-er to go near a big 
creat-ure that lived in the house, and that had great green eyes and fierce 
whisk-ers, and would pounce up-on them and eat them up, if he should 
catch one of them. 

"So, when Brown-ie and Black-ie came through the lit-tle hole in the 
cor-ner of the pan-try, just a-bove the floor, their bright black eyes looked 
right and left, and up and down, to see if that dread- ful creat-ure was 
a-ny-where near. 

" Some-times the pan- try door was o-pen, and they would see the creat-ure 
sit-ting close by, and then, whew ! they would rush back through the hole, 
their hearts beat-ing fast be-cause they were so fright-ened. Do you know 
the name of that big creat-ure ? " 

" I dess it was a nor-ful bear," said Ma-yo. 

" No ; it was a CAT !" said Aunt Ni-na. " Let us look at the poor lit-tle 
mice in the box. Don't you see that a cat is twen-ty times big-ger than 
one of these mice ? A cat seems as big to a lit-tle mouse as an el-e-phant 
seems to you. 

" Well, one day the pan-try door was shut, and out came Brown-ie and 
Black-ie to hunt for a break-fast. It was not a dark pan-try, for there was 
a lit-tle win-clow in the side of the wall. They whisked and frisked a-round, 
and soon saw in one cor-ner a great ma-ny bread-crumbs. In an-oth-er was 
a lit-tle heap of su-gar, a-bout as large as a sil-ver dol-lar, and at least half a 
crack-er lay near it. Here was a splen-did feast! — too much, in-deed ; 
so the good lit-tle things car-ried the crack-er to the hole and pushed it 
through, so that it might be hand-y when sup-per-time should come. 

" ' Let 's play hide and go seek,' said Brown-ie, who could not work 
for long with-out hav-ing a game of play. 

" 'Oh, yes!' cried Black-ie. 'And I '11 be the one to hide first — why, 
what 's that ? ' he asked, point-ing with his sharp nose at a small red box 
un-der the shelf. 

" ' Let 's go and see,' said Brown-ie. ' Oh, how nice some-thing smells ! ' 
And he went sniff, sniff, sniff-ing, close up to the box. ' Look ! There is a 


round hole in it ! ' — sniff, sniff ' I do de-clare, it is that lit-tle yel-low lump, 
in-side, that smells so sweet ! Dear me, Black-ie ! It makes me feel so 
hun-gry that I '11 have to go and try a bit of it.' 

" ' No ; let me go ! ' cried Black-ie. 

" ' No ! I found it first,' said Brown-ie. 

" 'Well, so you did,' an-swered the good lit-tle broth-er ; 'but don't you 
eat it all, will you ? ' 

" ' Why, no ! I would n't be so mean.' Then Brown-ie ran quick-ly and 
put his head through the hole. 

" ' Click ! ' went some-thing, and a shin-y wire hoop, that was ly-ing on 
top of the box, flew up and made an arch. Brown-ie's legs kicked a lit-tle, 
and then he was quite still. 

" ' Dear me, how long he stays ! ' thought Black-ie, quite read-y for 
his bite of the yel-low lump. ' I do be-lieve he means to eat ev-ery sin- 
gle bit. I think it is too bad of him.' 

" He went to his broth-er, and tried to pull him out by his legs, but 
Brown-ie did not stir. At this, Black-ie be-came ver-y an-gry, and said : 
' I '11 just go home and tell my moth-er how mean he is ! ' Then he ran 
a-round the red box, and what should he es-py but an-oth-er hole, and 
in-side of it an-oth-er yel-low lump ! 

" ' O-ho ! ' he cried, ' I can have a feast, too ! What fun ! ' 

" He poked his head, in a great hur-ry, through the hole, and the next 
in-stant that sound came a-gain — ' Click !' And an-oth-er wire hoop flew up 
on top of the box. 

" And oh, what a pit-y ! Both lit-tle broth-ers were caught, and killed 
in the cru-el trap — and here they are, dead, in your box. Are n't you 
sor-ry ? " 

" Yes," said Ma-yo. " Poor 'it-tie mous-ies ! 'at was a jef-ful bad t'ap to 
kill poor fings ! " and he took them up gent-ly and smoothed their soft fur. 

Then, what do you think that lit-tle boy did ? He slid down from his 
aunt's lap and went to Mar-gy, the cook, and begged her to give him the 
red box ; and at last she gave it to him. Then Ma-yo went in-to the gar-den 
and poked the trap a-way un-der a cur-rant-bush, where no-bod-y would ev-er 
think of look-ing for it. " Bad box ! " he said, shak-ing his fing-er at it ; 
"you s'ant kill a-ny more poor 'it-tie mous-ies!" 

He car-ried Brown-ie and Black-ie 'round the house all that day. He 
showed them to the gar-den-er, and the coach-man, and the cook; and in the 
af-ter-noon his aunt coaxed him to dig a hole un-der a rose-bush, and there 
they bur-ied the two lit-tle broth-er mice. 

Ma-yo still feels sor-ry for the "poor 'it-tie mous-ies." I do, too. Don't you ? 






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How do birdies learn to sing? 

From the whistling wind so fleet. 
From the waving of the wheat. 
From the rustling of the leaves, 
From the rain-drop on the eaves, 
From the tread of welcome feet, 
From the children's laughter sweet, 
Little birdies learn their trill 
As they gayly float at will 
In the gladness of the sky, 
When the clouds are white and high, 
In the beauty of the day 
Speeding on their sunny way, 
Light of heart, and fleet of wing — 
That 's how birdies learn to sing. 

Jack says so, any way. 


Dear Jack: Having just seen a curiosity, one which I am sure 
will be found very interesting to many of your readers, I thought 1 
would write to you about it. It is "Violet Candy," made of violets 
grown in Paris. It was given to my uncle in New Orleans, by a 
gentleman who had just received it from France. 

It is beautiful as well as delicious, for it retains its shape and 
color, and, wonderful to say, its flavor also, if I may so express it. 
The whole violet, with its stem and every petal perfect, is conserved, 
and in both smell and taste it is as fragrant as a freshly plucked 
flower. Yours truly, Frank Bethune. 

Poor violets! What are they coming to? 


There is a mark of a finger-nail minted on a 
certain Chinese coin, and it originated, I 'm told, 
in the time of the great Queen Wentek. A wax 
model of a proposed coin was brought to her for 
inspection, and in handling it she happened to 
leave upon it the impression of one of her finger- 

nails. Nobody dared to efface it, and for hundreds 
of years the curious nail-mark has appeared on 
that Chinese coin. And it has even been copied 
in those of Japan and Corea. 


"Humph! a pretty pass things have come to, 
when people must know everything about every- 
body," said a timid feathered friend of mine when 
I told him of a letter I had received, detailing some 
particular secrets of Mr. Chanticleer and his family, 
and I sympathized with him. k 'The interests of 
science, you know," was all I could say. And 
here is the letter : 

Dear Jack : A gendeman friend of mine, who is very familiar 
with the habits of chickens, says that the rooster, when danger ap- 
proaches, almost always gives a peculiar warning cry of alarm. It 
is not noisy, like the crow of defiance or triumph, but when the 
human ear has once observed it, it does sound very strikingly like 
an alarm. It has a guarded "Look out — something is wrong! " 
sound, and is given whenever the rooster is startled, or sometimes 
when he is suddenly disturbed. 

If there is no rooster about, the hens will sometimes make the 
sound described ; and the mother-hen will always do her best for her 
chicks in time of danger. I have known them to so thoroughly 
hide themselves, under her instructions, on the approach of a hawk, 
that I did not dare step about in the half-grown clover for fear of 
treading upon them; yet she had not staid by them. I found her 
near by, under some tall bushes, the clover probably being too short 
to hide her. 

My friend raises many chickens, and whenever an egg is near 
hatching he can tell, by placing it suddenly close to his ear, whether 
the chick inside is a rooster or not ; for it will give an alarm note 
resembling the one I have told you of. 

I suppose he would not be absolutely certain that silence meant a 
cunning little Dame Pullet inside, but he says that he has very often 
heard Master Chanticleer declaring in advance, while not yet out of 
his shell, his determination to protect himself and his friends. 

Yours truly, M. A. P. 


If you don't believe it, just read this item from 
a trustworthy newspaper : 

"The village of West Fairview, Cumberland County, Pa., has 
been afflicted with a plague of bees. Two of the citizens keep 
some one hundred and thirty hives, and as bad weather made other 
food scarce, the interesting insects invaded the stores and houses in 
quest of sweets. Half a bushel of them swarmed in one man's 
kitchen, of which they remained sole tenants for a week. In that 
house, on their account, all fruit canning and preserving had to be 
done at night, and for many days all the family had to climb out 
and in by the windows, the beus laying siege to the doors. In addition 
to this, whole orchards of fruit and arbors of grapes were devoured 
by the bees. Dozens of persons were badly stung while passing 
along the streets, and a reign of terror was established." 

Your Jack has nothing to say for those bees 
— excepting that when men li invade" the bees' 
homes "in quest of sweets," we seem to see no 
newspaper notices of "a reign of terror" ! But 
the bees may take account of it, perhaps, in some 
way of their own. 


Dear Jack: In the December number of the St. Nicholas I 
read about a music-loving squirrel, which made me think of a story 
my mamma often tells us. When she was a little girl, she used to 
stand in a window near a stable, in the yard of which there were a 
great many rats. As soon as she began to sing, one rat after another 
would stick his head out of a hole ; but as soon as she stopped, away 
they would go. In a house we used to live in, there were a great 
many rats, which made such a noise in the garret that it somenmts 
frightened strangers who came to stay all night. We had a bag of 
chestnuts on the stairs. One night the rats discovered them, and we 
could hear them pitter-patter up and down the stairs, scamper across 
the floor, and then drop the nuts down between the walls. This 
they kept up until we spoiled their fun by taking the nuts away. 

Your faithful reader, Blanche McCormick, 12 years old. 



66 I 


Wonders will never cease ! Who would believe 
that in any part of the world men would ride on 
ladies' saddles? But an English gentleman, — Mr. 
Palgrave, — who has been to Arabia, says that it is 
all the fashion in one part of that country, where 
both men and women ride their donkeys with side- 


Here is a letter, my friends, which to a land- 
lubber, like your Jack, is very interesting, and I 
am sure it is true. So let 's read it together, and 
take a good look, too, at the picture. 

As 1 am an honest Jack, the enormous, finny, 
fish-tailed fellow shown here looks very like a fish. 

and dragged up high and dry for inspection. He 
reminds me, somehow, of a story about one Gulli- 
ver that the Little School-ma'am tells. But here 
is the letter : 

Dear Jack-in-the-pulpit: Here is a picture of a "great hig 
fish " that is not a fish at all : and you therefore may be pleased to 
show it to your young friends. Though whales live in the water, 
you may say, they are not really like fishes. They can not breathe 

under water, and would be drowned, just as we should, if kept there 
too long. They hold their breath while below, and when they come 
to the surface they blow out the used air through blow-holes near 
the top of the head. 

The two kinds of whales are called Boned whales and Toothed 
whales. The boned whales have no teeth, but have instead a mass 
of what is known as "whalebone," hanging down from the roof of 
the mouth at each side of the tongue. By means of this whalebone 
they secure their food, which consists of very small, soft, floating 
creatures. The toothed whales, on the contrary, have stout, strong 
teeth, and with these they kill and tear to pieces the great animals on 
which they feed. The sperm-whale is the largest of the toothed 

But the letter says he is not a fish. And I am told 
that Mr. Ingcrsoll says the same thing about those 
queer creatures, the seals, in this very number of 
St. Nicholas. 

By the way, Jack does n't quite see how that 
whale ever got up on the shore so nicely. It is n't 
enough for some of you clever youngsters to say 
that the artist drew him up there. We want some- 
thing' more scientific. May be, the huge creature 
has been thrown up by some terrible storm, — and, 
may be, he has been caught by whale-fishermen 

variety, and it is a sperm-whale which is represented in the picture I 
send. Some of them grow to be sixty-five and even seventy feet in 
length. The sperm-whale is killed not only for the sake ol the oil 
or blubber which it yields, but also for the spermaceti — a material 
which is found in the head of the whale, and which looks something 
like camphor gum and is used for making candles and other things. 
Another curious product, which is sometimes found in the body 
of the sperm-whale, and which is worth more, even, than the sperma- 
ceti, is called ambergris. It is a substance used in the manufacture 
of perfumery, and brings a very high price. 

The sperm-whale feeds chiefly on cuttle-fishes, which it easily 
destroys with its very strong teeth, sometimes killing cuttles that are 
nearly as long as itself. It is found mostly in the seas near the 
equator, unlike some of the other species, which seem to love the cold. 

Will you tell your children all this, with my compliments, and be- 
lieve me, dear Jack, Yours truly. W, O. A. 





Contributors are respectfully informed that, between the ist of June and the 15th of September, manuscripts can not conveniently be 
examined at the office of St. Nicholas. Consequently, those who desire to favor the magazine with con- 
tributions will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date. 

As A great many of our new subscribers may not have seen the 
earlier volumes of St. Nicholas, they may be glad to read here 
one of Mr. Longfellow's contributions to this magazine, — the fine 
poem of "The Three Kings," originally printed in the Christmas 
St. Nicholas for 1877. 

By Henry W. Longfellow. 

Three Kings came riding from far away, 

Melchior and Gaspar and Baltazar; 
Three Wise Men out of the East were they, 

And they traveled by night and they slept by day, 
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. 

The star was so beautiful, large and clear. 

That all the other stars of the sky 
Became a white mist in the atmosphere, 
And the Wise Men knew that the coming was near 

Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. 

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, 

Three caskets of gold with golden keys ; 
Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows 
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows. 

Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. 

And so the Three Kings rode into the West, 

Through the dusk of night over hills and dells, 
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, 
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, 
With the people they met at the way-side wells. 

1 Of the child that is born," said Baltazar, 
"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news, 
For we in "the East have seen his star, 
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, 
To find and worship the King of the Jews." 

And the people answered: "You ask in vain; 

We know of no king but Herod the Great!" 
They thought the Wise Men were men insane, 
As they spurred their horses across the plain 

Like riders in haste who can not wait. 

And when they came to Jerusalem, 

Herod the Great, who had heard this thing. 

Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; 

And said : " Go down into Bethlehem, 
And bring me tidings of this new king." 

So they rode away ; and the star stood still, 

The only one m the gray of morn ; 
Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will. 
Right over Bethlehem on the hill, 

The city of David where Christ was born. 

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, 
Through the silent street, till their horses turned 

And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; 

But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, 
And only a light in the stable burned. 

And cradled there in the scented hay, 

In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, 

The little child in the manger lay, — 

The child that would be king one day 
Of a kingdom not human but divine. 

His mother, Maty of Nazareth, 

Sat watching beside his place of rest, 
Watching the even flow of his breath, 
For the joy of life and the terror of death 

Were mingled together in her breast. 

They laid their offerings at his feet; 

The gold was their tribute to a king; 
The frankincense, with its odor sweet, 
Was for the priest, the Paraclete, 

The myrrh for the body's burying. 

And the mother wondered and bowed her head, 

And sat as still as a statue of stone; 
Her heart was troubled, yet comforted, 
Remembering what the angel had said 
Of an endless reign and of David's throne. 

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, 

With the clatter of hoofs, in proud array; 
But they went not back to Herod the Great, 
For they knew his malice and feared his hate, 
And returned to their homes by another way. 

In connection with the mentionof " The Old Clock on the Stairs," 
in the two articles concerning Mr. Longfellow, given in the present 
number, it should be said that the clock upon the stairs in his house 
at Cambridge was not the one mentioned in his famous poem. That 
special clock stood in the house of Mr. Longfellow's father-in-law, 
at Pittsfield, Mass. But the poet was in the habit of pointing out 
particularly the favorite old-fashioned clock on the stairs of his Cam- 
bridge home, and naturally visitors sometimes made the mistake of 
supposing this one to be the old clock of the poem. 

Dear St. Nicholas: You asked in the .rtpril number who could 
say more about " El Escurial." I think, as I have seen it, I shall 
be able to do so. It was built by Philip II., king of Spain, three 
centuries ago, in memory of a battle fought on the day dedicated to 
San Lorenzo, who was martyred on a gridiron, for which reason 
the palace is built in the shape of a gridiron. By some it is called 
the eighth wonder of the world. It is situated about two hours' 
ride from Madrid, and on the edge of a hill, in a prominent position. 
It is comparatively plain on the outside, but very handsome in the 
interior. There is a church in the center, under which is a grand 
and beautiful mausoleum, built of marble from all parts of the world. 
Many kings of Spain are buried there and several niches are empty, 
waiting for future kings. The walls of some of the rooms are inlaid 
with woods which came from South America and cost seven million 

I am always very anxious to receive St. Nicholas, and all the 
time I was abroad I watched for it with as much interest as we did 
for letters. Yours truly, Emma W. Comfort, i-z years. 

Mr. Willson's article in the February St. Nicholas, on "How 
to Run," has, it seems, proved very popular among the boy-readers 
of St. Nicholas ; and the following, which is one of the best letters 
that we have received, shows how practical and useful Mr. Willson's 
hints have been : 

Dear St. Nicholas : We read that article in your number for 
February on running, and we tried breathing through our noses. 
Though not able to run a quarter of a mile before, yet the first time I 
tried it I ran nearly three-quarters of a mile, and I can now run a 
mile and a half without any difficulty, and my sister, who is writing 
with me, ran a mile the first time she tried. 

Margaret W. Stickney. 
Weston Stickney. 

In connection with this article, also, we must add the following 
newspaper items concerning two famous runners, which have been 
sent to us by kind correspondents: 

" Count Eugene Kinsky, of the old Czechian nobility, was noted in 
Austria as an athlete and runner. A friend of his in Pesth was the 
other day singing the praises of the 'Orloff' trotters, which at one 
time did excellent work in the trotting races in Yienna. The Count 
made a large bet that he would beat this pair on foot at a short- 
distance race, viz., half a length of the Pesth Rondeau, some two 

T H E LETT E R - B (") X . 

66 3 

hundred yards. The race came off promptly, the Count getting well 
away at starting and coming in some fifteen feet before the horses, 
much to the disgust of their owners." 

" The pedestrian feats of the present day are cast into the shade by 
the recorded exploits of Ernst Mensen, a Norwegian sailor in the 
English navy, early in the present century. Mensen first attracted 
attention by running from London to Portsmouth in nine hours, and 
soon after he ran from London to Liverpool in thirty-two hours. 
Having distinguished himself at the battle of Navarino, in 1827, he 
left the navy and became a professional runner. After winning a 
number of matches he undertook the feat of running from Paris to 
Moscow. Starting from the Place Vendome at 4 o'clock in the 
afternoon of June n, 1831, he entered the Kremlin at 10 o'clock a.m. 
on June 25, having accomplished the distance, 1,760 miles, in thirteen 
days and eighteen hours. The employment of Mensen as a 'courier 
extraordinary ' soon became a popular amusement in European 
courts. He ran from country to country, bearing messages of con- 
gratulation or condolence, and despatches, and always beat mounted 
couriers when matched against them. He never walked, but inva- 
riably ran, his only refreshment being one biscuit and an ounce of 
raspberry syrup per day, and two short rests of ten or fifteen 
minutes each in twenty-four hours. These rests he took standing, 
and leaning against a tree or other support ; at such times he 
covered his face with a handkerchief and slept. After the nap, he 
pursued his way as much refreshed as though he had slept for hours. 
In 1S36, while in the employ of the East India Company, Mensen 
was charged with the conveying of despatches from Calcutta to Con- 
stanlinople through Central Asia. The distance is 5,615 miles, 
which the messenger accomplished in fifty-nine days, or in one-third 
of the time made by the swiftest caravan. At last he was employed 

to discover the source of the Nile. Setting out from Silesia on May 
11, 1843, he ran to Jerusalem, and thence to Cairo, and up the 
western bank of the river into Upper Egypt. Here, just outside the 
village of Syang, he was seen to stop and rest, leaning against a 
palm tree, bis face covered with a handkerchief. He rested so long 
that some persons tried to wake him ; but they tried in vain, for he 
was dead. He was buried at the foot of the tree, and it was years 
before his friends in Europe knew what fate had befallen him." 

The author of "The Children's Fan Brigade" (printed in 
St. Nicholas for January, 1881) writes to us to say that repeated 
trials have shown that the Drill Prompter, suggested in that article, 
is rather a hinderance than an aid, as it is confusing to have a voice 
break in when the drill must go bar by bar with the music, and each 
bar brings the next movement to mind. The drill is essentially a 
silent one, as each child carries the movements mentally, and the 
music itself is the prompter. 

She calls attention also to an error in one of the illustrations of 
the article. In the picture entitled "Gossip," there should be only 
one straight line of girls, instead of two. The directions concerning 
this movement are correct, as they include but one row of girls. 

The Fan Brigade has proved to be one of the most popular enter- 
tainments ever printed in St. Nicholas, and we gladly make room 
for these corrections for the benefit of any persons who are thinking 
of performing this entertaining and picturesque drill. 


At the time of making our latest report the highest number on our 
register was 2143. Now we number 2630 — making a gain, in two 
months, of nearly 500. At this rate, we may hope for a membership 
of 5000 before Christmas. 

Exchanges Desired. 

Minerals. — H. E. Sawyer, 37 Gates St., So. Boston, Mass. 

Other flowers, for any violets excepting Viola cucullata, blanda, 
pedata, pubescetts, sagittata, and delphinifolia. — F. T. Griswold, 
Columbus, Wis. 

Foreign and native woods, sea-mosses, wood-mosses, shells, ferns, 
flowers, and minerals. — Wm. C. Phillips, New Bedford, Mass. 

Geodes, from the size of a walnut to the size of a water-bucket. — 
Z. T. Snively, Waylancl, Clark Co., Mo. 

"The Mysterious Island," "Dropped from the Clouds," and 
" Abandoned," by Jules Verne. — Russell D. Jannez, Marietta, O. 

Birds' eggs and woods, for eggs. — I . B. Russell, 95 Belleville Ave. , 
Newark, N. J. 

Encrinite stems for sea-shells. — John T. Nixon, Osage City, Kan. 

A great variety of minerals, for others or Indian relics. — A. J. 
Martin, Jr., 1914 Spring Garden St., Philadelphia, Pa. 

Sea-shells and sand-dollars, for ores. — Philip C. Tucker, Jr., Gal- 
veston, Texas. 

Insects. — G. W. Pepper, Taunton, Mass. 

Five cocoons of Attaats Cccropia, for one living cocoon of At- 
taats Luna. Also, ores and pearl shells for exchange. — Thomas B. 
Emery, 323S Dearborn St., Chicago. 

Reports from Chapters. 

Ottumwa, Iowa, Feb. 28, 18S2. 
Within the year we have added to our cabinet many specimens of 
minerals and precious stones; 175 species of fossil shells, corals, and 
woods ; 20 species of river shells (Uuto); 15 land shells and 50 sea 
shells ; and about 100 miscellaneous specimens. The entire collec- 
tion is now valued at more than $250. 

Late in the fall, my brother and I found in the river a very large 
chrysalis. At first I thought it was dead, but when I got home and 
was showing it to Mother, it moved, and I am now anxiously wait- 

ing for the appearance of the moth. It has a curious stem-like 
appendage growing from the bead, curved backward, and fastened 
to the middle of the back. I inclose a drawing of it. 

Will A. Lighton. 

[Questions for the A. A. : I. What will the moth be ? II. What is 
the appendage ? III. How did the chrysalis get into the river ?J 

Nevada City, Cal. 
Our collection is rapidly increasing ; an interesting feature of it is 
a tarantula's nest. It is made of mud and clay, and has a trap- 
door, apparently on hinges. The spider enters, closes the door, 
and it is impossible to open it. The only visible fastening is a small 
white spot, just inside the door; but the manner of holding it closed 
is a puzzle, as yet unsolved. Can any one throw light on it ? We 
wish to exchange California flowers fur sea-weeds and mosses. We 
will mount them, and wish others to do the same. Please reprint the 
secretary's address, giving the name of Yours truly, 

Maude Smith. 

Lockport, N. Y„ Feb. 27, 1882. 

This branch was organized on Wednesday, the 25th of January, 
1SS1, and although the society is only a year old, in the treasurer's 
book are recorded the names of one hundred and twenty-five mem- 
bers. We have a cabinet filled with specimens, fifty dollars' worth 
of which we purchased. 

We have a small library of volumes by the very best authors in 
natural history. We have everything we need, excepting a micro- 
scope, and we intend to purchase one some day. We have a 
picture of Louis Agassiz hanging over our cabinet. 

Geo. W. Pound, Sec. 

[This letter is truly inspiring. It is an illustration of what might 
be done in hundreds of towns if young and old, school committees 
and teachers, parents and children, would all unite. Not much sale 
for dime novels in Lockport !] 

Pigeon Cove, Mass., Feb. 27, 18S2. 
We now number nine active and two honorary members. We 
formed in February, 1SS1, and now our cabinet overflows with valuable 
specimens. We have most of the common minerals in our vicinity. 
[Good !] We have for exchange marine curiosities and Cape Ann 
minerals, some of which are found nowhere else. Please refer us to 
Chapters in the West and South. 

Chas. H. Andrews, Curator. 

Will you admit us as a Chapter of your Association? I am a 
type-setter, and work ten hours in the office, and walk four miles 
besides, every day. [Think of that, boys, who think you "have n't 
time!" This is a young lady, too — you must know!] Three 
others are my sisters, from nine to nineteen. Seven others are bright, 




hard-working, economical German boys and girls, and the rest are 
Americans. We none of us know anything, in a systematic way, 
about natural history', but some of us know all about where the ear- 
liest flowers grow, can tell ever so many different kinds of wood 
in the lumber, and all know marvelous stories of the instinct and 
"human ways" of domestic animals. We have few books and 
almost no books of reference. We have little time, and less money 
to spend. Now, do you want us? We are ready to do our best. 

[Thrice and four times welcome ! A Chapter after our own heart.] 

Chicago, Feb. 25, 1882. 
'We have ten members. Our aim is not to have a large num- 
ber, but to have a few good workers. We have honorary mem- 
bers, among whom are Prof. Bastin of the Chicago University, and 
Prof. Delfontaine of the High School. Prof. Bastin recently gave 
us a lecture on the "Motions of Climbing Plants." We use 
Geikie's Geology, printed in the Science Primer edition, and assign 
passages to be elaborated by our members. One of our number was 
lately fortunate enough to win a $110 microscope, in a prize exam- 
ination in microscopy open to the students of any incorporated col- 
lege in this city. C. S. Brown, Sec, 117 Park Place. 

[The whole " A. A." will feel pleased that one of its members has 
won this fine instrument. The adjective "fortunate" is entirely 
too modest.] 

Geneva, N. Y., Feb. 27, 1882. 

The scholars and teachers of the " Quincy School " have been much 
interested in the Agassiz Association. We have formed a Chapter under 
the name " Geneva A. A," with twenty-five members. Our first 
meeting was held last week. We talked about sponges. Six boys 
took part. At the close of a very interesting discussion, a Venus 
basket-sponge was presented to us. Our next talk will be on game- 
birds. We shall be glad to correspond and exchange with other 
chapters. Miss N. A. Wilson, Sec. 

[These school Chapters constitute one of the pleasantest features 
of the A. A. Teachers and scholars work much more frequently 
side by side than formerly, and it is an excellent thing for them 

Columbus, Wis., Feb. 26, 1882. 

Our time has been divided among flowers, insects, and minerals, 
and we have good collections of each. 

We consider our seventy-five specimens of flowers as only a begin- 
ning. We have them nicely mounted, with a full analysis of each, and 
we are very anxious for spring, that we may again search the woods 
and meadows. There are so few of us, that we think of having 
painted badges. Yours for the cause, F. T. Griswold, Sec. 

Depere, Wis., Feb. 27, 1S82. 
We have eleven new members, making twenty in all, to which num- 
ber we have limited our Chapter for the present. Our badges are of 
double-faced satin ribbon, pink on one side, and blue on the other. 
They are stamped with A. A. in gilt, and painted, on the blue side, 
with trailing arbutus. The pink side, being used to distinguish theofh- 
cers, is painted with wood violets and grasses. At our last meeting, 
some very convincing evidence of animals' counting was given, in 
the case of a water-spaniel. If his master, while hunting, drops two 
birds, he will not return to the boat without both, and if only one 
has fallen, he returns satisfied when he has found that one. 

Mrs. R. W. Arndt, Sec. 

West Medford, Mass. 
At first we were six, but we now number twelve. There is not a 
boy among us, and we are going to see what the girls can do alone. 
We are making mineralogy a study. We have a very simple 
method for making spirit-lamps : Take a glass botde with a wide 
mouth, a cork to fit it tightly, a thimble without a top, and some 
cord wicking or piping cord. The thimble must be forced through 
a hole in the cork, and the wick drawn through the thimble. With 
alcohol in the bottle, the lamp is ready for use. For a blow-pipe, 
we use a common clay pipe, placing the bowl at the mouth to blow. 

Edith Samson. 

6 Ave. de Chateau, Neuillv, France. 

I notice, in my letter printed in St. Nicholas, it says that Agassiz 
was born by Lake Geneva. I should have written Neuchatel Lake. 

We have to pay a good deal, because almost everybody sends a 
postal and no stamp. Kenneth Brown. 

New Bedford, Mass., Feb. 28, 1882. 
I collect caterpillars and keep them under glasses, feeding them 
until they change. I sometimes have a hundred glasses at a time. I 
learn what they eat, and their habits. My two sisters are interested 
alike with me, and assist in getting specimens. We have Edwards's, 
Harris's, and Packard's books, yet we often have great difficulty in 
finding the right names. Are there catalogues of butterflies and 
moths, with descriptions of Massachusetts insects? Last July, I 
found near a pond what looked like a caterpillar covered with chin- 
chilla feathers. Its body was a beautiful pink underneath. Black 
head, and some black lines on the body. The most beautiful colors 
I have ever seen on a caterpillar. In less than half an hour it went 
into a pink cocoon, half wrapped in a blackberry leaf. The cater- 

pillar was abcut three inches long. The moth came out yesterday. 
It measures about two inches from tip of wing to tip. It is of a 
dusky reddish brown. There are zig-zag lines of darker shade, blend- 
ing into white. On the upper wings a sort of diamond spot which 
looks like a Polyphemus, Both upper and lower wings scalloped; 
the edges white, with a line of black inside. Under the magnifying 
glass it is just the color of a fox with snow dusted over it. I wish to 
learn its name. Willie C. Phillips. 

[Here is a fine opportunity for a little study. Who will be the 
first to send me the name of this beautiful insect, and the name of a 

satisfactory and exhaustive insect manual? — H. H. B. ] 

Some people have spoken of the wisdom of bees and wasps in 
constructing their cells in a hexagonal shape. Now, on the con- 
trary, others believe, and I have been taught, that their wisdom has 
nothing to do with it. If a bee begins to build around himself as a 
center, he naturally makes a cell in the shape of a cylinder. As the 
different bees build, and their cells press against one another, they 
will be crowded into the form of a hexagon. A good way to illus- 
trate this is to take a small tube and some not too soapy water, and 
blow air through the tube so quickly that the bubbles formed on the 
surface will be crowded together. They will be pressed into hex- 
agonal shape. A. B. G. 

[A. B. G.'s reports are always very suggestive and interesting. 
The Chapters may like to discuss this question. If the above theory 
is correct, the outer row of cells should be cylindrical, since they are 
not subjected to pressure. Is this so? Will a bee make a cell if 
placed alone in a glass case ? Let this be tried, and if he makes a 
hexagonal cell, the pressure theory is disproved; and vice 7>ersa.] 

New Chapters. 

No. Name oj Cliapter. Members. Address. 

184. Peoria, 111. (B) 10. .Eddie Smith, 

1143 So. Adams St 

185. Ashtabula, Ohio (A) 15. May H. Prentice. 

186. Geneva, N. Y. (A) 25. .Nellie A. Wilson. - 

187. Albany, N. Y. (A) 7. J. P. Gavit, 3 Lafayette St 

188. Newport, R. I. (A) 5..R. S. Chase. 

189. West Medford, Mass 15. .Edith Samson, Box 175. 

190. Duncannon, Pa. (A) 12. .Annie J. Jackson. 

191. New York, N. Y. (E)... 4.. Harry L. Mitchell, 

23 W. 12th St. 

192. Waterbury, Conn. (B) 5. .Charles Merriman. 

193. Providence, R. I. (A) 7..Florie E. Greene, 

261 Pine St. 

194. Minneapolis, Minn. (B) . . . . 7..Burtie W. McCracken, 

1016 Western Ave. 

195. Rudand, Ind. (A) 5 . . Birdie Blye. 

196. Dayton, Ohio (A) 24..AbbieL. Dyer. 

197. Philadelphia, Pa. (G) 6 . . Geo. Cattrell, 

1934 Jefferson St. 

198. Philadelphia, Pa. (H) 6. .W. R. Nichols, 2016 Arch St. 

199. Wellsboro, Pa. (Aj n . . Margaret S. Potter. 

200. Germantown, Pa. (B) 4. .Frank Brown, i23PriceSt 

201. Fitchburg, Mass. (C) 12. . Ellen Snow. 

202. St Louis, Mo. (C) 10. . Letty M. Follett, 

3014 Cass Ave. 

203. Framingham, Mass. (A).. 4. C. F. Cutting. 

204. San Francisco, Cal. (C). ... 5. .Bert. W. Stone, 

2104 Jackson St. 

205. Waco, Texas (A) 23. .Jennie Wise, 

(care Rev. S. P. Wright). 

206. State College, Pa. (A).... 5.. Geo. C. McKee. 

207. Bowling Green, Ky. (A) ... - 5. .Jessie P. Glenn. 

208. Washington, D. C. (D).. 6..W. B. Emory, 

1234 6th St N. W. 

209. Brownville, N. Y. (A) ... 7. .John C. Winne. 

210. Lowell, Mass. (B) 7. .Geo. A. Whitmore. 

211. Pittsfield, Mass. (B) 5..R. H. Peck. 

212. So. Boston, Mass. (B) 8. . Homer C. Clapp, 79 E. 4th. 

213. Fort Wayne, Ind. (A) 13. .John L. Hanna, 

219 Madison St 

214. Austin, Minn. (A) Please send address. 

215. The Oaks, Tioga Center, 

N. Y. (A) 4. . Angie Latimer. 

216. Allegheny City, Pa. (A).. 7. .David K. Orr, 

138 Jackson St 

217. Hyde Park, Mass. (A). . . . n. .Lillian E. Rogers. 

218. Clinton, Mass. (A) 6. . Gerald Alley. 

219. Taunton, Mass. (B) 10. .A. C. Bent. 

220. De Pere, Wis. (C) 14. Jessie R. Jackson. 

221. De Pere, Wis. (D) 7. .Carrie Dubois. 

222. Highgate, Eng. (A) 4.. Geo. S. Hayter, Gleuggle, 

Woodlane, Highgate, N. 

223. Cambridge, N. Y. (A).... 5 ..W.J. B. Williams, Box 33. 

224. Cambridgeport, Mass. (A). 5.. Frank T. Hammond. 

225. Burlington, Kansas (A).. 7. P. M. Floyd, Lock-box 9. 



i iti/k appears ty<%. 


The above should first be read as a rebus. The answer will be a 
six-line stanza, which forms a cross-word enigma. This should, in 
turn, be solved as if it were printed like similar enigmas. 


From what poem by a leading American poet is the following 
stanza ? 

Tinsa aguestuin ! Lewi hats tnuh dais, 

Htat fo rou cevis ew nca farme 
A delard, fi ew lilw tub dreat 

Thenbea oru efte ache eded fo mashe. 


I. My first is in corn, but not in sheaf; 
My second in mutton, but not in beef: 
My third is in school, not in vacation; 
My fourth is in speech, not in oration; 
My fifth is in bad, but not in good; 
My sixth is in victuals, but not in food ; 
My seventh in period, not in time ; 
My whole is a flower almost in its prime. 

II. My first is in taper, but not in torch; 
My second in burn, but not in scorch ; 
My third is in wren, but not in lark; 
My fourth is in flame, but not in spark; 
My fifth is in court, but not in yard ; 
My sixth is in minstrel, but not in bard; 
My seventh in sweet, but not in sour; 
My whole is a little woodland flower. DYCIE. 


All was quiet on the ship. "A risky piece of business," mur- 
mured the steward. "Over the side with you," said the mate; 
" the best way is to wait until the captain takes his nap on the sofa ; 

then see if he 's fast asleep ; he 's usually dozing in a minute. Now, 
sail on ; do nothing rashly, though." The steward entered through 
the port, and, obeying the instructions of the mate, he ransacked 
the cabin thoroughly. From each locker he took bags of silver. 
On a small table he found a jewel-box. " Here 's a picnic! " ejacu- 
lated the steward, as he took the contents for his part, and kindly 
reserved the box for the mate. h. t. j. 


Each of the lines describes a word, and the initial letters of the 
seventeen, placed in the order given, spell the name of a ruined city 
of Syria, and that of the place in which it stood. 

1. The wealth which God bestows upon the poor. 

2. Temptation, which the strongest may allure. 

3. A burden which weighs down the purest hearts. 

4. A gift which to the giver most imparts. 

5. The truest sacrifice of piety. 

6. The sure reward of good society. 

7. The genius that insures all true success. 

S. A numeral than which none is reckoned less. 

9. The trade that vainly seeks to make a man. 

10. The trait that brings the soldier to the van. 

11. The home alike of beggar and of king. 

12. The door through which life both begins and ends. 

13. A treasure one acquires but never lends. 

14. That which the foolish duellist tries to gain. 

15. A mystery which time can not explain. 

16. What bad men fear, and for which good men hope. 

17. The topmost burden laid upon a Pope. 



This cross is formed of five diamonds, as indicated by the dia- 
gram, the outer letters of the central diamond being used also in 
forming the adjacent diamonds, which would be incomplete without 
them. Each of the four points of the central diamond is used three 
times; once as a point of its own block of stars, and once as a point 
of each of the two neighboring diamonds. The words of each dia- 
mond read the same across as up and down. 

I. Upper Left-hand Diamond : 1. In appears. 2. To view. 3 
Fruit. 4. A period of time. 5. In appears. 

II. Upper Right-band Diamond. 1. In soon. 2. A unit. 3. 
A spectacle. 4. A termination. 5. In need. 

III. Central Diamond: 1. In host. 2. An animal. 3. Scanty. 
4. To blunder. 5. In keep. 

IV. Lower Left-hand Diamond: r. In summer. 2. The god- 
dess of revenge. 3. To gaze intently. 4. Before. 5. In stone. 

V. Lower Right-hand Diamond: 1 In space. 2. Uncooked. 
3. Earnest. 4. Damp. 5. In root. GEORGIA HARLAN. 


My first is in January '. my second is in October ; my third is in 
April: my fourth is in June; my fifth is in November; my sixth is 
in February: my seventh is in August ; my eighth is in September; 
my ninth is in March. 

My whole is the name of a patriotic maiden who was put to a 
cruel death on the 30th of May, 1431 m. C. d. 





1. i. A kind of grain. 2. A trembling fit. 3. A melody. 
4. Observed. II. i. A time of blossoms. 2. Employed. 3. Neces- 
sity. 4. A current. weston sticknev. 

54-26-22-29-36-18 discovered the satellites of Jupiter. My 45-8-40 
-55-56-15-23 is a castle rendered famous by Byron. My 2-54-10- 
12-9-1 is the hero of one of Shakespeare's plays. My 43-22-20-6 
-33-37 is a number. My 27-4-19-43-41-54-21-48-47 is the name 
of a battle which occurred in 170S, in which the French were de- 
feated by the Duke of Marlborough and- Prince Eugene. My 
35-54-25-34-49-50-51-25 * s tne name of a famous battle fought in 
1066. My 6-54-21-3-13-19 was killed in the latter battle. My 46- 
49-17-35-7 is a number. My 53-11-42-24-30 is a nickname some- 
times given to a naval officer. My 46-52-14-47-44 name one of 
Queen Elizabeth's favorites, who was beheaded in 1601. My 45-11 
-39-45-32 was an enchantress. My 26-27-50-38-16-9-56-12-3-28 
is the name of the poet who adapted from the German the stanza 
from which my whole is taken. lila. 


Each of the following puzzles may be answered by the name of 
a bird. E^-aiu/>le : A consonant and a rank or file. Answer : 

1. A time of darkness, a preposition, and a high wind. 2. A 
metal, part of a fish, and one-half of a word meaning idle talk. 3. 
A consonant and a place of safely. 4. A beverage and a consonant. 
5. The young of a fowl, a vowel, and a consonant. 6. Fruit, 
and the cover of an opening in a ship's deck. 7. A boy's nick- 
name, a vowel, and part of a chain. 8. A sound made by a bird, 
and a consonant. 9. A fowl, a vowel, and a number. 10. To cut 
quickly, and a vowel. 11. A scourge, impecunious, and a nick- 
name. 12. A girl's nickname, and an article of food. 13. A man- 
ner of drinking, and a side-building. 14. One-half of a word 
meaning a diagram, and above. 15. A monarch and one who 
angles. 16. Three-fourths of a word meaning a slender cord, and a 
snare. 17. To disfigure, and a metal. 18. To box, and to impel 
by means of oars. 19. A number, and a tin vessel. 20. One-third 
of a word meaning a royal seat, and to move with rapidity. 




Enter at one of the openings in the stem, and trace a path to 
the center, without crossing a line. E. R. s. 


I AM composed of fifty-six letters, and form one line of a short 

My 1-9-41-23-31-52-15-23 is poet laureate of England. My 5- 

The initial and central letters, when read downward, form three 
words; these name a famous event which took place on the 18th 
of June, less than one hundred years ago. 

Across: i. An arbor. 2. To degrade. 3. An appellation. 
4. Something given for entertainment. 5. A kind of tree. 6. A 
girl's name. 7. Oxygen in a condensed form. 8. To scowl. 

M. c. D. 


Transpositions. Levi — live — veil — vile — evil. 
Central Syncopations and Remainders. Aristides. 1. Sp-A-in. 
2. Ti-R-ed. 3. Pa-I-nt. 4. Pa-S-te. 5. Ti-T-le. 6. Ca-I-rd. 7. 
Bo-D-le. 8. Ab-E-le. 9. Ha-S-te. 

Inverted Pyramid. Across: 1. Foliage. 2. Folio. 3. Old. 4. S. 
Proverb Rebus. 

He that leaves certainty, and sticks to chance, 
When fools pipe, he may dance. 

Two Word-squares. I. 1. Masts. 2. Annie. 3. Snore. 4. 
Tired. 5. Seeds. II. 1. Elect. 2. Laver. 3. Evade. 4. Cedes. 

5. Tress. Illustrated Puzzle in the Head-piece. A month 

of bright flowers. 

Numerical Enigma. What weighs an ounce in the morning, 
weighs a pound at night. 

Double Diagonals. I. 1. AluM. 2. GNAt. 3. URNs. 4. 
YulE. II. 1. SnoB. 2. SHOt. 3. HOOk. 4. TimE. 

J. F. B. and others: Answers to puzzles should be addressed to "St. Nicholas Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East 17th 
Street, New York City. The names of solvers are printed in the second number after that in which the puzzles appear. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the April Number were received from " Mama and Bae." 

Answers to Puzzles in the April Number were received before April 20th, from "North Star" and "Little Lizzie," 8 — "Sun- 
flower," 6 — Myra Doremus, 3 — Alise M. Ballou, 1 — "Warren," 4 — V. P. J. S. M. C, 6 — Genie Callmeyer, 12 — Severance Burrage, 
2 — Nellie Blodgett, 5 — Arthur, 4 — Emma Drake, 3 — Annie Falge, 7 — Edith M. Bradley, 1 — G. L. and J. W., 5 — Florie Baker, 7 — 
Seyon, 4 — May Beadle, 8 — Anna Guion, 2 — "Bantam," 5 — Joseph H. Targis, 3 — Minnie B. Murray, 12 — E. F. G., 1 — " Rory 
O'More," 8 — Florence E. Pratt, n — Everett Lane Jones, 3 — Jesse S. Godine, 2 — Camilla W. Mansur, 8 — Jenny Noyes, 5 — Robert 
Hamilton, 3 — C. F. Home, 13 — May L. Shepard, 5 — Willie Walker, 8 — Edith Baffington Dalton, 5 — "Two Cousins," 5 — Stella E. 
Goodlett, 1 — George A. Joplin, 3 — Bessie H. Smith, 7 — Nellie Mott, 1 — Anna Clark, 6 — Effie K. Talboys, n — Henry L. M. Mitch- 
ell, 5 — Lizzie D. Fyfer, 5 — "Griffin," 8 — " Alcibiades," 13 — John W. Gary, 3 — Helen Philips, 3 — " D. and D.," 5 — Josie Mitchell, 
1 — "Partners," 10 — May, Bessie, and Jennie, 8 — George F. Hall, 6 — "Professor & Co.," 13 — " H. F. and B. B.," 8 — Mary D. 
Reeve, 1 — James R. Moore, 5 — Eliza L. McCook, 5 — Katie L. Robertson, 8 — Amy Mothershead, 9 — Paul England &Co., 12 — 
Zaita, 4 — Raymond D. Thurber, 10 — Eleanor Telling, 7 — D. B. Shumway, 8 — Anne Lovett, 12 — Sallie E. Hewit, 10 — Lalla E. Croft, 
1 — Carrie H. Wilson, 2 — Sidney and Charlie Russell, 2 — Bertie Bushnell, 12 — Marguerite, 7 — Mamie Baker, 1 — Ariana Moore, 11 — 
Edith McKeever and Amy Elliott, 7 — C. O. B., 7 — Grace and Blanche Parry, 12 — Nellie Caldwell, 5 — Ethel and Oscar Weekes, 11 — 

E. F, Biddle, 9 — Charles H. Parmly, 9 — Louise Kelly, 5 — Algernon Tassin, 8 — Frank and Maud, 1 — Virginia Crater, 6 — Maud and 
Sadie, 6 — Lena, Elsie, and Luzia, 6 — Emma D. Andrews, 8 — Clara and her Aunt, 13 — Bessie C. Rogers, 12 — Vin and Alex, 8 — Louise 
Gilman, q — Kittie, Mary, Flora, Dora, and Birdie, 4 — Appleton H., 13 — The Two Millies, 4 — Carrie L. and Anna C. Lindholm, 3 — 
Julia T. Pember, 11 — Louis F. Zimmerman, 8 — Livingston Ham, 2 — Hugh Bums, n — Busy B's, 13 — James H. Strong, 10 — Fred. 
Thwaits, 13 — X. Y. Z., 10— T. W., 8— "Queen Bess," 12— Sallie Viles, 10 — B. B., 7— Robert C. Steams, 6 —Madge Tolderlund, 4 
— Adele, 5 — Emilie and Rosa, 8 — Mary Ann and Susan Jane, 5 — Lyde W. McKinney, 10 — Lottie A. Best, 12 — Verna Banium, 4 — 
Helen E. Mahan, 10 — Florence Leslie Kvte, 12 — Maud Badlam, 1 — J. S. Tennant, 10 — M. W. and W. Sucknev. 3 — R- Kilbourne, 1 — 

F. P. Jones, 1 — Eirie, 6 — G. E. M.,2 — D. F, and E. B. Barry, 7 — R. S. and H. Lowrie, 1 — M. D. and Polly, 3 — A., M., and F. 

Knight, ii — S. R. Marshall, 1 — Clara J. Child, 12 — Frederick Pember, 1. 



[See page 700.] 


Vol. IX. 

JULY, 1882 

No. 9. 

[Copyright, 18S3, by The CENTURY CO.] 


By Sarah 


Of all the stories which have been written since 
the world was made, it is safe to say that this one 
is the first written inside a fish-net. 

There are three of them, — nets and reels, — and 
all of them stand about two hundred feet from 
land, by the side of a pier that heads out into the 
sea full one hundred feet beyond the reels. With 
its lonely and almost desolate surroundings it is, 
indeed, a curious place in which to write a story. 

The net was bought only last summer, and it 
cost of somebody's money eight hundred dollars. 
But the story itself is now to be told. 

Three or four winters ago, when the ice began 
to grow along the shores of Cape Cod, and grew 
so fast and so strong that it shut up all the fishing 
ships before they could get to land, the "Little 
Katie" was caught in its grasp. On the "Little 
Katie " was Captain John Rose, and in Province- 
town, on the Cape, were his wife and Wild and 
Johnny, the girl and boy who saved their father by 
building a big kite and flying it out to the ship 
when all Provincetown was trying, in vain, to 
devise some manner of getting food to the boats. 
That blessed kite carried the string that carried 
the line that carried the bread that carried life to 
the starving crew of the " Little Katie." 

After that hard winter, Captain Rose said that 
he would not go to the " Banks" any more for cod- 
fish, but would catch menhaden along the shores of 
the ocean and in the bays and inlets of the coast, 
while the fishing season should continue, and then, 
when the verv cold weather should come on, he would 

stay in his house and let Cape Cod sands blow all 
over it and pack it down as solidly as they might. 

And this is what came of that venture : 

The first season, everything moved along hap- 
pily, and the fish came to the seine, or rather 
the seine went around the fish, so that the Rose 
family began to see prosperous days and to dream 
of a time when they might move from Cape Cod 
and live somewhere upon the " Main." 

The first summer, Captain Rose was only a mate, 
and the fishing gang to which he belonged carried 
their menhaden to a floating fish-oil mill, anchored 
in one of the inlets on the coast of Maine. 

Before another summer came, the oil-ship 
burned, and everything in and upon it was utterly 
destroyed. Captain Rose, his wife and children 
heard the bad news with dismay in their hearts. 

It was Wild who said: "Never mind. Father: 
there are more oil-ships and more nets, and more 
fish in the sea a-growing every single minute." 

"And more fishermen a-growing to use them, 
too ! " groaned Captain John, with a wild look of 
despair in his face at the thought that the oil- 
ship owner might not be able to pay him for his 
last season's labor. Captain Rose had been living 
on credit until the oil should be sold, and now the 
oil had ascended to the sky in flame ; Slid it might 
be that no man would trust him with food : for the 
news of his loss was abroad in Provincetown. 

That was a dark day in the sand cabin, and 
many a bright and long-cherished hope of good 
things to come turned to leaden facts. 




A week went by, and there was no word of 
news from the oil-ship owner. Meanwhile, Cap- 
tain John and his son John (Johnny's first trip) 
went to the Banks on a fishing schooner, for, come 
what would, bread must be won. 

When they were well away, and the topsails of 
the schooner had slipped down almost out of sight, 
Wild said to her mother : " We may as well go on 
fixing up the clothes, for clothes will be needed, 
fishing or no fishing." And so they worked while 
they waited. 

It was in the spring, in March, that Captain 
Rose and Johnny went. They had been a week 
gone when one of the fiercest gales that ever blew 
on any coast, since coasts were made, blew down 
from the north, and shouted in from the east, and 
tore fearfully through the sands of Cape Cod. It 
was during this storm that a letter for Captain Rose 
was carried to the cabin by a brave neighbor lad, 
who struggled with it through the shifting sands, 
with a vague feeling that it might have in it good 
news; and the lad — it was he who had helped 
Johnny to build the famous kite — was very glad 
to fetch any good news to Wild Rose. A rush- 
ing blast swept in at the door as he opened it 
and panted into the kitchen, closing the door 
with his foot as he sank into a chair, the letter 
standing well out of his jacket pocket. 

" Peter Petit ! " exclaimed Mrs. Rose. " What- 
ever in this world sent you over here in such ;i 
storm ? " 

"Nothing sent me. I just came," answered the 
boy, rising and drawing the letter forth. "I was 
down to the post-office when the mail came in, and 
the post-master took notice of this letter, and says 
he: 'I hope,' says he, 'that this here letter 's got 
some good news in it for John Rose, I do. It 
comes from the owners of that oil-ship that burned 
up his summer's work ! ' When he said that, says 
I, ' Give it here, and I '11 take it over,' and here it 
is," — handing the envelope to Mrs. Rose. 

" Open it, Mother, do ! " pleaded Wild, with 
flushed face. "Who knows but that it ought to 
be answered ? " 

" Course ! That 's what made me fetch it," said 
Peter. "It would keep jest as well in the post- 
office as 't would here." 

" I never open Father's letters," said Mrs. Wild; 
" he would n't like it." 

The sand just then beat in showers against the 
cabin, and the sea sound came raging over the 
Cape from the Highland Light. 

"I wish you was over in the town to-night, 
where there 's more folks to hear it blow with you, 
and I 'm just sorry I came, if I have n't got any 
good news inside that letter," said Peter ; and then 
he rose and bade them " Good-night." 

He went away, feeling disappointed; for Peter 
had a vague feeling that things were going all 
right whenever Wild's eyes gleamed with happi- 
ness, — but to-night there was no happiness shining 
in them. 

Wild took a dozen good hard looks at the big 
envelope before she went to bed, and thought it 
too bad in her mother not to open it. 

Ten days later, — the storm having blown out 
itself and ships and souls together, — a letter, ad- 
dressed to the oil manufacturer in Wild's peculiar 
handwriting, was mailed at Provincetown. This 
was the letter : 

" Cape Cod, March 15, 1879. 
" Mr. Washington Wiles : Father went off to the banks a week 
ago afishing and ynur letter is come, but nobody has opened it, 
cause mother says father 'don't want anybody to.' Please, if it 's 
good news, wont you keep it for father, cause we all need good 
news so much — more '11 yon can tell. Wild Rose." 

Wild's letter went over the distance between the 
sand cabin of John Rose and the pleasant village 
home of Mr. Wiles, and chanced to be given into 
his hands just at the moment when his neck was 
clasped about by the arms of his daughter Maud, 
a young girl as old as Wild Rose herself; and Maud 
was saying, in her most entreating tones: 

' ' Papa, dear ! Don't you remember, you prom- 
ised me a new piano this spring? And I want it 
now, before my new teacher comes." 

" Let me read my letters first, Maud, and then I 
will tell you." 

Maud's gray eyes penetrated to the very heart of 
Wild Rose's letter as she looked at it. 

" Tell me, Papa, all about it. Who is she, and 
why do they need good news ? " 

" I have never seen the child," said Mr. Wiles, 
"but I have heard how Captain Rose's children 
saved him and his fishing crew from starving, by 
getting a kite-string out to the boat, across the ice, 
where no man could go ; and this letter is from 
Wild, the girl." 

" But why do they need good news? Does she 
want a new piano, I wonder? " 

Mr. Wiles smiled. He had once seen the sand 
cabin, as the neighbors called John Rose's habita- 
tion. Presently, his face grew very grave, as he 
said: "Maud, this Wild Rose means that they 
have no money to live upon ; that all her father's 
summer work was burned up in the oil-ship. Per- 
haps they have no bread in the house. I am very 
sorry for him, my child." 

"So am I, Papa. When you get me my new 
piano I '11 send this Wild my old one. She will be 
glad to get it. What makes you look so grave, 
Papa? " 

" Maud," said her father, " I did promise you a 
new piano, but I have been thinking a good deal, 
lately, of Captain Rose and his hard lot, and I 




know of but one way to help him. If you will give 
up the new piano for this year, I will take the 
money it would cost, and with that buy a new 
seine, and give Captain Rose the new yacht, ' Rose- 
mary,'' and let him have a chance this summer." 

" Why can't you do both, Papa?" 

"Because 1 have not the money. I lost a great 
deal of money when the oil-ship burned." 

"Then, what did you write about?" 

" I told him that there was no money for him. 
and that I could not give him work this summer. 
I was very sorry to write it, Maud, and I am very 
glad his poor wife did not open the letter when he 
was away." 

Maud inserted a quick little kiss just above the 
sharp edge of her father's collar, and said, very 
swiftly : " I wont have any piano ! I want Captain 
Rose to have the ' Rosemary.' " 

" Very well, my child. Write, yourself, to this 
Wild Rose, and tell her the good news." 

Maud wrote : 

"Dear Wild Ross: 1 don't know yon, bnt Papa got your 
letter, and he says he wrote your father that there was n't any 
boat, nor any seine, for him : but since your letter got here, there is 
a yacht, the ' Rosemary,' and there is going Lo be a new net forhiin. 
too, just as soon as he gets back from fishing. Papa says so, and 
he told me I might write the letter to you and tell you the good 
news. I hope he Ml take you up here in the boat some time. I 
want to see you, and have you tell me all about that kite you and 
your brother made. I wish you would write me a letter, and tell 
me all about Cape Cod and everything you do down there. 

" Your friend, Maud Wiles." 

Everybody knows just how anxious and worried 
and agonized all the fisher folk of Cape Cod were, 
that spring-time, when the great gale had blown 
over, and the boats did not get home. When the 
days came one after another, and families looked 
their eyes dim with peering past the Highland 
Light to catch the first glimpse of the inward- 
bound sail, that might mean great joy to some one 
of their number. Wild Rose was there early and 

" He will come ! He must come ! Oh, 1 know 
he will come back to us, and Johnny with him ! " 
she kept saying over and over to herself, as she 
went her way across to the light-house in the 
morning ; and, in the evening, as she turned her 
back upon the wild, tossing sea, she still repeated 
the comforting assurance to herself; and she whis- 
pered it to her sorrowful mother as she bade her 
" good-night " after each dreary day. 

At length, the clothes they had made ready 
were put out of sight, and the waiting became full 
of pain. 

A week went by, and then it was Peter, 
again, who fetched Maud's letter to Wild — Peter 
kept careful watch over the sand cabin in those 
days. Wild was just setting forth to take one 

more look at the spread of ocean, from the High- 
land itself, when Peter shouted to her from afar, 
holding up the white envelope. 

Wild ran, as fast as the sands would let her, to 
meet him. Had her father reached some port, 
and sent them word of his safety ? 

With panting heart, and fingers all in a flutter 
of eagerness, she reached out to receive it. 

" It 's something so out of the ordinary for a 
letter to come for Miss Wild Rose, that I thought 
I 'd just come right ahead with it. Provincetown 
watches all its letters mighty close just now, you 'd 
better believe, Wild, and if there 's any news, let 's 
have it right off, and I '11 run back with it." 

Peter went on talking, whilst Wild gut inside the 
envelope with all speed. 

"Oh, Peter! Peter !" she cried, as she read. 
" Father will come now, — I 'm sure he will, — to 
get the good news. He 's going to be captain of 
a yacht, and have a new net all to himself, and 
we '11 have such times ! " 

At any other period in her life — excepting when 
her father was caught in the ice — Wild would 
have been gladdened to the utmost of joy. Now 
she ran with the letter to her mother, and then, 
holding it fast, she made her way to the High- 
land once again, to search for the sign by which 
she should know her father's sail. Wild was the 
only watcher that day, and, when the light was 
trimmed and the keeper gone, she had the place 
to herself. Poor, young, faithful Wild, with such 
good news for a father who might, at that very 
moment, be lying beneath the ocean ! 

Wild leaned forth from the tower, and looked 
northward. She opened wide Maud's letter. She 
shook it as a signal. She cried out: "Oh, 
Father, Father ! Come ! Come ! Come to your 
new sloop and your new net ! Come home, you 
and Johnny ! " 

Four sails came into sight during the watch, but 
not the sail for sight of which her eyes ached. 
Wild went down and homeward, meeting, as she 
went, the housewives whose work-day at home was 
over, and who might, in the afternoon, take the 
dreary march across to the Light. 

Wild had folded away her good news, and it 
lay in her pocket as she passed one and another. 
It was Peter whom she saw, when about half-way 
home, plodding valiantly through the yielding 
sands to come to her in haste. 

" There 's somebody a-waiting. Wild, to see 
you to home," said Peter, from afar, She words 
brimming from his heart through his lips and 
flowing onward to Wild, who responded : 

" Who is it?" 

" It 's a man and a boy : it 's Captain Rose and 
Johnny — it 's your father and brother, Wild Rose, 



it is ! " and Peter laid hold on Wild's hand to pull 
her onward. 

" Peter Petit ! You 're not cheating, are you ?" 
gasped Wild, feeling with her free hand for the 
good news in her pocket. 

" Cheating you, Wild ! Did I ever cheat you 
in my life ? They are there, safe and sound ; but the 
batteredest-looking things ! When the bark came 
to dock, the old sails were nothing but string strips, 
and they just whipped around the mast ; the wind 
went through and through everything like a chop- 
ping-knife. But every man is safe." 

" Oh, Peter ! " cried Wild, — her feet never did 
seem to sink so deep in the sand before, — " 1 think 
I 'm the happiest girl ! I 'd rather be just Wild 
Rose than anybody else in the whole world ; God 
is so full of goodness to me. Peter, are any other 

boats safe, did they say 

And so talking they 

came to the sand cabin, which, for that night, held 
within it as much joy as a palace could contain. 

The next two weeks found the Rose family pack- 
ing up their effects and flitting from Cape Cod to 
Long Island. 

A small house on its northern shore was taken 
for a temporary home, for it was within the waters 
of Long Island Sound that the new yacht was to 
cruise for fish. Captain Rose went over to Connec- 
ticut to take command of the " Rosemary, "and back 
to Long Island to gather his crew, and it was 
there, within sight of his new home, that the seine 
was to be made ready. 

It was brought, a huge bundle of netted twine, 
and opened in the presence of all the family. 
When its grand length was outspread over a wide 
field, Wild went about it with intense joy, and 
begged her father to let her help to finish it; for it 
had to be tarred, lined, corked, and leaded before 
it was ready for use. 

Neither her father, nor Johnny, nor even Peter — 
for Peter was to be one of the crew on the " Rose- 
mary" — despised her deft helpfulness, and the end 
of May found everything ready for the first start. 

Mrs. Rose and Wild went down to see the seine 
put into the boats and the yacht sail away over 
the blue in search of menhaden. Three hours 
later, Wild had the happiness to see the two seine- 
boats row from the yacht and pay out the net, half 
of it from one and half from the other boat, as 
they described a huge circle in the water, in which 
circle were imprisoned thousands of white-fish. 

Two months went by, and not once had the 
yacht returned to the place whence it had sailed. 

The soft summer days slipped into the beginning 
of July, and then Captain Rose wrote that he should 
run over to spend the Fourth at home. He had 
only pleasant things to relate of his summer, thus 
far. Half a million fish had come into the new 

seine, and, if all went well, last year's misfortune 
would be more than made good. 

On the morning of the fifth, the " Rosemary" was 
to set sail in the early dawn. That all might be in 
readiness, Captain Rose and Peter slept on board, 
while Johnny, who said he should not fail to hear 
the horn-call, staid at home. 

We who live within sight of Long Island Sound 
all remember how the thunder called to us that 
night; how the peals of sound rolled from cloud to 
cloud, following the lightning flash ; how we seemed 
wrapped in a blaze of light and crash of thunder. 

The " Rosemary," lying at anchor, lay in the light- 
ning's way. A ball of fire shot through the cabin 
— and lo ! the fishing yacht flashed into flame! 
Wild and her mother and Johnny saw it together, 
as the yellow fire wrapped it about. 

Half-dressed, they got down the oars and made 
haste to the dock. There was no time to summon 
the nearest neighbor to the rescue, and they must 
do what could be done, with speed. 

As they got into a great row-boat, Johnny saw, 
for the first time, that Wild carried an ax. " What 
in the world did you fetch that for ? " he questioned. 

" May be we can cut a hole in the yacht and 
so save her," said Wild, obeying her brother's 
instructions to herself and her mother in regard 
to their combined management of one oar. 

They worked with courage undaunted, pushing 
out, by the lightning's blaze, over the white-caps to 
the burning yacht. The seine-boat was awkward 
and heavy, and the great oar was hard to hold. 

At last a shout was heard. Somebody was 
alive on the burning boat. 

"Coming! Coming!" called Johnny, rowing 
harder ; while his mother gazed wildly at the 
flames, and clung with both hands to the big oar. 

On the bowsprit stood Captain Rose and Peter. 
They were cut off by the fire from everything that 
could aid them. Even the boat, anchored at the 
stern, they could not reach. 

" Father ! Father ! Let us save the new net," 
called Wild, as Captain Rose and Peter dropped 
into the boat. " And see ! I 've fetched an ax to 
scuttle the yacht," she added, as the boat pushed 
off to avoid the fire. 

It took but a moment to row around and cut 
loose the other seine-boat, in which lay fully half 
of the great net. 

While Johnny and Peter. Wild and her mother 
dragged at the other half of the seine, which 
lay on deck, and was surrounded by flame, to get 
it into the water, anywhere away from the burning, 
Captain Rose wielded the ax against the side 
planks of the "Rosemary," that he might sink her, if 
possible, and thereby save something for her owner. 
The planking gave way and the water poured in, 

I X S I I ) E A F I S H - N E T 


but the flames poured up and over and drove both 
boats away. With scorched hands, the net being 
saved, they sorrowfully left the pretty " Rosemary" 
to her fate and pulled : away to witness the burning. 

" She 's sinking ! " cried Peter, as they watched. 

•' She 's surely going down ! " echoed Johnny. 

" She is ! " confirmed Captain Rose, as the mast 
with flames curling about it swayed and swayed 
and slowly settled down, lower and lower, until the 
cooling sea surged into the flame on deck and put 
out the fire. 

The crew had been aroused, in their boarding- 
house, and had made haste to the shore ; but the 
brave *' Rosemary " could cruise no more for them. 

" Misfortunes never come single," said the mate, 
as Captain Rose reached the wharf. 

to learn the full extent of the loss. It chanced that 
only Wild was at home when he arrived, and thus she 
had opportunity to tell the story in her own words. 

" I know," said Wild, "that my father tells the 
truth always, and he says a ball of fire came right 
into the cabin and set everything into a blaze, and 
he would have saved the pretty yacht if he could. 
I 'm very sorry for you, Mr. Wiles," she added, 
"to lose so much money; and fur my father, too, 
and for everybody ; but it is a comfort to know that 
God took it all, is n't it!' I believe He 's going to 
send us back something a great deal better in its 
place, don't you ?" 

The oil manufacturer turned away, not know- 
ing what to say to the girl who held such faith 
in the all-goodness of the Power that rales our 

"Something better than the 'Rosemary' is com- 
ing for my father," said Wild. " I know there is; 
but I am glad we 've saved the new net with only 
one edge burned a little — see." 

It was in the dawn, and the blackened edge of 
the netted twine lay on the water between the two 
boats that had brought it to shore. 

The telegram sent over to Connecticut in the 
early morning of the fifth of July contained the 
words : 

"The 'Rosemary' was struck by lightning and burned to the 
water's edge last night. Net saved." 

The same day, Mr. Wiles crossed to Long Island 

lives ; nor do we know what m say more than 
that the seine saved from the burning yacht has 
been brought across the Sound and reeled here, to 
await the finding of a new fishing-boat for its 
captain, John Rose. 

For dear Wild Rose's sake we pat its brown 
meshes softly as we write the last words, and hope, 
that her faith may grow and grovjr until it blos- 
soms in the good times, and even better times, 
that she dreams of; for this is a real net and a 
real reel, and this story has really been written 
here, and the pretty yacht was struck by lightning 
and burned on the night of the Fourth of July. 





By S. A. Sheilds. . 

" School-time, Tinkey ! Nearly nine o'clock ! " 
Tinkey was in the attic, stretched out at full 
length upon some sacks of potatoes, reading a 
fairy story. His Latin grammar lay in front of 
him, open at the lesson he should have been 
studying. Tinkey really had intended to divide 
the hour before school-time between Latin gram- 
mar and fairy tales, but when his mother called, 
he found the hour was over, and the fairy tales 
had had the whole of it. 

"Oh, dear! " sighed Tinkey, looking up from 
his book, and putting his fists under his chin. 
''Oh, dear! " He kicked up both feet, by way 
of a preparation for changing his lazy position, 
and said, wistfully : 

" I wish there were fairies nowadays ! " 
"And who told you there were not?" cried 
a very sharp, thin voice that came from close 
before him, right under his nose, it seemed to 
Tinkey. He looked up quickly. Was that a 
fairy? It was certainly unlike anything Tinkey 
had ever seen before, and a sight to startle any- 
body. A little old woman in a scarlet cloak, a 
black pointed hat, and tiny high-heeled shoes, 
leaning upon a crutch, and standing upon the 
pages of Tinkey's open Latin grammar. 

"Who told you there were no fairies?" she 
repeated, thumping 
her crutch upon 
the book, and 

looking into 

Dear me, boy, don't stare at me so ! The eyes 
will drop out of your head. You don't believe 
me, eh ? " 


bewildered face. " There are just as many fairies 
now as ever, and they are just as powerful, too. 


"lam sure, ma'am." stammered Tinkey, "I 
did not say " 

"No, but you thought! Nobody need ever 
speak to a fairy. You do not believe I am a 
fairy. "Well, perhaps you will, before the day 
is over, for I mean to grant the very first 
wish you make. Be careful, now, what you wish 
for first : for, as surely as I am a fairy, what- 
ever it is, you will get it ! " 

Then the funny little old woman made one 
jump on to the sill of the attic window; and 
Tinkey, looking after her, saw a tiny carriage, 
with sails like a boat, and ten butterflies harnessed 
to it, waiting for her. She sprang into it, took 
a seat, waved her crutch to the astonished boy, 
and the butterflies carried her up and up in the 
air until she was quite out of sight. 

Wondering, yet half inclined to think he had 
been dreaming, Tinkey took up his grammar, 
tucked his fairy-tale book under a potato-sack, 
and went slowly down the stairs. There was no 
one in the entrv as he took his hat from the rack 



and sluggishly dragged his unwilling feet across 
the garden walk into the road. 

Not one single lesson had Tinkey studied, and 
he was half tempted to wish he knew them all. 
But, no ! He would not waste a fairy wish upon 
one day's lessons! Perhaps he would wish for a 
bicycle, or a new fishing-pole, or, better still, for a 
million million dollars, and then he could buy any- 
thing he wanted. 

It was a scorching day in June, and the road to 
school was very hot and dusty, excepting at one 
spot, where a little wooden bridge crossed a narrow 
creek that crept through the meadows on each side 
of the road. The water rippled by with a cooling, 
musical gurgle, and Tinkey stopped to rest his chin 
on his hand, his elbow on the railing, and follow 
the stream with his eyes, into his father's meadow, 
till it wound around under a clump of large trees. 


where a group of cows and their babies stood knee- 
deep in the water, under the cool, shading branches. 
The school-bell was clanging noisily : the sun was 
pouring its hot rays on Tinkey's head; punishment 
was in store for neglected lessons ; and reality for a 
moment was stronger than hope. Quite forgetting 
his fairy visitor, Tinkey cried, aloud: 

"Oh, dear, I wish I was that red-and-white calf 
under the willow, and need n't go to school ! " 

In one second there was a cool rippling of water 
around Tinkey's feet, and, instead of two legs clothed 
in dusty trousers, there were four covered with hair, 
in the running stream, while something went flop- 
ping on one side and the other, keeping away all 
obtrusive flies. 

Tinkey turned his head, and took a long look at 
his hairy sides, his long, awkward legs, and the 
reflection of his face in the clear water. Then he 
burst out into one long, wailing cry, the well- 
known bleat of a distressed calf. 

"Oh, dear'! Oh, dear ! " cried Tinkey. But it 
sounded like " B-a-a, b-a-a." "I have made my 
wish, and wasted it by turning myself into a hate- 
ful, ugly calf. Oh! Oh !" 


Here a motherly old cow lifted her head, and 
tossing it up, said : 

" Be quiet ! Don't make such a row ! " 

But, as Tinkey had not yet learned the cow 
language, it only sounded to him like " Moo-0-0," 
and he paid no attention to it. The old cow 
lowered her head, and gave him a sharp dig with 
her horns, which made his tears flow faster than 
ever. But not being accustomed to weep over a 
brook, Tinkey wanted his pocket-handkerchief, 
and, forgetting he no longer possessed pockets, he 
reared up on his hind legs and tried to find his 
pocket with his fore legs ; he strained his neck in 
looking up and down his sides, and cut up such 
antics in the water that the cows became quite 
indignant at having their quiet so disturbed, and 
fairly drove him away. 

" Mrs. Whiteface always did spoil that calf," 
said one old cow, pettishly; "he is really too rude 
to be in decent society, making such a noise and 
commotion ! Just see how he has muddied the 
water with his capers ! " 

"Let the little plague amuse himself in the 


sun awhile, until he learns to behave himself 
properly," grumbled another. 

But Mrs. Whiteface. the motherlv old cow who 


T I X K E Y 


had first spoken to the distressed calf, was sure 
something dreadful must be the matter with her 
baby. Never before had he acted so strangely, 
and, full of anxiety, she slowly waded to the bank 


and followed him across the meadow. He was 
seeking a shady spot under a great spreading oak- 
tree, walking slowly and clumsily along, his head 
and his tail hanging down in the most disconsolate 

"What is the matter with you?" asked Mrs. 
Whiteface, kindly. 

"Moo-o-o," sounded in Tinkey's ears; and, 
afraid of feeling the old cow's horns again, he 
tossed up his head, and trotted away as fast as his 
awkward legs would carry him. 

He ran across the meadow, through the corn- 
field, around the duck-pond and into the yard ad- 
joining the school-house, a bare stretch of ground 
without shade or shelter. He was all out of breath, 
and trembling from head to foot, as he stood for a 
moment's rest under the school-room window. 
The voice of the school-master came through the 
open window, calling out the names of the boys. 

Now Tinkey's proper name was Frank Kirke, 
but the school-boys had each a nickname, and 
were known at home and in play-time quite as 
well by such names as Tinkey, Bobo, Fuzzy, or 
Tip, as by their proper names of Frank, Harry, 
Tom, or George. But Tinkey knew very well 
who was meant when the master asked : 

"Where is Frank Kirke this morning? 

" Here I am, sir," said Tinkey, thrusting his 
head in at the open window. 

" B-a-a-a," said the calf, and all the boys 
shouted, and the girls giggled, making a great 
commotion in the school-room. Even the master 
felt a little twitching in the muscles about his 
mouth, but he only said, very sternly : 

" John Smith, drive that calf away ! " 

Tinkey looked around for the calf, and then 
suddenly remembered that he, Tinkey Kirke, was 
the animal to be driven away. 

" John Smith," thought Tinkey, scornfully ; "he 
had better try it. I can lick John Smith any day." 
So, when John Smith lazily sauntered into the 
school-yard, he was amazed to see a calf bristling 
all over with fight, that, before he could make an 
effort to drive it away, rushed forward, thrust a 
hairy head between his legs, and sent him sprawl- 
ing upon the ground. 

But Tinkey had forgotten that he could not 
throw stones, and, before he could make another 
charge, John had pelted him so rapidly with 
heavy stones that he was glad to run away, 
bruised and sore all over. As he stood in the hot 
June sun, afraid to venture near the water, or 
into the meadow, Tinkey thought, mournfully, 
that it was not much fun to be a calf, after all. 
He wandered about sore and sorry, until, sud- 
denly, with a rush and loud shouts, the boys and 
girls came pouring out of the school-house. 

" Recess ! Hurrah ! " thought Tinkey, hurrying 
to join his school- fellows, and quite forgetting he 
"•as a calf, as he trotted into the play-ground. 

Here were boys eating luncheon, boys playing 
marbles, boys spinning tops, boys swapping pen- 
cils and jackstones, boys whittling " pussy " sticks, 
but not a boy, no, not one, reading or studying. 

Tinkey ambled up to one group after another, 
but none of the boys noticed him, except to shove 
him away, if he came too close. His especial 


friend, Jim Jones, was one of three boys playing 
marbles, and Tinkey, unrecognized and unnoticed, 
stood near, sadly conscious that he could not use 
any one of his four long, clumsy legs to join in 
the game. But as no one drove him away, he 
stood watching the play until Tom Bates cheated. 
There was no doubt about it, and Tinkey thrust 
his head into the group, crying: 

T I N K E Y . 


"Tom Bates, you 're cheating!" At least, 
that is what he thought he said. What he really 
did say, was — " B-a-a-a ! " 

Never was a game broken up more quickly ! 
Every boy was on his feet, with a stick or a stone, 
and, in an instant, every other game was aban- 
doned to make general war upon poor Tinkey. 

Driven away, he found two boys strolling down 
the road, talking, and heard this sentence : 

" He 's only playing off sick, I know. Tinkey 
Kirke is the laziest boy in school : he never knows 
his lessons." 

" 1 'm no lazier than you arc. Bobo Wells," 
cried Tinkey, in a prolonged '"B-a-a-a!" at the 
same time giving Bobo a vicious dig in the ribs 
with his head. 

" Jiminy ! " screamed the boy. " What 's that? 
Hey ! Here 's a young mad bull, boys ! Hey ! 
At him ! " 

Every boy in the play-ground answered the 
loud call, and Tinkey, with a wholesome fear of 
stones and sticks, galloped away, followed by a 
shower of boy ammunition. 

He was very sore all over, very weary, very hot. 
and there came over him a great longing to put 
his aching head down into his mother's lap to be 
petted, and have a good cry. He was very hun- 
gry, too, and the attempt which he made to eat 
grass proved a miserable failure. "It is too nasty 
for anything," Tinkey decided. Just as he reached 
home, the family were sitting down to dinner, and 
Mr. Kirke asked : 

" Where is Tinkey ? He is always late ! " 

" Here I am, Papa," said Tinkey, in his long 
" B-a-a-a," walking in at the door and trying to 
take his seat. 

With laughing shouts, the whole family sprang 
up to drive him away, and Tinkey ran to his mother 
for protection. Surely, surely, his own dear mother 
would know him ! 

But Mrs. Kirke ran screaming away. Something- 
was the matter with the calf, she thought, and she 
was afraid of it. Mr. Kirke caught him at last, but 
not until every chair was upset, the table-cloth 
pulled off. the dishes smashed and scattered, the 
dinner a wreck, and the room in direst confusion. 

Well belabored with a heavy stick, Tinkey was 
led to the barn and tied up, to think over the de- 
lights of being a calf and the misery of being a 
well-fed school-boy with a happy home. 

He was horribly hungry, and made several at- 
tempts to eat the hay and oats before him, but he 
could not swallow them. 

On a level with his head there was a kitchen 
window, plainly visible through the great space left 
by the barn doors standing wide open. It was 
baking dav, and loaves of bread stood on the table; 

three large, tempting pies were cooling on the win- 
dow-sill, while a pitcher of milk was just behind 
them on the table. Tinkey tugged and jerked, 
until he succeeded in breaking the rope holding 
him, and was once more free. He trotted oft' to 
the window, only to meet a new difficulty. It did 
not occur to him that he could eat a pie in any way 
but with plate, knife, and fork, or, without these, 
by taking it in his fingers. His hands, or fore 
legs, would not reach up to the window-sill, try as 
hard as he would to make them, and, in his efforts, 


he knocked two of the pies to the ground, breaking 
them to pieces. Only one remained, and, inspired 
by hunger. Tinkey at last put his nose down to the 
plate and ate up the pie. By a great effort of 
stretching he got the pitcher over on its side, and 
eagerly lapped the milk as it ran out. But, sud- 
denly, a most tremendous blow fell upon his head, 
as his mother shouted : 

"Get out! Go away ! Father, the calf has broken 
loose ! " 

Quite sure that his father would find a stronger 
rope the next time, Tinkey ran away as fast as he 
could, through the cabbage-patch, over the flower- 
beds, around the house, from the kitchen window 
to the front porch, where he stood panting and 
listening as his father hunted in the barn and at 
the back of the house for him. The front door 
was standing ajar, and as Tinkey looked at it a 
brilliant idea rushed into his head — he would go 
into his own room and take a nap. 

His head ached, and every bone in his body 
seemed to be sore with the variety of hammering 
he had received. Nobody was about. Indeed, 
the confusion in the dining-room was likely to 
keep everybody busy for one afternoon, and 




nobody saw Tinkey as he made frantic efforts to 
walk upstairs on his hind legs, and hold the bal- 
usters with his fore legs. By and by it occurred to 
him to try the ascent with all his legs down, and at 
last he accomplished it in that way. 

Getting into bed presented another difficulty, as 
his legs would not go up high enough to scramble 
in, in his usual fashion, but, after many efforts, the 
desired result was gained by standing sidewise and 
rolling himself over. Then a long sleep fell upon 
the wear)- little boy-calf, and he dreamed of cool 
waters, of shady lanes, of refreshing drink, until a 
welcome sound awakened him — the tea-bell. 

But he was confused by his nap, and he mis- 
took the bell for the summons to breakfast. Upon 
a chair were thrown his best suit and some clean 
underclothing that his mother had been mend- 
ing ; and, knowing he would be late, as he must 
have failed to hear his mother's usual morning 
summons, Tinkey scrambled awkwardly to the 
floor and took up a shirt. 

By a great effort he reared up, and tried to lift 
this garment over his head. All in vain ! Strug- 
gle as he would, it only hung upon the hoofs that 
had no fingers to grasp it, until it fell upon the 
floor. Perhaps he could do better with the trou- 
sers ! At least he could try. 

But the trousers were still worse. He braced 
himself against the wall, and hung the waistband 
upon his fore legs, but all his efforts failed to get 
even one hind leg into them. He reeled over, he 
fell upon the floor, he reared up, and tipped over. 
He even tried to crawl into his clothes, after push- 
ing them into place upon the floor. 

But it was of no use, and, while he was still 
working over this problem, harder than any sum he 
had ever puzzled out in school, the door opened. 


Again that dreadful shout, now so familiar to 
him, fell upon his ears, as Bob, his younger 
brother, rushed into the room. 

"Oh, Papa! Mamma! Here 's fun. Here 's 
that calf in our room, pulling Tinkev's clothes all 
over the floor ! " 

"You just shut up!" said Tinkey, in a terrific 
" B-a-a-a ! " 

" Sho ! Get out of my room ! " shouted Bob. 

"It is just as much my room as it is yours," 
cried Tinkey, angrily, dashing at Bob and driving 
him against the wall. " Oh ! Oh ! Papa ! Come ! 
He 's killing me ! " yelled Bob. 

" You big baby," sneered Tinkey, in calf lan- 
guage. " 1 have n't touched you ! " 

But while he spoke, Mr. Kirke and two hired 
men were coming up the stairs, and another chase 
ended in poor Tinkev's defeat. 

But it was not until the neat, pretty bed-room 
of an hour previous looked as if there had been 
a whirlwind through it. Everything that could be 
knocked down 7cas knocked down ; everything 
that could be smashed was smashed ; and from 
the dire confusion he had made, Tinkey was at 
last led out, and tied, very strongly this time, 
with these words of his father's to comfort him : 

"I can't imagine." said Mr. Kirke, ''what ails 
that calf; but I will send him to the butcher's in 
the morning ! " 

Tied up securely, the barn doors closed and 
fastened, Tinkey had plenty of time to think over 
his day's experience. 

The butcher ! Cold chills ran over him, as he 
thought of the long, bright knife he had seen 
many times in the hands of the butcher. Great 
tears ran down his face, and he was bitterly regret- 
ting his rash wish, when there was a soft whirr in 
the air, and the fairy car, drawn by butterflies, 
floated down upon a corn-bin. The wee woman 
stepped daintily down, and walked along the edge 
until she stood in front of poor, shivering Tinkey. 

"So," she said, "you don't like it! You are 
tired already of being a calf! " 

"Oh, yes! yes! Very tired! Please, dear 
Mrs. Fairy, make me a boy once more, and I will 
never, never be so foolish again ! " 

"I 'm not so sure of that ! You don't like 
Latin grammar." 

" But I like it better than being stoned and 
beaten and driven about. Oh, please, please don't 
go away and leave me a calf, dear Mrs. Fairy." 

" Oh, ho ! So you do believe I am a fairy ? " 

" I am sure of it." 

" I will not be a cruel fairy, then. You shall 
have one more wish. Be a boy again ! " 

She waved her wand as she spoke, and a queer, 
numb feeling crept over Tinkey. The barn faded 
away ; the fairy car floated up out of sight; for a 
moment all was black, and then he found him- 
self lying on the potato-sack, in the attic, with the 
Latin grammar still open before him. 

With a joyful shout he sprang to his feet, very 
glad to be a bov once more ! 




By Malcolm Douglas. 

CORREGGIO CAROTHERS was a man of much renown: 
The dolls he made and painted were the talk of all the town ; 
In a room half shop, half study, he would gayly work away, 
Completing, by his diligence, one dozen dolls a day. 

If it chanced to be fine weather, every Monday he would go 
With a number to the toyman's, where he 'd lay them in a row 
And some would be so beautiful that one could scarce refrain 
From kissing them ; while others would be very, very plain ! 

" Correggio, Correggio," the toyman oft would cry. 

" Oh, why do you persist in making dolls no one will buy? 

In my second-story wareroom I have hundreds stored away; 

And, if each had a pretty face, they 'd not be there to-day ! " 

" My work is conscientious, sir," he proudly would explain; 

" As dolls are mimic people, some of them must needs be plain. 
I can not, I assure you, give good looks to every doll. 
Since beauty is a priceless gift that does not come to all ! 





By Walter Learned. 

When overhead the gray clouds meet, 
And the air is heavy with mist and rain, 

She clambers up to the window seat, 
And watches the storm through the yellow pane. 

At the painted window she laughs with glee; 
She smiles at the clouds with a sweet disdain, 

And calls: " Now. Papa, it 's sunshine to me," 
As she presses her face to the yellow pane. 

Dear child, in life should the gray clouds roll. 
Heavy with grief, o'er thy path amain, 

Stealing the sunlight from thy soul, 

God keep for thee somewhere a yellow pane ! 

By F. N. Doubleday. 

The event 1 want to tell you about took place more 
than two hundred years ago, and it was exactly one 
hundred years before the Declaration of Independ- 
ence was framed at Philadelphia — which makes 
the date 1676, an easy one to remember. If you 
will recollect this date and the story of Bacon's Re- 
bellion, you will have learned of one of the most 
important and interesting occurrences in the history 
of our early colonies. The affair was of so much 
consequence that I should think every American 
would be familiar with the story ; but if you will 
ask some of the older people what it was all about, 
they will very likely answer that they " used to know, 
but somehow have forgotten," and they " have not 
studied United States history for so long a time, 
you know" — or in other words of that kind. 

All that now remains of old Jamestown, the first 
settlement made by the English under the famous 
Captain John Smith, is an old stone wall which once 
formed a side of the first church in Virginia, where 
the people assembled from all the country around 
to worship as their custom had been in England. 

At the time of which we write, Jamestown was 
quite a colony ; the people had built for themselves 
comfortable houses ; the ground they cultivated 
yielded them good crops of tobacco, much of which 
they sent to England, where it was just beginning 
to be considered a great luxury. They received a 
good price for their commodities, and they would 
have gotten along very well if they had not hap- 
pened to have a very unsatisfactory government, 
which taxed their lands heavily and interfered 
greatly with their liberty. 

The Governor of Virginia at this time was Sir 

William Berkeley, who had been appointed to the 
post by his King, Charles II. of England. Sir 
William was not a popular officer; he was grand 
and dignified ; he felt himself to be above the com- 
mon people. He lived in Jamestown, a short dis- 
tance above the James River, in a big house, which 
was filled with servants and attendants. In every- 
thing he did he sought to make a great show and 
to appear very grand. When he rode about, he 
went in a ponderous great coach; nothing in' Vir- 
ginia had ever been seen like it, and by the simple 
planters it was regarded with awe. He could afford 
to cut such a fine figure and to keep up such style, 
because he was very rich, and made a great deal 
of money from the Indians, to whom he sold gun- 
powder ; and as he was the only one allowed to 
trade in that dangerous commodity, you may be 
sure his profits were enormous. 

To disturb such good customers as the Indians 
was far from his intention. Although the savages 
often attacked the settlers, and carried off cattle and 
sheep whenever they had a chance, — and they took 
care to make a good many chances, — the Governor 
would not seriously attack them, and issued a man- 
date forbidding any company of settlers to do so. 

Among the owners of plantations was a young man 
of good family, named Nathaniel Bacon. He was 
warm-hearted and generous ; the sufferings of his 
neighbors had awakened his sympathies, and he 
determined to make some effort to lessen their 
troubles. Although only thirty years old, the 
settlers must have had great confidence in him, for 
they had already elected him to a seat in the Gov- 
ernor's council. 



68 I 

When, therefore, this man called his neighbors 
together and said that, whether the Governor liked 
it or not, he meant to go out against the Indians 
with whosoever would follow him, four hundred 
men immediately placed themselves under his 

The company started ; but they had not gone 
far when a messenger came up with them, and, in 
the name of the Governor, denounced all those as 
rebels who should not return immediately to their 
houses and abandon the expedition. 

Now, in those days, to be known as a rebel was 
a very serious matter. It meant that the person 
thus entitled would be the victim of anv abuse the 


people might choose to heap on him, and not only 
would he be made the object of taunts and jeers, 
but if the Governor and his council should so 
decree, his property, of whatever kind, might be 
taken from him. Among so many difficulties the 
" rebel " would be in a sorry plight indeed. 

None understood better than Bacon's men the 
danger they ran in disobeying Sir William's com- 
mand ; and, although all the four hundred were 
attached to their young leader, only fifty-seven had 
the courage to stick by him. But those who were 
left were brave and determined men : thev had 

started out to drive off the Indians who had robbed 
them and slain their friends, and they would finish 
the undertaking. 

The little band now pressed forward into the 
wilderness, confident of soon coming on the 
savages and striking a quick and decisive blow. 
But they learned, as many have learned since, that 
one of the most difficult parts of Indian warfare is 
to find the Indians. For days they wandered 
about, keeping up an earnest but fruitless search. 
Then a new trouble appeared : their supplv of 
food ran low; starvation looked them in the face; 
it seemed for a time that nothing remained to do 
but to return in humility to Jamestown and submit 
to what punishment the 
Governor might be pleased 
to inflict. 

Bacon's pluck, however, 
never failed ; he sought to 
encourage his men by 
cheering words and to 
push on till food could be 
obtained of some friendly- 
tribe. It was in this, their 
darkest hour, when all 
were disheartened, that 
they suddenly came upon 
the hostile Indians. The 
spirits of the little band 
of white men rallied in- 
stantly. Now was the time 
to show that it was not 
safe to rob and kill the 
English settlers. Before 
the savages had time to 
prepare, an attack was 
made on their stronghold. 
For a time the fight was 
fierce ; but quickly the 
Indians wavered, deserted 
their defense, and fled into 
the thick woods. The 
victory was complete, al- 
though the red men num- 
bered three times as many 
as the little company of half-famished settlers. 

Bacon hurried back to Jamestown. He was 
satisfied that, for a while at least, no trouble was 
to be feared from their old tormentors. The news 
had gone before him, and the people received the 
brave leader and his men with every show of 
joy and esteem ; they insisted that, in spite of his 
being a "rebel." he should again occupy in the 
council the seat to which they had elected him. 

Of course. Bacon's triumph over the Indians did 
not add to Berkeley's regard for him. But the 
Governor was shrewd enough to see that this was 




no time to inflict punishment; so, after the young 
man had asked forgiveness for going against the 
Indians without permission, he no doubt thought it 
a great condescension when, a few days after, the 
Governor accosted him in the Council-room, say- 
ing, with a great deal of affected sorrow: "Mr. 
Bacon, if you will live civilly but until next quarter 
court, I will promise to return you to your place 
there," and he pointed to Bacon's empty seat. 

The quiet that now reigned in Jamestown did 
in it last long; for soon the cry went around the 
country: "Bacon is fled!" "Bacon is fled!" 
and tumult and uncertainty ensued. The forgiven 
rebel had doubted the Governor's sincerity, and 
had fled for safety. Moreover, he was dissatisfied, 
and wished to have the right to go against the foes 
of the colony whenever he might think proper. 
So, once more he gathered his friends around him, 
and within a few days he returned to Jamestown, 
which he entered without resistance, accompanied 
by five hundred armed men. All was confusion in 
the settlement ; no one in authority dared to act. 

Bacon issued an order commanding the mem- 
bers of the Council to appear before him, and 
while he waited he walked excitedly along a line of 
troops drawn up to receive the expected Council- 
men. Of a sudden, some one forced a way through 
the crowd, and made toward the young leader. 
It was Governor Berkeley, pale and agitated. 
Scarcely knowing what he did, he thrust himself 
before Bacon, and baring his breast, cried : " Here ! 
Shoot me ! 'Fore God, fair mark ! Shoot ! " 

Bacon stepped back, resting one hand on his 
sheathed sword, and respectfully holding his hat in 
the other. Simply, and with cool politeness, he said 
to the frantic Governor: "No; may it 
please your honor, we will not hurt 
a hair of your head. We ha 
come for a commission to save 
our lives from the Indians, 
and," he added, with less 
calmness, "we shall have 
it before we go." 

Sir William said noth- 
ing, but turned and walked 
away. The next dav Bacon 

received his commission, granting him the right to 
go against the Indians whenever he might choose. 
But their strife did not end here. When Bacon 
next attacked the savages, the Governor denounced 
him again as a traitor ; and when Bacon heard of 
it, he replied: " We will go see why he calls us 
traitors; " to which his men all shouted, " Amen ! " 
But when Berkeley found that the man he had 
called a traitor was coming back to Jamestown, 
he fled, and tried to rally a few followers to sup- 
port him against his enemy. These friends hav- 
ing come together, as soon as he began to speak, 
cried, "Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!" and refused to 
listen. All this and a great deal more is related 
in the full history of Jamestown. 

When the troops arrived, the Governor was no- 
where to be found, for he had sailed down the 
James River, to be out of harm's way. In a 
tumult of excitement and rage the men set fire to 
the houses ; and from the deck of his ship the 
craven Governor looked on helplessly at the de- 
struction of what to him had been a little king- 
dom. It took but a few hours to completely 
destroy the little settlement : the people then dis- 
persed, and in process of time built new houses for 
themselves among the surrounding plantations. It 
was, perhaps, on the whole, well that Jamestown 
was destroyed ; for the place was very unhealthy. 

In this expedition Bacon brought on a serious 
illness by exposure and fatigue ; he rapidly became 
worse, and soon died. He was deeply mourned 
by the people, for during his short life he had 
been a faithful friend and protector to them. 

Governor Berkeley staid in America several years 
after this, and when he was recalled home, in dis- 
honor, he was a feeble old man, and 
he did not long survive his disgrace, 
old Jamestown, the first 
nglish settlement in America, 
was never rebuilt, and the 
church wall, covered now with 
vines a century old, is all 
that remains to mark the 
spot where once so much 
that was stirring and inter- 
esting took place. 



68 3 

By Frank R. Stockton. 


It was a bright scene in front of the house at 
Ormsley farm, one September night, just after sup- 
per. The night was dark, but the lawn and the 
porch were lighted up by several torches of "fat 
pine," which were blazing in the hands of some 
negro men and boys ; a number of dogs were run- 
ning about, barking and yelping as if they were 
impatient to go somewhere ; three white boys stood 
on the steps of the porch, talking to some young 
ladies who seemed in a very merry mood ; and in 
the door stood a pleasant-faced, middle-aged gen- 

"What are you all waiting for ?" said this latter 
personage. " You make so much preparation and 
noise that 1 don't believe you '11 do any hunting at 
all, and I 'm afraid that Walter will never see a 
'coon until some steady person like myself goes out 
with him." 

" Oh, Father," cried one of the young ladies, " if 
Walter never sees a 'coon till you go with him, 

Vol. IX— 44. 

he '11 have to buy a book on natural history to find 
out how the animal looks. " 

"Perhaps that is true." said the gentleman, 

" Farly has gone to tie up Tag," said one of the 
boys on the steps. " You know we can't start till 
he is tied up. But here comes Early, and now we 
are off, sir." 

The boys ran down the steps, and started away, 
followed by the dogs, the negro boys carrying the 
torches, and the negro man with an ax. 

" Good luck to you ! " shouted one of the girls 
from the porch. " If you don't find a 'coon, per- 
haps we '11 take Walter out some night." 

Walter Mason was a boy from the North, on a 
visit to his Virginia cousins, Gilbert and Joe, who 
were now taking him out on his first 'coon hunt. 

The party rapidly made its way out of the great 
gate, across the road, and over the fields, toward a 
high hill-side covered with forests, about a mile from 




the house. Here the 'coon hunters entered a wood- 
road, and more slowly made their way among the 
high trees. They had gone but a short distance 
into the woods, the dogs sniffing and yelping ahead 
of them, when a rush and a bark were heard behind 
the party, and, in a moment, a large dog was 
jumping and barking around Gilbert and Joe. 

" Here is Tag !" cried Gilbert. "Why, Early, 
I thought you 'd tied him up." 

" Dat no 'count good-for-nuffin' Tag!" ex- 
claimed Early, the negro man. " I done tied him 
up, but he 's bruck loose." 

" We might as well give up 'coon hunting now," 
said Joe. 

"I 'sea great mind to hit yo' in de head wad de 
ax," said Early, glaring at the dog. " What yo' 
mean, sar, comin' here to spile de fun ? " 

"Let him alone," said Gilbert. "Now he 's 
here, he '11 have to stay. Perhaps he wont spoil 
the fun after all." 

Tag was a long-bodied, woolly dog, with a black 
face and a tawny body. On looking at him, one 
could not help thinking he ought to be a handsome 
dog, but he was not. He looked as if he were a 
good watch-dog, but he was not that. He was not 
a good sheep-dog. He would not drive hogs. He 
caughtno rats. In fact, he was of no use at all; and 
was justly called by Early "a no 'count dog." No- 
body wanted him on a 'coon hunt, because it was 
well known that Tag would never pursue rabbits, 
nor any other creature, but would jump among the 
other dogs and begin to fight them, and so give 
the game a chance to escape. " He was larger than 
the other dogs, and would probably interfere so 
much with them if they were after a 'coon that 
there would be no sport at all. But now he was 
here they must make the best of him, and so they 
started on again. 

Tag was certainly an absurd dog. The other 
dogs were now on the track of a 'coon, but he paid 
no attention to this important fact, and trotted 
along by himself as if he had changed his mind 
about joining the party and was thinking about 
going home. Reaching a cross-road he turned into 
it, and ran quickly into the darkness. 

"Tag's done gone!" suddenly exclaimed one 
of the negroes. 

"Glad of it," said Joe. " 1 hope he wont come 
back ! And now, boys, keep your pine-knots 
burning, or we shall all break our necks." 

The whole party was now hurrying forward as 
fast as the darkness, only fitfully dispelled by the 
light of the torches, would allow. The dogs were 
far ahead, and when the boys came up to them 
they were barking and clawing at the foot of a tall 
persimmon tree. 

" Now, Walter," cried Gilbert, " they 've treed a 

'coon. He is somewhere up that tree. We '11 cut 
it down, and then we '11 have him." 

Two of the negro boys were holding the torches 
as high up as they could. " Dar he ! " cried one 
of them-^' - dar he, Mahs'r Joe." 

Looking up, the boys saw in a crotch of the tree, 
not very far above them, a mass of fur, not larger 
than a lady's muff, with a sharp nose and two 
twinkling eyes in front of it, and a cross-barred tail 
hanging down behind. 

" Is that the 'coon? " cried Walter. 

" That is the 'coon ! " joyfully replied his cousins. 

" Cl'ar away now!" shouted Early, beginning 
to swing his ax, " and I '11 have dis yer tree down 
in no time." 

With strong arms, Early now began to cut into 
the tree. The chips flew, the dogs barked, the 
boys shouted, and the 'coon sat up aloft and 
watched the whole affair with its little twinkling 
eyes. Soon the tree began to lean slightly to one 
side. "Stand back!" cried Joe. And then it 
came crashing down. 

At this moment the hunters and the dogs sprang 
forward, and the 'coon sprang, too. But the boys 
and the dogs sprang toward the top of the tree as 
it lay on the ground, while the 'coon sprang on the 
branch of a chestnut tree it brushed in its fall. The 
dogs dashed in among the fallen branches, and the 
hunters, with their torches, looked in vain for the 

" Whar dat coon?" cried Early. But no one 
could give him an answer. 

Gilbert was an observing and thoughtful boy, 
and he presently suggested that the 'coon must 
have jumped into the chestnut tree as the persim- 
mon fell. It was not easy to see into the thick 
foliage of the chestnut, but the torches, being held 
up, soon revealed the 'coon creeping cautiously out 
toward the end of one of the lower branches. 

" Climb up dar, you 'Lijah," said Early to one 
of the negro boys, " and shake him off. If you 
jump on de lim' he '11 drap. " 

" P'r'aps he '11 bite me," said Elijah, reluct- 
antly climbing the tree, assisted by a boost from 
the other boy. 

"Go 'long, and jump on de lim'," said Early. 
" De 'coon wont bite you if you don't bite him." 

Elijah clambered out on the limb, and, standing 
on it, took hold of the branch above, and began to 
shake the branch he stood on. The 'coon was 
a good deal bounced, but he did not intend to be 
shaken off. He turned and ran along the limb 
toward the tree. Elijah, sure he was about to be 
attacked, gave a yell of horror, and drew himself 
up with his hands, jerking his bare feet and legs 
high into the air. The 'coon dashed under him, 
reached the trunk of the tree, and disappeared. 




Whether he ran out on another limb and got upon 
a neighboring tree, — for the woods were very thick 
just here, — or whether he had concealed himself in 
the top of the chestnut, the hunters could not tell. 

Early himself climbed up into the tree, and a 
torch was handed him, but he could see nothing of 
the 'coon. The tree was too valuable to be cut 
down, and the hunters concluded they would have 
to let that 'coon go. 

" I hate to give up a thing like that," said Joe, 
" but it 's no use wasting our time. There are 
plenty more 'coons in these woods." 

Off they went again, dogs, boys and Early, and 
in less than fifteen minutes they were all after 
another 'coon. This creature did not seem to 
want to go up a tree, and it led the dogs and hunt- 
ers a doleful chase. Through thickets and bram- 
bles, over fallen trees, half the time in darkness 
and guided only by the noise of the dogs, the boys 
pushed bravely on. 

" This is hard work, Walter," said Joe, as the 
two boys panted along together, " but we are 
bound to get a 'coon. I 'd be ashamed to go back 
to the house without one. " 

" That 's so," cried Walter, cheerfully; "we 're 
not going to give it up yet." 

When at last the 'coon was kind enough to go 
up a tree, the hunters had descended to the other 
side of the hill, and found themselves on the bank 
of a small creek. The 'coon had run up a low, 
crooked tree on the very edge of the water, and 
the dogs were furiously barking below. 

"You '11 have to be careful how you cut down 
this tree," said Joe to Early, " and see that it falls 
on shore and not into the water." 

" I don't reckon I '11 have to cut it any way," 
cried Early, who was holding a torch out over the 
creek. " Look-a-dar ! He 's gwine to jump ! " 

Everybody looked, and they saw the 'coon sit- 
ting near the end of a limb that hung over the 
water. He was a larger animal than the other 
one, and much quicker in making up his mind. 
The next instant, he leaped from the limb and 
plunged into the water. 

" At him ! Sic him ! Catch him ! " shouted the 
boys, and the dogs dashed into the water. Before 
the 'coon could reach the other side the dogs sur- 
rounded him, and a terrible fight ensued. 

In the water a 'coon has great advantages over 
dogs, as these fellows soon found out. The 'coon 
seemed to have half a dozen mouths, and every dog 
snarled and yelped as if they had all been bitten 
at the same moment. The)' kept up a furious 
attack, however, upon their common foe ; the boys 
and negroes, meanwhile, urging them on with 
shouts and cries. 

There was one dog in the water that belonged 

to Joe. This was a setter named Ponto, and was, 
indeed, much too good a dog to go on a 'coon hunt. 
The 'coon appeared to find out that Ponto was the 
best of the dogs, and thinking, probably, that if he 
conquered him he could get away from the others, 
he seized the setter by the nose and began to pull 
his head into the water. 

Poor Ponto jerked up his head, and the other 
dogs splashed and snapped at the 'coon, who was 
nearly out of sight beneath the surface ; but the 
brave little creature held on firmly, and down went 
Ponto's head again. 

Everybody was greatly excited, and especially 
Joe. He was sure his dear Ponto would be drowned. 
The struggling animals in the creek had drifted a 
little down the stream, and were near a fallen log 
that lay across the creek. On to this log sprang 
Joe. If he could seize his Ponto he would pull him 
out of the water, 'coon and all. But, alas ! there 
was a crack and a crash ! The rotten log broke in 
the middle, and down went Joe into the dark 
stream ! For a moment he disappeared, and then, 
by the light of the uplifted torches, he could be 
seen struggling to his feet. 

In an instant Gilbert, Walter, and Early dashed 
in to his assistance. The water was about up to 
their waists, but they did not stop to think whether 
it was deep or shallow. 

Early seized Joe, and attempted to pull him to 
the bank, but Joe, by this time, had hold of Ponto, 
whose nose was held by the 'coon, upon whose hind 
quarters and tail two dogs had now fastened, and 
so the negro man had rather a heavy tow. Joe 
shouted to him to let go of him, for he was not 
going to leave Ponto. Gilbert also seized hold of 
the setter, and Walter made several cracks at the 
coon with a stick he had picked up. 

Suddenly all was darkness. The negro boys on 
the banks, in their excitement, had forgotten to 
renew their fat-pine torches, and for some minutes 
Elijah had held the only one left burning ; this had 
burned down to his fingers without his noticing it, 
and then he had suddenly dropped it. 

In the dark confusion which then ensued, every- 
body scrambled to shore, but Joe did not let go of 
Ponto. The boy and the dog climbed up the bank 
together, but there was no 'coon on Ponto's nose. 
Gilbert had some matches in an upper pocket, and 
there were several pine-knots left. These were 
lighted, and the boys looked at one another and 

Joe was wet all over, and the others were drip- 
ping to their waists. The dogs were .climbing out 
of the water, and the 'coon was gone. 

" Look h'yere ! " cried Early to the negro boys, 
"jump 'round lively now, and pick up some dry 
wood ! We 'se got to have a fire and all get dry 




afore derc 's any more huntin' done. I don't want 
to take anybody home wid de rheumatiz." 

It was not long before a fire was blazing merrily 
in an open space among the trees, and those of 
the part)- who had been in the creek were glad to 
gather around it and dry themselves. Ponto, who 
had had enough active exercise for the present, re- 
mained with the group near the fire, but the other 
dogs were scattered about in the woods, sniffing 
around for the track of another 'coon. 

Joe was just beginning to feel that he was about 
half dry, — and that is generally dry enough for a boy 
who has a good deal of walking or running before 
him, — when, suddenly, among the trees, a short 
distance from the fire, was heard a dreadful crash. 
High overhead there was a sound of breaking 
limbs, then a rush and a clatter, and a thump on 
the ground, followed by a muffled cry and a great 
stir and confusion among the dark and spectral 

Everybody started in affright, and the eyes and 
mouths of the negroes flew wide open. 

"What 's dat ? " whispered Early, his legs 
trembling beneath him. 

Nobody answered a word. In fact, the white 
boys were nearly startled out of their wits. 

The disturbing noise had now ceased, and in a 
moment Elijah opened his mouth : " It 's little 
Jacob ! " he gasped. 

" Little Jacob ! " exclaimed Walter. 

''Yes," said Elijah; "he done died day 'fore 
yist'day. " 

" Stupid ! " said Joe, who was now beginning to 
recover himself. " You darkey boys are always 
looking out for ghosts. What do you suppose poor 
little Jacob would be doing up a tree ? " 

" And he was so dreffel thin," said Early, who 
was glad to assure himself that he had not heard 
a ghost, " he could neber 'a' made all dat noise 

" Let 's go and see what it is," said Walter. And 
the white boys, followed at a little distance by the 
negroes, proceeded cautiously to the spot where 
they had heard the noise. There, by the light of 
the fire and the torch, they saw upon the ground 
a large dead limb, broken to pieces, while in the 
trees above them there began a flapping and a 

"Oh, hi!" cried Early, holding up a torch. 
"I '11 tell you what all dis bizness is, Mahs'r Joe. 
Dem yar 's tukkey-buzzards a-roostin' up dar. Dey 
was scared by de fire, and one of 'em jumped on 
de rotten limb and down come he. And dat was 
de whole magnitude of de t'ing ! And, now, I tell 
yo' what 't is, yo' boys," said he, turning to Elijah 
and his companion, " yo' ought to be 'shame' o' 
yo'selves, bein' skeered at ghos'es. Yo 's alius get- 

ting skeered half to death every time you hears a 
little noise." 

" Oh, ho ! " cried Elijah, boldly. " Yo' was 
skeered yo'self, Uncle Early. Yo' done reckoned 
it was little Jacob, coffin and all ! " 

The white boys burst out laughing. " You were 
just as much frightened as anybody, Early," said 

" I neber did hear anybody make such a talkin' 
and clatterin' as desc two boys," said Early, still 
glowering at Elijah and the other negro. " Dey 's 
enough to frighten all de 'coons out o' de woods." 

"Come on!" cried Joe. "We are ready to 
start now, and we '11 see if there are any 'coons 

The party clambered up the hill again, consider- 
ing it better to make their way toward home. They 
had scarcely reached the top of the ridge when 
the dogs started another 'coon. The hunters fol- 
lowed for a short distance, but as the chase led 
down into a deep ravine, filled with brushwood and 
bushes, the boys stopped, feeling that they had 
had enough of that rough kind of work for the 

The late moon had now arisen, and by its light 
the boys could see the dogs clamoring at the foot 
of a tall tulip-poplar tree on the other side of the 

"That 's the meanest thing of all!" cried Joe. 
"There 's a 'coon in that tree, and he just went 
up there to make us feel badly. He knows we 
can't cut down that tree, for it is the finest poplar 
in these woods. People come out here just to look 
at it. We might as well keep on. But I do hate 
to go home without a 'coon. I hope the folks are 
all in bed." 

The boys found it very difficult indeed to get the 
dogs away from the poplar tree. The animals would 
not listen to their calls, and the negroes were at 
last obliged to cross the ravine, and drive them 
away from the tree. The party had now reached 
the wood-road by which it had first entered the 

The torches were all burned out, but the light of 
the moon occasionally breaking through the tree- 
tops enabled the hunters to see their way. It was 
not long before they heard the barking of a dog in 
the distance. 

"Have any of those dogs got off again?" said 
Joe, turning to Early. "I told you to keep them 
with us. We don't want any more break-neck 
chases to-night." 

" Dey 'se all here, Mahs'r Joe," said Early. " I 
done tied a string to old Zack and I 'm leadin' him, 
and de udders wont go for no 'coon widout he goes 

"The dogs are all here," said Gilbert, who had 



called them to him. "It must be some other clog 
we hear." 

The barking of this dog was heard more plainly 
as they proceeded, and when they reached a cross- 
road, Early stopped and exclaimed : 

"Mahs'r Joe, dat 's Tag!" 

"It can't be Tag," said Joe; "he went home 
long ago." 

" It 's bound to be dat dog," persisted Early. " I 
knows his bark just as well as if 't was my old dad 
a-speakin' to me." 

"Let 's go sec!" said Joe. And the whole 
party ran along the road. 

They had just gone around a little bend, .when 
they saw Tag at the foot of a tall young tree. He 
was standing on his hind legs, with his fore feet 
against the tree, barking furiously. 

" Well I declare! " cried Joe ; " I do believe that 
Tag has treed a 'coon ! " 

There was no doubt of the fact. On one of the 
straggling limbs of the tree, which stood out in the 
full moonlight, a 'coon could be plainly seen. 

" Did yo' eber see such a dog as Tag ! " shouted 
Early. " He 's been a tryin' to scratch up dis tree 
by de roots. He 's done dug holes all 'roun' it." 

" I guess he 's been here all the time," said Joe. 

"And what 's more," said Gilbert, "I believe 
that he was on the track of that 'coon when he first 
turned into the road and left us." 

"And if we 'd followed him 1 guess we might 
have had a 'coon long ago, might n't we ? " asked 

" I reckon so," said Joe ; " but nobody ever fol- 
lows Tag." 

"I s'pose it 's about lime to quit preachin' and 
go to cuttin'," said Early. And, taking the ax 
from his shoulder, he began to hack away at the 

Tag retired to a little distance, and sat down on 
his haunches, apparently satisfied that he had done 
all that could be expected of him, and that the 
enterprise would now be carried on by other par- 
ties. The boys, white and negro, stood back, 
holding the dogs out of the way of Early's ax. In 
a very short time the tree came crashing down. 
As its top fell into the road the dogs and the hun- 
ters dashed to the spot, and the 'coon was seized 
almost before he touched the ground. 

Then there was a lively time ! The 'coon laid 
down on his back, spinning around like a top, and 
bit and clawed until the dogs became almost afraid 
to touch him. Tag absolutely refused to have 
anything to do with the fight, and Ponto, whose 
nose was still sore from his adventure in the creek, 

was not at all anxious to have another 'coon fasten 
upon him, and therefore showed but little zeal in 
this affray. 

Then Joe, who was fearful that the 'coon would 
spring up and get away from the dogs, ordered 
Early to kill him with a club, which was accord- 
ingly done. 

The 'coon was hung to a pole, and the hunters 
started home in triumph, everybody petting and 
patting Tag. 

" Wid Tag to tree 'em, an' a bull-pup to fight 
'em," said Early to his two companions as they 
followed in the rear of the part)-, " an' me to cut 
down de tree, dere would n't be no use for nobody 
else gwine on a 'coon hunt 'round here." 

" Yo' go 'long wid yo' blowin', Uncle Early," 
said Elijah, contemptuously ; " de tukkey-buz- 
zards 'ud frighten yo' cl'ar out de woods ! " 

When the hunters reached home, thcy r found the 
house lighted and the family up. It was late, but 
nobody wanted to go to bed until the 'coon hun- 
ters returned. The 'coon was pronounced a splen- 
did one, and Mr. Ormsley gave directions to have 
it carefully skinned. 

"Who do you suppose really got the 'coon?" 
asked Joe. 

" Give it up," cried everybody, anxious to know. 

" Tag ! " said Joe. 

" Not Tag ! " cried the girls. 

" Yes, Tag ! " said Gilbert. 

"Tag?" ejaculated Mr. Ormsley. 

And the boys, in chorus, answered : "Tag !" 





By Palmer Cox. 

There was a Sultan of the East 
Who used to ride a stubborn beast ; 
A marvel of the donkey-kind, 
That much perplexed his owner's mind. 

The beast was measured o'er with care ; 
They proved him by the plumb and square, 
The compass to his ribs applied, 
And every joint by rule was tried; 

By turns he moved a rod ahead, 
Then backed a rod or so instead. 
And thus the day would pass around, 
The Sultan gaining little ground. 
The servants on before would stray 
And pitch their tents beside the way, 
And pass the time as best they might 
Until their master hove in sight. 
The Sultan many methods tried : 
He clicked and coaxed and spurs applied, 
And stripped a dozen trees, at least, 
Of branches, to persuade the beast. 
But all his efforts went for naught ; 
No reformation could be wrought. 
At length, before the palace gate 
He called the wise men of the state, 
And bade them now their skill display 
By finding where the trouble lay. 

With solemn looks and thoughts profound, 
The men of learning gathered round. 

But nothing could the doctors find 
To prove he differed from his kind. 
Said they: "Your Highness! It appears 
The beast is sound from hoof to ears ; 



68 9 

No outward blemishes we see 

To limit action fair and free. 

In view of this, the fact is plain 

The mischief lies within the brain. 

Now, we suggest, to stop his tricks, 

A sail upon his back you fix, 

Of goodly size, to catch the breeze 

And urge him forward where you please." 

The Sultan well their wisdom praised. 
Two masts upon the beast were raised, 
And, schooner-rigged from head to tail, 

With halliards, spanker-boom, and sail, 
In proper shape equipped was he, 
As though designed to sail the sea ! 

And when the Sultan next bestrode 

That beast upon a lengthy road, 

With favoring winds that whistled strong 

And swiftly urged the craft along, 

The people cleared the track with speed; 

And old and young alike agreed 

A stranger sight could not be found. 

From side to side the province round. 


By Young Joe. 

Chapter I. 


You 'd better believe I was glad when that 
letter came from Uncle Joe ; for Mother and 
Father had promised me that, if I should get a 
good average in my marks at school, I might go 
and spend the vacation at Uncle Joe's. I put in 
and studied like a Trojan, and, at the end of the 
term, I stood third in my class. Jim Stearns and 
Wally Lyon were ahead of me ; but Jim is sixteen, 
and Wally's mother helps him at home. At any 
rate, Father and Mother were satisfied, and that 's 
all I cared for. 

But, about Uncle Joe's letter. Oh, was n't I 
glad! Uncle Joe is a splendid man ; I was named 
after him, and he always calls me Young Joe. Me 
lives in Massachusetts and is President of a Rail- 
way Company. He said in the letter that I must 
be sure to come, for he was going to take us 
young ones away somewhere to have a good time 
all summer. 

As luck would have it, school was just over when 
the letter came. I was measured for a new rough- 
ing suit of clothes ; Father bought me a stunning 
fishing-rod and tackle, and I squeezed in my base- 
ball and bats after Mother had packed my trunk — 
I had to laugh when I saw how she had put all the 
socks and handkerchiefs in little rows and piles. I 
thought they would n't stay that way a great 
while. And right on the top of all I put the 
presents I bought for Cousin Hal and Susy and 
Baby Bunting. At last I started. I went by the 
Fall River boat, and Father stood on the pier wav- 
ing his handkerchief until we were out of sight. 

Cousin Hal met me at the train the next morn- 
ing when I got out. They were all real glad to 
see me, and Aunt Maria had a tip-top breakfast. 
Hal's school had closed the day before ; but Uncle 
Joe said we should not start off on our trip until 
the next week, so we should have two or three 
days to knock around in. 

It was a great secret where we were going. Hal 
did n't know. Susy did n't know. And when we 
asked any questions Uncle Joe had a funny twinkle 
in his eye and Aunt Maria laughed. They said it 
was n't to the seaside, nor to the mountains, nor 
to a hotel, nor to a boarding-house, nor on a ship, 
nor in a tent. At last, Susy guessed '"up in a 
balloon," and everybody laughed; but Uncle Joe 
shook his head again, and so we gave up guessing. 

That was on Sunday night, just before we went 
upstairs. Hal went down, when he was half- 
undressed, to ask if it was in a cave; and when 
his father said "no," Hal said, then it could n't 
be anywhere. We went to bed at nine o'clock, 
for we were going to start early the next morning. 

Hal and I were up before everybody else. We 
could n't eat much breakfast, in spite of all that Aunt 
Maria said. We had a good many things to see to. 
Hal was going to take his dog, Susy her canary, 
and Baby Bunting a pet rabbit, which we carried 
in a box. Uncle Joe said it was a regular me- 

We went down to the depot in two carriages, 
with a lumber wagon behind to carry all the bag- 
gage. We had hardly got there, when the train 
came along. • We had a whole car to ourselves, 
and, as Uncle Joe is the President, of course we 
were " passed," and the conductor did n't come 
around to take our tickets. So Hal made believe 




he was the conductor, and put a badge on his hat 
and went up and down the aisle, calling out at 
every step, " Tickrf.?, please! " and Baby Bunting 
gave him a bit of card, and it tickled Baby Bunt- 
ing 'most to death. 

We went through a good many towns and places, 
but we did n't stop, except once to " water up." It 
was past noon when all at once we " slowed up," in 
a wild sort of place out in the woods, and pretty 
soon we began to back. We backed and backed 
as much as a quarter of a mile, on a side track, 
until we came to a place that was all woods on one 
side and clear, open fields upon the other ; and 
then we stopped. We asked Uncle Joe what it 
meant, but he told us to keep still and we should 
see very soon ; and then he got up and went out 
and talked with the engineer and brakemen. We 
could n't hear what they said, but pretty soon the 
engine went off and left us. We told Aunt Maria, 
and she laughed again, but said nothing. 

By and by, Uncle Joe came back and said : 
"Now, youngsters, come with me ! " 

We all jumped up and followed him in Indian 
file. He went out and unlocked the door of the 
next car and told us to go in. We rushed past 
him into the car and stopped, and all cried : 

" Oh ! " 

What do you think it was ? Why, the car was 
made into a parlor — not a Pullman palace-car, 
but a regular parlor, such as we have at home. 
All the seats had been taken out, there was a 
carpet on the floor, there were the sofa and easy 
chairs from Aunt Maria's room put around the 
wall, there was the piano at one side, there was a 
center-table and some shelving for books, just like 
a room at home. 

We asked Uncle Joe lots of questions, but he 
only smiled and again said : " Come along! " and 
went on to the next car. Then we all shouted 
again, for that was fixed up for three sleeping- 
rooms : one for Uncle Joe and Aunt Maria, at one 
end, a little one in the middle for Susy and Baby 
Bunting, and then one at the other end for Hal 
and me. There were six little iron beds, and all 
the rooms were divided off with heavy curtains, and 
there were funny little wash-stands, and combs and 
brushes, and lots of nails to hang our clothes on, 
and it was just the jollicst thing you ever saw ! 

Then Uncle Joe led us into the next car, and 
there was a dining-room — a large table in the 
middle, a lot of chairs, and a cupboard up in the 
corner with plenty of crockery. 

As soon as we saw that, we all clapped our 
hands and cried out : 

" Oh ! now we know the secret : we are going 
to live in the cars all summer ! " 

Uncle Joe smiled and looked at Aunt Maria. 

" But where 's the kitchen? " cried Susy. "Are 
we going to cook out-of-doors ?" 

Uncle Joe did n't answer, but went to the door 
and beckoned, and there was another car ! And 
when we went in, we found it was a splendid 
kitchen, and there sat our own cook and second 
girl from home, laughing and kind of blushing to 
see us rush in. They had a nice little bed-room 
partitioned off for them at the further end of the 
car, but when Aunt Maria asked them how they 
liked it, we all laughed to hear the cook answer: 

" Shure, 't is very nate an' foine ma'am, but we 'd 
he sheared out of our lives wid the wild bastes an' 

" Now, pickaninnies," said Uncle Joe, when we 
went out, "this is to be your home for the 
summer ! " 

We shouted with delight, Hal and I threw up 
our hats, Susy danced a little jig, Baby Bunting 
flourished his fat little arms, and altogether we 
made so much noise that Aunt Maria begged us 
to stop. 

" This is to be our summer home," said Uncle 
Joe, again. "And now the question is, what shall 
we call it ? " 

" Let 's call it 'The Sportsman's Bower,' " cried 
Hal, thinking of his gun and fishing-rod. 

"Or 'The Huntsman's Haunt,'" said I. 

" Or 'The Railroad Ranch,' " cried Susy. 

"Or ' The Traveling Troupe,' " said Hal. 

" Or 'The Roving Roost,' " said I. 

" Why not call it what it is? " asked Uncle Joe 
— " ' The Extra Train.' " 

We all thought that would be first-rate, and 
said : " Yes, let 's have that ! " 

"Very well," said Uncle Joe. "I will have a 
sign painted, and send it down to-morrow when 
Bo's'n comes with the horse." 

"Is Bo's'n coming? — and the horse, too? Oh, 
what fun ! " cried Susy. 

" Yes," said Uncle Joe. 

" Where will they stay? There is n't any stable," 
suggested Hal. 

" We shall have to build one," said his father. 
" Let 's go out now and choose a spot." 

We all went out and jumped off the car, and then 
we saw what a beautiful place we were in. It was 
very high ground. There was a mountain not very 
far off on one side, and a little lake quite near on 
the other. There was a splendid view ; we could see 
miles and miles away. There were ever so many 
hills, — big hills, too, — and lots of towns and vil- 
lages 'way, 'way off in the distance, so that we could 
just see the spires of the churches — oh, I can't tell 
you how grand it was ! 

Uncle Joe told us that the track we were on ran 
about a quarter of a mile farther to a gravel-pit, 

82. j 



but that it had not been used for several years and 
we should not be disturbed. He said, also, that the 
cars were old cars that the company did n't want 
any more, and that 's how he came to take them. 
The engineer and brakemen had blocked the 
wheels tight before they went away, so that we 
could n't move. The track was not sandy as most 
railway tracks are, but the grass came clear up to 
the rails, and the blackberry vines ran all over the 
sleepers in some places. 

We hunted around for a spot in which to build 
the stable, and Uncle Joe at last picked out one in 
a little clump of trees, at one side of the big open 

measured off and arranged, Aunt Maria came out 
to join us, and we played all the afternoon. 

After that there was the prettiest sunset I ever 
saw: the lake was all gold and the mountain deep 
purple. But it seemed sort of solemn and dreary 
at first, when the night came on, there were so 
many queer sounds. For, besides the crickets and 
tree-toads, there were lots of whippoorwills and 
something else, now and then, that Uncle Joe said 
was a screech-owl. I could n't help thinking then 
of what the cook had said about the " wild bastes 
an' Injuns," but I did n't say anything to Hal about 
it, for he would have laughed at me. 


place. We left him drawing plans upon a piece 
of paper while we ran and capered all over the 
wide green pasture, which we named "The Field," 
playing "'Tag" and "Gule" and "Leap-frog," 
till all at once Aunt Maria came out of the dining- 
room car and stood on the steps ringing a big bell. 
We wondered what it was for, but when we went 
in we saw a splendid dinner ready, set just as it is at 
home. We were glad to see it, too, for we were 
pretty hungry by that time. 

After dinner, Uncle Joe said we should go out 
and pitch the lawn-tent and set up the croquet wick- 
ets. We found a fine place, and after we had got it 

We forgot about the woods pretty quickly when 
we went in : for Aunt Maria had the big astral 
lamp lighted on the center-table, and we had 
games, and some music on the piano, and then 
we thought it was great fun going to bed in those 
droll little beds and bed-rooms. We knew nothing 
after that until old Meg, the cook, rang a tremen- 
dous big bell for us to get up in the morning. 

We did n't know where we were at first, but we 
soon were dressed and out. And, oh, you never 
saw anything so fresh and sweet as the woods were, 
nor heard such a racket as the birds made ! 

We had breakfast pretty early, because Uncle 




Joe was going away. We went with him down to 
the main track ; he shook his handkerchief when 
the train came along, and the engineer, who was 
on the lookout, stopped and took him up. 

That afternoon a car was switched off upon our 
track by the " up " freight-train, with two carpenters 
and a lot of lumber on it. The carpenters went 
right to work building the stable. It was a rough- 
looking little shed when it was done, but it was 
nice and warm inside, and it was hidden by the 
trees, so its looks did n't matter. The carpenters 
staid two days, and did a lot of little jobs for Aunt 
Maria ; they made some steps to go up into the 
cars by, for the car-steps were too high to be easy ; 
then they made some benches to put around in 
" The Field," where Aunt Maria could come and 
sit to see us play, and where we could sit when we 
were tired. 

The day after the stable was done, Bo's'n came 
with the horse. We were awful glad to see him. 
You ought to have seen how he grinned when he 
saw the stable and we told him about naming 
"The Extra Train." Bo's'n is a real good-na- 
tured fellow ; he is as strong as a giant, almost, 
and knows how to do everything. His name is n't 
really Bo's'n, you know — it is George Latham; but 
we call him Bo's'n because he was once a real 
boatswain on a great ship. He said he would 
show Hal and me how to snare rabbits and par- 
tridges in the woods, and teach us to swim and dive 
and float and a lot of things. 

Aunt Maria said she felt more "to rights " after 
the carpenters had gone and Bo's'n had come ; 
for she confessed she had been a little afraid, 
before, though Hal said she need n't have been, 
for he had his shot-gun. 

Bo's'n found a splendid spring in the woods, 
and used to bring the water every day in big 
buckets. Then he found an old grass-grown road 
by which we could drive the horse and carriage 
out to the highway ; and then we used to take a 
long ride all 'round the country every day. 

Uncle Joe came down 'most every night, and 
always brought a big basket of things from the 
city. That makes me think I have n't told you 
how we did our marketing. 

Why, the morning train used to stop and drop 
it off, in a big market-basket, two or three times 
a week, and Bo's'n was down there to get it. The 
engineer soon knew the spot, and used to give us 
a salute whenever he went by — a kind of "toot, 
toot ! " on the steam-whistle. We liked to hear it, 
but I guess the passengers in the cars thought it 
was funny. 

Saturday night an engine came down late on 
purpose to bring Uncle Joe, who had been kept 
by business too late to take the cars. Then Aunt 

Maria said, as long as the engine was there, she 
wanted the cars shifted so as to put the sleeping- 
car at the farther end from the kitchen, which was 
a good deal better ; for then we did n't have to go 
through " the sleeper" to get to the dining-room. 
You know now, pretty well, what sort of a place 
we lived in, and so I '11 go on and tell you some of 
our adventures. 

Chapter II. 


After the first week, we felt just as much at 
home on "The Extra Train " as in our own houses. 
Our papers and letters were thrown out of the 
cars every day by the expressman, in a little can- 
vas bag, and Hal and I went down the first thing 
in the morning to get it. 

Uncle Joe took us down to the lake one day, 
and picked out the very prettiest boat there, and 
hired it for the season. Her name was "Undine," 
and she was the fastest boat on the lake. Bo's'n 
rather turned up his nose at her, at first, I think, 
and said : 

" She 's all well enough, p'r'aps, for fresh water." 

She was nothing but a row-boat, of course, but 
he fixed her up with a cat-rigging and we used to 
have some jolly sails in her. 

Aunt Maria said it was a sweet little lake ; and 
so it was ; and not so very little, for it was six 
miles long. We used to go fishing 'most every 
day, at first; we caught perch and horn-pouts, 
and, now and then, a pickerel. We took Baby 
Bunting one day, and he actually caught a fish — 
a funny little flat fish — and pulled it in with his 
own fat little hands, and his eyes stuck out of his 
head, almost. 

He took such care of that fish ! He wrapped it 
up in a piece of paper, he put it in his pocket, he 
carried it home, and took it to bed with him, and 
cried as if his heart would break, next day, when 
Aunt Maria said it must be thrown away. But he 
stopped crying when we promised to get him some 
more. And so we did ; we made a little aquarium 
out in a hollow rock, and put in two or three little 
fishes ; but they did n't thrive, for Baby Bunting 
would take them out and nurse them every day, 
and squeeze them affectionately in his fat little fists. 

But speaking about the boat makes me think of 
the first scrape we got into ; and it was a scrape, I 
tell you. Everybody was scared 'most to death for 
a while. This is the way it happened : 

Aunt Maria said, the day before Hal's birthday, 
that we should have a huckleberry pudding next 
day for dinner if we would go and pick the berries. 

Of course we were glad enough to do that ; so, 


in the afternoon, Hal and Susy and I set out to go 
to the hills. But, after we had gone about half a 
mile, Hal stopped, all of a sudden, and said he 
remembered seeing lots of huckleberries over on 
Crow Island, and we 'd better go there. 

Crow Island is the biggest island in the lake, and 
it got its name from always having flocks of crows 
flying and cawing 'round it. 

We thought it would be ever so much more fun to 
go to the island ; so we got the " Undine" and rowed 
over. We found lots of berries, and picked our 
baskets heaping full. It was nearly sundown when 
we started to come home. We were just getting 
into the boat, when Susy pointed to a large pine 
tree, not far away, in which the crows were making 
a great noise. We went 'round to see what it was, 
and discovered a big crow's nest near the top. 

" I '11 bet there are some young ones up there ! " 
I said. 

" Come on. let 's go up, then ! " cried Hal. " It 
would be such fun to have a young crow ; we 'd 
teach him to talk." 

Without another word we both started up the 
tree ; it was pretty hard climbing, and when we 
got about half way up the old crows began making 
a horrible noise over our heads. But we climbed 
on, up and up, until we were within reach of the 
nest. There it was, sure enough, so full of young 
birds that it was a wonder some of them did n't 
tumble out. 

The old crows made a great fight, and darted 
right at our faces. Hal said he was afraid they 'd 
pick out our eyes; and so was I. Worse than that, 
we were up so very high that I was dizzy and my 
knees shook like everything. I kept hold, though, 
like grim Death. Hal shouted : 

" Brace right up, now, and don't go flunking ! " 

And I did n't. He kept the old ones off by 
fighting them with his hat, while I grabbed a fine 
young crow, and we scrambled down. I did n't 
dare to look below, for I thought I should fall 
every minute ; and that young varmint of a crow — 
my goodness, did n't he caw and kick, though ! 
He opened his mouth as if he were going to swal- 
low me, tree and all. He knew he was being kid- 
napped, I can tell you. 

But Hal and I did n't feel guilty, for we knew we 
were going to civilize that crow, and give him the 
advantage of an education ; and then, if he wanted 
to, he could go back as a missionary to the other 
crows, you know. Any way, we got down with 
him all right, and now begins the scrape. 

Just as we reached the ground we heard a 
cry from Susy. We ran toward the lake, and 
what do you think ? There was the boat, with 
Susy in it, out in the deep water, half a dozen rods 
from the shore, and Susy herself, with one of the 

oars, was paddling for dear life, and all the time 
only making the boat go 'round and 'round in a 
circle ! She was so scared, when she first found 
herself floating away from shore, that she had lost 
overboard the other oar. 

This was a pretty pickle ; for Hal and I could 
only swim a few strokes then, and of course we 
could n't go 'way out there in that deep water. We 
made believe not to be scared, but we were ; for the 
night was coming on, and we were left alone upon 
the island without any way of getting off. And 
there was the boat, with poor Susy in it, crying as 
if her heart would break, floating off toward the 
farther end of the lake, from which she would have 
to walk miles and miles through the woods to get 
home. Besides all that, we knew Aunt Maria 
would be frightened within an inch of her life. 

We shouted to Susy not to be afraid, but to sit 
still in the boat, and she would float ashore; and 
then Hal and I began calling and shouting and 
hooting, in the hope that somebody would hear us. 
And soon we were both as hoarse as frogs. But of 
course Aunt Maria thought we had gone toward 
the mountain, and she would hunt in that direction 
first, when she missed us. 

But all this time poor Susy kept floating farther 
and farther off, until she looked like a big speck on 
the water, and the light was fading fast. 

At last, we saw somebody moving on the shore. 
We both tried to shout, but we were too hoarse to 
shout loudly. 

Then what do you s'pose we did? — why, Hal 
stripped off his shift, and we tied it to a tall pole 
by the sleeves, so as to make a white flag; and we 
waved it back and forth, taking turns at it, until 
our arms ached. 

Pretty soon we heard a voice calling. We tried 
to answer, but we could n't make much of a noise ; 
so we kept on waving the shirt. 

By and by the voice came nearer, but the even- 
ing was becoming so dark that we could n't see 
anything plainly. In a few minutes we heard the 
splashing of oars, and then came Bo's'n's voice 
calling us by name. We managed to make him 
hear us this time; and, when he came up to the 
rock where we were, we both leaped into the boat 
and almost hugged him, we were so glad. He had 
brought along Tearer, Hal's dog, who nearly ate us 
up with delight, just as if he understood all about 
the scrape we had been in. 

When we told Bo's'n about Susy, he seemed a 
little scared at first : but in a minute he said : 

" Never you fear, she 's all right : we '11 git her — 
but we must give your ma the signal first; she 's 
over there on the shore, an' she 's e'en a'most crazy. 
I told her, eft was all right I 'd signal." 

And striking a match as he spoke, he lighted a 




lantern in the bottom of the boat and swung it 
'round his head three times. 

"There; that '11 ease her mind, I reckon, an' 
now we '11 go after the little one ! " 

With that, he just ' ' lay to " the oars, as he called 
it, and made the boat almost flv through the water 


in the direction we showed him. Now and then he 
stopped and wet his finger, and stuck it up in the 
air to see which way the wind blew. Then he would 
change his course and row harder than before. Hal 
and I were so anxious, that we did n't say much ; 
but we kept a sharp lookout, and every now and 
then I swung the lantern. It seemed as if Bo's'n 
had rowed a tremendous distance, and that he never 

would reach the other end of the lake. We thought 
he had made a mistake in changing his course, 
but he only said : 

" Now, you jest leave this 'ere to me, boys; you 
jest leave this 'ere to me." 

By and by, we saw the dark shadow of the woods 
on shore. We all shouted : 

" Susy ! Susy ! " 

But not a sound came back excepting a kind of 
echo from the woods. I kept swinging the lantern 
all the time, Hal was frightened nearly out of his 
wits, and Tearer barked like a good fellow. 

Hal and I were going to get out, but Bo's'n 
stopped us. He said we could hunt better in the 
boat than on shore. 

Then he rowed along shore, keeping well in, 
and pretty soon we saw some object in the bushes. 
We rowed up, and there, sure enough, was the 
" Undine," but — s/ie was empty .' 

Oh, how scared Hal and I were ! We could 
hardly breathe at first, and I felt all kind of hol- 
low inside. We thought Susy was drowned, but 
Bo's'n kept saying : 

" Don't you be scared a bit ; set right still here 
in the boat ! I '11 find her." 

He jumped out, and called the dog. Tearer 
went bounding into the woods, and we could hear 
him, for a little while, racing back and forth, this 
way and that, trying to find the scent. In a few 
minutes the sound of Bo's'n's footsteps and the 
barking both died away, and it was terribly still 
and dark and lonely. 

We waited and waited and waited, it seemed 
as if 't was almost a year, and by and by, after a 
long, long time, we heard a shout ; then Tearer's 
bark ; then the crackling of the bushes, and 
pretty soon out came Bo's'n with Susy in his arms. 
He came right on board, took off his coat and 
wrapped her in it, and put her down on the seat 
between Hal and me. 

She acted in a very funny way, at first ; she 
laughed one minute and she cried the next, her 
teeth chattered, and she shivered all over. Bo's'n 
said he guessed she'd got "the histrikes" slightly, 
but she 'd get over them quick enough when she 
got back to her ma. 

We did n't lose much time in getting home, you 
can imagine, and there was poor Aunt Maria 
waiting on the shore in the greatest fright. I ex- 
pected she would scold Hal and me, but she 
did n't ; she hugged us and kissed us and called 
us her dear children, and took us home and gave 
us a splendid supper, and was as kind as ever she 
could be. And she has never said a word about 
it since, nor forbidden us to go again, nor any- 
thing of the sort. 

And I guess that was the best way, for Hal and 

T H E E X T K A T R A I N . 

6 9 ; 

I felt as bad as we could, any way, and I think it 
would have been a sort of relief to be scolded. In- 
stead of that, Aunt Maria was so awful good to us 
that it cut us up worse than ever. 

And that was our first regular scrape, but 1 for- 
got to tell one thing. After we had reached home 
and we stood shivering around the fire, Aunt 
Maria said to me suddenly : 

"Why, my dear, what 's that you have in your 
hand ? " 

I looked down, and there was the poor little crow 
which I had tied up in my handkerchief and carried 
all the time, without ever knowing it. He was all 
alive and well, in spite of what he had been through. 
We called him "Jim," in honor of the renowned 
" Jim Crow." We taught him a good many tricks 
and he grew up to be a wonderful bird — 1 wish I 
had time to tell you some of the funny things he 

Chapter III. 


NOW I must tell you about our trip up the 
mountain, for that was rather an exciting event ; 
at least, we thought so. 

We had been waiting ever so long to go, so, at 
last, Aunt Maria said one evening that we should 
start the next morning. It was a splendid day. We 
had an early breakfast. Aunt Maria packed a big 
basket with luncheon, and Bo's'n drove us over to 
the Mountain House, a hotel right at the foot of 
the mountain, where we left the carriage. 

There was a good path, so we thought there was 
no danger of losing the way, and it was easy going, 
at first. Bo's'n carried Baby Bunting, and Hal and 
I carried the hamper. But, pretty soon, the way 
became steeper, and it got to be awfully hot. We 
all sat down in a shad}- place to get cool. We were 
so thirsty that we almost choked. While we sat 
there groaning for a drink, all at once Tearcr, who 
had been dashing about in the woods, came rush- 
ing up to us. 

"There! There! See that! He's found it ! " 
shouted Bo's'n, and pointed at Tearer's feet. 

We looked, and, sure enough, his feet were all 
wet. Then Hall and I jumped up, took a pail and 
went hunting about in the woods with him; and 
there, about half a dozen rods from the path, we 
found a splendid brook. 

The water was as cold as ice and as clear as 
crystal. We took back a pail of it. Aunt Maria 
said it was the best water she had ever tasted, and 
that we must stop there on the way down, to get 
another drink. 

Now, just that one remark of Aunt Maria's was 

the cause of all the trouble that happened to us, 
and a pretty muddle it was. 

We went on up to the top, and there we met a 
delicious breeze, as cool as could be, and saw the 
view — only there was so much of it that, of course, 
we could n't half sec it. 

Hal said he wished he had eyes like telescopes, 
and Aunt Maria said she would be a fairy god- 
mother for once, and gratify his wish. Then she 
smiled and said : "Presto — change !" and pulled 
a big spy-glass out of the basket. We took turns 
looking through it. It was funny to see Baby 
Bunting — he always shut up the wrong eye. 

By and by we had luncheon, and when we were 
rested we started down. After a while, Aunt Maria 
and Susy wanted to sit down. Bo's'n said he 
" guessed he 'd keep right on, and have the carriage 
ready for us when we got down." So off he went, 
with Baby Bunting on his shoulder. 

Susy became so tired that Aunt Maria had to stop 
pretty often for her to rest, so Hal and I ran ahead. 
When we came to the place where the spring was, 
we remembered what Aunt Maria had said, so we 
struck into the woods to go over there, thinking 
she would stop when they came along. 

Hal and I took a drink, and then went to work 
building a little dam, expecting every minute to 
hear Aunt Maria. We waited ever so long and did 
n't hear her, and so we filled our pail and came out 
upon the path. Aunt and Susy were n't there, and 
so we sat down and waited another long while, but 
still they did n't come. Then we thought perhaps 
they had gone past, and we hurried on. 

After we 'd gone about half a mile, we found 
in the path a whistle that I had made for Susy ; 
then we knew they must be ahead, and ran as fast 
as we could to catch them. 

Pretty soon, we came to a place where the path 
branched off in two directions, which we had n't 
noticed in going up. Hal and I took the left-hand 
path, which turned out to be right. We hurried 
down to the hotel, and there was Bo's'n and baby 
sitting in the carriage, but they had n't seen a sign 
of Aunt Maria. Then we knew right off that they 
must have taken the wrong path and gone astray. 

We did n't wait a minute, but just turned 'round 
and cut right back. It was a pretty good distance, 
but it did n't take us long. It 's funny that we 
did n't think of taking " Tearer," but we did n't ; 
we left him behind in the carriage. We ran along 
the right-hand path, calling and whistling as loudly 
as we could, until pretty soon the path branched 
off again. Then we did n't know what to do. At 
last we agreed- that Hal should go one way and I 
the other, and come back to that spot to meet. 

And now the muddle begins : Aunt Maria and 
Susy came out upon some road at the foot of the 

6 9 6 



mountain, where they met a farmer driving along 
in an old-fashioned wagon, and he told them they 
were several miles away from the hotel, so they 
hired him to drive them around. 

But, meantime, Bo's'n thought something must 
have happened to us, and so he tied the horse and 
left Baby Bunting in the carriage, with Tearer to 
watch him, and he started off up the mountain to 
find us. 

Then Baby Bunting got lonesome without any of 
us, and he got out of the carriage and went wan- 
dering about, crying, until a lady found him and 
took him up to her room at the hotel ; but all he 
could tell was that his name was Baby Bunting, 
and he lived on "The Extra Train" — which 
was n't very clear to the lady. 

Then Aunt Maria drove up and found the empty 
carriage, and was dreadfully frightened. She asked 
if anybody had seen a small child and a man and 
two boys. Nobody had seen the two boys and the 
child, but a man told her that he had seen 
Bo's'n get out of the carriage and start off up 
the mountain a few minutes before. Then Aunt 
Maria hired the man to go with her, and she 
started off up the mountain again. 

Now to come back to myself: After I had followed 
my path a long way, and found it end in a swamp, 
I went back to wait for Hal at the spot appointed. 

He did n't come, but while I was waiting, Bo's'n 
came up and found me ; we stuck a note into the 
tree for Hal and started back. We met Aunt 
Maria and the man. Then Aunt Maria and I went 
back toward the carriage, and sent Bo's'n and the 
man to find Hal. 

After Bo's'n had told Aunt Maria that he had 
left Baby Bunting in the carriage alone, you can 
imagine she did n't think of anything but finding 
the Baby. We ran 'most all the way back. And 
then, lo and behold ! Susy was gone, too ! Aunt 
Maria had left her in the carriage and charged her 
not to stir. 

It seemed as if everybody was bewitched. 

1 thought Aunt Maria would faint away, she was 
so tired and excited. But it turned out all right : 
somebody had told Susy that her little brother was 
in the hotel, and she had gone in to see ; and while 
Aunt Maria stood there so bewildered, they both 
came out on the piazza, and how they did run when 
they saw her ! 

Then ] wanted to go off after Bo's'n and Hal, 
but Aunt Maria would n't let me. She said she 
had had Box-and-Cox enough. So we got into the 
carriage and waited ; and pretty soon up came 
Hal from just the opposite direction that we ex- 
pected, and after a long time poor Bo's'n came 
back with Tearer ; and how he did grin when he 
saw us all seated in the carriage. 

It was long after dark when we got back to "The 
Extra Train," and found the two servant girls 
scared half to death at being left alone. And what 
do you think they said ? Why, that Uncle Joe had 
come home and got alarmed about us, and he had 
started off toward the mountain to find us. Aunt 
Maria dropped into a chair and gasped out : 

" Oh, dear, this caps the climax ! " 

Bo's'n stood there looking dreadfully sorry for 
a minute ; then all at once he brightened up and 
said : 

" I Ve got it ! I '11 fetch him ; never you fear, 
marm ! " 

Then he ran out to the stable. Hal and I won- 
dered what he was going to do, but we were so tired 
we did n't follow. 

In a minute there was a tremendous rushing 
noise outside, and we ran to the window and saw 
what it was. 

Bo's'n had set off a sky-rocket ! 

We had a half-dozen left from the "Fourth," 
and Bo's'n set off three — one after another. 
Sure enough, it did the business ! Uncle Joe 
saw them, and knew we must have got home 
and that the signal was meant for him, so he 
came hurrying back, just in time to eat supper 
with us. 

Aunt Maria said it seemed as if she was never 
so glad in her life, and that she had had enough 
of climbing mountains ; that mountains were 
made to look at, but not to climb. 

Chapter IV. 


The days went by, and we had lived a good 
while without anybody having come near us, so we 
never thought of there being any danger. We 
had no neighbors, you know, and folks could n't 
see us from the road. We were so hidden among 
the trees that they never suspected any one was 
living there. We used to play all around where 
we liked, and Aunt Maria used to go away to 
spend the day whenever she wanted, without wor- 
rying about us. 

But at last we had our eyes opened. We had 
a visit that we did n't forget. Hal and I used to 
read Walter Scott's novels, and wished there were 
castles nowadays and we could be in one just once, 
when it was besieged. We never thought our 
wishes would be granted. But they were. And 
this is the way it happened : 

One fine day, just after dinner, Aunt Maria took 
Susy and started off for a town seven or eight 
miles away, to do some shopping. Bo's'n went 
with them to drive. The two servant girls had 



done up their work and gone off for a walk in the 
woods. Hal and I were out in the field. I was 
painting the hull of a little ship we had been 
making for Baby Bunting, and Hal was fixing the 
rigging in a way that Bo's'n had showed him. 
Baby was inside, taking his afternoon nap on the 
parlor sofa, and Tearer was lying on the floor by 
his side. 

It was just as still as it could be. The birds had 
stopped singing, because it was so warm, and 
there was n't any noise except the rustling of the 
trees and now and then a squirrel whistling in 
the woods. 

All at once, Hal started up and said : 

"What 's that? " 

We listened, and heard a furious crackling of 
dead branches in the woods, as if some one was 
running, and in a minute more out rushed our two 
girls, with their faces as white as a sheet. Hal and 
I sprang up and asked what was the matter. 
They could scarcely speak, at first, but they man- 
aged to stammer out : 

"Ugh, ugh! Run, Misther Hal! Run, both 
o' yees ! " 

"What is it?" 

"Oh, they 're comin'. They '11 kill us — they '11 
murther us, and ate us ! " 


" Thim wild Injuns ; — the woods is full of 'em ! 
Quick! quick! Get into the kairs, like foine byes, 
now — they wont lave a stitch of flesh on yer 
bones, av they onct lay hands on yees ! " 

Hal and I began to laugh at this wild story, but 
just then there was a sound of trampling in 
the woods, coming toward us, and we scrambled 
into the cars. Hal darted into the kitchen after the 
girls, and I was going to follow, but I happened to 
think of Baby Bunting, and rushed into the par- 

Luckily, the two other cars were well locked. The 
girls always locked up the dining-room, between 
meals, on account of the silver, and Aunt Maria 
had locked "the sleeper" before she went. 

As soon as I had got in and locked both doors of 
the car, I stuck my head out of the window to see 
what it was. But I popped it in again as quick as 
a flash ; for there, close to us, was a party of 
rough-looking men coming through the trees. 
Then I ran and pulled down all the blinds, so that 
they could n't see into the car. 

They came up and stared and stared all 'round 
" The Extra Train." They could n't make it out. 
I could see them, as plain as could be, through the 
shutters. They were about as dark as Indians, but 
they were n't Indians. I did n't know what they 
were until I thought all at once of what Bo's'n 
had said about there being a party of Canadians 

encamped somewhere about the lake. I knew 
then it must be they. 

They were rough, loaferish men, and I did n't 
like the looks of them at all. I wished I were in 
the same car with Hal. I wondered what he was 
doing. All the time, though, I kept a sharp watch 
on the Canadians. There were three rniddle-aged 
men and one young man. 

Pretty soon they came up the steps and tried the 
door. Tearer jumped up ; I grabbed him and 
stuffed my cap in his mouth to keep him from 
barking. But he is n't a barking dog. He 
does n't usually waste breath in barking ; but 
when there 's any danger he takes right hold. 
And so, when I saw him get up and go to the door 
and stand there so still, with the shaggy hair brist- 
ling up all over his neck, I did n't feel quite so 

The Canadians tried hard to get in. They 
shook the door ; they dashed against it and they 
tried their best ; but it was too strong for them. 
Then they went around and clambered up to look 
through the windows ; but the blinds were shut, so 
they could n't see anything. I kept whispering to 
Tearer all the time, to keep him from growling. I 
thought perhaps if they did n't hear nor see any- 
body they might go away. 

All at once the fellow at the window up with his 
fist and hit the pane a rousing crack. It was very 
thick glass and it did n't break, but I knew it 
would n't stand many such knocks as that. Just 
as he lifted up his fist to strike again, and I began 
to wonder what I should do, there was the sound 
of a gun, and the man jumped down to the ground 
like lightning. 

I knew in a minute it was Hal, and I wanted to 
hurrah and clap my hands. He had opened the 
window and fired his shot-gun. I guess the 
Canadians were well scared, for the}- ran up to my 
end of the train, all four of them, and stood there 
under my windows, jabbering a lot of gibberish and 
looking around with an ugly scowl. 

Just then I happened to see our little brass 
cannon under a chair in the corner. I knew it was 
loaded ; we always kept it loaded — but only with 
powder, of course — so as to be ready for a salute. 

I picked it up, put it on a little table close to 
one of the windows, raised the sash softly, and 
bang.' it went, right over their heads ! 

1 thought they would all jump out of their skins ! 
I giggled right out, but they did n't hear me : they 
ran, as tight as they could go, across the field, over 
by the stable, and hid in the bushes. 

The cannon waked Baby Bunting, and he began 
to cry. I had to quiet him, and by that time the 
Canadians had rallied, and began to throw big 
stones to break the glass. 

6 9 8 



Crash ! crash ! went two of the windows in a 
twinkling. I began to be afraid again. 

I saw two of them go creeping off through the 
woods, and I knew they meant some mischief. I 
was afraid they meant to set fire to the train. 

Hal shot off his gun again, but I had no more 

The Canadians kept well behind the trees, which 
showed the)' were afraid ; but now and then one 
threw a stone. Luckily, they were a good way off. 

At last, when I was just beginning to hope they 
had got tired and gone away, I heard a queer little 
noise under the train. In a minute more, we 
began to nunc. Then I knew what they had 
done : they had taken the blocks away from the 
wheels and pushed until they had set the car in 
motion. I was awfully scared at this ; for it was a 
down grade clear to the main track, and if the 
train once got going I knew we could never stop it. 
Besides, it was 'most time for the regular express 
up-train, which would surely run into us and smash 
us all to atoms. 

back, and there were two of the Canadians running 
across the field with Tearer at their heels. They 
disappeared in the woods. Hal loaded his gun 
with some more powder, and we went across toward 
the stable'. 

Somehow we were n't so afraid now we had 
seen them run. 

We heard a tremendous tussle going on in the 
woods. We hurried up, and when we got into the 
edge of the woods we found that Tearer had put 
the whole of them to flight ! 

He had seized one by the coat-tail, and the fellow 
just slipped out of the coat and ran for his life. 

Then Tearer pulled another down, and was just 
going to spring upon him, when another Canadian 
came up with a big club and cracked Tearer over 
the head. 

Then Tearer turned upon him, and the first one 
got up and ran like a deer. The fellow with the 
club fought like a tiger for a few minutes, but at 
last he dropped his stick and darted up a tree. 

Tearer flew after him, growling furiously, but the 


That made me really desperate. I did n't wait 
another instant, but opened the door and sprang 
out on the platform, yelling like a Mohawk. Hal 
came out of his car the same minute. I set Tearer 
on the Canadians and we both sprang to the brakes. 

As soon as we had stopped the train we looked 

Canadian managed to draw himself up to a big 
limb, out of the way. Then Tearer sat down at 
the foot of that tree and held him prisoner. The 
fellow shouted to us, and talked a lot of gibberish, 
but we could n't understand him. We went up 
and patted Tearer on the head and pointed to the 



man, and told him not to let his prisoner escape, 
and we knew he would n't. 

When we got back to the train, there was Mie 
carriage, and there was Aunt Maria hugging Baby 
Bunting and listening to the story which the two 
girls were telling of the "wild Injuns." 

Hal and I made believe 't was n't much of any- 
thing, so as not to scare Aunt Maria; but we told 
Bo's'n about the man in the tree, and he slipped 
out there to look at him, as soon as he had put up 
the horse. He patted Tearer, and nodded his 
head, and muttered: 

" We 've got_y<w trapped, my fine feller ! " 

We expected Uncle Joe early that afternoon, and 
he came just at sundown. We took him out to the 
barn and told him all about the whole affair, and 
how the tramp was " treed." 

Uncle Joe flared up like gunpowder. He said 
things had come to a pretty pass if folks could n't 
be safe from savages in New England, by this time. 
He said he would send those fellows packing that 
very night, and told Bo's'n to harness up the horse 
right away. 

Then he went out into the woods where Tearer 
was still keeping the man prisoner in the tree. 
Uncle Joe called the dog off, and told the man to 
come down. 

At first the man was n't going to, but Uncle Joe 
has an air of authority about him, — he is used to 
commanding men, — and he put on a stern look 
which the man did n't dare disobey. So at last he 
came sneaking down, and Uncle Joe marched him 
back to the stable, and made him get into the 
wagon. Then Uncle Joe got in, took the reins, and 
drove away. 

It was about an hour before dark. They drove 
a couple of miles over to where one of the select- 
men of the town lived. 

Uncle Joe got him, and then they went and 
hunted up the Canadians in their camp down by 
the lake, made them pack up their duds in their 
old tumble-down wagons, and clear off out of the 
town. Uncle Joe and the selectman followed them 
for several miles and threatened to arrest them if 
they were ever seen in those parts again. 

And now my story draws to a close. There are 
a great many things more I should like to tell, but 
I guess you must be tired by this time. The 
summer was 'most gone, and there were only a few 
more days left of vacation — but I must tell you 
about the end of it, for that was real funny — the 
funniest of the whole, I think, and makes it all 
seem now, to look back upon, almost like a fairy 

We had had a splendid time. We were awfully 
sorry to go home; we knew, of course, we should 

Vol. IX.— 45. 


have to go pretty soon, but we did n't ask any 
questions — we did n't like to think about it. Uncle 
Joe and Aunt Maria had n't said anything, either, 
but at last, one evening, — it was Friday night, I 
remember, — Uncle Joe went out to the door, 
about nine o'clock, and came back pretty soon 
saying he guessed it was going to rain, and we 'd 
better get our playthings in. 

We were in the midst of a game of "Logom- 
achy," 'round the parlor table ; but we jumped 
up and went out, and got in all our traps. It was 
real cloudy, and we thought Uncle Joe was right 




about the rain, and never suspected anything, but 
went to bed as innocent as lambs. 

But were n't we astonished in the morning, 
though ? I waked up pretty early ; I had been 
having dreams of rolling off a precipice and flying 
through the air, and lots of disagreeable things. 1 
went to the window and looked out, rubbed my 
eyes, looked again, turned around and stared at 
Hal, rubbed my head, looked again, and finally 
roared out to Hal to get up and see what under the 
sun was the matter. He came to the window and 
rubbed his eyes. 

What do you suppose it was ? Why, the lake- 
was gone, the mountain had disappeared, and there 
we were standing in the midst of a strange town. 
Finally, Aunt Maria came in laughing, and told 
us we were half way home : that Uncle Joe had 
ordered a locomotive to come tip on purpose to 
take us, that we had started very early so as not 

to interfere with the regular trains, that we were 
"watering up," now, and should go on in a min- 
ute, and, finally, that it was time for us to get up, 
for breakfast was almost ready. 

We hurried, and were ready in less than no 
time. It seemed queer enough to be sitting there, 
the whole family about the breakfast-table, as com- 
fortable as could be, while the cars were flying 
along like the wind. 

When we arrived at our own station and got up 
to go, it almost seemed like leaving home. We 
all felt rather down in the mouth, I guess; but, 
just as we alighted on the platform, something hap- 
pened that made us all laugh. 

A man with a big carpet-bag, bundle, and um- 
brella came rushing up to Uncle Joe, all out of 
breath, and asked : " What train is this? " 

"This," said Uncle Joe, with a twinkle in his 
eye, "this, sir. is 'The Extra Train.' " 

By A. L. A. Smith. 

"At the battle of Jena, when the Prussian army was routed, the Queen, mounted on a superb charger, remained 
on the field attended by three or four of her escort. A band of hussars seeing her, rushed forward at full gallop, 
and with drawn swords dispersed the little group, and pursued her all the way to Weimar. Had not the horse 
which her majesty rode possessed the fleetness of a stag, the fair Queen would infallibly have been captured." 

Fair Queen, away ! To thy charger speak — 
A band of hussars thy capture seek. 
Oh, haste ! escape ! they are riding this way. 
Speak — speak to thy charger without delay ; 

They 're nigh. 
Behold ! They come at a break-neck pace — 
A smile triumphant illumes each face. 
Queen of the Prussians, now for a race — 

To Weimar for safety — fly! 


She turned, and her steed with a furious dash - 
Over the field like the lightning's flash — 

Away, like an arrow from steel cross-bow. 
Over hill and dale in the sun's fierce glow, 
The Queen and her enemies thundering go — 

On toward Weimar they sped. 

The royal courser is swift and brave, 
And his royal rider he strives to save — 
But no ! 

Vive rempcrcur .' " rings sharp and clear; 
She turns and is startled to see them so near, 
Then softly speaks in her charger's ear 

And away he bounds like a roe. 


He speeds as tho' on the wings of the wind. 
The Queen's pursuers are left behind. 

No more 
She fears, tho' each trooper grasps his reins, 
Stands up in his stirrups, strikes spurs, and strains, 
For ride as they may, her steed still gains 

And Weimar is just before. 

Safe ! The clatter now fainter grows ; 
She sees in the distance her laboring foes. 
The gates of the fortress stand open wide 
To welcome the German nation's bride 

So dear. 
With gallop and dash, into Weimar she goes, 
And the gates at once on her enemies close. 
Give thanks, give thanks ! She is safe with those 

Who hail her with cheer on cheer ! 




[ t) Q, ilH 

' ' ' ■ i \ A ! TO,' !,\ ' , » J'Vk- 4 

, a^p&^pw'-' 



By John Lewees. 

One of the most clearly marked differences be- 
tween man and the brute beasts lies in the fact 
that with his own unaided strength man is seldom 
able to take the life of his fellow-beings. Conse- 
quently, when we wish to put ourselves upon a level 
with the tiger and the wolf, and to qualify ourselves 
for the shedding of blood and the taking of life, 
we are obliged to find some other weapons than 
those nature has given us. Here and there may be 
a man who can kill another man by the exertion of 
his unassisted strength, but it is very seldom indeed 
that human life is taken by human beings without 
the use of an artificial weapon. 

The first weapon used by man was probably a 
club ; and it is also likely that in time this was 
made of very hard wood, and somewhat sharpened 
on one or more sides, so as to inflict a more deadly 
wound. Wooden weapons of this kind are now in 
use by some savage races. Then it was found that 
more effective weapons of the sort could be made 
of a harder substance, and short, unwieldy swords 
were hewn out of stone, very much as our Indians 

made their arrow-heads of flint. But a sword of 
this kind, although a terrible weapon in the hands 
of a strong man, was brittle and apt to break; and 
so, in time, when the use and value of metals came 
to be understood, swords were made of these sub- 
stances. The early Romans, and some other na- 
tions, had strong, heavy swords made of bronze. 
But when iron and steel came into use, it was 
quickly perceived that they were the metals of which 
offensive weapons should be made. 

Thus it may be seen that the sword was one of 
the first weapons made by man ; and. in time, it 
became the most important arm and auxiliary of 

By a careful study of the form and use of the 
sword, from its first invention until the present time, 
u e may get a good idea of the manner in which, in 
various ages, military operations were carried on. 
At first, men fought at close quarters, like the beasts 
they imitated. They struggled hand to hand, and 
with their short swords they banged and whacked 
at each other with all the fury and strength they 


S W R D S . 


possessed. But as the arts of warfare began to be 
improved, and as civilization and enlightenment 
progressed, men seemed anxious to get farther and 
farther away from one another when they fought, 
and so the sword gradually became longer and 
longer, until, in the Middle Ages, a man's sword 
was sometimes as long as himself. 

But there is a limit to this sort of thing, ana 
when the use of projectiles which would kill at a 
great distance became general, it was found that a 
soldier was seldom near enough to his enemy to 
reach him with his sword ; and so this weapon 
gradually fell into disfavor, until, at the present 
day, it is seldom used in actual warfare except by 
cavalrymen, and these frequently depend as much 
on the fire-arms they carry as upon their sabers. 
It is said that cavalry charges, in which the swords 
of the riders are depended upon to rout the enemy, 
do not frequently occur in the warfare of the 
present day ; and those naval battles of which we 
all have read, where the opposing" ships are run 
side by side, and the sailors of one, cutlass in hand, 
spring upon the deck of the other, and engage in 
a hand to hand fight, are now seldom heard of. 
Our iron-clad ships fire at one another from a great 
distance, or one of them comes smashing into an- 
other with its terrible steel ram ; and a sword would 
be a very useless thing to a modern sailor. Our 
armies lie a mile or two apart, and pop at each 
other with long-range rifles and heavy cannon, and 
to the great body of the opposing forces swords 
would be only an incumbrance. Even bayonets, 
which may be considered a sort of sword, though 
they more nearly resemble the lance, are not so 
much used as formerly in actual warfare. 

The officers, even in the infantry service, now 
wear swords, but these are merely insignia of 
rank, and are seldom used to fight with ; and, 
indeed, 1 have heard that it is not considered 
proper for an officer to have his sword sharp, be- 
cause, when using it in marshaling and leading his 
men, he might accidentally hurt some of his com- 

Swords have been made in so many different 
forms, on account of the various methods in which 
they have been used and the widely differing 
tastes of the people making and using them, that 
a description of all the different kinds of swords 
with which we are acquainted would cover a great 
deal of printed space. Some of the more distinct- 
ive forms of the weapon, however, are shown in 
the illustrations to this article. 

First we see the short, bronze sword, used by the 
early Romans before they knew how much harder 
and better a weapon could be made of steel or 
even iron. There was also a longer, bronze sword 
with a formidable sharp point, but a very awkward 

handle. After the Romans made much better 
swords, they still preferred the short, thick form, 
although a longer weapon was sometimes used. 
The most usual form of the ancient Roman 
sword -is seen in the picture of the sword of 
Hadrian. These blunt, heavy weapons were 
employed in hand to hand conflicts, and their 
blows were warded off by stout shields or bucklers, 
which the warriors wore upon their left arms. The 
sword of the fourteenth century, which is shown 
in the next illustration, though in some respects 
more clumsy than the Roman sword, is longer, 
which shows that fighting men had already begun 
to get farther away from one another. 

The claymore, once famous in Scottish history, 
was a very long sword, with a hilt so large that it 
could be grasped by both the hands of the warrior 
who wielded it, and when this tremendous weapon 
was swung around by any of the brave 

" Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led," 

there was every reason for the opposing soldiers to 
want to get as far away as possible. Long, two- 
handed swords were in use in various parts of 
Europe during the Middle Ages, but it is from Scot- 
land that we have heard the most about them. 

Andrea Ferrara, who was born about the middle 
of the sixteenth century, was a celebrated Italian 
armorer, and he made swords which were well 
known throughout Europe for the fineness of their 
temper and the beauty of their ornamentation. 
The hilt of the Ferrara sword shown in Figure 7 is 
of a rather curious form, although not very elabor- 
ate. But some of the swords made about this 
period for the rich knights and nobles who de- 
lighted in elegant armor and handsome as well 
as useful arms, were very elaborately ornamented, 
the hilts often being of complicated and artistic 

In Eastern countries, also, the ornamentation of 
swords was carried to a great extent. The East 
Indian saber, or Tulwar, shown in the illustration, 
has a neat and pretty hilt, while the East Indian 
scimitar is more highly and artistically ornamented. 
The Malabar sword is a simple weapon, but very 
broad at the end, and apparently intended to be 
used more as a hatchet than as a sword. The East 
Indian cutlass, or Polygars knife, is a weapon of 
somewhat similar shape, although not so blunt at 
the end. A cut from one of these heavy blades, 
wielded by a quick and powerful arm, must be a 
terrible thing. The modern cutlass, shown in Fig- 
ure 12, page 704, was used very much in the same 
manner as these East Indian weapons — that is, its 
stroke was always a cut and never a thrust ; but a 
blow with its comparatively slight blade must have 



1 and 2 Bronze Roman sword. 3. Sword of Hadrian. 4. Sword of the fourteenth century, at the British Museum. 5. Clayi 
Mediaeval two-handed sword. 7. Andrea Ferrara sword. S. Indian saber, or Tulwar. 9. East Indian scimitar. 10. Malabar's 





ii East Indian cutlass, called a Polygars knife, is. Cutlass. 13 and 14. Rapiers of the sixteenth century 15 and 16. Swords of 
the sixteenth century. 17. Italian Malchus. 18. German sword. 19. German two-handed sword. 20. Michel Angelo s sword. 21 and 
22. Japanese swords. 


S W R D S . 


been much less effective than one delivered with 
any of the ponderous, curved weapons of the East. 

From the first invention of the sword down to the 
period when the fifteenth century was drawing to a 
close, this weapon had always been used as an arm 
of offense. The person wielding it thrust it or 
hewed it in'to the body of his antagonist whenever 
he had a chance, and the only defense against it 
was stout armor or an interposed shield. It is not to 
be supposed that an ancient warrior, or one belong- 
ing to the earlier Middle Ages, never thrust aside 
or parried with his own blade a stroke of his enemy's 
sword; but this method of defense was not depended 
upon in those days ; the breast-plate, the helmet, or 
the buckler was expected to shield the soldier while 
he was endeavoring to get his own sword into some 
unprotected portion of the body of his antagonist. 
But about the time of Ferdinand and Isabella of 
Spain, the science of fencing was invented. This 
new system of fighting gave an entirely new use to 
the sword : it now became a weapon of defense as 
well as offense. Long, slender rapiers, sharpened 
only at the point, were the swords used in fencing. 
Armed with one of these, a gallant knight, or high- 
toned courtier, who chose the new method of single 
combat, disdained the use of armor ; the strokes of 
his opponent were warded off by his own light 
weapon, and whichever of the two contestants was 
enabled to disarm the other, or to deliver a thrust 
which could not be parried, could drive the sharp 
point of his rapier into the body of his opponent if 
he felt so inclined. The rapier, which was adapted 
to combat between two persons, and not for general 
warfare, soon became the weapon of the duelist ; 
and, as duels used to be as common as lawsuits are 
now, it was thought necessary that a gentleman 
should know how to fence, and thus protect the life 
and honor of himself, his family, and his friends. 

Swords of elaborate and wonderfully executed 
hilts, like those of the sixteenth century, shown in 
the cuts on page 704, excited the admiration of 
lovers of art, as well as of warriors. 

People who understood such things regarded 
these beautiful weapons with as much interest as 
we look upon any work of art of our day ; and, 
indeed, some of these sword-hilts were so admir- 
ably executed that those which are preserved in 
museums command as much admiration now as 
they ever did. The blades of swords were also 
sometimes beautifully ornamented, as may be seen 
in the cut of the Italian "Malchus" (Figure 17). 
The German sword next shown (Figure 18) exhib- 
its a very artistic peculiarity of hilt. 

Some of the German swords, used by the mer- 
cenary soldiers in the French religious wars, were 
enormous two-handed weapons, with sharp points, 
jagged edges, and great spikes near the base of 

the blade (Figure 19). These were used only by 
soldiers who were uncommonly strong and skillful ; 
for any awkwardness on the part of a man swinging 
such a tremendous blade was apt to inflict as much 
injury on his companions as on the enemy. Some 
of the long swords of the Middle Ages were used 
more for show and ceremony than for actual serv- 
ice. The sword of Edward the Third, which is 
preserved in Westminster Abbey, is seven feet 
long, and weighs eighteen pounds. This, it is 
said, was carried before the King in processions, 
and was probably never used in any other way. 

But the art shown in sword-making was by no 
means confined to beautiful forms and elaborate 
ornamentation. The greatest skill was exercised 
in the manufacture and tempering of the blade, 
which, in the days when swords were not only worn 
but used, was more important than any other part 
of this weapon. In Europe, the sword manufact- 
urers of Spain first began to have a reputation for 
producing work of superior quality, and the armor- 
ers of Toledo stood foremost among their country- 
men. A "Toledo blade" was considered to be a 
weapon of great value, and, even now, when we 
wish to speak of something remarkably fine-tem- 
pered and sharp, we compare it to one of these 
swords. The peculiarity of the Toledo blade was 
not only its extreme hardness, which enabled it to 
receive and retain the sharpest and most delicate 
edge, but its elasticity, which allowed it to be bent 
without being broken. Some of the most famous 
of these swords could be bent so that the points 
touched the hilts, and yet they would spring back 
to a perfectly straight line. It is said that, in 
Toledo, sword-blades have been seen in the cutlers' 
shops coiled in boxes like watch-springs, and 
although they might remain in this position for 
some time, they would become perfectly straight 
when taken out. Other places in Europe were 
also famous for producing good swords. Many 
excellent weapons were made in Italy, and Andrea 
Ferrara, the Italian sword-maker, who has been 
mentioned before, was better known throughout 
Europe than any other of his craft. To possess 
a genuine Ferrara blade was considered a great 
thing by the nobles of France and England. 

But it is to the East that the world owes the pro- 
duction of the most finely tempered swords it has 
ever seen ; and the steel of Damascus has been 
celebrated for many hundred years as superior to 
any other metal that has ever been made into 
sword-blades. Even the cutlers of Toledo doubt- 
less owed their skill and knowledge to the Moors, 
who brought from Damascus the art of making 
blades that were as hard as diamonds, as sharp as 
razors, and as elastic as whalebone. 

Wonderful stories are related of these Damascus 




swords. We have been told that with one of them 
a full-grown sheep could be cut in half at a single 
blow, a heavy iron chain could be severed without 
turning the delicate edge of the sword, and a gauze 
veil floating in the air could be cut through by one 
gentle sweep of the glittering blade. These wonder- 
ful scimitars are not manufactured now, but their 

their manufacture will be attempted. We should 
consider, however, that although the present age 
is preeminent as an inventive and manufacturing 
period, there are some things which have been pro- 
duced by the ancients and the artificers of the 
Middle Ages which we of the present day have 
not been able to equal. It is possible, therefore, 

23. Sword of Gonzalvo di Cordova, A. D. 1453-1515 — Royal Armory, 
Madrid. 24. Sword of Don John — Royal Armory. Madrid. 25. The 
Mascaron sword — Royal Armory, Madrid. 26. Spanish sword — Artil- 
lery Museum, Paris. 


fame has exceeded that of any other weapon of 
their kind, and it is quite certain that their extraor- 
dinary excellence has not been exaggerated. It 
is probable that the workers in steel of the present 
day might be able to discover the peculiar methods 
by which the Damascus steel was made, but as 
there would be little use or demand for the blades 
after they had been produced, it is not likely that 

that our steel-workers might never be able to make 
a Damascus blade, even if they wanted to. 

Some of the swords of Japan are said to possess 
wonderful qualities of hardness and sharpness. 
The story is told that if one of these celebrated 
blades is held upright in a running stream the 
leaves floating gently down with the current will 
cut themselves in two when they reach the keen 



edge of the sword. Samples of Japanese swords 
are shown in Figures 21 and 22, on page 704. 

But these Japanese swords, some of which were 
held in such high esteem that they were worshiped, 
and temples were built in their honor, were only 
hard and sharp; they had no elasticity, they could 
not bend and they might break, and in this respect 
they were far inferior to the splendid scimitars of 
the Moors and Saracens. 

To show still further the extent to which the art 
of ornamentation was carried in the manufacture 
of swords, we give pictures of the hilts of some of 
these weapons which are preserved in museums. 
Figures 23, 24, and 25 show the sword of Gonzalvo 
di Cordova, the sword of Don John, and the " Mas- 
caron" sword, all preserved in the Royal Armory 
of Madrid ; and Figure 26 represents a Spanish 
sword, of very beautiful workmanship, which is to 
be seen in the Artillery Museum of Paris. 

Having said so much about the art of ornament- 
ing and making the sword, we must add that the 
literature of the weapon has been as widely extend- 
ed as its use. When the story-tellers and trou- 
badours of the Middle Ages told or sang about a 
noble knight, his trusty sword was mentioned 
almost as often as himself. In those days, many of 
the swords were named, and in reading about them 
you might almost suppose that they were actually 
personified, and that they thought out in their own 
minds, and carried into execution, the brilliant 
deeds that are recorded of them. We all have 
heard of King Arthur's famous sword " Excalibur," 
and of the sword of Edward the Confessor, which 
was called " Curtana," the cutter, although we are 
told it was not very sharp. But even before the 
days of chivalry, the favorite swords of warriors 
bore titles and names. The sword of Julius Caesar 
was called "Crocea Mors" — " yellow death " ; and 
the four blades used by Mohammed were called 
"the Trenchant," "the Beater," "the Keen," 
"the Deadly." The sword of Charlemagne, called 
" Joyeuse," is famous in story. 

Not only were names given to swords, but in- 
scriptions intended to indicate their quality, or 
the deeds they were expected to perform, were 
engraved upon their blades. Some of these 
were of a very vaunting and boastful spirit. 
The best inscription upon a sword of which 
I ever heard was one upon an old Ferrara blade, 
which read thus: " My value varies with the hand 
that holds me." On a great many of the blades 
made at Toledo was the inscription: "Do not 
draw me without reason, do not sheathe me without 
honor." Among the vaunting inscriptions was 
this : " When this viper stings there is no cure in 
any doctors' shops." A Sicilian sword bore the an- 
nouncement : "I come," meaning, probably, that 

everybody else had better go away; while a Hun- 
garian sword declared: " He that thinks not as 
I do thinks falsely." These are but a few of the 
legends by which a man's sword, in the days when 
cavaliers and warriors used to do as much talking 
as fighting, was made to imitate its master. 

But the sword was not always used for the mere 
purpose of taking human life. From its first in- 
vention to the present day, it has, of course, like 
every other weapon, offensive or defensive, been 
mainly used in war or private quarrel, but, unlike 
all other weapons, it has a dignity and a quality, 
not so great now as formerly, but still recognized, 
which is entirely distinct from its character as an 
instrument for shedding blood. It was so long the 
constant companion of rank and valor that it ac- 

quired a dignity 
was used in 
resentative of its 
the present day, 
state, which are 
cessions, and on 
them are the 
" Black sword," 
sword," and the 
sword." In the 

of its own. Thus the sword 
many ceremonies as a rep- 
owner. In England, at 
there are various swords of 
borne in Lord Mayors' pro- 
other occasions. Among 
"Pearl sword," the 
the "Sunday 


accompanying picture is seen the ceremonial weapon 
borne by the sword-bearer of the city of Exeter. 

But not only did the sword represent and indi- 
cate rank and high position, whether civil or mili- 
tary, but it was used, and is still used in parts of 
Europe, as an instrument for conferring rank. 
When an English commoner is to be made a 
knight, and he kneels before his sovereign as plain 




Mr. Thomas Brown, the regal personage touches 
him on the shoulder with the tip of a sword, and 
he rises — Sir Thomas Brown. Nothing but the 
sword-blade is considered adequate to confer 
knighthood. A man might be touched by his 
monarch with a battle-ax of solid gold, or a most 
costly rifle, but he would never consider himself a 
genuine knight or baronet. It is the sword alone 
which is aristocratic enough to confer aristocracy. 
Not alone, however, for such noble purposes has 
the sword been used. In many countries, both 
barbarous and civilized, it has been the weapon of 
the executioner, and we read of great blades made 
for this purpose, containing within them a narrow 
channel in which ran a column of quicksilver. 
This heavy and fluid metal, suddenly flowing from 
hilt to point as the sword was swung, gave an addi- 
tional impetus to the blow, and made the work of 
the headsman easier and more certain. The sword 
was used, too, in the bull-fights of Spain, to dis- 
patch the wounded and maddened animals. 

But, as we have said, such uses as these are 
merely incidental, and do not detract from the 
rank and character of the sword, which, although 
it is not relied upon now, as formerly, in war and 
combat, is yet emblematic of all that it once was. 
Thus, when a general surrenders his army he hands 
his sword to the commander of the conquering 
forces, thereby indicating that he gives up his 
power to lead his men into further combat. 

It is not at all likely that cannon, pistol, gun, or 
any weapon that may be invented will ever attain 
the peculiar regard and high estimation in which 
the sword has been held so long. A weapon which 
was the personal companion of its owner, and de- 
rived its greatest value from its holder's skill and 
courage, was considered almost a part of the soldier 
or cavalier, and with it he often carved his way to 
fortune or to fame. 

But in our times, fame and fortune are seldom 
won, even in military life, by mere hewing and 
stabbing. The palmy days of the sword are over. 

tie Hestl\ 

There was a fair maid named Louise, 
Who, for handy-work, painted a frieze ; 

The room was quite big, 

Yet she cared not a fig ! 
This zealous, aesthetic Louise. 

But, alas ! for the Lady Louise, — 
Who worked at her task by degrees, — 

The style of that day 

Had long passed away 
Ere she 'd come to the end of her frieze ! 

So, in time, to the group at her knees 
(The grandchildren whom she would please) 
She said : " 'T will improve it, 
I 'm sure, to remove it," — 
And tltat was the end of her frieze ! 




By Sophie Swett. 

Nick TWEEDLE sat astride the hen-house, whit- 
tling. The roof of the hen-house could not be said 
to afford a comfortable seat, especially in the posi- 
tion which Nick always chose ; but it was a retired 
spot, and therefore suited to meditation, and Nick's 
mind was so absorbed that he thought little of his 
bodily comfort; besides, he liked to get astride 
the hen-house when he wanted to form a very 
brilliant plan, because it suggested being on a 
horse's back, and gave him a sense of courage and 

He could n't be on a horse's back, because Aunt 
Jane did n't believe in boys riding horseback. The 
very worst thing about Aunt Jane was her skepti- 
cism; there were so many things that she did n't 
believe in. 

She did n't believe in two pieces of pie. 

She did n't believe in swapping jack-knives. 

She did n't believe in circuses. 

She did n't believe in dogs. 

She did n't believe in guns. 

She did n't believe in playing all day on Saturday. 

She did n't believe in camping out. 

She did n't believe in playing Indian, and would 
n't let Tommy be scalped. 

She did n't believe in base-ball. 

She did n't believe in carrying jam-tarts and 
pickles to bed. 

She did n't believe in making a noise. 

She did n't believe in leaving things 'round. 

She did n't believe in red-headed boys, any way. 

When she expressed that last sentiment, as she 
did very often, Nick found it hard not to regard it 
as personal; for his hair was undeniably red — so 
red that people were always making unpleasant 
jokes about its being a beacon light on the top of 
Tweedle's hill, and the men who lounged in the 
village store pretended to light their pipes by it. 
Perhaps Aunt Jane "did n't mean anything," as 
his father always assured him, but Nick thought it 
was a little singular that it never happened to be 
light-haired boys, nor brown-haired boys, nor black- 
haired boys that she did n't believe in. 

She did n't believe in tearing trousers, nor being 
forgetful, either. In fact, Nick was of the opinion 
that a list of her unbeliefs would be longer than the 
catechism that he had to say in Sunday-school. 

To-day, Nick had planned to go fishing with Jack 
Deering; they were going to Lazy Brook, where, as 
Jack declared, the trout were so thick and so will- 
ing to be caught that they would " peek out and 

wink at you," and Aunt Jane had commanded him 
to stay at home and weed the garden, because she 
did n't believe in going fishing. 

And Nick had made up his mind that there were 
some things that no boy could endure. 

He had fully determined to run away. 

Just how and where to go were the subjects to 
which he was now giving his attention. Although 
he sat astride the hen-house and whittled, no brill- 
iant ideas seemed to come. 

Nick did n't want to do anything commonplace; 
he was convinced that he had uncommon talents. 
He had thought of running away to sea, but three 
boys from the village had already done that, and 
so it seemed rather tame. Besides, Dick Harris, 
who had come home, darkly hinted that there was 
more hard work than fun about it, and it was a 
peculiarity of Nick's that he liked fun better than 
hard work. 

Jacob, their hired man, had secured a position in 
a menagerie to educate a whale. That was an oc- 
cupation that would just suit himself, Nick thought, 
but from inquiries that he had made he judged 
that whale educators were not in great demand. 
Not everybody was as lucky as Jacob — though 
Aunt Jane thought he had better have staid on 
the farm, and said she did n't believe in menageries 
nor whales. 

Another thing that Nick wanted was to be a 
magician and take a cat and three kittens out of a 
hat that would n't begin to hold them, but he did 
n't know just where he could go to learn the busi- 
ness. His father could not tell him, and as for Aunt 
Jane, she did n't believe in magicians. 

He had thought somewhat of joining an Arctic 
exploring expedition, until he read that the pro- 
visions almost always gave out ; Nick never thought 
there was much fun where there was n't plenty to 
eat, and he read a list of the supplies that were 
usually taken, and found no mention of pies. After 
that he went over to Aunt Jane's way of thinking, 
and did n't believe in Arctic exploring expeditions. 

He had intended to invent a telephone which 
should be so superior to those already in use that, 
instead of merely transmitting the sound of voices, 
it should do the talking all by itself. But he had 
not succeeded as yet, and it would hardly be pru- 
dent to run away from home trusting to that as a 
means of support, although, once out of Aunt 
Jane's reach, his chance of success would be much 
better, for he had no opportunity to experiment 




now, because she did n't believe in telephones. 
Another plan that occurred to him was to ride 
around the world on a bicycle. He thought that 
by the time he got to Kamtchatka he might make 
money by exhibiting himself, as it was quite prob- 
able that they did n't have bicycles there ; but there 
was a difficulty in the way — it would take money to 
get as far as Kamtchatka, even on a bicycle. A boy 
might possibly endure to sleep out-of-doors with 
only ambition to keep him warm, but Nick was of 
the opinion that ambition would never keep a boy 
with a big appetite from being hungry. 

It is very sad, but one has to take a practical 
view of matters, even if one is a genius and expects 
to do great things in the world; so Nick decided 
that he would not attempt the tour of the world on 
a bicycle, even if he could get a bicycle, which was 
very doubtful, as Aunt Jane did n't believe in 

Walking on a tight-rope he regarded as an 
agreeable and elevated means of gaining a liveli- 
hood ; but an experiment of that kind which he had 
tried, with the rope fastened to the high beams of 
the barn, had proved so disastrous that he was 
forced to the conclusion that his talents did not lie 
in that direction. 

Going to fight Indians on the Western plains 
was another of his favorite plans, but the unpleas- 
ant habit of scalping people which the Indians 
indulged in so freely made him feel some hesita- 
tion. He might be like the "Red-handed Rover 
of the Rocky Sierras," whose adventures he had 
read, who always turned upon the twenty-seven 
uncommonly large Indians who were about to scalp 
him, and scalped them with their own weapons. 
But although he might not have acknowledged it, 
he had some doubts, drawn from his experiences in 
the fighting line, whether his abilities were as great 
as the Red Rover's. He reflected that he had once 
"licked little Billy Shannon out of his boots," but 
when Billy Shannon's big brother came upon the 
scene the results of the contest were sadly changed. 
He was as ready as anybody to "stand up man to 
man," but when it came to encountering twenty- 
seven uncommonly large Indians, all in war-paint, 
and brandishing tomahawks, Nick felt that he would 
rather not. 

To be a soldier had always been his greatest 
desire. He was very patriotic, and wanted an op- 
portunity to defend his country, but as there 
seemed no prospect whatever of a war he felt 
almost discouraged about that. He had gotten up 
a sham fight at the last Fourth of July celebration, 
and with several other boys had become so excited 
as to entirely forget that it was a sham, and the 
result had been more lively than delightful. 

And Aunt Jane did n't believe even in ten-cent 

pop-guns, nor two bunches of fire-crackers under a 
tin pan at four o'clock in the morning, nor even in 
the dinner-bell and a fish-horn — which did n't make 
any noise to speak of, — and she said she did n't 
believe Nick wanted anything but to give her a 

There really seemed to be no way of giving vent 
to patriotic feeling without being misunderstood. 

Nick concluded that it was a hard world for a 
boy, but still he did n't think he could find any- 
thing harder in it than staying at home with Aunt 
Jane and her unbeliefs, and he was just resolving 
to go and be a tramp until he could raise money 
enough to buy out a tin-peddler, when Tim Harri- 
man, a next-door neighbor, came along and called 
out to him that he had brought him a letter from 
the post-office. 

" Jehoshaphat ! " exclaimed Nick. 

His list of correspondents was extremely limited. 
In fact, he had received but one letter in his life, 
and that was from Aunt Jane when she had gone 
to pay a visit, telling him that she did n't believe 
in boys wasting money on postage stamps, so he 
need n't write to her. There was nobody who would 
be likely to write him a letter, so it must come from 
somebody who was unlikely to, and that might be 
the Khan of Tartary, who had written to offer him 
the position of Grand Vizier, or Decapitator Gen- 
eral, or whatever the highest dignitary of his court 
was called. 

After such a splendid vision it was somewhat 
disappointing to open the letter and find it was 
from their old "hired girl," Tryphosa, who had 
married Augustus Spilkins, and moved up into the 
back-woods. Tryphosa wrote : 

" My Deek boy: me and augustus Wants yu to kum and sea 
us, And Stay A long Spell, we Kepe tarvern and hev a Plenty off 
Good Vittuls. not exceptin Pys. yu Kan take augustuses Old 
Muskit and Shoot the cros that is eatin' up all the Corn and aim a 
mite Afrade off the scarcro though it is maid to look edzacly like 
augustus and yu kan brake in the Colt that is caliker and a roinun 
Nose and One Good i and Terrerble Skitish, and yu kan help 
augustus maik Jinger Ail wich has to bee Plenty bein a temperunce 
hous and not Another Drop though soshyble. me and augustus 
aluys set by yu and we Want yu to kum sertin sure pertikerly as 
it kant bee none two kumfurtin' wher thare is sich an Onbeleiver az 
sum fokes that yu and i noes off. with Respeeks yores respeckful 


"p. S. Kum Rite Of." 

If a visit to Tryphosa was not so delightfully ex- 
citing as the adventures which Nick had been pro- 
posing to himself, it had an advantage over them 
which was not to be disregarded in this uncertain 
world — it was a possibility. 

And there was a wild attractiveness about the 
prospect of shooting crows, and breaking in the 
calico colt, with his one eye and his skittishness. 

Besides, Nick liked Tryphosa; she knew how to 
sympathize with a boy that had an Aunt Jane; and 



her sympathy did not take the form of hugging and 
kissing — things which Nick could not endure — it 
took the form of pic. If there was a person in the 
world who thoroughly understood the art of pie- 
making, it was Tryphosa, and she was never known 
to cut a pie into stingy little pieces. 

Augustus Spilkins was very agreeable, too, and 
had gifts that distinguished him. He could balance 
a pitchfork on his eye-lid, and do a trick with cards 
that the school-master could n't find out. He 
could swallow a cent and take it out of his sleeve, 
and he could fiddle and dance so that the minister 
could n't help, listening and looking on. And, 
though he came from Nova Scotia, there never was 
a Yankee who could equal him at whittling ; he 
could whittle out a pig that could almost squeal, 
and mice that drove the cat half crazy. And he 
whittled out a dog that would wag his tail — though 
the wag did get out of order very soon. 

Tryphosa used to scold at first, because he "lit- 
tered up" the kitchen, but he won her heart by 
whittling out a butter-stamp for her with two 
hearts, joined together, and a turtle dove upon it. 
That was how they came to be married. 

Nick thought things over and decided that there 
was sure to be fun going on where Augustus was. 

He was sure that his father would give him leave 
to accept Tryphosa's invitation, but Aunt Jane did 
n't believe in boys visiting, so Nick decided to avoid 
any little unpleasantness that might possibly arise, 
by omitting to take leave of her. 

He wrapped his clothes in a gay bandana hand- 
kerchief, which was a present from Augustus, and 
hung the bundle over his shoulder, upon a stout 
stick. He had a traveling bag, but he thought 
that gave him a less adventurous air than the 
bundle. As he left the gate he heard Aunt Jane's 
voice calling him, and declaring in shrill tones 
that she did n't believe in boys having on their 
best clothes on a week-day. Nick hurried along. 
He did n't know how many bad people he might 
meet in the world, but Tryphosa had once solemn- 
ly assured him that he would never find another 
such an " in fiddle " as Aunt Jane. 

He stopped at his father's store, but his father 
not being in he contented himself with leaving a 
note for him, in which he explained where he was 
going, and asked him not to tell Aunt Jane. 
Nick's father was a very easy and obliging man, 
and, besides, Nick suspected that he suffered him- 
self from Aunt Jane's unbelieving disposition, and 
would enjoy keeping the secret from her. 

He felt a little sorry that he could not take 
Tommy with him. Tommy was Aunt Jane's son, 
but he was not in the least like her. He was four 
years younger than Nick, and believed in every- 
thing Nick did. And he never was so mean as to 

" tell on him." How much of his reticence was 
due to the fact that Nick threatened to make fiddle- 
strings of him if he did tell, it is impossible to say, 
but it is probable that this terrible threat had a 
powerful effect on Tommy's mind, as it always 
made him turn pale. 

Tommy's most striking characteristic was a pro- 
pensity to tumble into the well ; four times he had 
been rescued dripping and senseless, and Aunt 
Jane "did n't believe that boy would be anything 
but a lifeless corpse the next time he was hooked 
out of the well." Nick almost wished that he had 
taken Tommy with him when he thought of that 
dreadful possibility, but he contented himself with 
going back and adding a postscript to the note he 
had left in his father's store: "Tell Tommy not 
to get drowned in the well till I come home." 

Then Nick went on with a mind at ease. 

Augustus had appended to Tryphosa's letter 
minute directions, so that Nick might have no diffi- 
culty in making his way to Tantrybogus, the town 
where he and Tryphosa lived ; but he mentioned 
so many different railways and stage-routes that 
Nick was afraid his funds would not hold out until 
the end of the journey. 

He found that railroads and stage-routes came 
to an end nine miles from Tantrybogus. By the 
good nature of the driver of the last stage he was 
enabled to ride to the end of the route, although 
his money was exhausted. And he found that 
nine miles was as far as he cared to walk, but he 
reached Tantrybogus about nine o'clock. 

Tryphosa was almost overcome with surprise and 
delight, but instead of fainting, or kissing him, she 
gave expression to her feelings by setting six kinds 
of pie before him. There was no doubt that 
Tryphosa was just as agreeable as ever. 

Augustus complimented him in a very gratifying 

" Well, now, 1 swanny, 1 would n't have thought 
't was you, you 've growed so ! If I was onbeliev- 
in' like your Aunt Jane, I should declare 't wa'n't 
you ! I declare you 're gettin' to be a man so fast 
it makes me feel awk'ard to think what a little 
spell ago 't was that I made free to call you sonny !" 

You may say what you will, it is pleasant to 
meet people who realize that one is getting to be a 
man, and cannot properly be called " sonny." 

The " tarvern " seemed to be a very " soshyble" 
place, as Tryphosa had said ; there were many very 
pleasant and jolly people there, but it seemed to 
Nick that they looked and talked very differently 
from Stumpville people. Some of them he could 
hardly understand, and they had very odd. out- 
landish names. 

Nick came to the conclusion that very night that 
Tantrybogus was a queer place. 




He found out the next day that it was also a 
very delightful place. There were plenty of good 
times to be had, and no school, no garden to weed, 
no Aunt Jane, and unlimited pie. 

Shooting crows was great fun. He did n't hap- 
pen to hit any, but he hit the scarecrow and made 
a complete wreck of him. He also hit Tryphosa's 
favorite black turkey that was roosting in a tree, 
. and a neighbor's black cat, mistaking them for 
crows. So nobody could say that he was a poor shot 
if he did n't kill crows. As for the colt, everybody 
knows that a calico colt with a Roman nose and 
one good eye is very hard to break, so it is not 
surprising that he ran away with Nick into the 
river, and might have drowned him if he had n't 
been able to swim. 

Tryphosa cried over Nick, because he had had 
such a hard time, and carried a whole pie to his 
bedside, in the middle of the night, and Augustus 
said he did n't know how they had ever got along 
without him, he made things so kind o' lively. 

All these things happened in a kw days, for it 
was less than a week after Nick's arrival in Tantry- 
bogus that he suddenly became aware that the 
very next day would be the Fourth of July. At 
home, in Stumpville, he would have been counting 
the hours that must pass before the day came, but 
here he had found so many novel diversions that 
he had quite forgotten that it came so soon. 

In a great state of excitement he rushed to Au- 
gustus, who was bottling ginger ale. 

"Fourth of July, to-morrow!" he shouted, 
" and not so much as a fire-cracker ready ! Have 
you forgotten? " 

Augustus seemed disturbed and uneasy. He let 
the corks fly out of two or three ale-bottles, in his 
uncertainty of mind. Nick thought that popping 
was better than nothing; it sounded a little like 
the Fourth of July. 

"You see, Tantrybogus is kind of a cur'us 
place. They don't seem to set no great store by 
the Fourth of July, and seem' it 's Canady, and 
they 're mostly English and French, it could n't in 
nater be expected," said Augustus, looking sad. 

Canada ! Nick knew it was just across the 
line, and had n't thought of it, he had been hav- 
ing so many other things on his mind. He sat 
down on the lowest step of the cellar stairs, clasped 
his hands around his knee, and reflected. 

"I could n't stand it, Augustus!" he said, 
firmly, at last. "It 's all right for the Tantry- 
boguses, and for you, because you came from 
Nova Scotia, but I should burst ! " 

Augustus scratched his head in perplexity, and 
went on letting the corks pop. 

"You might go down to Polywhappit," said 
he, brightening suddenly. "That 's across the line, 

and it 's only a matter of ten miles from here, and 
I expect they '11 have a rousing time." 

"I '11 start right off! " cried Nick, jumping up. 

"I '11 harness up, and carry you a good piece, 
and you can walk the rest of the way ; and I 'II give 
you a five-dollar bill to do your celebratin' with. 
Oh, you need n't feel bad about takin' so much, for 
I 'm glad to have you go and enjoy yourself, and 
bein' you 're so lively, it 's worth more 'n that to me 
to have you go." 

Afterward it struck Nick that a double meaning 
might be attached to those words of Augustus',- but 
he was too eager to go to think about them then. 

Tryphosa took a tearful leave of him, and insisted 
upon putting a pie in the crown of his hat, where 
it "would n't be in his way, but would be handy 
when he got hungry," and told him to be sure to 
find her brother's wife's cousin, Lysander Hewitt, 
who lived in Polywhappit, and would be sure to 
welcome him for the sake of the family connection. 

Augustus drove him a little more than half way 
to Polywhappit, and then had to hurry back lest his 
ginger ale should spoil. 

It was late in the afternoon when Nick reached 
Polywhappit. It was almost as large a town as 
Stumpville, but Nick thought it did n't look very 
wide awake, and though he looked about him very 
sharply he could see no signs of preparation for the 
Fourth of July. 

However, they were, unquestionably, Yankees in 
Polywhappit, and Nick had never heard of Yankees 
who did n't make a noise on the glorious Fourth. 

Great, therefore, was his dismay when he learned 
from Tryphosa's relative, Lysander Hewitt, "that 
Polywhappit did n't calkilate to do no celebratin'. 
They had built a new town hall and repaired a 
great many roads, and did n't feel able to spend 
any more money. Money 's skerce in Pollywhappit, 
and that 's a fact," said Tryphosa's relative. 

" Do you mean to say that they wont make any 
noise at all to-morrow?" asked Nick, not without 
an accent of disgust. 

" Well, Polywhappit folks seem to feel that when 
your powder is burnt up, your money 's burnt up 
too, and there a'nt no great profit in it, to say 
nothin' of the danger of bein' sot afire. I did hear 
that the school children over to the East Polywhap- 
pit district was every one agoin' to recite the Dec- 
claration of Independence and sing some of them 
appropriate pieces like Ameriky and Old Hundred. 
If you feel like celebratin' I '11 carry you over there 
to-morrow mornin'." 

Nick heaved a sigh, and thought of the grand 
times that he had been wont to enjoy at Stumpville 
on the Fourth of July. 

" I 'm afraid that would n't be quite lively enough 
for me. We do things differently in Stumpville. 




We don't value money that we spend to do honor 
to our country ! " said Nick, with a grand air. 

His thoughts were turning, wistfully, to Stump- 
ville. Even if he had to endure Aunt Jane and her 
unbeliefs, Stumpvillc was not the worst place a boy 
could live in. For there they had not lost the 
Fourth of July. There they would have a ringing 
and a banging, a rattling and a snapping, that it 
would do one's heart good to hear. And, probably, 
at five o'clock in the afternoon a balloon would go 
up from the common. If he were at home, Nick 
might have some chance of going up in that bal- 
loon, for the aeronaut was Aunt Jane's brother-in- 
law's wife's nephew. And, at all events, he could 
go up on to the band-stand when the band was 
playing, because Aunt Jane's sister-in-law's second 
husband's son played the cornet. There were ad- 
vantages as well as disadvantages about having an 
Aunt Jane. It occurred to Nick that he had never 
fullv realized the advantages. He had thought too 
much about Aunt Jane's unbeliefs and not enough 
about her desirable family connections. 

He decided to get back to Stumpville very soon 
— if possible, before that balloon went up. 

He asked Lysander Hewitt whether he thought 
he could do it by walking all night, but Lysander 
thought he would get there just as soon by taking 
the stage at five o'clock in the morning. The rail- 
road station was only seven miles away, and an 
express train connected with the stage. 

So Nick accepted Lysander Hewitt's hospitality 
for the night, and, being very tired, he fell asleep, 
although it was entirely contrary to every Stump- 
ville boy's ideas of propriety to sleep on the night 
before the Fourth ; and he dreamed that he was 
an enormous fire-cracker, and was all lighted and 
going off splendidly, and very proud of himself, 
when all the people in Tantrybogus and all the 
people in Polywhappit began to pour cold water 
over him. He was very angry and made an im- 
mense effort to go off, in spite of the cold water, 
and suddenly found himself wide awake and rolling 
out of bed. 

It was daylight, but not a sound indicated that 
it was anything different from an ordinary day — 
no ringing of bells, no firing of guns, no inspiring 
rattle and bang of fire-crackers, not so much as 
the cheering snap of one small torpedo ! Nick 
felt that Polywhappit was in a low condition mor- 
ally, and ought to be aroused to a sense of its 
duties and encouraged to perform them. He took 
his money out of his pocket and counted it; be- 
sides the five dollars that Augustus had given him 
he had some change which Tryphosa had slipped 
into his hand after she put the pie into his hat; 
there was just thirty-seven cents; counting it over 
three times would n't make it anv more than that. 

On a scrap of paper which he found in his pocket 
he wrote this note : 

" Please celebrate a little, for it is an Orfool Disgrace not to have 
any fourth of July at all. i give you this dollar and Thirty Seven 
Cents to Help Along, as much noys as you could get for this 
would be a Grate Deel better than no fourth of July at all." 

He inclosed the money in the note, and slipped 
it under the door of Lysander Hewitt's chamber. 
Then he hurried to the stage, and soon bade fare- 
well to Polywhappit. 

He had saved a little more than enough money 
to pay his fare home, and would have been glad to 
invest that little in fire-crackers for a parting salute 
to Polywhappit, but the stage-driver told him that 
not a fire-cracker was to be had in the town. 

"There wa' n't no great liveliness about the 
Polywhappiters," he said. 

It seemed to Nick that never before had stages 
and railroad trains moved so slowly as those that 
he rode on that day. The stages waited for the 
mails, and waited for passengers, and waited to 
feed the horses, and waited for a young lady to go 
back and find something she had forgotten, and 
for an old lady to go back and see if she had n't 
forgotten something. And the trains waited for 
wood and waited for water, and stopped not only 
at the stations but at almost every house they 
came to. Nick thought it was fortunate that the 
houses were a good many miles apart, otherwise 
they might never reach Stumpville. All the sta- 
tions seemed half buried in the woods, and Nick 
saw scarcely a sign that anybody knew it was the 
Fourth of July. Once or twice a horrible suspi- 
cion seized him that the day had really dropped out 
of the calendar. But that was when he grew very 
tired and sleepy with the long ride and the jolting 
of the cars. 

Five o'clock came and went, while they were still 
miles away from Stumpville. Nick, in despair, 
pictured to himself the scene on the common, the 
crowd shouting and clapping hands as the great 
balloon — the balloon which he might have been in 
— sailed skyward. But he might still be in time 
for the fire-works ; it was likely to be a dark night 
and they would begin early, but he might get there 
before the close. But, alas ! nine miles away from 
Stumpville the engine broke down ! It might take 
hours to repair it, so Nick decided to walk the rest 
of the way. The seven-league boots could hardly 
have gone over those nine miles in a shorter space 
of time than Nick did, but it was all in vain. A 
distant glimpse of the last sky-rocket that went up 
from Stumpville common was all he had ! 

When he walked into the village there were 
still a few belated people in the streets whom he 
heard congratulating each other upon the grandest 




Fourth of July celebration that Stumpville had ever- 
known ! 

Nick hurried homeward, not feeling just in the 
mood to hear about the celebration. 

He went into the back yard, thinking he would 
creep up to his room by the back stairs, and 
not let anybody see him. But he stumbled over 
Tommy, who was fast asleep on a heap of empty 
torpedo boxes and fire-cracker papers, with a pop- 
gun still clutched tightly in his hand, and Tommy 
awoke, with one of the resounding screams for 
which Tommy was famous. 

" Keep still ! what have you got to cry about? " 
said Nick, bitterly. 

" I w-w-want it to be F-f-fourth of July some 
more ! " sobbed Tommy. 

Tommy's cry drew Aunt Jane from the front gate, 
where she was talking over the glories of the day 
with a neighbor, and Nick was discovered. 

"So it 's you, though 1 would n't have believed 
it," said Aunt Jane. " I don't believe in boys 
slinking in by the back way, even if they have 
reason to be ashamed of themselves. If you 'd 
been here you might have touched off the cannon, 
for Captain Thumb said he meant to let you — 
though /don't believe in boys touching off cannons. 
And you might have gone up in the balloon, for 

you had an invitation, and your father said he 
should have let you go, though / don't believe in 
balloons. I should like to know where you have 
been, for I don't believe in people leaving a splen- 
did Fourth of July celebration in their own town to 
tramp all over the country ! " 

" Neither do I," said Nick. He would n't have 
believed that he should ever come to share one of 
Aunt Jane's unbeliefs, but he did. 

Nick never expected to hear anything of the re- 
sult of his effort to arouse the patriotic feelings of 
the Polywhappiters ; but in less than a week after 
his return he received a letter in which Lysander 
Hewitt, in behalf of the selectmen, returned 
thanks for his generous gift, and regretted to say 
that, owing to the lateness of its reception, they 
had been unable to apply it to the object which he 
had mentioned, but as the town had been for years 
afflicted with the nuisance of stray animals, es- 
pecially pigs, running loose about the streets for 
lack of a suitable inclosure, they had resolved to 
use the money, with his permission, to make a 
pound, to be called in compliment to him " The 
Nick Tweedle Pig-pound " ! Nick hoped he never 
should hear anything more from those benighted 
Polywhappiters, who preferred a pig-pound to a 
Fourth of July celebration. 


WHEN I was a small youngster, years ago, we 
boys used to be told thrilling stories of what was 
called " The Last War. " In these later days, we have 
had a war on our own soil, which was, let us hope, 
the last war that we shall ever be engaged in as 
long as the American Republic lasts. But boys of an 
older generation than this knew "The Last War" 
to be the war between the United States and Great 
Britain, now generally called "The War of 1812." 
It is a long and painful story of misunderstandings 
and oppressive acts which must be told to explain 
the causes that led to the beginning of that war. 
Happily, the contest was not a very long one, and 
Americans, whatever may be said of the rights and 
wrongs of the two parties engaged in the fight, 
look with pride upon the achievements of the 
American navy of that period. The names of 
Bainbridge, Hull, Decatur, Porter, Perry, and 
many other gallant sailors, will be remembered as 
long as the traditions of the United States navy 
endure. Their wonderful exploits did much to 
close the sorrowful and wasteful struggle. 

In 1813, the frigate "Essex," commanded by 
Captain David Porter, after committing much havoc 
upon the British marine off the Atlantic coast of 
South America, sailed boldly around Cape Horn 
into the Pacific Ocean. Porter had resolved to 
strike out into a new field of operations, and, car- 
rying into the Pacific the first American flag that 
had floated from the mast-head of a man-of-war, 
he swooped down upon the British merchantmen 
and whalers, causing tremendous consternation. 
Nobody had dreamed that the Yankees would dare 
to send a man-of-war into this distant sea, and 
the British frigates were making things very un- 
comfortable for the few American merchantmen 
engaged in the Pacific trade. The arrival of the 
" Essex" soon changed all that. Within a year she 
had captured four thousand tons of British ship- 
ping, and had taken four hundred prisoners. She 
may be said to have subsisted upon the enemy, as 
the vessel was not only supplied with everything 
needed for repairs, rigging, ammunition, clothing, 
and provisions, taken from the enemy's captured 


£ o?oneX™ e es paid with money found on r that shouM b < *>« - oug h * ^ her . 

Orders were given that the " F«pv» , i V* 6 Amencan fri S ate «' a s fleet, and difficult to 

destroyed, at alf hazards by anv Br rH r ^ ^"^ in FebrUar >'' l8l 4' ^e frigate, 

Vol. IX- 6 accompanied by a small craft called the "Essex 

7 i6 



Junior," a cruiser made over from one of the prizes 
captured from the British by Porter, cast anchor in 
the harbor of Valparaiso, Peru. The Peruvian 
Government was not then independent, Peru being 
a province of Spain. But Valparaiso was a neutral 
port, although the people of Peru, and the Spanish, 
also, were somewhat unfriendly to the Americans. 
So, when two British men-of-war, the "Phoebe" 
and the " Cherub," entered the port, it was toler- 
ably certain that there would be a fight, should 
the " Essex" dare to put out to sea. 

The Englishmen had the redoubtable "Essex" 
and her little consort in a trap. For six weeks, the 
two British vessels kept a very close watch on the 
Americans, sailing up and down the coast, just 
outside of the entrance to the harbor. Finally, 
on the 28th of March, Captain Porter, trusting to 
his ability to outsail either of the British ves- 
sels, and draw them away, so that the "Essex 
Junior" might escape, set sail and drew out of the 
anchorage. In doubling a headland at the entrance 
of the harbor, the " Essex" was struck by a squall, 
which carried away her maintopmast and several 
men. Captain Porter returned toward the road- 
stead, and anchored three miles from the town and 
about the distance of a pistol-shot from the shore. 
The "Phoebe" and the "Cherub" had been ex- 
changing signals, and it was evident that they meant 
to attack, although the vessels were all in neutral 

The "Phcebe" carried thirty long eighteen- 
pounders and sixteen thirty-two-pound carronades 
for her armament, besides seven small guns in her 
tops. She also had 320 men, all told. The 
"Cherub" carried twenty-eight guns of various 
caliber and 180 men. To meet this formidable 
force the "Essex" had 255 men, and her arma- 
ment consisted of twenty-six thirty-pounders and six 
long twelve-pounders. The " Essex Junior, " which 
took no part in the fight, had twenty guns and sixty 
men. Nevertheless, Porter resolved that he would 
never surrender as long as he had men enough to 
work his guns; and right manfully did he hold to 
his resolution. 

The " Phcebe " opened fire at four o'clock in 
the afternoon, being then nearly dead astern of the 
disabled "Essex." The long eighteens of the 
Englishman did great damage on board the 
"Essex," which, .notwithstanding her disadvan- 
tage, returned the fire with gallantry and spirit. 
The " Cherub," then on the starboard bow of the 
" Essex," next opened fire also, but was driven off 
by the guns of the American. Three of the long 
twelve-pounders of the "Essex" were then got out 
astern, and played upon the " Phoebe" with such 
terrible effect that she, too, was hauled off for repairs, 
many of the shot having struck below the water-line. 

Both the British vessels now closed upon the Am- 
erican frigate, being on her starboard quarter, and 
poured into her a fire so galling that the spars and 
rigging of the doomed ship were soon in a tangle 
of wreckage. Porter slipped his cable, and, hoist- 
ing his flying-jib, bore down upon the enemy, pour- 
ing broadsides into them as the ship slowly drifted. 
The " Cherub " was driven off for a second time, 
and the " Phcebe " retired out of the reach of the 
guns of the " Essex," but near enough to worry 
her with her long-range ordnance. After two 
hours of fighting, Porter tried to run his vessel 
ashore, to prevent her falling into the hands of the 
enemy; but a change of wind prevented him, and 
he anchored once more, making fast a sheet-anchor 
with a hawser. 

Very shortly after, the hawser parted, and, to 
increase the trials of these determined heroes, the 
ship took fire below deck. In this extremity, Cap- 
tain Porter told the men to save themselves as best 
they could. Some threw themselves into the sea 
and swam to shore, some were drowned, and many 
were picked up, while clinging to bits of wreck, by 
the boats of the enemy. But a larger part of the 
crew staid by the ship, and continued firing into 
the enemy, in the midst of the smoke and flames. 
Finally, the fire was partly subdued, and men 
enough to work two of the long twelves kept up a 
brisk fire. 

But further resistance was useless. Only seventy- 
five men were left to do duty, the remainder being 
killed, wounded, or missing. So, after an engage- 
ment that had lasted two hours and a half, Porter, 
with a sorrowful heart, hauled down the American 
flag, and the wreck of the gallant " Essex " was 
surrendered to the foe. The British lost four killed 
and seven wounded on the " Phcebe," and one 
killed and three wounded on the " Cherub.i' Both 
ships were badly crippled, their sails and rigging 
being riddled, and the " Phcebe " had received 
eighteen shots below water-line from the long 
twelves of the "Essex." Thousands of spectators 
crowded the shores to gaze on the bloody encounter. 
The Spanish Viceroy was vainly entreated by the 
American Consul to insist upon the maintenance of 
neutrality. He refused to interfere. 

Thus ended one of the most remarkable naval 
engagements of modern times. It ended in disaster 
to the American cause. But the heroic defense of 
the "Essex," in which officers and men vied with 
one another in a determination not to give up the 
ship, fired with fresh enthusiasm all who heard the 
story of their brave and obstinate fight. And, 
when the young people of this republic shall cele- 
brate once more the deeds of the patriotic defenders 
of the American Republic, let them give a hearty 
cheer for David Porter and his crew. 



By Harlan H. Ballard. 

It is coming to be regarded as an axiom by the 
young people of America that "What man has 
done, boy can do " ; and the notion is not entirely 
unheard of that what a boy can do, so can his 
sister. There is scarcely an industry of any im- 
portance, carried on by the energetic and inventive 
men of the day, which has not its counterpart in 
reduced scale among the amusements of our boys 
and girls. Even in early childhood, those games 
are most popular which lead children to imitate the 
employments of their grown-up friends. 

Six-year-old Mary is never so happy as when she 
is playing "keep house"; especially if she is so 
fortunate as to own a real iron stove in which she is 
allowed to kindle a real fire for boiling a real potato ; 
and if Johnny has a father wise enough to give him 
a box of tools, he will cheerfully play carpenter all 
winter long. So the clouds of labor have their 
sunny side of imitative play. The mighty rumble 
of the locomotive is echoed in the tiny roar of 
thousands of mimic engines ; the intricate rattle of 
the busy telegraph is reproduced in a minor key on 
multitudes of little "sounders "; and even imple- 
ments of deadly warfare are reduced in caliber and 
sold as playthings. 

If this is true in the case of little children, much 
more is it true of our boys and girls as they grow 
older. The age is swiftly reached when toys no 
longer satisfy, and the boy must have a chest of 
tools that will do good work; he must engineer an 
engine that has horse-power in it ; he must culti- 
vate a patch of ground, and plant something more 
practical than the watermelon seeds of his early 
years ; he must have a gun that will throw real 

Among the many youthful occupations which 
this spirit of imitation has created, none, perhaps, 
has been more widely extended and more enthu- 
siastically followed than Amateur Journalism. 

The idea of a newspaper printed and edited by 
a boy is, in one sense, not a novel one. Benjamin 
Franklin might be called the pioneer boy printer ; 
for it is commonly mentioned in connection with 
the Discovery of America, the Landing of the Pil- 
grims, the Surrender of Cornwallis, and various 
other incidents of the sort, that when Benjamin 
Franklin was very young he published his broth- 
er's paper in his absence, and won himself distinc- 
tion thereby. 

It is said, also, that in 1S12, at the time when 
England and the United States were engaged in 

their second discussion, a boy by the name of 
Thomas G. Condie, or Cundie, living in Philadel- 
phia, edited the Weekly Portfolio, a paper which 
had some local repute. Tradition has it that 
Condie's paper was of four pages measuring eight 
and a half by eleven inches. 

We speak of this as a tradition ; for — alas, for 
the vanity of earthly glory! — learned scribes and 
critics have arisen who have proved, in the Censor 
and elsewhere, not merely that, as with Shakespeare, 
the spelling of our hero's name is uncertain, but 
that no such person as either Condie or Cundie 
ever lived, breathed, or edited a paper. 

We learn from Mr. W. M. Clemens, that on 
the 2 1st of August, 1820, Nathaniel Hawthorne, 
then sixteen years of age, sent forth the first num- 
ber of The Spectator, a small but neatly printed and 
well edited paper. A prospectus had been issued 
only the week before, setting forth that the Spec- 
tator would be issued on Wednesdays, "price 
twelve cents per annum, payment to be made at 
the end of the year." 

Among the advertisements on the last page was 
the following: 

Nathaniel Hawthorne proposes to publish, by sub- 
scription, a new edition of the ' 'Miseries of A utlwrs, " 
to which will be added a sequel containing facts and 
remarks drawn from his own experience. 

Whatever others may think, no member of the 
National Amateur Press Association will hesitate to 
attribute a fair share of Hawthorne's subsequent 
greatness to the discipline of these early labors 
in the editorial chair. 

The Boy. 

In 1834 or 1835. a little lad of Hartford, Conn., 
then known as " Nat," now as Rev. Professor 
Nathaniel Egleston, of Williamstown, Mass., pub- 
lished an amateur paper called The Boy. 

He set up his type in one of the tin Sedlitz 
powder boxes common then, and printed a sheet 
as large as a postal card. 

And this device of the Sedlit2 powder box calls 
to mind a very interesting account of another 
original contrivance devised in 1839 by a Western 
boy, or at least by an Eastern boy gone West. 
The story was told in St. Nicholas for June, 1S79, 
under the title of " How a Comet Struck the 
Earth," and should be carefully read and pondered 

7 i8 



by all who would know with what difficulties early 
amateur editors were forced to contend. 

In 1S58, appeared the Coos Herald, from 
Lancaster, N. H., which attracted considerable 
attention. Between these dates there were, doubt- 
less, many other papers whose names, though long 
forgotten by the world, still nestle in a warm corner 
of the memories of their quondam editors. Per- 
haps the difficulties in the way of obtaining presses, 
which the editors of The Boy and The Comet 
succeeded so ingeniously in overcoming, deterred 
many less energetic boys from attempting similar 

However this may be, it is certain that the 
invention, in 1867, of the cheap "Novelty" press 
was the event from which must be dated what is 
now understood as Amateur Journalism. The 
widely scattered advertisement, "Every Boy his 
own Printer," proved irresistible. Not Comets 
only, but whole constellations, suddenly flashed 
across the journalistic sky ; Suns shone, Stars 
twinkled, Meteors blazed and burst ; and, before 
the end of 1868, at least fifteen papers were regu- 
larly issued once a month. 

In September, 1869, the first convention of 
amateur printers assembled at the house of Mr. 
Charles Scribner, of New York. This convention 
organized itself, with Charles Scribner, Jr., as its 
President, into the "Amateur Printers' Associa- 
tion," but changed its name the following year 
to "Amateur Press Association." 

It was during this year, too, that Our Boys' 
Intellect (later, Our Boys) was first issued in Wen- 
ona, 111., by Charles A. Diehl. After a time, its 
publication office was removed to Chicago ; Fred. 
K. Morrill became one of its editors, it was enlarged 
from time to time, until it grew to be a handsome 
journal of sixteen pages. Its circulation is said to 
have reached ten thousand copies, and it was 
finally consolidated with a professional juvenile 
magazine. Mr. Diehl, its founder, adopted jour- 
nalism for his profession, and has, for many years, 
been on the staff of the Chicago Times. Mr. 
Diehl is by no means the only amateur editor 
who has, in later years, reached a position of pro- 
fessional eminence. William Howe Downes left 
his boys' paper for the Boston Globe. Frank H. 
Converse, well known to readers of the Portland 
Transcript, St. Nicholas, and Golden Days, was 
once editor of an amateur journal. So was 
Thomas Edison ; and Mr. Mark M. Pomeroy, three 
or four years ago, wrote : 

" It is now twenty-four years since we started as an amateur edi- 
tor with a little paper, the Sun, at Corning, N. Y. We have 
grown out of the atmosphere of youth, but can never forget that we 
were once a poverty-scarred amateur editor, and never can have in 
our hearts other than good wishes for the youths, the young men, 
amateur editors, some of whom, in the course of years, will be the 
leading journalists of this country." 

The list might be greatly extended, but enough 
has been given to show that in the publication of 
amateur papers we may have one of the truest 
schools of journalism. 

On this point, Hon. Horatio Seymour has ex- 
pressed himself in the following letter : 

Editor Comet — My Deny Sir: I am much pleased with the 
copy of the Comet you sent me, and I am gratified with your 
courtesy in letting me see the account of the proceedings of your 
Association. I hope and believe that great good will grow- out of 
the efforts of your young associates to put journalism upon the 
right basis. You begin at the beginning, and I know of no other 
way of having any useful pursuit carried on with success. This is 
demanded in all professions. I can see no reason why men should 
jump over the fences to get into the field of journalism. It should 
be entered through the regular gateway. It is as much a learned 
profession as law, medicine, or divinity. It calls for early training 
and careful preparation. I believe your association will do much to 
give the next generation higher toned journalism than we now have 
in our country. 

Truly yours, Horatio Seymocr. 

Utica, N. Y., Feb. 21, 1872'. 

One of the best papers which appeared during 
the renaissance of 1870-76 was the Youthful Enter- 
prise, conducted by Miss L. Libbie Adams. This 
is undoubtedly the " thirteen-year old girl-editor" 
mentioned in the "History of Woman Suffrage,'' 
who, "for three years, wrote, set up, and published 
a little paper in the interior of New York" (El- 
mira). It may be new to the authors of the just 
mentioned history that Miss Adams began her 
editorial labors in Carbondale, Pa. , where she 
printed some numbers of the Carbondale Enterprise 
on a press which her father had secured for her, 
and in an office which had been fitted up in a gar- 
ret. We shall mention later the Hurricane which 
still blows freshly from the orange groves of Caro- 
lina, but even at the date of which we are writing, 
Miss Adams was not the only girl in the ranks of 
amateurs. Miss Delle E. Knapp, who still writes 
excellent articles for the "mimic press," edited a 
bright paper in Buffalo, N. Y. ; and at Wartville, 
Tenn., Miss Birdie Walker published the Girls' 
Own Paper for several years. She is now one 
of the editorial contributors of a professional lit- 
erary magazine. 

In 1870, more than fifty excellent papers were 
published, and the future of Amateur Journalism 
was assured. 

During 1871, Amateurdom, or the "Dom," as 
it is pleasantly called by its members, prospered 
exceedingly. "The Centennial year," says Mr. 
Charles J. Steele, Jr., in the Buffalo Courier, "in- 
augurated what are now known as ' halcyon 
days.' " 

The whole country then looked to Philadel- 
phia. All sorts of societies and clubs held re- 
unions there. Friends who had long been widely 
dispersed took that occasion to meet again. 
Naturally enough, it occurred to some of the 
brighter amateur editors that it would be a good 

A M A T E U R N E \V S P A I' E R S . 


plan to have a grand reunion, and to publish a 
weekly amateur journal there. The last part of 
this programme was found impracticable. When 
the World's Exhibition had been held at Vienna 
in 1873, a paper called Our American Youth had 
been issued weekly, under the auspices of the 
New York Branch of the A. P. A.; but either the 
American Exposition managers were not so favora- 
ble as the Austrian, or the boys did not manifest 
so much enthusiasm in 1S76 as in 1S73. 

The reunion, however, was a grand success. 
Seventy-five amateurs were present in the Quaker 
City, and on the Fourth of July, amid the noise of 
martial music and the tramp of great processions, 
the National Amateur Press Association was 
formed. The mercury stood at 104 in the shade, 
but the intense heat served only to weld the boys 
into firmer union. 

The former organization had been local, and its 
members were from the 
Eastern States, but this 
Association was national, 
and embraced young 
men from all sections 
of the country. From 
that time, the letters 
"N. A. P. A." have 
been regarded with 
growing affection by a 
rapidly increasing num- 
ber of American youth. 

The Constitution, 
which was adopted in 
1876, has been recently 

amended and will be given, in part, in its proper 
place. The first President of the N. A. P. A. 
was John W. Snyder, of Richmond, Virginia. It 
is estimated that, during the year of his adminis- 
tration, there were five hundred amateur journals 
of all sizes and kinds. 

In 1877, the annual Napa meeting was held 
at Long Branch, and was the largest yet convened. 
There were over a hundred present, and, after a 
most exciting contest, A. W. Dingwall, of Mil- 
waukee, was elected President, and C. C. Henman, 
of New York, Official Editor. During this year 
the number of papers reached flood-tide, and there 
were over six hundred. 

In 1878, during the administration of President 
Will T. Hall, of Chicago, the great trouble with 
the Post-office authorities arose. One brief ac- 
count says : " It was determined by the powers 
that be, that papers published by boys were not 
legitimate newspapers, and that the publishers 

should be required to place a one-cent stamp on 
each and every paper sent out. The boys could 
not afford to do this, and the papers went down 
like grass before the mower. From this severe 
blow Amateur [ournalism has been slow to re- 

A LITTLE law. 

As it is evident from editorials in many leading 
papers of the " Dora," as well as from this quotation 
from an ex-amateur editor, that this " ' P. O. 
Trouble ' is regarded by the boys as one of the 
main events in their history as an association," we 
have been at some pains to become acquainted 
with the inside facts and reasons of what has 
seemed to many an unreasonable discrimination. 

The foregoing quotation was sent to Washington, 
accompanied by a request for advice as to the 
principles on which a distinction is made between 
papers published by boys and men. In reply, we 
were referred to certain sections in the Postal Guide 
and in a circular issued bv the Third Assistant 


Postmaster-General, a careful study of which con- 
vinces us that, however severely the decision of the 
Department may affect some of the less energetic 
boy editors, yet the complaints of unjust discrimi- 
nation have no substantial foundation. And, while 
the rulings of the Department are in full force at this 
date, it is still true that very many boys are sending 
their papers at pound rates through the mails, and 




yet acting in perfect harmony with law. For the 
information of all interested we will quote briefly 
the rulings which are in point : 

"Publications asserted to be issued in the general interest of printers 
and publishers can not be admitted to entry as second-class matter 
where it appears that the number of their paid subscriptions is so 
insignificant in comparison with their exchange lists as to demon- 
strate that the primary object of their publishers is to advertise their 
own business and that of others by means of a free circulation among 
other publishers and printers. * * * 

" The rule just indicated for the exclusion of so-called printers' pub- 
lications, designed primarily for the purposes of free exchanging, 
shoidd also be applied to so-called 'Amateur' publications, and the 
same evidence of a self-sustaining subscription list required of them 
as of trade-journals before admission to entry as second-class mail 

Thus it appears that amateur papers which arc 
on a business basis, and which are self-supporting, 
have never been deprived of the advantages ac- 
corded to the professional journals. The circular 
quoted enters into a long explanation of the reasons 
for this rule, showing that the nominal rate of two 
cents a pound does not cover the actual cost of 
transportation, and is accorded to no paper as a 
right, but is extended as a favor to such periodicals 
as are believed to be issued with a view to the 
spreading of intelligence among the people. The 
Government has always followed the policy of as- 
sisting in this good work, and has, therefore, carried 
newspapers to bona-fide subscribers at a nominal 
rate, for the sake of helping the public to obtain 
information cheaply. The favor is intended for the 
public good, not for the publishers' pockets. But 
when most of the copies of a paper are distributed 
by the publisher at his own expense, the inference 
is that they are distributed for his own advantage, 
and in such cases it is proper that he pay the post- 
age. If the people at large consider any paper to 
be of advantage to them, they will support it with 
their subscriptions. Then, the Government is will- 
ing to help them by reducing the rate of postage. 
Uncle Sam has a great and a generous heart, boys. 
He loves fairness above all things. Even Wright 
acknowledged this after his bright Egyptian Star 
secured pound rates ! 


Speaking of government reminds us that one of 
the most absorbing interests of the N. A. P. A. is 
the yearly election of officers. The desire for office 
seems to be quite as strong among boys as among 
men, and the struggles for the Presidency and 
the Chief Editorship are often extremely close and 

The yearly conventions are looked forward to 
with eager expectancy by the friends of the several 
candidates, and the oral debates and intricate wire- 
pulling of the actual meeting are preceded by 
months of earnest discussion, and even occasional 
partisan violence, in the numerous papers connected 
with the Association. It appears that many of the 

amateur editors print their papers for no other 
purpose than that they may try their luck in the 
yearly race for office, and certainly one of the 
strongest incentives to hard work in producing a 
creditable sheet is the fact that, as the boys are 
rarely personally acquainted, they are obliged to 
form their opinions of one another largely from the 
essays, poems, or editorials which they write. 

From this it happens that the offices usually fall 
to the lot of the most energetic, painstaking, and 
intelligent members, and whatever maybe thought 
of political aspiration as a motive to literary en- 
deavor, it appears certain that herein lies the 
strongest bond of union among the fraternity. 
Take away the annual conventions, with their plat- 
forms, discussions, and preceding campaigns, and 
the N. A. P. A. would soon dissolve. 

With regard to the officers, their election and 
duties, the Constitution speaks as follows : 

"Art. IV. — Officers. The Officers of the National Amateur Press 
Association shall consist of a President, First. Second, and Third 
Vice-Presidents, Recording and Corresponding Secretaries, Treas- 
urer and Editor. 

"Art. V. It shall be the duty of the President to preside at all 
Conventions of the N. A. P. A., and to perform such other duties as 
are called for in conformation with this Constitution and these By- 
laws, and the adopted parliamentary authority." (Robert's Rules 
of Order.) 

The President's duties are further defined 
through ten elaborate sections. Among these 
duties, may be noticed the publishing of at least 
ten numbers of a journal during his year of office, 
and the appointment of Judges of Award. Their 
duties will presently be explained. 

The duties of the Vice-Presidents are naturally 
those of the President in his absence, and there 
are also special duties relating to the reception of 
articles sent in competition for the various prizes 
which are offered by the Association. 

The duties of the Secretaries and of the Treas- 
urer are those which naturally fall to such officers, 
with special charge of certain matters connected 
with an intricate system of "proxy" voting. 

The Editor is one of the most responsible offi- 
cers, and concerning his work Article XII. says : 

"It shall be the duty of the Editor to take entire and complete 
control of the Official Organ, to issue four numbers of said paper 
during the official year, to allow nothing of a political character to 
appear in the columns of the paper, and to mail to every member 
of the Association and to every subscriber to the Official Journal 
one copy of each number, as soon as issued." 

It is provided by the next article that this "Offi- 
cial Organ " shall be known as the National Ama- 
teur, that it shall have at least four pages, which 
shall be 9 x 13 inches in size, and set in long 
primer tvpe. The names and addresses of the 
officers shall be published at the head of the editor- 
ial page, with full information regarding the method 
of joining the Association. 

The "Judges of Award," just referred to, per- 


72 I 

form duties which are explained by Articles 
XXIII., XXIV., and XXV. of the Constitution. 

"Art. XXIII. — Prize Compositions. Sec. i. In order to pro- 
mote the interest of our Editors and Authors, and the general tone 
of amateur literature, this Association will present to the author of the 
best written article on any subject, in accordance with section 3 of 
this article, the title of Laureate as hereinafter specified. 

" Sec. 3. Articles may be written under the following heads and 
sent to the officer whose name precedes them : 

Second Vice-President, 
Department A. 

Third Vice-President, 
Department 11. 

Stories or Sketches. 

Poems. Essays. 

History of Amateur Journalism. 

"Art. XXIV. — Judges of Awards. Sec. i. There shall be live 
Judges of Award, each of whom shall have a distinct department, 

"Sec. 2. Four of these Judges of Award shall be literary men of 
known ability not actively connected with Amateurdom. The fifth 
Judge of Award shall be an active Amateur. 

" Sec. 3. It shall be the duty of these Judges of Award to exam- 
ine closely every article seat them, and to report to the President as 
soon as possible the one they believe to be in a majority of respects 
the best, giving their reasons therefor. 

"Art. XXV — Titles. Sec. i. The title of Laureate shall be 
conferred upon the person contributing the best article on the sub- 
jects specified in Article XXIII., Section 3." 

Such are the offices which are yearly filled from 
the ranks of amateur journalists. A large share 
of all the talent of the " Dora " is exercised in the 


The latest question for discussion has been re- 
garding certain boys' papers of New York which 
are of a sensational and far from elevating nature. 
Some of the N. A. P. A. have strenuously opposed 
any fellowship with them. Others have argued 
that, although the tone of such papers was bad, 
still it was the best policy for the Napa to allow 
the obnoxious editors to retain their membership, 
in order to reap the benefit of their initiation fees, 
yearly dues, political influence, and advertising 
assistance. This appears to us to be one of the 
most vital questions which have arisen, and our 
confidence in the perpetuity of the Association is 
greatly strengthened by reading, in Article XVI., 
Section 2, of the Revised Constitution : "No per- 
son connected with or contributing to [here follow 
the names of the disreputable sheets] shall be eligible 
to membership." 

No motives of policy ever could overrule the 
wisdom of that section, and if the boys would take 
a step further, and promptly expel from their ranks 


- yfei 





(M %:% n 



weekly discussion of the various candidates for 
these offices, and truth compels the statement that 
many of the young editors allow themselves, in the 
heat of the campaign, to cross the limits of courtesy 
quite as far as their elder brethren of the pro- 
fessional press. 

A brief history of the latest election will give a 
clear notion of Amateur Politics. Before begin- 
ning this, however, it may be well to glance at one 
of the great questions which have divided Amateur- 
dom during the past ten years. 

every editor who publishes a single profane or inde- 
cent paragraph, they would greatly benefit the cause. 

It must not be inferred from this that there are 
many editors who do print such matter, but. in 
looking over large bundles of amateur journals, 
one is occasionally pained by seeing paragraphs 
which tend to throw discredit on the institution. 

To their credit be it said that the leading spirits 
of the " Dom " are bravely fighting this evil, and 
we have no doubt that they will succeed in stamp- 
ing it out entirely. 

7 2 2 



The latest convention was held in Buffalo, and 
is acknowledged by all the boys to have been a 
decidedly poor affair. There were only fifteen mem- 
bers present, as a large faction had bolted, and 
there was a good deal more excitement than either 


dignity or good nature. Practical jokes were in- 
dulged in among the members, proxy ballots were 
thrown out, and technicalities strictly observed in 
other respects. The convention appears to have 
been pretty well "fixed" beforehand; there was a 
good deal of "denouncing," some carousing, and 
a little business done. Still, oddly enough, excel- 
lent results have followed this most unfortunate 
meeting. In the first place, an energetic and 
enthusiastic set of officers were elected, and in the 
next place, the whole Association has been aroused 
to see the necessity of sending more and abler 
representatives to the yearly convention. More- 
over, the evils of a cumbrous system of proxy 
voting have become evident, as has also the 
unwisdom of a Constitution with eighty-eight sec- 
tions, besides voluminous By-laws. 

Boys wish to have fun at their conventions, of 
course; but they do not wish to be locked in their 
hotel-rooms, so that they can not reach the meet- 
ing without crawling through the transom! 

The following account of this meeting is con- 
densed from Sanderson's wide-awake Bay State 
Press : 

N. A. P. A., Frank Newton Reeve our Next President. 

The Lesserites dare not attend the Convention, but 
bolt it. — Small attendance but a grand meeting! — "Me 
too" Gleason dishonors himself. — The Lesser faction 
completely demoralized ! ! — Lesser half crazy. — The 
Reevites carry the day. — The National in good hands 
for the next year. — every officer active! 

A full, complete, and authentic account of our trip to Buffalo, and 
of the Convention. 

Since June ist we have thought of nothing else but the convention 
of the National Amateur Press Association which was to be held at 
Buffalo, in July. Il had been our one thought and wish to attend 
the meeting, and in accordance with this we began to save up our 
spare shekels and to accumulate enough collateral to attend it. The 
morning of the 16th of July found us counting our cash, and to our 
great joy we found that we were able to go. Hurriedly packing our 
knapsack, we boarded the train at the little depot in Warren and 
were soon proceeding at a rattling rate toward the capital of the 
Empire State. 

After a ride of five hours, we jumped off the train in Albany. 
While waiting here for eight dreary hours, we were suddenly con- 
fronted by two hungry individuals who had the appearance of being 
amateurs. One of them stepped up to us and said, " Is this San- 
derson ? " and we were soon shaking hands with Reeve and 
Kempner. The eight hours at length passed away and found us 
slowly rolling out of Albany. At eight, next morning, the train 
steamed into Buffalo. After a short search we found Charlie Steele 
of the Boys' Herald, and soon afterward came unexpectedly upon 
Parsons, Imrie, and Gleason. 

We took no breakfast, but went directly to Congress Hall to see if 
any of the boys had arrived. Finding no new names on the hotel 
register, we adjourned to Reeve's room, and stretched out on a sofa 
to sleep. We were scarcely lost to consciousness when a clatter of 
feet was heard in the hall, the door flew open and in came Pelham 
of Detroit. After a fraternal handshake, we learned that the Pitts- 
burgh boys had arrived, and, rushing upstairs, we soon had hold of 
the hands of Weissert and Koch. In a few minutes all the boys had 
gathered in Reeve's room, and a lively conversation was carried on 
for some time. 

Telegrams had been coming in all day from the boys, but the 
evening brought the most important one. It was directed to " F. N. 
Reeve, Congress Hall, Buffalo," and read as follows: "Monroe, 
Mich., July ifth. Train -wrecked. Nobody hurt. Will come 
Wednesday eve. Nilcs and kast." 

All were suspicious that something was up, for the message was 
received on the wrong kind of a blank, and a capital letter was 
missing. Hunting up the boy who brought it, we found that it was 
given him by three boys on the corner of Michigan Street, and that 
it never came through the office. It was, as we afterward found 
out, a dodge of the Lesserites to dishearten us. 

Looking over the register that evening, we found that Lesser, 
Ritter, and Buckley had arrived. 

Tuesday morning found us at Congress Hall at an early hour. 
About eight o'clock Niles, Kast, Brown, and Rickert arrived, and we 
were introduced in rapid succession. 

At eleven o'clock a caucus was held in Reeve's room. A regular 
ticket was made up and a plan of business mapped out. A huge 
sign adorned the entrance of the room and read as follows : " Reeve 
Headquarters. No Quarter Given." In the middle of it was 
a representation of a skull and cross-bones. 

The meeting was appointed to convene at two o'clock, but it was 
not called until three. None of the Lesser faction appeared, and a 
committee consisting of Fischer and Sanderson was sent to request 
their attendance. Arriving at their room, we were invited in. Tell- 
ing them that the meeting was to be called in five minutes, we were 
replied to by young Gleason, who said: 

" You appointed the convention at two o'clock. No one appeared 
and Lesser called the meeting. No one came and now the thing 's 
adjourned sine die." 

We said nothing and turned to go, but what was our dismay to 
find the door locked and the key on the outside. The Lesserites 
had us completely in their power. The meeting was being held 
down-stairs and we could not get there. Our wrath rose a little at 
this point, and stepping to one side of the room we gave the servant's 
bell a violent pull. No one answered, but, having observed the lay 
of the land, wc suddenly seized a chair and, placing it by the side of 
the door, leaped up over it and squeezed out of the little window at 
the top, before they could realize what we were doing. Hurrying 
down to the parlor, we found that the convention had just been 
called to order. 


A M A T K U K N E W S P A P E R S . 


At 3.05 o'clock, President Parsons called the meeting to order. 
Minutes of last meeting were read and accepted- A large number 
of new recruits were added to the membership list. The following 

STARTING A PAPER. — " IVhat shall we call it?" 

were appointed as laureate winners for the year: Jas. L. Elderdice, 
poet ; Wm. F. Buckley, sketch ; Chas. S. Elguttie, essay. 

The treasurer reported $15.50 in the treasury. After a good deal 
of minor business had been transacted, the election of officers 
occurred at 4.50. Will C, Brown arose and stated that he had the 
pleasure of nominating Frank N. Reeve for the presidency. No 
opponent appearing, he was elected by acclamation. In response 
to the cries of "speech," he rose and addressed a few well-chosen 
words to the association, and sat down amid hearty applause. He 
was then escorted to the chair by a committee of two and the election 
proceeded as follows: Louis Kempner nominated F. E. Day for 
first Vice-President, and he was elected unanimously. Sanderson 
nominated J. A. Imrie for second Vice-President, and be was also 
elected without opposition. For third Vice-President, Wylie and 
Kempner were nominated. The association then proceeded to ballot, 
and it resulted as follows : 

Kempner 11 

Wylie 1 

Mr. Kempner was declared elected. J. J. Weissert and 
Warren J. Niles were elected Recording and Corresponding 
Secretaries respectively. Howard K. Sanderson was elected 
Treasurer by a majority of eight votes over his opponent, 
Chas. C. Rickert. Finlay A. Grant was elected Official Edi- 
tor, and Detroit, Mich., as the next place of meeting. 

Each of the newly elected officers present responded with 
short speeches. Bills against the association were ordered 
paid. Adjourned. 

The next convention is to assemble this 
month in Detroit, Michigan, and bids fair to 
be the largest and most enthusiastic yet held. 
It will probably decide the fate of the " Dom." 
There is a small faction who are desirous of 
a revolution, like Orgetorix of old, and unless 
a rousing meeting is secured, and a strong set 
of officers elected, trouble is threatened. But 
the better element is well organized and alert, 
and fully determined to have fair play and 
keep the old N. A. P. A. afloat. 


An account of amateur newspapers which 
should give no specimens of what the amateur 
editors produce would be like a Thanksgiving din- 
ner with the ornithology omitted ; but the style of 
these papers is so varied, and the papers them- 

selves so numerous, that one is at a loss where to 
begin. A bare list of their names would fill several 
pages of this magazine. An excellent representa- 
tive of its class is the Independent 
Times, published by Frank Newton 
Reeve, of Newark, X. J., who is now 
the President of the Association. His 
portrait appears on the next page of 
this article. The Times is printed on 
fine paper with excellent type by Jas. 
B. 1 1. Storms, who is considered to be 
the best printer in Amatcurdom. The 
size of the paper is 8,'4 x 12J2 inches. 
An idea of its general appearance, 
with its effective title-head and 
" make-up," may be gained from the 
reduced fac-simile which we present. 
The National Amateur, which is the 
official organ, will be mentioned fur- 
ther on. Next to it in importance 
come the organs of the various sub- 
societies, such as the New England 
P. A., The South-Eastern, The Western. The 
Ohio and Michigan, etc. 

Following these comes the long train of miscel- 
laneous papers, among which may be noted The 
Hurricane, of Charleston, S. C, edited entirely by 
a little girl of fourteen years. Her name is Eva 
Britton, and she is well known to many at the 
North, for she makes annual tours through the 
cities, securing subscribers for her bright paper. 
She has now about four thousand, and is one of 


"our exchanges." 

a very few amateurs who are supported by their 
work. Is she not the only one ? 

The Mercury, of Towanda, Perm.; The Young; 




'■;';" '-■"''"-:' . '■"Z' : " : ::'~ i 


■'-■■ ■"■■'-.. - . ..;; 


Recruit, of Yineland, N. J. ; The 
Bay State Press, of Warren, Mass. ; 
Our Standard, New Glasgow, N. 
S. ; The Latest, Maiden, Mass. ; 
Xoiipariel, New York City ; The 
1 'entiire, Detroit (edited by a col- 
ored boy) ; The Miscellany, Spen- 
cerville, Out. ; The Topic, Phila- 
delphia ; Literary Journal, Phila- 
delphia; The Paragon, New York; 
The Censor, Philadelphia ; The 
Commentator, Philadelphia ; Puz- 
zler's Pride, .Chicago; Amateur 
Review, Cincinnati ; New 3 'ork's 
Favorite ; The Tablet, Halifax ; 
Pittsburgh Independent ; } 'oung 
Aspirant, Punxsutawny, Pa. ; 
Phunny Phellow, Nebraska City ; 
Monthly Eagle, Rockford. Ind. : 
Florida, Hawkinsville, Fla. ; The 
Dauntless, Fostoria. O. ; The 
Sphere, Washington, D. C. ; Blush- 
ing Bud (by two girls), Evansville, 
Ind.; TheVigilant, Pittsburgh, Pa.; 
Amateur Exchange, Stanberry, 
Mo. ; The Stylate, Frederick, Md. ; 

Our Blade, Buffalo, N. Y., and The Union, 
Hamilton, Ont. , are names taken at random 
from a huge pile of Amateur journals of all 
shades of politics and all degrees of excellence. 

Those who are interested in this subject 
will doubtless be able, by obtaining specimen 
copies of some of these sheets, to satisfy their 
reasonable curiosity. 

The National Amateur is the official organ 
of the N. A. P. A., and is as good as any ama- 
teur paper we have seen. Important informa- 
tion heads its editorial columns, as may here be 
seen. It is conducted by Finlay A. Grant, of 
New Glasgow, N. S. Mr. Grant also pub- 
lishes The Boy's Folio, and is the leading spirit 
of Young Nova Scotia, both excellent papers. 
He has won his way to the front of Amateur- 
dom by a long service of earnest and devoted 
labor. It was largely due to his exertions that 
Canadian boys were admitted to the Association, 
and, in spite of the drawback of his distant home, 

■ii w A i\w t\w A t\%\i ii 


^lUlCJJClUlCiU u 


VOL. 4. NO. 5. NEWARK, N. J., JULV. 1081. WHOLE NO. 41. 

^) 3°). 

' Til 1 Mracwtat noiiy nuirl. 

.. *Ctt ' ?^^4.=:j~ & >o-ss.i = ~-, i a 

■Tbaq J ;IcillfemllnoI,■■ 

Then the bell I hid my eye =r 

tS * 

Siialchl I ranc. and up ilicinlrciM came my hmieu dirlc and frowning. 



^ ©1 


T .„ -j-pc^e^- *o_i/ ii- ' -. - )?£* 

Shoulloj, or ihe (noc=neotlin E kUKc fur men unborn ) " 
••Sir!" ilw cried, la InrfipatMB. 

"" * ^""^ ' =r ~ •*■ .' ~* 



l!y iwo laniou. chiropodbn. for 
Here is ISVRON 



i. his r-cnllcr moments : — 


Niijbl on llie pLirvl *-«,^lbndi ' ^ura »lin 

UtuJe ibe Iryilincj place i ihc bending a'oo4t. 

gaged in wriling original T'oclry, by making many curious imitations 

Tbe nteeaiii; ml. all *)..- it of b.inan haie. 

uf our most prominent jujcis. I have here given ibe result of my 

There hreaihei a ■■liiinerlnE »>!«« ill around! 

labors lo a Jiicriniiiiatinr; amalcur public. 

The senile Linl peer* lonb »ilh noi«lci» beak : 

Here is -in imitation of Ty.NNVSOs's " In Mtmorium." Those 

Andlifibily •liril.ccuiL.ihaibruili (Jir Zuia'i chcelu 

uho arc acquainted with that sorocuhat over estimated, poem, u ill, 
1 ihiufc.iecogiiiie ,ne closeness ol llic resemblance:— 

SllllZuianlu; and b- lor whom iheniu 

T-ailor inSted and I-Bi; ihefu^nomale*. 

Sometimes forgoUeo umn w.Il %hake 

II he bul a=k il, ^11 a run de.ire. ; 

A phantom en a rolline, «a. 
Will hie. aril for a moment be 

Hervelf, or wliai «bc mighl hive been* 

Here is Walt Whitman ;- 

11 tr luir i. cmaocd wiih vulauf'i weeds 

Ve imn.iii.-e wnodi. ye nyMical lilrncet. 1 deid aalc^ am-errae 1 

And la,,,;!,,, and then anon, he plead^>hrlm me w will, y-ur vilenec ! il i- crand. Il r, »lul, mamlic u riuk in nature, u ..a -km poem of Cod. 

SjiIhe, "Oh, world; my will l»-rak; 

p', .r.-.c. arc done ; nave dine ihjr Um, 

Cruel "I'M," then ulu.hc. flame liel .htek. 

niatine.. and ifcuWa ■ and riJJln of life and dealh (orercr aud everenacred I 

Out nicraci mora : Hie cloud, o-chtvl 

In vain 1 may nne%li™i lh«. UnaB.were.1. 1 piek mywll uo and depart, 

Ilend and envelope in llielr mi.t 

Filled wilk Ihe mj-.lical Hknee ul the steal, crand, aaJ clonou. wmIi. . 

Willie her, and .he ■> dead. 

Tocontludc. how will Ihisaiuirct/otTouMoOREl 

SwceJ Jen"vJ a Haver lhat crun by Iheilream, 

T!ic ncxi is an imitation of EuGAK A. Toe. It i; perhaps. 

100 irifiinc, anj I ask paitlon fgr UiIfmIucms 't in lliii connection:— 

Like a wide-wate l.-A. drill up-«i ber. 

Ah. Jenny, il.e pink ol ihe village, ihc Ion 

01 a hundred ln.ld Miiion ihai w.^ her .a rajn i 

Sleepily my will »-u Tondcriaci \ 

'Vuoil.all lohe cl.aMly Bj-wcry.^hitbws ^cnah. here .ere. ta^ 

So Bcerlcu, unikl, at m> bauiiluljanc! 

Whs Iheni ca n .e > wMcn knocking. 

HjennyhadlHnkiflt.andarnnii.and b - 

Sele.r.n Mill, and Mmrwlial 1 j , 

Km Das . U- K'l IW.UI Oe cwl.lef 11..., her : 

Said :, "'liijimcinihi. rockine; 

A..J odii ih; Ui.^e ,...■-!. --ni.l.ei he. ca. 

Chair* hj oo;ipie> .i ehasuer on ihc fimi floor underneath. ~ 

Alvnc. L.UH.-r.aeC, L, eedar ani fir, 

1V.H .he noiw crew louder, «ellin C 

D.tbeatr; llirj-Jc.bcait Ihe d re! line.. 

Tlieokiid 1, " If that b utucl tlui la>lic!iilbtrEt!iE>DCaiU'e, 

A M A T E U K X E W S P A P E R S . 



he has been elected to the highest office but one. 
He is an entire stranger to us personally, but we 
have read with admiration his editorials on various 
topics, and they breathe a manly and true spirit. 

We present on page 726 an engraving of the 
editors of the Petit A use Amateur 'as they appeared 
when at work. Their paper has had the reputation 
of being the smallest in the world, and a fac-simile 
of the first page of it is also given. But there are 
now many papers much smaller. The J fidget, 
for instance, is an exact reprint of one of them, 
"life-size." Ttie Amateur, of Warsaw, Ind.. is 
only )i x 1 inch, and The Oak, which was, at one 
time, printed in Boston on a hand-press, was still 
more minute. Its four pages were as follows : 


No. 1. 

VET ! ! ! 

Ed. by 




The articles contributed to amateur journals 
may readily be divided into five classes : Editorials, 
Stories, Essays, Poetry, and Criticisms. As a 
sample of the first, see the following from the 
Independent Times, by President Reeve : 


" Not for years have the future prospects for Amateur Journalism 
seemed so promising. New papers are coming into existence daily, 


Finlay A. GRANT, Editor, New Glasgow, Nova Scotia 

Officers of the Association. 


Frank Newton Reeve, Newark, N. J. 


Frank E. Day, Cedar Rapids, la. 

John A. Imrie, Spcncerville, Ontario. 

Louis Kempner, New York, N. Y. 


Corresponding, — Chas. C. Rickert, ...... Canal Dover, O. 

Recording,— Jno. J. Weissert, Pittsburgh, Pa. 


Howard K. Sanderson, Warren, Mass. 

official editor : 
Finlay A. Grant, New Glasgow, Nova Scotia. 

The National Amateur is sent free to members. To 
others it is 15 cents per year. 

The National Amateur Press Association is composed of 
the amateur editors, authors, publishers and printers of 
North America, who meet yearly, during the month of July, 
for the purpose of acquaintance and transacting such busi- 
ness as may be proposed. The next Convention will be 
held in Detroit, Mich., subject to the call of the President. 

Extracts from Constitution. 
Article XVI. — Section 1. — Any person who is actively 
interested in Amateurdom, is the publisher of an amateur 
paper, or a contributor to the Amateur Press, or the printer 
of amateur publications, and resides in the United States 
of America or Canada, may become a member of the Asso- 
ciation by conforming with the requirements set forth in 
this Constitution and these By-Laws, and no person shall 
be entitled to the privileges of membership until he has. 
Persons who are Puzzlers only are not construed by this 
section to be contributors to the Amateur Press. 

llgp^Any person desiring to join the National Amateur 
Press Association and who conforms with the above con- 
ditions must make application to C. C. Rickert, Canal 
L*over, O., Chairman Credential Committee, stating in 
what manner he or she is connected with amateur journal- 
ism, and who will notify such applicant of his or her 
acceptance or rejection. If accepted, send two dollars 
($2.00), for initiation fee and one year's dues, to J. J. 
Weissert, 1 Wylie Ave., Pittsburgh, Pa., when such person 
will be entitled to all the privileges of membership for 
one year. 

and especially in the \icinity of New York City are affairs assum- 
ing a healthy activity. Every spring and summer new papers ap- 
pear, their editors invariably being inspired by the campaign for 
National officers, but a distressing number of suspensions take 
place as soon as the campaign is past. But this year [rSSi] the 
campaign was entirely too tame and one-sided to prompt the publi- 
cation of the usual number of campaign sheets. We are, therefore, 
led to believe that the present spurt in amateur affairs is a genuine 
and healthy one. We have on our exchange list eighty-two papers 
that have started since last year, and we know of many more soon 
to appear. 

" \\ ith those strong influences for good to our cause will be coupled 
as much encouragement from the officers of the N. A. P. A. as it 
is possible for active leaders to give. The National A mateitr will 
appear regularly, and the entire board of officers will e.xert their 
best efforts to elevate and increase Amateurdom in character and 
strength. All they ask is to receive the hearty cooperation of every 
amateur. If they err, criticise them as they deserve, but don't allow 
political bickering to cause you to say disheartening things or act in 
a manner calculated to retard them in their efforts to benefit the 
' Dom.' " 

Most of the' papers have good editorials: but, 
alas, after a search of several hours through our 
whole bundle of Amateur journals, we can not tind 

7 26 



a single story which can properly be reproduced 
here. Many of them are poor imitations of the 
dime novel, others, less trashy, are marred by slang 
words, gross allusions, or the irreverent use of 
sacred names. 



We are sorry to 
be obliged to write 
this, but it is true, 
and it will do the 
"Dom" no harm to 
consider it thought- 
fully. While all 
that we have thus 
far said has been 
only in praise of the 
work of our young 
friends, we should 
be neglecting a plain duty did we fail to warn them 
that the three greatest enemies of their cause are 
vulgarity, irreverence, and abusive personalities. 

The first two of these three are found chiefly in 
the story columns. The last, which sometimes 
includes the others, appears mainly in "Notices 
of our Exchanges," but often steals into what, if 
anything, should be kept pure and courteous and 
Christian — the Editorial page. 

If Amateur Journalism has been looked upon 
with disfavor by the professional press, a potent 
cause may be found in the bitter sneers, coarse 
jests, rude taunts, and open accusations which 
used to form a constant feature of the average 
boy's paper ; and if, as we believe, this disfavor 
is passing by, the reason for it will be found in the 
noble, persistent, and successful efforts for a higher 
standard by the clean-minded and whole-souled ed- 
itors, like Grant of the National Amateur, Mercur 
of the Mercury, and Morris of the 1 'oung Recruit. 
Although many excellent essays are before us, 
they are too long to be available here, and we 

therefore give a few specimens of the manner in 
which the boys criticise each other. Some of them 
may serve as warnings rather than as models ! 

"Latest advices state that the Fool Killer is roaming through 
Michigan, arid that he will shortly fetch tip in Detroit. A hint to 
the wise is sufficient, Mr. ." — Manifest. 

" This youthful Socrates should know that fools are 
rarely, if ever, wise." — Detroit Venture. 

"We hereby give notice that we have noticed in these col- 
umns for the last time. If our contemporaries are desirous of keep- 
ing their papers clean and doing us a favor they will pay no further 
attention to that parasite." — Independent Times. 

" Bay State Press, Lynn Amateur, and Golden Moments lug off 
the bun for neatness." — Puzzler's Pride. 

"We can digest an issue of the Mercury of Towanda, Penn., 
with as great a zest as, perhaps, any other paper of its size we 
receive. It is decidedly interesting at times, and remarkably fresh." 

" The Nonpaiicl is decidedly a progressive sheet of much merit, 
and ably conducted. Its regular issue will be of much importance 
to the cause, now that Kempner is a National officer." 

"idle Hours is quite an improvement on the Amateur Reformer, 
and its interesting contents and good management will do much 
good for the cause in Indiana. Such papers we delight to notice." 

"The Danbury Hornet is the liveliest little sheet in the 'dom.' 
Admirably and vigorously edited, neatly and regularly issued, it 
deserves much credit, and will certainly gain it if it continues its 
present creditable issue." 




Is published, ewned, and 
printed by school-boys, 
and the articles 'which 
appear are the efforts of 
children whose agoa range 
from 7 to 13. The obfect 
of the paper is principal- 
ly lor self-Improvement, 
as typography Is now a 
fcraneh of study in the 
Petite .Anse Grammar 
School. It is issued ev- 
ery month, and a yearly 
subscription price of M 
cents is charged. Yearly 
Advertisements are In- 
serted at the rate of $1 50 
per square; §6 50 per col- 
umn, and $12 per page. 
D. D. AVERY. JR., 
Editors and. Proprietors, 
to whom all communica- 
tions should be addressed 
at NEW TREE;/., La, 

JUNE, 1870. 


Onr friends will be- de- 
lighted to hear of our 
continued success. The 

circulation la rapidly ex- 
tending over the country, 
while advertisers arc 
crowding our pages. Our 
evenings Lie occapled in 
scanning exchanges and 
In. answering the dally 
increasing correspond- 
once. Every mement of 
the daytime is in demand ; 
and if type-setting, com- 
position, and other mat- 
ters connected with, tin 
AMAIEDE do not call on 
us, then kite-flying, fish- 
ing, owlmmlng, ot base- 
ball is the order. 

THE papabctte return 
from their southern flight 
to feed on our prairies, 
on which they wilt fatten 
and afford good sport for 
gentlemen of the gun and 
enjoyment for those who 
lore good eating. 



Doubtless some of our young friends, if any have 
followed us so far, are asking themselves : " Could 
I start a paper ? " kb How should I begin ? " 
"What would it cost? " " Would it pay ? " 

To these questions we answer briefly by quoting 
from a letter recently received from the officiaJ 
editor of the " Dom " : 

"In reference to running an amateur paper, I will first of all state 
that it seldom if ever pays. The only way to save it from being a 
continual expense is to have a printing outfit of your own and print 
your paper yourself. Ey doing this you will he able to make both 
ends meet. However, an amateur paper ctrnhi be made to pay, and 



has been before now, by a proper course of advertising and by de- 
voting time to working it up. But not one paper in fifty pays any- 
thing over running expenses. Those now publishing papers do it 
solely as a means to benefit themselves, to give them a bright mental 
and moral training, or as an amusement. The cost of issuing an 
amateur paper ranges from two to ten dollars per issue. The Young 
Noz'a Scotia costs us ten dollars. A paper half the size can be 
issued in the U. S. for four or rive dollars. A paper two columns to 
a page, four pages, can be issued at a cost of two or three dollars. 



Masher's Column, 
"Wilt Ka 7 dries' has given up 
the idea of going 1 to Indianapo- 
lis to hve. Bring a wash pan 
for otir tears. 

t Gus MuhlhaTisen has "been 
sick. Cause, drinking toomuch 

.The August; number of the 
Atlas is eight pages. 


"In Scribner** Monthly for the 
month of August the Petite 
Anse Amateur claims to be the 
smallescpaper in the world. 

AVe find by-measurement. tha£ 
the Midget is about half the 
size -of the Amateur* 


Vol. 1J Evanaville, lad. August. [No. 1 


In introducing thislittlepapec 
lo the hoys and girls of Evans- 
vHIS) we "will first of all, beg of 
ihem and^ the Amateur Press, 
not to criticise "us too severely ac 
first, as this is our firsfc attempt; 
at the business 1 . 

As our reader tan plainly see. 
our paper is small, and, we will 
not have room to waste In apol- 
ogising, so we will make itshort 
by asking you to excuse all the 
errors that we may make in 
"getting out" this sheet, which 
weliope will-please all.— Eds. 


" The directions/or starting an amateur paper are very simple. All 
that is necessary* is to decide upon starting one, then upon what 
size. The editor can then use his judgment as to what to publish ; 
but whatever he publishes should be original, as that is the prime 
motive for starting a paper : to exercise the literary ability of the editor. 
It would be well for a beginner to make the acquaintance of some 
one who has had experience as an amateur in order to get the names 
and addresses of exchanges, for the exchanges are the life of an 
amateur paper that is devoted to the cause. If the would-be editor 
wishes to print his paper himself, let him consult the advertising 
columns of some boy paper and he will find out where to purchase 
presses and material. There are many who keep all the requisites 
of an amateur printing office for sale, and who do nothing else but 
manufacture and sell them. How many boys spend more than ten 
dollars a month upon those things which do them not half the good 
which would come from publishing an amateur paper! " 


Some notion of the toil required to manage suc- 
cessfully even a small paper may be obtained from 
the experience of the editor of the Egyptian Star. 
He says : 

"This paper contains about sixty thousand pieces of type metal, 
which have not only to be set up, but handled the second time when 
distributed. Our press being small, only one page of the Star is 
printed at a lime, therefore one month's issue of our average size 
requires upwards of eight thousand impressions. Besides this the 
MS. for each month's issue has to be carefully prepared, in itself no 
small labor; the MS. of this number alone covering over one hundred 
and fifty sheets of common note-paper. 

"Then with our three hundred exchanges every month, and as many 
or more letters during the same lime, we have a vast amount of 
reading to do. One thousand two hundred papers we fold, wrap, and 

address, monthly. All the manual labor on the paper for the last 
six months has been executed by the editor alone, and he has also 
written more than two-thirds of the reading matter which has filled 
its columns. During all of this lime we have attended school 

There can be little doubt that boys who are 
willing of their own accord to subject themselves to 
such discipline as that have a power 
of will, a spirit of perseverance, and 
a praiseworthy ambition which will 
surely lift them, by and by, into 
positions of greater honor and wider 
usefulness. It is claimed that about 
one-half of those who begin by edit- 
ing such papers continue their con- 
nection with the Press after they have 
passed the age of boyhood. Many 
successful editors and newspaper cor- 
respondents attribute their present for- 
tune to the training they gave them- 
selves as amateurs. The boys are 
fond of quoting a saying of Speaker 
Randall to the effect that amateur 
journalism is the "noblest work in- 
dulged in by our American youth." 
Whether this be strictly true or not, 
we reckon among the strongest reasons which cause 
us to regret that we have passed the boundaries 


of youth, the impossibility of editing an amateur 
paper, of joining the N. A. P. A., of decorating 
our breast with the silver shield and pen, of going 
to the convention at Detroit, and doing our very- 
best by voice and ballot to elect to the presiden- 
tial chair for next year Mr. . But, alas! the 

ivory gates of boyhood have closed behind us, and 
we have no right to nominate. We can only ex- 
press our hope to see an honest fight, and a true 
devotion to the cause. Mav the best man win ! 





By Susan Hartley Swett. 

When the scarlet cardinal tells 

Her dream to the dragon-fly, 
And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees 

And murmurs a lullaby, 
It is July. 

When the tangled cobweb pulls 

The corn-flower's blue cap awry, 
And the lilies tall lean over the wall 

To bow to the butterfly, 
It is July. 

When the heat like a mist-veil floats, 
And poppies flame in the rye, 

And the silver note in the streamlet's throat 
Has softened almost to a sigh, 
It is July. 

When the hours are so still that Time 
Forgets them, and lets them lie 

'Neath petals pink till the night stars wink 
At the sunset in the sky, 
It is July. 

When each finger-post by the way 
Says that Slumbertown is nigh ; 

When the grass is tall, and the roses fall, 
And nobody wonders why, 
It is July. 


By Mary Mapes Dodge. 

Chapter XXII. 


Donald had won the gratitude of many Nestle- 
town fathers and mothers, and had raised himself 
not a little in the estimation of the younger folk by 
his encounter with the rabid dog. That it was a 
case of hydrophobia was settled from the testimony 
of some wagoners, who had seen the poor animal 
running across the road, but who, being fearful of 
having their horses bitten, had not attempted to stop 
him. Though all felt sorry for " General," every- 
body rejoiced that he had been put out of his 
misery, and that he had not bitten any one in his 
mad run through the fields. 

As the summer advanced, and base-ball and 
running-matches proved to be too warm work for 
the season, the young folk naturally took to 
the water. Swimming and boating became the 
order of the day and the night, too; for, indeed, 
boats shot hither and thither through many a boy's 
sleep, confounding him with startling surprises and 
dream-land defeats and victories. But the lake 
sports of their waking hours were more under con- 
trol. Donald and Ed Tyler, as usual, were among 
the most active in various contests with the oars ; 
and as Donald believed that no event was absolutely 

complete if Dorry were not among either the actors 
or the spectators, boat-racing soon grew to be as 
interesting to the girls as to the boys. 

The races usually were mild affairs — often im- 
promptu, or sometimes planned in the morning and 
carried into effect the same afternoon. Now and 
then, something more ambitious was attempted : 
boys in rowing-suits practiced intently for days 
beforehand, while girls, looking on, formed their 
own not very secret opinions as to which rowers 
were most worthy of their support. Some went 
so far as to wear a tiny bit of ribbon by way of 
asserting allegiance to this or that crew sporting 
the same color in cap, uniform, or flag. This, 
strange to say, did not act in the least as "a 
damper" on the pastime; even the fact that girls 
became popular as coxswains did not take the life 
out of it — all of which, as Dorry said, served to 
show the great hardihood and endurance of the 

After awhile, Barry Outcalt, Benjamin Buster, 
and three others concocted a plot. The five 
held meetings in secret to complete their arrange- 
ments, and these meetings were enlivened with 
much smothered laughter. It was to be a "glori- 
ous joke." A boat-race, of course ; and there must 
be a great show of previous practice, tremendous 
rivalry, and pressing competition, so that a strong 

* Copyright, 1881, by Mary Mapes Dodge. All rights reserved. 



feeling of partisanship would be aroused; while, in 
truth, the race itself was to be a sham. The boats 
were to reach the goal at the same moment, no- 
body was to win, yet every one was to claim the 
victory; the air was to be rent with cries of 
"foul!" and spurious shouts of triumph, accom- 
panied by vehement demands for a "fresh try." 
Then a second start was to be made — One, two, 
three, and off! All was to go well at first, and 
when the interest of the spectators was at its height, 
every eye strained and every heart almost at a 
stand-still with excitement, two of the boats were to 
"foul," and the oarsman of one, in the most 
tragic and thrilling manner, was to fall over into 
the astonished lake. Then, amid the screams of 
the girls and scenes of wild commotion, he was to 
be rescued, put into his empty boat again, limp and 
dripping — and then, to everybody's amazement, 
disregarding his soaked garments and half-drowned 
state, he was suddenly to take to the oars in gal- 
lant style, and come in first at the close, rowing 

So ran the plot — a fine one truly. The five con- 
spirators were delighted, and each fellow solemnly 
promised to stand by the rest, and not to breathe a 
word about it until the " sell " should be accom- 
plished. So far, so good. Could the joke be 
carried out successfully ? As the lake was public 
property, it was not easy for the two "fouling" 
boys to find opportunities for practicing their parts. 
To make two boats collide at a given instant, so as 
to upset one and spill its occupant in a purely 
" accidental " way, required considerable dexterity. 
Ben Buster had a happy thought. Finding him- 
self too clumsy to be the chief actor, he proposed 
that they should strengthen their force by asking 
Donald Reed to join the conspiracy. He urged 
that Don, being the best swimmer among the 
boys, was therefore best fitted to manage the fall 
into the water. Outcalt, on his part, further sug- 
gested that Ed Tyler was too shrewd to be a safe 
outsider. He might suspect, and spoil every- 
thing. Better make sure of this son of a lawyer 
by taking him into the plan, and appointing him 
sole judge and referee. 

Considerable debate followed — the pros urging 
that Don and Ed were just the fellows wanted, 
and the cons insisting that neither of the two 
would be willing to take part. Ben, as usual, was 
the leading orator. He was honestly proud of 
Don's friendship, and as honestly scornful of any 
intimation that Don's better clothes and more ele- 
gant manners enhanced or hindered his claims to 
the high Buster esteem. Don was a good fellow 
— the right sort of a chap — and that was all 
there was about it. All they had to do was to let 
him, Ben, fetch Don and Ed around that very 

day, and he 'd guarantee they 'd be found true- 
blue, and no discounting. 

This telling eloquence prevailed. It was voted 
that the two new men should be invited to join. 
And join they did. 

Donald entered heartily into the plot, impelled 
both by his native love of fun and by a brotherly 
willingness to play an innocent joke upon Dorry, 
who, with Josie Manning, he knew would surely 
be among the most interested of all the victimized 

A number of neat circulars, announcing the race 
and the names of the six contestants, with their 
respective colors, were written by the boys, and, 
after being duly signed by Ed Tyler, as referee, 
were industriously distributed among the girls and 

On the appointed afternoon, therefore, a merry 
crowd met at a deserted old house on the lake- 
shore. It had a balcony overlooking the place 
where the race was to begin and end. 

This old building was the rendezvous of young 
Nestletown during boating hours ; indeed, it was 
commonly called " the boat-house." Having been 
put up long years before the date of our story, it 
had fallen into a rather dilapidated condition when 
the Nestletown young folk appropriated it ; but it 
had not suffered at their hands. On the contrary, 
it had been carefully cleared of its rubbish ; and 
with its old floors swept clean, its broken windows 
flung open to air and sunlight, and its walls deco- 
rated with bright-colored sun-bonnets and boating 
flags, it presented quite a festive appearance when 
the company assembled in it on the day of the race. 

Fortunately, its ample piazza was strong, in spite 
of old age and the fact that its weather-stained 
and paintless railing had for years been nicked, 
carved, and autographed by the village youngsters. 
It was blooming enough, on this sunny Saturday, 
with its freight of expectant girls and boys, many 
of the first-named wearing the colors of their 
favorites among the contestants. 

The doughty six were in high spirits — even- 
man of them having a colored 'kerchief tied about 
his head, and sporting bare, sinewy arms cal- 
culated to awe the beholder. Don was really 
superb. So were Ben Buster and young Outcalt. 
Many a girl was deeply impressed by their air 
of gravity and anxiety, not suspecting that it was 
assumed for the occasion, while the younger boys 
looked on in longing admiration. Ed. as starter, 
umpire, judge, referee, and general superintendent, 
rowed out with dignity, and anchored his boat a 
little way from. shore. The six, each in his shining 
boat, rowed into line, taking their positions for the 
start. The stake-boat was moored about a third 
of a mile up the lake, and the course of the race 

/o 1 - 



was to be from the starting-line to the stake-boat, 
around it, and back. 

The balcony fluttered and murmured as Ed 
Tyler shouted to the six rowers, waiting with up- 
lifted oars: 

"Are you ready ? — One, Two, Three — GO ! " 

On the instant, every oar struck the water, the 
six boats crossed the line together, and the race 

No flutter in the balcony now ; the spectators 
were too intent. 

Not for a moment could they imagine that it was 
not a genuine race. Every man bent to his work 
with a will : soon Ben Buster, with long, sweeping 
strokes, went laboriously ahead, and now Outcalt 
and another passed him superbly, side by side ; 
then Don's steady, measured stroke distanced the 
three, and as he turned the stake-boat his victory 
was evident, not only to Dorothy but to half the 
spectators. Not yet — a light-haired, freckled fel- 
low in a blue 'kerchief, terribly in earnest, spun 
around the stake-boat and soon left Don behind ; 
then came the quick, sharp stroke of Ben Buster 
nerved for victory, closely followed by Steuby Butler, 
who astonished everybody ; and then, every man 
rowing as if by superhuman exertion, inspired by 
encouraging cries from the balcony, they crowded 
closer and closer. 

" Ben 's ahead ! " cried the balcony. 

" No, it 's Don Reed ! " 

" Good ! it 's Outcalt ! " 

" No, I tell you it 's Butler ! " — And then, before 
any one could see how it was done, the boats, all 
six of them, were at the line, oars were flourished 
frantically, the judge and referee was shouting 
himself hoarse, and the outcry and tumult on the 
water silenced the spectators on the land. Cries of: 
"No fair!" "No fair!" "It wont do!" "Have 
it again!" "Hold up!" "I wont stand such 
work ! " culminated in riotous disorder. Seven 
voices pretesting, shouting, and roaring together 
made the very waters quiver. 

But Tyler was equal to the occasion. Standing 
in his boat, in the identical position shown in the 
picture of "Washington Crossing the Delaware," 
he managed to quiet the tumult, and ordered that 
the race should be rowed over again. 

Once more the boats were in line. Again the 
umpire shouted: "Are you ready?" and again 
the crowd fluttered and murmured with expecta- 
tion as every boat dashed forward. 

But what was this ? Dorry and Josie, with flushed 
cheeks and sparkling eyes, moving rapidly as they 
could among the crowding spectators, and whisper- 
ing urgent words that evidently produced a strong 

Still the boats pressed on, every rower apparently 

outdoing himself, if not outdoing everything else. 
If cheers and shouts had inspired them before, the 
intense silence now was even more inspiring. 
Could anything have succeeded better? With 
ever}- show of exertion, the rascals managed to 
slacken or quicken as the case required, until, 
when nearly home, they were all close together. 

It was glorious ! They never had known such 
fun in their lives. Now for the grand business ! 

Donald and Outcalt came together with a crash 
— a perfect "foul"! One masterly effort — over 
went Don's boat and over went Don, headlong into 
the water ! 

The boys in the other boats did beautifully, 
crowding about and, in spite of Don's wild struggles, 
catching him with oars and arms, never hearing 
the screams of the girls in the suppressed mirth and 
wild activity of the moment, but getting Don into 
his boat again, limp and dripping: and finally, 
with real dramatic zeal, carrying out their entire 
plan — too busy and delighted with success to note 
its effect upon the crowd of spectators. Every- 
thing worked to perfection. Don, scorning his 
half-drowned state, had sprung suddenly to his 
oars, and in dead earnest had won the race, 
against every dead-earnest competitor, and 

What do you think ? 

When those six oarsmen, including the victor, 
looked up to receive the acclamations of the crowd, 
white with the waving of pocket-handkerchiefs, 
they heard only — silence; saw nothing but an 
empty piazza. Not a spectator was to be seen — 
not even a face at a window — not a single eye 
peering through a crack. Worse than all, their 
judge and referee was in the bottom of his boat, 
kicking with merriment. He had strength only to 
point to the boat-house and gasp, between his bursts 
of laughter : 

" Not a soul there ! — they found us out ! — went 
off before Don's ducking ! " 

The boat-house was, in truth, deserted. After 
the mysterious movements and whisperings of 
Dorry and Josie, every boy and girl had sped away 
on tiptoe ; and down in a hollow grove near the 
road, where they could not even see the water, they 
were chatting and giggling and having the very best 
kind of a time — all because they had turned the 
tables on the gallant seven. 

It was now well understood by these spectators 
who had deserted their post that a second mock 
race had been carried on without a single eye- 
witness, and the thought was rapture. How much 
more they would have enjoyed it had they known 
of the difficult " foul," of Donald's headlong plunge, 
and of the subsequent frantic but honest contest of 
rowing ! 

So much for carrying out one mock race and 



73 1 

starting another in the presence of somebody 
named Dorothy, who first had suspected and then 
had been morally sure that those boys were play- 
ing a trick ! When four of them crossed the line 
at once, her suspicions were aroused. "I do be- 
lieve they 're fooling ! " she had said to herself, 
and then, remembering certain recent mysterious 
conferences that Don and some others of the 
"seven" had been holding, coupled with a sly 
look or two that she had seen exchanged by the 
contestants, she had jumped at the correct con- 
clusion. As she afterward expressed it to Ed 
Tyler, she had seen through it all in a flash. 

Misery loves company. Those seven boys, from 

unbend, and that was when little Fandy ventured 
to observe that he ought to have heard what one 
of the girls had said about him in the race. This 
remark rankled even that stony bosom. The more 
Ben Buster tried not to care, the more it tortured 
him. To make matters worse, he had betrayed 
himself too soon to the sagacious Fandy. In vain 
the big brother cajoled the little one, in vain, at 
cautious intervals, he tried the effect of indirect 
bribes and hidden threats. The more he desired 
to know what that girl had said, the more Fandy 
would n't tell him. At last he triumphed. In a 
yielding moment, when Ben had been touchingly 
kind, the grateful youngster let it out. 


that day, had a peculiar tenderness for one another. 
They were linked by a hidden bond — and while 
they laughed heartily at their own expense, and 
tacitly confessed themselves beaten, they compelled 
all outsiders to be satisfied with guessing and with 
hints of the catastrophe that somehow came to 
light. Not one of them ever disclosed all the 
facts of the case — the secret sessions, the fre- 
quent upset-practicings on cloudy evenings, the 
difficulty of the final performance, and the full sum 
of their defeat. 

Ben, usually a kind brother, was sternness itself 
so far as the great race was concerned. Not one 
of the juvenile Danbys dared to allude to it in his 
august presence. Only on one occasion did he 

Vol. IX.— 47. 

Ah, that wily Ben ! Not for the world would he 
have had that small child know how those words 
thrilled him. 

"Dorothy Reed said it! It sounds like her," 
was Ben's ecstatic thought, but to poor Fandy's 
surprise and disappointment, he only muttered 
aloud: "There, there, that 's a good little boy. 
Go and play ! " 

Many a time after that, in the sanctity of the 
lonely fields, did Ben, rather sheepishly, repeat to 
himself the bewitching phrase : 

" How splendid your brother Ben can row! " 

Judge, then, of his feelings, when one Sunday 
in September, Master Fandy whispered to him, 
rather loudly, while coming out of church, "There 

73 2 



she is" (pointing to a little tot of seven summers) 
— " that 's the girl who said it ! " 

Ben stared at her, speechless with disgust. 

" I might have known," he thought, " that the 
little goose would call a baby like that a girl ! " 

So much for Ben's private feelings. Concerning 
the race, the six — among themselves — enjoyed 
exceedingly the unexpected recoil of their little 
joke. I say six, for in this matter Ed Tyler was 
unanimously suspected by the others of being on 
the fence. They never could tell whether he was 
laughing at them or with them. Donald was sure 
that it was the very best thing he ever heard of 
in his life. Outcalt protested he would n't have 
missed it for the world; and Ben Buster, laughing 




rather ruefully, declared that he never knew the 
"beat of it" but once, and that was one day when 
he had slipped into Jones's cider-yard and taken a 
good, long drink, through a straw, from a barrel 
marked "sweet cider," as he thought. "I tell 
you, fellows," was Ben's concluding remark, "if 
I was n't sold that time, I '11 give in. I was so 
warm and thirst}- that I took a good, long pull be- 
fore I found out that it was n't cider at all, but 
vinegar, sour enough to take a man's head off. 

It 's a blamed shame the way a fellow gets caught 
sometimes ! " 

Chapter XXIII. 


Donald and Dorothy exchanged but four words 
on the subject of the sham race after it was over, 
but these were very expressive : 
Donald. " Well, madam ! " 
Dorothy. " Well, sir ! " 

Their sparkling looks, Donald's tone of accu- 
sation and injured innocence, Dorothy's playful, 
rather defiant, air of triumph, said the rest. Uncle 
George, who was present at the interview, having 
previously heard both sides of the story from 
the D's separately, was much amused. In 
fact, he laughed aloud in quite an undigni- 
fied manner, and so did they. 

The next day brought news of Dr. Lane, 
their old tutor, who had been living for sev- 
eral months in South Carolina. He was 
better — indeed, quite well again, and hav- 
ing lately accepted the position of principal 

of the boys' academy at F , about ten 

miles from Nestletown, he proposed taking 
up his abode there immediately. 

" Oh, Don," said Dorry, as she folded 
the letter ; "I 've an idea ! " 

" I can not believe it," exclaimed Don, 
in well-feigned surprise. 

" Yes, but I have," she insisted. "Dr. 

Lane will be at F by Friday. Let us 

ride over on Dood and Yankee and give 
him a welcome ! " 
" Agreed ! " 

Friday came, full of sunshine, and in a 
fresh, breezy way, as if to say, " Now for 
the ride ! " — at least, so it seemed to Dorry. 
Lydia, who was shaking rugs over the 
wide piazza railing, was pleased to salute 
Sailor Jack as he led the ponies, saddled 
and ready, to the door. Fine ponies they 
were, too, large of their kind, glossy black, 
with flowing tail and mane. Uncle George 
had given them to the D's, on the Fourth 
of July of the previous summer ; and in 
honor of the day they had been named Yankee 
and Doodle. Yankee being the more spirited was 
given to Don, and Doodle, by no means a lamb, 
became the special pride and property of Dorry. 

" Good-morrow to you, Mistress Blum ! " said 
Jack, in a subdued though airy way, returning 
Lydia's nod. " Are the middies ready ? " 

"If you mean the twins, I presume they are, 
Mr. Jack. Have you looked carefully to Miss 
Dorothy's saddle ? " 



"Not extra," he answered, in an aggravating 
tone — first looking up at the windows to be sure 
that none of the family were near; "think the 
girth 's 'most broke — 't aint worth while to be too 

" Yes, it is ; you 'd better make sure of saddle 
and bridle, too, I can tell you. Miss Dorry '11 ride 
twenty miles, and more, before sundown." 

" Well, well ! " exclaimed Sailor Jack — still bent 
on teasing her. " Had n't you better come down, 
Mistress Blum, an' see to it that the pony's legs is 
on good and tight? It would be dreadful if one on 
'em was to tumble off, now." 

Lydia laughed. " Oh, but you 're a funny man, 
Mister Jack ! Well, I need n't worn-. You 're 
even worse about Miss Dorry than I am. bless her ! 
— Hush ! here they are." 

Off went Jack's hat, though he had to hold the 
two bridle-reins with one hand to accomplish it. 

" Up-a-daisy ! " he exclaimed, as Dorry, assisted 
by Donald, sprang lightly to her saddle. " It 's a 
splendid day for a ride, Miss ! " 

"Yes, indeed," said Dorry, looking about her 
with bright, happy eyes, as she stroked her pony's 

Uncle George came out upon the piazza. By 
this time, Don was on Yankee's back, dexterously 
making him appear as spirited as possible — where- 
at Dorry's steed began to prance also. 

" Good-bye, Uncle ! Good-bye, Jack and Liddy ! " 
cried Dorry, waving her whip and looking back 
with a laughing face. 

"Good-bye!" shouted Don ; and they cantered 
off — glad to be together ; glad to breathe the 
bright, clear air ; glad at the prospect of a good 
gallop over the hills. 

Uncle George, Liddy, and Jack looked after 
them proudly, till the road turned and the sound 
of hoofs died in the distance. Jack was the first 
to speak. 

" Aye ! but they 're a pretty pair, Capt'in ! " 

Mr. Reed nodded a happy assent. 

" An' do you know, sir, I 'm fancyin' of late 
they 're growin' liker to one another." 

"Ah?" said Mr. Reed, well pleased. "In 
what way ? " 

" Why, in feature, sir, an' manners, an' most 
ev'ry way." 

" Why should n't they favor one another," re- 
marked Lydia — " bein' twins? Yet, some way, I 
don't see it myself, sir, as plain as I might. Shall 
I serve dinner on the back porch, Mr. George ? " 

" Well, yes, Lydia, as I shall be alone. The 
birds and trees will be good company for me." 

And so the three separated. 

Meanwhile, the D's cantered on, happy as — I 
was going to say, as birds, but they were happier 

even than birds — they were happy as happy 
brothers and sisters. 

For a while, they galloped in silence, Don often 
going so far ahead that he had to wait for Dorry to 
catch up; then, when the road was specially pleas- 
ant and shady, they rode leisurely, side by side, 
laughing and chatting. The day was so fine, and 
they saw so much to interest them, and there were 
so many things to talk about, that the ten-mile 

ride to F was accomplished almost before they 

were aware of it. 

Leaving the ponies in the yard of its pretty hotel, 
to 'be fed and cared for, they enjoyed a hearty 
luncheon, and then proceeded on foot to the 
Academy near by — Dorry deftly carrying the train 
of her riding-habit over her arm, and snapping her 
riding-whip softly as she tripped beside her com- 
panion. Fortunately, the path was well shaded, 
and the dust had been laid by showers of the 
night before. 

Dr. Lane was surprised and delighted to see 
them so soon after his arrival. He had many in- 
teresting things to tell them, and they, in turn, 
rather shyly but heartily related the main incidents 
of the past months and gave him some account 
of their present course of study. 

Then they all went through the Academy build- 
ing, which, as it was "vacation," was now being 
cleaned and made ready for the fall term. Globes, 
maps, black-boards, collections of minerals, elec- 
tric machines, patent desks, dining-room, and dor- 
mitory passed before them in rapid succession, 
figuratively speaking ; afterward, they went up to 
the cupola to see the view, and finally settled them- 
selves on the large front porch to rest. 

Then, and not till then, they noticed a change. 
Light clouds were gathering ; the sun still was 
shining, but it was shining under difficulties, 
as Dorry observed, and the air was heavy and 

" It 's going to rain. Professor." said Don, rising 
from his seat on the steps of the porch. " I think 
we '11 have to go now." 

"Yes, indeed," said Dorry, in her impulsive way 
— '• we Ye no time to lose either. Good-bye, Pro- 
fessor. What shall we say to Uncle for you ? " 

" Give Mr. Reed my hearty regards, and tell 
him I hope to sec him at Nestletown very soon." 

"Yes, thank you," said Dorry, starting toward 
the gate. " Good-bye. Come, Donald, we may 
be able to get home before it rains hard." 

The Professor joined her at once, and the three 
were soon at the hotel. 

At first it seemed best to wait until the approach- 
ing shower should be over ; but, as the clouds 
grew no darker, and the ponies evidently were 
ready for a brisk run, it was decided that they 




should try a race with the shower and see which 
could get home first. 

The shower beat. They were not half-way home 
when, just after crossing the railroad, with its cot- 
tage-like station in sight, the sky darkened rapidly 
and a big drop fell upon Donald's nose ! 

" We 're in for it ! " he cried. " Whip up, Dot ! 
We '11 make for the station." 

Reaching the station, and finding themselves 
still dry, in spite of the warning thunder, they de- 
cided to hurry on to the next stopping-place. 

This was Vanbogen's, a little country inn about 
half a mile further, where they could be comfort- 
ably housed, if necessary, and the horses be shel- 
tered also. 

A sudden flash gave point to their determina- 
tion. On they sped, the lightning now dancing 
ahead of them, and the thunder rolling on, apace. 

"It's a race for life," thought Dorry, in high 
spirits — so pleased to have an adventure that she 
forgot to dread the threatening shower. Yankee 
and Dood did nobly ; abandoning their canter, 
they galloped on, neck and neck, while their riders 
carried on a panting sort of conversation concern- 
ing the new turn of things and the prospects of 
reaching home before dark. 

'"What mat — ter if — we don't?" said Dorry, 
her voice almost lost in the rumbling thunder ; 
" we '11 find — the way." 

"But, Uncle — ex-pect — ed us by " 

" Well — he '11 know — what keeps — us." 

"Plucky girl!" thought Don, admiring her 
bright cheeks and graceful air as she at that mo- 
ment dashed by. 

Yankee, on principle, never let Dood beat him. 
In the commotion of the thunder and lightning, it 
seemed to Donald that a livelier race had begun ; 
but, the next instant, he realized that Dorry's pony 
had halted and his own was some paces ahead. - 

Turning at Dorry's call, he saw that something 
was the matter. Dood limped painfully for a few 
steps, then stopped. 

" He 's hurt his foot," cried Dorry. " It was n't 
a stumble; he tripped. Poor Dood ! " she added, 
as the pony's head turned pitifully toward her; 
" you must go on now." 

Dood tried, but it was slow work. He grew 
lamer at every step. Don, noticing that one of the 
pony's fore-shoes was loose, dismounted and tried 
to take it off, but it would not come. 

A turn in the road disclosed Vanbogen's not far 
away. By this time, slanting lines of rain showed 
against the trees. 

" It 's going to storm, in earnest, Dot — you '11 
get soaking wet ! " said Don. 

"Not I," chirped Dorry. "My riding-habit 
is water-proof. You '11 be the wet one. Hurry 

ahead, Don. Dood and I will be there as soon as 
we can. I do hope he is n't hurt seriously. Oh, 
Don, do hurry ! " 

But Don would n't and Dood could n't. If the 
shower had not paused to take breath before mak- 
ing its grand dash, they certainly would have been 

As it was, they hardly had dismounted at the 
inn, before the rain came down in torrents. 

"Dear me!" said Dorry, shaking her riding- 
skirt, as she sprang into the bare hall, " our sad- 
dles will get soaked ! " But a negro, in a blue 
checked jacket, already was leading the steeds to 

It was a very shabby house at the best of times, 
but it was particularly dreary now. Dorry was 
sure she never before had seen anything so dismal 
as the damp, little parlor into which Donald escorted 
her. The closed blinds, the moldy, bumpy sofa, 
the faded green table-cover, the stained matting, 
the low-spirited rocking-chair with one arm broken 
off, and the cracked, dingy wall-paper oppressed 
her strangely. 

"What a horrid place!" she exclaimed in an 
awe-struck whisper to Don, as a flash of lightning 
shone through the blinds. " Let us go ! " 

"Don't mind it, Dot," he answered. "We '11 
start as soon as the shower is over. Wait here 
a while, and I '11 run and see what we 're to do 
about the pony. Would you like to have a cup of 
hot tea ? " he added, looking back as he left the 


• ! " said Dc 

not here ! 

They both laughed. "It 's fun, after all," 
thought the young girl as he went out. " I don't 
mind anything as long as Don 's around — the dear 
old fellow ! " 

Vanbogen's seemed deserted. She had noticed a 
solitary hen stepping daintily across the long, wet 
stoop as she entered, and a woman, going up- 
stairs, had turned to stare at her. A sound of 
men's voices, too, had reached her from a closed 
room opposite the parlor, yet she felt strangely 
alone. For company's 'sake, she examined some 
ambrotypes that stood upright in their half-opened 
cases on a table between the windows. The 
ghastly things made her only more lonely. 

At that moment, hearing a clicking sound, she 
raised her head and saw a man's face outside look- 
ing at her through the blinds. The slats closed 
sharply, when she moved back. 

" How nervous I am ! " she thought, with a slight 
shiver. " A pretty traveler I 'd make ! " 

Donald soon came in. 

" Here 's a fine piece of business ! Dood has hurt 
his foot in some way — sprained, I suppose. It is 
swollen, and evidently pains him dreadfully. I 've 



sent for a man who claims to be a veterinary sur- 
geon. No, indeed, no use in your going out there, 
Dot ; the men appear to be doing all they can for 
him. It 's out of the question for us to travel with 
that pony to-night ; the last train that stops at this 
one-horse station has gone by, and I can't get a 
carriage anywhere." 

"Can't you hire a horse, then, for yourself? Put 
my saddle on Yankee ; I can ride him." 

" Can't get a horse either. They 've only one, 
and he 's out for the whole afternoon." 

" Let 's walk, then. The shower is nearly over. 
It 's only five miles." 

"Good!" said Don. "But no — Yankee can 
carry you, and I '11 trot alongside on foot ; " and he 
hastened out to have the side-saddle put on Yankee. 

To Dorry's amazement, Donald came back in a 
few minutes, looking flushed and excited. 

"I 've taken a room for you, Dot; come up- 
stairs — quick." 

" But I don't want a room. I " 

"Yes, you do ; you '11 need to rest. Come right 
up," he insisted in a low voice, hastily locking the 
parlor door behind him, and almost pulling her 
toward the stairs. "I'll tell you up there; come 

They ran up together. 

" What 's the matter ? " she asked on the way. 
" What have you heard? " 

"Oh, nothing at all," he said, as they stepped 
into a room shabby with ragged matting and worn- 
out furniture; then closing the door, he added: 
" Dorry, you must go away from this place at once. 
Don't ask any questions — Oh, it 's nothing much, 
Dot," — as he noticed her alarm, — "but this is a 
rough sort of place, you see, and of course I can't 
leave Dood here with these fellows. The sooner 
you get off the better. I '11 bring Yankee around 
to the back door at the end of the hall, so as not to 
attract attention. Lock your door while I 'm gone, 
and when I comeback, hurry down with me, jump 
on Yankee, and be off without a word." 

" Well, I never! " she exclaimed, half inclined 
to laugh, but he was gone. 

She turned the key in the lock and ran to the 
window, pulling its green paper shade aside. Noth- 
ing to be seen but tumble-down out-buildings, a 
dog-kennel, trampled grass, an empty clothes-line, 
and a barrel or two. 

" Well, I never! " she exclaimed a: 


there comes the pony." 

Donald lost not a moment ; but it seemed to 
Dorry that he never would come up. Meantime, 
she resolved that, happen what might, she would 
not go and leave him. Unlocking the door, she 
stood with her hand upon the knob, intending to 
discuss the matter with Don ; but no sooner had 

his hand touched the other side than somehow she 
found herself on the stairs ; in the hall ; then on 
Yankee's back, and leaning to catch Don's words. 
"Careful, now — don't lose a moment — send 
Jack to me at once with Lady and the buggy 

— Go ! " Even after she had started, she still 
seemed to feel the pressure of his hand upon hers. 
Never had she seen Don more resolutely in earnest. 

As she galloped through the open gate-way, and 
passed the inn, she turned and saw him in the 
hall, talking savagely to a man in a wet linen 
duster, whose back was toward her. 

" The idea of leaving Don here alone ! I shall 
not go," she said, suddenly pulling at the bridle. 
But Yankee thought otherwise. He had deter- 
mined that she should. After a momentary con- 
test, Dorry yielded, deciding to hurry home as fast 
as possible, and send Jack to Don's relief. 

The shower, which had held back for awhile, 
now started afresh. Yankee, with visions of a dry 
stall and bountiful supper before him, went on his 
rapid way through the rain, troubling himself little 
about Dood or Don, and quite unconscious of the 
disturbed state of his rider's mind, where anxious 
thoughts and surmises chased each other in quick 
succession : 

' ' I noticed that it was a rough place the moment 
we went in. Who were the noisy men in the other 
room, I wonder ? The man in the wet duster was n't 
one of them. What could Don have been saying 
to him ? May be Dood had broken his leg, and 
Don did n't like to tell me. Ridiculous idea, as if 
a pony with a broken leg could go a step ! May be 
Don's watch was stolen, or he 'd lost his pocket- 
book. But he could have told me that. Dear me, 
he need n't have been so dreadfully afraid for me 
to stay there. It 's forlorn to be a girl and have peo- 
ple think you can't stand anything. Don can take 
care of himself, anyhow. I 'd like to see any of 
those fellows trying to hurt him " (and here, by way 
of showing how very much she would "like" it, 
Dorry's cheek turned very pale) — " How foolish ! 
Probably he staid for Dood's sake. Poor Dood ! 
I hope he '11 not be laid up long ; Jack could 
cure him quickly enough. Dear me, how it rains ! 
Glad my riding-habit is water-proof. Liddy will 
be frightened about me. I suppose they think 
we 're at F yet, waiting to ride home by moon- 
light. How well Dr. Lane looks! But he has a 
fearfully Greek-and-Latin expression. Can't help 
it, I suppose. Don knows nearly as much Latin as 
L^ncle, I do believe. Dear old Don ! How kind 
he is ! Oh, if anything should happen to him " 

— here, Y'ankee, already speeding bravely, re- 
ceived instructions to "get up," and then Dot, to 
her great joy, spied a familiar object in the dis- 
tance, coming swiftly toward her. 

7 3 6 



Chapter XXIV. 

Donald tuas talking rather savagely. But the 
man in the wet duster was not in the least vexed on 
that account. On the contrary, he assumed a 
lordly air, and called Donald " my boy." 

" All the Reeds are impetuous," he had said 
lightly, as if apologizing for this particular member 
of the family; "so we '11 waive ceremony, my 
boy. With your permission, as I said before, I '11 
step into the parlor now, and have a little chat with 
the young lady." 

" And as 1 said before," retorted Donald, " you '11 
do no such thing." 

" Calm yourself," sneered the other. " It would 
be easy for me to get in through the window, were 
it not that one hates to scare the pretty bird — and 
as for the key " 

"As for the key," echoed Donald, who hap- 
pened to have it in his possession; "well, and 
what of the key ? " 

"Why, my boy," glancing toward Don's pocket, 
" it would n't tax a six-footer like me overmuch to 
help himself to it — but, under the circumstances, it 
might be wiser merely to tell mine host in yonder 
room that an irate little manikin has taken it into 
his head to lock his sister, as he calls her, in the pub- 
lic parlor and refuses to let her out." 

" Insolent fellow ! " exclaimed Donald, yet re- 
straining his anger as well as he could. "Look 
out what you say. Another word like that, and 
I '11 have you turned out of this place, neck and 

" Ha ! ha ! Pretty good. Well, as I was re- 
marking, I 've a word or two to say to my young 
lady in there. Hold up ! H-o-l-d up ! No one is 
going to kill her. Perhaps you 're not aware I 
have a right there ! " 

"You have a right there, I '11 admit, as a trav- 
eler," said Don ; " but just now, I ask you to stay 

" And I ask you to let me in," returned the six- 
footer, beginning to be angry. 

At any other time, Donald would not have par- 
leyed a moment with the man, but, as the reader 
may have surmised, he had reasons of his own for 
prolonging the interview. He had planned well 
and worked hard to get Dorry off unobserved, and 
now that his strategy had succeeded, the next 
point was to gain time for her to be far on her 
way before Eben Slade — for he it was — should 
discover that Dorry was not safely locked in the 
dingy parlor. 

"I ask you to let me in," repeated the long, 
lank man, softening his tone, "as one gentleman 

would ask another. May be I 've more right to 
talk to her than you have yourself." 

" What do you mean, you rascal ? " 

"Thank you!" sneered Eben. "Rascal is 
good. Pray, do you know my name ? " 

" No, I do not, and I don't want to. It 's 
enough that I recognize you ; and probably the 
less one knows about you the better." 

" May be so. But the time 's gone by for that. 
My name 's Eben Slade. A T inv do you know why 
I want to go into that room ? No ? Well, I '11 
tell you," continued Eben Slade; "it's because 
I 've more right to speak to that girl than you 

have. It 's because Hi! hi! not so fast, 

young man," muttered Eben, restraining Donald 
with considerable effort. "You can't put me out 
on the road this time. As I was saying " 

" What do you mean by those words, sir ? " 

" Let me into the room, my boy, and I '11 tell 
you and her together, quietly, just what I mean. 
I want to tell both of you a plain story and appeal 
to her sense of justice. She 's old enough to act 
for herself. Perhaps you think I have n't heard 
something of Dorothy's, or what-you-call-her's, 
spirit by this time." 

" Let her name alone ! " cried Donald, furiously. 
"If you mention my sister again, I '11 knock you 
flat — you overgrown ruffian ! " 

'' Hush — not so fast — you '11 have those fellows 
out here in a minute. What 's the use of letting 
everybody into our private affairs ? " 

Here Eben stepped into the hall, followed by 

" Let me into that room, will you ? " 

Donald, taking the key from his pocket, now 
threw open the door, with a " much good may it 
do you " ; and, closing it again after Slade had 
entered, coolly locked him in the room. The 
blinds flew open — Don rushed to the still deserted 
stoop, only to see Eben Slade's angry face glaring 
at him. The man could have got out at the win- 
dow easily enough, but he preferred his present 
position. Leaning out, with his elbows on the sill, 
he said distinctly, in a passionate, low voice : 

"You Ve baffled me this time, Donald Reed, 
but I '11 carry the day yet. That girl, wherever 
she 's gone to, is no more your sister than she is 
mine — and I can prove it to her ! She 's my 
niece — my own niece ! I 've aright to her, and I 
can prove it. She 's going back home with me, 
out West, where my wife 's waitin' for her. Now, 
sir, what have you to say to that ? " 

The poor boy, aghast at Eben's statement, stood 
at first as if stunned; but recovering himself, he 
made a rush toward Eben, not blindly, but with a 
resolute determination to clutch him by the throat 
and force him to unsay his terrible words. 



Eben sprang from the window at a bound. A 
struggle ensued — brief, violent. Donald was 
nearly mastered, when a strong man sprang upon 
them and with one blow knocked Eben Slade pros- 
trate upon the boards. 

It was Sailor Jack, who had driven up unper- 
ceived and leaped from the buggy just in time. 

Three or four men rushed from the bar-room, 
all calling out at once : 

" What 's the matter here ? " 

" What 's all this?" 

"Who 's killed?" 

Two of them seized Jack as Eben rose slowly ; 
another tried to catch hold of Donald. Their 
sympathy plainly was with Slade, who, seeing his 
opportunity, suddenly started toward the buggy 
with the evident intention of driving off in it. 

Jack, breaking from his astonished captors, was 
upon him in an instant, dragging him back, just 
as Slade had put one foot on the buggy-step, and 
as Donald was alertly seizing Lady's bridle. 

" Stand off — all of you ! " cried Jack, still hold- 
ing Eben by the collar. " We 're out on the open 
seas at last, my man ! and now look out for your- 
self ! " 

The thrashing was brief but effective. Jack 
wore a serene look of satisfaction when it was over; 
and Eben Slade slunk doggedly away, muttering: 

■'I '11 be even with 'em yet." 

Every hat was off, so to speak, when Jack and 
Donald, who had paid the landlord handsomely, 
drove from Vanbogen's door. Lady was impatient 
to be off, but Jack soon made her understand 
that the splendid time she had made in coming 
from Nestletown was no longer necessary, since 
Dood, tied at the rear of the buggy, could not go 
faster than a walk. The removal of his shoe and 
prompt nursing had helped the pony so much 
that by this time he was able to travel, though 
with difficulty. 

It was a strange drive. The spirited mare ahead, 

relieving her pent-up speed by gently prancing up 
and down as she walked ; Jack, grim and satisfied, 
going over again in fancy every stroke that had 
fallen upon the struggling Eben ; Donald, pale and 
silent, with Slade's vicious words still ringing in his 
ears ; and the pony limping painfully behind. 

" He 's taken up with his own thoughts," said 
Jack to himself, after a while, noting Don's con- 
tinued silence. " It aint for me to disturb him, 
though them twins somehow seem as near as if 
they was my own children ; but I would like to 
know just what the little chap has heard from that 
sea-sarpent. Somethin' or other 's took fearful 
hold on him, sure 's sailin', poor lad ! He aint apt 
to be so onsociable." 

Following up these thoughts, as the mare jogged 
along, it was a great solace to good Sailor Jack, 
after their dismal drive, to see Don look up at the 
house as they turned into the lane and wave his 
hat gallantly to Dorothy. 

She, too, standing at her bed-room window with 
Lydia, was wonderfully relieved by Don's saluta- 

"Oh, it 's all right!" she exclaimed, cheerily. 
•' Even Dood is n't hurt as badly as we feared, and 
how lovely it is to have Don back again, safe and 
sound ! You should have seen Jack, Liddy, when 
I refused to get into the buggy, and made him 
drive on for his life with Lady. But the trouble 
is over now. How lovely ! Both of us will take 
supper with Uncle, after all ! " 

Lydia, who had been doing all sorts of things to 
save Dorry from "taking her death o' cold," stood 
admiringly by while, with rapid touches and many 
a laughing word, the happy girl arrayed herself to 
go down and meet "dear old Don and Uncle." 

Meanwhile Mr. Reed, in his study, looking up 
inquiringly to greet Donald's return, was surprised 
to see the boy's white face and flashing eyes. 

" Uncle George," said Donald, the moment he 
entered the room, "tell me, quick! Is Dorothy 
Reed my sister ? " 

( To be continued. ) 





By Fanny Barrow. 

" Why does n't San-ta Claus come in sum-mer time ? " asked lit-tle 
Har-ry, as he lay up-on his back on the sweet, green grass, and looked 
up in-to the blue sky. 

" Per-haps be-cause there is no snow for his sleigh," said his moth-er. 
" What a pit-y ! " sighed Har-ry. " I wish it would snow this min- 
ute. There is my horse ; it has on-ly one leg, and no nose at all. 

My foot-ball went pop ! the oth-er 
day, and turned in-to a lit-tle 
crook-ed twist of In-dia rub-ber. 
My ex-press wag-on is all to 
pieces, and my drum is bu'st 'cause 
I banged it so hard." 

" Oh, what a boy ! " said his 
moth-er. " I am a-fraid you banged 
your poor horse a lit-tle, al-so." 

" Yes, I did, and I kicked the 
foot-ball tre-men-jous-ly ! and up-set 
my wag-on ev-er so man-y times ; 
but I don't care for those now ; I 
want a book, Mam-ma — a book full 
of pict-ures and sto-ries." 

" Well, list-en ; I will sing you a 
sone a-bout Kris Krin-yle — which 
is the Ger-man name for Saint 
Nich-o-las, as well as San-ta Claus. 
And who knows ? per-haps he will hear me, and make you a vis-it, 
al-though it is sum-mer-time." 

Then his moth-er sang the song, which so de-light-ed Har-ry that 
he betryed her to lend him the mu-sic, so that he might learn the 
words. He had just be-gun to read, and he was ver-y proud and hap- 
py when he had read an-y-thing all by him-self. 

"I '11 sing it, too ! " cried Har-ry, " and keep time with my drum- 
sticks." But first he went down in-to the kitch-en and begged Bridg-et, 
the cook, to give him a big tin pan. 

i88 2 .] 



"What do you want it for, Mas-ter Har-ry ? " she asked. 

"Oh, nev-er mind," said Har-ry, and he ran a-way as fast as he 
could. He fas-tened the mu-sic to the back of a chair with a big pin, 
and put the tin pan up-side down on the seat, and then he be-gan to 
sing, rat-tling with the drum-sticks in fine style. He did not get the 
tune quite right, but the cho-rus came in splen-did-ly. This is it: 

" J m "&^ e > j m "gl e > j m "&l e > )' in g< j m b» j m &- How mer-ry we shall be ! 
Jin-gle, jin-gle, jin-gle, come Kris Krin-gle — Come with your Christ-mas-tree." 

His moth-er laughed soft-ly to her-self as she list-ened, and then she 
wrote a lit-tle note, ad-dressed to some-bod-y in New York Cit-y, and 
sent it to the post-of-fice. 

Har-ry lived in the coun-try, and it was three days be-fore the 
an-swer came. It was a beau-ti-ful book ; just as full of pict-ures and 
sto-ries as a book can be ! And you nev-er saw a bright-er face than 
Har-ry's, when he ex-claimed to his moth-er: " On-ly think! San-ta 
Claus has come to see me in sum-mer-time ! " 


Oh, what a noise ! 
Ah, what a clatter ! 
Is it the boys ? 
What is the matter ? 
Dozens and dozens — 
Only eight, is it? — 
Only some cousins 
Come on a visit? 
Hearing the rattle, 
I thought 't was an 

army ; 
Sounds of a battle 
Always alarm me. 





In this country, Jul)' is the grand eagle month of 
the year, I 'm told. Hundreds and thousands of the 
finest American variety are called in on the fourth 
day by orators and lesser speakers, all over the land, 
and made to do duty in various ways. Some poise, 
some pounce, some scorn, some droop, and some, 
according to the special mood of the speaker, 
soar — soar — soar so high that they find great 
difficulty in getting down again, especially if the 
Star-spangled Banner happens to be waving at 
the same moment. 

For all that, America is a great country — no- 
body loves and knows it more than your Jack — 
and the eagle is a noble bird. I Ye watched him 
from my pulpit more than once, and felt that our 
nation did well to adopt him as its own — so inspir- 
ing is his flight, so majestic his repose. By the 
way, on last Fourth of July, when I, your loyal 
Jack, stood listening, — stripes on my pulpit and 
stars — daisy stars — at my feet, — the birds brought 
me a letter. It is not very poetical, but it will in- 
terest all of you chicks, who are of a scientific and 
inquiring turn of mind*. Here it is; — but first let 
me explain that a bald eagle is not really bald. 
He only looks bald, because the feathers on the top 
of his head are lighter and smoother than those on 
the rest of his body : 


Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: Some years ago [ had a bald eagle, 
which I kept for several months in captivity. He had been wounded 
in fine wing by a shot, but not otherwise injured. He was very tierce 
and savage, and for a day or two refused to eat; but finally hunger 
prevailed, and he greedily seized the meat which I gave him. I knew 
that, though eagles commonly eat the flesh of animals either killed by 
themselves fir already dead, yet they also sometimes eat fish, often 
robbing the fish-hawks to get the fish. But I was not aware how 
much they seem to prefer fish to anything else, until I gave by 
chance some fish to this captive of mine. I had returned from fish- 
ing, and as usual stopped by the eagle's cage, or rather the large pen 
in which he lived, to admire him. Taking a perch from my basket, I 
threw it to him. His quick eye detected the treasure on the instant, 

and instead of walking up to it, as he would have done had it been a 
piece of meat, he made a furious dash and caught the fish before it 
reached the ground. The eagerness of his movements and the sav- 
age haste with which he devoured the perch told the story — it was 
the food which he chose above all others; and from that time, I fed 
him on fish when I could get them. Anything less than half a 
pound in weight he always swallowed head foremost entire; larger 
fish were held down with his claws while his beak tore them to pieces. 
He soon learned that I would throw them to him, and it was curi- 
ous to see him catch them in the air. I can not remember that I 
ever saw him miss one. Yours truly, W. O. A. 


"There 'S only one thing in 'stronomy I 'm 
sure about," said a little chap near my pulpit, one 
very hot day last July. 

"Ah!" exclaimed Deacon Green, " and what 
is that, my little man ? " 

" Why, sir, that this earth is a heap nearer the 
sun in summer than it is in winter," says the boy. 

"But it is not nearer in summer, my lad," 
says the Deacon. "What are you going to do 
about that?" 

" Deacon Green," says the little boy, trying to 
speak respectfully, "I skated on that creek over 
there last winter, many a time. It was frozen hard 
as a rock, sir. To my knowledge, it has n't been 
fit to skate on once this summer. What 's more, 
sir, my father always tells me to take the evidence 
of my own senses when I can, sir — and if that 
there sun is n't nearer this earth to-day" (here 
the speaker dried his freckled little forehead with 
his sleeve) "than it was last Christmas, sir, I '11 
give up." 

" Give up, then," says the Deacon, nodding and 
smiling a real good, sociable smile at the boy, " for 
you 're wrong." 

Now the Deacon 's reckoned to be a learned 
man, and a sensible man, but yet somehow, my 
hearers, — what with the July weather and all, — 
it was as much as I could do not to side with that 
innocent child. 

In connection with the above, I am advised by 
the Deacon to "throw out a hint about orbits — 
the earth's orbit in particular." I am not familiar 
with them myself, but perhaps you will know what 
the good soul means. 


Another day, out in my meadow, a little girl 
from the Red School-house asked the Little School- 
ma'am why summer is warm and winter cold. 
As near as I can remember the answer, it was 
something like this : (I can't say I quite see through 
the matter myself, but I 've no doubt you '11 be able 
to puzzle it out, my clever ones. ) 

The earth leans over in one direction on its 
journey about the sun ; and, when it is near the 
sun, the top or northern part of the earth, where 
we live, is a little nearer to him than are the other 
parts ; it is then summer time in the north. But 
when the earth is at the other end of its path, 
farther from the sun, it still leans over in the same 
direction, so that the top is turned away from the 
sun ; and then it is winter in the north. Besides 




this, the sun shines so directly on the middle parts 
of the earth that they never get very cold; but 
near the top and bottom the sun's rays reach the 
earth at a slant, and the heat is not felt so much 


Dear Jack : The red-headed woodpecker of California, scien- 
tifically known as Melanerpes formicoorits, has a strange custom 
of storing away acorns which it seldom, if ever, eats, using the 
trunks of trees for its store-house. These industrious little birds 

Sometimes, a number of birds are driving acorns 
into a tree at the same time, and then what a lively 
time they have! — pushing, driving the nuts in 
with their bills, darting off a moment for a play- 
speli, filling the air with rattling cries, and then 
back again to their skillful work. Meanwhile, the 
expectant squirrels look boldly on, and lazy jays, 
hard by, chatter about the good time they will yet 
have, eating the acorn-meat, and laughing at the 

pick holes in the bark, and with their strong bills hammer acorns red-headed, Unsuspecting little workers 

into the holes until the trunks of the trees look as if they were stud- 
ded from top to bottom with big-headed tacks from some upholstery 
shop. Even the giant trees that have withstood the tempests for 
thousands of years are made to serve as a mighty store-house of 
provisions for these little red-heads. During this process, many pair 
of bright eyes look on approvingly. These eyes belong to the pert, 
chattering squirrels, who, no doubt, consider it a kind and very con- 
siderate act upon the part of the woodpecker to thus lay up winter 
provisions for Mrs. Squirrel and all the family of little Squirrels. 

Dan Beard. 

Jack is very much obliged to Air. Beard, both 
for his letter and for the pretty picture it explains. 

birds are related to thes 
and they tell me that, 

little red- 
while the 

Some of my 

headed fellows 

mighty California trees are thus forced to store 

acorns, the acorns themselves, in turn, often hold 

line grubs that are considered especially delicate 

eating by the woodpecker. 

By the way, the Little School-ma'am has asked 
me to tell you that there is a very interesting paper 
on this matter in the May number of The Ameri- 
can Naturalist. 


Yesterday, in my meadow, the Deacon told a 
group of boys and girls about three ravens that 
belonged in turn to one Charles Dickens. The 
first raven loved horses — in fact, generally 
slept on horseback, in his master's stable. 
The second was a discoverer of stolen goods, 
and managed to dig up in his master's gar- 
den all the cheese and half-pence that the 
first raven had pilfered from time to time, 
and hidden there. The third was a hermit, 
and neither loved horses nor had any special 
talent, excepting that he could bark like a 
dog. This same Mr. Dickens studied the 
habits of his ravens, the Deacon said, and 
wrote about them. Finally, he put two of 
them into one splendid book-raven, which is 
alive to this day, walking about and doing 
astonishing things in a volume known as 
" Barnaby Rudge." 


Dear Jack-in-the-Pilpit : My brother and I went to 
see Jumbo, but I liked the baby elephant better. He is the 
funniest little fellow 1 ever saw — just like a canton-flannel 
elephant suddenly made alive. But other baby animals 
have been exhibited. We read one night about a lioness 
named Old Girl, that belonged to a Zoo in Ireland. She 
died when she was sweet sixteen, and she had raised about 
fifty little baby lions during her life These baby lions were 
just like kittens at first, but gradually they learned to roar, 
and then they were lions. Your little fnend, Angie T. 


My birds have told me of a queer thing. 
They hear so much, because they and their 
friends travel in so many different directions. 
In South Africa, it appears, mounds like 
haycocks are sometimes seen stuck high up 
in the trees. These mounds, though really 
made of coarse, wild grass, also remind one 
of a honey-comb, if looked at from below ; 
for they are full of shapely little openings. 
And the openings are entrances to the nests 
of a colony of grossbeaks, who live sociably 
side by side, each in an apartment of his own. 
though under one common roof. 

When the .dear Little School-ma'am heard of 
these mounds, she called them natural apartment- 
houses, and seemed to think that birds were very 
like human folk, after all. 





With sincere sorrow we chronicle here the decease of Mr. Albert 
Robert Thompson, who died of scarlet fever at his home in Brook- 
lyn, on the ioth of May. Mr. Thompson had been for the last five 
years a faithful and efficient assistant in the office of St. Nicholas, 
and in his sudden and lamented death the readers, as well as the 
editor and publishers, of this magazine have suffered a loss. 

Mr. Thompson was born in Paris, about thirty-four years ago, the 
son of a colonel in the British army, who was lately financial adviser 
to the Governor of Western Australia. He was educated at one of 
the English public schools, and devoted himself to business. He 
came to this country, about fourteen years ago, as the agent of a 
large London house engaged in the manufacture of rubber goods. 
Subsequently he was employed by the publishing house of 
D. Appleton & Co., and E. Butterick & Co., and taught a pub- 
lic school in a New Jersey village. He then returned to England, 
and became engaged in the real estate business. When E. Butter- 
ick & Co. commenced the publication of a literary weekly known 
as TJi£ Metropolitan, in the winter of 1874-5, Mr. Thompson 
returned to New York to become its associate editor, and continued 
to do literary work for the firm for a considerable time after The 
Metropolitan ceased to exist. In 1877, he became an assistant in 
the editorial office of St. Nicholas, where his fine qualities of char- 
acter and temperament soon won the hearts of all his associates. 
He was possessed of a good education and a wide and thorough 
culture, and all his duties were performed with a faithfulness that 
never shrank from, nor slighted, any demand upon it. The state- 
ments already made in a few newspapers that he was the "asso- 
ciate editor" and the " Jack-in-the-Pulpit " of St. Nicholas are 
incorrect; but his devotion, energy, and capacity made themselves 
felt in almost every department of the editorial work, and were 
of enduring benefit in many ways. It is but just to him who so 
sincerely loved and honored his work that all our readers — thou- 
sands of whom may not even have seen his name before — should 
know of his tireless zeal and efficient aid in their behalf. 

Mr. Thompson was for some time superintendent of the Sunday- 
school in the Brooklyn church that was presided over by Dr. 
Edward Eggleston, and his deeds of unostentatious kindness will 
be long remembered by many whom he aided and cheered. He 
married an English lady, a Miss Ashmore, of London, in 1875. 
His wife and one child, a boy of two years and a few months, 
survive him. One other child, a bright and beautiful little girl, 
died when two years old of scarlet fever. 

To those who knew Mr. Thompson, the years of acquaintance or 
friendship yield no memories of him that are not kindly. Life 
seemed beautiful and noble to him, and he helped to make it so 
for others by his gentle courtesy, his integrity of word and deed, 
and his serene, generous, and cheerful spirit. 

Through the courtesy of a friendly correspondent we are allowed 
to present to our readers the following charming letter, written by 
Mr. Longfellow to a young friend of his about eighteen months ago. 
Though merely a brief note, it is full of the poetry and gentleness 
characteristic of the great man who penned it, and will be read 
with interest by young and old : 

Cambridge, Mass., Jan. 23, 1881. 

Dear : The echo answers at once, and does not keep you 

waiting. And it says : Thank you for your postal card, and for the 
kind remembrance of your mother. 

As one grows old, the memories of youth become more and more 
precious; the forms of early friends brighten in the sunset. You 
know nothing of this yet, but some day you will find it out. 

To tell you the truth, I do not think so much of birthdays as I 
used to do. I have had so many of them that I begin to wish they 
would not come quite so often and quite so soon. I like other peo- 
ple's better than my own. And that is another thing you know 
nothing about yet, but will find out later. 

By to-day's mail I send you my latest if not my last volume of 
poems, and hope you will find something in it to please you. I 
date it January 1st. This is what Plato callsa "well intentioned and 

necessary untruth," and what, perhaps, a modern philosopher would 
call an unnecessary fiction or something worse. 

And now, my dear child, I will hang up the mistletoe and kiss 
you under it, and over it, and wish you many happy New Years, 
one at a time, and with kindest regards to your mother, 
I remain sincerely yours, 

Henry W. Longfellow. 

The report upon the stories for The Very Little Folk's page, 
received in answer to the invitation on page 497 of the April 
number, will be given in next month's Letter-box. 

The Children's Garfield Fund. 

Editor of St. Nicholas. 

Dear Madam : We desire to acknowledge from the children who 
read the St. Nicholas the kind gift of $416.02, sent by them in small 
sums in order to found a " Children's Garfield Fund." for the poor 
and sick children of New York. This fund will be devoted to the 
children from New York tenement-houses who come down to the 
" Summer Home " at Bath, L. L, under the charge of the Children's 
Aid Society. It will help to give a happy week at the sea-side to 
those who are shut up in close tenement-houses the rest of the 
year. Here they will enjoy fresh air, nice sea-bathing, good coun- 
try milk and food, and all the pleasures of this beautiful place, for a 
week. Mr. A. B. Stone has purchased one of the most lovely spots 
on the coast for the sum of twenty thousand dollars, and has gener- 
ously presented it to the Society to be used for this purpose. The 
"Children's Garfield Fund" will greatly increase the number of 
those who enjoy the pleasures of this beautiful spot, and we hope it 
will be added to, each year, so that more and more of these poor little 
children can have this great pleasure. I send you a letter received 
from one of the little children who enjoyed the Home last summer. 
Yours very truly, C. L. Brace, 

Secretary Children's Aid Society. 

New York, March 27, 1882. 

Dear Mr. : I am writing to tell you about Bath. 

How I would love to sit down on the beach, and watch the large 
waves roll on the beach, and sing songs which we learned in day- 
school and in Sunday-school! Oh, such lovely times in bathing! 
When the large waves rolled over our heads, we would give a long 
breath and a jump. Miss Lane would take us a good ways out 
and play " Ring" in the water; she would run fast in with us, and 
then the large waves would make us run back to the shore, as if to 
say, " What are vou coming so far out here for? " And Miss Lane 
would go out farther; I tell you she would not be afraid, like us 
babies. I would love to hear the trees shake their glossy leaves! 
We had a lovely time out there ! Miss Agte would make me speak- 
all the pieces I knew and all the songs I knew. Mary Vander- 
noot and I would trim Miss Agte with daisies, and all kinds of flow- 
ers ! We would have all kinds of nice things to eat. We would 
have nice potatoes, blackberries, and O ! I could not commence to 
tell you what nice things we had! We all, when we went to bed, 
said the Lord's Prayer. I love to go there. I close my letter. 
Most respectfully, Jennie Black [age 10 years], 

Eighteenth Street School. 

Mr. Brace's letter explains itself. We trust Willie P. Herrick and 
all the kind-hearted boys and girls who sent contributions to the 
Children's Garfield Fund, through the St. Nicholas, will be glad 
to know that $416.02, the entire sum received thus far, has been 
placed where it will be sure to help poor and sick little ones, and 
brighten lives that know very little of pleasure or even of comfort. 

Long before the beautiful June days come, prosperous city parents 
eagerly discuss the question : " Where shall we take our young folk 
for a delightful and refreshing home during the hot season?" But 
the city poor are dumbly wondering whether or not their little ones 
can live through the sufferings and sicknesses of another crowded 
and scorching summer. 



If any of the present or future contributors to the Children's Gar- 
field Fund wish to know mure of the Bath Summer Home, or of 
the Children's Aid Society, they may apply confidently at the rooms 
of the Society, No. 19 East Fourth Street, New York. 

Meantime, we refer new readers to "A Summer Home for Poor 
Children " in St. Nicholas for June, 18S0, — also to The Letter-box 
of November, 1881, for the letter from Willie and Tottie Herrick and 
one from Mr. Fry, Superintendent of the Summer Home, and to an 
article by Charles L. Brace, in this magazine for May, 1SS2, entitled 
"Wolf-reared Children." 

These articles will throw light on the great and good work that 
the Children's Aid Society and kindred associations are doing. 
Already, the last-named paper has been the means of making at 
least one poor street-boy happy, as the following letter eloquently 
shows : 

East-side Boys' Lodging House and Schools, 
of the Children's Aid Society, 
East Broadway, New York, May 13, 1882. 
Mrs. Dodge. 

Dear Madam: Many persons — some of whom had not been 
familiar with the process by which the Children's Aid Society takes 
rough-hewn street Arabs and puts them in the way of becoming 
useful and respectable citizens — have spoken to me of the pleasure 

and interest with which they have read Mr. Brace's pretty story on 
" Wolf-reared Children " in this month's St. Nicholas. In these 
times, when the country is Hooded with tales that have a most per- 
nicious influence on the young, it is refreshing to read a story like 
that of " Pickety," and 1 am sure you will be gratified to hear that 
some good fruit of it has already appeared. 

Yesterday, a boy of sixteen came up to me in the office of the 
Children's Aid Society and asked if we could not provide him with 
a home in the West. He was poorly equipped in the matter of 
clothing and shoes, but had a bright, intelligent face. He said he 
did not know where he was born, had no knowledge of his parents, 
and his earliest recollection of himself was in an institution in Massa- 
chusetts. On being asked how he knew about the Children's Aid So- 
ciety, he said he had just arrived that morning by the Providence boat, 
on board of which he had found a copy of St. Nicholas containing 
the story of " Pickety." He said he had no money and had become 
greatly discouraged, but after reading about "Pickety" he made 
up his mind to go and ask to be treated just as that buy had been. 
The poor fellow's eyes danced with delight when I told him that I 
was Superintendent of the house where "Pickety" was cared for, 
and that I should be happy to treat him in the same way. On 
Tuesday next, I leave with a company of boys for Kansas, where 
good homes will be provided for all, and I shall take this latest edi- 
tion of " Pickety " along with the rest. 

I am, dear madam, very respectfully yours, 

George Calder. 


It is with great pleasure that we are able to report unabated prog- 
ress during the last month. We number now 251 Chapters and 
2,900 members. The reports from our Chapters are, as usual, full of 
enthusiasm and rich in valuable suggestions. The following new 
Chapters have been admitted: 

New Chapters. 










Name of CJutpter. Members. A ddress. 

Burlington, Kansas (A) 7 P. M. Floyd. 

Alfred Center, N. Y. (A). . .16. .C. A. Davis. 

Ypsilanti, Mich. (B) 6. . Louis B. Hardy. 

Buffalo, N. Y. (D) 7 , . Percy Scharff, 

103 Trcmont Street. 

Chicago, 111. (F) 4 . . E. R. Lamed, 

2546 South Dearborn St. 

Brazil, Ind. (A) 5. . Fred. Clearwaters. 

Wiconisco, Pa. (A) 5. .]. R. Engelbert. 

Utica, N. Y. (A) 19.. C. Baker. 

Sidney, Iowa (A) 12. .Ed. Cooke. 

New York, N. Y. <F) 7..E. H. Hoeber, 

339 West 29th Street. 

Washington, Pa. (A) Miss M. M. Gow. 

Factory Point, Vt. (A) Miss Jessie D. Nichols. 

Plantsville, Conn. (A) 6. .Bertie Shepard. 

Wintuset, Iowa (A) 20. .Harry Wallace. 

Georgetown. D. C. (A) 4 F. P. Stockbridge. 

New Milford, Pa. (A) o..Wm. D. Ainey, Box 253. 

Scituate, Mass. (A) Geo. B. Hudson. 

Philadelphia, Pa, (I) 5 . . E. G. Lewis, 

1125 Mt. Vernon St. 

Peekskill, N. Y. (B) Austin D. Mabie. 

Newport, Ky. (A) 6. .Jerome Clarke. 

Germantown. (C) 7. .Miss Ida Champion, corner 

Walnut Lane and Green St. 

Bethlehem, Pa. (A) 5 . . Harry Wilbur. 

Columbus, Ga. (A) 8..Chas. H. Dillingham. 

Richmond, Va. (A) 5 . . Mrs. J. B. Marshall, 

302 West Grace St. 

Orange, N. J. (A) Geo. M. Smith. 

Tiffin, Ohio (A) 

Saratoga, N. Y. (A) 4 . . Harry A. Chandler, Box 15. 

An A. A. H 


Iii response to repeated and urgent requests, the President has 
written and printed a complete Hand-book of the St. Nicholas 
A. A. It contains a history of the A. A., its Constitution and By- 
laws. There are chapters on — How to Organize a Chapter; How 
to Conduct Meetings; Parliamentary Law; The A. A in the Pub- 
lic School; How to Collect all Kinds of Specimens; How to Col- 

lect and Preserve Birds; Sea-weeds; How to build a Cabinet; 
Reports from Chapters and Members; Minerals; Full list of scientific 
books (over two hundred titles), etc., etc.; concluding with a com- 
plete and revised list of all our 250 Chapters, with the addresses of 
their secretaries. The book is well illustrated. We are able to fur- 
nish copies to those wishing them at fifty cents each, postage prepaid. 
We have written this book with the intention of answering in it all 
the questions which any one can care to ask about the A. A. 
Every active member of the A. A. should have one. 

Reports of Chapters and Members. 

Detroit, Mich. 

" How can ( poison ivy ' be distinguished ? " 

I will send an answer which I once wrote and read at one of our 
club meetings. Poison ivy closely resembles the Virginia creeper 
or woodbine, as it is often incorrectly called. It usually grows as a 
vine, clinging to a tree or bank, but in some parts of the country it 
grows like a bush, about two feet high, with a trunk from three to 
four inches through. The leaflets of the ivy (Rhus toxicodendron) 
are similar in shape to those of the Virginia creeper, but each leaf 
of the ivy has three leaflets, whereas the creeper has Jive. More- 
over the leaf of the ivy is darker, more glossy, and somewhat blis- 
tered. It can also be readily distinguished by handling. 

Agnes Wiley (Chapter A). 

[Will some o 

ne men 

tion other characteristics of Rhus tojr. ?] 

Being frequently asked how animals can be preserved, we are 
glad to present the following excellent report from the Manhattan 


Taxidermy is the art of preserving animals. It includes preser- 
vation in spirits, the operation of stuffing, the arrangement of skele- 
tons or parts of them, and the preservation of the skin alone. 

To Preserve Animals in Spirits. Alcohol is generally used. Any 
animal can be preserved in it. The alcohol is diluted about fifty 
per cent, (some say as low as twenty per cent.). The animals 
that are generally preserved in this way are those that can not be 
readily stuffed, as reptiles, fishes, mollusks, and some insects. Ben- 
zine is also used, and is preferred by some as it docs not lose color. 

To Stuff Mammals. This operation requires skill, patience, and 

Lay the animal on its back, and then stuff the mouth, nostrils, 
and wounds with cotton or tow, to prevent the blood from disfigur- 
ing the skin. Then split the skin from the tail to the breast-bone, 
taking great care not to penetrate so deep as to cut the abdominal 
muscles. Push off the skin gently, right and left, and as the skin- 
ning proceeds, put pads of cotton between it and the muscles. 
When the skin is removed as far as it can be without pulling or 




using force, separate the thighs at their junctions with the pelvis; 
the tail should be severed inside the skin. Now separate the skin 
from the carcass carefully till the shoulders are reached, then sepa- 
rate the legs at the shoulder-joints. Next remove the skin from the 
neck and head ; cut off the ears close to the skull. Great care must 
be taken not to injure the eyelids and lips. Cut off the head, re- 
move the external muscles of the face, and take out the brain and 
eyes. Now return to the legs, clean away all the flesh to the toes, 
but do not remove the tendons around the joints, as the bones are to 
remain in the legs ; skin the tail by forcing a cleft stick in between 
the bones and skin. When all is removed, sprinkle the skin thor- 
oughly with preservation powder or soap it well with arsenic soap. 
Leave the skin stretched till it becomes perfectly dry and absorbs 
the mixture. Fill the eye-orbits and nostrils with cotton, put a thin 
layer of cotton along the back, introduce the wire frame-work, stuff 
all the small parts with cotton and the remaining parts with any dry 
vegetable substance. Return the skull to the head; great dex- 
terity is required in placing the artificial eyes — they are fastened 
with cement. When stuffing, care should be taken not to stretch 
the skin and to have the animal shaped into its natural appearance. 
Skeletons. Remove the skin, muscles, and everything that will 
come off easily, except the ligaments, place it in water for several 
days, then take it out, clean it more thoroughly and remove the 
brain ; place it in fresh water. Repeat this from day to day (chang- 
ing the water each time). The bones are, each time, to be well 
cleaned. (The operation of cleaning and scraping should properly 
be done under the surface of the water.) After the skeleton is clean, 
place it in clean lime-water or solution of pearl-ash, then wash 
again with clean water, wire it and place it in position, and allow it 
to dry. Do not expose it to the sun or to a fire to dry. All large 
animals' skeletons can be prepared in this way. But for small 
skeletons, an easier method is to clean and soak the bones, and 
place them in perforated boxes, which should then be put into ant- 
hills. The insects will quickly remove the flesh ; the skeletons must 
be taken out before they attack the ligaments. Now wash, wire, 
and place in position. 

Walter H. Martin, 216 Franklin avenue, Brooklyn, N. V., is now 
Secretary of Chapter 151, in place of E. A. Osburne. (Nothing 
causes so great confusion as a change of secretaries. The change 
can not be noted here until three months after it occurs, and by that 
time a new one may have been elected. In case of Chapter 151, 
this change was necessary, but, ordinarily, the secretary should be 

Exchanges Desired. 

Minerals and fossils for other minerals, fossils, and woods. — P. M. 
Floyd, Burlington, Kansas. 

Birds' eggs bluwn with one hole. — Louis B. Bishop, Box 905, New 
Haven, Conn. 

Petrified shells (labeled). — W. E. Loy, Eaton, Ohio, Secretary 
Chapter 128. 

Botanical specimens and correspondence. — Harry L. Russell, 
Poynette, Wisconsin. 

Minerals and birds' eggs. — Louis D. Orrison, 1206 Independence 
Avenue, Kansas City, Mo. 

Lepidoptera correspondence. — Ed. R. Putnam, Davenport, Iowa. 

Chalcopyritc for quartz crystal. — E. R. Earned, Sec. Chapter 229, 
2546 S. Dearborn St., Chicago, 111. 

Indian arrow-heads for a sea-horse or starfish. — Jerome Clark, 145 
Washington Ave., Newport, Ky. 

Feldspar, tourmaline, and Mexican onyx, for woods, geodes, 
minerals, and birds' eggs. — R. P. Kaighn, 2014 Ridge Ave, , Phila. 

Minerals in exchange for minerals, fossils, or woods. — Harry L. 
M. Mitchell, 23 W. 12th St., N. Y. 

Minerals, Indian curiosities, and wood, for anything equal in 
value. — S. B. Arnold, Whipple Bk's, Varapai Co., Arizona Ty. 

Pressed ferns and a stuffed bat, for foreign coins and birds' eggs. 
— Miss Hattie M. Grover, Folsom State Prison, Folsom, California. 

Curiosities and relics for minerals and curiosities. — Win, R. 
Nichols, 2016 Arch St., Philadelphia. 

Eggs for woods, sea-weeds, etc. — C. M. Sprague, 19 Oakwood 
Ave., Chicago, 111. 

Red-head ducks, black skimmer, and other rare eggs, in sets or 
single. — C. G. Doe, 28 Wood St., Providence, R. I. 

Birds' eggs. — A. H. Rudd, 056 Asylum Ave., Hartford, Conn. 

Garnets for fossils. — H. I. Hancock, Box 1339, Waltham, Mass. 

Texas centipede, stinging lizard, and horned frog. — Miss Jennie 
Wise, Bo.x 454, Waco, Texas. 

Petrified moss, shells, coral, etc., etc., for ocean curiosities and 
minerals. — Edward Shaw, 450 Superior St., Toledo, Ohio. 

Birds' eggs. — Samuel L. Magie, Rutherford, N. J. 

Minerals. — Elliston J. Perot, Westchester, Penn. 

Petrified moss. — Wm. G. Loy, Eaton, Ohio. 

Moss agates. — James O'Connell, Fort Stockton, Texas. 

We will send Emerton's Structure and Habits of Spiders, for the 
best mounted collection of six species of spiders received by Sept. 
8th. — Philadelphia B., H. Taylor Rodgers, Sec, 1015 Vine St. 

Sea-shells and sand-dollars for ores. — P. Lucker, Galveston, Texas. 

Answers to Questions in Previous Reports. 

Geodes are rounded hollow concretions, either empty, or con- 
taining a more or less solid and free nucleus, and frequently having 
the cavity lined with crystals. On account of their size and shape 
they are sometimes called potato-stones. The word Geode comes 
from the Greek, and means 'earthy.' 

Geo. Powell, St. Clair, Pa. 

{This gives 110 explanation of how geodes are formed. No one 
has answered this question yet. Please ask the nearest" Professor" 
and report Stay ! Here is a letter from the home of the geode.] 

Waverlv, Bremer Co., Iowa. 
Dear Sir: I send you this day a bo.x of geodes. We find them 
in a quarry in a bluff of soft limestone. Some have colored crystals, 
but the colors fade on exposure to light. I am inclined to think 
that they were once living animals, something like sponges. In 
course of time they became covered with sediment, and this, through 
some action of the elements, changed to limestone, without petrify- 
ing the animal substance. This decaying, left cavities, which later 
were filled with crystals. If any one has a better theory, I should 
be glad to hear it. Please tell good St. NiCHOLAs^that it is rather 
inconvenient for me to get my mail in Ohio. 

Very respectfully, L. L. Goodwin. 

[Mr. Goodwin's theory is surely ingenious. One member has 
suggested that geodes may have been volcanic in origin, and formed 
in the air like hail-stones. We shall hear further from this question.] 

Bees carry the honey in a honey-bag. It is connected with the 
mouth, and the juices which the bees gather pass into it and are 
changed into honey. This can be brought up again at will. 

The Aptervx is a bird living in New Zealand. It has stumps of 
wings and no tail. Its feathers look like fur. Its eggs are laid in 
deep holes in the ground. 

Peanuts are the fruit of a trailing vine, with small yellow flowers. 
After the flowers fall the stem bends downward, and the pod forces 
itself into the ground, where it ripens. 

Brazil has two seasons. It would be the "dry" season there at 
the time mentioned. 

Dark Spots on leopards correspond to the leaves of the tree in 
which it hides, and prevent its being seen easily. 

If the Ostrich is hunted, it will often thrust its head into the 
sand and think that no one can see it. 

The Manatee, Porpoise. Dolphin, Whale, and Narwhal are am- 
phibious animals. [Who will correct this ? ] 

Most Flies die in winter; a few live in crannies until spring. 

The house of a beaver is built of mud, stones, and sticks. The 
entrance is always below the surface of the water. 

The fusing point of copper is 1994 deg. ; of lead, 620 deg. ; of 
silver, 1873 deg. [All F.] 

Salt Water freezes at 26^ deg. F. 

Hiram H. Bice, Utica, N. Y. 

[This is Miss Klyda Richardson's excellent answer to one of the 
March questions.] 

I. Probably the hardest wood in the world is that of the Euca- 
lyptus ?-esini/~cra, Order Myrtacese. This tree is a native of Austra- 
lia and the Indian Archipelago. It is, in common with the other 
trees of this genus, very tall. Often it attains a height of two hun- 
dred and fifty feet, and is seventy feet in circumference at its base. 
This tree is called the brown gum tree, or iron bark. From it is 
obtained one of the valuable kinds of kino, so much used in medicine. 

Many other answers received, for which space can not be given. 

Snow-crystal Prize. — The prize for best drawings of snow- 
crystals is again awarded to Miss Mary L. Garfield, of Fitchburg, 

Orono, Me. 

I have read the reports of the A. A. with great interest, and fully 
appreciate that through its influence a constantly increasing army 
of naturalists is being formed, which is destined to accomplish 
valuable results in the line of scientific observations. America 7/eeds 
this army of trained and enthusiastic observers. Please tell Clarence 
L. Lower, that Tortrix Cloraua feeds on the leaves of willow 
(Sallx pentandra) in Europe, but this insect has never been found 
in this country, and he doubtless has mistaken some other insect for 
ii. If he will send me the insect by mail, I will give him the true 
name, and what is known of its habits. I will name tortricids for 
any of the members of the A. A. who will collect and send them to 
me, for I am making a revision of all the described species of the 
world, and wish to see as many as possible, especially from the South 
and West. Yours truly, C. H. Fernald, Prof, of Nat. Hist. 

[This opportunity for making the acquaintance of ' 
will not be neglected by our entomologists.] 




and leave a philosopher. 7. Syncopate a division of a poem and 
"eave a Roman censor. 8. Syncopate a covering for the head worn 
by a bishop and leave deep mud. 9. Syncopate the sea-shore and 
ave value. 10. Syncopate impressions in plaster and leave do- 
mestic animals. "minne-ha-ha." 

My first is in hinge, but not in joint; 
My second in apex, but not in point; 
My third is in coffee, but not in tea; 
My fourth is in wasp, but not in bee; 
My fifth is in dial, but not in face; 
My sixth is in fringe, but not in lace; 
My seventh in bonnet, but not in hood; 
My eighth is in lumber, but not in wood; 
My ninth is in harmony, not in tone: 
My whole had a place on King Arthur's throne — 
'Twas drawn from the water, or drawn from a stone. 

w. v. M. 



The above should first be read as a rebus. The answer will be a 
four-line stanza which forms a charade. This should, in turn, be 
solved as if it were printed like similar charades, geokge folsom. 


From i to 2, the main timber of a ship. From 2 to 1, a vegetable. 
From 2 to 5, an oblique glance. From 5 to 2. a lively dance. 
From 2 to 3, a noose. From 3 to 2, a small body of stagnant 
water. From 4 to 2, vicious. From 2 to 4, to subsist. 



Across: i. A marine conveyance. 2. Of the same age. 3. A 
prophet and judge, of the tribe of Levi, who consecrated Saul 
king of Israel. 4. A land-tortoise. 5. A county of England. 6. 

Diagonals: Left to Right — A Roman general, born 106 b. c. 
Right to Left' — A constellation. bertie bushnell. 


Mv_/fn/ has no love for my second. 

But hopes 't will be his ere he dies; 
My wJwle is so pleasant a matter. 

To do it each clever one tries. w. h. a. 


Each of the words described contains five letters, and the synco- 
pated letters, placed in the order here given, spell the name of the 
daughter of a powerful Indian chief. 

1. Syncopate a substance used in making varnishes and leave a 
combustible mineral. 2. Syncopate a product of warm countries 
and leave fermented liquors. 3. Syncopate events and leave oleag- 
inous matter. 4. Syncopate a small fish and leave a Scottish 
name for a lake. 5. Syncopate a town of Lombardy and leave an 
island of the ^Egcan Sea, near Cape Blanco. 6. Syncopate a poet 

Steven ear lony dewing thuslets ciwhh fyl form noe dies fo het 
mool fo file ot het throe, eribang het namy coolder hardset tou fo 
hiwhc het cabtir fo rou treachrac si dame. 



The initials and finals, read downward, each spell the surname 
of a famous American statesman. 

Cross-words: i. The cry of a bird. 2. Public records which 
are preserved as evidence of fact. 3. A branch of a tree. 4. To 
annoy. 5. An animal of the cat kind. 6. To turn to account. 7. 
One who directs the course of a ship. r. h. m. 


I am composed of sixty-three letters, and am a quotation from the 
Bible, in the book of Ecclesiastes. 

My 45-23-62-32-15-3 we should "apply our hearts unto," says the 
ninetieth Psalm. My 59-14-60-60-12 is just the reverse. My 20-42- 
60-47-18-51 is to expand. My 43-57-21-6-50-16 is just the reverse. 
My 38-48-34-56-1 m is said to be "stranger than fiction." My 20— 
4S-21-54-4S is just the reverse. My 17-33-26-1-3S-63 means 
evenly spread. My 21-54-39-S-36 is just the reverse. My 37-10— 
8-46 is a wise man. My 40-34-25-35-27 is just the reverse. My 2-44- 
11-35-41 is something entirely imaginary. My 55-4-^5-56 is just 
the reverse. My 13-4S-49-53-5 is quick. My 52-60-14-45 is just 
thereverse. My 9-61-30-7 is contemptible. My2-ic— 40-21 isjustthe 
reverse. My 24-58-21-61-31-2215 quiet. My 55-4S-44-2S-1S-6-35 
is just the reverse. " parthenia." 





thus, Ether Van, by Dean Rolla Peag, is an anagram on 
Raven," by Edgar Allan Foe. 

i. The Woes o' Hem me, by Rodney J. H. Wahpnna. 

2. Granther Spedbann's Tale, by Stacy K Crofstein. 

3. The Baby of Churl tin Temple, by Hilda J. Waurowe. 

4. The Kaudlebent Cook, by Waldo Souihmower. 

5. Adora Wheaton's Tempter, by Roger 0. P. Grimes. 


You 'll find my first in Africa; 

My second in Mexico; 
In Portugal my third is placed; 

For fourth to Russia go; 
My fifth in Scotland has a home; 

My sixth in Candahar, 
My seventh dwells in Hindoostan; 

My eighth in France afar; 
My ninth is in Jerusalem ; 

My tenth in Paraguay; 
My eleventh 's fast in Belgium; 

My twelfth is in Norway. 
My whole comes only once a year, 
The boy's delight, the mother's fear. 

* animals are represented in this picture 




AND Til El l< 

In the following Anagrams, the letters of the titles of the songs 
are not mingled with the letters which form the authors' names; 

Across : 1. The son of Mercury, who was the god of shepherds 
and huntsmen. 2. Is anxious. 3. Small bundles or packages. 4. 
The ancient name of a picturesque portion of Greece. 5. Lacking. 
6. To steal away. 7. To settle. " alcibiades." 


Numerical Enigma. "Though the mills of God grind 
slowly, yet they grind exceeding small." 

An Aviary, i. Nightingale. 2. Goldfinch (chat) 
3. Lark. 4. Teal. 5. Chickadee. 6. Nut-hatch. 
7. Bobolink. 8. Coot. 9. Cockatoo 10. Snipe. 
11. Whip-poor-will. 12. Magpie. 13. Lap- 
wing. 14. Plover (plan). 15. Kingfisher. 
16. Linnet (line). 17. Martin. iS. Sparrow 
19. Toucan. 20. Thrush (throne). 

Novel Acrostic. Battle of Waterloo. 
Cross-words: 1. BoWer. 2. AbAse. 3. 
TiTle. 4. TrEat. 5. LaRch. 6 ElLen 
7. OzOne. 8. FrOwn. 

Two Cross-word Enigmas. I Rose- 
bud II. Anemone. 

Twelve Concealed Cities, i. Eton. 
2. Paris. 3. Dover. 4 Thebes. 5. Athens. 
6. Ephesus. 7. London. 8. Teheran. 9. 
Rome. 10. Verona. 11. Nice. 12. Sparta. 

Illustrated Puzzle in the Head 
piece. Roses. 


rat, not in kitten ; in oar, but not in 

sail ; 
In gloves, but not in mitten; in pitcher, 

not in pail ; 
In trumpets, but not in tune ; the whole appears in June. 

Sunflower Maze. See accompanying illustration. 

Acrostic: Tadmor in the Desert. :. T-ime. s 
A-varice. 3. D-ebt. 4. M-ercy. 5. O-bed: 
ence. 6. R-efreshment. 7 1-ndustry. 8, 
N-ought. 9. T-ailonng. 10. H-eroism. 
E-arth. 12. D-eath. 13. E-xcellence. 14. 
S-atisfaction. 15. E-ternity. 16, R-epu- 
tation. 17. T-iara. 

St. Andrew's Cross of Diamonds. Up- 
per Left-hand Diamond: 1. P. 2. See. 

3. Pears. 4. Era. 5. S Upper Right- 
hand Diamond: 1. S. 2. Ace. 3. Scene. 

4. End. 5. E. Central Diamond: 1. S. 
2. Ape. 3. Spare. 4. Err. 5. E. Lower 
Left-hand Diamond: 1. S. 2. Ate. 3. 

Stare. 4. Ere. 5. E. Lower Right-hand 
Diamond: 1. E. 2. Raw. 3. Eager. 4. 
Wet. 5- R- 
Novel Cross-word Enigma. Joan of Arc. 
Two Easy Word-squares. I. 1. Oats. 2. 
Ague. 3 Tune. 4. Seen. II. 1. June. 2. 
Used. 3. Need. 4. Eddy. 
Pi. Saint Augustine! Well hast thou said, 

That of our vices we can frame 
A ladder, if we will but tread 
Beneath our feet each deed of shame. 
Henry W Longfellow in '■ The Ladder of St. Augustine." 

Answers to Puzzles in the April Number were received too late for acknowledgment in the June number, from A. Gardner, n, 
and Mary A. Dodge, 1. 

Answers to all of the Puzzles in the May Number were received, before May 20, from C. Home — Ernest B. Cooper — " The 
Houghton Family"— Emma S. Wines — Freda— Alice Maud Kyte — Marna and Bae-— Clara and her Aunt — Emilie Wheelock — The 
Blanke Family — Florence Leslie Kyte — Clara J. Child — Sallie Viles. 

Answers to Puzzles in the May Number were received, before May 20, from Pansy, 2 — Minnie and Laurence Van Buren, 1 — 
S. W. McClary, 1 — Frank L. Burns, 6— Mary Deane Dexter, 2— Frank N. Dodd, 2— Jessie Bugbee, 6 — Bess and Madge. 7— '* Alci- 
biades," 7 — Erne K. Talboys, 6— R. Hamilton, 1 — Eirie, 3 — J. Herbert Jordan, 1 — H. W. Ogden, 2 — Two Subscribers, 7 — Edith 
McKeever, 4 — E. Blanche Johns, 1 — A. B. C, 6 — Ruth Camp, 2 — Carrie Weitling, 2 — North Star, 1 — Addie W. Gross, 1 — Grace 
and Blanche Parry, 5 — Annie Lovelt, 7 — Mat tie G. Colt, 2 — Rory O'More, 3 — Bertie and Maud, 4 — Rene, Bert, and Grace, 6 — 
Louise Kelly, 4 — Frankie Crawford, 2 — F. N. Dodd, 4 — Nellie Caldwell, 5 — A. R., 4 — L. E. R., 1 — Livingston Ham, 1 — Bessie P. 
McCollin, 6 — Celetta M. Green, 6 — Vin and Alex, 4 — Nicoll Ludlow, Jr., 5 — Helen E. Mahan, 6 — Fred. Thwaits, 7 — Anna Clark, 2 
— A. J. C, 2— Maud and Sadie, 2 — H. M. S. "St. Vincent," 7— Florence E. Pratt, 6— Lyde McKinney, 6. 



Vol. IX. 

AUGUST, 1882. 

No. 10. 

[Copyright, 1S82, by The CENTURY CO.] 


By Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen. 

Burt HOLTER and his sister Hilda were sitting 
on the beach, playing with large twisted cockles 
which they imagined were cows and horses. They 
built stables out of chips, and fenced in their pas- 
tures, and led their cattle in long rows through the 
deep grooves they had made in the sand. 

" When I grow up to be a man," said Burt, who 
was twelve years old, " I am going to sea and 
catch whales as father did when he was young. I 
don't want to stand behind a counter and sell calico 
and tape and coffee and sugar," he continued, 
thrusting his chest forward, putting his hands into 
his pockets, and marching with a manly swagger 
across the beach. " I don't want to play with 
cockles, like a baby any more," he added, giving 
a forcible kick to one of Hilda's finest shells and 
sending it flying across the sand. 

" I wish you would n't be so naughty, Burt," 
cried his sister, with tears in her eyes. " If you 
don't want to play with me, 1 can play alone. 
Burt, oh — look there ! " 

Just at that moment, a dozen or more columns of 
water flew high into the air, and the same number 
of large, black tail-fins emerged from the surface of 
the fjord, and again slowly vanished. "Hurrah ! " 
cried Burt in great glee, "it is a shoal of dol- 
phins. Good-bye, Hilda dear, 1 think 1 'II run 
down to the boat-house." 

"I think I '11 go with you, Burt." said his sis- 
ter obligingly, rising and shaking the sand from 
her skirts. 

"I think you'll not," remarked her brother, 
angrily, " I can run faster than you." 

So saying, he rushed away over the crisp sand 
as fast as his feet would carry him, while his sister 
Hilda, who was rather a soft-hearted girl, and ready 
with her tears, ran after him, all out of breath and 
calling to him at the top of her voice. Finally, when 
she was more than half way to the boat-house, she 
stumbled against a stone and fell full length upon 
the beach. Burt, fearing that she might be hurt, 
paused in his flight and returned to pick her up, 
but could not refrain from giving her a vindictive 
little shake as soon as he discovered that she had 
sustained no injury. 

" I do think girls are the greatest bother that 
ever was invented," he said in high dudgeon. " I 
don't see what they are good for, anyway." 

" I want to go with you, Burt," cried Hilda. 

Seeing there was no escape, he thought he 
might just as well be kind to her. 

" You may go," he said, " if you will promise 
never to tell anybody what 1 am going to do? " 

" No, Burt, I shall never tell," said the child 
eagerly, and drying her tears. 

"I am going whale-hunting," whispered Burt 
mysteriously. ''Come along." 

"Whale-hunting ! " echoed the girl in delicious 
excitement. "Dear Burtie. how good you are! 
Oh, how lovely ! No, I shall never tell it to any- 
body as long as I live." 

It was late in the afternoon, and the sun, which 
;it that time of the year never sets in the northern 
part of Norway, threw its red, misty rays like a 
veil of dull flame over the lofty mountains which, 
with their snow-hooded peaks pierced the fiery 




clouds ; their huge reflections shone in soft tints of 
red, green and gray in the depths of the fjord, 
whose glittering surface was calm and smooth as a 
mirror. Only in the bay which the school of dol- 
phins had entered was the water ruffled ; but there, 
high spouts rose every moment into the air and 
descended again in showers of fine spray. 

"It is well that father has gone away with the 
fishermen," said Burt, as he exerted himself with 
all his might to push his small boat down over the 
slippery beams of the boat-house. " Here, Hilda, 
hold my harpoon for me." 

Hilda, greatly impressed with her own dignity 
in being allowed to hold so dangerous a weapon as 
a harpoon, grasped it eagerly and held it up in 
both her arms. Burt once more put his shoulder 
to the stern of his light skiff (which, in honor of his 
father's whaling voyages, he had named "The 
North Pole,") and with a tremendous effort set it 
afloat. Then he carefully assisted Hilda into the 
boat, in the stern of which she seated herself. 
Next, he seized the oars and rowed gently out be- 
yond the rocky headland toward which he had 
seen the dolphins steer their course. He was an 

Now remember, and push the tiller to the side 
opposite where I want to go." 

" I '11 remember," she replied, breathlessly. 

The gentle plashing of the oars and the click- 
ing of the rowlocks were the only sounds which 
broke the silence of the evening. Now and then 
a solitary gull gave a long, shrill scream as she 
dived beneath the surface of the fjord, and once 
a fish-hawk's loud, discordant yell was flung by 
the echoes from mountain to mountain. 

"Starboard," commanded Burt, sternly; but 
Hilda in her agitation pushed the tiller to the 
wrong side and sent the boat flying to port. 

" Starboard, I said," cried the boy indignantly; 
"if I had known you would be so stupid, I should 
never have taken you along." 

" Please, Burtie dear, do be patient with me," 
pleaded the girl remorsefully. " I shall not do so 

It then pleased his majesty, Burt Holter, to 
relent, although his sister had by her awkwardness 
alarmed the dolphins, sending the boat right in 
their wake, when it had been his purpose to head 
them off. He knew well enough that it takes sev- 


excellent sailor for his years, and could manage a 
boat noiselessly and well. 

" Hilda, take the helm," he whispered, " or, if 
you were only good for any thing, you might pad- 
dle and we should be upon them in a minute. 

eral minutes for a whole school of so large a fish 
as the dolphin to change its course, and the 
hunter would thus have a good chance of "prick- 
ing" a laggard before he could catch up with his 
companions. Burt strained every muscle, while 


/ 3 


coolly keeping his eye on the water to note the 
course of his game. His only chance was in cut- 
ting across the bay and lying in wait for them at 
the next headland. For he knew very well that 
if they were seriously frightened and suspected 
that they were being pursued, they could easily 
beat him by the speed and dexterity of their move- 
ments. But he saw to his delight that his calcula- 
tions were correct. Instead of taking the straight 
course seaward, the dolphins, being probably in 
pursuit of fresh herring, young cod and other 
marine delicacies which they needed for their late 
dinner, steered close to land where the young fish 
are found in greater abundance, and their follow- 
ing the coast-line of the bay gave Burt a chance 
of cutting them off and making their acquaint- 
ance at closer quarters. Having crossed the little 
bay, he commanded his sister to lie down flat in 
the bottom of the boat — a command which she 
willingly, though with a quaking heart, obeyed. 
He backed cautiously into a little nook among the 
rocks from which he had a clear passage out, and 

having one hand on his harpoon, which was se- 
cured by a rope to the prow of the boat, and the 
other on the boat-hook (with which he meant to 
push himself rapidly out into the midst of the 
school), he peered joyously over the gunwale and 
heard the loud snorts, followed by the hissing de- 
scent of the spray, approaching nearer and nearer. 
Now, steady, my boy ! Don't lose your presence 
of mind ! One, two, three — there goes! Jump- 
ing up, fixing the boat-hook against the rock, and 
with a tremendous push shooting out into the midst 
of the school was but a moment's work. Whew ! 
The water spouts and whirls about his ears as in 
a shower-bath. Off goes his cap. Let it go ! But 
stop ! What was that ? A terrific slap against the 
side of the boat as from the tail of a huge fish. 
Hilda jumps up with a piercing shriek and the 
boat careens heavily to the port side, the gunwale 
dipping for a moment under the water. A loud 
snort, followed again by a shower of spray, is heard 
right ahead, and, at the same moment, the har- 
poon flies through the air with a fierce whiz and 




lodges firmly in a broad, black back. The huge 
fish in its first spasm of pain gives a fling with its 
tail and for an instant the little boat is lifted out 
of the water on the back of the wounded dolphin. 

"' Keep steady, don't let go the rope ! " shouts 
Burt at the top of his voice, "he wont hurt " 

But before he had finished, the light skiff, with a 
tremendous splash, struck the water again, and the 
little coil of rope to which the harpoon was attached 
flew humming over the gunwale and disappeared 
with astonishing speed into the depth. 

Burt seized the cord, and when there was little 

knowing that, however swiftly he swam, he pulled 
his enemy after him. As he rose to the surface, 
about fifty or sixty yards ahead, a small column of 
water shot feebly upward, and spread in a fan-like, 
irregular shape before it fell. The poor dolphin 
floundered along for a few seconds, its long black 
body in full view, and then again dived down, 
dragging the boat onward with a series of quick, 
convulsive pulls. 

Burt held on tightly to the cord, while the 
water foamed and bubbled about the prow and 
surged in swirling eddies in the wake of the skiff. 


left to spare, tied it firmly to the prow of the boat, 
which then, of course, leaped forward with every 
effort of the dolphin to rid itself of the harpoon. 
The rest of the school, having taken alarm, had 
sought deep water, and were seen, after a few 
minutes, far out beyond the headland. 

" I want to go home, Burt," Hilda exclaimed, 
vehemently. " I want to go home ; I don't want 
to get killed. Burt.'' 

"You sill;- thing! You can't go home now. 
You must just do as I tell you ; but, of course — if 
you only are sensible — you won't get killed, or 
hurt at all." 

While he was yet speaking, on a sudden the boat 
began to move rapidly over the water. 

The dolphin had bethought him of flight, not 

" If I can only manage to get that dolphin," 
said Burt, " I know father will give me at least a 
dollar for him. There 's lots of blubber on him, 
and that is used for oil to burn in lamps." 

The little girl did not answer, but grasped the 
gunwale hard on each side, and gazed anxiously 
at the foaming and bubbling water. Burt, too, sat 
silent in the prow, but with a fisherman's excite- 
ment in his face. The sun hung, huge and fiery, 
over the western mountains, and sent up a great, 
dusky glare among the clouds, which burned in 
intense but lurid hues of red and gold. Gradually, 
and before they were full}' aware of it, the boat 
began to rise and sink again, and Burt discovered 
by the heavy, even roll of the water that they must 
be near the ocean. 

H W B U K T \V E N T W 1 1 A I . E - 1 1 U N T I N G 


"Now you may stop, my dear dolphin," he said, 
coolly. ''We don't want you to take us across to 
America. Who would have thought that he was 
such a tough customer anyway ?" 

He let go the rope, and seating himself, again 
put the oars into the rowlocks. He tried to arrest 
the speed of the boat by vigorous backing ; but, to 
his surprise, found that his efforts were of no avail. 

"Hilda," he cried, not betraying, however, the 
anxiety he was beginning to feel, " take the other 
pair of oars and let us see what you are good for." 

Hilda, not realizing her danger, obeyed, a little 
tremblingly perhaps, and put the other pair of oars 
into their places. 

" Now let us turn the boat around," sternly com- 
manded the boy. "It's getting late, and we must be 
home before bed-time. One — two — three — pull! " 

The oars struck the water simultaneously and 
the boat veered half way around ; but the instant 
the oars were lifted again, it started back into its 
former course. 

"Why don't you cut the rope and let the 
dolphin go?" asked Hilda, striving hard to master 
the tears, which again were pressing to her eyelids. 

" Not I," answered her brother ; " why, all the 
fellows would laugh at me if they heard how I first 
caught the dolphin and then the dolphin caught me. 
No, indeed. He has n't much strength left by this 
time, and we shall soon see him float up." 

He had hardly uttered these words, when they 
shot past a rocky promontory, and the vast ocean 
spread out before them. Both sister and brother 
gave an involuntary cry of terror. There they 
were, in their frail little skiff, far away from home, 
and with no boat visible for miles around. " Cut 
the rope, cut the rope ! Dear Burt, cut the rope ! " 
screamed Hilda, wringing her hands in despair. 

"I am afraid it is too late," answered her brother, 
doggedly. " The tide is going out, and that is 
what has carried us so swiftly to sea. I was a fool 
that I did n't think of it." 

"But what shall we do — what shall we do! " 
moaned the girl, hiding her face in her apron. 

" Stop that crying," demanded her brother, im- 
periously. "I '11 tell you what we shall have to do. 
We could n't manage to pull back against the tide, 
especially here at the mouth of the fjord, where the 
current is so strong. We had better keep on sea- 
ward, and then, if we are in luck, we shall meet 
the fishing-boats when they return, which will be 
before morning. Anyway, there is little or no 
wind, and the night is light enough, so that thev 
can not miss seeing us." 

" Oh, I shall surely die, I shall surely die ! " sobbed 
Hilda, flinging herself down in the bottom of the boat. 

Burt deigned her no answer, but sat gazing sul- 
lenly out over the ocean toward the western horizon, 

over which the low sun shed its lurid mist of fire. 
The ocean broke with a mighty roar against the 
rocks, then hushed itself for a few seconds, and then 
hurled itself against the rocks anew. To be frank, 
he was not quite so fearless as he looked ; but he 
thought it cowardly to give expression to his fear, 
and especially in the presence of his sister, in whose 
estimation he had ever been a hero. The sun sank 
lower until it almost touched the water. The rope 
hung perfectly loose from the prow, and only now 
and then grew tense as if something was feebly 
tugging at it at the other end. He concluded that 
the dolphin had bled to death or was exhausted. 
In the meanwhile, they were drifting rapidly west- 
ward, and the hollow noise of the breakers was 
growing more and more distant. From a merely 
idle impulse of curiosity Burt began to haul in his 
rope, and presently saw a black body, some eight or 
nine feet long, floating up only a few rods from the 
boat. He gave four or five pulls at the rope and 
was soon alongside of it. Burt felt very sad as he 
looked at it, and was sorry he had killed the harm- 
less animal. The thought came into his mind 
that his present desperate situation was God's pun- 
ishment on him for his cruel delight in killing. 

" But God would not punish my sister for my 
wickedness," he reflected, gazing tenderly at Hilda, 
who lay in the boat with her hands folded under 
her cheek, having sobbed herself to sleep. He 
felt consoled, and murmuring a prayer he had once 
heard in church for "sailors in distress at sea," 
lay down at his sister's side and stared up into 
the vast, red dome of the sky above him. The 
water plashed gently against the sides of the skiff 
as it rose and rocked upon the great smooth 
" ground swell." and again sank down, as it seemed 
into infinite depths, only to climb again the next 
billow. Burt felt sleepy and hungry, and the more 
he stared into the sky the more indistinct became 
his vision. He sprang up, determined to make 
one last, desperate effort, and strove to row in 
toward land, but he could make no headway 
against the strong tide, and with aching limbs and 
a heavy heart he again stretched himself out in 
the bottom of the boat. Before he knew it he was 
fast asleep. 

He did not know how long he had slept, but the 
dim, fiery look of the sun had changed into an airy 
rose color, when he felt some one seizing him by 
the arm and crying out : "In the name of wonders. 
boy, how did you come here ? " 

He rubbed his eyes and saw his father's shaggy 
face close to his. 

" And my dear little girl too." cried the father, 
in a voice of terror. "'Heaven be praised for 
having preserved her." 

And he lifted Hilda in his arms and pressed her 




close to his breast. Burt thought he saw tears 
glistening in his eyes. That made him suddenly 
very solemn. For lie had never seen his father 
cry before. Around about him was a fleet of some 
thirty or fort) - boats laden to the gunwale with 
herring. He now understood his rescue. 

"Now tell me, Burt, truthfully," said his father, 
gravely, still holding the sobbing Hilda tightly in 
his embrace, " how did this happen ?" 

" I went a-whaling," stammered Burt, feeling 
not at all so brave as he had felt when he started 

on his voyage. But he still had courage enough 
to point feebly to the dead dolphin which lay 
secured a short distance from the skiff. 

The father gazed in amazement at the huge fish, 
then again at his son, as if comparing their bulk. 
He felt that he ought to scold the youthful whaler, 
but he was more inclined to praise his daring spirit. 

" Burt," he said, patting the boy's curly head, 
"you may be a brave laddie ; but next time your 
bravery gets the better of you, — leave the lassie at 


Bv Joel Stacy. 

" Charley ! Charley ! " called Ella to her 
younger brother; "don't go among those briers ; 
come over here in the garden ! " 

" Ho ! stay in the garden ! who wants to stay in 
the garden ?" answered master Charley with great 
contempt. " I guess you think I'm a girl to want 
to play where it 's all smooth and everything. 

" That 's not it, Charley, but you know we both 
have on our good clothes, and we must be ready to 
run quick when we hear the carriage drive up to 
the gate with Aunt May and Cousin Harry and 

" I know that as well as you do," said Charley, 
pushing his way through the hedge as he spoke. 
"Girls are n't good for any thing but to sit and 
sew. I mean to have some fun. I mean to cl " 

Ella felt like giving some angry answer, but she 
checked herself, and went on with her sewing as she 
sat under the big tree, wondering what made 
Charley break off his sentence so suddenly. 

"El-la, El-la!" cried a pitiful voice at last, 
" come help me ! I 'm getting all torn. O — oh!" 

Sure enough, Charley was getting all torn ; 
some big thorns had caught his new trousers, and 
the harder he struggled the worse matters became. 

" Hold still, dear," said Ella, " I can't help you 
while you kick so. There ! now you 're free. Oh ! 
Charley ! " 

Charley, clapping his hand to his trousers, knew 
well enough what Ella's "Oh ! " meant. It meant a 
great big tear in his new clothes, two cousins com- 
ing to spend the day, and a poor little boy sobbing 

in the nursery until the nurse would stop scolding 
and make him fit to go down and see the com- 
pany. The very thought of all this misery made 
him cry. 

"Oh ! they'll be here in a minute ! boo-hoo ! " 
he sobbed ; " what shall I do ? " 

"Why, stand still, that's all," said Ella, hastily 
threading her needle with a long black thread; 
" stand just so, dear, till I mend it." 

" Mend it ! " cried master Charles delighted. 
"Oh Ella! Will you?" 

" Certainly I will," she answered very gently, 
at the same time beginning to draw the edges of 
the tear together; "you know girls are not good 
for any thing but to sit and sew." 

"O Ella! I didn't say that." 

" I think you did, Charley." 

"Not exactly that, I guess. It was awful mean, 
if I did. Oh! hurry; I hear the carriage." 

" Do be quiet, you little wriggler ! " laughed his 
sister, hastily finishing the work as well as she 
could, so that Charley in a moment looked quite 
fine again. " There ! we'll get to the gate before 
they turn into the lane, after all." 

Charley held Ella's hand more tightly than 
usual as they ran toward the gate together. Ella 
noticed it, and stopped to kiss him. 

" I'm sorry I spoke so," he panted, kissing her 
again right heartily. " Does it show? " 

" Not a bit ; you would n't know any thing had 
happened. Hurrah ! here they are ! " 

"Hurrah! Howdy do, everybody!" shouted 




By Celia Thaxter. 


There is a bird, a plain, brown bird, 

That dwells in lands afar, 
Whose wild, delicious song is heard 

With evening's first white star. 

When, dewy-fresh and still, the night 

Steals to the waiting world, 
And the new moon glitters silver bright, 

And the fluttering winds are furled ; 

When the balm of summer is in the air, 

And the deep rose breathes of musk, 
And there comes a waft of blossoms fair 

Through the enchanted dusk ; 

Then breaks the silence a heavenly strain, 

And thrills the quiet night 
With a rich and wonderful refrain, 

A rapture of delight. 

All listeners that rare music hail, 
All whisper softly : "Hark ! 

It is the matchless nightingale 
Sweet-singing in the dark." 


He has no pride of feathers fine ; 

Unconscious, too, is he. 
That welcomed as a thing divine 

Is his clear minstrelsy. 


But from the fullness of his heart 

His happy carol pours : 
Beyond all praise, above all art. 

His song to heaven soars. 


And through the whole wide world his fame 

Is sounded far and near ; 
Men love to speak his -very name ; 

That brown bird is so dear. 




A lady who lived by the shore, 
In time grew so used to its roar, 
That she never could sleep 
Unless some one would keep 
A-pounding away at the door. 


By Lucketja P. Hale. 

The family had taken passage in the new line 
for Bordeaux. They supposed they had ; but would 
they ever reach the vessel in New York? The last 
moments were terrific. In spite of all their careful 
arrangements, their planning and packing of the 
last year, it seemed, after all, as if everything were 
left for the very last day. There were presents for 
the family to be packed, six steamer-bags for Mrs. 
Peterkin, half a dozen sachels of salts-bottles for 
Elizabeth Eliza, Apollinaris water, lunch-baskets. 
All these must be disposed of. 

On the very last day, Elizabeth Eliza went into 
Boston to buy a bird, as she had been told she 
would be less likely to be sea-sick if she had a bird 
in a cage in her state-room. Both she and her 
mother disliked the singing of caged birds, espe- 
cially of canaries, but Mrs. Peterkin argued that 

they would be less likely to be homesick, as they 
never had birds at home. After long moments of 
indecision, Elizabeth Eliza determined upon two 
canary birds, thinking she might let them fly as 
they approached the shore of Portugal, and they 
would then reach their native islands. This matter 
detained her till the latest train, so that on her return 
from Boston to their quiet suburban home, she 
found the whole family assembled in the station, 
ready to take the through express train to New 

She did not have time, therefore, to go back to 
the house for her own things. It was now locked 
up and the key intrusted to the Bromwicks; and 
all the Bromwicks and the rest of the neighbors 
were at the station, ready to bid them good-bye. 
The family had done their best to collect all her 



scattered bits of baggage, but all through her 

travels, afterward, she was continually missing 
something she had left behind, that she would 
have packed, and had intended to bring. 

They reached New York with half a day on 
their hands, and, during this time, Agamemnon 
fell in with some old college friends, who were 
going with a party to Greece to look up the new 
excavations. They were to leave, the next day, in 
a steamer for Gibraltar. Agamemnon felt that 
here was the place for him, and hastened to con- 
sult his family. Perhaps he could persuade them 
to change their plans and take passage with the 
party for Gibraltar. But he reached the pier just 
as the steamer for Bordeaux was leaving the shore. 
He was too late, and was left behind ! Too late to 
consult them, too late even to join them ! He 
examined his map, however, — one of his latest pur- 
chases, which he carried in his pocket, — and con- 
soled himself with the fact that on reaching 
Gibraltar he could soon communicate with his 
family at Bordeaux, and he was easily reconciled to 
his fate. 

It was not till the family landed at Bordeaux 
that they discovered the absence of Agamemnon. 
Every da)-, there had been some of the family unable 
to come on deck, — sea-sick below ; Mrs. Peterkin 
never left her berth, and constantly sent messages 
to the others to follow her example, as she was 
afraid some one of them would be lost overboard. 
Those who were on deck from time to time were 
always different ones, and the passage was remark- 
ably quick, while, from the tossing of the ship, as 
they met rough weather, they were all too misera- 
ble to compare notes, or count their numbers. 
Elizabeth Eliza, especially, had been exhausted by 
the voyage. She had not been many days sea- 
sick, but the incessant singing of the birds had de- 
prived her of sleep. Then the necessity of talking 
French had been a great tax upon her. The 
other passengers were mostly French, and the rest 
of the family constantly appealed to her to interpret 
their wants, and explain them to the garcon, once 
every day at dinner. She felt as if she never wished 
to speak another word in French, and the necessity 
of being interpreter at the hotel at Bordeaux, on 
their arrival, seemed almost too much for her. She 
had even forgotten to let her canary birds fly, when 
off shore in the Bay of Biscay, and they were still 
with her, singing incessantly, as if they were rejoic- 
ing over an approach to their native shores. She 
thought now she must keep them till their return, 
which they were already planning. 

The little boys, indeed, would like to have gone 
back on the return trip of the steamer. A son of the 
steward told them that the return cargo consisted 
of dried fruits and raisins: that every state-room. 

except those occupied with passengers, would be 
filled with boxes of raisins and jars of grapes ; that 
these often broke open in the passage, giving a great 
opportunity for boys. 

lint the family held to their Egypt plan, and 
were cheered by making the acquaintance of an 
English party. At the table d'hote, Elizabeth Eliza 
by chance dropped her fork into her neighbor's lap. 
She apologized in French, her neighbor answered 
in the same language, which Elizabeth Eliza under- 
stood so well that she concluded she had at last met 
with a true Parisian, and ventured on more conver- 
sation, when, suddenly, they both found they were 
talking in English, and Elizabeth Eliza exclaimed: 
" I am so glad to meet an American," at the mo- 
ment that her companion was saying. "Then you 
are an Englishwoman ! " 

From this moment, Elizabeth Eliza was at ease, 
and indeed both parties were mutually pleased. 
Elizabeth Eliza's new friend was one of a large party, 
and she was delighted to find that they, too, were 
planning a winter in Egypt. They were waiting 
till a friend should have completed her "cure" at 
Pau, and the Peterkins were glad also to wait for 
the appearance of Agamemnon, who might arrive 
in the next steamer. 

One of the little boys was sure he had heard Aga- 
memnon's voice the morning after they left New- 
York, and was certain he must have been on board 
the vessel. Mr. Peterkin was not so sure. He now- 
remembered that Agamemnon had not been at the 
dinner table the very first evening. But then neither 
Mrs. Peterkin nor Solomon John were able to be 
present, as the vessel was tossing in a most uncom- 
fortable manner, and nothing "but dinner could have 
kept the little boys at table. Solomon John knew 
that Agamemnon had not been in his own state-room 
during the passage, but he himself had seldom left 
it, and it had been always planned that Agamem- 
non should share that of a fellow-passenger. 

However this might be, it would be best to leave 
Marseilles with the English party by the "P. & O." 
steamer. This was one of the English "Penin- 
sular and Oriental " line, that left Marseilles for 
Alexandria, Egypt, and made a return trip directly 
to Southampton, England. Mr. Peterkin thought 
it might be advisable to take "go and return" 
tickets, coming back to Southampton, and Mrs. 
Peterkin liked the idea of no change of baggage, 
though she dreaded the longer voyage. Eliza- 
beth Eliza approved of this return trip in the 
P. & O. steamer, and decided it would give a 
good opportunity to dispose of her canary-birds 
on her return-. 

The family therefore consoled themselves at Mar- 
seilles with the belief that Agamemnon would ap- 
pear somehow. If not, Mr. Peterkin thought he 




could telegraph him from Marseilles, if he only 
knew where to telegraph to. But at Marseilles 
there was great confusion at the Hotel de Noailles, 
for the English party met other friends, who per- 
suaded them to take route together by Brindisi. 
Elizabeth Eliza was anxious to continue with her 
new English friend, and Solomon John was de- 
lighted with the idea of passing through the whole 
length of Italy. But the sight of the long journey, 
as she saw it on the map in the guide-book, terri- 
fied Mrs. Peterkin. And Mr. Peterkin had taken 
their tickets for the Marseilles line. Elizabeth Eliza 
still dwelt upon the charm of crossing under the 
Alps, while this very idea alarmed Mrs. Peterkin. 

On the last morning, the matter was still unde- 
cided. On leaving the hotel, it was necessary for 
the party to divide, and take two omnibuses. Mr. 
and Mrs. Peterkin reached the steamer at the 
moment of departure, and suddenly Mrs. Peter- 
kin found they were leaving the shore. As they 
crossed the broad gangway to reach the deck, 
she had not noticed they had left the pier, indeed 
she had supposed that the steamer was one she saw 
out in the offing, and that they would be obliged to 
take a boat to reach it. She hurried from the 
group of travelers whom she had followed, to find 
Mr. Peterkin reading from his guide-book to the 
little boys an explanation that they were passing 
the "Chateau d'lf," from which the celebrated his- 
torical character, the Count of Monte Crista, had 
escaped by flinging himself into the sea. 

"Where is Elizabeth Eliza? Where is Solomon 
John ?" Mrs. Peterkin exclaimed, seizing Mr. Peter- 
kin's arm. Where indeed ? There was a pile of 
the hand baggage of the family, but not that of 
Elizabeth Eliza, not even the bird-cage. " It was 
on the top of the other omnibus," exclaimed Mrs. 
Peterkin. Yes, one of the little boys had seen it 
on the pavement of the court-yard of the hotel, 
and had carried it to the omnibus in which Eliza- 
beth Eliza was sitting. He had seen her through 
the window. 

"Where is that other omnibus?" exclaimed 
Mrs. Peterkin, looking vaguely over the deck, as 
they were fast retreating from the shore. "Ask 
somebody what became of that other omnibus!" 
she exclaimed. "Perhaps they have gone with 
the English people," suggested Mr. Peterkin, but 
he went to the officers of the boat, and attempted 
to explain in French that one-half of his family had 
been left behind. He was relieved to find that 
the officers could understand his French, though 
they did not talk English. They declared, how- 
ever, it was utterly impossible to turn back. They 
were already two minutes and a half behind time, 
on account of waiting for a party who had been 
very long in crossing the gangway. 

Mr. Peterkin returned gloomily with the little 
boys to Mrs. Peterkin. "We can not go back," 
he said, "we must content ourselves with going 
on, but I conclude we can telegraph from Malta. 
We can send a message to Elizabeth Eliza and 
Solomon John, telling them that; they can take the 
next Marseilles P. & O. steamer in ten days, or 
that they can go back to Southampton for the next 
boat, which leaves at the end of this week. And 
Elizabeth Eliza may decide upon this," Mr. Peter- 
kin concluded, " on account of passing so near the 
Canary Isles." 

" She will be glad to be rid of the birds," said 
Mrs. Peterkin, calming herself. 

These anxieties, however, were swallowed up in 
new trials. Mrs. Peterkin found that she must share 
her cabin (she found it was called "cabin," and 
not "state-room," which bothered her and made 
her feel like Robinson Crusoe) — her cabin she must 
share with some strange ladies, while Mr. Peterkin 
and the little boys were carried to another part of 
the ship. Mrs. Peterkin remonstrated, delighted 
to find that her English was understood though it 
was not listened to. It was explained to her that 
every family was divided in this way, and that she 
would meet Mr. Peterkin and the little boys at 
meal times in the large salon, on which all the 
cabins opened, and on deck, and she was obliged 
to content herself with this. Whenever they met 
their time was spent in concocting a form of tele- 
gram to send from Malta. It would be difficult to 
bring it into the required number of words, as it 
would be necessary to suggest three different plans 
to Elizabeth Eliza and Solomon John. Besides the 
two they had already discussed, there was to be 
considered the possibility of their having joined the 
English party. But Mrs. Peterkin was sure they 
must have gone back first to the Hotel de Noailles, 
to which they could address their telegram. 

She found, meanwhile, the ladies in her cabin 
very kind and agreeable. They were mothers, 
returning to India, who had been home to Eng- 
land to leave their children, as they were afraid to 
expose them longer to the climate of India. Mrs. 
Peterkin could have sympathetic talks with them 
over their family photographs. Mrs. Peterkin's 
family book was, alas, in Elizabeth Eliza's hand- 
bag. It contained the family photographs, from 
early childhood upward, and was a large volume, 
representing the children at every age. 

At Malta, as he supposed, Mr. Peterkin and the 
little boys landed, in order to send their telegram. 
Indeed all of the gentlemen among the passengers, 
and some of the ladies, gladly went on shore to visit 
the points of interest that could be seen in the time 
allotted. The steamer was to take in coal, and 
would not leave till early the next morning. 



Mrs. Peterkin did not accompany them. She 
still had her fears about leaving the ship and 
returning to it, although it had been so quietly 
accomplished at Marseilles. 

The party returned late at night, after Mrs. 
Peterkin had gone to her cabin. The next morn- 
ing, she found the ship was in motion, but she 
did not find Mr. Peterkin and the little boys 
at the breakfast table as usual. She was told that 
the party who went on shore had all been to 
the opera and had returned at a late hour to the 
steamer, and would naturally be late at breakfast. 
Mrs. Peterkin went on deck to await them, and 
look for Malta as it seemed to retreat in the dis- 
tance. But the day passed on and neither Mr. 
Peterkin, nor either of the little boys appeared ! 
She tried to calm herself with the thought that they 
must need sleep, but all the rest of the passengers 
appeared, relating their different adventures. At 
last, she sent the steward to inquire for them. 
He came back with one of the officers of the 
boat, much disturbed, to say that they could 
not be found, they must have been left behind. 
There was great excitement, and deep interest 
expressed for Mrs. Peterkin. One of the officers 
was very surly, and declared he could not be 
responsible for the inanity of passengers. Another 
was more courteous. Mrs. Peterkin asked if they 
could not go back ; if, at least, she could not be 
put back. He explained how this would be impos- 
sible, but that the company would telegraph when 
they reached Alexandria. 

Mrs. Peterkin calmed herself as well as she 
could, though indeed she was bewildered by her 
position. She was to land in Alexandria alone, 
and the landing she was told would be especially 
difficult. The steamer would not be able to ap- 
proach the shore, the passengers would go down 
the sides of the ship, and be lifted off the steps, by 
Arabs, into a Felucca (whatever that was) below. 
She shuddered at the prospect. It was darker than 
her gloomiest fancies had pictured. Would it not 
be better to remain in the ship ; go back to South- 
ampton ; perhaps meet Elizabeth Eliza there : pick- 
ing up Mr. Peterkin, at Malta, on the way? But at 
this moment she discovered that she was not on a 
"P. &O." steamer — it was a French steamer of the 
"Messagerie " line; they had stopped at Messina, 
and not at Malta. She could not go back to South- 
ampton, so she was told by an English colonel on 
his way to India. He, indeed, was very cour- 
teous, and advised her to "go to an hotel " at 
Alexandria with some of the ladies, and send her 
telegrams from there. To whom, however, would 
she wish to send a telegram ? 

"Who is Mr. Peterkin's banker?" asked the 
colonel. Alas, Mrs. Peterkin did not know. He 

had at first selected a banker in London, but had 
afterward changed his mind and talked of a 
banker in Paris, and she was not sure what was 
his final decision. She had known the name of 
the London banker, but had forgotten it ; because 
she had written it down, and she never did remem- 
ber the things she wrote down in her book. That 
was her old memorandum-book, and she had left 
it at home, because she had brought a new one 
for her travels. She was sorry now she had 
not kept the old book. This, however, was not of 
so much importance, as it did not contain the 
name of the Paris banker, and this she had never 
heard. "Elizabeth Eliza would know; " but how 
could she reach Elizabeth Eliza ? 

Some one asked if there were not some friend in 
America to whom she could appeal, if she did not 
object to using the ocean telegraph. 

" There is a friend in America," said Mrs. Peter- 
kin, " to whom we all of us do go for advice, and 
who always does help us. She lives in Philadel- 

"Why not telegraph to her for advice?" asked 
her friends. 

Mrs. Peterkin gladly agreed that it would be the 
best plan. The expense of the cablegram would 
be nothing in comparison with the assistance the 
answer would bring. 

Her new friends then invited her to accompany 
them to their hotel in Alexandria, from which she 
could send her dispatch. The thought of thus be- 
ing able to reach her hand across the sea, to the lady 
from Philadelphia, gave Mrs. Peterkin fresh cour- 
age, — courage even to make the landing. As she 
descended the side of the ship and was guided down 
the steps, she closed her eyes, that she might not see 
herself lifted into the many-oared boat by the wild- 
looking Arabs, of whom she had caught a glimpse 
from above. But she could not close her ears, 
and as they approached the shore, strange sounds 
almost deafened her. She closed her eyes again, 
as she was lifted from the boat, and heard the wild 
yells and shrieks around her. There was a clash- 
ing of brass, a jingling of bells, and the screams 
grew more and more terrific. If she did open her 
eyes, she saw wild figures gesticulating, dark faces, 
gay costumes, crowds of men and boys, donkeys, 
horses, even camels in the distance. She closed 
her eyes once more as she was again lifted. Should 
she now find herself on the back of one of those 
high camels ? Perhaps for this she came to Egypt. 
But when she looked round again, she found she 
was leaning back in a comfortable open carriage, 
with a bottle of salts at her nose. She was in the 
midst of a strange whirl of excitement ; but all 
the party were bewildered, and she had scarcely re- 
covered her composure when they reached the hotel. 


M R S . P K T E R K I N I N E G V P T 


Here, a comfortable meal and rest somewhat re- 
stored them. By the next day, a messenger from 
the boat brought her the return telegram from 
Messina. Mr. Peterkin and family, left behind 
by the " Messagerie " steamer, had embarked the 
next day by steamer, probably for Naples. 

More anxious than ever was Mrs. Peterkin to 
send her dispatch. It was too late the day of their 
arrival, but at an early hour next day it was sent, 
and after a day had elapsed, the answer came : 

" All meet at The Sphinx." 

Everything now seemed plain. The words were 
few, but clear. Her English friends were going 
directly to Cairo, and she accompanied them. 

After reaching Cairo, the whole party were 
obliged to rest a while. They would indeed go with 
Mrs. Peterkin on her first visit to the Sphinx ; as to 
see the Sphinx and ascend the Pyramid formed part 
of their programme. But many delays occurred 
to detain them, and Mrs. Peterkin had resolved to 
carry out completely the advice of the telegram. 
She would sit every day before the Sphinx. She 
found, that, as yet, there was no hotel exactly in 
front of the Sphinx, nor indeed on that side of the 
river, and she would be obliged to make the excur- 
sion of nine miles there and nine miles back, each 
day. But there would always be a part}- of travel- 
ers whom she could accompany. Each day, she 
grew more and more accustomed to the bewildering 
sights and sounds about her, and more and more 
willing to intrust herself to the dark-colored guides. 
At last, chafing at so many delays, she decided to 
make the expedition without her new friends. She 
had made some experiments in riding upon a don- 
key, and found she was seldom thrown, and could 
not be hurt by the slight fall. 

And so, one day, Mrs. Peterkin'sat alone in front 
of the Sphinx, — alone, as far as her own family and 
friends were concerned, and yet not alone indeed. 
A large crowd of guides sat around this strange 
lady who proposed to spend the day in front of the 
Sphinx. Clad in long white robes, and white tur- 
bans crowning their dark faces, they gazed into her 

eyes with something of the questioning expression 
with which she herself was looking into the eyes of 
the Sphinx. 

There were other travelers wandering about. 
Just now, her own party had collected to eat their 
lunch together, but they were scattered again, and 
she sat with a circle of Arabs about her, the watch- 
ful dragoman lingering near. 

Somehow, the Eastern languor must have stolen 
upon her, or she could not have sat so calmly, not 
knowing where a single member of her family was 
at that moment. And she had dreaded Egypt so ; 
had feared separation ; had even been a little afraid 
of the Sphinx, upon which she was now looking as 
at a protecting angel. But they all were to meet 
at the Sphinx ! 

If only she could have seen where the different 
members of the family were, at that moment, she 
could not have sat so quietly. She little knew 
that a tall form, not far away (following some guides 
down into the lower halls of a latelv excavated tem- 
ple), with a blue veil wrapped about a face shielded 
with smoke-colored spectacles, was that of Eliza- 
beth Eliza, herself, from whom she had been sep- 
arated two weeks before. 

She little knew that at this moment, Solomon 
John was standing, looking over the edge of the 
Matterhorn, wishing he had not come up so high. 
But such a gay, young party had set off that morn- 
ing from the hotel that he had supposed it an easy 
thing to join them, and now he would fain go back, 
but was tied to the rest of his party with their 
guide preceding them, and he must keep on and 
crawl up behind them, still further, on hands and 

Agamemnon was at Mycenae, looking down into 
an open pit. 

Two of the little boys were roasting eggs in the 
crater of Mt. Vesuvius. 

And she would have seen Mr. Peterkin, comfort- 
ably reclining in a gondola, with one of the little 
boys, in front of the palaces of Venice. 

But none of this she saw, she only looked into 
the eyes of the Sphinx. 


7 6l 

By Mrs. S. C. Stone. 

" Toot, toot ! " puffed Mrs. Punjaub, 

Loud trumpeting with fear, 
" I do believe what they call ' men ' 
Have been invading here ! 
And that they 've spun their railroad, 

There 's so much talk about, — 
Right through our quiet jungle 
I have n't. now, a doubt ! " 

Thus spake a lady elephant 

In her own far Siam ; 
But Mr. Punjaub bore the news 

Just like a ponderous lamb. 

Till, one day, through their solitudes 
There pierced a dreadful screech ! 

When, Mrs. Punjaub, fainting, caught 
The nearest branch in reach ! 

Right down upon their silent haunts 

There tore a shrieking train ; 
At which it seemed Punjaub, himself, 

Would never breathe again ! 
One moment thus he quailed, and then 

On that fast-flying train 
He strove to turn ; but it had passed. 

And all was still again. 

He laid his ears back lightly 
As though he hardly heard, 

And took a second bite of tree 
Before he spoke a word. 

"' These so-called men are pigmies! 

Pray, what can creatures do 
Who have no tusks, nor even trunks, 

Who 're so inferior, too ? 
Once let them show their faces here - 

I '11 scatter them like chaff! " 
And then he smiled a lordly smile ; 

She laughed a wifely laugh. 

They really quite enjoyed their fun, 

So pleasant 't is to feel 
Superior to some weaker sort, 

And turn upon one's heel ! 

The Punjaubs caught each other's eyes: 

They winked, but did not speak; 
Since Punjaub hardly would have told 

His knees felt rather weak. 
Though what to say they did not know. 

Just what to do they did : 
With one accord they galloped off 

And straightway went and hid. 

But Punjaub soon began to scold 

And tear around and fret. 
Declare he 'd never been afraid 

Of any humbug, yet ! 
So, when that same invading train 

Came Slowly shrieking back, 
Old Punjaub thundered boldly down 

To storm along the track. 




Nor would he leave the gleaming lines, — 
He roared: "This wild is mine! 

And I shall go, or I shall stay, 
Whichever I incline ! " 

And, as the train rolled pointing on 
Straight towards big Punjaub's legs, 

The cow-catcher soon tossed his weight 
Quite off those useful pegs. 

So pigmy man turned on his steam 
And laughed with sly aside: 

" If that 's your tune, old Juggernaut, 
We '11 treat you to a ride ! " 

Perhaps things wore an aspect new 
As, crouching like a dog, 

The startled beast was whirled away 
At quite a lightning jog. 



Unwilling though he were to ride, 

He dared not drop his feet, 
And so he did the next best thing,— 

He humbly kept his seat. 
But when the playful man was tired, 

And gave him half a chance, 
Bewildered Punjaub found his feet 1 

And fled with frantic prance. /; 

And, as he went, with baffled rage 
He pulled up mighty trees, 

That so he might somehow secure 
His injured spirit's ease. 

Great Punjaub never rode again; — 
The sun had scarcely set 

Ere he had nailed a ticket up : — 

" This Jungle is To Let." 


By David Ker. 

THERE are few pleasanter places in the world 
than the hills of Western Anatolia, and the dainty 
little white villages that look down upon the bright 
blue waters of the Bosphorus form a maze of clus- 
tering vineyards and sunny melon-patches. Any 
one who is not afraid of heat or stinging-flies may 
spend a month there pleasantly enough ; but three 
hundred and fifty years ago, when Turkey was 
strong enough to scare all Western Europe, and 
Russia had still the whole breadth of Tartary be- 
tween her and the Black Sea, it was a very differ- 
ent matter. 

Then, all these shady gardens and green hill- 
sides were one great mass of savage forest, through 
which fierce beasts and fiercer men roamed at will. 
The town of Brusa — where you can now live in a 
snug, little hotel, and ride out into the country 
whenever you please — shut and barred its gates, in 
those days, the moment the glow of sunset began 
to fade from the great, white dome of Mount 
Olympus overhead. At night, the howl of the 
Syrian wolves could be heard close under the walls 
and robbers haunted every road. 

But there was one man who seemed to fear 
neither wolf nor robber, cultivating his little gar- 
den on the slope of the mountain, and trudging 
into the town to sell his fruit, as coolly as if he had 
been in the heart of Constantinople. Many people 
told him that he would certainly be robbed or 
eaten up some day ; but Hassan, like a sturdy old 
Turk as he was, only answered that no man can 
avoid his destiny, and went on just the same as 
before, raising and selling his fruit, and providing 

Vol. IX.— 4g. 

food for himself and his little girl, the only other 
inhabitant of the clay hovel, and jogged along, 
altogether, contentedly enough. 

Now it happened that one day he had in his 
garden a fine melon, so much bigger than all the 
rest that he made up his mind not to sell it, but to 
keep it as a birthday treat for his little Fatima. 

Old Hassan was sitting watching it, one hot after- 
noon, as he smoked his long pipe in the shade, 
and listened to the tinkle of the tiny stream that 
kept his little plot alive, when suddenly the garden 
door opened, and in came three men, with guns 
on their shoulders and long spears in their hands. 

Hassan's first thought was that the robbers were 
upon him at last ; but one glance showed him that 
the new-comers, roughly-dressed and dusty though 
they were, did not look in the least like brigands. 
Two of them were fine-looking men of middle age, 
whose long, dark beards were just beginning to 
turn gray. The third was a tall, handsome young 
man with large, black eyes, who came forward and 
said courteously : 

" Peace be with thee, father. We have been 
hunting on the mountain and have lost our way ; 
tell me, I pray you, how far it is to Brusa." 

" It lies right before you," answered Hassan, 
rising at once to receive them, like a hospitable 
old fellow as he was ; " and when you have rested 
awhile, I will gladly guide you thither. But first, 
I pray you, sit down and repose yourselves, and 
take of such food as I can offer." 

"That will we do gladly, for we have fasted 
since sunrise," said the youth, seating himself; 




" and we shall be well served with some bread and 
a slice of yon melon ; a finer I have never seen ! " 

This was more than poor Hassan had bargained 
for, and he looked ruefully at the splendid fruit, 
his little daughter's promised treat. But it was not 
in his nature to deny anything to a tired and hun- 
gry guest, and in a trice the cherished melon was 
vanishing piece by piece down the strangers' 
throats, while Hassan stood by with a gallant 
attempt at a smile. 

But little Fatima did not take the matter so 
quietly by any means. When she saw her father 
pluck up the fruit, she was too much confounded 
to say any thing ; but the sight of it being devoured 
before her very eyes was too much for her self- 
command, which broke down in a burst of sobs 
and tears. 

"Ha! what means this?" asked the youngest 
hunter, looking up from his meal. Hassan tried to 
avoid an explanation, but there was something in 
the young huntsman's look and tone not easy to 
resist; and at last the whole truth came out. 

" And thou hast given thy child's chosen fruit 
rather than seem inhospitable ? " cried the guest 
admiringly. " Would to Heaven all men followed 
the Prophet's teaching like thee ! then should 1 
have a quieter life of it. How say ye, friends ? 
What doth this man deserve?" 

But before his comrades could answer, the gar- 
den gate flew open again, and the whole place was 
filled with richly-dressed men, who threw them- 

selves at the young stranger's feet, crying: "God 
be praised, we have found the Commander of the 
Faithful, safe and sound ! " 

" Purse-bearer," said the huntsman, pointing to 
Hassan, who stood petrified at the discovery that 
his strange guest was no other than the Sultan 
himself, "give this man a hundred zecchins, to 
show him that Solyman leaves no good deed un- 
requited. And, as for thee, little one," he added, 
hanging around Fatima's neck the gold chain that 
fastened his girdle, "let this comfort thee for the 
loss of thy melon. Had I a daughter like thee, 
my palace would not seem so lonely. " 

And away he swept toward Brusa with his retinue. 

Now when the Governor of Brusa, a mean, greedy 
fellow, heard of Hassan's luck, he at once picked 
out the finest horse in his stables, and away he went 
post-haste to present it to the Sultan, expecting to 
get something very good in return. 

"Thou hast deserved a good reward, my serv- 
ant," said the Sultan, with a twinkling eye; for he 
saw through the man in a moment. " Yesterday, I 
paid a hundred gold pieces for this melon ; I give 
thee the goodly fruit in exchange for thy horse ! " 

You may fancy how the Governor looked, and 
what a hard time of it his household had that 
night, though he took good care to tell no one 
what had made him so angry. But the story got 
abroad, nevertheless, and for years afterward, 
"Hassan's melon" was a proverb throughout the 
whole district. 

By Mrs. H. M. Miller. 

You would n't think it, but the queer things 
shown on the next page are merely baby-houses, 
as they are cast up on the sea-shore after the 
youngsters who lived in them have started out in 
life for themselves. 

The long one, curving through the middle, which 
looks like a string of empty seed-pods, was once the 
home of a whole family. Inside each of these low, 
round rooms, on a soft bed like the white of an 
egg, reposed several baby Pyrulas, about as big 
as grains of rice. There, they lived and grew, shut 
up closely from the salt water till they reached the 
proper age, when a tiny, round door in the front 
opened, and out they all went into the sea. 

Like many little fellows who live in the water, 
each baby Pyrula carries his own house on his 
back. It is made of shell, and of course is verv 

small at first, but it grows to be six or seven inches 
long before he can be called grown up. The shell 
is like a snail's shell drawn out longer at one end 
into a canal, which makes it the shape of a pear, 
and gives it the name Pyrula, which means a little 
pear, though our grandfathers thought it more 
like a fig, and named it The Tower-of-Babel Fig- 

The Pyrula lives on our coast, and the empty 
baby-houses — sometimes in a string a yard long 
— are washed up by the waves, and called by sea- 
side visitors "vegetable rattlesnake." 

A grown-up Pyrula is a queer-looking fellow as 
he walks about looking for fresh meat for break- 
fast. His house is built over his back, as a lady 
holds her parasol when the sun is behind her ; his 
head, with its feelers, or tentacles, and its pair of 



7 6 


black eyes stuck out in front to see the way; h]s 
foot dragging behind like a trailing dress and 
carefully supporting the door of his house. 

His foot trailing! Strange as it sounds, it is 
quite true. He has but one foot, though it is big 
enough for a dozen, as we regard feet. On this 
one foot he not only creeps around in the world 
wherever he wishes to go, but leaves enough drag- 
ging on behind to safely carry the door, as I said. 
Big as the foot is, too, he can draw it completely 
inside his house and close the door, which is a thin, 
oval-shaped affair just fitting the opening ; and 
then you might mistake it fur an empty shell tossed 
up by the waves. 

I should like to tell you the name by which you 
might hunt him up in the big books; but alas! 
he has had so many names that he 's as horrid to 
find as though he had none. He 's a Mollusc, be- 
cause his body is soft, and a Ccplialons mollusc, 
because he has a head, which not every body does 
have in the sea. He 's a Univalve, because he has 
but one shell, and a Gaslcropod, because of his 
wide, flat foot, and he is Canaliadatcd, because of 
his long canal. 

That 's not all : from his spindle shape he has 
been called J'usiis, and from his resemblance to a 
pear, Pyrula. One names him Mttrex, because he 
lives on the rocks, and another, Boitsycon, for some 
other reason. The last name up to 1S75 is Syco- 
teus, according to Professor Morse. 

On the whole, until the scientists settle this 
matter definitely, we may as well call him Pyrula, 
as did our fathers before us. 

A cousin of his, the Whelk 
ter o: 
the ends 

an ear of corn ; and on the coast of Maine, it is 
called Sea-corn, and a hundred years ago, it had 
the name of Sea Wash-balls, being used by sailors 
for soap. 

Each little ball or bag of the cluster is the home 
of several baby Whelks, whose life in the sea is 
much like that of the Pyrula. The Whelk, too, 
likes fresh meat for breakfast, and he gets it by 
boring a hole through the shell of some tender 
scollop, or other peaceful creature, and dragging 
the owner out, to eat. The weapon with which he 
thus breaks into his neighbor's house is his tongue, 
which is a sort of ribbon armed with hundreds of 
sharp teeth. 

The square-looking object with a handle at each 
corner, was the nursery of the baby Skate. You 
who visit the sea-shore have doubtless often seen 
them in a tangle of coarse sea-weed on the beach. 
The Skate baby had this snug room to himself; 
for he is much bigger than the Pyrula, and when 
he made his way out into the world he was a 
round, flat fish exactly like his mother, only, of 
course, not so large. The empty case is black 
and leather)-, not at all like the yellowish baby- 
houses of the Whelk family. 

The thorny empty home in the foreground, 
with its long, sharp tail running out below, belongs 
to a young Horse-shoe Crab who grew too big for 
it, and so simply went out at the front door, and 
left it to be washed up on the beach. He is an 
interesting little fellow, and you have already 
been told some of his queer ways in the first vol- 
ume of St. Nicholas (page 262). 
Any of the things in this picture 
on our 





By Joel Stacy. 

" Good-morrow, little rose-bush, 
Now prythee tell me true : 
To be as sweet as a. sweet, red rose 
What must a body do?" 

" To be as sweet as a sweet, red rose 
A little girl like you 
Just grows and grows and grows 
and grows — 
And that 's what she must do." 


By James Baldwin. 

Story the Fourth. 


Siegfried staid but a twelvemonth in the Nibe- 
lungen Land. A feeling of unrest came over him 
again, and urged him on to seek new fields of dan- 
ger and adventure. And he bade farewell to his 
Nibelungen vassals, who wept as his shining face 
departed from them. And he rode away through 
the dark pine-forests and over the bleak mountains, 
toward the Rhine country. Of whom he met, and 
of what he did, and through what lands he fared, I 
will not now stop to speak. But, at last, he reached 
Burgundy Land, where he became the honored 
guest of King Gunther, at his castle of Worms 
upon the Rhine. 

Right glad was the Burgundian king to wel- 
come the wandering hero to his castle ; and, 

although the winter season had not yet passed, a 
festival of rejoicing was held in Siegfried's honor. 
And the noblest warriors and the fairest ladies of 
Burgundy were there ; and mirth and jollity ruled 
the day. In the midst of the festivities, an old man, 
of noble mien, and with snow-white beard and hair, 
came into the great hall, and sang for the gay com- 
pany. And some whispered that he was Bragi, the 
sweet musician, who lives with the song-birds and be- 
side the babbling brooks and the leaping waterfalls. 
But he sang not of spring, as the sweet Bragi 
does, nor yet of youth, nor of beauty. His song 
was a sorrowful one, — of dying flowers and falling 
leaves and the wailing winds of autumn ; of for- 
gotten joys, of blasted hopes, of a crushed am- 
bition ; of gray hairs, of tottering footsteps, of old 
age, of a lonely grave. And, as he sang, all were 
moved to tears by the mournful melody and the 
sad, sad words. Then Siegfried said to him : 

* The third story of this series appeared in St. Nicholas for May. 




" Good friend, thy music agrees not well with 
this time and place ; for where nothing but mirth 
and joy are welcome, thou hast brought sorrowful 
thoughts and gloomy forebodings. Come now, 
undo the harm that thou hast done, and sing us a 
song which shall tell only of gladness and good 

The old man shook his head, and answered : 
" Were I Bragi, as some think I am, or even a 
strolling harper, I might do as you ask. But I am 
neither, and I know no gladsome songs. I come 
as a herald from a far-off land ; and I bear a mes- 
sage to King Gunther, of Burgundy Land, which, 
by his leave, 1 will now deliver." 

"Let the herald-bard say on," said the king, 

"Far over the tossing sea," said the herald, 
" many days' sail from Norway's coast, there lies a 
dreamy land called Isenland ; and in its center 
stands a glorious castle with six and eighty towers 
built of purest marble, green as grass. Here lives 
the matchless Brunhild, the maiden of the spring- 
time and the fairest of all earth's daughters. Long 
ago, she was one of Odin's Valkyrien : and, with 
other heavenly maids, it was her duty to follow, 
unseen, in the wake of armies, and, when they en- 
gaged in battle, to hover over the field, and with 
kisses to waken the dead heroes and lead their souls 
away to Odin's glad banquet-hall. But, upon a day, 
Brunhild failed to do the bidding of Odin ; and 
then the All-Father, in anger, sent her to live 
among men, and, like them, to be short-lived and 
subject to old age and death. But the childless 
old king of Isenland took pity on the friendless 
maiden, and called her his daughter, and made her 
his heir. This caused Odin's anger to grow still 
more bitter, and he sent the thorn of sleep to 
wound the princess. And lo ! a wondrous change 
came over Isenland ; sleep seized on every creature, 
and silence reigned in the halls of the marble 
palace. And Odin said : ' Thus shall they all sleep 
until the hero comes who will ride through fire, 
and awaken Brunhild with a kiss.' 

" At last, after many years, the hero came. He 
passed the fiery barrier, safe ; he woke the slum- 
bering maiden ; and all the castle sprang suddenly 
into life again. And Brunhild, once more, is 
known as the most glorious princess on the earth. 

"But her beauty is not her only dowry; the 
greatness of her strength is even more wonderful, 
and a true warrior-queen she is. And she has sent 
heralds into every land to challenge every noble 
prince to match his skill with hers in three games 
of strength, — in casting the spear, in hurling the 
heavy stone, and in jumping. 

The one who can equal her in these three feats 
she declares shall be King of Isenland, and share 

with her the throne of Isenstein ; for the old king, 
her foster-father, is dead. But every one who fails 
in the contest shall lose his head. Many have 
already risked their lives in this adventure, and 
all have fallen sacrifices to the odd whim of the 

" And now, King Gunther, the challenge is de- 
livered to you. What answer shall I carry to the 
queen ? " 

Gunther answered, hastily : 

" When the spring-time comes again, and the 
waters in the river are unlocked, I shall go to Isen- 
land, and accept the challenge, and match my skill 
with that of the fair and mighty Brunhild." 

Siegfried, when he heard these words, seemed to 
be uneasy, and he whispered to the king : 

" Think twice, friend Gunther, ere you take any 
steps in this matter. You do not know the strength 
of this mighty, but lovely, warrior-maiden. Were 
your strength four times what it is, you could not 
hope to excel her in those feats. Give up this 
plan, I pray you. Think no more of such an 
undertaking, for it surely will cost you your life." 

But these warnings only made Gunther the more 
determined, and he vowed that nothing should 
keep him back from the adventure. Then the 
dark-browed Hagen, Gunther's uncle and counsel- 
or, having overheard the whispered words, said : 

" Our friend Siegfried seems to know much 
about Isenland and the fair Brunhild. And, 
indeed, if there is any truth in hearsay, he has had 
the best of means for learning. Now, if our good 
king Gunther has set his mind on going upon this 
dangerous voyage, mayhap Siegfried would be 
willing to bear him company ?" 

Gunther was pleased, and he said to Siegfried : 

" My best of friends, go with me to Isenland and 
help me in this adventure. If we do well in our 
undertaking, ask of me any reward you wish, and 
I will give it you, as far as lies in my power." 

" You know, most noble Gunther," answered 
Siegfried, "that, for myself, I have no fear; and 
yet, again, I would warn you to shun the unknown 
dangers with which this enterprise is fraught. But 
if, after all, your heart is set upon going, make 
ready to start as soon as the warm winds shall have 
melted the ice from the river. I promise to go 
with you." 

The king grasped Siegfried's hand, and thanked 
him heartily. " We must build a fleet," said he. 
" A thousand warriors shall go with us, and we 
will land in Isenland with a retinue such as no 
other prince has led. A number of stanch sailing 
vessels shall be. built at once, and. in the early- 
spring, they shall be launched upon the Rhine." 

Siegfried was amused at Gunther's earnestness, 
and he answered: "Make no thought of taking 




such a following. You would waste twelve months 
in building and victualing such a fleet ; you would 
take from Burgundy its only safeguard against foes 
from without ; and when you should reach Isen- 
land you would find such a force to be altogether 
useless. Take my advice : have one small vessel 
built and rigged and victualed for the long and 
dangerous voyage ; and, when the time shall come, 
you and I and your faithful kinsmen, Hagen and 
Dankwart — we four only — will undertake the voy- 
age and the bold emprise you have fixed upon." 

Gunther knew that Siegfried's judgment in this 
matter was better than his own, and he agreed to 
all the plans that Siegfried put forward. 

When the winter months began to wane, many 
hands were busy, making ready for the voyage. 
King Gunther's sister, the peerless Kriemhild. 
called together thirty of her maidens, the most 
skillful seamstresses in Burgundy Land, and began 
the making of rich clothing for her brother and his 
friends. With her own fair hand she cut out gar- 
ments from the rarest stuffs — the silky skins 
brought from the sunny lands of Lybia ; the rich 
cloth of Zazemang, green as clover ; the silk that 
traders bring from Araby, white as the drifted 
snow. For seven weeks, the clever maidens and 
their gentle mistress plied their busy needles, and 
twelve suits of wondrous beauty they made for 
each of the four heroes. And the princely gar- 
ments were covered with fine needlework and with 
curious devices, all studded with rare and costly 
jewels, and all was wrought with threads of gold. 

Many carpenters and sailors were busy with axes 
and hammers and flaming forges, working day and 
night to make ready a ship, new and stanch, to 
carry the adventurers over the sea. And great 
store of food and all things needful to their safety 
or comfort were brought together and put on board. 

Neither were the heroes themselves idle. For. 
when not busy in giving directions to the work- 
men, or in overseeing the preparations that were 
elsewhere going on, they spent their time in polish- 
ing their armor, now long unused, in looking after 
their weapons, or in providing for the management 
of their business while away. And Siegfried for- 
got not his trusty sword Balmung, nor his cloak of 
darkness, the priceless Tarnkappe, which he had 
captured from the dwarf Alberich in the Nibe- 
lungen Land. 

Then the twelve suits of garments, which fair 
fingers had wrought, were brought. And when 
the men tried them on, so perfect was the fit, so rare 
was every piece in richness and beauty, that the 
wearers were amazed, and all declared that such 
dazzling raiment had never before been seen. 

At length, the spring had fairly vanquished 
all the forces of the cold North-land. The warm 

breezes had melted the snow and ice and unlocked 
the river, and the time had come for Gunther and 
his comrades to embark. The little ship, well 
victualed, and made stanch and stout in every 
part, had. been launched upon the Rhine, and she 
waited, with flying streamers and impatient sails, 
the coming of her crew. Down the sands at length 
they came, riding upon their noble steeds, and 
behind them followed a train of vassals bearing 
their kingly garments and their broad, gold-red 
shields. And on the banks stood all the noble lords 
and ladies of Worms — King Gunther's brothers, 
Gemot and the young Giselher, and the queen- 
mother I'te, and the peerless Kriemhild, and great 
numbers of warriors and fair dames and damsels. 
And the heroes bade farewell to their weeping 
friends, and went upon the waiting vessel, taking 
their steeds with them. And Siegfried seized an 
oar and pushed the bark off from the shore. 

"I, myself, will be the steersman, for I know 
the way," he said. 

And the sails were unfurled to the brisk south 
wind, and the vessel sped on its way ; and many 
fair eyes were filled with tears as they watched it, 
until it could be seen no more. And with sighs and 
gloomy forebodings the good people of Worms 
went back to their homes, and but few hoped ever 
again to see their king and his brave companions. 

Driven by favorable winds, the trusty little ves- 
sel sailed gayly down the Rhine, and, ere many 
days had passed, it was out in the boundless sea. 
For a long time the heroes sailed and rowed, but 
they kept good cheer, and their hearts rose higher 
and higher, for each day they drew nearer the end 
of their voyage and, as they hoped, the successful 
termination of their undertaking. At length, they 
came in sight of a far-reaching coast and a lovely 
land ; and a noble fortress, with high towers, stood 
not far from the shore. 

" What land is that? " asked the king. 

Siegfried answered that this was Isenland, and 
that the fortress which they saw was the castle 
of Isenstein and the green marble hall of the 
Princess Brunhild. But he warned his friends to 
be very wary when they should arrive at the hall. 

"Let all tell this story," said he : " say that 
Gunther is the king, and that I am his faithful vas- 
sal. The success of our undertaking depends on 
this." And his three comrades promised to do as 
he advised. 

As the vessel neared the shore, the whole castle 
seemed to be alive. From every tower and turret 
window, from every door and balcony, lords and 
ladies, soldiers and serving-men, looked out to see 
what strangers these were who came thus unher- 
alded to Isenland. The heroes went on shore with 
their steeds, leaving the vessel moored to the bank; 



and then they rode slowly up the beach and across 
the narrow plain, and came to the draw-bridge and 
the great gateway, where they paused. 

The matchless Brunhild in her chamber had 
been told of the coming of the strangers, and she 
asked the maidens who stood around : 

" Who, think you, are the unknown warriors 
who thus come boldly to Isenstein ? What is 
their bearing? Do they seem to be worthy of our 
notice, or arc they some straggling beggars who 
have lost their way ? " 

And one of the maidens answered : 

"The first is a king, I know, from his noble 
mien and the respect which his followers pay 
him. But the second bears himself with a prouder 
grace and seems the noblest of them all. He 
reminds me much of the brave young Siegfried of 
former days. Indeed, it must be Siegfried, for he 
rides a steed with sun-beam mane, which can be 
none other than Greyfell. The third is a dark 
and gloomy man ; he wears a frown upon his brow 
and his eyes shoot quick glances around ; nervously 
he grasps his sword-hilt as if ready for surprise. 
I think his temper must be grim and fiery, and his 
heart a heart of flint. The fourth is young and 
fair and of gentle mien. Little business has he 
with rude warriors ; and man)- tears, methinks, 
would be shed for him at home should harm over- 
take him. Never before has so noble a company 
come to Isenland. Their garments are of dazzling 
luster ; their saddles are covered with jewels ; their 
weapons are of unequaled brightness. Surely, 
they are worthy of your notice." 

When Brunhild heard that Siegfried was one of 
the company, she was highly pleased, and she 
hastened to make ready to meet them in the great 
audience hall. And she sent ten worthy lords to 
open the gate and to welcome the four heroes to 

When Siegfried and his comrades passed 
through the great gateway and came into the cas- 
tle yard, their horses were led away to the stables, 
and their clanging armor and broad shields and 
swords were placed in the castle armory. Little heed 
was paid to Hagen's surly complaints at thus hav- 
ing every means of defense taken away. He was 
told that such had always been the rule at Isen- 
stein, and that he, like others, must submit. 

After a short delay, the heroes were shown into 
the great hall where the matchless Brunhild already 
was awaiting them. Clad in richest raiment, from 
every fold of which rare jewels gleamed, and wear- 
ing a coronet of pearls and gold, the warrior- 
maiden sat upon the dais. Five hundred warriors, 
the bravest in Isenland, stood around her with 
drawn swords and fierce, determined looks. Surely 
men of mettle less heroic than that of the four 

knights from Rhineland would have quaked with fear 
in such a presence. King Gunther and his com- 
rades went forward to salute the queen. With a 
winning smile, she kindly greeted them, and said 
to Siegfried : 

" Gladly do we welcome you back to Isenland, 
friend Siegfried. We have ever remembered you 
as our best friend. May we ask what is your will, 
and who are these warriors whom you bring with 
you ?" 

" Most noble queen," answered he, "right thank- 
ful am 1 that you have not forgotten me, and that 
you should deign to notice me while in the pres- 
ence of this, my liege lord," and he pointed to- 
ward King Gunther. "The king of all Burgundy 
Land, whose humble vassal I am, has heard the 
challenge you have sent throughout the world, and 
he has come to match his strength and skill with 
yours. " 

"Does he know the conditions of the trial?" 
asked Brunhild. 

" He does," answered Siegfried. "In case of 
success, a queen, and the throne of Isenstein ; in 
case of failure, death." 

"Just so," said Brunhild. "Yet scores of wor- 
thy princes have made trial, and all have failed. 
I warn your liege lord to pause and weigh well the 
chances ere he runs so great a risk ! " 

Then Gunther stepped forward and spoke : 

'•The chances, fairest queen, have all been 
weighed, and nothing can change our mind. 
Make your own terms, arrange everything as 
pleases you best ; we accept the challenge, and 
ask to make trial of our strength." 

The maiden, without more words, bade her vas- 
sals help her to make ready at once for the contest. 
She donned a coat of mail, brought long ago from 
the far-off Lybian shores, an armor which it was 
said, no sword could dint and upon which the 
heaviest stroke of spear fell harmless. Her hel- 
met was edged with golden lace, and sparkled all 
over with precious jewels. Her lance, of wondrous 
length, was brought, a heavy weight for three 
stout men. Her shield was as broad and as bright 
as the sun, and three spans thick with steel and 

While the princess was thus arming herself, the 
heroes looked on with amazement and fear. But 
Siegfried, unnoticed, hastened quietly out of the 
hall and through the castle gate, and sped like the 
wind to their ship, which was moored to the shore. 
There, he arrayed himself in the Tarnkappe, and 
then, silent and unseen, he ran back to his friends 
in the great hall. 

"Be of good cheer ! " he whispered in the ears 
of the trembling Gunther. 

The king could not see who it was that spoke 




to him, — so well was Siegfried hidden by the cloak 
of darkness. Yet he knew that it must be Sieg- 
fried, and he felt greatly encouraged. 

Hagen's frowning face grew darker, and the un- 
easy glances which shot from beneath his shaggy 
eyebrows were not those of fear, but of anger and 
anxiety. Dankwart gave up all as lost, and loudly 
bewailed their folly. 

"Must we, unarmed, stand still and see our 
liege lord slain for a woman's whim?" he cried. 
" Had we only our good swords, we might defy this 
queen and all her Isenland ! " 

Brunhild overheard his words. Scornfully, she 
called to her vassals : " Bring to these boasting 
knights their armor, and let them have their keen- 
edged swords. Brunhild has no fear of such men, 
whether they be armed or unarmed." 

When Hagen and Dankwart felt their limbs 
again enclosed in steel, and when they held their 
trusty swords in hand, their uneasiness vanished 
and hope returned. 

In the castle yard a space was cleared ; and 
Brunhild's five hundred warriors stood around as 
umpires. The unseen Siegfried kept close by 
Gunther's side. 

'•Fear not," he said. " Oo my bidding, and 
you are safe. Let me take your shield. \Yhen the 
time comes, make you the movements, and trust 
me to do the work." 

Then Brunhild hurled her spear at Gunther's 
shield. The mighty weapon sped through the air 
with the swiftness of lightning, and when it struck 
the shield, both Gunther and the unseen Siegfried 
fell to the ground, borne down by its weight and the 
force with which the spear had been thrown. Sad 
would have been their fate if the friendly Tarnkappe 
had not hidden Siegfried from sight and given him 
the strength of twelve giants. Quickly they rose, 
and Gunther seemed to pick up the heavy 
shaft. But it was really Siegfried who raised it 
from the ground. For one moment, he poised the 
great beam in the air, and then, turning the blunt 
end foremost, he sent it flying back more swiftly 
than it had come. It struck the huge shield which 
Brunhild held before her, with a sound that echoed 
to the farthest cliffs of Isenland. The warrior- 
maiden was dashed to the earth : but, rising at 
once, she cried : 

" That was a noble blow, Sir Gunther ! I con- 
fess myself fairly outdone. But there are two 
chances yet, and you will do well if you equal me 
in them. We will now try hurling the stone and 

Twelve men came forward, carrying a huge 
rough stone, in weight a ton or more. And Brun- 
hild raised this mass of rock in her white arms and 
held it high above her head ; then she swung it 

backward once, and threw it a dozen fathoms 
across the castle yard. Scarcely had it reached 
the ground, when the mighty maiden leaped after, 
and landed just beside it. And the thousand 
lookers-on shouted in admiration. But old Hagen 
bit his unshorn lip and cursed the day that had 
brought them to Isenland. 

Gunther and the unseen Siegfried, not at all dis- 
heartened, picked up the heavy stone which was 
half buried in the ground, and lifting it with seem- 
ing ease, threw it swiftly forward. Not twelve, but 
twenty fathoms it flew ; and Siegfried, snatching 
up Gunther in his arms, leaped after, and landed 
close to the castle wall. And Brunhild believed 
that Gunther alone had done these great feats, 
through his own strength and skill, and she at 
once acknowledged herself beaten in the games; 
and she bade her vassals do homage to Gunther as 
their rightful lord and king. 

The unseen Siegfried ran quickly back to the 
little ship, and hastily doffed the magic Tarn- 
kappe. Then, in his own proper person, he re- 
turned to the castle, and leisurely entered the 
castle yard. When he met his pleased comrades 
and the vanquished maiden-queen, he asked in 
careless tones when the games would begin. All 
who heard his question laughed, and Brunhild 
said : 

" Surely, Sir Siegfried, the old sleep-thorn of 
Isenstein has been holding you in your ship. The 
games are over, and your lord, King Gunther, is 
the winner." . 

At this, Siegfried seemed much delighted — as, 
indeed, he was. And all went together to the 
great banquet-hall, where a rich feast was served 
to the Rhineland heroes and to the brave knights 
of Isenland. 

Here the jarl's story ended. The children would 
have been glad to hear more, but they knew that 
it would be useless to ask. After a short pause, 
Rollo ventured to say : 

" But you have not yet told us what became of 
the treasure that was buried in the cave. I should 
really like to know if it still lies hidden there ; for 
if that be so, I mean, as soon as I am a man and 
have a ship of my own, to go and get it." 

" The treasure is not in the cavern," answered 
the jarl, willing to satisfy the lad's curiosity. " As 
the dwarf Andvari had foretold, it proved to be 
the bane of all who claimed its ownership, and of 
Siegfried among the rest. Gunther and his three 
hero comrades soon returned to Rhineland, and 
Brunhild went with them as Gunther's wife. But 
Hagen grew jealous of Siegfried's influence over the 
king, and he longed to seize, for himself, the Nibe- 




/'fax- ***-»;.'V^iStW 




lungen hoard. And so, one day, while hunting in 
the forest, he treacherously slew the noble prince. 
The great Nibelungen hoard was then taken to 
Rhineland, and Hagen caused it to be thrown into 
the deepest part of the Rhine river, and no man 
nor elf has ever been able to recover it. " 

Jarl Ronvald's fair wife Gudrun, who until now 
had been a silent listener, here looked up and 
said : 

" The story of Siegfried reminds me, somewhat, 
of the old, old story of Balder, which you all have 

heard so often and yet seem to be never tired of 
listening to, over and over again." 

'•Tell it to us again, mother!" cried her chil- 
dren, eagerly. 

The good lady readily agreed to repeat the old 
story, which had been heard at that fireside every 
Yule-tide eve for many years. And when the 
servants had brought fresh fuel and thrown it upon 
the fire, and when the flames roared loudly up the 
chimney, and the old hall was brightly lighted 
even to the farthest corner, she began. 

( V'o be continued.) 

By Mrs. Caroline M. Harris. 

Climb into my lap, little girl, little 
Since you wistfully-gazing stand; 
Climb into my lap of gray old 
pine, — 
Lay hold of my hempen hand. 

A wonderful trip, little girl, lit- 
tle girl, 
We will take in a wonderful way, 
From the wonderful earth toward the wonderful 
On this wonderful summer's day. 

Softly, and slowly, at first, we '11 stir, 

As the shy, wild creatures pass, 
Scarce bending the tops of the clover blooms. 

Or moving the feathery grass. 

Then up — up — up — where the blossom-clouds 
Shut close 'round the robin's nest. 

Peep quick ! Can you see the deep blue eggs 
She hides 'neath her soft, warm breast ? 

Now you can tell why the bobolink 
When from meadow-grass he springs, 

Carols with joy as he feels the air 
Pass under his outspread wings ! 



Ah, down — down — down — with a sinking 

That makes your heart stand still ! 
Look up — at the arching' apple-boughs ! 

And out — at the distant hill ! 



It may be, the trout with the self-same sigh 
Drops down to the depths of the pool, 

Leaving the sun-bright ripples above 
For the shadows safe and cool. 

A bird or a fish or a butterfly, 

Or a bee in a bed of thyme — 
You shall know all their joys, little girl, little girl, 

If into my lap you '11 climb ! 





By Mrs. P. L. Collins. 

Probably many of the young readers of St. 
Nicholas, who are also readers of Sir Walter 
Scott's famous romances, would like to hear of a 
visit which I made a few years ago to the home 
of that great writer. As some of you may know, 
it is a fine and lordly mansion, surrounded by a 
beautiful country, and situated on a bank of the 
river Tweed, near Melrose Abbey, some thirty 
miles south-east of Edinburgh, Scotland. 

Leaving the cars at Melrose, from which it is 
three miles distant, I drove the remainder of the 
way in an open carriage. Hedges of hawthorn 
skirted the fields that sloped away as far as the 
eye could reach ; flocks of sheep dotted them occa- 
sionally ; then a bit of grove ; and everywhere 
was the glory of a beautiful day, meet for a pil- 
grimage to such a place. 

I entered by the east-front between a hedge-row 
and the ivy-covered wall. This view of the man- 
sion is one of the prettiest. The many towers, 
fantastic gables and airy turrets are seen to excel- 
lent advantage. The entire estate was formerly a 
part of the property of the Abbots of Melrose, and 
the name was taken from the nearest ford on the 
Tweed. Sir Walter once said that he would make 


Abbotsford "a poem in stone and mortar," and 
right well did he succeed. It is as beautiful as a 
fairy palace and as grand as an old feudal castle, 





and history and romance are literally woven into 
its walls ; for they contain sculptured stones from 
the famous Tolbooth prison, the burgh of Selkirk, 
Linlithgow Castle and many other places, each 
embodying a story of its own. 

I was compelled to wait some time for admittance 
as the place is now open to visitors only two days 
in the week, and on those days there is always a 
throng. I recorded my name in the visitors' book 
and waited patiently for the rare pleasure in store. 
But when my turn came, it was a great trial to be 
hurried by the guide through the different apart- 

Seringapatam, when that Hindoo city was besieged 
and captured by the English in 1799. On one side, 
in a niche formed by a window, is a glass case con- 
taining the last suit of clothes worn by Sir Walter. 
Hanging on the wall at the extreme end near the 
left door are the keys of the old Tolbooth prison. 
There are also relics in this entrance-hall of James 
VI., and Claverhouse, the "Bonny Dundee" of 
Scottish prose and poetry. Only two windows light 
the hall and they are so obscured by coats of arms 
that the interior has been spoken of as being 
"as dark as the twelfth century." I leave my 


ments as he ran over at railroad speed the history 
of each. 

The entrance hall is forty feet in length. Its 
lofty ceiling of oak, fashioned into a series of 
arches, is exquisitely carved; the walls which are 
also of oak, from Dunfermline Abbey, are richly 
decorated in the same manner. The floor is made 
of black and white marble from the Hebrides. 
Along the walls are many suits of old armor, the 
most noticeable being an English suit of the time 
of Henry V., and an Italian one of more recent 
date ; above them are the coats of arms of the 
ancient border clans, conspicuous among these 
being the arms of Douglas and the Royal Lion of 
Scotland. There are also helmets, rapiers and clay- 
mores in great variety, as well as Polish lances, and 
a suit of chain mail taken from the corpse of one 
of the royal body-guard of Tippoo Sahib, ruler of 

young friends who study history to decide how 
dark that is. Standing in one of the corners, 
but not visible in the picture, is an American 
ax that was much prized by Sir Walter as the 
gift of Washington Irving. Many of you have 
doubtless read Irving's description of his stay 
at Abbotsford. It is a tine tribute to the host who 
entertained him so royally. The farewell at the 
gate was " I will not say good-bye, but come 
again." Irving tells us that he was so impressed 
while there with the fact that Sir Walter, notwith- 
standing the miracles of work he did, quite con- 
cealed his work from his friends and always 
seemed to have an abundance of leisure. He 
contrived to appear ever at the command of 
his guests, ready to participate in every excursion 
and continually devising new plans for their en- 

77 6 


The drawing-room contains an admirable col- 
lection of portraits. Above the mantel is that of 
Sir Walter himself with one of his ever faithful 


dogs near him. On one side of this hangs the 
portrait of his mother, and on the other, that of 
Lady Scott, and near it, that of his warm friend 
the Duchess of Buccleugh. The oval frame above 
the door contains the portrait of Lady Hope-Scott, 
the great-granddaughter and only surviving de- 
scendant of Sir Walter, and the present owner of 
Abbotsford. Among the other portraits are those 
of the beautiful Lucy Walters, mother of the Duke 
of Monmouth, and the old ancestor, the stubborn 
great-grandfather of Sir Walter Scott, who would 
never let his beard be cut after the execution of 
Charles I. Beside these, there is a collection of 
views in water-colors, eight in number, by the cele- 
brated English painter, Turner, presented by the 
artist himself. And not least in importance, a 
souvenir of that most unfortunate woman, Mary, 
Queen of Scots, — a head painted the day after her 
execution by one Amias Cawood ; ghastly, repul- 

sive, robbed of all its grace and loveliness. It is 
said to have been sent to Sir Walter by a Prussian 
nobleman in whose family it had been for more 
than two hundred years. 

The floor of the room is bare, but is waxed and 
polished until it is almost as slippery as ice. Not 
even a rug dots the cold expanse, so that despite 
the artistic display upon the walls with their silken 
hangings, rare china and cabinets, and the rich 
furniture, there seems to American eyes to be 
something lacking ; perhaps a home-like warmth 
which might be diffused could the great and 
kindly owner live again. 

The study is a small room adjoining the library. 
A gallery reached by a hanging stair, and filled 
with books, runs around it. In the center stands 
Sir Walter's chair and desk just as he last left 
them. At this desk he wrote most of the Waverley 
Novels, and after his death were found in it, neatly 
arranged, a number of small articles which had be- 
longed to his mother when he was a sick child and 
shared her room, and which he had been accus- 
tomed to seeing upon her table. They were 
placed so that his eyes could rest upon them while 
he worked, as if he would borrow inspiration from 
the holiest recollections of his childhood. 

In the earlier part of the century, Scott's poet- 
ry was very popular, but he suddenly found him- 
self eclipsed by a new favorite — Lord Byron. It 
was then that he began to write his novels, which 
so entirely captivated the English reading world, 
that fame and fortune followed. The public could 
scarcely await the sheets as they were hurried from 
his hands to the printer's press. His company was 
eagerly sought by the highest in the land, and even 
crowned heads were glad to do him honor. Yet 
amidst all this he retained a simplicity of nature 
that no adulation or flattery could spoil.- It is 
related that, upon one of his numerous excursions 
into a remote part of the country in the search for 
old folk-lore, a humble farmer with whom he 
stopped, knowing his fame, expected to be dazzled 
by his grand air. But after seeing and talking 
with him, the peasant exclaimed delightedly: 
" He 's a chiel like oursels ! " 

While making these rural tours, instead of 
taking notes for future use. Sir Walter would 
simply cut notches upon sticks as reminders, and 
he often filled not only his own pockets but those 
of his traveling companions with these notched 
bits of wood, so that it was once laughingly 
declared that on their return to Abbotsford "enough 
timber was discharged from our various integ- 
uments to build a ship." The genuineness, the 
sweetness, the healthy tone of Sir Walter's char- 
acter, which never changed, I can not help thinking 
was attributable in a great measure to his extreme 



/ / 

fondness for out-door life. He was wont to say 
that he only taught his boys two things, — to ride 
and to shoot, leaving the rest to the mother and 
their tutors. 

He invariably rose early, and often accomplished 
before breakfast an almost incredible amount of 
work. While he sat at his desk, one or more of 
his dogs always lay at his feet, and were apparently 
as glad as he was, when the morning task was over 
and they could accompany him on his ride or stroll. 
His horse never waited to be led out, but as soon 
as he was saddled and the stable-door opened, 
trotted around to be mounted. Once upon the 
death of a favorite dog, Sir Walter asked to be ex- 
cused from an engagement to dine, as he had "lost 
a dear friend." In after years, when his fortunes 
suffered such cruel disasters, he declared that 
"Nimrod," one of his pets, was " too good for a 
poor man to keep." 

The library is considered the handsomest of all 
the apartments. It is fifty feet in length by thirty 
in breadth, and has an immense bay-window that 
affords a charming glimpse of the Tweed. The 

on the wall, is the portrait of Sir Walter's eldest 
son, who was colonel of the Fifteenth Hussars. He 
went out to Madras in 1839, anc ' was a ver >' popu- 
lar and efficient officer ; but he soon fell a victim to 
the fatal climate of India and died on the return 
voyage to England, whither he had been ordered on 
account of his health. Here, too, is the bust of 
Sir Walter at the age of forty-nine, by Chantrey. 
There are chairs exquisitely wrought, from the 
Borghesc Palace at Rome, the gift of the Pope ; a 
silver urn upon a stand of porphyry, from Lord 
Byron ; and an ebony cabinet and set of chairs 
presented by King George IV. In a glass case, 
shielded from the touch of profane fingers are the 
purse of Rob Roy ; the brooch of his wife ; a note- 
book in green and gold, once the property of Na- 
poleon I. ; and a gold snuff-box, also given by King 
George IV. When this royal friend was Regent, 
he invited Scott to dine with him in London, ad- 
dressing him familiarly as "Walter," and shower- 
ing upon him evidences of his esteem; when he 
succeeded to the throne, one of the first acts of the 
kingly prerogative was to create him a baronet. 


ceiling is carved after designs from Melrose Abbey. 
There are twenty thousand volumes here and in the 
study. The book-cases were made under Sir Wal- 
ter's direction by his own workmen. Some of them 
contain rare and curious old books and MSS. that 
are carefully guarded under lock and key. Here, 

The fascinating history of the adventures of Rob 
Roy would tell us conclusively, even if Sir Walter 
himself had not .frankly avowed it. that he had a 
rather trifling regard for his heroes proper, and " an 
unfortunate propensity for the dubious characters of 
borderers, buccaneers, Highland robbers, and all 

77 8 



others of a Robin Hood description." I confess, 
for my own part, that I looked long and curiously 
upon the brooch that belonged to Rob Roy's wife. 
But as I leaned over the case, I was thinking more 
of the wife than of the dauntless outlaw ; of the 
woman who reproached her husband upon his 
deathbed for exhibiting some signs of contrition for 
past misdeeds, exhorting him to die as he had 
lived, " like a man." Rob Roy's portrait hangs in 
the study. And yet another trace of him is found 
in the armory ; his gun with the initials R. M. C. 
(Robert Macgregor Campbell) cut around the lock. 
The armory contains a wonderful array of the 
weapons of various nations and ages, and disposed 

his agony. This is the last of the "show-rooms " ; 
visitors are not allowed elsewhere in the mansion. 

As I went out, an almost oppressive silence 
brooded over the house and grounds, and I pon- 
dered upon the story of Sir Walter's struggle for 
this lordly, ideal home, and the painful buffetings 
of fortune which he endured afterward. I thought 
of the joy and beauty of his earlier years, of his 
triumph and his fame, and then of the sad day 
when he came back to Abbotsford from a foreign 
tour, which he had undertaken in the vain hope that 
it would restore his health. When, on that day, he 
caught sight first of the Eildon Hills, and soon after 
of the towers of Abbotsford, his emotion was pro- 


among the spears, battle-axes, darts, arrows, etc., 
are many relics not of a warlike character, such as 
Oliver Cromwell's spurs and the hunting-bottle of 
" bonnie King James ; " and the cross which you 
can see on the wall once belonged to the Queen of 
Scots. Bonaparte's pistols, said to have been found 
in his carriage at Waterloo, and a sword superbly 
mounted, bestowed upon Montrose by Charles I., 
also belong to this unique collection. I wish I 
might say no more here, except to mention the 
bulls' and stags' horns over the doorway, but there 
is a secret as dark as Blue Beard's. In a corner, 
almost, but not quite, hidden from view are some 
of the old Scottish instruments of torture called 
" thumbkins," and an iron crown which was so 
adjusted that the victim could not even cry out in 

found. It was his last view of them from the outer 
world. How touching the greeting to his humble 
and cherished friend: "Ho, Willie Laidlaw ! O 
man, how often I have thought of you ! " And 
those other devoted followers, — the never forgotten 
dogs, gave their full share of the welcome home, 
" fawning upon him and licking his hands while he 
smiled or sobbed over them." 

Not long afterward, and just before his death, 
he said to his son-in-law, "Lockhart, be a good 
man, my dear, — for when you come to lie here, 
nothing else will be of any avail." Surely, in 
those last hours, if the panorama of his own years 
passed in review before him, it included no scenes 
for which he need feel repentance. The record 
of a singularly pure child-life was continued 




without a blemish. One of his early teachers tells 
us that it happened only once, while he had charge 
of him, that he thought it necessary to punish him, 
and even then the intention was quickly put to flight 
by the sobbing boy's clasping him about the neck 
and kissing him. 

His literary taste and precocity were very re- 
markable. When only six years of age, a friend 
of the family, entering unceremoniously, found 
him reading the story of a shipwreck, in verse, 
to his mother. He was quivering with excitement, 
and his voice rose and fell in sympathy with the 
sentiment, till his hearers looked in wonder and 
almost in awe upon their little interpreter of 
the storm. Having finished, he tossed the book 
aside carelessly, and said quietly, "That is too 
melancholy ; I had better read something more 
amusing." On another occasion, while still an 
occupant of the nursery, he heard a servant-girl 
begin the recital of a rather blood-curdling 
ghost-story to one of her companions, and he was 
very eager to listen to it. Knowing, however, 
that if he did so he would become frightened 
and sleepless, he tucked the bed-clothes about 
his ears, and heroically refused to hear the 
fascinating narrative. 

• But I do not wish you to think that, as a boy, 
Sir Walter was altogether perfect. He was prob- 
ably much indulged, owing to his lameness and his 
delicate health ; certainly, we never hear that his 
mother objected to his Shetland pony following him 

Vol. IX.— 50. 





MR \ 



into the 

house ! 








when a 











killed by the old laird of Raeburn, he "flew at his 
throat like a wild cat. and could only be torn from 
him with difficulty." 

Dryburgh Abbey, where Sir Walter's body is en- 
tombed, is four miles from Abbotsford. It was 
founded in the eleventh century, but was destroyed 
in the fourteenth by Edward II. It was restored 
by Robert I., and in the changes of centuries again 

destroyed. St. Mary's Aisle, with its arched roof 
and clustering columns, is the most beautiful frag- 
ment now remaining. Within its shadow lie Sir 
Walter Scott, his wife, eldest son, and Lockhart, 
whom he loved so much, and who made such an 
admirable and complete chronicle of his life, and 
which should be read by every lover of the great 
Prince of Romancers. 



1 %U l\%^4 %W? 

-Jilt, u-,,..sSS* 





By Paul Fori'. 

"Captain John," said I, "did n't you tell 
me that you sometimes brought wild animals in 
your ship on your return voyages from South 

Captain John had just put a couple of fresh 
sticks on the fire, and had re-arranged the other 
logs, and he now leaned back in his chair, rubbing 
his hands before the comfortable blaze. He was a 
fine, hearty man, of about middle age, and for 
many years had been a sea-captain, commanding 
sailing vessels trading between the United States 
and various ports in the West Indies and South 

" Oh, yes," said he, " I often used to bring up 
animals. They were generally small ones, of vari- 
ous kinds, and I brought them on my own account. 
I could easily sell them to menageries and museums 
in our home ports. I brought one of the first elec- 
tric eels that was ever carried to New York. I got 
it in Para, Brazil, and I bought it of some Indians 
for twelve milreis — about six dollars of our money. 
We had lots of trouble with this fellow, for these 
eels live in fresh water, and, if we had not had 
plenty of rain on the voyage, we could n't have 
kept him alive, for the water he was in had to be 
changed every day. We kept him on deck in a 
water-barrel, which lay on its side in its chocks, 
with a square hole cut through the staves on the 
upper side to give the creature light and air. 
When we changed the water, a couple of sailors 
took hold of the barrel and turned it partly over, 
while another held a straw broom against the hole 
to keep the eel from coming out. We would 
always know when the water had nearly run out. 
for then the eel lay against the lower staves, and 
even the wood of the barrel would be so charged 
with electricity that the sailors could hardly hold 
on to the ends of the barrel. They 'd let go with 
one hand and take hold with the other, and then 
they 'd let go with that and change again. At 
first, I did n't believe that the fellows felt the eel's 
shocks in this way ; but, when I took hold myself 
one day, I found they were n't shamming at all. 
Then we turned the barrel back and filled it up 
with fresh water, and started the eel off for another 

" Before we began to empty the barrel, we always 
took a chain-hook and felt about in the water to see 
if he was alive. A chain-hook is a longish piece 
of iron, with a handle at one end and a hook at 
the other, and is used for handling heavy chains. 

When we were scooping around in the water with 
this hook and touched the eel, we would always 
know whether he was alive or not, for, if he was all 
right, he would immediately charge the iron with 
electricity, and the fellow that held it would know 
quick enough that the eel was alive. We took this 
trouble because we did not want to waste fresh 
water on him if he had died in the night. 

" He got along first-rate, and kept well and 
hearty through the whole of the voyage. When 
we reached New York we anchored at Quarantine, 
and the health-officer came aboard. I knew him 
very well, and I said to him : ' Doctor, I 've got 
something aboard that perhaps you never saw- 
before.' "What 's that?' said he. 'An electric 
eel,' said I. ' Good ! ' said he ; ' that is something 
I 've always wanted to see. I want to know just 
what kind of a shock they can give.' ' All right,' 
said I ; 'you can easily find out for yourself. He is 
in this water-barrel here, and the water has just 
been put in fresh, so you can see him. All you 
have got to do is just to wait till he swims up near 
the surface, and then you can scoop him out with 
your hand. You need n't be afraid of his biting 
you.' The doctor said he was n't afraid of that. 
He rolled up his sleeve, and, as soon as he got a 
chance, he took the eel by the middle and lifted it 
out of the water. It was n't a very large one, only 
about eighteen inches long, but pretty stout. The 
moment he lifted it he dropped it, grabbed his 
right shoulder with his left hand, and looked aloft. 
•What is the matter?' said I. 'Why, I thought 
something fell on me from the rigging.' said he. 
' I was sure my arm was broken. I never had such 
a blow in my life.' ' It was only the eel,' said I. 
' Now you know what kind of a shock he can give. ' 

" On that same voyage we had a monkey, one of 
a rather uncommon kind. He was what they call a 
woolly monkey, and was covered all over with short 
wool, like a sheep. He was the smartest monkey 
I ever knew. He was up to all kinds of tricks. We 
did n't keep him caged, but let him run around as 
he pleased about the ship and in the rigging. For 
some reason or other, he used to hate the cook. 
Every day, when the cook was getting the dinner 
ready, when he had set out the bread and the 
cold meats, the monkey would hide somewhere 
and watch him. pretending to be asleep. The 
moment the cook started to go out of the cabin, 
Jacko would come in at the door behind him (we 
always left the door at each end open in hot weather 




for the sake of the draught), and, springing on the 
table, would seize a piece of meat, or a cracker, 
or anything else that was handy, slip past the cook, 
and get out of the other door before the angry cook 
could catch him. Then he would bounce up into 
the rigging, and wait till the cook came out." 

" And sit there, 1 suppose," said I, " and eat the 
food he had stolen ? " 

'• Not a bit of it," answered the captain. "The 
minute the cook showed his head, Jacko would hit 
him on the top of the pate with whatever he had 
taken — bread, meat, knife, fork, or spoon. It was 
no use for the cook to get mad ; he could never 
catch that monkey. 

■ ■ There was one thing that always excited Jacko's 
curiosity, and that was our changing the water 
every day in the eel's barrel. There were eight 
water-barrels standing there in a row, and why- 
three men should go every day, and empty the 
water out of one, and pour more in, and never 
touch the other barrels, was more than the monkey 
could understand. He used to sit on the main- 
boom and watch the whole operation, just as full of 

;/ litis 



s - ;; > 

- J 



curiosity as he could stick. But he never could see 
anything in the barrel. 

" One day, I thought there was going to be bad 
weather, and, as I was afraid it might be too cold 
for the eel on deck, I had his barrel moved to the 
store-room, where it would be well sheltered. This 
move made the monkey still more curious ; and 
the first time we changed the water after the eel 
got into his new quarters, the monkey sat on the 
head of a pork-barrel close by, and had a better 

view of this mysterious and perplexing business 
than had ever been vouchsafed him before. 

"When we went away, Jacko staid there, and, 
happening to be standing where I could see him, I 
noticed that he was running around the water- 
barrel, and trying his best to see what was in it. 
Then, as he had seen us trying to fish up something 
with a chain-hook, he thought he would try to fish 
up the same thing, whatever it was, himself. So 
he jumped up on the barrel, and, leaning over, ran 
his right arm down into the water, and began to 
scoop around and around, just as he had seen us 
do with the chain-hook. Pretty soon he felt the 
thing he was after, and grabbed it tight. 

" But that monkey never saw that eel. The 
moment he clutched it he let go, gave one wild, 
backward leap, and fell on the floor with a dull 
thud. I went up to him, and found him laid out as 
if he were dead. I picked him up by the back of 
the neck, but he hung as limp as a wet dish-rag. 
The cook came along just then, and I said to him: 
" ' Cook, Jacko is dead. He has found out what 
is in that barrel, and the eel has killed him.' 

" I laid him on the pork-barrel, and was 
just saying something about his having such 
an eternal amount of curiosity, when Jacko 
jumped to his feet, gave a bounce out of the 
store-room, and in a minute was up in the 
main cross-trees, chattering and screaming 
as if he had gone mad. After he had been 
knocked over by the shock, he had made 
believe to be dead, fearing that whatever 
had hit him would hit him again. He often 
used to play 'possum in this way when he 
was afraid of anybody ; but I thought he 
was really dead this time. 

" After that, he never came around us 
when we were at work at the eel's water- 
barrel. He did not want to know what was 
in it. 

" I sold that eel for seventy-five dollars 
to a menagerie man in New York State. 
And I sold the monkey too ; but I have 
often wished I had him again, for he was 
the smartest monkey I ever saw." 

" Did you ever carry any really danger- 
ous animals. Captain John? "said I. 
" Well," said he, " once, when I was in Para, I 
bought a snake, a boa-constrictor, seventeen feet 
long. I got him of four Indians, who caught him 
some twenty-five or thirty miles up the river. They 
brought him into town in a strong covered crate, 
or basket, which the} - carried on two poles. When 
I bought him I had him carried into my old con- 
signee's yard, and I got a stout packing-box, and 
had it all double-nailed, and holes bored in the 
sides to give him air. Then the Indians put the 



snake in the box, and we nailed him up tight, leav- 
ing him in a snug corner for the night. 

" The next morning, I went around early to the 
market (the markets there are open only about 


sunrise) to buy something for my snake to eat, for 
the Indians said he was nearly starved. I got a 
couple of little animals, something like our rabbits 
(for these snakes wont touch an)- food that is n't 
alive), and I carried them around to my con- 
signee's house. I found the old gentleman had n't 
turned out of his hammock yet ; but he soon got 
up, and went with me into the yard. When we 
got there, we saw the packing-box all burst open, 
the boards lying around loose, and no snake to be 
seen. We looked about, but could see nothing of 
him. I was amazed enough, to be sure, and the 
old gentleman felt quite uneasy at the thought of 
such a creature wandering about his place. 

" 'We wont look for him,' he said. 'Those 
Indians are still in town, and we will send for them 
to catch him.' 

" The Indians came, and they soon found him. 

You can't imagine where he had hidden himself. 
There was a pile of earthen drain-pipes in one- 
corner of the yard, behind some bushes, and he 
had crawled into one of these short pipes, and then 
turned and crawled into the one next to it, and 
then into the next one, and so on, in and out, until 
he had put himself into five or six of the pipes. He 
had probably seen, through the holes in his box, 
some of my old consignee's chickens, and, being 
made perfectly ravenous by the sight, had broken 
out. Then, having made a meal of one or two of 
them, he had crawled into the pipes. 

" The Indians were not long in capturing him. 
Fortunately, his head stuck out of one of the pipes 
near the ground; and one of the Indians, taking a 
long pole with a fork at the end, climbed on a 
high fence near by, and soon pinned Mr. Snake's 
head to the ground, leaning on the pole with all his 
weight. Then the other Indians straightened out 
the drain-pipes in which he was, and began to 
draw them off him, pulling them down toward his 
tail, and first exposing the portion of his body 
nearest his head. Then they took a long, strong 
pole, and, with bands of the tough grass which 
grows in that country, tied his body to the pole 
close to his head. Then they bound him again, 
about eighteen inches farther down. Slowly draw- 
ing down the pipes, they tied him again to the 
pole, about eighteen inches below, and so on until 
his whole length was fastened firmly to the pole. 
Thus he was held secure until the box was nailed 
up again, and I had sent for a blacksmith to put 
iron bands around it, so that it should be strong 
enough to hold any snake. Then the creature's 
tail was loosened and put through a hole in the 
top of the box. Then another band was cut, and 
the snake pushed still farther in. Then, one after 
another, every fastening was cut, and the snake 
pushed gradually into the box, until, his head being 
loosened and clapped in, a board was fastened 
over the hole, and he was snug and tight and 
ready for his voyage. " 

" Did you have any trouble with him when you 
were taking him to the North ?" I asked. 

But just then the supper-bell rang, and the 
captain arose to his feet. It was of no use to 
expect Captain John to go on with a story when 
supper was ready. 





By A. H. Fretageot. 

During a tour of several months in Europe, I 
arrived in the ancient city of Pisa at eleven o'clock 
on a lovely summer night. Being of course very 
eager to see the famous Leaning Tower, I resolved, 
as the moon was shining brightly, not to wait for 
daylight, but to visit the Tower before retiring. 
On my asking the proprietor of the hotel to tell me 
the way to the Leaning Tower, he became greatly 
excited,, and exclaimed: "It is impossible to go 
to-night ! " I laughed at his fears, and told him 
nothing was impossible to an American boy. He 
still hesitated, but finally came out reluctantly into 
the middle of the street and pointed out the course 
I was to take. 

Off I started, full of the self-confident fearless- 
ness of impetuous youth. Before turning the 
corner, I looked back and saw the old man still 
standing and gazing after me. I felt sorry for him. 
thinking his fears for my safety were groundless. 

Fur a few squares the street was wide, and the 
full light of the moon cheered me onward ; but 
soon my way was not to be so clear. 

Coming suddenly to the end of the wide street, I 
found myself by the side of the ruins of an old cath- 
edral. The irregular walls covered with ivy, the light 
of the moon shining through the ruined gothic 

windows, and showing the decayed and mossy 
interior, gave to the scene a solemn grandeur that 
filled me with awe. Just in front of the cathedral 
was the river Arno, a narrow stream, and the water 
low within its banks. Mine host's directions to me 
had been to go "straight onward" from the old 
cathedral. But how was the river to be crossed ? 
There were no bridges in sight. Walking around 
the corner of the old edifice and up the bank of 
the Arno, I presently saw the outline of a boat close 
to the shore, and as 1 drew nearer. I not only 
found the boat, but discovered the owner thereof 
lving flat on his back, with his arms thrown over 
his head. 

The light of the moon, shining on his face, gave 
it rather a ghastly expression, and for a moment 
I paused ; but, with a laugh at my fears, I stepped 
into the boat and kicked one of his feet so as to 
waken him. This unceremonious treatment roused 
him quickly enough, and he sprang up and glared 
at me fiercely. Not being an expert in the Italian 
language. I went through a series of pantomimes, 
which he finally understood to mean that I wanted 
him to take me across the river. Whereupon, seizing 
a long pole, he pushed his craft out into the sluggish 
stream. As we reached the middle, it occurred 




to me that here would be a fine opportunity for 
my ferryman to collect whatever fare he wished. 
Accordingly, I courteously declined his invitation to 
enter the cabin, as I much preferred standing where 
I could see all around me and watch his move- 
ments. However, I had no trouble with my sleepy 
boatman, and our craft soon reached the opposite 
side of the river. Walking up the bank I found, to 
my dismay, that I was in quite a different kind of 
a city from that I had left. The streets were so 
narrow that, extending my arms, I could touch 
the buildings on both sides as I walked, and the 
houses were very high and overhanging, almost 
shutting out the moonlight. After pro- 
ceeding for several squares in hopes of 
finding a more inviting street, but with- 
out success, I gave up the search as vain, 
and started down one of these disma 
alleys. The miserable little streets were 
not only narrow and very uneven, but 
destitute of pavements. After stumbling 

found open. Il was now two o'clock in the morn- 
ing, and the intense stillness was oppressive. Not 
a sound of any kind excepting my footsteps ; not 
a human being to be seen, nor a light in any 
of the buildings. 

After a long, tedious tramp, I saw what appeared 
to be a fire a long way ahead of me, but shortly 
discovered that it was merely the light of the moon 
shining across an open space. Pushing on rapidly, 
I came to the end of the street, and there, to my 
delight, I saw directly in front of me the Grand 
Plaza of Pisa, with the massive Cathedral and 
the Baptistery and the beautiful Leaning Tower 


standing close together 
moonlight ! 

After pausing a few moments to enjoy this 
first grand vision of the Tower, I turned toward a 
pair of beautiful ornamental iron gates which at- 
tracted my attention. But when I went up to 
along for an hour, I at last found myself facing them and looked through, the sight was not one 
a wall at the end of the street, and I must confess calculated to add to my cheerfulness, for I found 
to feeling a little nervous. Retracing my steps myself facing the great Campo Santo, or burying- 
to the first cross-street, I walked along it a short ground of Pisa. The bright light of the moon 
distance, and turned into another street which I on the marble monuments and tombs, the weird 




shadows of the porches, the perfect stillness of the 
night, inspired me with a strange feeling of awe. 
Leaving this solemn place, I walked over to the 
grand old Cathedral and the Baptistery near the 
Leaning Tower. From that point the Tower was 
distinctly outlined, and the sight of its eight stories 
and the columns of pure white marble, glittering 
in the moonlight, amply repaid me for my tedious 

Advancing to the base of the Tower, I went in- 
side and looked up. The bell-ropes touched the 
sides near the top and hung down close to the wall. 
I think that a man looking up from the bottom of 
a deep well would have a very good idea of the 
appearance of the Tower as seen within from the 
base, especially if the well happened to be quite 
off the perpendicular. 

1 began to climb leisurely to the top, but I 
could not prevent myself from edging toward the 
center as I walked around on the leaning side. It 
seemed to me that my weight alone would cause 
the whole structure to topple over. 

This wonderful Tower is about thirty feet in 
diameter at its base, and is one hundred and forty- 
six feet high. 

If any one of my boy-readers should climb the 
one hundred and ninety-four steps to the top 
without feeling inclined to hold on to the higher 
side and tread very lightly on the lower side, he 
would have steadier nerves than the " Hoosier" boy 
who climbed the Tower that night. The stairs 
are worn by the tramp of millions of feet, for the 
curiosity of people since the year 1174 has led 
myriads of them to climb the steps of this remark- 
able edifice, to reach the place where Galileo was 
wont to go to study the heavens. 

There arc in the belfry six large bells, which are 
still used. The largest one is said to weigh six 
tons, and is hung on the side opposite the over- 
hanging wall, perhaps to aid in balancing the 
Tower, which is twelve feet out of the perpendic- 
ular. I believe that it is still unsettled whether its 
oblique position is the result of accident or design. 

The foundation is in a low, wet place and, it is 
claimed, shows signs of having sunk many feet 
farther into the earth on one side than the other. 
The top story also leans back perceptibly from 
the lower side, as if built to counteract the sink- 
ing of the foundation. 

After resting awhile at the top of the Tower, I 
descended and walked over to the Baptistery. Its 
magnificent bronze doors, so celebrated as works 
of art, could be seen to advantage that night 
only on the side on which the moonlight fell. 

Close by the Baptistery stands the solemn, ancient 
Cathedral, finished in the same style of architecture 
as the Tower. It was the swinging of the ancient 
bronze chandelier in this cathedral that suggested 
to Galileo the idea of the pendulum, and thus 
originated the method of marking time which is 
used in some clocks. 

I had almost decided to remain on the Plaza, 
and in the vicinity of these three justly cele- 
brated objects, — the Tower, the Baptistery, and 
the Cathedral, — until morning; but I had now be- 
come very tired, and the desire for rest and refresh- 
ments decided me to make an effort to find my 
hotel. I must confess that this seemed to me a 
greater task than finding the Tower. I was in the 
situation of the Indian who could not find his wig- 
wam — he was not lost, but the wigwam was. I 
was not lost, for I knew where I was, but it was my 
hotel that was to be found. 

Off I started, however, to the end of the Plaza 
opposite to that I had entered, and here I found 
a wide, beautiful street, and proceeding along it 
for half an hour, I came to a handsome bridge 
over the Arno. Upon this bridge I paused to 
take my bearings, and presently descried the dim 
outlines of my old friend, the ruined Cathedral. 
Following the street along the river for a few- 
squares, and turning the corner by the Cathedral, 
I came once more to the street on which stood 
the hotel, which I finally reached in safety just 
at daylight, and received a hearty welcome and 
manv congratulations from the old landlord. 









By Margaret Johnson. 

The birds are singing, 
The bells are ringing, 
There 's music in all the air, heigh-ho ! 
As all together, 
In golden weather, 
We merrily go to the fair, heigh-ho ! 

We have no money 
For ribands bonny, 
Our clothes are the worse for wear, 
heigh-ho ! 
But little it matters, 
In silk or in tatters, 
We merrily go to the fair, heigh-ho ! 

Come, lads and lasses, 
The time it passes ; 
Step out with a royal air, heigh-ho ! 
As all together. 
In golden weather, 
We merrily go to the fair, heigh-ho ! 






By E. S. Brooks. 

\Author of the "Land of Nod" anti u Comedies for C/tiidren."] 

Three children were swinging and swaying 
upon the bending branches of a stout Vistula 
cherry-tree — clinging and swinging and swaying 
there with shouts and laughter, in the same jolly 
way that you and I have swung, many a time, from 
the overhanging limbs of some springy willow or 
fragrant apple-tree in our own American meadows. 
But these noisy swingers were not Americans. 
They were the children of an old race and of 
a far-off day. Strong-limbed, fair-haired, blue- 
eyed Paul and his two sisters, Rosa and Mira, 
were children of Servia, natives of that slightly 
known but most interesting section of Eastern 
Europe whose plains and passes and wooded hill- 
slopes have echoed the war-cries of Roman and 
Byzantine, of Barbarian and Turkish conquerors 
from distant ages until now. Take your atlas and 
turn to the map of Turkey in Europe, follow the 
winding course of the "beautiful blue Danube" 
until you reach Belgrade, and there, stretching to 
the east and south, ribbed with mountain-ranges 
and crossed by several rivers, is the old kingdom 
of Servia, the country where, on a verdant hill- 
slope, near to the ancient city of Karanovatz, on a 
bright June morning away back in the year 1389, 
Paul and his two sisters were swinging merrily on 
the lower branches of their favorite cherry-tree, or, 
as they called it, their vishnia. As thus they 
swung, they could catch glimpses now and then, 
across the dark green fir-tops, of the tall, gray- 
towers of the royal palace of King Lazarus, from 
which floated the imperial banner of the double 
eagle, and of the ivy-covered walls of the old monas- 
tery of Siczi, "the Cloister of the Seven Gates." 
And well they knew, simple children though they 
were, the stirring stories of Servian valor and of 
Servia's greatness. Often had they heard, both at 
the meetings of the grave elders, and from gray 
old Ivan the bard, as he sang to the music of the 
rude guitar, or guslc, how the palace was built in 
the early days of the kings ; how from it had 
marched to victory the royal Stephen, the mighty 
Tzar, whose flag had floated over many a battle- 
field, until the power of Servia was acknowledged 
from the white walls of Belgrade to the azure 
waters of the Grecian Seas ; how, in the holy clois- 
ter of Siczi, each new king of the line of Stephen 
had been crowned with the "diadem of Dushan," 
and, sword in hand, had issued from the cloister as 

king of Servia, through a new door cut for his 
special exit in the ivy-covered wall ; and how, now, 
seven gates for seven kings had thus been cut, and 
the noble Lazarus ruled as the seventh king of 
Servia in his palace at Karanovatz. All this they 
knew, for they were Servian children — proud of 
the old tales and legends told at the fireside, and 
dearly loving the green hills and fertile valleys of 
Servia, and, best of all, the waving forests that cir- 
cled and shadowed their own Servian home. 

And, as they swung, now high, now low, they 
played at their game of king and queen, singing 
the song known to every boy and girl of Servia. 
It was thus that Paul sang to Rosa : 

" The king from the queen an answer craves : 
How shall we now employ our slaves?" 

And Rosa answered : 

" The maidens in fine embroidery. 
The widows to spin flax-yarn for me, 
And the men to dig in the fields for me." 

Then Paul sang to Mira : 

" The king from the queen an answer craves: 
How shall we, lady, feed our slaves?" 

And Mira replied : 

" The maidens shall have the honey-comb sweet, 
The widows shall feed on the finest wheat, 
And the men of maize-meal bread shall eat." 

But just as they were about 
verse, in which the king asks : 

to sing the next 

" Where for the night shall rest our slaves?" 

they heard a shout and a rustle, and Mira's pretty, 
dappled fawnkin, Lado, all timid and trembling, 
came flying for safety up to the children ; and 
almost before Mira and Rosa could calm the 
frightened creature, and Paul, snatching up a 
stout cherry-branch, could stand on guard, a 
swooping falcon darted down at poor Lado's head. 
The girls screamed, and shook their silken jackets 
at the fierce bird: but Paul, swinging his cherry- 
stick, struck the bird on its sleek gray neck, and 
stretched it, a dead falcon, at his feet. 

"O Paul, Paul! O Lado, Lado!" cried both 
the girls in mingled joy and fear, as they stroked 
their rescued pet and trembled for Paul's safetv ; 
for he had killed, perhaps, one of the royal falcons. 




They were not kept long in suspense, for there 
came galloping up to them, mounted on a swift 
Wallachian pony, a stout-built youth of some six- 
teen years, richly dressed, his long, yellow hair 
streaming out from under his scarlet cap. 

" O Paul, run ! Run, dear Paul ! " moaned Rosa. 
"It is the young ban ! " 

Then Paul knew that he had killed the falcon 
of the young prince, or ban, Stephen, the son of 
King Lazarus. But he stood his ground. " 1 will 
not run," he said. 

The prince looked at the group, saw the trem- 
bling Lado, saw the dead falcon, saw Paul's stout 
cherry-stick, and, leaping from his pony, he rushed 
at the boy, white with rage. 

"Thou dog!" he said, striking at Paul with 
his unstrung bow. " How dar'st thou kill my 
falcon ? " 

Paul answered as bravely as will any boy of 
spirit who has justice on his side and the weak 
under his protection. 

" Strike me not, O Prince ! " he said. " I sought 
not to kill thy falcon, but to drive him off, lest he 
should tear and blind our fawn." 

"Thou wolf! thou pig! thou dog !" screamed 
the prince, still furious at his loss ; and flinging 
aside his bow, he grasped his yataghan, or short 
scimitar, to cut the boy down. Rosa and Mira 
threw their arms around Paul, but he shook them 
off, parried the prince's stroke with his stick, and, 
grasping his arm, said : " Take care what you do, 
my prince. My grandfather is Nicholas, an im- 
perial officer. 'T will go hard, even with thee, 
shouldst thou harm or kill me." 

"The vilas of the forest and the vilas of the 
mountain choke and smother thy grandfather ! " 
said the enraged prince, and he would have struck 
at Paul again, but just then there came a clatter of 
horses' hoofs and a gleam of shining armor, and 
through the trees at full gallop came the prince's 
uncle, Milosh Obilitch, the chief captain, or vo'i- 
iiode, of King Lazarus of Servia, followed by 
three mounted spearmen. A look of displeasure 
came into his face as he caught sight of the prince's 
angry countenance and Paul's defensive attitude. 

"Come here, my prince," he said, sharply; 
"why dost thou loiter there? Even now thy 
father, the Tzar, is on the march to Kosovo, and 
waits but for his son." 

" I would be even with this vampire though the 
Turkish Tzar himself was at our palace gates," 
said the prince, wrathfully, and then he told his 
side of the story. 

"But his falcon would have killed our fawn, O 
mighty ban," said Rosa — "our fawn, Lado, dear 
to us as life." 

The voivode Milosh laughed a mighty laugh. 

"Now, by the fist of the Cloud-gatherer," he 
swore in roughest Servian, " ban I may be, and 
trusted soldier of the Tzar, but I am no judge 
of man or child. Come, we waste words. Get 
you to horse, my prince. A gallop through Kush- 
aja will cool your hot young head. Fawns and 
falcons must wait, for ' When the Tzar rides, all 
business bides.' " 

The prince stood in great awe of his mighty 
uncle. He therefore obeyed his command, though 
in rebellious silence, and mounted his pony with 
angry reluctance. 

"As for you, little ones," said the voivode, 
" you, too, must wait for justice with fawns and 
falcons. Here, Dessimir," he said, turning to one 
of his spearmen, "take these children to the 
cloister. Greet the abbot Brankovicz for me, and 
bid him give these