The Project Gutenberg eBook of St. Nicholas Vol XIII. No. 8 June 1886

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Title: St. Nicholas Vol XIII. No. 8 June 1886

Author: Various

Editor: Mary Mapes Dodge

Release date: May 29, 2012 [eBook #39846]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Alex Gam and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ST. NICHOLAS VOL XIII. NO. 8 JUNE 1886 ***

A JUNE MORNING.

A JUNE MORNING.

ST. NICHOLAS.

Vol. XIII.                              JUNE, 1886.                              No. 8.

[Copyright, 1886, by The Century Co.]

"ONCE-ON-A-TIME."

By Emily Huntington Miller.

Heigh-ho! What frolics we might see,

If it only had happened to you and me

To be born in some beautiful far-off clime,

In the country of Somewhere, once-on-a-time!

Why, once-on-a-time there were mountains of gold,

And cans full of jewels, and treasures untold;

There were birds just waiting to fly before

And show you the way to the magical door.

And, under a tree, there was sure to be

A queer little woman to give you the key;

And a tiny, dancing, good-natured elf,

To say, with his scepter: "Help yourself!"

For millions of dollars grew from a dime

In the country of Somewhere, once-on-a-time.

If we lived in the country of Somewhere, you

Could do whatever you chose to do.

Instead of a boy, with the garden to weed,

You might be a knight, with a sword and a steed.

Instead of a girl, with a towel to hem,

I might be a princess, with robe and gem;

With a gay little page, and a harper old,

Who knew all the stories that ever were told,—

Stories in prose, and stories in rhyme,

That happened somewhere, once-on-a-time.

In the country of Somewhere, no one looks

At maps and blackboards and grammar books;

For all your knowledge just grows and grows,

Like the song in a bird, or the sweet in a rose.

And if ever I chance, on a fortunate day,

To that wonderful region to find my way,

Why then, if the stories all are true,

As quick as I can, I'll come for you,

And we'll row away to its happy shores,

In a silver shallop with golden oars.

LITTLE LORD FAUNTLEROY.

By Frances Hodgson Burnett.

Chapter VIII.

Lord Dorincourt had occasion to wear his grim smile many a time as the days passed by. Indeed, as his acquaintance with his grandson progressed, he wore the smile so often that there were moments when it almost lost its grimness. There is no denying that before Lord Fauntleroy had appeared on the scene, the old man had been growing very tired of his loneliness and his gout and his seventy years. After so long a life of excitement and amusement, it was not agreeable to sit alone even in the most splendid room, with one foot on a gout-stool, and with no other diversion than flying into a rage, and shouting at a frightened footman who hated the sight of him. The old Earl was too clever a man not to know perfectly well that his servants detested him, and that even if he had visitors, they did not come for love of him—though some found a sort of amusement in his sharp, sarcastic talk, which spared no one. So long as he had been strong and well, he had gone from one place to another, pretending to amuse himself, though he had not really enjoyed it; and when his health began to fail, he felt tired of everything and shut himself up at Dorincourt, with his gout and his newspapers and his books. But he could not read all the time, and he became more and more "bored," as he called it. He hated the long nights and days, and he grew more and more savage and irritable. And then Fauntleroy came; and when the Earl saw the lad, fortunately for the little fellow, the secret pride of the grandfather was gratified at the outset. If Cedric had been a less handsome little fellow the old man might have taken so strong a dislike to the boy that he would not have given himself the chance to see his grandson's finer qualities. But he chose to think that Cedric's beauty and fearless spirit were the results of the Dorincourt blood and a credit to the Dorincourt rank. And then when he heard the lad talk, and saw what a well bred little fellow he was, notwithstanding his boyish ignorance of all that his new position meant, the old Earl liked his grandson more, and actually began to find himself rather entertained. It had amused him to give into those childish hands the power to bestow a benefit on poor Higgins. My lord cared nothing for poor Higgins, but it pleased him a little to think that his grandson would be talked about by the country people and would begin to be popular with the tenantry, even in his childhood. Then it had gratified him to drive to church with Cedric and to see the excitement and interest caused by the arrival. He knew how the people would speak of the beauty of the little lad; of his fine, strong, straight little body; of his erect bearing, his handsome face, and his bright hair, and how they would say (as the Earl had heard one woman exclaim to another) that the boy was "every inch a lord." My lord of Dorincourt was an arrogant old man, proud of his name, proud of his rank, and therefore proud to show the world that at last the House of Dorincourt had an heir who was worthy of the position he was to fill.

The morning the new pony had been tried, the Earl had been so pleased that he had almost forgotten his gout. When the groom had brought out the pretty creature, which arched its brown, glossy neck and tossed its fine head in the sun, the Earl had sat at the open window of the library and had looked on while Fauntleroy took his first riding lesson. He wondered if the boy would show signs of timidity. It was not a very small pony, and he had often seen children lose courage in making their first essay at riding.

Fauntleroy mounted in great delight. He had never been on a pony before, and he was in the highest spirits. Wilkins, the groom, led the animal by the bridle up and down before the library window.

"He's a well plucked un, he is," Wilkins remarked in the stable afterward with many grins. "It weren't no trouble to put him up. An' a old un wouldn't ha' sat any straighter when he were up. He ses—ses he to me, 'Wilkins,' he ses, 'am I sitting up straight? They sit up straight at the circus,' ses he. An' I ses, 'As straight as a arrer, your lordship!'—an' he laughs, as pleased as could be, an' he ses, 'That's right,' he ses, 'you tell me if I don't sit up straight, Wilkins!'"

But sitting up straight and being led at a walk were not altogether and completely satisfactory. After a few minutes, Fauntleroy spoke to his grandfather—watching him from the window:

"Can't I go by myself?" he asked; "and can't I go faster? The boy on Fifth Avenue used to trot and canter!"

"Do you think you could trot and canter?" said the Earl.

"I should like to try," answered Fauntleroy.

His lordship made a sign to Wilkins, who at the signal brought up his own horse and mounted it and took Fauntleroy's pony by the leading-rein.

"Now," said the Earl, "let him trot."

The next few minutes were rather exciting to the small equestrian. He found that trotting was not so easy as walking, and the faster the pony trotted, the less easy it was.

"It j-jolts a g-goo-good deal—do-doesn't it?" he said to Wilkins. "D-does it j-jolt y-you?"

'Wilkins was carrying his hat for him, and his hair was flying, but he came back at a brisk canter.'

"WILKINS WAS CARRYING HIS HAT FOR HIM, AND HIS HAIR WAS FLYING, BUT HE CAME BACK AT A BRISK CANTER."

"No, my lord," answered Wilkins. "You'll get used to it in time. Rise in your stirrups."

"I'm ri-rising all the t-time," said Fauntleroy.

He was both rising and falling rather uncomfortably and with many shakes and bounces. He was out of breath and his face grew red, but he held on with all his might, and sat as straight as he could. The Earl could see that from his window. When the riders came back within speaking distance, after they had been hidden by the trees a few minutes, Fauntleroy's hat was off, his cheeks were like poppies, and his lips were set, but he was still trotting manfully.

"Stop a minute!" said his grandfather. "Where's your hat?"

Wilkins touched his. "It fell off, your lordship," he said, with evident enjoyment. "Wouldn't let me stop to pick it up, my lord."

"Not much afraid, is he?" asked the Earl, dryly.

"Him, your lordship!" exclaimed Wilkins. "I shouldn't say as he knowed what it meant. I've taught young gen'lemen to ride afore, an' I never see one stick on more determin'der."

"Tired?" said the Earl to Fauntleroy. "Want to get off?"

"It jolts you more than you think it will," admitted his young lordship frankly. "And it tires you a little, too; but I don't want to get off. I want to learn how. As soon as I've got my breath I want to go back for the hat."

The cleverest person in the world, if he had undertaken to teach Fauntleroy how to please the old man who watched him, could not have taught him anything which would have succeeded better. As the pony trotted off again toward the avenue, a faint color crept up in the fierce old face, and the eyes, under the shaggy brows, gleamed with a pleasure such as his lordship had scarcely expected to know again. And he sat and watched quite eagerly until the sound of the horses' hoofs returned. When they did come, which was after some time, they came at a faster pace. Fauntleroy's hat was still off; Wilkins was carrying it for him; his cheeks were redder than before, and his hair was flying about his ears, but he came at quite a brisk canter.

"There!" he panted, as they drew up, "I c-cantered. I didn't do it as well as the boy on Fifth Avenue, but I did it, and I stayed on!"

He and Wilkins and the pony were close friends after that. Scarcely a day passed in which the country people did not see them out together, cantering gayly on the highroad or through the green lanes. The children in the cottages would run to the door to look at the proud little brown pony with the gallant little figure sitting so straight in the saddle, and the young lord would snatch off his cap and swing it at them, and shout, "Hullo! Good morning!" in a very unlordly manner, though with great heartiness. Sometimes he would stop and talk with the children, and once Wilkins came back to the castle with a story of how Fauntleroy had insisted on dismounting near the village school, so that a boy who was lame and tired might ride home on his pony.

"An' I'm blessed," said Wilkins, in telling the story at the stables,—"I'm blessed if he'd hear of anything else! He wouldn't let me get down, because he said the boy mightn't feel comfortable on a big horse. An' ses he, 'Wilkins,' ses he, 'that boy is lame and I'm not, and I want to talk to him, too.' And up the lad has to get, and my lord trudges alongside of him with his hands in his pockets, and his cap on the back of his head, a-whistling and talking as easy as you please! And when we come to the cottage, an' the boy's mother come out all in a taking to see what's up, he whips off his cap an' ses he, 'I've brought your son home, ma'am,' ses he, 'because his leg hurt him, and I don't think that stick is enough for him to lean on; and I'm going to ask my grandfather to have a pair of crutches made for him.' An' I'm blessed if the woman wasn't struck all of a heap, as well she might be! I thought I should 'a' hex-plodid, myself!"

When the Earl heard the story, he was not angry, as Wilkins had been half afraid that he would be; on the contrary, he laughed outright, and called Fauntleroy up to him, and made him tell all about the matter from beginning to end, and then he laughed again. And actually, a few days later, the Dorincourt carriage stopped in the green lane before the cottage where the lame boy lived, and Fauntleroy jumped out and walked up to the door, carrying a pair of strong, light, new crutches, shouldered like a gun, and presented them to Mrs. Hartle (the lame boy's name was Hartle) with these words: "My grandfather's compliments, and if you please, these are for your boy, and we hope he will get better."

"I said your compliments," he explained to the Earl when he returned to the carriage. "You didn't tell me to, but I thought, perhaps, you forgot. That was right, wasn't it?"

And the Earl laughed again, and did not say it was not. In fact, the two were becoming more intimate every day, and every day Fauntleroy's faith in his lordship's benevolence and virtue increased. He had no doubt whatever that his grandfather was the most amiable and generous of elderly gentlemen. Certainly, he himself found his wishes gratified almost before they were uttered; and such gifts and pleasures were lavished upon him, that he was sometimes almost bewildered by his own possessions. Apparently, he was to have everything he wanted, and to do everything he wished to do. And though this would certainly not have been a very wise plan to pursue with all small boys, his young lordship bore it amazingly well. Perhaps, notwithstanding his sweet nature, he might have been somewhat spoiled by it, if it had not been for the hours he spent with his mother at Court Lodge. That "best friend" of his watched over him very closely and tenderly. The two had many long talks together, and he never went back to the castle with her kisses on his cheeks without carrying in his heart some simple, pure words worth remembering.

There was one thing, it is true, which puzzled the little fellow very much. He thought over the mystery of it much oftener than any one supposed; even his mother did not know how often he pondered on it; the Earl for a long time never suspected that he did so at all. But being quick to observe, the little boy could not help wondering why it was that his mother and grandfather never seemed to meet. He had noticed that they never did meet. When the Dorincourt carriage stopped at Court Lodge, the Earl never alighted, and on the rare occasions of his lordship's going to church, Fauntleroy was always left to speak to his mother in the porch alone, or perhaps to go home with her. And yet, every day, fruit and flowers were sent to Court Lodge from the hot-houses at the castle. But the one virtuous action of the Earl's which had set him upon the pinnacle of perfection in Cedric's eyes, was what he had done soon after that first Sunday when Mrs. Errol had walked home from church unattended. About a week later, when Cedric was going one day to visit his mother, he found at the door, instead of the large carriage and prancing pair, a pretty little brougham and a handsome bay horse.

"That is a present from you to your mother," the Earl said abruptly. "She can not go walking about the country. She needs a carriage. The man who drives will take charge of it. It is a present from you."

Fauntleroy's delight could but feebly express itself. He could scarcely contain himself until he reached the lodge. His mother was gathering roses in the garden. He flung himself out of the little brougham and flew to her.

"Dearest!" he cried, "could you believe it? This is yours! He says it is a present from me. It is your own carriage to drive everywhere in!"

He was so happy that she did not know what to say. She could not have borne to spoil his pleasure by refusing to accept the gift even though it came from the man who chose to consider himself her enemy. She was obliged to step into the carriage, roses and all, and let herself be taken to drive, while Fauntleroy told her stories of his grandfather's goodness and amiability. They were such innocent stories that sometimes she could not help laughing a little, and then she would draw her little boy closer to her side and kiss him, feeling glad that he could see only good in the old man who had so few friends.

The very next day after that, Fauntleroy wrote to Mr. Hobbs. He wrote quite a long letter, and after the first copy was written, he brought it to his grandfather to be inspected.

"Because," he said, "it's so uncertain about the spelling. And if you'll tell me the mistakes, I'll write it out again."

This was what he had written:

"My dear mr hobbs i want to tell you about my granfarther he is the best earl you ever new it is a mistake about earls being tirents he is not a tirent at all i wish you new him you would be good frends i am sure you would he has the gout in his foot and is a grate sufrer but he is so pashent i love him more every day becaus no one could help loving an earl like that who is kind to every one in this world i wish you could talk to him he knows everything in the world you can ask him any question but he has never plaid base ball he has given me a pony and a cart and my mamma a bewtifle carige and I have three rooms and toys of all kinds it would serprise you you would like the castle and the park it is such a large castle you could lose yourself wilkins tells me wilkins is my groom he says there is a dungon under the castle it is so pretty every thing in the park would serprise you there are such big trees and there are deers and rabbits and games flying about in the cover my granfarther is very rich but he is not proud and orty as you thought earls always were i like to be with him the people are so polite and kind they take of their hats to you and the women make curtsies and sometimes say god bless you i can ride now but at first it shook me when i troted my granfarther let a poor man stay on his farm when he could not pay his rent and mrs mellon went to take wine and things to his sick children i should like to see you and i wish dearest could live at the castle but I am very happy when i dont miss her too much and i love my granfarther every one does plees write soon

"your afechshnet old frend

"Cedric Errol

"p s no one is in the dungon my granfarther never had any one langwishin in there

"p s he is such a good earl he reminds me of you he is a unerversle favrit"

"Do you miss your mother very much?" asked the Earl when he had finished reading this.

"Yes," said Fauntleroy, "I miss her all the time."

He went and stood before the Earl and put his hand on his knee looking up at him.

"You don't miss her, do you?" he said.

"I don't know her," answered his lordship rather crustily.

"I know that," said Fauntleroy, "and that's what makes me wonder. She told me not to ask you any questions, and—and I wont, but sometimes I can't help thinking, you know, and it makes me all puzzled. But I'm not going to ask any questions. And when I miss her very much, I go and look out of my window to where I see her light shine for me every night through an open place in the trees. It is a long way off, but she puts it in her window as soon as it is dark and I can see it twinkle far away, and I know what it says."

"What does it say?" asked my lord.

"It says, 'Good-night, God keep you all the night!'—just what she used to say when we were together. Every night she used to say that to me, and every morning she said, 'God bless you all the day!' So you see I am quite safe all the time——"

"Quite, I have no doubt," said his lordship dryly. And he drew down his beetling eyebrows and looked at the little boy so fixedly and so long that Fauntleroy wondered what he could be thinking of.

Chapter IX.

The fact was, his lordship the Earl of Dorincourt thought in those days, of many things of which he had never thought before, and all his thoughts were in one way or another connected with his grandson. His pride was the strongest part of his nature, and the boy gratified it at every point. Through this pride he began to find a new interest in life. He began to take pleasure in showing his heir to the world. The world had known of his disappointment in his sons; so there was an agreeable touch of triumph in exhibiting this new Lord Fauntleroy, who could disappoint no one. He wished the child to appreciate his own power and to understand the splendor of his position; he wished that others should realize it too. He made plans for his future. Sometimes in secret he actually found himself wishing that his own past life had been a better one, and that there had been less in it that this pure, childish heart would shrink from if it knew the truth. It was not agreeable to think how the beautiful, innocent face would look if its owner should be made by any chance to understand that his grandfather had been called for many a year "the wicked Earl of Dorincourt." The thought even made him feel a trifle nervous. He did not wish the boy to find it out. Sometimes in this new interest he forgot his gout, and after a while his doctor was surprised to find his noble patient's health growing better than he had expected it ever would be again. Perhaps the Earl grew better because the time did not pass so slowly for him, and he had something to think of beside his pains and infirmities.

One fine morning, people were amazed to see little Lord Fauntleroy riding his pony with another companion than Wilkins. This new companion rode a tall, powerful gray horse, and was no other than the Earl himself. It was, in fact, Fauntleroy who had suggested this plan. As he had been on the point of mounting his pony he had said rather wistfully to his grandfather:

"I wish you were going with me. When I go away I feel lonely because you are left all by yourself in such a big castle. I wish you could ride too."

And the greatest excitement had been aroused in the stables a few minutes later by the arrival of an order that Selim was to be saddled for the Earl. After that, Selim was saddled almost every day; and the people became accustomed to the sight of the tall gray horse carrying the tall gray old man, with his handsome, fierce, eagle face, by the side of the brown pony which bore little Lord Fauntleroy. And in their rides together through the green lanes and pretty country roads, the two riders became more intimate than ever. And gradually the old man heard a great deal about "Dearest" and her life. As Fauntleroy trotted by the big horse he chatted gayly. There could not well have been a brighter little comrade, his nature was so happy. It was he who talked the most. The Earl often was silent, listening and watching the joyous, glowing face. Sometimes he would tell his young companion to set the pony off at a gallop, and when the little fellow dashed off, sitting so straight and fearless, he would watch the boy with a gleam of pride and pleasure in his eyes; and Fauntleroy, when, after such a dash, he came back waving his cap with a laughing shout, always felt that he and his grandfather were very good friends indeed.

One thing that the Earl discovered was that his son's wife did not lead an idle life. It was not long before he learned that the poor people knew her very well indeed. When there was sickness or sorrow or poverty in any house, the little brougham often stood before the door.

"Do you know," said Fauntleroy once, "they all say, 'God bless you'! when they see her, and the children are glad. There are some who go to her house to be taught to sew. She says she feels so rich now that she wants to help the poor ones."

It had not displeased the Earl to find that the mother of his heir had a beautiful young face and looked as much like a lady as if she had been a duchess, and in one way it did not displease him to know that she was popular and beloved by the poor. And yet he was often conscious of a hard, jealous pang when he saw how she filled her child's heart and how the boy clung to her as his best beloved. The old man would have desired to stand first himself and have no rival.

That same morning he drew up his horse on an elevated point of the moor over which they rode, and made a gesture with his whip, over the broad, beautiful landscape spread before them.

"Do you know that all that land belongs to me?" he said to Fauntleroy.

"Does it?" answered Fauntleroy. "How much it is to belong to one person, and how beautiful!"

"Do you know that some day it will all belong to you—that and a great deal more?"

"To me!" exclaimed Fauntleroy in rather an awe-stricken voice. "When?"

"When I am dead," his grandfather answered.

"Then I don't want it," said Fauntleroy; "I want you to live always."

"That's kind," answered the Earl in his dry way; "nevertheless, some day it will all be yours—some day you will be the Earl of Dorincourt."

'Up the lad has to get, and my Lord trudges alongside of him with his hands in his pockets.'

"UP THE LAD HAS TO GET, AND MY LORD TRUDGES ALONGSIDE OF HIM WITH HIS HANDS IN HIS POCKETS."

Little Lord Fauntleroy sat very still in his saddle for a few moments. He looked over the broad moors, the green farms, the beautiful copses, the cottages in the lanes, the pretty village, and over the trees to where the turrets of the great castle rose, gray and stately. Then he gave a queer little sigh.

"What are you thinking of?" asked the Earl.

"I am thinking," replied Fauntleroy, "what a little boy I am! and of what Dearest said to me."

"What was it?" inquired the Earl.

"She said that perhaps it was not so easy to be very rich; that if any one had so many things always, one might sometimes forget that every one else was not so fortunate, and that one who is rich should always be careful and try to remember. I was talking to her about how good you were, and she said that was such a good thing, because an earl had so much power, and if he cared only about his own pleasure and never thought about the people who lived on his lands, they might have trouble that he could help—and there were so many people, and it would be such a hard thing. And I was just looking at all those houses, and thinking how I should have to find out about the people, when I was an earl. How did you find out about them?"

As his lordship's knowledge of his tenantry consisted in finding out which of them paid their rent promptly, and in turning out those who did not, this was rather a hard question. "Newick finds out for me," he said, and he pulled his great gray mustache, and looked at his small questioner rather uneasily. "We will go home now," he added; "and when you are an earl, see to it that you are a better one than I have been!"

He was very silent as they rode home. He felt it to be almost incredible that he, who had never really loved any one in his life, should find himself growing so fond of this little fellow,—as without doubt he was. At first he had only been pleased and proud of Cedric's beauty and bravery, but there was something more than pride in his feeling now. He laughed a grim, dry laugh all to himself sometimes, when he thought how he liked to have the boy near him, how he liked to hear his voice, and how in secret he really wished to be liked and thought well of by his small grandson.

"I'm an old fellow in my dotage, and I have nothing else to think of," he would say to himself; and yet he knew it was not that altogether. And if he had allowed himself to admit the truth, he would perhaps have found himself obliged to own that the very things which attracted him, in spite of himself, were the qualities he had never possessed—the frank, true, kindly nature, the affectionate trustfulness which could never think evil.

It was only about a week after that ride when, after a visit to his mother, Fauntleroy came into the library with a troubled, thoughtful face. He sat down in that high-backed chair in which he had sat on the evening of his arrival, and for a while he looked at the embers on the hearth. The Earl watched him in silence, wondering what was coming. It was evident that Cedric had something on his mind. At last he looked up. "Does Newick know all about the people?" he asked.

"It is his business to know about them," said his lordship. "Been neglecting it—has he?"

Contradictory as it may seem, there was nothing which entertained and edified him more than the little fellow's interest in his tenantry. He had never taken any interest in them himself, but it pleased him well enough that, with all his childish habits of thought and in the midst of all his childish amusements and high spirits, there should be such a quaint seriousness working in the curly head.

"There is a place," said Fauntleroy, looking up at him with wide-open, horror-stricken eyes—"Dearest has seen it; it is at the other end of the village. The houses are close together, and almost falling down; you can scarcely breathe; and the people are so poor, and everything is dreadful! Often they have fever, and the children die; and it makes them wicked to live like that, and be so poor and miserable! It is worse than Michael and Bridget! The rain comes in at the roof! Dearest went to see a poor woman who lived there. She would not let me come near her until she had changed all her things. The tears ran down her cheeks when she told me about it!"

The tears had come into his own eyes, but he smiled through them.

"I told her you didn't know, and I would tell you," he said. He jumped down and came and leaned against the Earl's chair. "You can make it all right," he said, "just as you made it all right for Higgins. You always make it all right for everybody. I told her you would, and that Newick must have forgotten to tell you."

The Earl looked down at the hand on his knee. Newick had not forgotten to tell him; in fact, Newick had spoken to him more than once of the desperate condition of the end of the village known as Earl's Court. He knew all about the tumble-down, miserable cottages, and the bad drainage, and the damp walls and broken windows and leaking roofs, and all about the poverty, the fever, and the misery. Mr. Mordaunt had painted it all to him in the strongest words he could use, and his lordship had used violent language in response; and, when his gout had been at the worst, he had said that the sooner the people of Earl's Court died and were buried by the parish the better it would be,—and there was an end of the matter. And yet, as he looked at the small hand on his knee, and from the small hand to the honest, earnest, frank-eyed face, he was actually a little ashamed both of Earl's Court and of himself.

"What!" he said; "you want to make a builder of model cottages of me, do you?" And he positively put his own hand upon the childish one and stroked it.

"Those must be pulled down," said Fauntleroy, with great eagerness. "Dearest says so. Let us—let us go and have them pulled down tomorrow. The people will be so glad when they see you! They'll know you have come to help them!" And his eyes shone like stars in his glowing face.

The Earl rose from his chair and put his hand on the child's shoulder. "Let us go out and take our walk on the terrace," he said, with a short laugh; "and we can talk it over."

And though he laughed two or three times again, as they walked to and fro on the broad stone terrace, where they walked together almost every fine evening, he seemed to be thinking of something which did not displease him, and still he kept his hand on his small companion's shoulder.

(To be continued.)

WINGED SEEDS.

By Helen Gray Cone.

Oh, gold-green wings, and bronze-green wings,

And rose-tinged wings, that down the breeze

Come sailing from the maple-trees!

You showering things, you shimmering things,

That June-time always brings!

Oh, are you seeds that seek the earth,

The shade of lovely leaves to spread?

Or shining angels, that had birth

When kindly words were said?

Oh, downy dandelion-wings,

Wild-floating wings, like silver spun,

That dance and glisten in the sun!

You airy things, you elfin things,

That June-time always brings!

Oh, are you seeds that seek the earth,

The light of laughing flowers to spread?

Or flitting fairies, that had birth

When merry words were said?

BESSIE: 'THAT MEANS NO MORE SCHOOL TILL COLD WEATHER COMES! MY TEACHER SAID SO!'

BESSIE: "THAT MEANS NO MORE SCHOOL TILL COLD WEATHER COMES! MY TEACHER SAID SO!"

PERSONALLY CONDUCTED.

By Frank R. Stockton.

VIII.

QUEEN PARIS.

We have already been in Paris, but we saw very little of it, as we were merely passing through the city on our way to the south of France; and my young companions should not go home without forming an acquaintance with a city which, on account of its importance and unrivaled attractiveness, may be called the queen city of the world, just as London, with its wealth, its size, and its influence, which is felt all over our globe, is the king of cities. In Rome, and in other cities of Italy, we have seen what Europe used to be, both in ancient times and in the Middle Ages; but there is no one place which will show us so well what Europe is to-day, as Paris.

It is an immense city, being surrounded by ramparts twenty-one miles long, and is full of broad and handsome streets, magnificent buildings, grand open spaces with fountains and statues, great public gardens and parks free to everybody, and (what is more attractive to some people than anything else) it has miles and miles of stores and shops, which are filled with the most beautiful and interesting things that are made or found in any part of the world. All these articles are arranged and displayed so artistically, that people buy things in Paris which they would never think of buying anywhere else, simply because they had never before noticed how desirable such things were. But, even if we do not wish to spend any money, we can still enjoy the rare and beautiful objects for which Paris is famous; they are nearly all in the shop windows, and we can walk about and admire them for nothing and as much as we please.

In many respects Paris is as lively as Naples; as grand as Rome; as beautiful, but in a different way, as Venice; almost as rich in remains of the Middle Ages as Florence; and yet, after all, it will remind you of none of those cities.

Before we visit any particular place in Paris, we shall start out to explore the city as a whole; although I do not mean to say that we shall go over the whole of the city. Those of us who choose will walk, and that is the best way to see Paris, for we are continually meeting with something that we wish to stop and look at; but such as do not wish to take so long a walk may ride in the voitures, or public carriages, which abound in the streets of Paris. In fine weather, these are convenient little open vehicles, intended to carry two persons, though more can be sometimes accommodated. They can be hired for two francs (about forty cents) an hour, with the addition of a small sum called pour-boire to which the driver is by custom entitled. Nearly everywhere we may see empty voitures, their drivers looking out for customers. When we want one, we do not call for it, nor do we stand on the curbstone and whistle, as if we were stopping a Fifth Avenue stage: If no driver sees us so that we can beckon to him, we follow the Parisian custom, and going to the edge of the pavement, give a strong hiss between our closed teeth. Instantly the nearest cocher, or driver, pulls up his horse and looks about him to see where that hiss comes from, and when he sees us, he comes around with a sweep in front of us.

The river Seine runs through Paris, and winds and doubles so much that there are seven miles of it within the city walls. It is crossed by twenty-seven bridges, and from one of these, the Pont de la Concorde, we shall start on our tour through Paris. The upper part of this bridge is built of stones taken from the Bastille prison after its destruction by the enraged people. Thus the Parisians can feel, when they cross this bridge, that they are treading under foot a portion of the building they so greatly abhorred. The view up and down the river is very fine, and gives us a good idea of the city we are about to explore. As we cross to the northern side of the Seine, on which lies the most important part of Paris, we have directly in front of us, the great Place de la Concorde, a fine open square, in the center of which rises an obelisk brought from Egypt. Here are magnificent fountains, handsome statuary on tall pedestals, and crowds of vehicles and foot-passengers crossing it in every direction, making a picturesque and lively scene. This was not always as pleasant a place as it is now, for during the great French Revolution the guillotine stood in this square, and here were executed two thousand eight hundred persons, among whom were Queen Marie Antoinette and her husband, Louis XVI. To the east of this square extends for a long distance the beautiful garden of the Tuileries, which belonged to the royal palace of that name, before it was destroyed. This garden is shaded by long lines of trees, and adorned with fountains and statues. On its southern side is an elevated walk, or terrace, very broad and handsome, and about half a mile long. In the reign of the Emperor Napoleon the Third, this walk was appropriated to the daily exercise of the Prince Imperial. Here the young fellow could walk up and down without being interfered with by the people below; and underneath was a covered passage in which he could take long walks in rainy weather.

One of the bridges across the Seine,--showing the Place de la Concorde and the Tuileries in the distance.

ONE OF THE BRIDGES ACROSS THE SEINE,—SHOWING THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE AND THE TUILERIES IN THE DISTANCE.

On the other side of the great square extends a broad and magnificent street, a mile and a third in length, called the Avenue des Champs Elysées. On each side, for nearly half a mile, this street is bordered by pleasure-grounds, beautifully laid out and planted with trees; and for the rest of the way it runs between two double rows of trees to the great Arch of Triumph, built by Napoleon Bonaparte to commemorate his victories. This arch is like those erected by the Roman emperors, and is covered with inscriptions and sculptures recording the glorious achievements of the great Napoleon. When Paris was taken by the Prussians in the war of 1871, the German army marched into the city through this arch of triumph; and if they wished to humiliate the French people, they could not have thought of a better plan. But the French people whom we now see here on fine afternoons do not look at all humiliated. They walk about under the trees; they sit upon the thousands of prettily painted iron chairs which are hired out at two cents apiece for a whole day; they drive up and down in the finest carriages that money can buy; and, so far as we can discover by looking at them, they are as well content and have as good an opinion of themselves as any people in the world. The pavement of the street and that of the great square is as smooth as a floor, and kept very neat and clean. This is the case indeed in nearly all the principal streets of Paris, and it is a pleasure to drive over their smooth and even pavements. But after a rain it is not so agreeable to walk across these streets, which are then covered with a coating of very sticky white mud.

On the northern side of the square is a handsome street of moderate length, called the Rue Royale. It is filled with fine shops, and is very animated and lively. At its upper end stands the beautiful church of the Madeleine, fashioned like a Grecian temple. We go up this street, and when we reach the broad space about the Madeleine, part of which is occupied as a flower-market, with long lines of booths crowded with many varieties of blossoms and plants, we find ourselves at the beginning of the magnificent line of streets, which are called the boulevards of Paris. The word boulevards means ramparts or bulwarks, and this long line of streets is built where the old ramparts of Paris used to stand. Of late, however, the word has been applied to many of the other broad and splendid streets for which Paris is famous. This crowded, lively, and interesting thoroughfare is over two miles long, and is, in fact, but one great street, although it is divided into eleven sections, called the Boulevard de la Madeleine, Boulevard des Capucines, Boulevard des Italiens, etc. These boulevards do not extend in a straight line, but make a great sweep to the north, and come down again to within a short distance of the river.

THE AVENUE DES CHAMPS ELYSÉES.

THE AVENUE DES CHAMPS ELYSÉES. (SEE PAGE 573.)

On each side of this wide line of streets are splendid shops and stores, cafés, restaurants, and handsome hotels; and before we have gone very far we shall see, standing back in an open space, the Grand Opera House of Paris. It is a magnificent building both inside and out; it is the largest theater in the world, and covers three acres of ground.

But although the fine buildings and the dazzling show-windows full of beautiful objects will continually attract our attention, they can not keep our eyes from the wonderful life and activity of the streets. The broad sidewalks, of course, are crowded with people, though no more than we often meet on Broadway, in New York, but the throng is peculiar because it is made up of such a variety of people who seem to be doing so many different things: ladies and gentlemen dressed in the latest fashions; working men in blue blouses; working women, always without any head-covering; boys and men with wooden shoes; gentlemen, and often ladies, sitting at little tables placed on the sidewalk in front of cafés, drinking coffee, or taking some other refreshment; soldier-policemen marching up and down, and looking very inoffensive; now and then a priest in long black clothes, and a broad felt hat. But yet among this multitude of people we seldom meet any one who is dashing along as if he were trying to catch a train or a boat, or to do something else for which he is afraid there is not time enough. Here and there we see, standing close to the curbstone, a little round wooden house, prettily ornamented, inside of which a woman sits selling newspapers which are displayed at the open window. These houses are called kiosks, and they take the place of the newspaper stands in our country. As far as possible, the French like to make their useful things ornamental, and these kiosks add very much to the appearance of the streets.

Occasionally we come to the opening of a covered arcade, extending a long distance back from the street, and crowded on both sides with shops, the pavement in the center being occupied only by foot-passengers. These arcades are called passages, and are among the most interesting features of Paris. The shops here are generally small, but they display their goods in a very enticing way. Some of the passages contain cafés and restaurants, and one of them is almost entirely devoted to the sale of toys and presents for children.

In another passage we shall find a very wonderful wax-work show, which, although it is not so large as the famous exhibition of Madame Tussaud in London, is, in many respects, much more interesting. There are figures here of all kinds, many of celebrated people, but instead of being set up stiffly around a room, they are arranged in groups in separate compartments, and in natural positions, as if they were saying or doing something. In the center of the room is a studio, in which the artist, who looks as natural as life, is painting a picture of a girl standing at a little distance from him, while behind him another girl is peeping over his shoulder to see how he is getting on, and she looks so life-like that we can almost expect to hear her say what she thinks about it. Near by, some ladies and gentlemen are looking over portfolios of drawings, other visitors are talking together and examining the pictures on the walls, while a servant is bringing in wax refreshments which look quite good enough to eat and drink. This scene will give us an excellent idea of life in the studio of a French artist. There are all kinds of scenes represented here, and some, especially in the basement, are of a gloomy and somber kind. One of these represents a body of policemen bursting into a room occupied by a band of counterfeiters engaged in making false money. The dismay of the counterfeiters, disturbed in their work, and the desperate fight that has already begun, are very startling and real, and we almost feel that we ought to move out of the way.

The roadway of the boulevards is filled with vehicles of every kind, and among these we particularly notice the great omnibuses, much larger than any we have, and each drawn by three powerful horses, generally white. These omnibuses have seats on top as well as inside, and a very good way to see the city is to take a ride upon one of those upper seats. The omnibuses are almost always well filled, but never crowded, no one being taken on after every seat is occupied, and a fixed number are standing on the outside platform. They stop at regular stations, not very far apart, and the people who wait here for them are provided with numbered tickets, which they procure from the agent at the station, so that when the omnibus comes, as many as can be accommodated take their seats in regular order, according to the number of their tickets. In this way, there is no crowding and pushing to get in, and those who are left behind have the best chance at the next omnibus.

PORTE ST. DENIS.

PORTE ST. DENIS. (See next page.)

THE PLACE DE LA BASTILLE.

THE PLACE DE LA BASTILLE. (See next page.)

In other parts of the city of Paris, there are street railways, called here tramways, which are managed very much in the same manner as the omnibuses. These vehicles are convenient and cheap, but not very agreeable, and it is much pleasanter to walk and pay nothing, or to take a voiture and pay thirty cents for two people for a drive from one end of the city to another.

And thus we go on along the boulevards, passing the celebrated gateways, Porte St. Martin and Porte St. Denis, until we come to the great open space once occupied by the Bastille, in which now rises a tall, sculptured column surmounted by a figure of Liberty. Those who have studied and remembered modern French history will take a great interest in this spot, where so many important events occurred.

Here end the boulevards. We now turn toward the river, and soon reach a wide street called the Rue de Rivoli, one side of which is lined with shops under arcades, which, in some respects, are more attractive than any we have yet seen. At many of these, photographs are sold; and their windows are crowded with pictures. All sorts of useful and cheap things are to be found here, and a walk through this street is like a visit to a museum. On the other side of the street is the great Palace of the Louvre, which extends for some distance, and after that, we come to the Garden of the Tuileries. When we have walked through this magnificent pleasure-ground, we shall reach the point from which we started on our tour.

THE OPERA-HOUSE, PARIS.

THE OPERA-HOUSE, PARIS.

We shall take many other walks and drives through the streets of Paris, and wherever we go, we shall find in each an interest of a different sort. On the southern side of the river, is the Latin Quarter, where there are some celebrated schools and academies, which, for centuries, have been the resort of students. Here we shall find narrow streets, crowded footways, and shops full of all sorts of antiquarian articles, and odds and ends of every kind, some of which seem to have no other value than that they are old, while other things are very valuable, and often very cheap.

Here, too, we find book shops, and shops where prints and engravings are sold, and all with their windows and even their outside walls crowded with the best things they have to offer. Along the river front are rows of stalls covered with second-hand books at very low prices, and those of us who are collectors of old coins can find them here by the peck or bushel. In this quarter, also, are some immense dry-goods and variety stores, which are worth going to see. One of them is so large, and there is so much to see in it, that, at three o'clock every day, a guide who can speak English sets out to conduct visitors through the establishment and to explain its various details.

In nearly every quarter of Paris, on either side of the river, we shall find shops, shops, shops; people, people, people; life, activity, and bustle of every sort. Splendid buildings meet our eyes at every turn,—churches, private residences, places of business, and public edifices. In the western portion of the city, near the Arc de Triomphe, there are fewer shops, these streets being generally occupied by fine private residences. But there is very little monotony in Paris; no quarter is entirely given up to any one thing. We can not walk far in any direction without soon coming upon some object of interest. The parks, palaces, public monuments, gardens, grand and beautiful churches, fountains of various designs, great market-places, squares, and buildings of historic interest or architectural beauty, are sometimes collected in groups, but, as a rule, they are scattered all over the city.

THE PONT DES ARTS AND THE LOUVRE.

THE PONT DES ARTS AND THE LOUVRE.

A GALLERY IN THE LOUVRE.

A GALLERY IN THE LOUVRE.

When we have satisfied ourselves with what Paris itself is, although we have not seen anything like the whole of it, we shall set about visiting some of its especial attractions. And the first place we shall go to will be the great palace of the Louvre. This palace, with its courts and buildings, covers some twenty acres. Here have lived kings, queens, and princes; but now the palace has been made into a museum for the people, and its grand halls and galleries are filled with paintings, statuary, and other works of art, ancient and modern, from all parts of the world. It would take many, many visits even to give one look at every painting and statue in the Louvre; but if we have not much time to spare, it is possible to see the best things without walking ourselves to death through the never-ending galleries. Some of the finest paintings of Raphael, Da Vinci, Murillo, and other great masters, are collected in one room, which many persons would think well worth coming to Paris to see, if they saw nothing else. The original statue of the noble Venus de Milo is in the sculpture galleries; and in the Egyptian museum, which is so full that the history of Egypt may be studied here almost as well as in that land itself, we shall see a large stone sphinx which once belonged to that king of Egypt from whom the children of Israel fled, and the inscriptions on it show that it must have been a pretty old sphinx even when Pharaoh had it. In another part of the museum are three life-size figures in stone, which are portraits of persons who lived before the great pyramids were built, about 4000 years before the Christian era.

BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF THE LOUVRE.

BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF THE LOUVRE.

Altogether, the collections of the Louvre are among the finest and most extensive in the world, and they have a great advantage over the galleries of the Vatican at Rome: In the Vatican some of the galleries are open on one day and some on another, some requiring one kind of order of admission, some another, and others yet another, and these permits are sometimes troublesome to obtain;—but the galleries of the Louvre are free to all, rich or poor, who may choose to walk into them on any day of the week except Monday, which is always reserved for cleaning, dusting, and putting things in order.

HOTEL DE CLUNY.

HOTEL DE CLUNY.

In the old palace of the Luxembourg, a very much smaller building, there is another valuable collection of paintings, but all by French artists; and the Hotel de Cluny, not far away, is a small palace of the Middle Ages, and is one of the quaintest, queerest, pleasantest, and most home-like palaces we are likely to meet with. It is now a museum, containing over ten thousand interesting objects, mostly relating to mediæval times. Here, among the other old-time things, we can see the very carriages and sleighs in which the great people of the seventeenth century used to ride. Those of us who suppose that we have now left the Romans for good must not fail to visit some large baths adjoining this palace, built about the end of the third century, when the Romans had possession of Gaul. They then had a palace on this spot, and felt bound, as the ancient Romans always did, to make themselves comfortable with baths and everything of the kind. There are other museums and art exhibitions in Paris, but those we have seen are the most important; and it is very pleasant to find that they are greatly frequented by the poorer classes of the city, who are just as orderly and well behaved while walking about these noble palaces as if they belonged to the highest families of the land. In the great garden of the Tuileries, in the courts and gardens attached to the Louvre, the Luxembourg, the Palais Royal, and in all the pleasure-grounds of the city, we find the poor people enjoying themselves; and in some cases they seem to get more good out of these places than do the rich. The old women sit knitting in the shade of the trees; the little babies with their funny caps toddle about on the walks; the boys and girls have their games in the great open spaces around the fountains, and while those who have a cent or two to spare can hire little chairs and put them where they like, there are always benches for those who have no pennies to spend. The convenience of resting one's self in the open air is one of the comforts of Paris. In many places along the principal streets, there are benches on the sidewalk, where weary passers-by may rest shaded by the trees. In one part of the city, chiefly inhabited by the poor and the working people, a fine park has been laid out entirely for their accommodation. In very many ways the French government offers opportunities to the poor people to enjoy themselves, and it is pleasant to see how neat, orderly, and quiet these people are. It is very necessary that they should be kept in good humor, for when the lower classes of Paris become thoroughly dissatisfied, they are apt to rise in fierce rebellion, and then down go kings, governments, and palaces.

NOTRE DAME CATHEDRAL (FROM THE REAR).

NOTRE DAME CATHEDRAL (FROM THE REAR).

LUXEMBOURG PALACE.

LUXEMBOURG PALACE.

On the southern side of the river rises a great gilded dome which glistens in the sun, and may be seen from all parts of Paris. This dome belongs to the church attached to the Hotel des Invalides, or hospital for invalid soldiers, and it covers the tomb of Napoleon Bonaparte. This tomb, which is very magnificent and imposing, is some distance below the floor of the church, and we look down upon it over a circular railing. There we see the handsome sarcophagus, made of a single block of granite weighing sixty-seven tons, which contains the remains of a man who once conquered the greater part of Europe.

Paris is full of churches, some old and some new, and many grand or beautiful, but no one of them is so interesting as the famous cathedral of Notre Dame, which stands on an island in the Seine, called La Cité, or the Island of the City, because here the original Paris was built. This great church is not so attractive in appearance as some that we have seen elsewhere, but it is connected with so many events in the history of France, that as we wander about under its vaulted arches and through its pillared aisles, and as we look upon the strange and sometimes startling sculptures in the chapels, the curious wood carvings about the choir, the immense circular window of gorgeously stained glass in the transept, which sends its brightness into the solemn duskiness of the church, we shall do so with a degree of interest increased by what we have read about this old and famous building.

THE CHURCH OF THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES.

THE CHURCH OF THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES.

Another church which we shall wish to see is Sainte-Chapelle, or Holy Chapel, built in 1245 by King Louis IX., who was known as St. Louis. It stands on the same island as Notre Dame, and near the Palace of Justice, a great pile of buildings containing the law courts. This church or chapel is small, but it is, perhaps, the most beautiful of the kind in the world. The walls of the upper story, in which the royal court used to worship, are almost entirely of exquisitely colored glass. These walls are formed of windows nearly fifty feet high, and the light shining through every side of this gorgeous temple of stained glass produces a remarkable and beautiful effect.

The present Palace of Justice is for the most part a modern building, but portions of the old edifice of the same name which used to stand upon this spot still remain. In one of these we shall visit the old Conciergerie, which is famous as a French state prison. Here we shall see the little room with a brick floor, in which the beautiful Marie Antoinette, the wife of Louis XVI., was imprisoned for two months before her execution. Here is the very arm-chair in which she sat. Thus we bring to mind the events of the great French revolution, and can easily recall the sorrowful things which took place in the halls and rooms of that gloomy Conciergerie.

Another celebrated Parisian church is the Pantheon, an immense edifice. This building was intended as a burial-place for illustrious men of France.

We have all heard of the famous cemetery of Père-Lachaise. It lies within the city, and will be interesting to us, not only because of its great size and beauty, and because it contains the graves of so many persons famous in art, science, literature, and war, but because it is so different from any graveyard to which we are accustomed. It has more than twenty thousand monuments, and many of these are like little houses standing side by side as if they were dwellings on a street. Each vault generally belongs to a family, and the little buildings are almost always decorated with a profusion of flowers and wreaths, and often with pictures and hanging lamps. Here, as in other French cemeteries, it is not uncommon to place a framed photograph of a deceased person over his grave.

There are small steamboats which run up and down the Seine like omnibuses, and the charge to passengers is about two cents apiece. These little boats are called by the Parisians mouches, or flies, and as they are often very convenient for city trips, we shall take one of them and go to the Jardin des Plantes, a very extensive and famous zoölogical and botanical garden. Here we may ramble for hours, and see animals from all parts of the world in cages, and houses, and in little yards, where they can enjoy the open air.

At the other end of the city, outside the walls, is the Jardin d' Acclimatation, that contains a great number of foreign animals and plants, many of which have been naturalized so as to feel at home in the climate of France. In one house here, we may see all kinds of silk-worms, with the plants they feed upon growing near by. In another part of the grounds we shall find trained zebras and ostriches harnessed to little carriages, in which children may take a ride; and we shall see some very gentle elephants and camels, on which we may mount and get an idea of how people travel in the East. We shall here perhaps call to mind the account of this place which was published in St. Nicholas more than ten years ago,—in June, 1874.

THE SARCOPHAGUS; THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE IN THE CHURCH OF THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES.

THE SARCOPHAGUS; THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE IN THE CHURCH OF THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES.

The Bois de Boulogne, adjoining this garden, is a very large park, where we can see the fashionable people of Paris in their carriages on fine afternoons.

There are certain goods sold in Paris known under the name of "articles de Paris." These consist of all sorts of pretty things, generally very tasteful but not very expensive, among which are jewelry and trinkets of many kinds, and a great variety of useful and ornamental little objects made in the most attractive fashion. These goods, of course, can be bought in other cities, but Paris has made a specialty of their manufacture, and many shops are entirely given up to their sale. A great number of such shops is to be found in the Palais Royal. This is a vast palace built for Cardinal Richelieu, in 1625, and is in the form of a hollow square, surrounding the garden of the Palais Royal. Around the four sides of the palace, under long colonnades and facing the garden, are rows of shops, their windows filled with all sorts of sparkling and beautiful things in gold, silver, precious stones, bronze, brass, and every other material that pretty things can be made of. By night or by day the colonnades of the Palais Royal are very attractive places, and as all visitors go to them, so do we. Even if we do not buy anything, we shall be interested in the endless display in the windows.

Another place we shall wish to visit is the famous manufactory of Gobelin tapestry. In this factory, which belongs to the Government, are produced large and beautiful woven pictures, and the great merit of the work is that it is done entirely by hand, no machinery being used. The operation is very slow, each workman putting one thread at a time in its place, and faithfully copying a painting in oil or water-colors, which stands near him, as a model. If, in a day, he covers a space as large as his hand, he considers that he has done a very good day's work. These tapestries, which are generally very large and expensive, are used as wall-hangings in palaces and public buildings. It will be an especial delight, I think, to the girls in our company to watch this beautiful work slowly growing under the fingers of the skillful workmen.

Outside of Paris, but not far away, there are some famous places which we must see. First among these are the palace and grounds of Versailles, a magnificent palace, built by Louis XIV. for a summer residence. This gentleman, who liked to be called Le Grand Monarque had so high an idea of the sort of country place he wanted, that he spent upon this palace and its grounds the sum of two hundred millions of dollars.* The whole place is now open to the public, and the grand and magnificent apartments and halls, some of them nearly four hundred feet long, are filled with paintings and statuary, so that the palace is now a great art gallery. The park is splendidly laid out, having in it a wide canal nearly a mile long. The fountains here are considered the finest in the world, and when they play, which is not very often, thousands upon thousands of people come out from Paris to see them. In the grounds are two small palaces, once inhabited by French queens; and one of these, called the little Trianon, was the beautiful home of Marie Antoinette, whose last home on earth was the brick-paved room of the Conciergerie. The private garden attached to this little palace, which is more like a park than a garden, possesses much rural beauty.

Here, on the margin of a lake, we may see the little thatched cottages which Marie Antoinette had built, that she and the ladies of her court might play at being milkmaids. These cottages stand just as they did when those noble ladies dressed themselves up like peasant girls, and milked cows, which, I have no doubt, were very gentle animals, while the royal milkmaids probably tried to make themselves believe that they could have the happiness of real milkmaids as well as that which belonged to their own lives of luxury and state.

At Fontainebleau is another royal palace, to which is attached a magnificent forest of forty-two thousand acres. The kings of France did not like to feel cramped in their houses or grounds, and in this beautiful forest, which measures fifty miles around, there are twelve thousand four hundred miles of roads and foot-paths. On the borders of this forest is the village of Barbizon, where lived the artist, Millet, of whom you have read in St. Nicholas.

Not far from Paris is the old palace of St. Germain, in which many kings have been born, lived, and died, and to which there is a forest of nine thousand acres attached. There is also St. Cloud, with a ruined palace and a lovely park, with statues, fountains, and charming walks; and, near by, the village of Sèvres, where the famous porcelain of that name is made. Also within easy distance of the city, is the old cathedral of St. Denis, where, for over a thousand years, the kings of France were buried. Here, in a crypt or burial-place under the church, we may look through a little barred window into a gloomy vault, and see, standing quite near us, the metal coffin which contains the bones of Marie Antoinette, whose palaces, pleasure-grounds, prison-house, and place of execution we have already seen.

The history of France shows us that Paris has been as rich in historical events as it is now in bright, attractive shops; but, as a rule, it is much more pleasant to see the latter than to remember the former. In our walks through Paris, we will not think too much of the dreadful riots and combats that have taken place in her streets, the blood that has been shed even in her churches, and the executions and murders that have been witnessed in her beautiful open squares. Instead of this, we will give ourselves up to the enjoyment of the Queen of Cities, as she now is, thinking only of the unrivaled pleasures she offers to visitors, and of the kindness and politeness which we almost always meet with from her citizens.

Footnote *: A sketch of the boyhood of this spendthrift monarch was given in the series of "Historic Boys," under the title of "Louis of Bourbon: the Boy King," in St. Nicholas for October, 1884.

GRANDPAPA ROSEBUSH.

GRANDPAPA ROSEBUSH.

There are roses that grow on a vine, on a vine,

There are roses that grow on a tree;

But my little Rose

Grows on ten little toes,

And she is the rose for me.

Come out in the garden, Rosy Posy!

Come visit your cousins, child, with me.

If you are my grandchild,

it stands to reason

That Grandpapa Rosebush

I must be.

Oh! fair is the rose on the vine, on the vine,

And fair is the rose on the stalk;

But there's only one rose

Who has ten little toes,

And it's that rose I'll take for a walk.

Come put on your calyx, Rosy Posy!

Put on your calyx and come with me;

For if you are my grandchild,

it stands to reason

That Grandpapa Rosebush

I must be.

THE KELP-GATHERERS.

[A Story of the Maine Coast.]

By J. T. Trowbridge.

Chapter I.

THE ELDER TWINS.

Before Beman's Beach had become the popular summer resort which all tourists know to-day, there lived, a little back from the rocky coast which stretches away from it toward the southwest, a farmer named Elder. He had a large family, which consisted mostly of girls; but there were two boys, who were twins.

The boys were called Moke and Poke. These were not their baptismal names, of course. Moke Elder had been christened Moses, and Poke Elder had received at the same time the respectable appellation of Porter—both after their uncle, Mr. Moses Porter, who lived in the family. But they were so seldom called by those names that most people seemed to have forgotten them. Moke was Moke, and Poke was Poke, the world over.

That is to say, their world, which would not have required a tape measure quite twenty-five thousand miles long to go around it. "Frog-End" was the nickname of the part of the town where they lived,—probably on account of a great marsh which was very noisy in spring,—and they were little known beyond its borders.

But everybody about Frog-End and along the coast knew Moke and Poke. That is to say, they were known as twins, if not as individual, separate boys. They looked so much alike, both being thin-faced and tow-headed, and dressed so much alike, often wearing each other's clothes, that he who, meeting one alone, could always say "Moke," or "Poke," as the case might be,—and feel sure he wasn't calling Moke "Poke" or Poke "Moke,"—must have known them very well indeed.

Of course, only a born Frog-Ender could do that. I am not a Frog-Ender myself, and the only way I could ever tell them apart was by looking closely at their moles.

They had two moles between them, exactly alike, except that Moke wore his on the right cheek, quite close to the right nostril, while Poke hung out his sign on the left cheek, at about an equal distance from the left nostril; as if Nature had had just a pair of moles to throw in with their other personal attractions, and had divided her gift in this impartial way.

Even after people had learned these distinguishing marks, however, they could not always remember, at a moment, which had the right mole and which the left; but they would often say "Poke" to the right mole and "Moke" to the left mole, in a manner that appeared very ridiculous to the boys' seven sisters, who couldn't see that they resembled each other at all.

The twins were nearly always together, whether at work or at play; when one was sent on an errand, as a rule both would go, if it was only to get a pound of board-nails or a spool of thread at the village store. They were about the age of their neighbors and playmates, Oliver Burdeen (commonly called Olly), who, when he was at home, lived two farms away from them, and Percival Bucklin (familiarly known as Perce), who lived still nearer, on the other side.

These four boys are the three heroes of our story,—counting the twins as one,—and they come into it on a certain afternoon late in August, just after a great storm had swept over the New England coast.

Uncle Moses Porter—uncle of the twins on the mother's side, an odd and very shabby old bachelor—comes into it at the same time, but doesn't get in very far. It would be hard to make a hero of him. At about four o'clock that day he stood in Mr. Elder's backyard, barefooted and without his hat, watching the clouds and the wooden fish on the barn, and making up his mind about the weather. That was a subject to which he had given the study of a lifetime. He could tell you as many "signs" as there are letters in the alphabet, and spell out to-morrow's weather very exactly with them; that is to say, what it should be, not always what it actually was—Nature sometimes neglecting in the strangest way her own plain rules. A great deal was said about Uncle Moses's occasional lucky hits, and very little about his frequent misses; and he enjoyed a world-wide reputation (the Frog-End world, again) as a weather-prophet, until "Old Probabilities" at Washington took the wind out of his predictions, and drove him, so to speak, out of the business.

But at the time of which I write he was at the pinnacle of his fame, and nobody ventured to doubt his prognostications. If the weather didn't turn out as he predicted, why, so much the worse for the weather!

"Wind has whipped 'round the right way this time, boys!" he remarked, after long and careful observation. "It's got square into the west, and I predict it's a-go'n' to stay there, and give us fair weather, nex' four-'n'-twenty hours. The's no rain in yon clouds; it's all been squeezed out, or else I never saw a flyin' scud afore!"

He paused as if to relax his mind after the severe strain of this prophecy, and smiled as he came toward the woodshed,—where the twins were standing.

"An' I tell ye what, boys! A heap o' that kelp the storm's hove up, are a-go'n' to land, this tide an' tomorrer mornin's, an' you'd better be on hand to git our share on 't."

UNCLE MOSE PREDICTS FAIR WEATHER. UNCLE MOSE PREDICTS FAIR WEATHER.

Of all the farm-work the twins ever tried, they found going for sea-weed the most delightful. There was a relish of adventure in it; and it took them to the beach, which was always a pleasant change for boys brought up on Frog-End rocks. The kelp was usually hauled up from the shore and left to rot in heaps; after which, it became excellent dressing for the land.

There was no good beach very near Mr. Elder's farm, but he had a right on Beman's Beach, two or three miles down the coast.

Chapter II.

A PARTNERSHIP.

Mr. Bucklin, another Frog-End farmer, had a similar right, and he and his son Percival were that same afternoon talking about the expected harvest of kelp. Mr. Bucklin was saying that there was nothing to be gained by starting for the beach till the next morning, and that even then he couldn't go, as being one of the town's selectmen he would have some public business to attend to,—and Percival, a bright, strong, enterprising boy of sixteen, was insisting that their team ought to be on the shore by daylight, and that he would be there with it if he could get anybody to go with him, when the Elder twins came crossing fields and leaping fences, and finally tumbled over the bars into the yard where father and son were talking.

"Uncle Mose says—" began Moke.

"Wind's just right for the kelp," struck in Poke.

"There'll be stacks of it," Moke exclaimed.

"And we're going!" Poke continued.

That was the way they usually did an errand or told a story,—one giving one fragment of a sentence, and his brother the next, if, indeed, they didn't both speak together.

They ended with a proposition. Their father had gone to Portland with the team; and if Mr. Bucklin would let Perce take his tip-cart and yoke of steers, they would go with him, and all the sea-weed gathered by the three should be shared equally by the two farmers.

"And what we want is——" said Moke.

"To start after an early supper this evening," said Poke.

"Camp to-night at the beach," Moke added.

"And be on hand to begin work——" Poke added, contributing his link to the conversational chain.

"As soon as the tide turns in the morning," rattled both together.

Mr. Bucklin smiled indulgently.

"I think your uncle is right," he said. "And I'm willing Perce should go. Though I don't know about your starting to-night to camp out."

"Oh, yes!" exclaimed Percival, as eager for the adventure as if he had been a third twin and shared the enthusiasm of his two other selves. "That will be all the fun!"

"We'll take some green corn——" said Moke.

"And new potatoes——" said Poke.

"And a sickle to cut grass——" Moke ran on.

"And make a fire of driftwood——" Poke outstripped him.

"For the steers," said Moke, finishing his own sentence, and not Poke's.

"To roast 'em," concluded Poke, referring to the potatoes and green corn, and not to the steers.

"It'll be just grand!" Percival exclaimed. "May we, father? The tide will turn about daylight; we'll have our breakfast on the beach, and be ready to go to work; and we'll haul two big heaps on the shore, one for us and one for them, and leave 'em till they're ready to draw away and spread on the land. May we, father?"

"You're not so sure the kelp'll land," said the cautious farmer. "It's notional about it sometimes."

"But if the wind keeps off shore it will!" said Moke and Poke, two voices for a single thought.

"The wind may chip around again, and the kelp all disappear as clean as if the beach had been swept. But I don't care," added the farmer indulgently. "If you boys want to take the chance, I'll let Perce have the steers. You might gather some driftwood, anyhow. The storm must have driven a good lot of that high up, out of the reach of the common tides."

His easy consent made the boys as happy as if they had been going to a circus; and they immediately began to make preparations for the trip.

Moke and Poke ran home for their suppers, and came running back in an incredibly short time, bringing a basket of provisions, with ears of unhusked corn and bottles of spruce-beer sticking out, a blanket for their bed on the beach, and each a three-tined pitchfork for handling the kelp. These were put into the cart, along with articles furnished by Percival, and a quantity of hay which Mr. Bucklin said they would find comfortable to sleep on that night, even if it didn't come handy to feed the oxen.

The yoked steers were then made fast to the cart, and they set off.

Chapter III.

GOING FOR SEA-WEED.

Never king in his coach enjoyed a more exhilarating ride than our three youngsters in the old tip-cart, drawn by the slow cattle along the rough country road. The source of happiness is in our own hearts; and it is wonderful how little it takes to make it run over, in a healthy boy.

A board placed across the cart-box served as a seat; and when one of them tired of riding on that, he would tumble in the hay. Perce wielded the ox-gad at first; but soon the twins wished to drive. Both reached for the whip at once.

"Wait a minute! you can't both have it!" cried Perce. "The oldest first!"

"I'm the oldest," declared Moke.

"So I've heard you say," Perce replied. "But I don't see how anybody ever remembered."

"They looked out for that when they named us," said Moke.

"It was uncle Moses's idea," said Poke. "He told 'em, 'Call the oldest by my first name and the youngest by my last name——'"

"'And that will fix it in folks's minds,'" Moke completed the quotation.

"That was before they discovered the moles," said both together.

"I never thought of that," said Perce. "But whenever anybody asks me which is the oldest, I think of your initials, and run over in my mind—L, M, N, O, P;—M comes before P; then I say, 'Moke's the oldest.' But how could they tell you apart before they saw the moles?"

"They tied a red string around Moke's ankle," said Poke.

"But once the string came off, and Ma thinks it might have been changed," said Moke.

"And to this day she can't say positively but I am Moke, and Moke is me," said Poke.

Perce laughed. "Why didn't you have something besides a couple of teenty-taunty moles to distinguish you?" he asked. "Why didn't one of you be light-complexioned and the other dark? There'd have been some sense in that."

"We couldn't!" said Poke.

"You didn't try," replied Perce.

"We couldn't if we had tried," said Moke. "Twins are always——"

"The same complexion," struck in Poke. "Just like one person."

"No, they're not; there's no rule about that," said Perce. "And when you talk of one person—have you heard of the man over in Kennebunk?"

"What about him?" asked the twins.

"Why, haven't you heard? One half his face," said Perce, "as if you should draw a line straight down his forehead and nose to the bottom of his chin," he drew his finger down his own face, by way of illustration; "one half—it's the right half, I believe—is as black as a negro's. Yes; I'm sure it's the right half."

"Pshaw!" said Moke.

"Oh, Jiminy!" said Poke.

"I don't believe it!" said both together.

"It's true, I tell you!" Perce insisted. "My father has seen him; and my father wouldn't lie."

"He must have had some disease," said Moke.

"He's what they call a leopard," said Poke.

"You mean a leper?" laughed Perce. "No; he isn't a leper, nor an albino. Why, boys! didn't you ever hear of such a case? It's quite common, and it's easily explained."

"I give it up! How do you explain it?" said the twins.

"Simply enough!" exclaimed Perce. "The other side of his face is black too." And he keeled over backward on the hay.

It was an old joke which he had indeed heard his father tell; but it was new to the twins, who were completely taken in by it.

"Throw him out of the cart!" shrieked Poke, half smothered with laughter, at the same time seizing hold of Perce as if to execute his own order.

"I'll jolt him out!" cried Moke, who was driving; and he began to urge the oxen into a heavy, clumsy trot, which shook up the cart and its contents in a way that was more lively than pleasant.

"Oh, don't do that!" cried Perce, with the jolts in his voice. "You'll break the e-g-g-s in my ba-ask-et!"

"I've had one supper, but I shall want another by the time we get to the beach," said Poke.

"So shall I!" cried Perce. "We'll make a big fire on the shore, and have a jolly time. And, I say, boys, let's call for Olly Burdeen, and make him come down on the beach with us to-night."

"That will be fun, if he isn't too proud to go with country people now," replied Moke.

"Since he's been waiting on city folks, he's as stuck up as if he'd tumbled into a cask of molasses," said Poke.

"Olly is all right," said Perce. "He doesn't put on any airs with me. We'll have him with us, anyhow!"

CHAPTER IV.

OLLY BURDEEN'S NEW CLOTHES.

There was but one boarding-house at Beman's Beach in those days. Originally a farm-house, it stood in not the very best situation, a little distance back from the sea, in a hollow of the hills. It was kept by a farmer's widow, Mrs. Murcher, who, as her business expanded, had built on additions until her house looked as if it had the mumps in one enormously swollen cheek.

While his Frog-End mates were driving thither-ward in the tip-cart, and talking about him, Master Oily Burdeen, the third hero in our story (counting the twins as one), was standing before a bureau in Mrs. Murcher's best corner room, and smiling graciously at his image in the oval-shaped looking-glass.

He held a hair-brush in his right hand and a comb in his left, and after giving his sleek locks an artistic touch or two, he would tip the mirror a trifle and recede a step, to get a still more pleasing view of his personal perfections.

It was not his own room, there in the new part—the swollen cheek, as it were—of the summer boarding-house. Nor can I have the satisfaction of declaring that it was his own brush and comb with which he was making so free, nor his own cologne that had imparted to his naturally rough, rusty hair its extraordinary fragrance and smoothness. But the broadly smiling mouth, snub nose, and freckles were possessions nobody would have thought of disputing with Master Olly; and the tolerably well-fitting, genteel, grayish-brown suit he had on had belonged to him about eight hours.

Olly Burdeen was not, in fact, one of Mrs. Murcher's boarders. He was only a boy-of-all-work employed by her for the season. The room belonged to Mr. Hatville, who had gone yachting that afternoon; and Olly had taken temporary possession to admire himself in his new clothes before the convenient glass.

For new they were to him, although they had been rather well worn that summer by the friendly young boarder, who, on departing in the morning, had made Oily a present of them in return for the errands Oily had done for him.

This was the first opportunity to try them on that the proud recipient had found. He had never in his life worn anything so stylish, and we can smile tolerantly at the innocent vanity with which he surveyed himself in Mr. Hatville's mirror. His liberal use of Mr. Hatville's hair-brush and cologne-bottle was not, perhaps, so excusable. And when with fearful joy he took from its embroidered case by the mirror the tempting gold watch which Mr. Hatville had, either by accident or design, left hanging there, on changing his clothes that afternoon to go yachting,—when, I say, Master Burdeen lifted out that valuable time-piece by its dangling chain, and placed it in the watch-pocket of his new waistcoat, it must be owned that he was carrying his ideas of hospitality too far.

OLLY IS WELL SATISFIED WITH HIS APPEARANCE. OLLY IS WELL SATISFIED WITH HIS APPEARANCE.

"It only needed a watch to set it off," he said; "and here it is!"

In his button-hole he hooked the gold guard, letting the heavy seal hang, and the chain fall in a graceful curve on his vest. Then he drew out the watch and opened it with a pressure of the spring (it was a hunter's case), and looked at the time; shutting it again with a delightful snap, and replacing it in his pocket, as he strutted the while with amiable satisfaction before the tilted glass.

"I'll have just such a watch of my own some day," he said to himself, proudly, "and just such a gold chain, with a seal as big as that! See if I don't!"

With a sigh he started to put it back in the embroidered case where he had found it. But that required too great an effort of self-denial.

"I'd like to wear it a few minutes; where'll be the harm?" he thought. "Of course, I wont let any accident happen to it."

He looked at the time again; it was half-past six. The two or three men boarders who remained with Mrs. Murcher (for it was now late in the season) had gone yachting, and the ladies were at tea. It was an hour of leisure with Olly, and having put on his new rig, he thought it would be pleasant to take a stroll on the beach, a sort of rehearsal of his rôle of "walking gentleman," before going that evening to show himself to the admiring natives at Frog-End. He couldn't resist the temptation to carry the watch, on this preliminary excursion; buttoning the guard and seal under the top buttons of his coat, so that they shouldn't be observed as he left the house.

"I only wish she could see me!" he whispered blushingly to himself, as he went down the stairs.

"She" was Miss Amy Canfield, the youngest of the lady boarders, and in his eyes the prettiest. She had been kind to Olly, as, indeed, the most of the boarders had been; and it put him into a warm glow, from his cheeks to his shins, as he thought of meeting her surprised gaze.

But Amy was at tea with the rest, and as oblivious of him at that moment as if he had never existed. So he passed out of the house unnoticed, and went to enjoy his little strut alone; unbuttoning his coat again, and glancing down at the superb chain and seal, as he took the sandy path to the beach.

"If I see the Susette," he said,—for that was the name of the yacht,—"I'll hurry back, and have the watch in its place again long before Mr. Hatville lands."

This he fully intended to do. But neither from the intervening sand-hills, nor from the shore itself, which he reached after a short walk from the boarding-house, was the yacht anywhere to be seen.

The sea had gone down rapidly since the recent gale. It rolled on the beach, in breakers made dark and turbid by the sea-weed which, uptorn by the storm and mixed with sand, still tumbled and washed to and fro in the waves.

"Wind's got around square in the west," observed Olly. "The yacht'll have a mean time beating up!"

The sky was partly covered by heavy masses of broken clouds, in an opening of which the sun was just setting over dark growths of pine and spruce that rose behind the dunes, a little back from the beach. As it went down, the shadows of the woods stretched out, like wings, over the dunes and the smooth, glistening slope of beach sand, just washed by the receding tide. Then the sunset light on the white crests of the breakers was quenched, and the whole sea was in gloom. For a moment only, for now the flying clouds caught a flush which spread swiftly over the sky, until the entire heavens, almost down to the sea rim, appeared one burning flame. The sea itself had a strange, wild beauty, the dark and sullen waters but half consenting to reflect the glow of the clouds on their heaving waves.

Chapter V.

LAUNCHING THE DORY.

"Just the time to take a little row," thought Olly Burdeen, as he strolled about, looking sometimes admiringly at his new clothes and the gay watch-guard, and sometimes casting wistful glances at the sea.

He knew the thrilling pleasure of crossing and recrossing the breakers in a good boat, and rocking on the swells outside.

"I believe I'll try it once," he said. "Maybe I can see the yacht around the point."

The point was a rocky arm of the shore which shut off the ocean view on the north-east, the direction from which the Susette was expected. But the little harbor it would have to enter was a deep cove in the broken coast at the other end of the beach, a quarter of a mile away.

"It can't possibly come in without my seeing it in season," thought Olly, with a glance at the watch, which he took from his pocket and opened and shut again with a sort of guilty joy, for the twentieth time.

There were a couple of dories drawn up above high-water mark; and he knew where a pair of old battered oars were hidden under a row of bathing-houses close by. He drew them out and threw them on the sand. Then he looked at the seaweed in his way,—little windrows of it littering the beach, and dark masses rolling in the surf. The tide had been going out about three hours.

"I can get through that easily enough," he said.

He dragged the lightest of the dories down to the water's edge, and put in the oars. He knew just how it should be launched, and understood the necessity of sending it straight across the breakers, and of never, by any chance, letting them strike it sidewise.

Placing himself at the upper end, he waited for a good wave, and pushed the boat into it,—running with it until his feet were almost in the water, then holding it firmly until another wave lifted it. Just as that was subsiding, he gave the dory another push, leaped in at the same time, caught up the oars, and had them in the rowlocks and in the water just as the third wave came.

So far, so good. He had done the same thing many times before, and had never met with an accident. Two or three sturdy strokes, and he would have been safe outside the rollers. But at a critical moment he paused to look at a few spatters of water on his new clothes; and on the instant one of his oars caught in a whirling tangle of kelp.

The boat was going out swiftly in one direction; the billow that bore the kelp was rushing in with tremendous force in the other. No one knows the power of a wave, who has not felt it at some such crisis. What happened was over so quickly that Olly himself could not have explained it. A brief struggle, a terrible wrench, a buffet in the breast and face from the end of an oar,—and he was lying on his back in the dory with his heels above the thwarts.

For a few seconds he lay there, half stunned by the blow and the fall. His breath seemed to have been quite knocked out of his body. It did not take him long to recover it, however, and to reverse the positions of his head and his heels. When he did so, he found the boat swinging around broadside to the breakers, with one threatening at that very moment to overwhelm it.

Instinctively he seized an oar and pulled with all his might to head the dory to the wave. He succeeded, and sent it careening safely over it and the next great swell, and so out to sea.

But it was at the expense of the oar. It was an old one, much worn by the friction of the rowlocks, and his last stroke broke it short off at the weak point. The paddle-end fell overboard, and only the handle remained in his hand.

He then turned to look for the other oar, and found that he had lost it at the time of his tumble. He could see it going over on a breaker, several rods behind him. For now the wind took the dory, and was wafting it away almost as rapidly as if it carried a sail.

He tried paddling with the stub that remained in his hand, but made so little headway with it that he began to be seriously alarmed. He had been sufficiently startled by his accident and the danger of an overturn in the rollers; but he now saw himself in face of an unforeseen peril.

He at first thought he would jump overboard and swim to the beach; but even then he remembered his clothes, which a wetting might ruin—to say nothing of Mr. Hatville's watch.

There was, besides, another danger. The kelp! He was a good swimmer; but could he ever make his way through breakers in which such fields of sea-weed tossed and rolled?

The night was shutting down with gathering clouds. The wind struck the skiff with a force he had not felt under the lee of the woods. Not a human being was in sight, nor a boat—only two or three distant sails on the horizon.

"Oh, the yacht! Where is the yacht?" he cried aloud, gazing eagerly around the point of rocks, the view beyond which was rapidly opening as he drifted out to sea.

A little while before, he would have been sorry enough to have had the Susette come in before he had time to land and run back to the boarding-house with the borrowed watch; but now he wished for nothing so devoutly as that it might come along and pick him up—so much worse things might happen than the discovery of the time-piece in his possession.

But no yacht hove in sight. The glory had faded out of the sky. The sea darkened; the wind increased. He shouted for help, though with little hope of making himself heard.

There were only women at the boarding-house, and even if his voice reached them, it must have sounded so faint and far away as to attract no especial attention. But the upper windows were visible over the sand-hills. Perhaps somebody, perhaps Amy Canfield herself, was gazing from them.

In that hope he swung his hat with frantic gestures of distress, still screaming for help, as he drifted away on the darkening waters.

(To be continued.)

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

[An Historical Biography.]

By Horace E. Scudder.

Chapter XV.

UNDER THE OLD ELM.

It was on the 15th day of June, 1775, that George Washington was chosen Commander-in-Chief of the American army. The next day he made his answer to Congress, in which he declared that he accepted the office, but that he would take no pay; he would keep an exact account of his expenses, but he would give his services to his country. There was no time to be lost. He could not go home to bid his wife good-by, and he did not know when he should see her again, so he wrote her as follows:

"PHILADELPHIA, 18th June, 1775.

"MY DEAREST:

"I am now set down to write to you on a subject which fills me with inexpressible concern, and this concern is greatly aggravated and increased when I reflect upon the uneasiness I know it will give you. It has been determined in Congress that the whole army raised for the defence of the American cause shall be put under my care, and that it is necessary for me to proceed immediately to Boston to take upon me the command of it.

"You may believe me, my dear Patsy, when I assure you in the most solemn manner, that, so far from seeking this appointment, I have used every endeavor in my power to avoid it, not only from my unwillingness to part with you and the family, but from a consciousness of it being a trust too great for my capacity, and that I should enjoy more real happiness in one month with you at home than I have the most distant prospect of finding abroad, if my stay were to be seven times seven years. But as it has been a kind of destiny that has thrown me upon this service, I shall hope that my undertaking it is designed to answer some good purpose. You might, and I suppose did perceive, from the tenor of my letters, that I was apprehensive I could not avoid this appointment, as I did not pretend to intimate when I should return. That was the case. It was utterly out of my power to refuse this appointment, without exposing my character to such censures as would have reflected dishonor upon myself and given pain to my friends."

That is to say, he could not refuse the appointment without laying himself open to the charge of being a coward and afraid to run the risk, or a selfish man who preferred his own ease and comfort. He was neither. He was a courageous man, as he had always shown himself to be, and he was unselfish, for he was giving up home and property, and undertaking a life of the greatest difficulty in the service of—what? His country? Yes. But we must remember that Virginia was his country more than all the colonies were, and at present it was only Massachusetts that stood in peril. Of course every one is impelled to do great things by more than one motive. Washington was a soldier, and his blood tingled as he thought of being Commander-in-Chief, and doing the most that a soldier could; but he was, above all, a man who had a keen sense of right and wrong. He saw that England was wrong and was doing injustice to America. The injustice did not at once touch him as a planter, as a man who was making money; it touched him as a free man who was obedient to the laws; and he was ready to give up everything to help right the wrongs.

Washington left Philadelphia on his way to Boston, June 21, escorted by a troop of horsemen, and accompanied by Schuyler and Lee, who had just been made major-generals by Congress. They had gone about twenty miles when they saw a man on horseback coming rapidly down the road. It was a messenger riding post haste to Philadelphia, and carrying to Congress news of the battle of Bunker Hill. Everybody was stirred by the news and wanted to know the particulars.

"Why were the Provincials compelled to retreat?" he was asked.

"It was for want of ammunition," he replied.

"Did they stand the fire of the regular troops?" asked Washington anxiously.

"That they did, and held their own fire in reserve until the enemy was within eight rods."

"Then the liberties of the country are safe!" exclaimed Washington. He remembered well the scenes under Braddock, and he knew what a sight it must have been to those New England farmers when a compact body of uniformed soldiers came marching up from the boats at Charlestown. If they could stand fearlessly, there was stuff in them for soldiers.

'DID THEY STAND THE FIRE OF THE REGULAR TROOPS?'

"'DID THEY STAND THE FIRE OF THE REGULAR TROOPS?' ASKED WASHINGTON ANXIOUSLY."

All along the route the people in the towns turned out to see Washington's cavalcade, and at Newark a committee of the New York Provincial Congress met to escort him to the city. There he left General Schuyler in command, and hurried forward to Cambridge, for the news of Bunker Hill made him extremely anxious to reach the army.

In New England, the nearer he came to the seat of war, the more excited and earnest he found the people. At every town he was met by the citizens and escorted through that place to the next. This was done at New Haven. The collegians all turned out, and they had a small band of music, at the head of which, curiously enough, was a freshman who afterward made some stir in the world. It was Noah Webster, the man of spelling-book and dictionary fame. At Springfield, the party was met by a committee of the Provincial Congress of Massachusetts, and at last, on the 2d of July, he came to Watertown, where he was welcomed by the Provincial Congress itself, which was in session there.

It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of the same day that Washington rode into Cambridge, escorted by a company of citizens. As he drew near Cambridge Common, cannon were fired to welcome him, and the people in Boston must have wondered what had happened. The Provincial Congress had set apart for his use the house of the President of Harvard College, reserving only one room for the President; but this house, which is still standing, was probably too small and inconvenient; for shortly afterward Washington was established in the great square house, on the way to Watertown, which had been deserted by a rich Tory, and there he staid as long as he was in Cambridge. By good fortune, years afterward, the poet Longfellow bought the house, and so the two names of Washington and Longfellow have made it famous.

On the morning of the next day, which was Monday, July 3, 1775, Washington, with Lee and other officers, rode into camp. Cambridge Common was not the little place it now is, hemmed in by streets. It stretched out toward the country, and a country road ran by its side, leading to Watertown. An Episcopal church stood opposite the common, and a little farther on, just as the road turned, nearly at a right angle, stood an old house. In front of this house, at the corner of the road, was a stout elm-tree. It was a warm summer morning, and the officers were glad of the shade of the tree.

On the left, and stretching behind, were the tents of the American camp. The soldiers themselves were drawn up in the road and on the dry, treeless common. Crowded about were men, women, and children, for the news had spread that the general had come, and the crowd and the soldiers were well intermingled. What did they see? They saw a group of men on horseback, in military dress; but the foremost man, on whom all eyes were bent, was a tall, splendid figure, erect upon his horse; those nearest could see that he had a rosy face, thick brown hair that was brushed back from his face, and clear blue eyes set rather far apart. By his side was a man who appeared even taller, he was so thin and lank; he had a huge nose, eyes that were looking in every direction, a mouth that seemed almost ready to laugh at the people before him. He sat easily and carelessly on his horse. This was General Lee.

Now, the strong Virginian, easily marked by his bearing and his striking dress,—for he wore a blue coat with buff facings, buff small-clothes, an epaulet on each shoulder, and a cockade in his hat,—turned to General Ward, who had heretofore been in command of the army, and laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, drew it from the scabbard, and raised it in the sight of the people. The cannon roared, no doubt, and the people shouted. It was a great occasion for them, and everybody was on tiptoe of curiosity to see the Virginians. All this is what we may suppose, for there is no account of the exact ceremony. We only know that, at that time, Washington took command of the army.

But what did Washington see, and what did he think, now, and later, when he made a tour of inspection through the camp and to the outposts? He saw a motley assembly, in all sorts of uniforms and without any uniform at all, with all sorts of weapons and with precious little powder. So little was there, that Washington was very anxious lest the British should find out how little he had; and so while he was urging Congress to provide supplies, he had barrels of sand, with powder covering the top, placed in the magazine, so that any spy hanging about might be misled. Some of the soldiers were in tents, some were quartered in one or two college buildings then standing, and some built huts for themselves. The most orderly camp was that of the Rhode Island troops, under General Nathaniel Greene.

The men were in companies of various sizes, under captains and other officers who had very little authority over the privates, for these usually elected their own commanders. A visitor to the camp relates a dialogue which he heard between a captain and one of the privates under him.

"Bill," said the captain, "go and bring a pail of water for the men."

"I shan't," said Bill. "It's your turn now, Captain; I got it last time."

But the men, though under very little discipline, were good stuff out of which to make soldiers. Most of them were in dead earnest, and they brought, besides courage, great skill in the use of the ordinary musket. A story is told of a company of riflemen raised in one of the frontier counties of Pennsylvania. So many volunteers applied as to embarrass the leader who was enlisting the company, and he drew on a board with chalk the figure of a nose of the common size, placed the board at the distance of a hundred and fifty yards, and then declared he would take only those who could hit the mark. Over sixty succeeded. "General Gage, take care of your nose," says the newspaper that tells the story. General Gage, as you know, was the commander of the British forces in Boston.

Washington wrote to Congress, "I have a sincere pleasure in observing that there are materials for a good army, a great number of able-bodied men, active, zealous in the cause, and of unquestionable courage."

His first business was to make an army out of this material, and he shrewdly suggested that, inasmuch as there was great need of clothing, it would be well to furnish ten thousand hunting-shirts at once. Not only would these be the cheapest garments, but they would furnish a convenient and characteristic uniform, which would destroy the distinctions between the troops from different colonies or towns. If the men looked alike, they would act together better.

There is a story that Washington had a platform built in the branches of the elm under which he had taken command of the army, and that there he sat with his glass, spying the movements across the water in Boston. Whether this be so or not, he was constantly scouring the country himself, and sending his scouts within the enemy's lines. The most critical time came at the end of the year 1775, when the term of the old soldiers' enlistment expired, and the ranks were filling up with raw recruits.

UNDER THE ELM AT CAMBRIDGE.

UNDER THE ELM AT CAMBRIDGE.
—GENERAL WASHINGTON TAKING COMMAND OF THE ARMY.

"It is not in the pages of history, perhaps," writes Washington to the President of Congress, on the 4th of January, "to furnish a case like ours. To maintain a post within musket-shot of the enemy for six months together without——, and at the same time to disband one army and recruit another, within that distance of twenty-odd British regiments, is more, probably, than ever was attempted. But if we succeed as well in the last as we have heretofore in the first, I shall think it the most fortunate event of my whole life."

The blank purposely left in this letter, in case it should fall into the hands of the enemy, was easily filled by Congress with the word "powder." At one time there was not half a pound to a man. General Sullivan writes that when General Washington heard of this, he was so much struck by the danger that he did not utter a word for half an hour.

When Washington left Philadelphia for Cambridge, he wrote to his wife as if he expected to return after a short campaign. Perhaps he said this to comfort her. Perhaps he really hoped that by a short, sharp struggle the colonies would show Great Britain that they were in earnest, and would secure the rights which had been taken from them. At any rate, from the day he took command of the army in Cambridge, Washington had one purpose in view, to attack Boston just as soon as possible. The summer was not over before he called his officers together and proposed to make the attack. They hesitated, and finally said they were not ready for so bold a move. He called a council again, the middle of October, but still he could not bring them to the point. He kept on urging it, however, as the one thing to do, and Congress at last, just at the end of the year, passed a resolution giving Washington authority to make an assault upon the British forces "in any manner he might think expedient, notwithstanding the town and property in it might be destroyed."

As soon as he received this authority, Washington again called his officers together, and urged with all his might the necessity of immediate action. He thought they should make a bold attempt at once to conquer the English army in Boston. In the spring more troops would come over from England. "Strike now!" he said, "and perhaps it will not be necessary to strike again." But it was not till the middle of February that he was able to persuade his generals to agree to a move. As soon as he had won them over, he made his preparations as rapidly as possible, and on the 3d of March took possession of Dorchester Heights. That movement showed the British what was coming. If they were to stay in Boston, they would at once be attacked. They took to their ships and sailed out of Boston harbor.

Washington had driven them out, though he had fought no battle. It is impossible to say what would have happened if he could have had his way before, and attacked Boston. There were many friends of America in Parliament, and if the news had come that the New England men had actually destroyed Boston, the town where their property was, in their determination to drive out the British soldiers, I think these friends would have said: "See how much in earnest these Massachusetts men are! They have a right to be heard, when they are willing to sacrifice their own town to secure their rights." Boston was not destroyed, and the war went on; but one effect of this siege of Boston was to inspire confidence in Washington. He showed that he was a born leader. He did not hold back, but went right to the front, and beckoned to the other generals to come and stand where he stood. He had courage; he was ready to attack the enemy. It was a righteous cause in which he was embarked, and he wished to make short work of the business. There were to be seven weary years of war, and Washington was to show in other ways that he was the leader; but it was a great thing that in the beginning of the struggle he should have been head and shoulders above the men around him, and that when he drew his sword from the scabbard he was no boaster, but was ready at once to use it.

Chapter XVI.

LEADING THE ARMY.

On the 13th of April, 1776, Washington was in New York, which now promised to be the center of operations. Here he remained four or five months, making one visit meanwhile to Philadelphia, at the request of Congress, which wished to confer with him. He was busy increasing and strengthening the army and erecting fortifications.

That spring and summer saw a rapid change in men's minds regarding the war with England. Washington no longer thought it possible to obtain what the colonies demanded and still remain subject to England. He was ready for independence, and when Congress issued its declaration, Washington had it read before the army with great satisfaction.

Not long after the declaration of independence, an English fleet arrived in New York Bay, bringing a large body of troops, under the command of Lord Howe, who, with his brother Admiral Howe, had been appointed commissioners to treat with the Americans. In reality, they only brought a promise of pardon to the rebels. It was very clear to Washington that the British Government had not the slightest intention of listening to the grievances of the colonies with a desire to redress them; but that they meant by these proposals to distract the colonies if possible and build up a party there that would oppose the action of Congress. There was a little incident attending the arrival of the commissioners that showed the feeling which prevailed.

One afternoon, word came that a boat was coming to head-quarters, bringing a messenger from Lord Howe with a communication. Washington had noticed that the British, whenever speaking of him or other American officers, had refused to regard them as officers of the army; they were simply private gentlemen who had taken up arms against the King. Now Washington knew that while it was in itself a small matter whether he was addressed by people about him as General Washington or Mr. Washington, it was not at all a small matter how Lord Howe addressed him. That officer had no business with George Washington, but he might have very important business with General Washington. Accordingly, he called together such of the American officers as were at head-quarters to consult them in regard to the subject, and they agreed entirely with him. Colonel Reed was directed to receive the messenger and manage the matter.

Accordingly, he entered a boat and was rowed out toward Staten Island, whence Lord Howe's messenger was coming. The two boats met half-way, and Lieutenant Brown—for that was the name of the messenger—was very polite, and informed Colonel Reed that he bore a letter from General Howe to Mr. Washington. Colonel Reed looked surprised. He himself was an officer in the continental army, and he knew no such person. There-upon Lieutenant Brown showed him the letter, which was addressed, George Washington, Esq. Colonel Reed was polite, but it was quite impossible for him to bear a letter to the commander of the American army addressed in that way. The lieutenant was embarrassed; as a gentleman and an officer he saw he was in the wrong. He tried to make matters better by saying that it was an important letter, but was intended rather for a person who was of great importance in American councils than for one who was commanding an army.

Colonel Reed continued to refuse the letter, and the boats parted. Presently, however, Lieutenant Brown came rowing back and asked by what title Washington chose to be addressed. It was quite an unnecessary question, Reed thought. There was not the slightest doubt as to what General Washington's rank was. The lieutenant knew it and was really very sorry, but he wished Colonel Reed would take the letter. Colonel Reed replied that it was the easiest matter in the world; it only needed that the letter should be correctly addressed. And so they parted.

Five days later, an aide-de-camp of General Howe appeared with a flag and asked that an interview might be granted to Colonel Patterson, the British Adjutant-General. Consent was given, and the next day Washington, with all his officers about him, received Colonel Patterson, who was very polite, and addressed him as "Your Excellency," which did quite well, though it was dodging matters somewhat. He tried to explain away the affair of the letter and said that no impertinence was intended, and he then produced another, addressed to George Washington, Esq., etc., etc.

Evidently, Lord Howe thought he had invented a capital way out of the difficulty. Et cetera, et cetera! Why, that might cover everything,—General-Commanding, Lord High Rebel, or anything else this very punctilious Virginia gentleman might fancy as his title. It would save Washington's pride and relieve Lord Howe's scruples. Washington replied coolly, Yes, the et cetera implied everything, but it also implied anything or nothing. It was meaningless. He was not a private person; this letter was meant for a public character, and as such he could not receive it, unless it acknowledged him properly. So Colonel Patterson was obliged to pocket the letter and try to cover his mortification and to deliver the contents verbally.

Perhaps all this sounds like very small business. In reality it meant a great deal. Were Washington and other officers rebels against the King, or were they the officers of a government which declared itself independent of the King? Lord Howe gave up trying to force Washington into the trap, and wrote to his government that it would be necessary in future to give the American commander his title; and Congress, to whom Washington reported the matter, passed a resolution approving of his course and directing that no letter or message be received on any occasion whatsoever from the enemy, by the Commander-in-Chief or by other commanders of the American army, but such as should be directed to them in the characters they respectively sustained. Little things like this went a great way toward making the people stand erect and look the world in the face.

The Americans needed, indeed, all the aid and comfort they could get, for it was plain that they were at a great disadvantage, with their half-equipped troops stationed some on Long Island and some in New York, between the North and East rivers, surrounded by Tories, who took courage from the presence of a large British force in the bay. Washington used his best endeavors to bring about a strong spirit of patriotism in the camp which should put an end to petty sectional jealousies, and he felt the sacredness of the cause in which they were engaged so deeply that he could not bear to have the army act or think otherwise than as the servants of God. He issued a general order which ran as follows:——

"That the troops may have an opportunity of attending public worship, as well as to take some rest after the great fatigue they have gone through, the General, in future, excuses them from fatigue duty on Sundays, except at the ship-yards, or on special occasions, until further orders. The General is sorry to be informed that the foolish and wicked practice of profane cursing and swearing, a vice heretofore little known in an American army, is growing into fashion; he hopes the officers will, by example as well as influence, endeavor to check it, and that both they and the men will reflect, that we can have little hope of the blessing of Heaven on our arms, if we insult it by our impiety and folly; added to this, it is a vice so mean and low, without any temptation, that every man of sense and character detests and despises it."

The time was now at hand when the army would be put to a severe test, and Washington was to show his generalship in other and more striking ways. The battle of Long Island was fought August 27, 1776, and was a severe blow to the American army. Washington's first business was to withdraw such of the forces as remained on Long Island to the mainland, and unite the two parts of his army. He had nine thousand men and their baggage and arms to bring across a swift strait, while a victorious enemy was so near that their movements could be plainly heard. Now his skill and energy were seen. He sent verbal orders for all the boats of whatever size that lay along the New York shore up the Hudson and on the East River to be brought to the Brooklyn side. He issued orders for the troops to hold themselves in readiness to attack the enemy at night, and he made the troops that defended the outer line of breastworks to have all the air of preparation as if they were about to move at once upon the enemy. All this time it was raining and uncomfortable enough, for the soldiers were unprotected by tents or shelter of any kind, save such rude barriers as they could raise. They kept up a brisk firing at the outposts, and the men who held the advanced position were on the alert, expecting every moment orders to advance.

THE RETREAT FROM LONG ISLAND.

THE RETREAT FROM LONG ISLAND.—WASHINGTON DIRECTING THE PASSAGE OF THE AMERICAN ARMY ACROSS THE EAST RIVER, AT NIGHT.

Then they heard dull sounds in the distance toward the water. Suddenly at about two o'clock in the morning a cannon went off with a tremendous explosion. Nobody knew what it was, and to this day the accident remains a mystery. But the soldiers discovered what was going on. A retreat instead of an advance had been ordered. The order for an advance was intended to conceal the plan. Washington was on the shore superintending the embarkation of the troops. Some had gone over; when the tide turned, the wind and current were against them; there were not enough boats to carry the rest. To add to the confusion one of the officers blundered, and the men who had been kept in front to conceal the movement from the British were ordered down to the Ferry. For a while it looked as if the retreat would be discovered, but it was not, and when morning came the entire army had been moved across to New York, and not a man in the British army knew what had been done. It was a great feat, and Washington, who had not closed his eyes for forty-eight hours, and scarcely left the saddle all that time, again showed himself a masterly general.

He had now to show the same kind of ability the rest of the autumn. It requires one kind of generalship to lead men into battle and another to lead them on a retreat away from the enemy. With a large fleet in the harbor, it was clear that the British could at any time destroy New York and any army that was there. Accordingly, Washington withdrew his army up the island. The British followed. They could transport troops on both sides of the island, by water, and could prevent the Americans from crossing the Hudson River into New Jersey. They began to land troops on the shore of East River not far from where the Thirty-fourth Street Ferry now is. Some breast-works had been thrown up there and were held by soldiers who had been in the battle of Long Island. They seem to have been thoroughly demoralized by that defeat, for they fled as soon as they saw the British advancing, and other troops which had been sent to reënforce them were also seized with panic and fled.

Washington heard the firing in this direction and galloped over to the scene. He met the soldiers running away and called on them to halt. But they were overcome by fear and had lost their self-command. They paid no heed to him, and Washington, usually cool and self-possessed, was so enraged by their cowardly behavior that he flew into a transport of rage, flung down his hat, exclaiming, "Are these the men with whom I am to defend America!" and drawing his pistols and sword in turn, rushed upon the fugitives, trying to drive them back to their duty. He had no fear of danger himself, and he was within a short distance of the British, riding about furiously, when one of his aids, seeing the danger, seized the horse's bridle and called his commander to his senses.

To cover the army, Washington posted his forces across the narrow upper part of the island, from Fort Washington on the Hudson to the Harlem River, and here he kept the British at bay while his men recovered their strength and were ready for further movements. Meanwhile, across the Hudson River from Fort Washington, another fort, named from General Lee, had been built, and Washington had posted General Greene there. It was evident that with the British in force, with an army and navy, it would be impossible to hold New York or the Hudson River, and it was also clear that should Washington's army be defeated there, the British would at once move on Philadelphia, where Congress was sitting. With New York commanding the Hudson River and with Philadelphia in their hands, the British would have control of the most important parts of America.

Washington saw also that there was hard work before him and that it would be impossible to carry on the war with an army which was enlisted for a year only, and he bent his energies toward persuading Congress to enlist men for a longer period. He had to organize this new army and to superintend countless details. His old habits of method and accuracy stood him in good stead then, and he worked incessantly, getting affairs into order, for he knew that the British would soon move. Indeed, it is one of the strange things in history that the British, with the immense advantage which they had, did not at once after the battle of Long Island press forward and break down the Continental army in a quick succession of attacks by land and water. It is quite certain that Washington, in their place, would not have delayed action.

At the end of October, Washington occupied a position at White Plains, in the rocky, hilly country north of New York. Step by step he had given way before General Howe, who had been trying to get the American army where he could surround it and destroy it. Washington, on the other hand, could not afford to run any risks. He wished to delay the British as long as possible, and not fight them till he had his new army well organized. There was a battle at White Plains, and the Americans were forced back; but Washington suddenly changed his position, moved his men quickly to a stronger place, and began to dig intrenchments. He was too weak to fight in the open field, but he could fight with his spade, and he meant to give Howe all the trouble he could. He expected another attack, but in a day or two there were signs of a movement, and he discovered that the enemy was leaving his front.

CROSSING THE DELAWARE.--THE MARCH TO TRENTON.--WASHINGTON DIRECTING THE ARTILLERY AT TRENTON.

CROSSING THE DELAWARE.—THE MARCH TO TRENTON.
—WASHINGTON DIRECTING THE ARTILLERY AT TRENTON.

He was not quite certain what Howe's plans might be, but he was quite sure he would move on Philadelphia. Meanwhile he kept watch over Fort Washington, and gave orders that it should be held only so long as it was prudent, but that in case of extreme danger, it should be given up and its garrison cross the river to Fort Lee. He himself with all but the New England troops, crossed the river higher up, at King's Ferry. The New England and New York troops he posted on both sides of the river to defend the passes in the Highlands, for it was of great importance to have open communication between Philadelphia and New England. A division also was left under General Lee at White Plains, who was to be ready to join Washington when it became necessary.

General Greene, who was in command at Fort Lee, on the New Jersey side of the Hudson, hoped to keep Fort Washington, on the New York side, which was also under his command. He hoped to keep it even after the British had begun to lay siege to it. Washington was obliged to leave this business to Greene's discretion, for he was occupied with moving his army across the river, higher up, and if the fort could have held out, they might have been able to prevent the British from crossing to New Jersey. But Greene counted on a stouter defense than the men in the fort gave, and when Washington at last reached Fort Lee it was only to see from the banks of the river the surrender of Fort Washington with its military stores and two thousand men. It was a terrible loss; and, moreover, the capture of that fort made it impossible to hold Fort Lee, which was at once abandoned.

Now began a wonderful retreat. The English under Lord Cornwallis, with a well-equipped army, and flushed with recent victory, crossed over to New Jersey and began moving forward. They were so prompt that the Americans left their kettles on the fire in Fort Lee as they hastily left. Washington, with a small, ragged, discouraged army fell back from the enemy, sometimes leaving a town at one end as the British entered it at the other; but he broke down bridges, he destroyed provisions, and so hampered and delayed the enemy that they made less than seventy miles over level country in nineteen days.

Meanwhile the British general was issuing proclamations calling upon the people of New Jersey to return to their allegiance, and promising them pardon. Many gave up and asked protection. It seemed as if the war were coming to an end, and that all the struggle had been in vain. The American army, moreover, had been enlisted for a short term only, and before the end of December most of the men would have served their time. General Lee delayed and delayed, and Washington himself was harassed and well-nigh disheartened; but he meant to die hard. One day, when affairs looked very dark, he turned to Colonel Reed, who was by him, and said, drawing his hand significantly across his throat: "Reed, my neck does not feel as though it was made for a halter. We must retire to Augusta County in Virginia, and if over-powered, must pass the Alleghany Mountains."

But Washington was made for something more than a guerilla chieftain. He had put the Delaware River between his army and the British, who were now scattered over New Jersey, going into winter quarters, and intending, when the river was frozen, to cross on the ice and move upon Philadelphia. Suddenly, on Christmas night, Washington recrossed the river with his little army, making a perilous passage through cakes of floating ice that crunched against the boats, surprised a large detachment of Hessians near Trenton, and captured a thousand prisoners. Eight days later he fought the battle of Princeton. Within three weeks he had completely turned the tables. He had driven the enemy from every post it occupied in New Jersey, except Brunswick and Amboy, made Philadelphia safe, and shown the people that the army, which was thought to be on the verge of destruction, could be used in the hands of a great general like a rod with which to punish the enemy.

Men were beginning to see that here was one who was a true leader of men.

On the day after the victory at Trenton, Congress, "having maturely considered the present crisis, and having perfect reliance on the wisdom, vigor and uprightness of General Washington," passed a resolution that "General Washington shall be, and he is hereby, vested with full, ample, and complete powers to raise armies, appoint officers, and exercise control over the parts of the country occupied by the army." Washington had been constantly checked by the necessity of referring all questions to Congress and to his generals. Now he was to have full power, for he had shown himself a man fit to be trusted with power.

(To be continued.)

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE BEE.

By Edith M. Thomas.

"If the weather is fair,"

Said the butterfly, jaunty and free,—

"If the weather is fair,

I'll go dance in the meadow there!"

"And I," said the prudent bee,

"Will be early at work, you will see,—

If the weather is fair!"

FISHES AND THEIR YOUNG.

By C. F. Holder.

'HEN AND CHICKENS.'

"HEN AND CHICKENS." (SEE PAGE 602.)

A number of years ago, an English naturalist was sitting on the edge of a small stream that flowed sluggishly into the sea on the coast of British Guiana, when his attention was attracted by some curious holes that lined the cliff just above the water. He had fully determined to investigate these crab-caves, as he supposed them to be, when he was startled by seeing a fish, known to the natives as the "hussar," which had been darting up and down and apparently having a rollicking time, run suddenly up into shoal water, and begin to struggle for the shore. At first the naturalist thought that it was pursued by some larger fish and that its action was due to fright; but the fish, retaining its upright position, kept wriggling on slowly up the beach by using its pectoral fins as feet, and in a few moments it disappeared within one of the supposed crab-holes.

Wondering then whether the fish were hunting crabs, or seeking its nest, the watcher soon decided the question as he saw, farther down the shore, several other "hussars" entering their nests. Springing down, he caught a number of the fishes in their homes.

The fishes had excavated the holes in the bank just above the surface of the water, and in them had formed regular nests of grass or leaves, in which the roe or eggs were deposited. The young, when hatched, at once tumbled out into the water and were then protected by the parents.

THE NEST-BUILDING FISH OF THE SEA OF GALILEE TAKING ITS

THE NEST-BUILDING FISH OF THE SEA OF GALILEE TAKING ITS YOUNG INTO ITS MOUTH FOR PROTECTION.

Such a method of rearing their young is certainly remarkable. In forming their nests, fishes sometimes remind us of the birds, and some of them indeed may be said to equal their feathered cousins in their nest-building faculty. This curious "hussar" fish may be compared with the cliff-swallow that burrows its way into the bluffs, and builds its nest several feet from the entrance, or to the Southern petrel, that excavates its nest in a still more wonderful manner.

The fish known to naturalists by the long name of Ophiocephalus, one species of which is found in the Sea of Galilee, is a singular creature. At the approach of the breeding season, it seeks a favorable place to build—generally in shallow water. There perhaps an old sunken root is found, or a projecting ledge of rock. To that spot bits of grass, leaves, growing sea-weed, and refuse of all kinds are brought by the parents, which now proceed to weave this building material into an oval shape. The threads of grass are wound in and out, entangled with one another in various ways, and the interstices filled with mud. During the construction, one or more orifices are left leading into the nest or entirely through it; the grasses are wound around the old root, and finally a compact oval nest is seen suspended and swinging in the tide,—a veritable cradle for the baby fishes.

The eggs are deposited in the interior, and attach themselves to the grass and the sides of the nest. In due time swarms of tiny fishes fill this curious abode, and show a decided inclination to stray away. They are, however, watched and guarded by the parents, which drive them back when they wander too far from home.

This nest-building fish of the Sea of Galilee displays, however, a still more curious method of protection,—for in time of danger, the young are frequently taken into the capacious mouth of the male parent-fish, and thus guarded from harm. This habit is common to quite a number of fishes. An enormous cat-fish called the lan-lan, that sometimes attains a length of thirteen feet and a weight of over two hundred pounds, has been seen surrounded by a swarm of young, which upon the slightest alarm rushed into its open mouth for protection; and one of the largest of the South American fresh-water fishes, protects its young in the same way.

A SEA-HORSE AND ITS YOUNG.

A SEA-HORSE AND ITS YOUNG.

The method of a curious South American fish, called the aspredo, is no less wonderful. The parent does not carry its eggs in its mouth, but fastens them to its body and fins, by means of stems or stalks; so that each egg has a sort of cradle to itself. As the fish rushes along, these swing to and fro, presenting the appearance of a number of barbels or bells.

A cat-fish at Panama has still another method of carrying its young. This is no less than a pouch, reminding us of a kangaroo. But the perfection of this paternal care—for it is the father that has the pouch—is observed in the sea-horses and pipe-fishes. These have a perfect pouch, into which the infant fishes are taken as soon as hatched, and in which they are carried about until they are able to make their own way in the world. A sea-horse in charge of its young is a very curious sight. The parent fastens its prehensile tail about some pieces of weed, and drives the young fry into the outer world, and soon a host of young sea-colts are seen moving along upright in the water by the curious screw movement of their dorsal or back fins, a body of them appearing like a tiny cloud in the water. The little creatures are so helpless that many of them—sometimes the entire brood—fall a prey to other fishes. They are, however, provided with a means of protection by their resemblance to plants. The pipe-fishes look much like the grass among which they live, and the sea-horses are often decorated with curious barbels and fringes that resemble the weeds under cover of which they hide themselves.

Among the fishes of the ocean that show a decided affection for their young, should be mentioned the curious Cyclopterus lumpus—the lump-fish, or "hen and chickens," so common upon the coast of Maine. The name "lump-fish" expresses the general appearance of this fish far better than a long description could, as the creature's body is covered with curious lumps and excrescences that add to the peculiarity of its appearance. The lump-fish is equally common on the English coast, and as the time for rearing a family approaches, it constructs from the sea-weed a rude nest for the protection of the eggs. These the watchful parents guard, their ugly forms, probably, having a decided effect upon all intruders, though, in truth, the lump-fishes are utterly incapable of harming any enemy, and, with their clumsy movements, are unable to catch other fishes in a chase. As soon as the young are hatched, they follow one of the parent-fishes, in a drove or herd, clustering about its head, now darting off, returning with a rush and cuddling under it, after the manner of small chickens seeking refuge under their mother's wings; hence the name of "hen and chickens" bestowed upon them by the English fishermen.

Though the lump-fishes are poor swimmers, and likely, if hurled among the breakers, to be thrown upon the shore, nature has provided them with ample means of protection. The lower fins join in such a way as to form a complete sucker, so that when in danger of being knocked about by the waves, the fish has merely to settle upon a rock, fasten its sucker-like fins to this, and ride out the gale or season of danger like a ship at anchor on a lee shore.

A PUZZLED PAPA.

By M. L. B. Branch.

We're going this year to Littleton,

My wife, our Jack, and Nan and I.

Now Nan is seven, and Jack is ten;

How many tickets shall I buy?

Jack pays half-fare, and Nan pays none,

Though with her dolls she fills a seat;

However stern conductors are,

They give her only glances sweet.

But this year, Nan her kitten takes,

A little, purring, playful thing;

While Jacky has a grave young pug,

Which everywhere he's bound to bring.

Nan has a long-legged Brahma chick,—

She loves that pet with all her heart;

And Jacky owns three pretty doves,

From which he can not bear to part.

"In cage and basket," say the two,

"Well covered up, our pets can go."

They have no doubts; but I have mine,—

And this is what I want to know:

If the cat mews, the puppy barks,

And if the doves at once all coo,

And if the Brahma chicken crows,

As the conductor passes through,

What will he say? How will he look?

What shall I do, in my despair?

Can I, for such a tribe, hand up

Our tickets two, and one half-fare?

We're going this year to Littleton,

My wife, our Jack, and Nan and I,

Dog, cat, three dolls, three doves, a chick—

How many tickets shall I buy?

THE WILD FLOWERS.

By Jessie Penniman.

The Wild Flowers.

The violet blooms in a shady place

Where the sun comes peeping through;

The hare-bell grows on gray old rocks

And shows its robes of blue.

The May-flower grows on a wooded hill

At the foot of the green old pines,

Where the ferns and moss in clusters show

And the checker-berry twines.

These all grow in the fairest bowers;

There is no room for the daisy flowers.

So the daisy grows by the dusty road,

Sweet and sunny and shy,

Lifting its pretty, modest head

To nod to each passer-by.

"Why do you grow by the roadside, dear?

It is all dust and sand;

Come to the violet's shady nook,

Or join the Mayflower's band."

But the daisy said: "The violet's place

Is better for her, you see;

And the May-flower's place is better for her;

And mine is the best for me."

THE BOYS' PARADISE.

[A Summer Visitor's Account of Camp Chocorua.]

By Elizabeth Balch.

In the Indian language the meaning of "Asquam" is "shining waters," and surely no name could better describe the beautiful lake of sparkling blue, which, nestling among the noble White Mountains, is dotted with numerous islands. Upon one of these islands is Camp Chocorua, so called from the mountain of that name,—the highest point to be seen in the chain of hills inclosing the lake.

Some five years ago it was decided to establish on this island a summer camp for boys, the term to begin in June, and to end about the tenth of September. The first summer the camp opened with some half-dozen boys. Last season, twenty-five manly little fellows tumbled in and out of the lake, like water brownies, perfectly fearless, paddling canoes which had been made by themselves, swimming equally well in clothes or without, and growing active and healthy in the strong, pure mountain air.

Five men, composing "the faculty" in this summer camp, have charge of the boys, and "freedom without license" might almost be the camp motto, so careless, happy, and untrammeled are the lads, yet so perfect is the discipline. One of the first principles of the camp system is, that in every way the faculty shall live the same lives as the boys themselves, sharing their work as well as their pleasures; the spirit existing between the two is therefore far less that of master and pupil than that of good comrades, who are at the same time helpful friends.

Life at Camp Chocorua is a busy one. There are no "book lessons," to be sure; but a good many things are taught that are not always to be found in books. To begin with, bracing mountain air and active out-of-door life give a keen appetite, and it is no small undertaking to provide food for twenty or thirty hungry mouths. Then, too, the tin dishes and plates in which the food is cooked and eaten have to be cleaned and kept in order, and "dish-washing" therefore becomes a necessity. The kitchen-beach is a lively place at these times. In the carpenter's shop, there is work of various kinds to be done; there, too, canoes are built, but no boy is allowed to paddle or sail a canoe until he is an adept at swimming, and can be trusted to take care of himself in the water. This rule is one of the strictest in camp. The Golden Rod is the camp newspaper. It is edited and entirely conducted by the boys. In its columns appears a notice to the effect that the "Good Will Contracting Company washes clothes, irons clothes, cleans and tidies beaches, builds piers, stone walls, steps, etc., carries dirt and publishes newspapers." From this announcement idleness would seem to stand but a poor chance at Camp Chocorua. The boys are divided into four crews, and these crews undertake in turn the different kinds of work: one day, the cooking; the next, dish-washing; the third, police duty, which includes the tidying of beaches, and all work assigned to no other crew. The fourth day is "off duty." This changes the kind of work done daily, and yet gives each boy a chance of learning all the tasks. One of the faculty works with each crew of boys.

DISH-WASHING.

DISH-WASHING.

The boys sleep in wooden buildings, which are roofed over, but thoroughly ventilated, and the lads seem cozy enough lying curled up in army blankets or on mattresses placed on the floor. They may, if they wish, take a dip in the lake before breakfast, and no one who has not tried it can realize the brightening, bracing, "wakening-up" effect of that morning dip! How it clears the brain and invigorates the body, making one feel equal to all things, strong and ready to do! The regular morning swim does not take place until later,—about eleven o'clock, after the camp work is completed. All through the week the boys may wear shoes and stockings, or they may go barefoot, just as they happen to fancy, and the camp costume consists of a gray flannel shirt and short trousers.

On Sundays, however, they all wear, in addition, scarlet stockings, and scarlet caps, while their gray shirts are laced with scarlet cords. A bonny crew they look, as they push off in the "church boat" at three o'clock, to meet, at Cox's beach, half a mile away, any visitors from the neighboring hotel or farm-houses who may wish to join in the Sunday services. These are conducted in a lovely spot called the "chapel," on the farther side of the island. Rustic seats are ranged around an open space, in the center of which, above a rock forming a natural altar, rises a large cross made of white birch. This altar is dressed with leaves and flowers by the boys, before the service begins; and after the little congregation is assembled, one hears in the distance clear young voices singing some processional hymn, and along a path through the woods, with the sunlight dancing in and out among the branches, the boys come nearer and nearer. Then they take their places at the place appointed for the choir, whilst Mr. Ernest Balch takes his on the other side of the flower-decked rock, and reads the service.

THE SUNDAY SERVICE AT THE 'CHAPEL.'

THE SUNDAY SERVICE AT THE "CHAPEL."

The offertory made at these services goes to the different charities contributed to by the camp, and more than one sick boy or girl in different hospitals have whiled away hours of loneliness and suffering by reading St. Nicholas, which those happy, healthy boys at Camp Chocorua have sent them as a solace in their pain. Sunday afternoon is devoted to writing letters to home-folk, and in the evening, at prayers, Mr. Balch has a quiet talk with the boys in the chapel.

The summer sports take place in August, and consist of fancy swimming and diving, canoe and boat racing, base-ball and tennis. Last year the parents and friends of the boys, to the number of one hundred, accepted the invitation of the camp, and dined there at the conclusion of the sports, which lasted two days. A few weeks later some little plays were acted by the boys. These were very clever productions, and they were excellently performed. The price of admission was modestly placed at fifteen cents, but the visitors gave more than that, since the object of the entertainment was to add to money already collected which was to be devoted to endowing a bed in a children's free hospital, so soon as the required amount could be raised. A huge bonfire was burning brightly on the shore, and dozens of red-capped boys darting about in its ruddy blaze, proved a picturesque contrast to the great white moon as it rose slowly above the mountains and threw a broad band of silvery light across the lake, while from boat to boat cheery "good-nights" rang over the water as the guests who had enjoyed the evening's festivities were rowed to shore.

THEIR FIRST APPEARANCE UPON ANY STAGE.—A CHARITY PLAY IN

THEIR FIRST APPEARANCE UPON ANY STAGE.—A CHARITY PLAY IN THE WOODS.

These charities at Camp Chocorua mean, in the purest sense of the words, "helping others out of one's own store," for the money contributed by the boys is their own, fairly earned by them to do with as they please. Once in camp, an equal weekly allowance is given to every boy, no matter what may be the difference in their parents' means. This allowance is small, and if more money is desired, either for candy, or soda water, or as a contribution to the charities, or to buy materials for a new canoe, or to purchase a canoe already built,—for any extra luxury in fact,—the boy with such desires is obliged to earn the money needed, and work which is paid for at the regular rate of wages for labor will always be furnished him whereby he can earn it. Contracts can be taken for leveling paths, or building walls, or anything else which is needed at the camp, and the money earned by such work is deposited in the Chocorua Bank by the boy earning it. Against this amount on deposit, he draws his check in strict business fashion, which check is duly honored and cashed. If at the end of the term any surplus remains to his credit, he has entire right to dispose of it as he may choose, but no money from home is granted a boy exceeding the original sum stipulated as his weekly allowance. Just as men work and make money, and learn how to use that money in the outer world, so do these boys work, and make money and use it in this miniature world at Camp Chocorua. By the time they are ready to enter a larger sphere in life, they know and appreciate the worth of money honestly earned, and understand the true art of spending it.

Lest the boys should in truth become very water-sprites, they go, toward the end of the term, for a week's tramp over the hills. A large canvas-topped wagon, drawn by oxen, carries blankets and provisions, and any boys who grow tired and foot-sore can have a lift when they feel like it. They camp out at night and have many amusing adventures by day; and at the different farmhouses to which they come in their wanderings, fresh milk is willingly furnished to the jolly, brown-faced, red-capped lads, who make the hills ring cheerily with their songs and laughter. Each year the youngest boy of the whole party is called the camp "infant," and is accorded several extra privileges, not the least of which is the right of tasting the ice-cream whenever it is made, without having been obliged to assist in making it.

Were I a boy, the life at Camp Chocorua would be my idea of a thoroughly good time, combining as it does plenty of fun, and a free, open-air life, with the acquisition of much useful knowledge for one's self, and the habit of exercising a thoughtful helpfulness for others.

A BOYS' CAMP.

By One Of The Campers.

"Under the greenwood tree,

Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat;

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live in the sun,

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,—

Come hither, come hither, come hither,

Here shall he see

No enemy."—

These lines from Shakspere's "As You Like It" came to me again and again as Papa finished the reading of a circular which a friend had handed him.

"Camp Harvard," so the circular declared, "is located on the shore of one of New Hampshire's most picturesque lakes, about equidistant from Winchendon, Mass., and Rindge, N. H. The design of the camp is to furnish boys with a rational and healthy outdoor life during the summer months, where, under competent care and supervision, they can learn to swim, row, fish, do some tramping and mountain-climbing, and engage in other manly sports; form and cultivate good habits, and build up their bodily strength. The cabins are of wood, roofed, floored, commodious, and weatherproof. Each member has a cot. The best of wholesome food is provided."

"I know one of the two young men who established Camp Harvard," said Papa, as he concluded the reading of the circular. "They are students at the Cambridge Theological Seminary. I have made some inquiries, and I shall be glad to have you spend the summer in the woods with them. I presume the other boys will be much younger than yourself, but you would, doubtless, find many of them companionable; and life in the open air, for a couple of months, would, I think, be pleasant and beneficial to you."

It was a long time before I fell asleep that night. I had always been anxious to camp out, and here was a glorious opportunity.

Then followed busy days. The circular said: "Boys are recommended to bring, in addition to the clothes they travel in, two gray flannel shirts, two pairs old trousers, knickerbockers (one pair corduroy), long rubber coat, swimming trunks, two pairs heavy blankets (dark), strong shoes (one or two pairs with rubber soles), old overcoat, ordinary underclothing, stout red belt, high stockings (two pairs dark red), slippers, night-shirts or pajamas, brush and comb, sponge, towels, soap-case, two tooth-brushes, tennis racquet, skull-cap, belt-knife, and an old jacket."

Mamma saw that I was supplied with all these things, and on the morning of July 1, I took my place on a railroad train, bound for Rindge. As we approached Rindge, I spied a large mountain-wagon with four horses drawn up alongside the shanty which served as a depot. I was confident that this was for the campers, for it already contained five boys. Ten boys left the train. The divinity student, who was one of the "masters" of the camp, and whom I had already met in the city, welcomed me, and we all took seats in the wagon. Up hill and down we traveled, and the horses seemed to enjoy it as much as we did. Mountain drivers have a way of slowing up their horses going downhill, and sending them up on a gallop. Now the road wound along a narrow ledge beside Monomonock and thence onward through a dense forest, where tall, straight sugar maples raised their leafy crowns high in air; smooth beeches, with round, gray trunks, stood like massive pillars; and great yellow birches, with shaggy, curling bark and gnarled limbs, rose like monarchs above the lesser trees. Finally, a sudden turn in the road brought us face to face with the words, "CAMP HARVARD," in large red letters on a sign suspended from a noble oak. The gate-bars were down and a ride of less than half a mile farther brought us to a pretty grove where clustered the cabins that composed the camp.

ARRIVAL OF THE MAIL.)

ARRIVAL OF THE MAIL. (SEE PAGE 610.)

Who has not felt the pleasures of life in the forest? It is quite impossible to put them into words, or to make one who has never experienced them understand what they are.

There is a sense of freedom and freshness every hour. A round of simple, natural toils and amusements fills up each day. The ear soon becomes attuned to the surroundings, and it begins to hear a gentle sound, like the dropping of ceaseless rain. It is the pattering of the minute particles falling from spruce and pine and hemlock, to mingle with decaying roots and underbrush and form the rich, dark forest-mold on which every step falls so softly. Then there is a rustling of leaves, a pattering of quick, light feet, and a red squirrel runs along a fallen trunk, peers at one curiously, and, half in fear, half in audacity, gives its sharp, shrill bark. A little bird which one can not see pierces the air with a slender, long-drawn note. A woodpecker beats his sounding tattoo on a hollow tree, and, growing bolder, comes nearer and nearer, until perhaps he ventures to try the very trunk against which you are leaning.

Everything about the camp was examined by us with great interest. First the cookhouse, where a man was preparing dinner. This cabin contained a range, two long tables, a refrigerator, and a great quantity of cooking utensils. All the dishes, cups, saucers, and platters were of tin and shone like mirrors. Adjoining, was the storehouse, which was the base of table supplies. The sleeping cabin was about fifty feet in length and oblong, with a slanting roof. The upper half of sides and rear were "flaps," swinging on hinges. These were open during the day, but usually closed at night. Above the flaps was an open space of fourteen inches all around, and over this the eaves projected. Cots were ranged about the sides of the cabin, and choice of these was decided by lot. At one end was an open veranda, where the dining-tables stood. Large reflecting lanterns were placed at intervals, and several small lights hung in a row near the entrance.

There were an ample medicine chest and other useful camp features, and over one end of the cabin was a loft for trunks. Fifty feet from the cabin was the beach. The pretty lake showed scarcely a ripple upon its fair surface. It was three miles long and at some points a mile wide, with many coves and inlets. Part of it seemed like a succession of small lakes. Along the shore, were boats in great variety, from the flat-bottomed fishing-boats to the racing gig with its outriggers and delicate lines. The silent hills beyond lifted themselves toward heaven in the glory of enduring strength, while old Monadnock towered aloft as commander over all.

CAMPING OUT ON MOUNT MONADNOCK.

CAMPING OUT ON MOUNT MONADNOCK. (SEE PAGE 611.)

The tooting of a horn summoned us back to headquarters. Trunks were put in place, blankets and the camp toggery brought forth; we exchanged our city clothes for the latter, and life at Camp Harvard began. Consulting the bulletin, I found myself assigned to duty as "table-boy," with one of the fellows who came up on the train as my associate. It was new work for me, but one of the masters took hold with us. The table was soon set and a steaming hot dinner was brought from the cookhouse. Grace was said by one of the masters, the company all standing with bare heads; then caps were resumed and hungry appetites began to be appeased. Great milk-cans, each holding ten quarts, were brought up from the icehouse. The supply of bread, vegetables, or meat needed constant replenishing. When dinner was over and the table had been cleared and the floor swept, my duties ceased until supper-time. The camp work was done by detachments of boys whose assignments varied with each day. A bulletin containing the assignments for the following day was posted each evening, so that every boy knew in advance what was required of him. All campers, masters included, shared the daily labors. The plan succeeded admirably. Each boy grew to be particular in the discharge of his duties, for neglect was seen to be a boomerang. For instance, if the boy whose special care happened to be drinking-water, failed to keep up a fresh supply, the other fellows who had to suffer for his shortcomings made life a burden to him; and so the whole camp acted as a sort of police force to keep each member up to the mark. This arrangement transferred much responsibility from the masters to the boys themselves, and a sense of responsibility is a good thing for anybody.

After supper, a roaring camp-fire was built, and by this time we all were very well acquainted, and gradually came out of our shells. The masters were plied with questions, and yarns were spun. Perhaps the pleasantest feature of camp life was the evening gathering around the blazing logs, and the nine o'clock horn always seemed to toot ahead of time. The brother of one of the masters had spent a year among the mines and ranches of Colorado, and his graphic descriptions and thrilling tales were admirably adapted to our willing ears. Songs we always had. They may not have ranked high as literary productions; any lack in this respect, however, was more than made up by their spirited rendering. Here is one, to the tune of "It's a way we have at old Harvard":

"It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,

It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,

It's a way we have at Camp Harvard,

To pass the time away.

If I'd a son or a ward, sir,

A 'dig,' a prig, or a bard, sir,—

I'd send him to Camp Harvard, sir,

To pass the time away.

"For we'd like to have you know, sir,

That shirking is no go, sir;

First work, then play, and so, sir,

We pass the time away.

"Now if you really wish, sir,

An epicurean dish, sir,

Just wait till we bake this fish, sir,

To pass the time away."

—and so on through several stanzas.

By ten o'clock every night, we wrapped ourselves up in our blankets, lights went out, and silence reigned. I didn't chafe much under this rule, for the true camper is always asleep as soon as he lies down. The next thing I heard was a buzzing sound—the alarm clock had rung, it was half-past six, and the sunlight was streaming in upon the campers. Several of us jumped into the lake for a bath; later in the season this morning plunge became general, and every fellow had to report with soap and tooth-brush. After breakfast, there came the usual camp work,—lanterns to be filled, the sleeping cabin to be swept out, various "police" duties to be attended to, and fuel to be provided; at eleven, there was instruction in swimming. And so the days went by. The work was so systematized as not to fall heavily upon any one person, unless he shirked; and there was ample time for base-ball, cricket, tennis, fishing, boating, and other amusements. When the days were very warm, hammocks were very popular. The Fourth of July was celebrated with appropriate exercises. The Stars and Stripes floated gayly from our staff, and the cabins were decked with bunting and small flags. At night, the farmers and woodsmen, with their sisters, cousins, aunts, and sweethearts, began to swarm down upon us and lined the lake shore. Our fireworks were set off from a scow anchored one hundred yards from land, and the effect was fine.

Sunday morning breakfasts were after the most approved New England fashion,—baked beans, brown bread, fishballs, and chocolate. Everybody was expected to write a letter home during the forenoon. After dinner came the choir rehearsal, followed by four o'clock service in a picturesque little opening in the woods which nature seemed to have designed for a chapel. There rough benches had been made under the shadowy trees, and the sylvan chancel had been carpeted with moss. At the back of the chancel, stood a great rude cross, outlined boldly against the somber background of dense forest; and directly before us was a rustic pulpit. Our Sunday service in this woodland sanctuary was attended by large numbers of strangers, many driving a distance of twelve or fifteen miles. The master who acted as minister wore a white surplice and read the service of the Episcopal Church. The chants and a familiar hymn were sung to a violin accompaniment. Then came a short address.

A collection was always taken up in behalf of the Charity Fund, which, at the end of the season, the boys voted to divide between the Sheltering Arms Nursery of Brooklyn, and the Boys' Home in Boston.

The mail arrived at noon and sunset each day, being brought by "the captain," an aged member of an historic New Hampshire family. The captain was often accompanied by his good wife. She was a motherly creature, and both were prime favorites at camp. The captain had served his country in the war, and had many a yarn to spin.

The camp dog was a splendid Newfoundland named Duke, and he was the champion swimmer. Two of the campers had cameras and took photographs, which they sold at good profit.

We were often visited by city people boarding at some one of the farmhouses within a radius of ten or twelve miles. Some of these visitors came often, and apparently found considerable satisfaction in observing the details of camp life. Some of us knew a number of Boston and New York people at one of the most popular of these boarding-houses, and one day these friends gave us a most enjoyable entertainment, consisting of a lawn-party, a tennis tournament, and a supper. At another time, we went to a sheet-and-pillow-case party at the same place. Later on, some friends at another boarding-house delighted us with a series of tableaux and charades, followed by supper.

THE MORNING PLUNGE IN THE LAKE.

THE MORNING PLUNGE IN THE LAKE.

Several business partnerships were formed among the boys. Contracts for work were awarded to the firms making the lowest bids. The successful bidders would hire other boys to help them. The specifications had to be strictly observed. Among other things, a new wharf was built, one of the cabins shingled, and another covered with tar-paper.

Boys could do as they pleased with money earned in this way. Idleness was not popular.

One fine day, we took a long tramp up Mount Monadnock. An early start was made, and by noon we had covered more than half the distance. Halt was ordered in a shady grove, and before long our wagon arrived with blankets, rubber coats, cooking utensils, provisions, and various tools. We had a substantial lunch while resting on the banks of a pretty brook, before we resumed our march.

We soon reached the base of the mountain, and then the climb began. But it is a long lane that knows no turning, and rest came at last. We drove stakes in a picturesque glen on a plateau just below the summit,—a well-chosen spot, shielded from the wind. A bountiful supply of fuel and of pine boughs for bedding was immediately secured. A fireplace was built, and our supper soon began to stew in the great kettle which hung from a tripod. One of our favorite dishes was flapjacks. Numerous visitors came from the fashionable hotel down the mountain, where, the next evening, an impromptu entertainment was given to us. We were on the mountain three days, and they were full of incident and pleasure. At night, we slept around the blazing logs, and two boys were assigned to stand watch each hour, so that no one was deprived of much sleep. Every fellow washed his own plate, cup, knife, and spoon after each meal, and submitted them for inspection to one of the boys who acted as assistant-master. We all were sorry to leave the old mountain. But it was good to plant foot once more upon our native heath. And Camp Harvard was always dearer than ever when we returned to it after such an expedition.

Until he could swim a certain distance, no camper was allowed in the boats. All of the boys were soon quite at home in and on the water. One of the Philadelphia boys made the best mile record. There were various organizations in camp, such as cricket, base-ball, tennis, and rowing clubs, and a society of naturalists. Then there were various committees. The steward of the Charity Fund was very energetic, and before we broke up camp, he had collected a great quantity of used clothing, which we voted to divide between the newsboys of New York and Boston.

On August 13 and 14 came the annual athletic meeting. There were all sorts of exercises, with first and second prizes in each, and entries closed on the 12th. Crowds of visitors came each day. The tennis tournament was hotly contested in both singles and doubles, but the boat races and tug-of-war were the most exciting events. Long and short distance walking and running; sack and obstacle races; throwing the hammer; climbing; running, standing, and broad jumps; diving; swimming contests,—all were included in the programme. On the night of the 14th, we entertained a large company of visitors at supper, and a lady very gracefully presented the prizes. Then followed fireworks and music. I had won either first or second prizes in several events, and experienced the proud distinction of having my name telegraphed to a Boston paper, whose editor was rusticating near by. Some of the records were very good, considering that the boys, with the single exception of myself, were only from ten to fourteen years old.

There was not a single case of serious accident or illness for the camp diary to record. We were all healthily bronzed, and were as hardy as only life in the open air can make boys; and I am sure that camp life enabled us all to do better work at school during the winter.

We broke camp on the morning of September 1. The night before, we had as guests our neighbors for miles around. Our good friends the Deacon and the Captain each made touching speeches, and the camp resounded again and again with three times three "'rahs" for them and other summer friends, each named in turn. The night was very cold, but every heart was warm. Sky-rockets shot through the air, bombs, flower-pots, and other fireworks exploded, and Lake Monomonock looked almost like a sheet of fire. Then amid this blaze of glory our guests departed to the tune of our favorite song. Lake Monomonock settled down to its somber stillness; old cloud-capped Monadnock loomed above us like the great pyramid, and now came a realizing sense of the sad parting which the morrow threatened to bring us.

Morning came at last. The wind blew fresh and made the air as clear as crystal. Four-horse teams were in readiness, horns were produced, and with one long last look, off we started. Our woodland home never seemed so fair as when we turned our faces away from it. Those fragrant pine-trees had heard boys cheer before, but never until now with such lusty vigor and manifest feeling had come forth that inspiring watch-cry of:

"'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! CAMP HARVARD!"

ROBIN'S RETURN.

By Edith M. Thomas.

Robin on the tilting bough,

Red-breast rover, tell me how

You the weary time have passed

Since we saw and heard you last.

"In a green and pleasant land,

By a summer sea-breeze fanned,

Orange-trees with fruit are bent;

There the weary time I've spent."

Robin rover, there, no doubt,

Your best music you poured out;

Piping to a stranger's ear,

You forgot your lovers here.

"Little lady, on my word,

You do wrong a true-heart bird!

Not one ditty would I sing,

'Mong the leaves or on the wing,

In the sun or in the rain;

Stranger's ear would list in vain.

If I ever tried a note,

Something rose within my throat.

'Twas because my heart was true

To the North and spring-time new;

My mind's eye a nest could see

In yon old, forked apple-tree!"

(NOTE.—It is said that the robin does not sing during its winter stay in the South.)

LITTLE MISS MABEL

LITTLE MISS MABEL

         ———

By Daisy Jones.

         ———

Little Miss Mabel,

Brimming with play,

Turned into Grandmamma

All in a day.

"Now, children, you see

How I look," said she,

"And Grandmamma Harris

Looked just like me.

They always do; it's the natural way.

All children take after their Grandmas, they say."

MOTHER'S IDEA.

Mr. Atherton has been the master of the Centreville Academy ever since I can remember. A few months ago, however, he was offered a better position in the city, and he decided to leave Centreville. We were very sorry, for we all liked him; and now that he has left, it really seems as if a part of the building itself had been taken away.

We were to have a public examination during the last two days of his stay, and Florence Grantley had thought of a beautiful project. She always has good ideas, though I must say they are generally rather expensive. But then her father is rich, and I suppose she never has to think twice before spending a dollar, as some of us are obliged to do. Her plan was to buy an album, put all our pictures in it, and present it to Mr. Atherton before the company, after he had closed the school. The girls wished me to make the presentation address. Of course I was enthusiastic about it, and went home thinking over what I should say and should wear, and all that. There are fifteen girls in our class, and Florence said she knew of a lovely album, one we wouldn't be ashamed to give him. It would cost only eleven dollars and twenty-five cents; and that, you see, would be only seventy-five cents apiece. I went in to dinner full of the new project, and began to talk about it at the table.

But Father vetoed it at once. He said he didn't believe in the idea at all. It would be too expensive for some of us, and he did not wish to hear another word about it.

When Father takes that tone, of course there's no more to be said. I am too old to cry before everybody, but I didn't wish any more dinner, and as soon as possible I went up to my room and had a good cry.

Mother came upstairs as quickly as she could. I knew she would. Mother is a born comforter. Oh, what do girls do who have no mother? She told me I must remember how hard Father had to work for every dollar, and that although what he said sometimes sounded harsh, it was only because his business troubles made him worry, and it added to them to have us wish for things he felt he couldn't afford. Dear Mother! I wonder if she ever wishes for things she doesn't get.

Then I told Mother all about it; that it was not merely that one plan, but that I could never join in any project that came up. All the other girls had birthday parties and I went, but never gave one in return. "Of course I don't expect that," said I, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as I saw the look on Mother's face. "Birthdays are so common in this family, of course we can't notice them; but I thought this time we had found something Father could sympathize with. He so often speaks of Mr. Atherton, and the respect he has for him—but of course that's all over now. If I can't, I can't; it does seem hard though never to do as the others do."

"I know it, child," Mother said, softly touching my hair. "Many things are hard. You are old enough now to know a little of the life of your elders," she went on; "and you must remember that it is absolute necessity, and not lack of sympathy, that forces Papa to say no, as he sometimes does."

"Well, if he would only soften it a little," I couldn't help saying. "A blunt no is a great deal harder to bear."

"I know, dear," Mother said, with a sigh; "but Father thinks he does what is best."

"But what can I say, Mother. I must let them know I can't contribute. This very afternoon they'll all be talking of it."

"Tell them nothing positively. Say as little as possible; and give me time to think."

At this, my mind was relieved immediately. I was sure the trouble would somehow end in just the right way, though I knew Mother couldn't squeeze the money from the housekeeping allowance, even if she could think it right to do so after what Father had said. But I had faith that Mother would manage for me, so I went to school, feeling very confident, and said as little as possible.

That night Mother came to my room and told me to invite all of my class to spend Thursday evening with us. "You know Grandpa sent us a barrel of apples," she said, "a bushel of nuts, and some corn to pop. May be I'll make a cake or two, and the coffee will not cost much. Fortunately, we have dishes enough. That will offset the birthday parties a little, and make you have a good time, too. If you know any really nice boys, invite them, and may be Papa'll get out his violin, and you can have a little dance."

You see, Mother was a girl herself once. She doesn't forget her feelings, and she talks over such things with me just as though she were another girl. Of course I was only too delighted to obey, but still, I must confess, although it was very nice, it didn't help me out of the real difficulty a bit. It gave the girls something fresh to talk about, however; and as it would be three weeks before Mr. Atherton would leave, the subject of his present dropped out of sight for a few days.

But that matter of the boys troubled me a great deal. We girls are all about fourteen and fifteen, and really, while we are almost young ladies, boys at that age are very boyish. They don't know what to do with their hands, nor how to ask one to dance, nor to do anything nicely. I mean the generality of boys; of course my brothers do, but then they have had Mamma to train them, and sisters to practice with ever since they were little, which, of course, makes a difference. If it were not that I hated to give up the dancing, and if it wasn't such a bother to dance with a girl with a handkerchief tied on her arm—because she keeps forgetting she is a boy, and taking the wrong hand and everything is put out—I should have given up the idea of asking any boys.

Again I flew to my never-failing refuge in time of trouble, and Mother drew out her needle slowly from the stocking she was darning, and began to consider the matter.

"You see, Mother, it isn't a grand affair, but I want it to be as pleasant a time of its kind as possible, and a lot of awkward boys would just spoil it."

"Now, don't decry the boys, my dear; they are a very good institution in their place."

"Yes, indeed, but their place is sliding downhill, or skating, not in a girls' party trying to be agreeable; and they have sense enough to know it. You know yourself how impossible it is to get Joe to go anywhere with me, and he is a model of politeness, compared with most of his associates."

"Well, it wouldn't be quite fair to punish the boys, and girls, too, in trying to amuse them," Mother replied. "There are boys enough who would be interested in this little gathering of yours. There are those three lads at the minister's, who are fitting themselves for college. They are not more than sixteen years old, and ought not to be above a little informal party. Besides, Mrs. Grey told me she wished they knew some people who would make their stay pleasanter for them. Then there is young Mr. Adams, at Dr. Preston's, I know he would come, and his mother wrote me, asking me to be good to him."

"Oh, what a dear mother you are, that puts the success of the thing beyond doubt!"

"There are four good names, then, to start with," said Mother; "and those, with John and Sam, Father's young friends, will be a good beginning. As for the rest, let the girls themselves invite them; there's nothing like making people responsible for the success of a thing."

Well, the next day being Wednesday I took the class into my confidence, and between us all we made out a list of gentlemanly and agreeable boyfriends; but the four that Mother took it upon herself to invite were the best of all.

Well, every one came; not one of the thirty was missing. Through all Father's troubles, we had kept our house, because Mother's father gave it to her when she married. It was a large old-fashioned house with a wide hall that went right through it; two sets could dance there and one in each parlor. When I was tired, Mother took my place at the piano; and with Father at the violin we had as good music as one could wish for dancing. All the girls wore their best dresses but without finery, and everything went off beautifully. At eleven we had our simple refreshments. Mother had cut up a sheet of mottoes and scattered them among the popped corn, and they made ever so much fun. When that was over and we were standing about before beginning anything else, Father suddenly spoke up, saying that there was a little matter to which he would like to call attention; he supposed that the masculine portion of his audience would hardly be thrilled, but the girls, he knew, would be deeply interested. Then he went on to say that there had been some talk among the young ladies of getting up a surprise present for their teacher, and that an album had been spoken of; but he said he had a scheme that seemed to him much better. Then he brought out a sheet of Bristol board, beautifully ornamented with scroll work, and handsomely engrossed upon it was a set of resolutions saying how sorry we were that Mr. Atherton was going to leave, how much we had profited by his stay with us, and expressing our best wishes for his future. I don't, of course, give all this in Father's words, but after he had read the testimonial, he made a capital, witty speech. Then he called on us all to sign the testimonial if we approved it. He told us, too, that he could have the sheet nicely framed for three dollars, which would involve a cost of only twenty cents to each subscriber; and he would venture to say that Mr. Atherton would be even better pleased with the testimonial proposed than with something more expensive.

Of course it "took" immediately; all the girls were delighted and signed it there and then, in their very best handwriting, and most of them paid their twenty cents at once. We empowered Father to have it framed, and they voted that I should make the presentation. But the fact that Father had entered into it so well and done so much just for my pleasure touched me more than all. I knew that he had given a great deal of attention to ornamental penmanship, but I had no idea he could make so handsome a scroll as that testimonial. I always knew, of course, that Father loved his children. If any of us are sick, he is as tender as a woman; and he daily makes all manner of sacrifices for us; but here he showed that he had a great deal of sympathy with all our hopes and plans.

Of course, with the cake and coffee and everything, the entertainment cost more than my contribution and picture would have done, but it seems that Mother had been planning for some time to do something for me which should help me pay my party obligations, and that was not the only time when she proved that she has "the happy faculty of common sense," as Father says.

I do believe my little party was more talked about than those of many of the other girls, though they cost many times as much money as did mine.

Well, examination day came, and when I presented the testimonial to Mr. Atherton, though I said only a word or two, he could hardly speak at all, and he told Father afterward that we couldn't have pleased him better. It seems that he had heard some whispers about a present, and had a fear that it was going to be something expensive, and felt troubled about it; for, as he told Father, he couldn't refuse a thing before it was offered him, and he didn't know what to do; but the testimonial he could accept with real pleasure and satisfaction.

You can hardly imagine what a different position I have occupied in school since that affair. I was never really unpopular, but I was seldom appealed to. Now, however, I am consulted about everything, and my opinion has a great deal of weight with the girls.—But I know where the honor really belongs, and I always say it is because Father so well carried out Mother's idea.

THE SATCHEL.

By Tudor Jenks.

I was just graduated from college, when I received a letter from my uncle Ralph, which surprised me very much, as I had never known him except by name. I had always been told by my mother that he was very eccentric, and certainly the letter was queer; for it read:

"Nephew Dick (if that's your name):
"I want an assistant in my laboratory. I will pay you well. Answer at once.
"Uncle Ralph."

I was puzzled what to say in reply. I had no profession in view, and didn't like to throw away what might be a good chance. I talked it over with my mother, and she said she thought it would be worth trying and could certainly do no harm. So, not to be outdone in brevity, I answered:

"Dear Uncle Ralph:
If terms suit, I'll try.
"Your nephew Dick."

I think he was pleased with the answer, for he received me very cordially, though he didn't say much. My salary was quickly and satisfactorily settled, and I took a room near my uncle's house and began my work.

At first I had so much to learn that I couldn't have earned my salt; but before very long I began to see my way clearly, and I really think I made myself useful—still I could not be sure.

Strangely enough, I never could tell what my uncle was trying to accomplish. I made many mixtures of chemicals, prepared all sorts of apparatus, but was never allowed to see what my uncle was about. Whenever I had prepared any materials, he would carry them off into a little private room of which he always kept the key upon his watch-chain. No one was allowed to enter this room, and I soon learned that it was wisest to say nothing concerning it. Not being inquisitive, I did not pry into the mystery, but did whatever I was told to do, without asking any questions.

As time went on, I could see that my uncle was becoming very nervous and irritable over his work. Always a silent man, he now seldom spoke a word.

One day he sent me to buy him some chemicals, giving me a list which he had written out for me. Upon examining the list I found that the articles would make a large package, so I picked up my little traveling-bag and started out.

Some of the substances required were rare, and I was obliged to ask at a number of places before I succeeded in finding them; and it was dusk when I reached the house.

I heard my uncle calling me as I came in, and found him very impatient.

"Did you get them all?" he asked, as soon as he saw me.

"Yes; after some trouble," I replied.

"Where are they?" he inquired.

"Here," I said, and I handed him the bag.

He took it without a word, and immediately retired into his private room.

During his absence, I busied myself in the laboratory in putting everything in order. I worked away for a long while—how long I can not exactly tell—when suddenly I heard an explosion in my uncle's little room, followed by a cry.

I rushed to the door and knocked.

"What is it?" he growled.

"What is the matter?" I cried.

"Nothing! Don't be foolish!" said my uncle. "Nothing can hurt me!"

I went back to the laboratory, and, having nothing further to do, sat down to wait for his coming.

Again came the explosion, followed by the same cry.

I started up and, before I thought, I cried aloud, "You're not hurt, are you?"

The door opened suddenly, and my uncle came out, looking very much excited.

"Dick!" said he, "go home. Here is your bag. I shan't need your help to-night."

I took what I thought was my bag, and went home to my room.

When I lighted my student-lamp I saw that, instead of my traveling-bag, my uncle had given me an old, dusty, wrinkled and battered leather satchel, which looked as though it might be a century old.

I laughed, and tried to open it. It was locked. After puzzling over the lock until I was tired, I opened my closet door and flung the satchel upon the highest shelf.

"To-morrow," said I, "I'll exchange it for my own bag."

I am afraid Uncle Ralph's treatment was beginning to affect my temper. I didn't like the way he had treated me that night. Then he hadn't paid me my salary for a long time, and my bills were coming in faster than I could pay them.

It is very discouraging to do other men's work, especially when you are not allowed to see the results of your labor; and I had worked some months without a single hint of what I was about. I began to believe I had made a mistake. What good would it do me to work away in the dark, learning little or nothing, and without hope of doing better? My uncle would tell me nothing, and was provoked by being even questioned.

I became very much discouraged over my prospects, and wondered whether I ought not to confess I had made a mistake, and to begin the study of some regular profession.

How long I sat thinking, I can not tell; but I was aroused by the faint flicker of my fire as it went out, leaving me in perfect darkness.

As I groped about my room, looking for matches, I heard a rustling which seemed to come from the other side of the room. Then came tiny knockings, irregularly, and muffled shouting, as though far away.

By listening more intently I heard the sounds plainly enough to distinguish the squeaking of mice and—could I be mistaken?—a scream; very faint, it is true, but still a scream of fright.

"Ah!" said I to myself, "there must be mice in the closet! But what can the scream be?"

I went to the closet, and, opening the door, was amazed to see that the upper part was faintly lighted, as though by a big fire-fly. Puzzled at this, I brought a chair, and, climbing upon it, saw—a grand battle. Upon one end of the shelf was a flying host of mice. How they scurried away! Some jumped to the floor; some seemed to merely vanish, and they were gone!

While smiling at their panic, what was my surprise to hear from the other end of the shelf some one addressing me in a piping, little voice.

"Eh?" I exclaimed; "did any one speak?"

"I had the honor!" the voice replied.

Turning, I saw upon the shelf a diminutive figure carrying a little lantern in one hand, and something like a needle in the other.

Before I could recover from my astonishment, and not before I had been asked sarcastically whether I should know him the next time we met, the little man went on:

"This is a pretty way to treat me,—isn't it?"

"What in the world—what can this mean?" I blundered out.

"Well! I like that," replied the pigmy in a scornful tone; "asking what this can mean, after having kept me shut up in that old leather satchel for over two thousand years!—Why, I should have been starved before long; my provisions were almost gone, I can tell you! Perhaps you think I'm not hungry now? Oh, no! of course not!—and you want to know what this means?"

'THE LITTLE MAN HELD HIS LANTERN NEAR MY FACE ...'

"THE LITTLE MAN HELD HIS LANTERN NEAR MY FACE AND SAID: 'I THINK I MUST HAVE MADE A MISTAKE.'"

Here he burst out laughing so loudly that I plainly heard it.

"I should be glad to do anything in my power to aid you," I began, wishing to do my best to pacify the little fellow; "but as for having kept you shut up for twenty centuries, why, my dear fellow, that's simply absurd, for I am only twenty-three years old now!"

"Oh, see here," he answered scornfully, "that's a little more than I can stand! You've played the innocent game long enough; you can't fool me that way again. Why, I suppose you will deny that your name is Trancastro, next?" and he hopped up and down in a rage.

"Tran——which? Tran——what?" I began.

"That's right, that's right!" cried the little imp in a perfect fury. "Go on—deny everything!"

"See here!" I cried, now out of patience with his whims, "I don't know anything about you or your Tran-what-you-may-call-him, and if you hadn't kicked up such a racket in my closet I never would have come near you!—I wish I hadn't, and then the mice would have finished you—and a good riddance!"

As I paused for breath the little man held his lantern as near my face as possible, and after a long, earnest look, said with great gravity and deliberation:

"I think I must have made a mistake!"

Then, turning suddenly, he gave a great skip and shouted out, "And then—I am free!"

"Certainly you are, so far as I am concerned," I replied carelessly; "but I can't imagine what all this fuss is about. So long as you are pleased, I suppose I must be satisfied."

Meanwhile he had continued to jump and whirl about, until he dropped his lantern and it went out, leaving us in the dark. Then he calmed down enough to say, "What can you know about it? You—only twenty-three years old!" He chuckled as though this were a great joke at my expense, and went on, "If you will offer me a chair and something to eat, I'll tell you the whole story."

So I stepped down from the chair, lighted my student-lamp, and offered my little guest my hand. Into it he climbed, and I deposited him upon the table under the light, where I could see him plainly.

He was about six inches in height and dressed in what seemed to be mouse-skin. He wore a little belt and a helmet the size of a thimble. His face was unwrinkled, but intelligent enough for any age.

Seeing he was unwilling to be stared at, I broke the silence by saying, "I am sorry I can not offer you a chair—but mine are too large, I am afraid." I feared he might be hurt by the hint.

"Not at all!" he replied politely, now that he had convinced himself I was not that awful Tran-somebody, "see here!"

He beckoned to my favorite easy-chair. At once it rose gently into the air, and, dwindling down to a size suitable for the little wretch, dropped softly down upon the table beside him.

Ignoring my exclamations, he seated himself comfortably within it, and, looking up at me, said, as though nothing had happened, "I said I would tell you all about it, didn't I?"

"Yes," I answered, leaning eagerly forward.

"Well, I'll not!" said he bluntly.

"You'll not?—and why not?" I asked.

"Oh," said he, calmly crossing his little legs, "you couldn't understand it."

"Perhaps I could," I replied, smiling indulgently. "Just try me."

"Do you know what dnax is?" he asked, apparently hoping that I might.

"No, I can't say I do—exactly," I confessed unwillingly.

"Then of course you couldn't understand it—for that's the very beginning of it!—But no matter. Let's change the subject. Is there anything I can do for you in return for your hospitality to a hungry guest?"

"I beg your pardon—I quite forgot," and I rang the bell.

When the servant came, I ordered supper for two. This strange order caused the servant to gape in silent astonishment. I repeated the order, however, and she hurried away without asking any questions. Returning, she placed the supper upon the table, without seeing the frantic retreat of the little man as she approached the table with the heavy tray.

"What an awkward blockhead!" exclaimed the angry little fellow. I made no answer, being puzzled over the proper way to ask my small friend to eat with a knife and fork larger than himself.

'PERHAPS,' SAID THE LITTLE MAN, 'HAVING LIVED FORTY CENTURIES ...'

"'PERHAPS,' SAID THE LITTLE MAN, 'HAVING LIVED FORTY CENTURIES, I MAY BE OLD ENOUGH TO ADVISE A YOUNG MAN OF TWENTY-THREE.'"

But, as I hesitated, the mysterious beckoning process again took place, and one-half the contents of the tray diminished to a size convenient for his use. He ate almost greedily, like a starving man. I watched him in silent wonder until he seemed to be satisfied.

Then, pushing back his chair, he said gratefully: "A very nice supper! I should like to return your kindness in some way. You little know what a service you have done me in releasing me from that cruel Trancast——"

Here he broke off suddenly and remained in a brown study. He seemed so melancholy that I interrupted his thoughts by asking:

"And what could you do for me?" He brightened up again as I spoke, and answered:

"Who can tell? What are your troubles?"

"Well," said I thoughtfully, "I haven't many. But I should like the advice of some one older and wiser than I am."

"I shall not say how wise I may be," said the little man soberly; "but perhaps, having lived forty centuries, I may be old enough to advise a young man of twenty-three."

I looked up, expecting to see him smiling, but he was as sober as a judge. So I told him all about my uncle and my work, and concluded by asking him what he thought I ought to do. He seemed intensely interested, and remained silent some moments after I had finished. I waited more anxiously for his opinion than I should have liked to admit.

At length he said solemnly, "Bring your uncle to me!"

"Bring——" I repeated, in amazement, "bring my——"

"Bring your uncle to me!" he repeated firmly, and so solemnly that I never thought of resisting.

"Oh, very well," I said hastily; "but how in the world am I to do it?"

"Easily enough!" he explained; "write him a note!"

"But what shall I say?" I asked helplessly.

"You said he was interested in chemistry?" asked the strange little fellow.

"I believe he cares for nothing else," I replied.

"Very well. Now write this: 'I have made a discovery to-night such as you never dreamed of. Come at once!' That will bring him," said my guest.

Why I was so easily bullied by the manikin I can not tell; but I wrote the note and sent it at once.

"Now," resumed my little guest, "what else can I do for you?"

"Nothing," I replied, laughing; "unless you will pay my bills for me!"

"With pleasure," he answered gravely; "let me see them."

I brought the bills, and he went over them very carefully.

"Hm—hm—very good!" he said, when he had finished his examination. "You have not been very extravagant. I'll reduce them for you!"

He began beckoning, as he had beckoned to the chair and the tea-tray, and I smiled, expecting to see the papers grow smaller and smaller. But when he stopped I could see no change, although he seated himself as though well satisfied. As he said nothing, I finally ventured to say:

"Well!"

"Well," he replied; "look at your bills!"

I picked them up and was astonished to see that the amounts had dwindled from dollars to cents, until each bill was for only a hundredth part of what it had been.

"But that is nonsense!" I said, looking up angrily. "I'm not a baby! What good will that do?"

"You're only twenty-three," he said, doubtfully; and smiling as a knock was heard at the door, he made me a sign to open it.

I did so, and there stood my tailor, Mr. Mewlett. I frowned, for I owed him more than a hundred dollars. But he smiled politely, saying, "Could you oblige me with that dollar or two you owe me? I need a little change to-night."

I stared at him in wonder; but, thinking it wise to ask no questions, I took his bill from the pile on the table and handed it to him.

He read it aloud: "One dollar and fourteen cents."

I counted out the money. He receipted the bill and left me, seeming perfectly contented.

I dropped into a chair, too much puzzled to say a word.

Just then the door banged open wide, and in came my uncle, puffing and blowing with the exertion of climbing the stairs.

"Well, on what fool's errand have you brought me here——" he began; but suddenly I heard a shriek from the pigmy on the table. As I turned, he began beckoning—beckoning—beckoning, as if he were frantic.

I turned to look at my uncle.

He was gone.

Then I turned again to the little man on the table—What a sight met my eyes!

There stood upon the table the miniature image of my uncle, staring with wide-open eyes at the little figure of my guest.

For a moment they glared at each other—and then, before I could interfere, they were fighting for their lives.

It was over in a second.

My uncle was too old and feeble to be a match for the wiry little warrior in leather.

As they separated, my uncle seemed to be wounded, for he staggered an instant, and then fell backward, staining the cloth like an overturned bottle of red ink.

"You scoundrel!" I cried, starting forward in anger; "what have you done?"

For a moment the little fellow had no breath to answer. He panted helplessly, and at length gasped out:

"It is—but—justice! It is Trancastro!"

'BEFORE I COULD INTERFERE THEY WERE FIGHTING FOR THEIR LIVES.

"BEFORE I COULD INTERFERE THEY WERE FIGHTING FOR THEIR LIVES."

"Trancastro!" I exclaimed—"that was my uncle! Explain!—I can not understand!"

"Do you know what dnax is?" he asked, as he wiped his sword on a napkin.

"No!" I shouted.

"Then you couldn't understand," he said, mournfully shaking his head.

Enraged by his answer, I rushed for the table; but, before I could reach them, my uncle struggled to his feet and resumed the conflict, using his umbrella most valiantly. I paused a moment, hoping he might yet conquer—but the fight was too unequal. By a skillful twist of his opponent's wrist my uncle's umbrella was sent flying out of his hand. Being disarmed, he sank upon one knee and begged for mercy.

"Trancastro!" cried the victor, "you deserve no better fate than the cruel death you meant for me!"

"Oh, have mercy!" cried my uncle.

I could not stand this. The honor of the family forbade me to remain neutral. I rushed to the table, crying, "Here! here!—this has gone quite far enough!"

Again the beckoning! I became in a moment a third pigmy upon my own table!

"Now," exclaimed the triumphant warrior, "we are upon equal terms! Come on!"

I had no weapon. I dared not interfere. While I stood hesitating, the little tyrant made a slipknot from one of my curtain-cords, threw the noose over my uncle's neck, and rose into the air, dragging his victim after him. I heard a breaking of glass, and, regaining my natural size in a moment, rushed to the window only to see them flying away!

All that remained to convince me that I could not be mistaken was the stain upon the cloth, the little arm-chair, and the miniature supper. I searched the room, but found nothing.

Until now I have never told the story—for who would have believed it? But any one who believes my story, and would like to see what remains of Trancastro and his victim, has only to open the battered little satchel, and there can still be seen the little chair, the little knife and fork, and all the relics left by my guest. No unbeliever shall ever see them.

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

By Henry Eckford.

Fourth Paper.

You would hardly believe it possible that there are so many alphabets in the world which seem to have nothing to do with one another—neither coming one from another by borrowing, nor descending, apparently, from the same alphabet thousands of years ago. The numbers of existing nations and of men to-day are as nothing compared with those that have perished. So the number of existing alphabets and syllabaries are but as a handful compared to those that have passed away and left no trace whatever. Writings on paper and bark can remain only as long as the paper and bark hold together; even in Egypt, where, owing to the dryness of the climate, paper lasts longer than elsewhere, it can last only a few thousand years. Nations that once for long periods possessed writings are now completely unknown, and with them their alphabets also have perished, because no record of their existence was left on rock, brick, or pottery. What looks, therefore, like an abundance of material by which to read the life of alphabets is really very little compared to what we ought to have.

You remember how nations like the Phoenicians, when adopting a new series of letters, name these letters according to their own fancy, just as we sometimes teach children their alphabet by saying, "A was an Archer" (or we may prefer to have A stand for an Apple, or some other word beginning with A); and "B was a Butcher," or "a Bear," or some other word beginning with B. There is no doubt that both the Romans and the Greeks had lists of words useful to remind children of their letters. Now, our alphabet came directly to us from the Irish missionaries and professors of religion and wisdom, who taught Christianity to the heathen Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Goths, Germans, Danes, and Swedes, several centuries after the death of our Lord. They did not learn from the Phoenicians, although they have traditions that seem to point to settlers in Ireland bearing a similar name. Instead of using the Latin names for the letters taken from the Christian Romans, they gave them names of their own. Their wise and pious men had been members of, or were the pupils of, a class of learned heathens called the Druids. In ancient Ireland, a druï was prophet, priest, doctor, and magician, and the name seems to be connected with our word tree. It was against the rule of the Druids to write things down. They were in the habit of retiring to the deepest woods for meditation and study, sometimes attended by pupils. That is probably the reason why the Irish, among whom the Druids retained their power the longest,—because Ireland was the hardest to reach of all the great islands thereabouts, and the last to feel the changes taking place elsewhere in Europe,—chose this pretty system of naming the letters of the Latin alphabet when it became common. Instead of calling A, alpha, as the Latins usually did, they said A, ailm, the word which stood in their language for palm-tree and came, in sound, nearest to alpha, and began with an A. Instead of beta they said beith, the word for birch-tree, almost the same in sound as the Phoenician, but quite different in meaning. And so with the other letters: Coll, hazel; duir, oak; eadha, aspen; fearan, alder; gort, ivy; huath, whitethorn; iogha, yew; luis, mountain-ash; muin, vine; nuin, ash; oir, broom; peith, dwarf-elder; suil, willow; teine, furze; ur, heath. They called this alphabet bethluisnion, choosing out the letters B, L, and N, instead of the letters A and B, to form a name. Another term, more nearly like the word alphabet, was aibcitie, or A-B-C order, the syllable tie meaning order, or sequence. Living in wooden houses, in lands mostly covered with trees, the people of Ireland were specially fond of plants, and so named their letters from plants alone. Such a method may possibly point to an early syllabic system among these races, founded on pictures of trees and plants, on leaves, on hunting-tools, and things connected with woodcraft; but at present we can only make this guess. It is very unlikely that so early and rude a writing would be placed on stone or metal, and so come down to us. The Egyptians used trees or plants but seldom, either in their symbolic or alphabetic hieroglyphics. Our S alone, of the letters, comes from a little picture of growing plants, which is supposed to represent a garden overflowed by the Nile. Egypt was peculiarly wanting in forests. Population was dense and animals abounded. On the other hand, a partiality for trees is found in all the Celtic tribes. The intense love of nature shown in the modern literature of Germany, France, and Italy, of Great Britain and the United States, may be traced to the Highland Scotch, and from this may be derived the still more modern passion for pictures of landscape.

OLD IRISH ALPHABET.

OLD IRISH ALPHABET.

The clans of Scotland, blood relations and descendants of the Irish, chose for emblems, or "badges," either a plant or its flower. Thus, the MacKays chose the bulrush. The general badge for Irishmen, as you know, is a little plant like the sorrel, called the shamrock; while that for Scotland is, appropriately enough, the hardy, prickly, but not unbeautiful thistle. The English, too, show traces of the same idea; their race-badge is the rose, a foreign plant, perhaps because they were more thoroughly subjugated by the Normans than were the Scotch and Irish; perhaps because their land is like a rose-garden for cultivation. Now, some Irishmen have claimed that the Phoenicians made settlements in Ireland many centuries before Christ. If they ever taught their alphabet to the tribes of that island, it has been crowded out by others, or has fallen into disuse. Some kind of writing had existed before the Christians introduced the bethluisnion; there is hardly a doubt that altered Greek letters, known as Runes, were used in Ireland; but with the exception of the mysterious Oghans, which will be noticed further on, none are to be found; for, just as nations have been struggling with nations from the earliest period to which we can look back, and forms of government with other forms, and languages with languages, so systems of writing have been struggling with systems of writing. Sooner or later the best, that is to say, the most convenient, alphabet wins the day. Within a few centuries, the rounded and perfected form of the Christian alphabet has taken the place of the old Irish alphabet, which was itself an earlier form of the very same Christian letters.

You have traced your letters back through the Irish missionaries to the Christians of Rome; but how did they come to Rome? You must know that among the great and renowned cities founded by the Phoenicians in Greece was Chalkis, a town in the island of Euboea. This island is close to the mainland of Greece, and its inhabitants are called Boeotians. Now the Athenians, who considered themselves very smart people, used to make all manner of fun about the stupidity of the Boeotians. But just why the Boeotians were thought very stupid folk, unless through jealousy or rivalry, I do not see, for one of the greatest poets of the world, called Pindar, was a Boeotian, and many famous generals, artists, architects, painters, and writers came from the ranks of this so-called stupid folk. And for all the fun they liked to make of these island people, the rest of Greece, including Athens, very likely had to come to the Boeotians for the alphabet. But you are not to suppose that the Phoenicians came to Euboea in the flourishing days of Athens, when the marvelous sculptors lived. It was long before. And the Latins of Italy, in their turn, took their letters from the Greek-Phoenicians of Chalkis long, long before Rome became a famous town. And it was because of great wars and the attacks of Asiatic nations that the people who had the best alphabet came to Europe at all.

The Phoenicians were driven out of Asia Minor by the armies of other nations, which, under different names, are mentioned in the Bible, and perhaps among these were the Jews, in whose language the Bible has come down to us. It is more than probable that the ambition of great nations still farther to the eastward, drove the nearer nations of Syria upon the Phoenicians, who held the sea coast. But there was another inducement. The Phoenicians became very rich from their trading voyages; and also, I fear, from their plundering and kidnapping of slaves, for the Mediterranean was the haunt of buccaneers until the Romans frightened pirates into some kind of peaceableness. Even in this century it was necessary for the United States to send a fleet against the pirates that sailed from ports in Northern Africa. The riches of the Phoenician towns must have tempted the neighboring tribes to attack them. At any rate, having already made many settlements elsewhere, the Phoenicians began to give way more than a thousand years B. C., and to take refuge in their old or new colonies. Some old Greek traditions tell how Kadmus, a mighty leader and a very wise man in all the arts and sciences, came over from Asia and taught the Boeotians letters. In Phoenician the word Kadmus means the East-man, while the word Europe, which gradually was applied to a vast extent of land, a continent, at first belonged only to the land just across from the island of Euboea, on the other side of the narrow strait called Euripus, and means, in Phoenician, the West-land. So when you read of Kadmus coming to Europe it is the East-man coming to the Westland. Over and over again in history we find names to which all sorts of fanciful derivations have been given, and beautiful legends and myths have been attached, turning out to be the simplest kind of words. Thus, Ireland also means the Westland, and it comes from the Celtic word iar and our word land; iar meaning the West. Iar, before being used to denote the West, meant the back, and that fact lets us into an important secret concerning the religion of the Celts who first came over the Irish sea to the Emerald Island. It tells us that those early men named the points of the compass according to the other directions when the observer faced toward the East. So the East was named from front, or forward, the West from back or behind, the North from left hand, and the South from right hand. That means that the early Celts worshiped the Dawn and the Sunrise. And so faithfully have the old traditions remained in men's minds in that big western island of the British Empire that, to this day, the emblem on the coat of arms of Ireland is a sunburst, or rising sun.

Another curious thing is that it is more than probable that the Irish preference of the color green, for their flag and their sashes, arose from a mistake among those who had lost a thorough knowledge of the old Irish language. The sun, in Irish, is called by a word pronounced like our word "green"; and it is likely that the Irish fondness for that color arose from the word's exact likeness in sound to their word for the sun. In the same way, when we talk about greenhouses, we think they are called so because the plants are kept green in them during winter. Yet it is far more probable that "green," here, is the Irish word meaning, not the color, but the sun; because greenhouses are built so as to catch the sun's rays and store them up while it is hidden by clouds, as happens more than half the time in showery Ireland.

But to return to Kadmus, the man, or the representation of the men, who to the ancient Greeks seemed to come out of the East. There was in Greece an ancient people whom men called the Pelasgi, or sea-people, because they seemed to live on the sea, so easy and so much at home were they on board their long black ships. Moreover, "sea-people" was a ready enough name for those who dwelt so much on islands. This Pelasgian folk at one time conquered the half of Egypt with their fleets, and with the aid of other nations. Now, when in the course of centuries, the Greeks had learned a great many things besides masonry and seacraft from the Pelasgians, and letters and seamanship from the Phoenicians,—they too, like the Syrian nations, began to push the people who had been their teachers out of their islands and towns. Doubtless the Phoenicians were very arrogant and imperious people, who fancied that their riches made them the superiors of all poorer folk, and that justice only existed for the rich. By that time they had made many flourishing settlements in Italy, Spain, and Northern Africa, and they became famous for the last time in their towns of Northern Africa, where they left numerous different alphabets. Finally the Romans, jealous of their commerce and wealth, managed to ruin their navies, defeat their armies, and sack and destroy their cities, among which the greatest was Carthage, meaning, in Phoenician, New Town. Some day, if you have not yet studied it, you can learn in Roman history all about the Roman destruction of Carthage and the time of the Punic wars. When those wars occurred, the Carthaginians were making a last effort to remain masters of the western parts of what are now called Europe and Africa, then the most western portion of the civilized world.

ST. NICHOLAS DOG STORIES.

XIV.—THE LEFT-FIELD OF THE LINCOLN NINE.

By C. F. H.

"Pay his fare in, please, Mister!"

The speaker was a ragged little urchin, with a bright, jolly face, who stood at the entrance of a base-ball ground. By his side sat a great black poodle. The dog looked up at me with such a solemn and woe-begone expression that I laughed outright, whereupon the boy took courage and repeated his request: "Pass him in, Mister; it's only a dime. We're under age."

"Do you mean the dog?" I asked.

"Yes," was the reply. "He's a base-baller. He hasn't missed a game this season; and," the boy continued earnestly, "I wouldn't have him miss one, either. But, you see, Mother's rent's due to-day, so we've no extra cash,—have we, Major?" And the big poodle wagged its tail and showed its teeth in a broad dog-laugh.

It certainly was the most remarkable-looking poodle I had ever seen. It was a pure black, with the back part of its body shaved to the skin except where, on the top, the hair had been left in the shape of an anchor. A tuft only was left at the end of the tail; the feet had bracelets or anklets of hair, and as the dog's head and chest were not clipped it looked like a lion from the front; but from the side it was the most comical-looking object you can possibly imagine, while in looking down upon it, the symbol of hope was always presented; and this anchor, as I learned afterward, was emblematical of the Major's chief characteristic.

"What're the chances, Mister?" asked his owner, after I had examined the dog for a few moments.

"I think they are good," I replied. "But why do you wish him to go in? Does he belong to either nine?"

"No, he doesn't," responded my new acquaintance; "but," confidentially, "he's left-field in the 'Lincolns,' and if you knew how badly he'd feel to miss this game, you'd pass him in."

"Can he play?" I inquired in an incredulous tone.

"Can he play?" the youngster retorted indignantly, adding, "Can you, Major?" as he turned to the dog. The animal showed all its teeth, and cast up its solemn eyes, saying "yes," as plainly as possible.

"You just come with me a minute, Mister," continued the small speaker; and leading me around the corner, away from the crowd, he drew a well-worn base-ball from a dilapidated pocket, and tossed it to me. "He does best at a fly-catch," he remarked; "and when I say he's left-field of our nine, it's as much as to say he isn't a muffer."

Curious to see what the dog would do, I tossed the ball at him, and it landed fair in his capacious mouth, and was held there.

"That's not what he wants, Mister," said Major's young master. "Throw it up high,—just as high as you can."

I drew back my arm and looked up; and on the instant Major had become like another dog. His ears stood up, his eyes flashed, and the hairy emblem of hope seemed to wriggle like a snake as he danced backward, barking in loud, jubilant tones. This time I threw the ball as high as I could. Up it went, so high, in fact, that I doubt if I could have caught it myself, as it is some years since I severed my connection with a base-ball nine. But the moment it left my hand, Major seemed to know where it was going to fall; he watched it for a second, then ran back about twenty feet, and as it turned in the air, he was directly under it.

Down it came, right over the dog, which stood with legs braced apart, and tail wagging slowly; then a red mouth opened, a row of white teeth glistened and——Major had caught the ball! A few seconds later he delivered it to me, with a wag of his tail that said plainly, "You're out, Mister."

So good a player certainly deserved to see the game, and we were soon within the high fence. At once Major took up his stand behind the scorer, and watched the game with the greatest gravity, occasionally, when a heavy strike was made, running out, as if to see who caught it, and uttering a single bark of satisfaction. Everybody seemed to know him, and had a friendly pat or word for him; in fact, it was evident that the dog was one of the base-ball fraternity.

When the game broke up, Major's master invited me to be present at a match-game of the "Lincolns," on the ensuing Saturday. The rival nines were made up of boys under thirteen, black and white, and Major. As I reached the ground, it was his inning, and his master, who claimed the privilege of striking for him, was at the bat. The dog was right behind with one paw in advance, and his eyes on the striker. In came the twisters, and Major made several false starts; but, finally, as the ball went scudding from the bat, off he rushed for first base, his ears flapping, his plumelike tail out straight behind. But the short-stop was too nimble for the dog, and just before he reached the base, the ball arrived there, and he came slowly back, his tail hanging low, and a very mournful expression in his great eyes.

"Maje's out,—side out!" cried the boys, and immediately conceiving a method by which he could retrieve this disaster, the dog seemed to regain his spirits, dashed into the field, and was speedily in his position as left-fielder, before any of the others had reached their places.

THE CURIOUSLY CLIPPED DOG MAKES A GOOD LEFT-FIELDER IN THE

THE CURIOUSLY CLIPPED DOG MAKES A GOOD LEFT-FIELDER IN THE BASE-BALL NINE.

In the preliminary "pass around" that preceded the play, Major was not left out, and I saw that the balls that were thrown at him directly were quite as swift as those delivered from base to base; and in justice to him, I never saw him "muff." When a ball was thrown at him, he settled back, and dropped his great lower jaw, into which the projectile seemed to fit; then, with tail wagging, he would hasten to carry the ball to the next player. He was equally proficient with low balls, either catching them in his mouth or stopping them with his broad chest, and in fielding he could not be outdone. When he caught a ball, he carried it at full speed to the nearest thrower, and not a few players were put out by his quick motions and activity.

But perhaps the strangest part of it all was the delight and pleasure that Major took in the game. He showed it in every motion, speaking with his tail as well as his eyes and mouth, and I doubt if any of the boys had a greater interest in the sport.

Major's accomplishments were not confined to base-ball playing. He could perform numerous tricks, and understood, or pretended to understand, everything that was said; and if the gentleman in London who is so industriously endeavoring to teach dogs to talk, could only borrow Major, he might achieve success.

Major would take a ten-cent piece to the baker, and bring home a loaf of bread, and no such tricks as giving him the wrong change or a bogus loaf could be successfully played upon him by the neighbors. I was told that one day when given a counterfeit quarter, Major gravely bit it, smiled a contemptuous smile, and wagged his head in disapproval; but this I will not vouch for. He did so many wonderful things, however, that one would hardly be surprised at any feat attributed to him.

"How came you to clip him in such a fashion?" I asked of his master.

"Because he's so hopeful," answered my new acquaintance. "When we first came to town we were very, very poor. We're not so very rich now," he added, confidentially; "but in those times we had only a dollar or two at a time, for all of us, and Mother used to sit and cry, and you'd have thought there wasn't any hope for us. But Major was never discouraged. Whenever Mother began to cry, he'd walk up to her, and laugh, and show his teeth, and then she'd almost always look up and put her arms around his neck and say, 'Maje, your'e tryin' to cheer us up; you're doing your best; I know you are;" and it seemed to make us all hopeful-like. And he hadn't anything to be cheerful for, either. One day we were at our worst; there wasn't anything in the house; and cold! You wouldn't believe how cold it was, Mister! Maje had run out, and Mother was in the big chair, and I was ready to cry, because she looked so solemn; when there came a scratchin' at the door—and what d'ye s'pose? I pulled it open, and there was Maje with a basket in his mouth and a bundle tied on his back, and I never saw him more cheerful and hopeful in my life. Well, Mother broke out cryin', just at the time she ought to ha' been laughin', and she put her arms 'round Maje's neck. There was meat and cake and ever so much more in the basket, and it kept us from starvin'.

"Where did he get them? Why, that's the cur'ous part of it. We never could find it out from Maje; but there was a paper in the basket sayin': 'From a Friend.' But how Maje came to be acquainted with him just at that time, I don't see—do you, Mister?"

It often happens that dogs of no special breed, poor outcasts of the canine family, show the most remarkable characteristics.

A fire company in New York had for years a dog that was as faithful in its duties as any of the men, and on several occasions it called the attention of patrolmen to places where fires were smoldering. A certain drayman in the same city had a dog that spent its time upon the horse's back, and seemed to delight in exhibiting its equestrian skill. I have often seen the dray going down Broadway, the dog on the horse's back but keeping his place with difficulty when the horse moved rapidly.

XV.—A DOG THAT COULD CLIMB TREES.

By C. F. H.

A DOG THAT COULD CLIMB TREES.

A friend of mine who lived in the Sierra Madre Mountains had a collie that was an inveterate tree-climber, and woe to the squirrel that climbed up a trunk that Jack could scale. Of course straight trees were out of the question; but one that grew at an angle of forty-five degrees, and had a rough bark, was quickly mounted by the collie.

This curious habit was the result of his passion for squirrel-hunting, and the moment one of those little animals would dart up a favorable tree, Jack was after it, scrambling up so high that he was often found by his master thirty or forty feet from the ground, barking fiercely at the squirrel, which had sought refuge on a limb beyond the reach of the dog. In returning, Jack would settle close to the tree-trunk, and back down, inch by inch, exercising great precaution, well knowing that with his short claws he was at a disadvantage. When within a few feet of the bottom he would slide and scramble to the ground.

XVI.—A SOCIABLE, SENSIBLE DOG.

By E. P. Roe.

I once knew a dog, and he had earned his good name honestly. He was so genuine a sea-dog that he had been named Surf, and there was not a better sailor on the Maine island where he lived. Surf knew nearly all the islanders, and they knew him. Whenever he met any of them, he wagged his tail genially. It was his mode of saying good morning, or how-d'ye-do; and the people would always return his friendly greeting. There's an old saying, that "It's better to have the good-will than the ill-will of a dog." There were a few boys whom Surf snarled at, and you may rest assured that they were very rough, mean boys. The best young fellows thought Surf a fine comrade, with whom they could enjoy a romp almost as well as if he were a schoolmate. If his master or any of the family were going out in a boat, Surf was the first on board; and taking his place in the extreme bow, he saluted every one within hailing distance. No matter how hard it blew, or how blinding the spray, he maintained his place, vigilant and fearless. Thus he came to be the best-known and most popular dog on the island. Everybody had a smile for him; everybody had a good word for him. Many boys who go to school and can read and write are not so true and kind as was Surf.

So abounding in good nature was Surf that he made friends even of the people who passed by the island, and many passed every day. The channel followed by steamers was not far distant from the point on which his master, Mr. Andrews, lived. When a boat was nearly opposite this point Surf went down to the water's edge and barked, not in a spiteful, malicious way, but in cheery tones, as if calling out "How are you, old fellow!" The spirit in which anything is done is soon known, and the pilots of the steamboats began to answer his barking with the steam whistle. At this, Surf would wag his tail as if the proper courtesies had been exchanged, and return quietly to the house. So it came about that captains and crews and not a few of the passengers expected a salutation from Surf, whenever the boat neared the point.

Surf was not spoiled, however, by his popularity. He put on no airs whatever, and was just as ready to play with little Bob Andrews, and follow him about, as he was to "pass the time of day," after his fashion, with the captain of a steamer, or the richest man on the island. Bob was a reckless little mortal, and Surf appeared to have the impression that the boy needed looking after. Like many people who live by the sea, the Andrews family had the feeling that they could never be drowned, and no one was more venturesome than Bob in clambering over the rocks about the ocean's edge.

SURF PULLED OFF THE BOY'S CAP AND RAN WITH IT AT FULL

SURF PULLED OFF THE BOY'S CAP AND RAN WITH IT AT FULL SPEED TO THE HOUSE.

One day, however, he ventured too far and too carelessly, for he fell with a splash into deep water. The little fellow could not swim, and his bubbling cry for help could scarcely have been heard on the rock from which he fell, so loud was the noise of the dashing waves. Surf's tail became rigid with the stress of the emergency; then over the rock he went after his playmate. Seizing the boy by the coat-collar, he swam around the rock to a gravelly beach, and soon had him high, but not dry, on the shore. Indeed, the little fellow had taken so much water inside as well as out that he lay helpless and insensible, though beyond the breaking waves.

For a moment, Surf was puzzled. He knew his task was not finished; but what should he do next? A bright thought struck him. The day was windy, and the boy had pulled his little cap down over his ears so tightly that the waves had not washed it off. But Surf pulled it off with his teeth and ran at full speed with it to the house. The family was just gathering around the dinner-table when the great, wet dog bounded in and laid the well known cap on Mr. Andrews' chair.

"Merciful Heaven!" cried the father, seizing the cap and rushing out, followed by his wife and all the family.

Surf led the way, whining in a low tone, to where Bob lay, pale indeed, but already showing signs of life. Fortunately, Mr. Andrews was an intelligent man and knew just what to do. And so, within an hour, Bob was in his high chair at the table with the rest. But he shared his dinner, that day, with the brave dog that had saved his life.

Surf entered so heartily into the family rejoicing, and was so elated at the praise he received, that there seemed to be some danger that he would wag his tail off before the day ended.

Yet, even after this heroic act, Surf never so much as hinted by his manner, "See what a good dog I am!"

XVII.

A DOG WHOSE FEELINGS WERE HURT.

By E. P. Roe.

Carlo felt himself to be one of the family. From his puppyhood days, he had been treated with great kindness and allowed to come into the house under certain restrictions. He also had accorded to the different members of the household various marks of his favor, according to his estimate of their deserts; but for his mistress and her sister he had unbounded affection. Whenever they walked abroad, he was their self-appointed guardian, and never had ladies a more attentive and gallant escort. Not only did he respond gratefully to any favor or notice that he received, but he was also ready to prove himself no carpet-knight should danger threaten the ladies.

Now Carlo felt that he was not a mere watch or churning dog—an animal kept for a purpose. By ties of long association and deep affection, he was one of the family. That he had his three meals daily did not suffice; he observed all that was going on, and noted any change that occurred. The absence of his mistress and her sister quite depressed his spirits, and when they returned his joy was great indeed.

They had been away, and they returned one summer evening. As they were greeting the members of the household, Carlo heard their voices, and came bounding in, intent on the most frisky, hearty and demonstrative of welcomes. At that critical moment, however, a flea on his back gave him a most venomous, distracting bite, and, half frantic from pain, Carlo turned his head so suddenly to return the bite, that he tumbled down on his nose and rolled over, cutting so awkward and ridiculous a figure that every one burst out laughing.

Carlo rose, and having given his mistress a look of reproach, walked with great dignity out of the room. And many were the apologies that had to be made before his wounded feelings were soothed and the old cordial relations resumed.

XVIII.—A DOG THAT REPAID A TRICK.

A gentleman in Bristol, England, owned a dog remarkable both for intelligence and devotion. The dog had been taught to run errands. It was a part of his daily duty to go to the meat-market, carrying a basket in which was the money to pay for the meat. One day his master thought he would put a new test to the dog's faithfulness and intelligence. He ordered the man who kept the market to take the money as usual, but to refuse the meat and order the dog to go home without it. This the market-man did, and the poor dog returned to the house dejected, melancholy, slow, with ears and tail hanging, and with the basket empty. Seeing his master, he seemed to try to put on an air of cheerfulness, evidently hoping that the situation would be understood. But, no; the master frowned upon him, scolded him harshly, and bade him go out of his sight. This was almost more than the poor fellow could bear, and sneaking out he crept under a table in an outer shed, where he lay for two days to all appearances in a state of gloomy despair. On the third day, his master called him out, speaking kindly to him again, and the dog was wild with joy. Again his master sent him to the market with the money in his basket. The dog went in, but this time he placed the money on the floor and put his paw on it, before he allowed the market-man to take the basket. When the man gave him the meat, the dog quickly whisked the money back into the basket and trotted off home with both meat and money, giving them to his master with an air of decided triumph.

XIX.—MEPHISTOPHELES.

By Anna Gardner.

In that beautiful suburb of Philadelphia known as Germantown, lived a beautiful little gray Skye terrier with a very long name,—Mephistopheles. He was called Meph, for short; and a remarkably intelligent dog he was.

At one time Meph's master, who is a well known physician of Germantown, was ill. In the middle of the night, the dog bounded to the side of the bed, and laying its paw upon the arm of its master endeavored to awaken him. Having succeeded, it tried in various ways to attract his attention to the opposite side of the room; repeatedly leaving the bed and returning.

Unwilling to be disturbed, the invalid remained some time without noticing his little pet. But the animal became so importunate that the doctor could no longer remain impassive. He arose, and, following the dog to the bay-window on the other side of the room, he found, to his astonishment, that a goldfish had leaped out of the aquarium, and was panting almost lifeless on the carpet.

Meph evinced much joy when his master restored the fish to its watery home; and the doctor fondly caressed Meph, who quietly returned to his cushion bed, seeming perfectly satisfied with having performed his mission and saved the life of the fish.

He must have evolved the idea that all was not right—that the fish was "out of its sphere."

This dog met an untimely death through the cruelty of a man, who, on account of some trivial annoyance, put an end to poor Meph's career. The man might have learned a lesson of kindness from the little creature he wantonly murdered.

A RECIPE.

A RECIPE.

       ———

By M. A. L.

       ———

'Pothecary, 'pothecary, living in the rose,

Tell us how to make the scent that everybody knows.

"A penny's worth of nectar; a dozen drops of dew;

A little compound sunshine that's slowly filtered through;

A sun-glass made of diamond, and then—the mixing done—

Set out a little flask of it to simmer in the sun."

'Pothecary, 'pothecary, is there nothing more?

"Yes, it taketh industry to make the summer's store.

So, my lad and lady, run off now and play;—

This, like every day in June, is my busy day."

RIDDLES FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS.

Who knows what a riddle is? A riddle is something to be guessed. Well, here is a riddle in a picture, all about pretty painted bridges.

Pretty painted bridges, Baby cannot get 'em. Never mind the shower, Water cannot wet 'em.

Who can guess it? The bridges are not real bridges, and they are not really painted,—yet every summer we see them. Now, what kind of bridges are they? Nobody over seven years of age need try to guess these riddles.

Now you shall have another riddle,—this time about sheep, but they are not the real sheep shown in the picture. On almost any sunny day you can see the kind of sheep that this riddle means. Many of these riddle sheep are white as snow, and they keep moving, moving, when the wind blows. Did you ever see them? Perhaps if you look out of your window now you may see some of the same sort. But it must be at noon time, or in the morning when the sky is blue, or when you wake up in the night and see the moon softly stealing in and out among them. Do not look for them when it is time for little folk to say "good-night!" Then these sheep sometimes change into bright red and yellow banners stretching across the sky and floating over the place where the sun is going to sleep.

White sheep, white sheep, On a blue hill. When the wind stops You all stand still. When the wind blows You walk away slow. White sheep, white sheep, Where do you go?

And now comes the very last riddle,—about Dormio Hill. What can the white ground of Dormio Hill be? It is in the land of Nod, and if you wish to find it, I do believe the Sand-man can take you to the very spot.

And who is the Sand-man? Ah, that is another riddle which Mamma can answer for you.

On Dormio Hill the ground is white And nobody's there except at night To Dormio Hill mamma will go And carry the baby whether or no.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.

We will open the meeting this month, my hearers, with "A Bumble Grumble" sent to you by my friend Harold W. Raymond.

A bumble-bee sat on the wild-rose tree,

And grumbled because he was big and fat;

"Just look at yon butterfly light," quoth he,

"I wish I were airy and graceful like that!

O ho!

I know

'Tis hard to be heavy, and huge, and slow!"

A mischievous boy the butterfly caught,

And in his rough grasp it fluttered and died.

Sir Bumble his dagger drew out, and thought

That his end had come; but he boldly cried:

"Come on!

My son;

This stinger and I weigh nearly a ton."

"You'll have to excuse me, sir," said the lad,

"I know the weight of your little barbed spear.

Were your logic less pungent I'd be most glad

To meet you in conflict and vanquish you here.

Good-day!

I'll say;

For I fear 'twould unhealthy prove to stay."

The bumble-bee laughed a stitch in his side

When he saw the youngster in full retreat;

Then he stretched himself in a new-born pride

And threw out his chest with martial conceit.

"Dear me!"

Said the bee,

"'Tis easy to see

An ounce of sting

Is better than yards of butterfly-wing."

And now you shall have a story that isn't in verse, though there's poetry in it. "Turn about is fair play," and this will interest you in the butterflies.

PRETTY DUSTY WINGS.

Dear Jack: Please let me tell you this true story:

Dusty Wings is the name of a charming little pet of mine; and he is so curious a thing to have for a pet, that if it were not for his name, I don't believe you could ever guess what he is.

One day in the early part of November, as I sat by the window, I noticed lying on the piazza a beautiful butterfly, with his gorgeous wings outspread. He was apparently stunned by the cold, as he did not attempt to fly away when I went to pick him up. I brought him into the warm room, when he soon became very lively.

His body is dark brown, covered with fine hairs, which look like feathers when put under a magnifying glass. The wings show all the colors of the rainbow, arranged in the most artistic manner. The wings themselves are transparent, like those of a fly, and the color is given to them by fine scales, which come off very easily. The antennæ which grow from each side of the head are black and white.

Although you all have probably seen many butterflies as beautiful as my pet, I don't believe you ever watched one eat, and that is a very interesting process. Dusty Wings alights on my finger and clings to it as if he really loved me. I then put a drop of sugar in front of him. Immediately a long trunk (it is hollow, like an elephant's) unwinds and feels about until it finds the liquid, which gradually disappears; and then Mr. Dusty Wings slowly coils his trunk around and stows it away in a vertical opening in the center of his head. The trunk is so delicate that when it is coiled up, it looks like a fine watch-spring. If he has not had enough, he lets me know by waving this trunk in the air. The first time I fed him, he seemed shy and only ate very little; now he is not at all afraid.

I made him a house with plenty of air-holes, and there he stays most of the time on a warm corner of the mantel. I do not like to let him out very often to fly about, as I am afraid he might be stepped on. If I wear a flower he will crawl up my dress until he comes to it, and there he will stay, showing that he has not forgotten his old life.

Yours sincerely,

Ada C. Ashfield.

TREES THAT RAIN.

Memphis, Tenn., January 10, 1886.

Dear Jack: I thought some of your readers might be able to answer my question.

There had been no rain here for about three weeks; it was in the fall, and our school went to see a tree that had been raining for two or three days; this tree was a sycamore. I saw two more trees that rained. One was a box-elder, and the other an elm. The elm was in the woods. The drops tasted like water, and dried up as quickly.

Can any one explain this to me?

Your constant reader,

Julia S.

All look out, my friends, for raining trees, and report the results of your observations. I've seen no such instance in my meadow as the one Julia describes. But you all may go searching the groves and the books, and see what you can discover.

SHOOTING STARS.

New York, March 1, 1886.

Dear Jack: I frequently have read of shooting stars, but never of anything like this that I saw. About four summers ago, I was staying at a village on Long Island. One evening as I was about to go into the house, I glanced up at the heavens. Myriads of stars were shining brightly, but no moon. As I was looking directly overhead, there was a sudden, intense light, and a star burst into fragments. The pieces slid a short distance and then disappeared, as all shooting stars do. The utter noiselessness of the whole occurrence made it even more impressive and startling. Will you please ask your readers whether they ever have seen such a thing or read of anything like it?

Yours respectfully,

Susan A.

COASTING IN AUGUST.

Gardiner, Maine.

Dear Jack: I meant to have written to you before, telling how we boys coast in August, as I was reminded of it by reading the story about coasting down the grass-covered hills, in St. Nicholas for August, 1885.

Along the Kennebec river are many huge ice-houses. The ice is sent away in big ships in summer. It is raised high in the air and swung on a sloping plank which reaches to the ship's deck. Block after block is dispatched in this way very quickly. We boys used to get pieces of old carpeting and put on the ice. Then each boy would seat himself on a carpet-covered block of ice, and, in something less than a wink, we would find ourselves on the ship. We did this, the boys and I, till our mothers found it out. Then we stopped.

Your constant reader,

John W.

MORE ABOUT TURTLES.

Dear Jack: I saw some letters about turtles in your department, and so I thought I would write to you about something I noticed. I have a small turtle, and I have seen that the shell scales off in little pieces just the shape of the divisions on its back. It shuts its eyes by raising the lower lid. Has any one else noticed the first peculiarity?

Your reader,

W. I. L.

A FISH THAT WEAVES ITS NEST.

Mr. C. F. Holder, I hear, is to tell you in the June St. Nicholas about some fishes and their young, so this is a good time to show you this letter from my friend Ernest Ingersoll, concerning a fish that weaves its nest.

Dear Jack: Among the small fishes that inhabit the streams and ditches along the Atlantic coast of the Northern States, is the four-spined stickleback. Like the rest of the sticklebacks, this species makes a nest in which the eggs are deposited. The male fish makes the nest himself and defends it with great spirit. It is about half an inch high and three-eighths of an inch in thickness. It is composed of stalks of water-weeds and small stuff of that kind, bound together by a glutinous thread which the fish spins out from a gland in his body, and which is wound round and round the nest to bind it together. It frequently happens, however, that in poking apart the straws with his nose this living bobbin will pass his body through the nest and back again, thus weaving the thread he reels out into the substance of the nest and sewing it tightly together.

Yours truly,

Ernest Ingersoll.

A CLEVER HUMMING-BIRD.

You all remember, I am sure, "Robin's Umbrella," which was described and shown to you from this pulpit two months ago. Now I'll tell you about the way in which a clever humming-bird shielded her little ones from the rain. There they were, a nestful, and the rain beginning to fall. The people who had watched the nest out of their window were concerned about the young birds, but the mother-bird evidently was prepared for the emergency. Near the nest grew a large leaf,—it was a butternut tree,—and on one side of the nest a small twig stuck out. When the drops began to fall, she came quickly, and with many tugs pulled the leaf over the little nest, for a roof, and hooked it by the twig on the other side, which held it firmly.

Thus the half-feathered babies were kept as dry under their green roof as if their house had been built by a carpenter, like the sparrow-houses all around on the trees.

When the rain was over, the mother came back and unhooked the leaf.

A CLEVER HUMMING-BIRD.

EDITORIAL NOTES.

Contributors are respectfully informed that, between the 1st 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 contributions will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date.

The Audubon Society, of which Jack-in-the-Pulpit informed our readers last month, takes its name from that of the great naturalist J. J. Audubon. It has been established for the purpose of fostering an interest in the protection of wild birds from destruction for millinery and other commercial purposes. The head-quarters of the society are at 40 Park Row, New York City. It invites the coöperation of young folk in every part of the country.

All of our readers who are interested in the handiwork of children, will remember Mr. Charles G. Leland's valuable papers concerning Brass-Work and Leather-Work for young folk, published in this magazine, and will be glad to know that St. Nicholas intends to print, before the close of the summer, an illustrated account of the Children's Industrial Exhibition held in New York City last April.

THE LETTER-BOX.

We have the pleasure of beginning the Letter-Box this month with five letters from the other side of the world. First of all, comes one sent from Clermont, France, by "Georgine and Sybille," whose letter is very charming and welcome even though they may not "yet write well English."

Clermont, France.

Dear St. Nicholas: If this will reach you but we don't know your addres. We have been having very pleasure to read you. We understant it better than much books in English. We think little Lord Fauntleroy very fine. If we tell you a fine tale you will print it? A fine dog lives in the village named Turc, he had hunger so he went to the châlet and pulled the cord with his patte, and when the domestique came she gave him to eat, and Turc goes all the days now and is given to eat. do you not think Turc is very clever? We are very sorry to terminate our letter, but we are fearful it be too long. You will give us very joy to print this. Mamma says we do not yet write well English.

Georgine and Sybille.

Boitsfort, Belgium.

Dear St. Nicholas: I receive your paper every month since November, when mother took it for a birthday present to me. I see that many children write to you. Perhaps you will publish my letter because it comes from a little Belgian girl. We live in a pretty place called Boitsfort, quite near Brussels, and quite near the Forêt de Seignes, where we take pleasant rides, I on my pony, my brother and sister on the two donkeys. My brother Louis is nine, my sister Tata is six, and I am eleven. My cousin Helen, who is nineteen, traveled all over America last year with her father, and likes very much your country and the ways of the people there. She brought several papers for children, and we decided that St. Nicholas was the best; that's why mother gave it me. I hope I too will go once to the United States. Believe me, dear St. Nicholas, yours sincerely,

Alice Solvay.

San Remo, Italy.

Dear St. Nicholas: Some of your readers might like to know what an Italian peasant's house is like. On the ground floor the donkey lives, on the second and third floors the people live, and on the roof the chickens live.

If you wish to go and see them, you have to go up some narrow stairs that are very dark, but when you come out on the roof there is the most beautiful view of the quaint old town, with its red roofs, and the sky and sea. We went to walk to-day, and found violets, blue hyacinths, and daisies growing wild under the olive-trees.

I get my St. Nicholas from London, but I am a little American girl from Cleveland, Ohio.

Your loving reader,

Lily May Z.

Poland.

Dear St. Nicholas: I live at Warsaw in the winter. I am ten years old. I have nine dolls and a King Charles dog, named Beauty, and she has a great antipathy to music. I am Polish, and have been learning English for two years. Mamma takes you for me, and I like your stories much.

I hope this letter is not too long to print.

Ina Komar.

Prinkipo, Sea of Marmora, Turkey.

Dear St. Nicholas: I must tell you something about my life in Turkey. I am an English girl, about thirteen years of age. I have been living in Turkey for twelve years. In the summer we go to the country, to the Island of Prinkipo, in the Sea of Marmora. It is very small and pretty. We have great fun there in the summer. We go out sailing and rowing. There are a great many donkeys at Prinkipo; we often go out for rides on them. We generally go around the island, so you can imagine how small it is. It takes about one hour to ride around it on donkeys, and about one hour and a half to go around it on foot.

The people here are mostly Greeks. Of course there are some Turks and Armenians. At the back of the island there are the ruins of the monastery of the Greek Empress Irene, who lived a long time ago.

I will tell you a little story about the dogs of this place. In Constantinople and the villages near it, there are a great number of dogs. All these dogs have their own quarters, and quarrel very much with those of other quarters. At San Stephano, about two years ago, some wolves came down from the mountains, and then all these dogs united and chased the wolves right back to the mountains. And then they went home to their quarrels again. What I mean is, that although they had their differences amongst themselves, they were ready to join together against the wolves. I hope my letter will be good enough to interest the other little girls who write to you, and who have never lived in Turkey.

Your interested reader,

Muriel P.

Brooklyn.

Dear St. Nicholas: I want to tell you about our performance of your comedy for children, "Dicky Dot and Dotty Dick." We got it up in our Cozy Club. I was stage manager. I am ten years old. My sister Christine was Dotty. She is six. A little boy named Sidney was Dicky. He is six and a half. They both knew their parts perfectly, and did so well that everybody said it was too cute for anything, and I felt very much pleased. We all love St. Nicholas.

Geraldine.

Kansas City, Mo.

Dear St. Nicholas: I was wishing for you before Christmas, because all the girls at school say you are so interesting. I never had a hope of getting you. But what do you think! On Christmas, to my great surprise, among my presents was a St. Nicholas. I jumped around with glee. I sat down, left all my other presents, and commenced reading you. I am eleven years old. I think the covering of you very pretty. The picture in front is "Apollo, the god of the sun." I am very fond of mythology. Mamma is going to have my St. Nicholas bound when this year is out, and I am going to take you next year. Hoping this letter will be printed, I remain, your devoted reader,

Etta K.

Palisades.

Dear St. Nicholas: I live in the country, very high up on the Hudson River Palisades. The woods are all about us, and my nurse takes me to the edge of the great cliffs to look down on the shining river, and see the steamers and the lovely white sails far over on Long Island Sound.

We have a baby colt in the pasture with his mamma, whose name is Aniline, because her glossy coat shines in bright tints when the sun strikes it. The colt follows us about like a large dog. Papa has taught him not to be afraid.

At night when it grows dark, and I am undressed for bed, we hear Owen calling the cows, "Here, Dolly! Dolly! Here, Jenny! Jenny! Jenny!"

Then he sits down to milk them, and the three cats all gather around him, watching and waiting for a sip.

The katydids sing a great deal up here, and this is what Mamma has sung to me at bed-time, and you will guess from it, dear St. Nicholas, what my name is:

Out-of-doors the air is full

Of voices small;

List to what they're talking of,

So busy all:

"Did little Katy do to-day

As she was bid?"

Something hastens to reply,

"Katy did!"

Katy didn't! Katy did;

She did! she did! she did!

Who this morn played in the hay?

Katy did!

Who pulled pussy's tail to-day?

Katy did!

Did she eat all Grandma's cakes?

Katy didn't! Yes, she did!

Did she sometimes make mistakes?

Katy did, she did!

Did she sup on milk and bread?

Katy did;

Did she run away to bed?

Katy did;

Said her prayers at Mamma's knee!

Katy did! Katy did!

And fell asleep! ah, dreary me!

Katy did, she did!

Katy didn't! Katy did!

She did! she did! she did!

Fulton, Illinois.

Dear St. Nicholas: We have been taking you ever since you first started, and I can never tell you how we all love and admire every feature you possess.

I have two brothers and two sisters. My youngest brother is only seven, so you see we will have to take you several years yet.

Papa and Mamma read you almost as much as they read their grown-up magazines.

I live on a farm in the western part of Whiteside County, Illinois, about four miles from the Mississippi. We think it is a beautiful country here with the bluffs, trees, and farming lands on the bottoms. Our picture gallery is all outdoors. From your faithful reader,

D. E. H.

Woodmont, Conn.

Dear St. Nicholas: My Uncle gave you to me for my birthday present, and I like your pages very much; and I have two other friends that like you very much. I like the story named "Oh, Dear!" very much, and my sister liked the story "Davy and the Goblin." We have a very cunning cat, and we call it Blaine. I hope my letter will be printed, as it is the first one I ever wrote, and I am anxious to see it in the magazine.

Your little reader,

Avis N.

Hingham, Mass.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have written several letters before, but none of them have been printed; but I hope that this one will be. I have a very nice time here in summer. My home is within forty feet of the water. I have a boat, and can row, swim, dive or fish. I am just learning to ride on horseback. In the winter I live in Boston, and I have a governess to teach me algebra, English history, physiology, and the common branches, and I study French and Latin at Mrs. Newhall's. I have taken you for five years.

Elaina T.

Hartford, Conn.

Dear St. Nicholas: In one of your nice magazines last summer, you gave an account of how to make a string house. I thought it would be very nice to make one; so my sister and I tried it. We made it exactly according to the directions; it took us three whole days. We enjoyed reading and playing in it very much. We made a kind of porch in front, so as not to make it look so much like a tent.

We have been taking you ever since 1880, and we like you better than any other book. I think your best stories are, "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and "From Bach to Wagner."

Hoping you will print my letter, for my sister would not write—(she said you would not print it, but I hope to show her that you will) I remain,

Your devoted reader,

N. C.

New York.

Dear "St. Nick" (as you are nick-named among us): I have taken you ever since I was a very "small girl," and now, I am sorry to say, I am a very large one of eighteen. I am told that I ought to abandon dear old "S. Nick" for some "grown-up magazine," and I feel that it is indeed sad to grow old if giving up St. Nicholas is one of the penalties, which I shall take care that it shall not be. I have just fallen in love with "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and I wish the "small boy" of the present day would copy after him, but I fear that would be too "pretty a state of things." I am afraid to keep on lest I lose the opportunity of seeing myself in print and of boring the readers of the Letter-box; so I shall close to avoid such a calamity.

Faithfully yours,

Yum Yum.

New Orleans.

Dear St. Nicholas: I am one of your constant readers, having taken St. Nicholas from the first number, and I do not think that a more interesting magazine for boys and girls can be found. I live in the quaint old Creole City of Nouvelle Orleans, as the Creoles call it. I was born here, and I expect to live here all my life. I do not think that you have any correspondents from New Orleans, at least I have seen none in the Letter-box, so I take the liberty of writing to you. I tell you, dear old St. Nick, it would do you good to come and see our Carnival here in March; many children are dominoed and masked in fearful and fantastic costumes. Rex, King of the Carnival, enters in grand procession the day before Mardi-Gras, usually coming up the river on a steamboat, gayly decked in bunting. All the military turn out to escort him to the Royal Palace. The artillery battalions salute him on the levee, and then he parades through all the principal streets. Generally there are three night processions—those of Momus, Comus, and Proteus—and they are gorgeous beyond description, and there is one day procession—that of Rex—which is also magnificent; there are also a great many Burlesque organizations—I. O. O. M. (Independent Order of the Moon), and the Phunny Phorty Phellows are the principal ones, I hope you will publish this, as I think it will interest the boy and girl readers of St. Nicholas; it is my first letter. I forgot to say that King Rex also parades the day after his arrival.

Your loving reader,

William S. P.

Newport, R. I.

Dear St. Nicholas: I have often wanted to write to you before, to tell you how much I like your stories. In the July number of 1885, there was a story in which the training-ship "New Hampshire" was mentioned. I liked the story very much, because I can see the "New Hampshire" from my window.

I am deeply interested in "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and I liked Miss Alcott's Spinning-wheel Stories very much. I hope to see my letter in print.

Your constant reader,

Mamie S. W

Colorado.

Dear St. Nicholas: I live on a ranch in Colorado and I look forward every month with great pleasure for the St. Nicholas. I am going to tell you about a donkey we had once; we hitched him in a sled and tried to make him go, but he would not stir from home; after a little while we succeeded, and when we turned around he went like the wind, so that we could hardly hold him. The same afternoon he ran into a post and broke the sled to pieces.

We have coyotes here, and they kill our sheep. One day I saw the herd running as fast as they could, and what do you think was after them? A horrid coyote, which was so thin that it looked as if it was going to die from hunger. The coyote is not a brave animal; it will sneak around and kill sheep, but it will never fight dogs. This is the first letter I have ever written to a magazine. Good-bye, dear St. Nicholas. I am, ever your friend,

Ida R. F.

P. S.—I am eleven years old, and live eleven miles from a school. I have gained my education from reading St. Nicholas, and studying at home.

Buffalo, N. Y.

Dear St. Nicholas: In your February issue, there was a communication concerning "curve-pitching," and a diagram was used to explain why a ball curves in a certain direction.

I beg leave to call attention to what I believe to be a mistake in the explanation. The writer says that the curve must be "toward the retarded side." I think it must be from the retarded side; for, the ball while advancing is also revolving in a horizontal plane,—we will say from right to left.

In its rapid flight, the ball condenses the air in front and tends to form a vacuum behind, and the condensed air in front attempts to flow around the sides of the ball to fill the vacuum behind.

Now, in the diagram mentioned, the side B, the rotation of which conspires with the motion of translation, resists, by friction, the attempt of the air to flow back; while the side D, in which the motion of rotation is opposite to the motion of translation, offers no resistance to the air in flowing around its side. For that reason the ball meets with most resistance in front of B, and least in front of D. Hence, taking the direction of least resistance, it curves toward D or from the side of most resistance.

Very respectfully,

Elmer Storr.

"The Franklin," Washington, D. C.

My Dear St. Nicholas: I thought I would write and tell you how happy you have made me this winter. I am a little Washington girl, only ten years old, and have been spending the winter in Virginia for my health. It was very lonely there; and nothing interested me so much as your stories. The "Brownies" are so funny!

I am writing this from my home in Washington; but I must tell you what a hard time I had to get here. The steamer I was on was caught in a blinding snow-storm, and had to anchor in the Chesapeake Bay a whole day and night. Then, when we got nearly to Baltimore, a tug came to tell us that we could not get into Baltimore for the ice; so the steamer turned around and went back to Annapolis. From there I took the cars to Washington.

Good-bye. Your constant reader,

Julia Rock.

Sewickley, Pa.

Dear St. Nicholas: The following verbatim copy of a composition by an eleven-year-old boy will interest some of your readers by its originality. It is without suggestion or correction. W.

Dear Lunch Basket,
Do you like to carry lunch? I like to eat the lunches that you carry; sometimes you have better lunch than other times. I like it the best when you have chicken sallad in. I hope you do not ever take anything out of any other basket. I don't know very much to say to-day. Do you like a dog to carry you? I hope you will all ways have good lunches from this time on. Do you like the jam to run out of the bread on to you. I would not think you would, but I don't know what you would like. Would you rather be a boy?

H. B.

We heartily thank the young friends whose names here follow, for pleasant letters received from them: Bessie C. Ketchum, "Yum-Yum" and "Ko-Ko," A. M. L., Susie M., Winnie Jackson, Eddie D. Sherlock, Henry W. Armstrong, Jessie Overlin, Herman Nelson Steele, Estelle K. D., Mark Waterman, Bijou J. McKinnon, George A. Root, Catherine H. L'Engle, Bessie M. Rhodes, Rita C. Smith, Fullerton L. Waldo, Emmett Murray, Mabel H. Chase, Elizabeth B. Kelsey, "Bee," Meg R. M., Myra E. Smith, Dorothy E. B., Nattie, Beth and Cherrie, Florence Ames, Maurice S. Sherman, Maud R., Al. Robinson and Stuart Tatum, Mary A. Evans, P. B. Jennings, Herbert Cutting, Katie B. Baird, Georgie King, Clara, Florence and Ada, Constance P. G., Mabel Thompson, Alice Bussing, James G. R. Flemming, Nellie Montgomery, Blanche E. B., Leigh Hodges, "Isabel Conway," Annie R. F., Bertie Byers, Edith I.

Benedict, J. A. Bonsteel.

The Agassiz Association

SIXTY-SECOND REPORT.

IMPORTANT NOTICE.

The Agassiz Association is now so large, so widely known, and so firmly established, that, in order to protect ourselves from the annoyance of frivolous persons who, taken by the novelty of the idea, seek to join us just for the fun of the thing, and then drop away after a few weeks, we have decided to make the gates of admission swing just a trifle less easily. The following circular will, therefore, be sent hereafter to all who seek admission. It will be seen by every one that its requirements are sufficiently liberal:

"PLEASE READ EVERY WORD CAREFULLY.

"The Agassiz Association is a Society for the observation of nature. It is composed of 'Chapters,' which, apart from the common name, constitution, and badge, are free to follow their own pursuits under the direction of the President of the A. A. The smallest number recognized as a Chapter is four, but after a branch has once been admitted, and has continued active for six months, it is not then cut off, though its membership should decline below four.

"There is no entrance fee for Chapters, nor any charge for registration, or for the advertising of 'Exchanges' in St. Nicholas. There are no assessments, nor any "dues." The special classes, occasionally conducted by eminent scientists, are freely open to all members. The only necessary expense is 54 cents for the A. A. Hand-book. Engraved charters can be obtained for $1.25 each, as many Chapters and individual members wish them, but there is no obligation to purchase them. As we make no charges, we appreciate generous orders for the little hand-books, whose sales about cover the expenses of our enormous correspondence—usually nearly every member is glad to secure a copy. Individuals who join us without organizing a Chapter, are charged a fee of 50 cents in addition to the price of the Hand-book.

"Kindly fill out the inclosed application form and card (excepting 'No. of Chapter'), and return them at once. Then, if accepted, the certificate, number, and letter will be sent. It must be made one of your by-laws that your Secretary send to the President a carefully prepared report at least once a year, and should you at any time be compelled to disband, immediate notice must be sent and the charter returned.

"The St. Nicholas magazine is our only official organ, and it should be found on the table of every Chapter; this, however, is not compulsory. In the November, 1885, issue of St. Nicholas, will be found full directions for the annual reports, which are required from every Chapter.

"Badges are no longer to be had from Mr. Hayward, but should be ordered through the President.

"APPLICATION FOR A CHARTER.

"We, whose names are on the accompanying card, hereby petition to be recognized as a Chapter of the Agassiz Association. We accept the constitution, we agree to the conditions of membership as explained in the circular from which this form has been detached, and we faithfully promise to do our best work in our several branches of study, and in all ways heartily to support and further the interests of the General Association.   Respectfully

____________________________ Secretary."

The only new conditions are the agreement to send an annual report, and to send immediate notice, in case of disbanding. Failure to do the latter causes untold confusion throughout the whole Society, as the disbanded Chapters continue, sometimes for years, to be addressed by the active ones.

YOUNG NATURALIST CLASSIFYING HER FIRST SPECIMEN:

YOUNG NATURALIST CLASSIFYING HER FIRST SPECIMEN:

"Poly-omma-tus pseu-darg-io-lus!—Gracious! if a little one like that has such a dreadful name, how can I ever remember the big ones!"

NOTES.

Important as are the proceedings of our Chapters, as set forth in their "reports," they must not be allowed to crowd out the records of personal observation, which we have presented until lately under the heading—"Notes." We suggest, therefore, that all Chapters forward promptly to the President whatever items of interest come to their notice from time to time, without waiting for the formal annual report of the Chapter's progress. The most important results of your observations should also be incorporated in your annual report, as being of quite as much general interest as the condition of your treasury. We intend to devote a large share of this page to these "Notes," during the months of July and August, when no Chapter reports are due.

REPORTS FROM THE FOURTH CENTURY.

314, Lancaster, Pa. (A). With the Bedford, Pa., Chapter, we have exchanged at least seven thousand crystals of iron pyrites, for minerals, fossils, etc. Our egg, mineral, fossil, and shell cabinets are all pretty well filled with labeled specimens. We now propose to take up Botany, and desire to collect and mount at least four hundred specimens. Until another year has elapsed, we hope to pursue our studies of the myriad mysteries with which nature has surrounded us.—Edw. R. Heitshu.

320, Peoria, Illinois. We like geology better than the other sciences. We have several fine localities in which to seek specimens, and we go searching for them whenever we get a chance. We have several fine trilobites, corals, and other fossils. We are very much pleased with the A. A., and are delighted when we read of the good work it has done.—James A. Smith.

339, Salt Lake City (A). We are progressing very nicely. At the second or third meeting after our summer vacation, it was announced that the type of a defunct newspaper had come into the possession of one of the members, and it was suggested that the Chapter publish a monthly pamphlet.

The suggestion was carried into effect; two members were elected editors and compositors combined. Friends kindly subscribed, and counting $5 generously given by Dr. E. Evans, enough money was raised to buy a cabinet eight feet high and three and one-half feet wide. We are trying to get a library. Two of us are building large boats to take trips and explore Great Salt Lake. We have questions, two-minute talks, papers, select readings, and criticisms.

We mean to try to make this the most successful year of our existence.—Arthur Webb, Sec.

350, Neillsville, Wis. The dawning spring wakens us all. We are planning a trip through Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, which is to last all next winter.—M. F. Bradshaw.

354, Litchfield, Conn. Our departments of ornithology and zoology exhibit the best results. Many new specimens have been added, and great improvement has been made in preserving them. The library has been increased.—Lewis B. Woodruff.

355, North Adams, Mass. At present we have seventeen active and eleven honorary members. We have questions distributed at each meeting which the members are expected to answer at the following meeting. We try to have at least one good essay each week, and occasionally a lecture. Our cabinet is pretty well filled.—M. Louise Radlo.

365, Hyde Park, Illinois. There have been fifteen regular and three special meetings during the past year. September 18, 1885, Mr. John F. Gilchrist was elected president, and Mr. S. D. Flood vice-president of the Chapter. Since March 27, 1885, there have been 125 specimens presented. The total number now in the cabinet is 1000. With the aid of the Board of Education, we have purchased a microscope valued at $100. The literary exercises have consisted, as a rule, of debates on subjects in natural science.—Blanche Longmire, Sec.

374. Three of us have revived our Chapter. We devote ourselves to science instead of arguing parliamentary nonsense, as we used to do. We have come to the conclusion that if we want to apply ourselves to science we must drop parliamentary discussions.

Here is an example of our latest resolutions: "Resolved, That any member who does not do his share in the scientific work, or by unseemly mirth distracts the attention of the meeting, shall, after three reprimands by the president, be expelled from the Chapter."

It is hoped by this and other cast-iron resolutions, to banish levity, and meet together as sober, earnest workers. We'd rather have three earnest workers than thirty that take no interest.—Frank E. Cocks.

378, Ambler, Pa. Our Society is now composed of about sixty members, the teachers and scholars of Sunnyside School. We hold fortnightly meetings; the exercises consist of referred questions, presentation of specimens, readings, occasional debates, and the reading of the Sunnyside Naturalist by the editor. The officers are: Pres., Mary McCann; V. P., Helen Styer; Sec., Carrie A. Lukens; Treas., Anson Smith; Editor, John H. Rex. We seem to be more interested in mineralogy and entomology than in any other branches.—Carrie A. Lukens, Sec.

382, Brooklyn, N. Y. (F). This is our fourth year. We have eight active and eight honorary members. Meetings have been held weekly without interruption, except for summer vacations. Geology has been our subject during the greater part of the time. Each year we go a little farther into it. Our collection, while not large, is by no means a poor one, and our pleasure is enhanced by examination of actual specimens. We have all been benefited by our study, and have now an intelligent general idea of geology. We have received very kind attention from the President of the "Brooklyn Entomological Society," who is an enthusiast in plants and insects. No Chapter is more interested than ours in the growth and success of the entire Association.—D. A. Van Ingen, per B. S.

386, Pine City, Minn. We think that keeping live animals is more profitable than only stuffed skins, as we have a live owl, and find it more interesting to watch him than to watch a skull and claws which belonged to another owl. We have, of insects, 980 species; minerals, 110; stuffed birds, 6; animals, 2; heads, 4; skulls, 6; miscellaneous, 20. Total, 1128; and 1018 of them are native in Minnesota.—Ernest L. Stephen.

387, Baltimore, Md. (E). After your kind letter the members took courage and determined, under all circumstances, to continue the club. Our greatest difficulty was in securing a place to meet. In our despair we went to the President of our University (Johns Hopkins), who showed great interest in us, yet could not give us a room under his roof. We then decided to store our collection (which amounts to packing them on my own shelves, in the modest little room known in our family as "Ned's Den"), and accept the invitation of one of our young lady members to meet in her study. This we have been doing ever since.—Edward McDowell, for the Secretary.

395, Montreal (A). Since the organization of our Chapter on January 5, 1883, a wonderful change has taken place. Then only six individuals met to discuss the advisability of organizing a branch here; to-day we have a large collection and a good attendance at the meetings.

Each session of this branch commences on the first Friday in October of each year and closes about the 15th of June of the following year. In this period we usually hold eighteen regular meetings. So far this session, we have had six regular meetings at which a number of excellent papers have been read; among them might be mentioned the following: Origin of Life, by Rev. E. King, M. A.; two papers on Botany, by H. McAdam, Esq.; New and Variable Stars, by W. H. Smith, Esq., President of the Astro-Meteorological Association; Our Insect Friends and Insect Foes, by Rev. T. W. Fyles; Electricity, by Prof. J. T. Donald, B. A.; and Health, its Importance and its Laws, by Dr. Desrosiers, M. D. These papers were fully illustrated with diagrams, specimens, and experiments.

Our collection is steadily increasing, and numbers about 7000 specimens at present, neatly arranged in ninety-two drawers contained in two large cabinets, and an upright glass case, which latter contains the mounted birds and mammals. Our little library, which contains only scientific publications, is nicely arranged in a book-case for the purpose. It includes about 150 volumes and many pamphlets unbound.

One very encouraging feature in our work has been that many of our young people who previously took but little interest in the study of nature have now gained a liking for the study, and a number have made private collections and are carefully studying the different forms in which they are specially interested. One member has carefully studied the life history of H. luna, one of our large bombyces, while another has been studying the flora of the Island of Montreal, and another is devoting his time to chemistry. This latter subject has been acknowledged by many of the members to be the fundamental and most fascinating study, and the one most elevating to the mind, as it can not fail to lead a student from nature to nature's God, and I confidently believe the science which tends towards that is the study which will eventually take first place in the scientific world.—W. D. Shaw, Secretary, 34 St. Peter Street, Montreal, Canada; Thos. Patton, Pres.

398, Roseville, N. J. Our Chapter has been divided into four sections, each having its own Chapter, and in turn instructing the club on its special subject. We have purchased a few standard books, a book-case, and a very handsome cabinet, which we have nearly filled with fine specimens. The leading events of the season have been a social party, and a debate on the comparative utility of wood and iron. We will never say die.—Sara Darrach, Secretary.

400, Fargo, Dakota. We have rented a fine suite of rooms. We have eighteen members, and the prospect of as many more. We have a cabinet full of specimens, and are prepared to exchange minerals, shells, Indian relics, etc., with other chapters. We are settled now, and are doing good hard work. With best wishes for yourself and the A. A.—Frank Brown, Sec. Box 1769.

DELAYED REPORTS.

262, Denver (B). It has been a long time since any report has been made by this Chapter, and we have been so far separated that we could not do much for the A. A.; but we hope to do better in the future. About one-half the members have been living in the East for two years, while the rest of us were here. We were united a little over a year ago, and since then there has been a great deal of sickness among us, ending disastrously; but for all that, we have had quite a mass of correspondence with other Chapters in all parts of the country, and have also done some exchanging of specimens which has resulted very favorably for us, and, we think, for those to whom we have sent specimens. We have now a very nice cabinet, well filled with specimens which we value very highly, and we shall soon have to get another, as we have room for no more specimens. We hope to do some good work in the future in mineralogy, which is our particular branch of study.—Ernest L. Roberts, Sec. Box 2272.

295, Boonville, N. Y. Our Chapter ran down for a long time, but a few months ago we started it anew and in earnest.

We now have seven active members, and two honorary. We expect more to join at our next meeting. We meet once a week at the houses of members.

Not long ago we went to see an old geologist's cabinet of specimens. He has a great many. He said when he first commenced collecting he lived in an old log-house, and his first cabinet was a log split in two, with a board, that was used for a walk to the spring, nailed on it. If all the members of our Chapter were half as earnest to collect and preserve specimens as he was, we should have some lively times.—W. S. Johnson, Sec.

AN INVITATION.

The New England Meteorological Society invites the assistance of members of the Agassiz Association in New England and Eastern New York, in the observation of thunder-storms during the summer months. Records are wanted of the time of the beginning of rain and of the loudest thunder for every thunderstorm in all parts of New England. More complete records, giving temperature and direction of wind are welcomed from those who will make them. Instructions and blanks will be furnished, on application to

W. M. DAVIS, Sec. N. E. M. S.,

Cambridge, Mass.

EXCHANGES.

Minerals, curiosities, and fossils, for same. Send for list. E. G. Conde, Schenectady, N. Y. (Sec. 891).

Pressed orange-blossoms, orange-wood, Japan plum-wood, fig-wood, Florida moss and other Southern curiosities, for labeled bird-skins, eggs, or nests. Write first.—Percy S. Benedict, 1243 St. Charles Street, New Orleans, La.

Cocoons of the Cecropia and Promethea moths, for cocoons of other moths.—3646 Vincennes Av., Chicago, Ill.

Pressed flowers.—Miss Alice Grass, Sec. 323, Bryan, Ohio.

First-class bird-skins, for Southern skins or eggs. Write first.—L. M. Davies, 203 Newell St., Cleveland, Ohio.

Botanical specimens, for same. Send lists.—Theo. Kellogg, De Pere, Wis.

NEW CHAPTERS.

No.
Name.
No. of Members.
Address.

950
Swarthmore, Pa. (A)
8
Maria W. Flagg.

951
Cleveland, O. (E)
4
L. M. Davies, 203 Newell St.

952
West Troy, N. Y. (A)
13
Geo. F. P. Michaelis,
Watervliet Arsenal.

953
La Porte, Ind. (C)
5
Mrs. A. C. Loomis, Box 1069.

954
Copenhagen, N. Y. (A)
5
L. L. Lewis, Box 174.

955
Ridgefield, Conn. (A)
5
Roger C. Adams.

956
Alleghany, Pa. (B)
5
A. D. Roessing,
W. P. R. R. Depot.

DISSOLVED.

412
Syracuse, N. Y. (C)

B. Burrett Nash.

165
Plymouth, Conn (A)
4
W. C. Talmadge.

390
Chester, Mass. (A)

W. J. Stanton.

REORGANIZED.

597
Lawrence, Kansas (B)
4
F. L. Wemple, 1109 Tenn. St.

323
Bryan, Ohio (A)
8
Miss Alice Grass.

Address all communications for this department to the President of the A. A.,

MR. HARLAN H. BALLARD,

Principal of Lenox Academy, Lenox, Mass.

THE RIDDLE-BOX.

The names of those who send solutions are printed in the third number after that in which the puzzles appear. Answers should be addressed to St. Nicholas "Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City.

Answers To Puzzles in the February Number were received, too late for acknowledgment in the May number, from E. Muriel Grundy, England, 9—No name, Warrington, England, 9—A. H. Jameson, Accrington, England, 1—Francis W. Islip, Leicester, England, 10—

Answers to All the Puzzles in the March Number were received, before March 20, from "Clifford and Coco"—Maud E. Palmer—Paul Reese—Maud and Bessie—Xylo—Madge and the "Dominie"—No name—Quincy—Sallie Viles—"Pepper and Maria"—"Baby, Bobby, and Booby"—J. P. B.—"San Anselmo Valley"—Josie Martin—Dwight Merrill—"Blithedale"—"Betsy Trotwood"—May and Philip—Philip and Bobbie Faulkner—"Savoir et Sagesse"—Bertha Gerhard—Nellie and Reggie—"Mohawk Valley"—"Shumway Hen and Chickens"—"R. U. Pert"—B. H.—Lulu May—"B. L. Z. Bub, No. 2"—"Frying-pan"—Francis W. Islip—Hazel and Laurel—M. Margaret and E. Muriel Grundy—"Young England"—

Answers to Puzzles in the March Number were received, before March 20, from W. Young, 2—E. Routh, 1—Blanche and Fred, 8—E. H. Rossiter, 1—G. Roome, 1—D. Dean, 1—B. B., 1—F. C. Barber, 2—"The Crew," 1—J. R. Smith, 1—A. and B. Knox, 8—G. Gardner, 1—V. F. Hunt, 1—F. Althans, 1—Nanki-Pooh, 2—R. E. Olwine, 2—"Dazee," 3—G. M. Bond, 1—J. A. Bonsted, 1—F. and M. Mellen, 1—W. W. Q., 1—J. J. E., 1—M. L. Hayward, 1—R. L. Foering, 1—A. G. and E. B. Converse, 1—J. H. Laycock, 1—W. H. Stuart, 1—N. McK., 1—L. Simmons, 1—B. B. Witherspoon, 2—Hilda and Laura, 1—E. L. Du Puy, 1—Mollie Ludlow, 8—"Damon and Pythias," 1—"Tweedledum and Tweedledee," 4—E. De B. Wickersham, 3—M. E. Breed, 1—Howard and Nickie, 2—F. E. Bond, 1—Agnes E. Grunsbine, 2—"Tourmaline," 2—W. K. Cornwell, 3—Ned Mitchell, 3—"February and June," 8—M. G. Fiero, 3—W. R. M., 8—J. Moses, 1—Edith Neil and Mamma, 8—S. and F. Guttman, 5—G. T. Hughes, 2—Lizinka C. B., 1—L. Reeves, 6—Francesca and Co., 8—E. C. Bliss, 1—S. Hubbell, 3—Mamie R., 7—J. R. Holme, Jr., 1—L. A. Hosford, 1—Walter La Bar, 8—Eleanor, Maude and Louise Peart, 5—Two Cousins, 8—Dash, 8—Harry A. Bull, 6—F. M. Wickes, 3—Becky and Floy, 2—Emma St. C. Whitney, 4—Fannie and Louise, 6—N. L. Howes, 2—"Zemie and Felice," 6—"Anonymous," 2—C. D. Mason, 2—Fred T. Pierce, 4—J. H. Miller, 1—L. H. Adams, 1—Effie K. Talboys, 6—E. H. Seward, 6—A. W. Lindsay, 6—A. and E. Pendleton, 8—C. S. Seaver and A. M. Young, 8—Lucia C. Bradley, 8—"Jack Spratt," 4—"Theo. Ther," 8—Annette Fiske, 8—C. and H. Condit, 8—Belle and Bertha Murdock, 7—"Jabberwock," 8—T. Gutman, 4—R. Lloyd, 6—L. Rice, 1—L. L. Lee, 1—Morris, 1—Lillie, Olive, and Ida G., 6—Aunt C. Avis, and G. S. Davenport, 7—J. A. Keeler, 3—Jessie D., 8—Oscar and Rosa, 4—A. R. Pabst, 3—H. B. Weil, 2—B. T. Dixon, 1—"Sairy Gamp and Betsy Prig," 8—Jo and I, 8—Alice Crawford, 1—No Name, Norfolk, 7—Mamma and Pearl, 4—C. Holbrook, 1—Mamma and Fanny, 8—Seb and Barn, 8—Pygro,—One Little Maid, 1—E. Rossiter, 1—M. L. G., 6—F. D., 6—Daisy and Mabel, 8—"Dolly Varden," 4—No name, Warrington, 5.

HALF-SQUARE.

1. The name of a large country. 2. The central part of an amphitheater. 3. Tidy. 4. An insect. 5. Two-thirds of a bird. 6. A vowel.

"SAMBO."

RHOMBOID.

ACROSS: 1. A vessel with one mast. 2. A musical instrument. 3. A fungus growth found on rye. 4. Serving to inspire fear. 5. Of a yellowish red color.

DOWNWARD: 1. In yesterday. 2. An exclamation. 3. Mineral. 4. An imaginary monster. 5. Serving-boys. 6. A girl's name. 7. A common, whitish metal. 8. A boy's nickname. 9. In yesterday.

H. H. D.

CROSS-WORD ENIGMA.

My first is in branch, but not in tree;

My second in land, but not in sea;

My third is in orange, but not in seed;

My fourth is in plants, but not in weed;

My fifth is in first, but not in third;

My sixth is in mouse, but not in bird;

My seventh in smile, but not in pout;

My whole the world would look lonely without.

JULIA BRYANT H.

ST. ANDREW'S CROSS OF DIAMONDS.

ST. ANDREW'S CROSS OF DIAMONDS.

I. Upper Left-Hand Diamond: 1. In plans. 2. The fine soft hair of certain animals. 3. Prices of passage. 4. An early dissenter from the Church of England. 5. To furnish with a new point. 6. The juice of plants. 7. In plans.

II. Upper Right-Hand Diamond: 1. In plans. 2. Marsh. 3. A character in "Oliver Twist." 4. Africans. 5. The daughter of Tantalus. 6. Born. 7. In plans.

III. Central Diamond: 1. In plans. 2. An inclosure. 3. Pertaining to the puma. 4. The goddess of retribution. 5. Pertaining to a feature of the face. 6. Nothing. 7. In plans.

IV. Lower Left-Hand Diamond: 1. In plans. 2. A boy's nickname. 3. A short staff. 4. Irritates. 5. A Latin word signifying "to be unwilling." 6. Born. 7. In plans.

V. Lower Right-Hand Diamond: 1. In plans. 2. To permit. 3. Of a lead color. 4. More than two. 5. Weary. 6. A name by which a. father is sometimes called. 7. In plans.

"SANDY-SIDE."

"DIAMOND" PUZZLE.

C. W. Bardwell

From the objects shown in the diamond, construct a "double diamond." (One that will read differently across and up and down.) The two central words are shown in the center of the diamond.

BURIED CITIES.

1. The month of October never is very cold. 2. She would as lief scrub as learn a hard lesson. 3. There was an iceberg engraved on the silver pitcher. 4. You must quit overworking or you will be ill, no doubt. 5. He knew her at once, by her peculiar gait. 6. Can you command a layman to do what is the pastor's work? 7. I love nice wicker-work. 8. The convicts are all sombre men, I should say, when they do such heavy work.

"LOU C. LEE."

DOUBLE ACROSTIC.

My primals spell the Christian name, and my finals the surname of a great and good man, who was born in June, and who died in June. He was connected with a famous English school.

CROSS-WORDS (of equal length): 1. The muse who presides over comedy. 2. Excessive fear. 3. The king of the fairies. 4. A popular operetta. 5. Belonging to the stars. 6. A famous sailor.

"TALLY-HO."

A BERRY PUZZLE.

Each of the twelve little pictures in the accompanying illustration, suggests the name of a familiar berry. Name the berries in the order in which they are numbered.

A BERRY PUZZLE.

DIAMOND.

1. In redstart. 2. A meadow. 3. A caterpillar. 4. A snake. 5. To turn aside. 6. An insect. 7. In redstart.

STANLEY W. MERRELL.

PI.

Ni Jeun 't si dogo ot eli hatbeen a teer

Wheil eth thileb nesaso trosmocf veeyr neses,

Stepse lal eth nabir ni stre, dan sheaf eth thear,

Grimminb ti o're hwit tensweses sawaruen.

Gantfrar dan estnil sa atht syro nows,

Writewheh eth tyingpi papel etef flils pu,

Dan edentryl nesil soem stal-eary birno's tens.

BEHEADINGS.

1. Behead a narrow piece of woven fabric and leave a quadrumanous animal. 2. Behead a coarse file and leave a poisonous serpent. 3. Behead an image or representation and leave to peruse. 4. Behead a small, pointed piece of metal and leave to be indisposed. 5. Behead a Mohammedan prince and leave a person. 6. Behead current and leave a small fish. 7. Behead to throw or cast and leave to terminate.

The beheaded letters, read in the order here given, will spell the name of a Sunday which comes in June.

"XYLO."

DOUBLE DIAGONALS.

DOUBLE DIAGONALS.

ACROSS: 1. Consuming by degrees. 2. A certain time of one's life. 3. By degrees. 4. Daring. 5. One who chaffers. 6. Displayed. 7. Contrition. 8. The science of sounds. 9. Formerly much used in making furniture.

The diagonals from 1 to 2 and from 3 to 4, each name a little song bird.

GILBERT FORREST.

CHARADE.

My first, a happy youngster,

Went forth one summer's day,—

My second he was seeking,

For he was fond of play.

And quoth he, somewhat sagely,

"I've not a single sou

To buy my whole, so, really,

I'll have to make these do."

He found the magic number;

Then down the road he went

To join his merry playmates,

On game of whole intent.

M. C. D.

METAMORPHOSES.

The problem is to change one given word to another given word, by altering one letter at a time, each alteration making a new word, the number of letters being always the same, and the letters remaining always in the same order. Sometimes the metamorphoses may be made in as many moves as there are letters in each given word, but in other instances more moves are required.

EXAMPLE: Change lamp to fire in four moves. Answer, lamp, lame, fame, fare, fire.

1. Change ape to man in eight moves. 2. Change oars to boat in eight moves. 3. Change lead to gold in six moves. 4. Change warm to cold in five moves. 5. Change one to two in eight moves. 6. Change age to gas in seven moves.

"OLD CARTHUSIAN" and F. W.

ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE MAY NUMBER.

Mother Goose Puzzle.

Hark, hark! The dogs do bark,

The beggars are coming to town;

Some in rags and some in tags,

And some in velvet gown.

Numerical Enigma.

A jest's prosperity lies in the ear

Of him that hears it, never in the tongue

Of him that makes it.

—Love's Labor Lost, Act. v., Sc. 2.

Pi.

At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by,

And brings, you know not why,

A feeling as when eager crowds await

Before a palace gate

Some wondrous pageant; and you scarce would start,

If from a beech's heart

A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say,

"Behold me! I am May!"

Henry Timrod.

Central Acrostic. Rowena. 1. sh-O-ne. 2. sh-E-ll. 3. to-W-er. 4. cr-A-te. 5. pa-R-ry. 6. pa-N-ic.

Greek Cross. Upper Square: 1. Start. 2. Tabor. 3. Above. 4. Roves. 5. Tress. Left-hand Square; 1. Tract. 2. Rumor. 3. Ample. 4. Coles. 5. Tress. Central Square: 1. Tress. 2. Raven. 3. Evade. 4. Sedge. 5. Sneer. Right-hand Square: 1. Sneer. 2. Noble. 3. Ebbed. 4. Elegy. 5. Redye. Lower Square: 1. Sneer. 2. Nacre. 3. Eclat. 4. Erato. 5. Retop.

Triple Acrostic. Primals, centrals, and finals, mist-rust-less. Across: 1. MonaRchaL. 2. IntrUsivE. 3. SpinSterS. 4. TrusTlesS.

Inverted Pyramid. Across: 1. Dimension. 2. Devours. 3. Nitre. 4. Lee. 5. D.

Connected Squares: Centrals, downward, house-w-right; centrals, across, heart-w-heels. I. 1. Echos. 2. Croup. 3. House. 4. Ousel. 5. Spell. II. 1. Ashes. 2. Siege. 3. Heart. 4. Egret. 5. Setto. III. 1. Pshaw. 2. Stela. 3. Heels. 4. Allot. 5. Waste. IV. 1. Carom. 2. Amice. 3. Right. 4. Ochre. 5. Meter.

Final Acrostic. Finals, Plantagenet. Cross-words: 1. shrimP. 2. symboL. 3. salviA. 4. spraiN. 5. spiriT. 6. siestA. 7. sprinG. 8. simplE. 9. straiN. 10. satirE. 11. straiT.

Word-Squares in Diamonds. I. 1. S. 2. Pat. 3. Sates. 4. Tea. 5. S. II. 1. F. 2. Tap. 3. Fares. 4. Pen. 5. S. III. 1. F. 2. Baa. 3. Fairy. 4 Art. 5. Y.

Decoration Day Puzzle.

Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest,

Your truth and valor wearing;

The bravest are the tenderest,—

The loving are the daring.

Hour-Glass. Centrals, Cleveland; Cross-words: 1. deliCious. 2. sheLlac. 3. fiEnd. 4. EVa. 5. E. 6. iLl. 7. meAns. 8. misName. 9. overDoses.

Word-Square. 1. Anna. 2. Near. 3. Name. 4. Area.

Transcriber's Note

Transcriber's Note: All apparent printer's errors, dialect, and other (deliberate) mis-spellings have been retained.

Formatting follows the original layout, as far as possible.

Two damaged word puzzles have been restored in a graphics program, using the page-scans of the damaged originals as patterns.

These are the original images:

ST. ANDREW'S CROSS OF DIAMONDS.

DOUBLE DIAGONALS.

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