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 Front Cover
 Frontispiece
 The story of a parrot
 Eight cousins
 Chimney-sweeps, past and prese...
 Kings of France
 A fox and a raven
 The coal-imp
 The Peterkins' journey again...
 Ann's answer
 The story of a birch-bark boy
 How dolls are made
 The young surveyor
 Fashions in valentines
 The little torn primer
 The marmosets - Blue and pink
 The picture in the fire-place...
 The fairy wedding
 A droll fox-trap
 A great traveler
 The ride to school
 Jack-in-the-pulpit
 The letter-box
 Nicholas! St. Nicholas! (words...
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover
 Spine


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UF00065513_00018
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5/4/2007 1:47:04 PM -


St. Nicholas, vol. 2, no. 4
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Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00018
 Material Information
Title: St. Nicholas, vol. 2, no. 4
Series Title: St. Nicholas.
Alternate Title: Saint Nicholas
Physical Description: 68 v. : ill. ; 25-30 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Dodge, Mary Mapes, 1830-1905
Publisher: Scribner,
Publication Date: -c1943.
 Subjects
Subjects / Keywords: Literature for Children
Genre: Children's literature
Periodicals
serial   ( sobekcm )
 Notes
General Note: Description based on: Vol. 2, no. 12 (Oct. 1875); title from cover.
General Note: Conducted by Mary Mapes Dodge.
Funding: Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
 Record Information
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: notis - ocm0176
oclc - 7405657; (DLC)SF 89099153
oclc - (DLC) 2006255186; 55136171
System ID: UF00065513:00018

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Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Frontispiece
        Plate
    The story of a parrot
        Page 201
        Page 202
    Eight cousins
        Page 203
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
        Page 209
        Page 210
    Chimney-sweeps, past and present
        Page 211
        Page 212
        Page 213
        Page 214
    Kings of France
        Page 215
    A fox and a raven
        Page 216
        Page 217
        Page 218
        Page 219
    The coal-imp
        Page 220
    The Peterkins' journey again postponed
        Page 221
    Ann's answer
        Page 222
    The story of a birch-bark boy
        Page 223
        Page 224
        Page 225
        Page 226
        Page 227
    How dolls are made
        Page 228
        Page 229
        Page 230
        Page 231
        Page 232
        Page 233
    The young surveyor
        Page 234
        Page 235
        Page 236
        Page 237
        Page 238
        Page 239
        Page 240
        Page 241
    Fashions in valentines
        Page 242
        Page 243
    The little torn primer
        Page 244
    The marmosets - Blue and pink
        Page 245
        Page 246
        Page 247
    The picture in the fire-place bedroom
        Page 248
        Page 249
        Page 250
    The fairy wedding
        Page 251
    A droll fox-trap
        Page 252
        Page 253
    A great traveler
        Page 254
        Page 255
    The ride to school
        Page 256
        Page 257
    Jack-in-the-pulpit
        Page 258
        Page 259
    The letter-box
        Page 260
        Page 261
    Nicholas! St. Nicholas! (words and music)
        Page 262
    The riddle-box
        Page 263
        Page 264
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
    Spine
        Spine
Full Text


































Of :


THE 'MARMOSETS.
[ SEE PAGE 245.]

















ST. NICHOLAS.




FEBRUARY, 1875.






THE STORY OF A PARROT.

BY HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.


SOME forty years ago, there lived in the quiet
town of East Haverhill, Massachusetts, a much,
respected Quaker family by the name of Whittier.
They were hard-working, thrifty farmers, and their
home was known to all the poor in that section ;
no one was ever turned, away from their door un-
pitied, unclothed, or unfed.
Even the Indians had respected Grandfather
Whittier in the stormy times of the Indian war.
His house had stood near a garrison, but he would
accept of no protection from the soldiers. He did
not believe in the use of weapons; he treated the
savages kindly; they owed him no ill-will, and the
benevolent old man tilled fields in safety, and feared
no harm.
Among Mr. Whittier's children was a boy named
John, who had a very feeling heart* and a quick
mind. He was a hard-working farmer lad, who
knew more of the axe, the sickle and hoe than
the playthings of childhood. Indeed, New Eng-
land children had but a glimpse at the sunniness
of youth in those hard times; no long daisied
walks, stretching far into life, they could call their
own.
His early education consisted of a few weeks'
schooling for a number of winters in the district
school. A queer sort of a school it was,-kept in
a private house. The schoolmaster was a kind,
good man, and he did not ply the birch very vigor-
ously, like most of the schoolmasters in these old
times. He was more like Oliver Goldsmith, who
used to govern his school by giving the children
sugar-plums and telling them wonderful stories.
VOL. II.-14.


John loved him, and spoke a kind word for him
when he became a man.
In. the library there is a beautiful poem called
"Snow-Bound,"-a very good poem for good
people to read. Now the boy lived in just such a
home as is described in that poem, and his boy-
hood was passed among just such scenes as are
pictured there. You may like to. read it some
day, so we need not try to tell what has been told
so well.
He was a poet in boyhood. He did not know
it. There are many poets who do not. He loved
to love others and be loved; he could see things
in nature.that others could not see,-in the woods
and fields; in the blue Merrimac; in the serene
sky of the spring, and the tinges of the sunset.
He had but few books,-perhaps no books of
poetry, for music and poetry his father classed
among the "vanities" which the Bible denounced.
But there was much poetry in the Bible; his "Pil-
grim's Progress" was almost a poem; and nature
to him was like a book of poems, for there was
poetry in his soul.
He used to express his feelings in rhyme; how
could the boy help it ? He one day wrote one of
these poems on some coarse paper, and sent it
privately to a paper called the Free Press, published
in the neighboring town of Newburyport.
The editor of the paper, whose name was Gar-
rison-William Lloyd Garrison, you may have
heard the name before-found the poem tucked
under the door of his office by the postman, and
noticing that it was written in blue ink, was tempted


VOL. II.


No. 4.






THE STORY OF A PARROT.


to throw it into his waste-basket. But Mr. Garri-
son had a good, kind heart, and liked to give
every one a chance in the world. He read the
poem, saw there was true genius in it, and so he
published it.
Happy was the Quaker farmer boy when he saw
his verses in print. He felt that God had some-
thing in store in life for him-that he was called
in some way to be good and useful to others. He
wrote other poems, and sent them to Mr. Gar-
rison.
They were full of beauties-these poems. Mr.
Garrison one day asked the postman from what
quarter they came.
"I am accustomed to deliver a package of papers
to a farmer-boy in East Haverhill. I guess they
come from him."
Mr. Garrison thought he must ride over to East
Haverhill and see.
So he went one day, and found a slender, sweet-
faced farmer-boy working with his plain, practical
father on the farm. The boy modestly acknowl-
edged that he had written the poems; at which his
father did not seem over well pleased.
You must send that boy to school, Friend
Whittier," said Mr. Garrison.
Friend Whittier was not so sure; but the good
counsel of the Newburyport editor, in the end, was
decisive. The boy was sent to the academy.
John is an old man now, almost sixty years of
age. He lives at Amesbury, near the beautiful
Merrimac, that he loved in youth. Almost every
boy and girl in the land can repeat some of the
poems he has written.
He has no wife and children, yet his home is
cheerful and social, and is open to the stranger, like
his father's and grandfather's of old.
In common with most men of genius, he is very
fond of pets, and, among these favorites, little ani-
mals and birds have their place. It is of one of
these household pets that we have a story to tell.
She was a parrot, and she belonged to that re-
spectable branch of the parrot family named Polly.
Polly succeeded, among her master's favorites, a
smart little bantam, who once had the freedom of
the house, and who perished, we think, in an un-
equal contest with an evil-disp6sed cat.
Polly, too, had the freedom of the house at times,
and used to sit on the back of the poet's chair at
his meals, and the two sometimes held very pro-
found and confidential conversations together.
The poet is a pious man. We have seen the
little Quaker church to which he goes regularly on
Sunday and Thursdays for silent worship; it is a
quiet rural fane, and seems like a little school-
house in the wood. Polly, who had been badly
brought up, became demure and well-behaved


immediately after her adoption; so, for a time, the
poet and Polly were in perfect sympathy.
One Sabbath day, Polly, who had doubtless
heard much about large views from the poet's
learned visitors, thought that she would take a
somewhat larger view of the world. So, as the
people were going to church, she climbed upon the
top of the house, and sat upon the ridge-pole. It
then occurred to her, that, having reached a more
exalted sphere of thought and action, she would
behave well no more. She had been in bad com-
pany before she had fallen in with her new friends,
and her memory was very good.
So Polly began to denounce the people going to
church in very shocking language. She was
doing the poet great scandal, and exciting marked
public attention, when her astonished master ap-
peared, rake in hand, and proceeded at once to
administer discipline by bringing her down from
her high position and subjecting her to plain
Quaker discipline.
Polly was in disgrace for a time, but she suc-
ceeded in re-establishing her character again,
though it was not thought certain that her good-
ness would be able to withstand very grave tempta-
tion.
One day, Polly succeeded in reaching the house-
top again, and began to congratulate herself on
the recovery of her former high position and free-
dom. She reached the top of the chimney this
time, and was seen tilting up and down and trying
her wings, as though preparing to launch out into
the air on a long voyage of discovery. Suddenly,
she was gone. Where ? No one had noticed
which direction she had taken. No one had heard
her shout of triumph in the glad, sunny air. But
Polly was gone.
The news flew through the village that the
parrot had left her home, and become a very stray
bird. The children looked for her in the fields,
and the farmers in the woods; every one tried to
keep ears and eyes open day and night, but nothing
of Polly was seen or heard. The poet's house was
no longer filled with quiet gladness, for the inmates
all pitied the bird when night came on, and im-
agined that she was far away in the woods, hungry
and out in the cold. Two days passed and no
tidings.were brought of the wandering bird. The
neighbors began to think that, like one of Shake-
speare's heroes, she had died and made no sign."
On the third night, when two young persons, as we
have heard the story, were sitting in one of the
rooms in the cottage, they were startled by a
sound, as though some evil-disposed intruder had
concealed himself in the fire-place. An investiga-
tion was determined upon; the fire-place was
opened, and lo Poor Polly !"


[FEBRUARY,







EIGHT COUSINS.


She was a very damaged bird. She had fallen
down the chimney when just about to soar to the
skies, and, landing in a very dark place, probably
thought that there had been an eclipse of the
sun, or that night had come on in some manner
not accounted for in her limited astronomy. She
maintained silence three days; she had nothing
to say.
Polly's high aspirations were blighted from that
hour. She was a discouraged, disappointed bird.


She grew silent and pined away, and, like other
bold adventurers who have been brought plump
down when just about to launch out on the breezes
of fame, she died of her bruises and of a broken
heart.
Her decline was marked with sincere regret, and
there was a sorrowful tenderness in her master's
tone, as he watched her in these adverse and
altered days.
POOR POLLY !


'mct
-C


EIGHT COUSINS.

BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.


CHAPTER III.-UNCLES.'

WHEN Rose woke next morning, she was not
sure whether she had dreamed what occurred the
night before, or whether it had actually happened.
So she hopped up and dressed, although it was an
hour earlier than she usually rose, for she could not
sleep any more, being possessed with a strong
desire to slip down and see if the big portmanteau
and packing-cases were really in the hall. She
seemed to remember tumbling over them when
she went to bed, for the aunts had sent her off very
punctually, because they wanted their pet nephew
all to themselves.
The sun was shining, and Rose opened her win-
dow to let in the soft May air fresh from the sea.
As she leaned over her little balcony, watching an
early bird get the worm, and wondering how she
should like Uncle Alec, she saw a man leap the


garden wall and come whistling up the path. At
first she thought it was some trespasser, but a
second look showed her that it was her uncle re-
turning from an early dip into the sea. She had
hardly dared to look at him the night before, be-
cause whenever she tried to do so she always found,
a pair of keen blue eyes looking at her. Now she
could take a good stare at him as he lingered
along, looking about him as if glad to see the old
place again.
A brown, breezy man, in a blue jacket, with no
hat on the curly head which he shook now and
then like a water-dog; broad-shouldered, alert in
his motions, and with a general air of strength and
stability about him which pleased Rose, though she
could not explain the feeling of comfort it gave her.
She had just said to herself, with a sense of relief,
" I guess I shalllike him, though he looks as if he
made people mind," when he lifted his eyes to


203


I-






EIGHT COUSINS.


examine the budding horse-chestnut overhead, and
saw the eager face peering down at him. He
waved his hand to her, nodded, and called out in a
bluff, cheery voice:
You are on deck early, little niece."
I got up to see if you had really come, uncle."
"Did you? Well, come down here and make
sure of it."
"I'm not allowed to go out before breakfast,
sir."
Oh, indeed !" with a shrug. Then I 'll come
aboard and salute," he added; and, to Rose's great
amazement, Uncle Alec went up one of the pillars
of the back piazza hand over hand, stepped across
the roof, and swung himself into her balcony, say-
ing, as he landed on the wide balustrade: Have
you any doubts about me now, ma'am ?"
Rose was so taken aback, she could only answer
with a smile as she went to meet him.
How does my girl do this morning ?" he asked,
taking the little cold hand she gave him in both his
big warm ones.
Pretty well, thank you, sir."
Ah, but it should be very well. Why is n't it ?"
I always wake up with a headache, and feel
tired."
Don't you sleep well ?"
I lie awake a long time, and then I dream, and
my sleep does not seem to rest me much."
"What do you do all day?"
Oh, I read, and sew a little, and take naps and
sit with auntie."
"No running about out of doors, or house-work,
or riding, hey ? "
"Aunt Plenty says I'm not strong enough for
much exercise. I drive out with her sometimes,
but I don't care for it."
"I 'm not surprised at that," said Uncle Alec,
half to himself, adding, in his quick way: Who
have you had to play with ?"
No one but Ariadne Blish, and she was such a
goose I could n't bear her. The boys came yester-
day, and seemed rather nice; but, of course, I
could n't play with them."
"Why not?"
I 'm too old to play with boys."
"Not a bit of it; that's just what you need, for
you've been molly-coddled too much. They are
good lads, and you '11 be mixed up with them more
or less for years to come, so you may as well be
friends and playmates at once. I will look you up
some girls also, if I can find a sensible one who is
not spoilt by her nonsensical education."
S"Phebe is sensible, I 'm sure, and I like her,
though I only saw her yesterday," cried Rose,
waking up suddenly.
"And who is Pbebe, if you please ?"


Rose eagerly told all she knew, and Uncle Alec
listened, with an odd smile lurking about his mouth,
though his eyes were quite sober as he watched the
face before him.
I'm glad to see that you are not aristocratic in
your tastes, but I don't quite make out why you
like this young lady from the poor-house."
You may laugh at me, but I do. I can't tell
why, only she seems so happy and busy, and sings
so beautifully, and is strong enough to scrub and
sweep, and has n't any troubles to plague her,"
said Rose, making a funny jumble of reasons in
her efforts to explain.
How do you know that ?"
Oh, I was telling her about mine, and asked
if she had any, and she said, No, only I 'd like to
go to school, and I mean to some day.'"
So she does n't call desertion, poverty, and
hard work, troubles ? She 's a brave little girl,
and I shall be proud to know her." And Uncle
Alec gave an approving nod, that made Rose wish
she had been the one to earn it.
But what are these troubles of yours, child ?"
he asked, after a minute of silence.
Please don't ask me, uncle."
"Can't you tell them to me as well as to
Phebe ?"
Something in his tone made Rose feel that it
would be better to speak out and be done with it,
so she answered, with sudden color and averted
eyes:
The greatest one was losing dear papa."
As she said that, Uncle Alec's arm came gently
round her, and he drew her to him, saying, in the
voice so like papa's :
That is a trouble which I cannot cure, my
child; but I shall try to make you feel it less.
What else, dear?"
* I am so' tired and poorly all the time, I can't
do anything I want to, and it makes me cross,"
sighed Rose, rubbing the aching head like a fretful
child.
That we can cure and we will," said her uncle,
with a decided nod that made the curls bob on his
head, so that Rose saw the gray ones underneath
the brown.
"Aunt Myra says I have no constitution, and
never shall be strong," observed Rose, in a pensive
tone, as if it was rather a nice thing to be an
invalid.
"Aunt Myra is a-ahem !-an excellent woman,
but it is her hobby to believe that every one is tot-
tering on the brink of the grave; and, upon my
life, I believe she is offended if people don't fall
into it t! We will show her how to make constitu-
tions and turn pale-faced little 'ghosts into rosy,
hearty girls. That's my business, you know," he


[FEBRUARY,






EIGHT COUSINS.


added, more quietly, for his sudden outburst had
rather startled Rose.
I had forgotten you were a doctor. I 'm glad
of it, for I do want to be well, only I hope you
wont give me much medicine, for I've taken quarts
already, and it does me no good."
As she spoke, Rose pointed to a little table just
inside the window, on which appeared a regiment
of bottles.
Ah, ha Now we '11 see what mischief these
blessed women have been at." And, making a
long arm, Dr. Alec set the bottles on the wide rail-
ing before him, examined each carefully, smiled
over some, frowned over others, and said, as he
put down the last: Now I'll show you the best
way to take these messes." And, as quick as a
flash, he sent one after another smashing down into
the posy-beds below.
But Aunt Plenty wont like it; and Aunt Myra
will be angry, for she sent most of them !" cried
Rose, half-frightened and half-pleased at such
energetic measures.
You are my patient now, and I '11 take the
responsibility. My way of giving physic is evi-
dently the best, for you look better already," he
said, laughing so infectiously that Rose followed
suit, saying, saucily:
If I don't like your medicines any better than
those, I shall throw them into the garden, and then
what will you do ?"
When I prescribe such rubbish, I'll give you
leave to pitch it overboard as soon as you like.
Now what is the next trouble ?"
I hoped you would forget to ask."
But how can I help you if I don't know them ?
Come, let us have No. 3."
It is very wrong, I suppose, but I do some-
times wish I had not quite so many aunts. They
are all very good to me, and I want to please them ;
but they are so different, I feel sort of pulled to
pieces among them," said Rose, trying to express
the emotions of a stray chicken with six hens all
clucking over it at once.
Uncle Alec threw back his head and laughed
like a boy, for he could entirely understand how
the good ladies had each put in her oar and tried
to paddle her own way, to the great disturbance of
the waters and the entire bewilderment of poor. Rose.
I intend to try a course of uncles now, and see
how that suits your constitution. I'm going to
have you all to myself, and no one is to give a
word of advice unless I ask it. There is no other
way to keep order aboard, and I am captain of
this little craft, for a time at least. What comes
next ?"
But Rose stuck there, and grew so red, her
uncle guessed what that trouble was.


I don't think I can tell this one. It would n't
be polite, and I feel pretty sure that it is n't going
to be a trouble any more."
As she blushed and stammered over these words,
Dr. Alec turned his eyes away to the distant sea,
and said so seriously, so tenderly, that she felt every
word and long remembered them:
My child, I don't expect you to love and trust
me all at once, but I do want you to believe that I
shall give my whole heart to this new duty; and
if I make mistakes, as I probably shall, no one will
grieve over them more bitterly than I. It is my
fault that I am a stranger to you, when I want to
be your best friend. That is one of my mistakes,
and I never repented it more deeply than I do now.
Your father and I had a trouble once, and I thought
I never could forgive him; so I kept away for years.
Thank God, we made it all up the last time I saw
him, and he told me then, that if he was forced to
leave her, he should bequeath his little girl to me
as a token of his love. I can't fill his place, but I
shall try to be a father to her; and if she learns to
love me one half as well as she did the good one
she has lost, I shall be a proud and happy man.
Will she believe this and try ?"
Something in Uncle Alec's face touched Rose to
the heart, and when he held out his hand with that
anxious, troubled look in his eyes, she was moved
to put up her innocent lips and seal the contract
with a confiding kiss. The strong arm held her
close a minute, and she felt the broad chest heave
once as if with a great sigh of relief; but not a
word was spoken till a tap at the door made both
start.
Rose popped her head through the window to
say come in," while Dr. Alec hastily rubbed the
sleeve of his jacket across his eyes and began to
whistle again.
Phebe appeared with a cup of coffee.
Debby told me to bring this and help you get
up," she said, opening her black eyes wide, as if
she wondered how on earth the sailor man" got
there.
"I 'm all dressed, so I don't need any help. I
hope that is good and strong," added Rose, eyeing
the steaming cup with an eager look.
But she did not get it, for a brown hand took
possession of it as her uncle said, quickly:
Hold hard, my lass, and let me overhaul that
dose before you take it. Do you .drink all this
strong coffee every morning, Rose?"
"Yes, sir, and I like it. Auntie says it 'tones'
me up, and I always feel better after it."
This accounts for the sleepless nights, the flut-
ter your heart gets into at the least start, and this
is why that cheek of yours is pale yellow instead of
rosy red. No more coffee for you, my dear, and.


205






EIGHT COUSINS.


by and by you '11 see that I am right. Any new
milk down stairs, Phebe?"
Yes, sir, plenty-right in from the barn."
That's the drink for my patient. Go bring me
a pitcherful, and another cup; I want a draught
myself. This wont hurt the honeysuckles, for they
have no nerves to speak of." And, to Rose's great
discomfort, the coffee went after the medicine.,
Dr. Alec saw the injured look she put on, but
took no notice, and presently banished it by say-
ing, pleasantly :
"I've got a capital little cup among my traps,
and I'll give it to you to drink your milk in, as it is
made of wood that is supposed to improve what-
ever is put into it-something like a quassia cup.
That reminds me; one of the boxes Phebe wanted
to lug upstairs last night is for you. Knowing that
I was coming home to find a ready-made daughter,
I picked up all sorts of odd and pretty trifles along
the way, hoping she would be able to find some-
thing she liked among them all. Early to-morrow
we'll have a grand rummage. Here's our milk !
I propose the health of Miss Rose Campbell-and
drink it with all my heart."
It was impossible for Rose to pout with the pros-
pect of a delightful boxful of gifts dancing before
her eyes; so, in spite of herself, she smiled as she
drank her own health, and found that fresh milk
was not a hard dose to take.
"Now I must be off, before I am caught again
with my wig in a toss," said Dr. Alec, preparing to
descend the way he came.
'" Do you always go in and out like a cat, uncle ?"
asked Rose, much amused at his odd ways.
I used to sneak out of my window when I was
a boy, so I need not disturb the aunts, and now I
rather like it, for it's the shortest road, and it keeps
me limber when I have no rigging to climb. Good-
by till breakfast." And away he went down the
water-spout, over the roof, and vanished among the
budding honeysuckles below.
Aint he a funny guardeen ?" exclaimed Phebe,
as she went off with the cups.
"He is a very kind one, I think," answered
Rose, following, to prowl round the big boxes and
try to guess which was hers.
When her uncle appeared at sound of the bell,
he found her surveying with an anxious face a new
dish that smoked upon the table.
Got a fresh trouble, Rosy ?" he asked, stroking
her smooth head.
Uncle, are you going to make me eat oat-
meal ?" asked Rose, in a tragic tone.
"Don't you like it ?"
I de-test it !" answered Rose, with all the em-
phasis which a turned-up nose, a shudder, and a
groan could give to the three words.


You are not a true Scotchwoman, if you don't
like the 'parritch.' It's a pity, for I made it my-
self, and thought we 'd have such a good time with
all that cream to float it in. Well, never mind."
And he sat down with a disappointed air.
Rose had made up her mind to be obstinate
about it, because she did heartily "detest" the
dish; but as Uncle Alec did not attempt to make
her obey, she suddenly changed her mind and
thought she would.
"I'11 try to eat it to please you, uncle; but
people are always saying how wholesome it is, and
that makes me hate it," she said, half-ashamed at
her silly excuse.
I do want you to like it, because I wish my girl
to be as well and strong as Jessie's boys, who are
brought up on this in the good old fashion. No
hot bread and fried stuff for them, and they are the
biggest and bonniest lads of the lot. Bless you,
auntie, and good morning!"
Dr. Alec turned to greet the old lady, and, with
a firm resolve to eat or die in the attempt, Rose
sat down.
In five minutes she forgot what she was, eating,
so interested was she in the chat that went on. It
amused her very much to hear Aunt Plenty call
her forty-year-old nephew, "my dear boy," and
Uncle Alec was so full of lively gossip about all
creation in general, and the Aunt-hill in particular,
that the detested porridge vanished without a mur-
mur.
"You will go to church with us, I hope, Alec,
if you are not too tired," said the old lady, when
breakfast was over.
I came all the way from Calcutta for that ex-
press purpose, ma'am. Only I must send the sis-
ters word of my arrival, for they don't expect me
till to-morrow, you know, and there will be a row
in church if those boys see me without warning."
I'll send Ben up the hill, and you can step
over to Myra's yourself; it will please her, and you
will have plenty of time."
Dr. Alec was off at once, and they saw no more
of him till the old barouche was at the door, and
Aunt Plenty just rustling down stairs in her Sun-
day best, with Rose like a little black shadow be-
hind her.
Away they drove in state, and all the way Uncle
Alec's hat was more off his head than on, for every
one they met smiled and bowed, and gave him as
blithe a greeting as the day permitted.
It was evident that the warning had been a wise
one, for, in spite of time and place, the lads were
in such a ferment, that their elders sat in mo-
mentary dread of an unseemly outbreak some-
where. It was simply impossible to keep those
fourteen eyes off Uncle Alec, and the dreadful


206


[FEBRUARY,






EIGHT COUSINS.


things that were done during sermon-time will
hardly be believed.
Rose dared not Jook up after awhile, for these
bad boys vented their emotions upon her, till she
was ready to laugh and cry with mingled amuse-
ment and vexation. Charlie winked rapturously
at her behind his mother's fan; Mac openly pointed
to the tall figure beside her; Jamie stared fixedly
over the back of his pew, till Rose thought his
round eyes would drop out of his head; George
fell over a stool and dropped three books, in
his excitement; Will drew sailors and Chinamen
on his clean cuffs, and displayed them, to Rose's
great tribulation; Steve nearly upset the whole
party by burning his nose with salts, as he pre-
tended to be overcome by his joy; even dignified
Archie disgraced himself by writing in his hymn-
book, Is n't he blue and brown ?" and passing it
politely to Rose.
Her only salvation was trying to fix her attention
upon Uncle Mac-a portly, placid gentleman, who
seemed entirely unconscious of the iniquities of the
Clan, and dozed peacefully in his pew corner.
This was the only uncle Rose had met for years,
for Uncle Jem and Uncle Steve, the husbands of
Aunt Jessie and Aunt Clara, were at sea, and Aunt
Myra was a widow. Uncle Mac was a merchant,
very rich and busy, and as quiet as a mouse at
home, for he was in such a minority among the
women folk, he dared not open his lips, and let
his wife rule undisturbed.
Rose liked the big, kindly, silent man who came to
her when papa died, was always sending her splen-
did boxes of goodies at school, and often invited
her into his great warehouse, full of teas and spices,
wines and all sorts of foreign fruits, there to eat and
carry away whatever she liked. She had secretly
regretted that he was not to be her guardian; but
since she had seen Uncle Alec she felt better about
it, for she did not particularly admire Aunt Jane.
When church was over, Dr. Alec got into the
porch as quickly as possible, and there the young
bears had a hug all round, while the sisters shook
.'hands and welcomed him with bright faces and
glad hearts. Rose was nearly crushed flat behind
a door in that dangerous passage from pew to
porch; but Uncle Mac rescued her, and put her
into the carriage for safe keeping.
Now, girls, I want you all to come and dine
with Alec; Mac also, of course- But I cannot ask
the boys, for we did not expect this dear fellow till
to-morrow, you know, so I made no preparations.
Send the lads home, and let them wait till Mon-
day, for really I was shocked at their behavior in
church," said Aunt Plenty, as she followed Rose.
In any other place the defrauded boys would
have set up a howl; as it was, they growled and


protested till Dr. Alec settled the matter by say-
ing:
Never mind, old chaps, I'll make it up to you
to-morrow, if you sheer off quietly; if you don't,
not a blessed thing shall you have out of my big
boxes."

CHAPTER IV.
AUNTS.
ALL dinner-time Rose felt that she was going to
be talked about, and afterward she was sure of it,
for Aunt Plenty whispered to her as they went into
the parlor:
"Run up and sit awhile with Sister Peace, my
dear. She likes to have you read while she rests,
and we are going to be busy."
Rose obeyed, and the quiet rooms above were so
like a church that she soon composed her ruffled
feelings, and was unconsciously a little minister of
happiness to the sweet old lady, who for years had
sat there patiently waiting to be set free from
pain.
Rose knew the sad romance of her life, and it
gave a certain tender charm to this great aunt of
hers, whom she already loved. When Peace was
twenty, she was about to be married; all was done,
the wedding dress lay ready, the flowers were wait-
ing to be put on, the happy hour at hand, when word
came that the lover was dead. They thought that
gentle Peace would die too; but she bore it bravely,
put away her bridal gear, took up her life afresh,
and lived on--a beautiful, meek woman, with hair
as white as snow and cheeks that never bloomed
again. She wore no black, but soft, pale colors, as
if always ready for the marriage that had never
come.
For thirty years she had lived on, fading slowly,
but cheerful, busy, and full of interest in all that
went on in the family; especially the joys and
sorrows of the young girls growing up about her,
and to them she was adviser, confidante and friend
in all their tender trials and delights. A truly
beautiful old maiden, with her silvery hair, tranquil
face, and an atmosphere of repose about her that
soothed whoever came to her !
Aunt Plenty was utterly dissimilar, being a stout,
brisk old lady, with a sharp eye, a lively tongue,
and a face like a winter-apple. Always trotting,
chatting and bustling, she was a regular Martha,
cumbered with the cares of this world and quite
happy in them.
Rose was right; and while she softly read psalms
to Aunt Peace, the other ladies were talking about
her little self in the frankest manner.
"Well, Alec, how do you like your ward ?" be-
gan Aunt Jane, as they all settled down, and Uncle






EIGHT COUSINS.


Mac deposited himself in a corner to finish his
doze.
I should like her better if I could have begun
at the beginning, and so got a fair start. Poor
George led such a solitary life that the child has
suffered in many ways, and since he died she has
been going on worse than ever, judging from the
state I find her in."
My dear boy, we did what we thought best
while waiting for you to wind up your affairs and
get home. I always told George he was wrong to
bring her up as he did; but he never took my



i h l l 'l 1.1'' 1 .







1I' ,s ''L,, ,'i, 1'



advice, and now here we are with this poor dear
,I ,- *" '. '" ,',,. -

child upon our hands. for one, freely confess










birds you used to bring hoe from foreign parts."
head, which caused great commotion among the

If my advice had been taken, she would havet




remadviced at the exelle w eith this poor dearced
that I don't know what to do removwith her any more






head, which cmplained, and she has beeommotion dawdlimong the


about ever since she came. A most ruinous state
of things for a morbid, spoilt girl like Rose," said
Mrs. Jane, severely.
She had never forgiven the old ladies for yielding
to Rose's pathetic petition that she might wait her
guardian's arrival before beginning another term
at the school, which was a regular Blimber hot-
bed, and turned out many a feminine Toots.
"I-never thought it the proper school for a child
in good circumstances,-an heiress, in fact, as Rose
is. It is all very well for girls who are to get their
own living by teaching, and that sort of thing; but


in ,cl, o a t e e
-w k 'puin 'h had been a
-- De'.a "dear,!.' ho, shor-si youall a









... she-. r ,u e to r ", bn ,cte w Ii i








HER AUNTS.
all she needs is a year or two at a fashionable finish-
ing-school, so that at eighteen she can come out
with icla." put in Aunt Clara, who had been a
beauty and a belle, and was still a handsome
woman.
Dear, dear how short-sighted you all are to
be discussing education and plans for the future,
when this unhappy child is so plainly marked for
the tomb," sighed Aunt Myra, with a lugubrious
sniff and a solemn wag of the funereal bonnet,
which she refused to remove, being afflicted with a
chronic catarrh.
Now, it is my opinion that the dear thing only


[fEBRUARY,







EIGHT COUSINS.


wants freedom, rest and care. There is a look in
her eyes that goes to my heart, for it shows that
she feels the need of what none of us can give her
-a mother," said Aunt Jessie, with tears in her
own bright eyes at the thought of her boys being
left, as Rose was, to the care of others.
Uncle Alec, who had listened silently as each
spoke, turned quickly toward the last sister, and
said, with a decided nod of approval:
You've got it, Jessie; and, with you to help
me, I hope to make the child feel that she is not
quite fatherless and motherless."
I'll do my best, Alec; and I think you will
need me, for, wise as you are, you cannot under-
stand a tender, timid, little creature like Rose as a
woman can," said Mrs. Jessie, smiling back at him
with a heart full of motherly good-will.
"I cannot help feeling that I, who have had a
daughter of my own, can best bring up a girl; and
I am very much surprised that George did not in-
trust her to me," observed Aunt Myra, with an air
of melancholy importance, for she was the only one
who had given a daughter to the family, and she
felt that she had distinguished herself, though ill-
natured people said that she had dosed her darling
to death.
I never blamed him in the least, when I re-
member the perilous experiments you tried with
poor Carrie," began Mrs. Jane, in her hard voice.
"Jane Campbell, I will not hear a word My
sainted Caroline is a sacred subject," cried Aunt
Myra, rising as if to leave the room.
Dr. Alec detained her, feeling that he must de-
fine his position at once, and maintain it manfully,
if he hoped to have any success in his new under-
taking.
Now, my dear souls, don't let us quarrel and
make Rose a bone of contention-though, upon
my word, she is almost a bone, poor little lass !
You have had her among you for a year, and done
what you liked. I cannot say that your success is,
great, but that is owing to too many fingers in the
pie. Now, I intend to try my way for a year, and
if at the end of it she is not in better trim than
now, I '11 give up the case, and hand her over to
some one else. That's fair, I think."
She will not be here a year hence, poor dar-
ling, so no one need dread future responsibility,"
said Aunt Myra, folding her black gloves as if all
ready for the funeral.
By Jupiter, Myra, you are enough to damp
the ardor of a saint!" cried Dr. Alec, with a sud-
den spark in his eyes. Your croaking will worry
that child out of her wits, for she is an imaginative
puss, and will fret and fancy untold horrors. You
have put it into her head that she has no constitu-
tion, and she rather likes the idea. If she had not


had a pretty good one, she would have been
'marked for the tomb' by this time, at the rate
you have been going on with her. I will not have
any interference-please understand that; so just
wash your hands of her, and let me manage till I
want help, then I'll ask for it."
"Hear, hear!" came from the corner where
Uncle Mac was apparently wrapt in slumber.
You were appointed guardian, so we can do,
nothing. But I predict that the girl will be spoilt,
utterly spoilt," answered Mrs. Jane, grimly.
Thank you, sister. I have an idea that if a.
woman can bring up two boys as perfectly as you
do yours, a man, if he devotes his whole mind to
it, may at least attempt as much with one girl,"
replied Dr. Alec, with a humorous look that tickled
the others immensely, for it was a well-known fact
in the family that Jane's boys were more indulged
than all the other lads put together.
"I)am quite easy, for I really do think that Alec
will improve the child's health; and by the time
his year is out, it will be quite soon enough for her
to go to Madame Roccabella's and be finished off,"
said Aunt Clara, settling her rings, and thinking,
with languid satisfaction, of the time when she
could bring out a pretty and accomplished niece.
I suppose you will stay here in the old place,
unless you think of marrying, and it's high time
you did," put in Mrs. Jane, much nettled at her
brother's last hit.
No, thank you. Come and have a cigar, Mac,"
said Dr. Alec, abruptly.
"Don't worry; women enough in the family
already," muttered Uncle Mac; and then the
gentlemen hastily fled.
"Aunt Peace would like to see you all, she says,"
was the message Rose brought before the ladies
could begin again.
Hectic, hectic !-dear me, dear me !" mur-
mured Aunt Myra, as the shadow of her gloomy
bonnet fell upon Rose, and the stiff tips of a black
glove touched the cheek where the color deepened
under so many eyes.
I am glad these pretty curls are natural; they
will be invaluable by and by," said Aunt Clara,
taking an observation with her head on one side.
Now that your uncle has come, I no longer
expect you to review the studies of the past year.
I trust your time will not be entirely wasted in
frivolous sports, however," added Aunt Jane, sail-
ing out of the room with the air of a martyr.
Aunt Jessie said not a word, but kissed her little
niece, with a look of tender sympathy that made
Rose cling to her a minute, and follow her with
grateful eyes as the door closed behind her.
After everybody had gone home, Dr. Alec .paced
up and down the lower hall in the twilight for an


209






EIGHT COUSINS.


hour, thinking so intently that sometimes he
frowned, sometimes he smiled, and more than
-once he stood still in a brown study. All of a sud-
den he said, half aloud, as if he had made up his
mind :
I might as well begin at once, and give the
-child something new to think about, for Myra's
dismals and Jane's lectures have made her as blue
as a little indigo bag."
Diving into one of the trunks that stood in a
corner, he brought up, after a brisk rummage, a
silken cushion, prettily embroidered, and a quaint
cup of dark carved wood.
This will do for a start," he said, as he plumped
up the cushion and dusted the cup. "It wont do
to begin too energetically, or Rose will be fright-
ened. I must. beguile her gently and pleasantly
along till I've won her confidence, and then she
will be ready for anything."
Just then Phebe came out of the dining-room
with a plate of brown bread, for Rose had been
allowed no hot biscuit for tea.
"I'll relieve you of some of that," said Dr.
Alec, and, helping himself to a generous slice, he
retired to the study, leaving Phebe to wonder at
his appetite.
She would have wondered still more if she had
seen him making that brown bread into neat little
pills, which he packed into an attractive ivory box,
out of which he emptied his own bits of loveage.
There if they insist on medicine, I'll order
these, and no harm will be done. I will have my
own way, but I 'll keep the peace, if possible, and
confess the joke when my experiment has suc-
ceeded," he said to himself, looking very much like
*a mischievous boy, as he went off with his innocent
prescriptions.
Rose was playing softly on the small organ that
stood in the upper hall, so that Aunt Peace could
enjoy it; and all the while he talked with the old
ladies, Uncle Alec was listening to the fitful music
of the child, and thinking of another Rose who
used to play for him.
As the clock struck eight, he called out:
"Time for my girl to be abed, else she wont be
up early, and I'm full of jolly plans for to-morrow.
Come and see what I have found for you to begin
upon."


Rose ran in and listened with bright, attentive
face, while Dr. Alec said, impressively :
In my wanderings over the face of the earth, I
have picked up some excellent remedies, and as
they are rather agreeable ones, I think you and I
will try them. This is an herb-pillow, given to me
by a wise old woman when I was ill in India. It is
filled with saffron, poppies and other soothing
plants; so lay your little head on it to-night, sleep
sweetly without a dream, and wake to-morrow with-
out a pain."
Shall I really? How nice it smells." And
Rose willingly received the pretty pillow, and stood
enjoying its faint, sweet odor, as she listened to the
Doctor's next remedy.
This is the cup I told you of. Its virtue de-
pends, they say, on the drinker filling it himself;
so you must learn to milk. I '11 teach you."
"I'm afraid I never can," said Rose; but she
surveyed the cup with favor, for a funny little imp
danced on the handle, as if all ready to take a
header into the white sea below.
"Don't you think she ought to have something
more strengthening than milk, Alec ? Ieall.
shall feel anxious if she does not have a tonic of
some sort," said Aunt Plenty, eyeing the new
remedies suspiciously, for she had more faith in
her old-fashioned doses than all the magic cups
and poppy pillows of the East.
Well, ma'am, I'm willing to give her a pill, if
you think best. It is a very simple one, and very
large quantities may be taken without harm. You
know hasheesh is the extract of hemp ? Well, this
is a preparation of corn and rye, much used in old
times, and I hope it will be again."
"Dear me, how singular !" said Aunt Plenty,
bringing her spectacles to bear upon the pills, with
a face so full of respectful interest that it was almost
too much for Dr. Alec's gravity.
Take one in the morning, and a good night to
you, my dear," he said, dismissing his patient with
a hearty kiss.
Then, as she vanished, he put both hands into
his hair, exclaiming, with a comical mixture of
anxiety and amusement:
When I think what I have undertaken, I de-
clare to you, aunt, I feel like running away and not
coming back till Rose is eighteen !"


(To be continued.)


210


[FEBRUARY,






CHIMNEY-SWEEPS, PAST AND PRESENT.




CHIMNEY-SWEEPS, PAST AND PRESENT.

BY WILLIAM H. RIDING.


THE stranger in Charleston is sometimes startled
by a long-drawn, plaintive cry that seems scarcely
human. On cold wintry mornings, when the city
is awaking, it is heard coming from the house-tops
with strange distinctness. It sounds like the voice
of some great bird hovering amid the curling
smoke. "0 weep, wee-e-ep, wee-e-e-ep, weep 0 !"
And it is repeated several times before one can find
out whence it comes. The people of the city pass
on without heeding it, and only those to whom it is
a novelty pause to gaze over the wide
roofs of slate and iron, in search of the
throat that utters it. Far above the .L
street can be seen a negro boy, with a
round little head and a pair of narrow
shoulders, creeping out of a chimney
into the sunlight, singing his wild song
as he comes, and brandishing a black
brush with frantic energy. It is the
chimney-sweep, and, as soon as his
song is done, he descends again into
the opening, like a genie disappearing
in the flame of a wonderful lamp at the
call of his master, the magician.
Later in the day, you may see the
same little fellow again, moving about
among ordinary mortals, but looking
all the more forlorn in contrast with :
the bright faces of the nicely dressed
people, who gather in their proud skirts
as they pass too near him on the street.
He looks more like an imp from some
country beneath the earth, than a living
boy with warm blood coursing through
his veins. Nature made him black, ,
and his occupation has deepened the "'
shade. The soot is thick upon him-
over his hands, neck, face and clothes,
and deep in the roots of his crisp, curly
hair. All the white about him is in his
rolling eye, which has a half-comical expression
mingling with its queer pathos. Who would think
of associating with him, I wonder, except another
of his own sort ? He is an absolute outcast, and as
he slouches along, beating the pavement with his
brush, few pitying glances are cast upon him. But
he has friends of his own, comrades in his sooty
trade, who love his society dearly and welcome the
appearance of his dim face with a glad smile.
These three that you see in the picture are fellow-
craftsmen of his, such as you may meet in Charles-


ton any day, though all are not so fat and happy.
Perhaps they wanted to honor the occasion of their
visit to the photographer's, and banqueted and
wiped their faces with their sleeves beforehand.
Anthracite (or hard) coal makes little or no soot,
and it is only where bituminous (or soft) coal is
used that chimney-sweeps are needed. Soot, I
must tell you furthermore, is simply condensed
smoke, and is rich in valuable chemical substances.
If it is allowed to accumulate, it is apt to take fire,




-. K v --- J,_ -- ---
4r ^I .. ..i
jj, .


CHARLESTON SWEEPS. (FROM A PHOTOGRAPH.)
and hence the necessity of keeping chimneys clear
of it.
In Pittsburgh, and all through the far West, the
chimneys have to be swept twice a year; but the
sweeps do not ascend them. A stiff brush is thrust
up instead, fastened to long poles, which fit into
each other like the branches of a fishing-rod. The
old custom was exceedingly cruel, and it has been
done away. with throughout America, except in
Charleston and Philadelphia. A gentleman .tells
me that he saw an old man escorting some boy


211






CHIMNEY-SWEEPS, PAST AND PRESENT.


chimney-sweeps through the streets of the latter
city very lately, and he believes they are there still.
Twenty or thirty years ago, it was a common
thing in New York to see mites of boys following
their masters in the street, or issuing from the
chimney-tops with their peculiar wail. Some of
them were not more than ten years of age, and
they looked so wretched that when a child was ill-
behaved its mother or nurse would threaten to give
it to the chimney-sweeps.
It was the worst use to which boys could be put,
and was even more terrible in its results than coal-
mining. The soft, fine


ing the top. The hard masters who depended on
their earnings were much relieved when, after a
long silence, they heard the sad "weep! weep!"
of their little slaves echoing over the roofs.
In Germany and France, small boys are still em-
ployed in cleaning chimneys. In Great Britain a
law has been passed forbidding the practice; but
less than fifteen years ago the sweeps, or climb-
ing boys," were very numerous; and I can remem-
ber,seeing a bit of a lad crawling out of one'of the
tallest chimneys in London, such as you see in
the picture on this page.
Until the reign of James the First, the houses
ih h 1 d- h h


power suffocated miany LU wciere UUt only one utory 1g
death, and planted the were swept from the floor. T
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S-I .. ..h I .... .t vas on
In p' r .1.lsir..t -Ind w a



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-..I I. or six



._ Ili
=._-= ... ..... _=~- .. , '" ,t ---
5 --" L j :-- -: -- -7-y _ -'1 -


, ian L e c mneys
'he Scotch fashion of
came in, and twice or
ent up to sweep down

ighwayman who had
I think he was the
r became notorious.
more about them in
the First until about
when Jonas Hanway
eir condition. Han-
e of the great philan-
s the man who first
don, a performance
s of all the impudent
oys in the city. No
as he trotted along
igled thing over his
t him utterly crazy.
nan, living a life that
[vantage.
ame to his house, one
th the poor fellow's
how and where he
re made excited the
.nd, through public
ieties with which he
nation to one of the
ever existed. The
y the children of dis-
to the men chimney-
, in American money,
tle creatures, some of
years of age, were
compelled to ascend
chimneys-and, in-
deed, the smaller
the child the more
valuable he or she
was, as some of the
flues were less than
a foot square. The
traffic was so ex-


[FEBRUAiRY,







CHIMNEY-SWEEPS, PAST AND PRESENT


tensive that we wonder how the officers of the law
never came to hear of it. Children who wandered
away from their homes often were kidnapped and
carried to a remote part of the country, where the
robbers sold them into bondage. Their own
clothes were taken from them, and some black rags
thrown over them, so that when the soot was
spread over their pretty little faces, no one could
recognize them.
The novices had the greatest dread of ascending
the chimney for the first time, and there are several
instances, of undoubted truth, in which the little
fellows were violently thrust in by their masters
and driven up by a fire lighted under them. This
seems too horrible for belief, but it was sworn to
by a master chimney-sweep before a committee of
the British House of Commons. The same man
declared that he did not use his own apprentices in
that manner, and that when the chimney was small
and the boy hesitated about ascending, he simply
used a stick or his fist!
Sometimes the beginner was instructed at the
house of his master before real duty was required
of him. An older boy would follow him up a
chimney and teach him how to climb by pressing
the knees and elbows against the sides of the flue.
It was a most painful operation, and the skin would
be torn from the child's arms and feet before he
had nearly reached the top. By striving very hard
he would probably succeed, but not until he had
tumbled down several times and alighted on the
shoulders of his stouter companion, who always
kept himself firmly fixed in expectation of such a
mishap. Every time he fell he had to begin anew,
and, no matter how sore he was, his master forced
him to reach the top.
The little chimney-sweeps of London were turned
out of their straw beds and driven into the streets
during the earliest hours of the morning. No
warm breakfast was supplied to them; only a crust
of stale bread. I remember reading in some book
of two whom its author saw standing at the gate
of a house at six o'clock one snowy morning. They
were barefooted and shivering, and in vain they
rang the bell to awake the occupants. The con-
trast between their sable hue and the yet unruffled
snow that mantled the city streets was a more
pathetic sight than the good author could endure,
and he hurried away to his chambers, with tears in
his eyes, after bestowing a sixpenny bit on each of
them. I have often seen like unfortunates in the
streets of Liverpool, and my heart has been filled
with pity for them.
A story is told, that a very small boy, not more
than four years of age, was once sent up a chimney
in a country-house at Bridlington, Yorkshire, and
that he tumbled down and hurt himself so severely


that the young ladies of the house took him from
his master and nursed him themselves. Some food
was brought to him, and, seeing a silver fork, he
was quite delighted, exclaiming, Papa had such
forks as those." He also said that the carpet in
the drawing-room was like papa's," and, when a
silver watch was shown to him, he declared that
" papa's was a gold one. At night he would not
go to bed until he had said the Lord's Prayer,
which he knew perfectly, and he lay awake for
some hours comparing the furniture in the room to
that in his own home. When he was asked how
he came to leave his papa, he said that he was
gathering flowers in his mother's garden, and that




--_ ;
--- .7 -

























ON THE ROOF.
a woman came in and asked him if he liked riding.
He said "yes," and she told him that he should
ride with her. She put him on a horse in a lane
near by, drove with him to the sea-side, and carried
him on board a vessel.
The story does not tell what became of the little
fellow afterward, and we can only hope that he was
restored to his parents, or that the young ladies at
the country-house adopted him.
The son of one of the noblest families in England
was kidnapped by chimney-sweeps, and was re-
stored to his home by an incident quite as romantic
as any I have ever read of in novels. He was sold
several times, and at last fell into the hands of a
--




---

























several times, and at last fell into the hands of a







CHIMNEY-SWEEPS, PAST AND PRESENT.


man who was engaged to clean the chimneys of the
house next door to that where his parents lived.
He ascended one of the flues and reached the roof;
but in descending he got into the wrong opening,
and soon arrived in a magnificent bed-chamber of
the adjoining house. The white sheets, the pillows
trimmed with lace, and the splendid damask cur-
tains, brought irresistible sleep into his eyes, and"
he threw himself upon the bed, forgetful of his
tyrant master and the punishment that might be in
store for him. While he dreamed there in blissful
peace, looking like a bit of ebony inlaid in satin-
wood, the housekeeper entered the room, and
recognized him as the lost child of her lady and
mistress.
During her life, his mother, the Honorable Mrs.
Montague, celebrated each anniversary of his re-
covery by a grand dinner of roast beef and plum-
pudding, given to the "climbing boys" at her
house in Portman Square. The little fellows were
all well scrubbed and freshly dressed for the occa-
sion, and each was presented with a shilling. But
when she died the festival was no more observed,
and the sweeps sadly missed her kind face and.the
annual dinner.

"And is all pity for the poor sweeps fled,
Since Montague is numbered with the dead ?
She who did once the many sorrows weep,
That met the wanderings of the woe-worn sweep ;
Who, once a year, bade all his griefs depart,
On May-day's morn would doubly cheer his heart.
Washed was his little form, his shirt was clean,
On that one day his real face was seen;
His shoeless feet now boasted pumps-and new,
The brush and shovel gayly held to view .
The table spread, his every sense was charmed,
And every savory smell his bosom warmed;
His light heart joyed to see such goodly cheer,
And much he longed to see the mantling beer.
His hunger o'er-the scene was little heaven !
If riches thus can bless, what blessings might be given.
But she is gone None left to soothe their grief,
Or, once a year, bestow their meed of beef! "

The organization of a society to suppress the use
of climbing boys by master-sweeps was the re-
sult of Hanway's efforts, and an instrument called
the Sandiscope," for cleaning high chimneys, was


invented. The Sandiscope consisted of a large
brush made of a number of small whalebone sticks,
fastened into a round ball of wood. It was thrust
up a chimney by means of hollow cylinders or
tubes, with a long cord running through them;
and it was worked up and down as each joint was
added, until it reached the top. It was then short-
ened joint by joint, and again worked in a like
manner. The master-sweeps refused to use it,
however, and it was not until Parliament passed a
law in 1829 that the little slaves were emancipated.
There are considerably over a thousand sweeps
in London to-day, but they are all grown men
and women, and the little fellows are no longer
seen.
I ought, in conclusion, to mention James White,
who was such another friend to the "climbing
boys" as Mrs. Montague. Once a year, on St.
Bartholomew's Day, he gathered together all the
sootkins in London, and treated them to a dinner.
Charles Lamb, the gifted essayist, knew him and
loved him, and I will end this account by quoting
his exquisite description of the feast:

0, it was a pleasure to see the sable younkers lick in the unctuous
meat, with his (White's) more unctuous sayings How he would fit
the tit-bits to the puny mouths, reserving the lengthier links of saus-
ages for the seniors How he would intercept a morsel even in the
jaws of some young desperado, declaring it must to the pan again
to be browned, for it was not fit for a gentleman's eating !' How he
would recommend this slice of white bread, or that piece of kissing
crust, to a tender juvenile, advising them all to have a care of crack-
ing their teeth, which were their best patrimony How genteelly he
would deal about the small ale, as if it were wine, naming the brewer,
and protesting, if it were not good, he should lose their custom; with
a special recommendation to wipe the lips before drinking Then
we had our toasts-'The King,' 'The Cloth,' and, for a crowning
sentiment, May the brush supersede the laurel!' All these, and
fifty other fancies, which were rather felt than comprehended by his
guests, would he utter, standing upon the tables, and prefacing every
sentiment with a 'Gentlemen, give me leave to propose so and so,'
which was a prodigious comfort to these young orphans; every now
and then stuffing into his mouth (for it did not do to be squeamish on
these occasions) indiscriminate pieces of those reeking sausages,
which pleased them mightily, and was the savoriest part, you may
believe, of the entertainment.
"James White is extinct, and with him these suppers have long
ceased. He carried away with him half the fun of the world when he
died-of my world, at least. His old clients look for him among the
pens; and, missing him, reproach the altered feast of St. Bartholo-
mew, and the glory of Smithfield departed forever."


" SHIVERING AT THE GATE."


[FEBRUARY,






KINGS OF FRANCE.


KINGS OF FRANCE.

BY MARY W. LINCOLN.


THE first king was Pharamond; after him came
The race Merovingian, unworthy of fame;

Then Pepin the Little, and Charlemagne, great;
Victorious, kingly in Church and in State.

First Louis, Charles First, and then two Louis' more;
Charles; Eudes, Count of Paris, whose reign was soon o'er;

Charles the Simple; Raoul de Bourgoyne, rarely known,-
One after another ascended the throne.

Then Louis the Fourth, who was named L'Outre Mer; "
Then Louis the Sluggard came; after, Lothaiie.

Hugh Capet, and Robert, and Henry then came;
First Philip, two Louis', and Philip whose name

Was Augustus; then Louis the Lion, and one
Called Louis the Saint, for the good he had done.

Two Philips, tenth Louis, fifth Philip came on;
And then Charles the Fourth, the sixth Philip, and John;

Charles Fifth, Sixth and Seventh, when Joan d'Arc came
To rescue the country from sorrow and shame.

Then Louis Eleventh-perfidious king;
Charles Eighth, whose adventures let history sing;

Twelfth Louis, first Francis, and Henry then came;
Then Francis, whose wife is so well known to fame

As Mary of Scotland; Charles Ninth, on whose head
Is the blood of Bartholomew's Protestant dead.

Two Henrys, five Louis',-one, king but in name,
For Terror was monarch till Bonaparte came.

Then Louis Eighteenth, and Charles Tenth, the grandson
Of Louis Fifteenth, but his reign was soon done.

Then Louis Philippe, and Napoleon Third,
Who, often successful, more frequently erred.


The throne is now vacant, and no one can tell
The name of the next, so I '11 bid you farewell.






216


[FEBRUARY,


[A raven, sitting high up on a limb, had a fine piece of cheese. He was just going to enjoy it, when along came Mr. Fox. Now the
fox wanted the cheese, and he knew he could not catch the raven. So he began to flatter the raven's croaking voice, and to beg the
raven for one of his "sweet songs." At last the poor raven, silly with flattery, opened his mouth to sing-when lo! the cheese dropped
to the ground, and off ran the wily fox with the stolen treasure in his mouth. The raven flew away, and never was heard of again.]


DONEE was a king's daughter. She had heard
her father talk of the battles into which he had led
his mighty warriors, and of how all the world that
.she knew had once been his, from the hills behind
which the sun rose to the broad rushing river
where it set. Now all of this account was strictly
true.
But the king, as he talked, wore no clothes but a
muddy pair of cotton trousers, and sat on a log in
the sun, a pig rooting about his bare feet. Black
Joe, going by, called him a lazy old red-skin; and
that was true, too. But these differing accounts
naturally confused Donee's mind. When the old
chief was dead, however, there was an end of all
talk of his warriors or battles. A large part of the
land was left, though; a long stretch of river bot-
tom and forests, with but very little swamp.
Donee's brother, Oostogah, when he was in a good
humor, planted and hoed a field of corn (as he had
no wife to do it for him), and with a little fish and
game, they managed to find enough to eat. Oosto-
gah and the little girl lived in a hut built of logs
and mud, and, as the floor of it never had been
scrubbed, the grass actually began to grow out of


the dirt in the corners. There was a log smoulder-
ing on the hearth, where Donee baked cakes of
pounded corn and beans in the ashes, and on the
other side of the dark room was the heap of straw
where she slept. Besides this, there were two
hacked stumps of trees which served for chairs, and
an iron pot out of which they ate; and there you
have the royal plenishing of that palace.
All the other Indians had long ago gone West.
Donee had nothing and nobody to play with. She
was as easily scared as a rabbit; yet sometimes,
when Oostogah was gone for days together, she
was so lonely that she would venture down through
the swamp to peep out at the water-mill and the
two or three houses which the white people had
built. The miller, of all the white people, was the
one that she liked best to watch, he was so big and
round, and jolly; and one day, when he had met
her in the path, he did not call her "Injun," or
"red nigger," as the others did, but had said:
" Where's your brother, my dear ?" just as if she
were white. She saw, sometimes, his two little girls
and boy playing about the mill-door, and they were
round and fat, and jolly, just like their father.


A FOX AND A RAVEN.



A FOX AND A RAVEN.

BY REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.







A FOX AND A RAVEN.


At last, one day Oostogah went down to the mill,
and Donee plucked up her courage and followed
him. When she was there hiding close behind the
trough in which the horses were watered, so that
nobody could see her, she heard the miller say to
her brother: "You ought to go to work to clear
your land, my lad. In two years there will be
hundreds of people moving in here, and you own
the best part of the valley."
Oostogah nodded. "The whole country once
belonged to my people."
That's neither here nor there," said the miller.
"Dead chickens don't count for hatching. You
go to work now and clear your land, and you can
sell it for enough to give you and this little girl
behind the trough an education. Enough to give
you both a chance equal to any white children."
Oostogah nodded again, but said nothing. He
was shrewd enough, and could work, too, when he
was in the humor. "Come, Donee," he said.
But the miller's little Thad. and Jenny had found
Donee behind the trough, and the three were mak-
ing a nettle basket together, and were very well
acquainted already.
Let the child stay till you come back from fish-
ing, Oostogah," said the miller.
So Donee staid all the afternoon. Jenny and
Betty rolled and shouted, and could not talk fast
enough with delight because they had this new
little girl to play with, and Thad. climbed all the
trees, as Jenny said, to "show off," and Betty
tumbled into the trough head over heels and was
taken out dripping.
Donee was very quiet, but it was to her as if the
end of the world had come, all this was so happy
and wonderful. She never had had any body to
play with before.
Then, when Betty was carried in to be dried and
dressed, there was, too, the bright, cheerful room,
with a lovely blue carpet on the floor, and a white
spread on the bed with fringe, and red dahlias
that shone in the sun, putting their heads in at the
window. Betty's mother did not scold when she
took her wet clothes off, but said some funny things
which made them laugh. She looked at Donee
now and then, standing with her little hands clasped
behind her back.
"Does your mother never wash or dress you,
Donee ? said Betty.
She is dead," said Donee.
Betty's mother did not say any more funny things
after that. When she had finished dressing Betty,
to the tying of her shoes, she called the little Indian
girl up to her.
"What can you do?" she said. Sew? Make
moccasins ?"
She had the pleasantest voice Donee was not
VOL. II.-15.


at all afraid. "I can sew. I can make baskets,"
she said. I am going to make a basket for every
one of you."
Very well. You can have a tea-party, Jenny,
out of doors." Then she opened a cupboard.
"Here are the dishes," taking out a little box.
"And bread, jam, milk, sugar, and candy."
"Candy!" cried Betty, rushing out to tell
Thad.
"Candy? Hooray!" shouted Thad.
For there are no shops out in that wild country
where a boy can run for a stick of lemon or gum-
drops every time he gets a penny. It was very
seldom that Thad. or Betty could have a taste of
those red and white "bull's eyes" which their
mother now took out of the jar in the locked cup-
board. They knew she brought it out to please
the little Indian girl, whose own mother was dead.
Jenny set the table for the tea-party under a big
oak. There was a flat place on one of the round
roots that rose out of the moss, which was the very
thing for a table. So there she spread the little
white and gold plates and cups and saucers, with
the meat dish (every bit as large as your hand), in
the middle, full of candy. The milk, of course, was
put in the pot for coffee, and set on three dead
leaves to boil; and Jenny allowed Donee to fill the
jam dishes herself, with her own hands. Donee
could hardly get her breath as she did it.
When they were all ready they sat down. The
sun shone, and the wind was blowing, and the
water of the mill-race flashed and gurgled as it
went by, and a song-sparrow perched himself on
the fence close to them and sang, and sang, just as
if he knew what was going on.
"He wants to come to the party!" said Betty,
and then they all laughed. Donee laughed too.
The shining plates just fitted into the moss, and
there was a little pitcher, the round-bellied part of
which was covered with sand, while the handle and
top were, Jenny said, of solid gold; that was put in
the middle of all.
Donee did not think it was like fairy-land or
heaven, because she had never in her life heard
of fairy-land or heaven. She had never seen any
thing but her own filthy hut, with its iron pot and
wooden spoons.
When it was all over, the children's mother
(Donee felt as if she was her mother too) called her
in, and took out of that same cupboard a roll of the
loveliest red calico.
"Now, Donee," she said, "if you can make
yourself a dress of this I will give you this box,"
and she opened a box, just like Jenny's. Inside,
packed in thin slips of paper, was a set of dishes !
pure white, with the tiniest rose-bud in the middle
of each! cups, saucers, meat-dish, coffee-pot, and


217I







A FOX AND A RAVEN


all; and, below all, a pitcher, with sand on the
brown bottom, but the top and handle of solid
gold !
Donee went back to the hut, trotting along be-
side Oostogah, her roll of calico under her arm.
The next day she cut it out into a slip and began to
sew. Oostogah was at work all day cutting down
dead trees. When he came in at night, Donee said:
" If you sold the land for much money, could we
have a home like the miller's ? "
Oostogah was as much astonished as if a chicken
had asked him a question, but he said "Yes."
Would I be like Jenny and Betty?"
"You're a chief's daughter," grunted Oostogah.
One day in the next week she went down to the
river far in the woods, and took a bath, combing
her long straight black hair down her shoulders.
Then she put on her new dress, and went down to
the miller's house. It was all very quiet, for the
children were not there, but their mother came to
the door. She laughed out loud with pleasure
when she saw Donee. The red dress was just the
right color for her to wear with her dark skin and
black hair. Her eyes were soft and shy, and her
bare feet and arms (like most Indian women's)
pretty enough to be copied in marble.
You are a good child-you're a very good
child! Here are the dishes. I wish the children
were at home. Sit right down on the step now
and eat a piece of pie."
But Donee could not eat the pie, her heart was
so full.
Hillo!" called the miller, when he saw her.
" Why, what a nice girl you are to-day, Dony!
Your brother's hard at work, eh? It will all come
right, then."
Donee stood around for a long time, afraid to say
what she wanted.
"What is it?" asked the miller's wife.
Donee managed to whisper, if she were to have a
party the next day, could the children come to
it? and their mother said: "Certainly, in the
evening."
When the little girl ran down the hill, the miller
said: "Seems as if 't would be easy to make Chris-
tians out of them two."
I'm going to do what I can for Donee," said
the miller's wife.
It was not so easy for the little red-skinned girl to
have a party, for she had neither jam nor bread,
nor butter, not to mention candy. But she was up
very early the next morning, and made tiny little
cakes of corn, no bigger than your thumb-nail, and
she went to a hollow tree she knew of and got a
cupful of honey, and brought some red haws, and
heaps of nuts, hickory and chestnuts. When
Oostogah had gone, she set out her little dishes


under a big oak, and dressed herself in her lovely
frock, though she knew the party could not begin
for hours and hours. The brown cakes and honey,
and scarlet haws, were in the white dishes, and the
gold pitcher, with a big purple flower, was in the
middle. Donee sat down and looked at 'it all. In
a year or two Oostogah would build a house like
the miller's, and she should have a blue carpet on
the floor, and a white bed, and wear red frocks
every day, like Betty.
Just then she heard voices talking. Oostogah
had come back; he sat upon a log; and the trader,
who came around once a year, stood beside him, a
pack open at his feet. It was this peddler, Hawk,
who was talking.
"I tell you, Oostogy, the miller's a fool. Ther's
no new settlers coming here, and nobody wants
your land. Ther's hundreds and thousands of acres
beyond better than this. You'd better take my
offer. Look at that suit !"
He held up short trousers of blue cloth worked
with colored porcupine quills, and a scarlet mantle
glittering with beads and gold fringe.
I don't want it," grunted Oostogah. Sell my
land for big pile money."
Oh, very well. I don't want to buy your land.
There 's thousands of acres to be had for the asking,
but there's not such a dress as that in the United
States. I had that dress made on purpose for you,
Oostogy. I said: 'Make me a dress for the son
of a great .chief. The handsomest man (eyeing
the lad from head to foot) that lives this side of
the great water.'"
Oostogah grunted, but his eyes began to sparkle.
Here now, Oostogy, just try it on to please
me. I 'd like to see you dressed like a chief for
once."
Oostogah, nothing loth, dropped his dirty
blanket, and was soon rigged in the glittering
finery, while Hawk nodded in rapt admiration.
"There 's not a man in the country, red-skin or
pale-face, but would know you for the son of the
great Denomah. Go look down in the creek,
Oostogy."
Oostogah went, and came back, walking more
slowly. He began to take off the mantle.
There's a deputation from these Northern
tribes going this winter to see the Great Father
at Washington. If Oostogah had a proper dress
he could go. But shall the son of Denomah
come before the Great Father in a torn horse-
blanket?"
Your words are too many," said Oostogah. I
have made up my mind. I will sell you the land
for the clothes."
Donee came up then, and stood directly before
him, looking up at him. But she said nothing. It







A FOX AND A RAVEN.


is not the habit of Indian women and children to
speak concerning matters of importance.
Oostogah pushed her out of the way, and, with
the trader, went into the hut to finish their
bargain.
In an hour or two her brother came to Donee.
He had his new clothes in a pack on his back.
" Come," he said, pointing beyond the great river
to the dark woods.
We will come back here again, Oostogah?"
"No; we will never come back."
Donee went to the tree and looked down at the
party she had made; at the little dishes with the
rose on each. But she did not lift one of them up.
She took off her pretty dress and laid it beside
them, and, going to the hut, put on her old rags
again. Then she came out and followed her brother,
whose face was turned toward the great dark woods
in the west.
When the miller's children came to the party
that afternoon, a pig was lying on Donee's red
dress, and the dishes were scattered and broken.
But the hut was empty.
H* B
A year afterward, the miller came back from a
long journey. After he had kissed and hugged


his wife and little ones, he said: You remember,
wife, how Hawk cheated that poor Indian lad out
of his land?"
"Yes; I always said it was the old story of the
fox and the foolish raven over again."
It was the old story of the white and the red
man over again. But out in an Indian village I
found Donee sick and starving."
The miller's wife jumped to her feet. The tears
rushed to her eyes. "'What did you do? What
did you do ?"
Well, there was n't but one thing to do, and I
did that." He went out to the wagon and carried
in the little Indian girl, and laid her on the bed.
Poor child! Poor child 1 Where is Oosto-
gah?"
The miller shook his head. Don't ask any
questions about him. The .raven flew away to the
woods, and was never heard of again. Better if
that were the end of Oostogah."
Donee, opening her tired eyes, saw the blue
carpet and the white bed where she lay, and the
red dahlias shining in the sun and looking in at
the window, and beside her were the children, and
the children's mother smiling down on her with
tears in her eyes.


I/f


A PRETTY SURE SHOT.


219






THE COAL-IMP.



THE COAL-IMP.

BY C. P. CRANCH.


;0




I'Y 01 !


* L. -m


I WAS sitting one night by my fire-
'T was a fire of Westmoreland coal
With a mixture of coke, which I recommend
As a comfort for body and soul.

My chamber was cosey and warm;
The curtains were closed all around;
And the snow at the windows rattled away
With a soft and tinkling sound.

As I sat in my easy chair,
I think it had got to be late;
And over the top of my book I saw
A face in the glowing grate.

An ugly old face, too, it was-
With wings and a tail-I declare;
And the rest was ashes, and smoke, and flame,
And ended-I don't know where.

So odd were the features, I said
"I must put you on paper, my friend;"
And took my pen and jotted him down-
Face, wings, and wriggling end.


A queer old codger he seemed,
As vaguely he stared and shone;
But I fixed him in outline as well as I could,
And added a touch of my own.

He flapped his wings in the grate,
And struggled and puffed to be free,
And scowled with his blazing carbuncle eyes,
As if he appealed to me.

Then I said-but perhaps I dreamed--
"Old fellow-how came you there?"
"I'm not an old fellow "-the face replied,
"But a prisoned Imp of the air.

"In the shape of combustion and gas
My wings I begin to find out;
So I flap at the bars and grow red in the face,
And am ugly enough, no doubt.

"I am made for a much better lot;
But I cannot escape, as you see:
Blistered and burnt, and crammed in a grate,-
What could you expect of me ?


[FEBRUARY,


'"I t r






THE PETERKINS' JOURNEY AGAIN POSTPONED.


"I once was a spirit of air,
A delicate fairy page
Long, long ago-in fact before
The carboniferous age.

*'For centuries I was kept
Imprisoned in coal-beds fast.
When you kindled your fire this evening,
you see,
I thought I was free at last.

"But it seems I am still to wait;
No wonder I'm cross as a bear,


Make faces, and flutter my wings of flame,
And struggle to reach the air,"

"My ruby-faced friend," I said,
"If you really wish to be free,
Perhaps I can give you a lift or two.
It's easy enough. We'll see."

Then, taking the poker, I punched
A hole in the half-burnt mass-
When the fire leaped up, and the Imp
flew off
In a laugh of flaming gas.


THE PETERKINS' JOURNEY AGAIN POSTPONED.

BY LUCRETIA P. HALE.


IT was very difficult for the Peterkin family to
decide where to go.
Mrs. Peterkin did not want to go to the sea-
shore, as she was a little afraid of the sea.
Elizabeth Eliza had no desire to go to the mount-
ains.
"It tires you so to go up," said Mrs. Peterkin.
I suppose one sees a great deal," said Mr.
Peterkin.
I don't know," said Elizabeth Eliza, who had
been up Sundown Hill, "because, on the way up,
your back is to the view all the time."
"I know it," said Solomon John; "and when
you are on top of the hill, you are too high up to
see anything. You can't tell whether they are men
or boys."
And when you come down," continued Eliza-
beth Eliza, "you have to be looking at your feet all
the time, to see where you are treading; so you
don't get any view."
I want to go where we shall really see some-
thing," said Mr. Peterkin.
I should like to go up some of the burning
mountains," said Agamemnon; "volcanoes,-I
have read of them,--like Mount 'Etna. I should
like to go up one of those."
I should rather come down," said Mrs. Peter-
kin.
"The ground is so hot," continued Agamem-
non, that you can roast eggs in it."
That would be jolly," cried the little boys.
It must make it inexpensive for fuel," said Mr.
Peterkin.


I suppose the inhabitants don't have to take in
coal," said Mrs. Peterkin.
Let's go," cried the little boys.
Only our India-rubber boots would stick," said
one of them.
But then the inhabitants get buried up now
and then," said Elizabeth Eliza.
Oh, that was a great while ago," said Agamem-
non. You know I read about their being dug
out."
Still, I should not like to be buried up," said
Mrs. Peterkin, even if I were dug out."
"I suppose, by this time," said Mr. Peterkin,
"the top of the mountain must have pretty much
all come down, all there is to come down-so many
years "
It must be the mountain that came down to
Mahomet," said Solomon John. Somebody told
me about his not being able to go to it, so it came
to him."
I would not like to go among the Mahom-
etans," said Mrs. Peterkin.
Certainly not to the deserts of Arabia !" ex-
claimed Elizabeth Eliza.
The little boys would like to see the "Arabian
Nights."
I don't think we want to journey as far as
that," said Mr. Peterkin.
Agamemnon was annoyed. The family did not
understand. These volcanoes were not so far off as
Arabia. Still, they were over the sea, and they
would hardly care to travel so far.
Yet I think we want to see something more





ANN S ANSWER.


than merely to go into the country," said Elizabeth
Eliza.
Solomon John had been sitting in quiet for some
time.
"What is it, Solomon John?" said Mr. Peter-
kin. "You have an idea "
"Yes," said Solomon John, starting up and
walking across the room, in excitement. "Why
should not we go to--Philadelphia ?"
"And see the place that the lady from Philadel-
phia came from," exclaimed Elizabeth Eliza.
She is so wise," said Mrs. Peterkin ; she has
had such opportunities."
Let us go to-morrow; don't wait for the vaca-
tion," cried the little boys, in delight.
It would be a very poor time to go now," said
Mrs. Peterkin, "when the only person we should
know, the lady from Philadelphia, is here."
She could tell us how to go," said Solomon
John.
"It is very hot in Philadelphia in summer, I
have heard," said Mr. Peterkin.
"That is why she comes away," said Elizabeth
Eliza.
"It would be a pity to go when everybody is
away," said Agamemnon.
Everybody away !" exclaimed the little boys.
"What fun! Then we could go into the shops
and take what we wanted!"
"Don't be absurd," said Solomon John; "of
course, the policemen stay."
Why should not we go later ?" said Agamem-
non.
"Why not wait till the fall?" said Mr. Peterkin.
"We ought to go in the little boys' vacation,"
said Mrs. Peterkin.
The little boys thought this was no matter; they
could do something else in the vacation.
But, then, it would not be a summer journey,"
said Mrs. Peterkin.


But Elizabeth Eliza felt this was not a serious
objection.
We might wait till the Centennial," suggested
Agamemnon. Mrs. Peterkin was firm against this.
"No, I am old enough now," she said. "If I
were to wait till I 'm a hundred, I should n't enjoy
anything !"
There must be enough to see there now," said
Mr. Peterkin.
Benjamin Franklin came from Philadelphia, or
else he went to it," said Agamemnon.
Oh yes, I know all about him," said Solomon
John; he made paint-brushes of his cat's tail !"
Oh no, that was another Benjamin, I am pretty
sure," said Agamemnon.
I don't know about that," said Solomon John;
"but he became a famous artist, and painted the
King and Queen of England."
You must have mixed up the Benjamins," said
Agamemnon. I will go and borrow an encyclo-
pedia, and look them out."
And we will make paint-brushes out of Eliza-
beth Eliza's cat," exclaimed the little boys; "and
we will become famous, and paint the King and
Queen of England."
You must not use the whole cat," said Solomon
John; and there is no King of England now."
And I cannot spare her tail," cried Elizabeth
Eliza, starting up in agony for her cat.
"It is only Philadelphia cats that are used for
paint-brushes," said Mr. Peterkin. We will see
about it when we go. I think it is a good plan to
wait till autumn, and it will give us time to talk
with the lady from Philadelphia and consult her
about it."
The little boys were quite satisfied. "A vaca-
tion and a journey too !" It was raining a little;
but they put on their India-rubber boots, and went
out to chase some ducks from- a neighboring mud-
puddle.


ANN'S ANSWER.

BY E. S. F.

SAID the teacher to Ann: I wish, if you can,
You would give a more definite answer."
And Ann at once said, with a toss of her head:
" I do just the best that I can, sir !
But why should I try ? do please tell me why
(I think it's no use-not a particle),
For I hear every day the grammar-class say
That An's an in-definite article!"


[FEBRUARY,





THE STORY OF A BIRCH-BARK BOY.


THE STORY OF A BIRCH-BARK BOY.

BY ISABEL FRANCIS.

4'L --' 'vi;'l-. N a large forest, once upon a coat, and in consequence talked faster and louder,
time, grew a clump of birch- and told more silly stories than any of his compan-
'" trees; noble great trees they ions. It was to his foolishness we owe this story;
were, and everybody felt sorry for on perceiving the birch-bark shining in the soft
.. -. .... when some woodmen were sent afternoon light, he exclaimed:
to cut them down. Down they Oho let us make a birch-bark boy !"
must come, though, for the What ? said the rest, who had heard of snow-
men had their orders, and or- men before, but never of birch-bark boys.
ders must be obeyed, or there "I'll show you," answered this naughty boy;
is no getting along in this and without stopping to consider whether he had
world. Thwack, thwack went any right to meddle with the bark, he took a long,
the bright steel axes, and the narrow strip of it, pinned it together so that it
trees came crashing to the somewhat resembled a short stove-pipe, formed
ground until there was only another in the same way, set them up upon two
one left standing. He was the smaller rolls laid on the ground for feet, and the
handsomest of all, and report birch-bark boy was half done. He then doubled a
said that he was the great, large square piece, fastening it with long thorns,
Zj great, great-grandfather of all pins not being strong enough to hold, and after
the others. Dear me, how he cutting two holes in the side, in which he placed
did groan and crack when the two cylinders of bark for arms, he finished by set-
men went to work, chopping, ting a good-sized India-rubber football on top for a
tearing and pulling him, till head, and chalking marks for eyes, nose and
at last he fell to the earth with mouth. There stood the birch-bark boy, sure
a noise like thunder. His bark was beautiful, fine, enough, and a frightful-looking object he was; his
soft and flexible, and looked so much more valuable round white eyes and the long, grinning line of
than the rest after it was torn off, that they placed his mouth made him a very ghastly sight to come
it in a little heap by itself. It was now quite late, upon suddenly at night. Just then a rustling was
and the men went away, not to return till the next heard in the bushes near them, and the boys,
morning but one, for the day following would be a alarmed at being caught in such mischief, took to
holiday, their heels as fast as they could, leaving their best
It rained in the night, and in the morning the football behind them (which, by the way, was of a
drops glistened on the forlorn little pile of bark, beautiful light brown color, not unlike the birch-
making it look as if it were weeping at the sight of bark itself) staring into the night with its great
the great tree it had always shielded from wind and round eyes. The noise proved to be only a rabbit,
storm by its close and loving embrace, lying shorn hopping about in search of tender leaves for a
of its graceful limbs, stripped, and soaked with the dinner-party he intended to give; but "the wicked
rain. flee when no man pursueth."
Toward evening a party of young men passed There the birch-boy stood leaning against a tree,
through the forest on their way home from the glaring at nothing; and had not something very
festival. Their ages might range from sixteen to strange happened in the night the boys would have
nineteen years,-mere boys, you will say; but they come the next day and taken their football, and
knew better, for could they not drink their glass of the workmen would have pulled his body to pieces.
wine with any man ? They made the quiet forest As it was, however, they did come, and were
resound with their boisterous shouts and ill-man- furious at finding nothing there; not the faintest
nered jokes, and when one of them made a remark vestige of the boy was to be seen far or near. The
which the others considered especially brilliant, workmen scolded about the loss of their bark, but
they slapped him on the back and cried, Good! the boys had to hold their tongues concerning the
good One can easily see that you are a man of thing they wanted. They knew it served them
the world." right to lose their precious ball, though they liked
There was one little fellow in particular, the it none the better for that.
youngest of the party, who wore his first long-tailed This is what happened in the night.


223





THE STORY OF A BIRCH-BARK BOY.


About that time there were a great many souls
of babies to be carried to the earth; a great many
more than you can think or dream of; and the
angels that have this charge were consequently
very busy. This night in particular there were so
many that the angel who has the chief care of all
the cunning little spirits thought he never would
be able to get them all down in time. So he looked
around for help, and espied a new-comer standing
by, gazing at him with great interest. The new
angel looked as if he must have been very good
indeed when he was on earth, for he had such
a lovely face. So the chief angel called to him,
and asked if he would be willing to carry an ex-
ceedingly nice little soul to the castle at the end of
the forest. The new-comer replied that he would
be delighted to do so; and away he flew with his
precious burden.
Now the chief angel was so busy that he had not
time to give the other very explicit directions, and
he therefore alighted at the wrong end of the forest,
where there was nothing but dry waste land, with
no houses far or near. So the angel wandered
into the forest, looking in vain for any sign of life,
until he came to where the moonlight glanced
through the leaves upon the head of the birch-
bark boy.
Now whether the angel never had any babies of
his own when he lived on earth, or whether he was
a Chinese angel and thought everybody was of a
dirty yellow color, I don't know; I only know that
he said: "Ah! .they have sent him out to meet
me."
So with these words he allowed the soul to become
gradually absorbed into the poor birch-bark body
till it was all gone, and then flew back again, never
dreaming what mischief he had done.
The soul expanded and expanded to fill the un-
usually large body in which it found itself, till it
was about like the soul of a good-sized boy, and
then the poor fellow tried to move; but he was
stiff, of course, not having any knees or elbows.
Just try to walk without bending your knees, chil-
dren, and you will know with what a hop, skip and
a jump our birch-bark boy moved. The only
comfort he had was that he was so light that the
least breath of air would waft him anywhere like a
feather, and he could easily keep himself down by
rolling a stone up his hollow arm.
I cannot begin to tell you his adventures for
some years after he came to life; so, suffice it to say
that he was very unhappy, and longed with all his
might to be like other boys who could bend their
knees and run and jump -and laugh. One day
when he felt even more melancholy than usual,
lying on the grass in the very forest where he was
made, wishing he had eyes were they only to weep


with, an old woman stood suddenly before him,
and said :
"Are you a goblin ?"
He had often been taken for a goblin before, and
the question did not surprise him, so he answered
meekly:
No, ma'am; I only wish I were."
You will be surprised to learn that he could
answer at all, but there was a small hole in the
football near where the boy had drawn his mouth,
and though I think no one but a fairy could have
understood him, the old woman did well enough,
because she was one, as perhaps you have guessed.
To ordinary ears his voice sounded something like
that of a dog, of course, for was he not made of
bark ?
What do you mean by such a wish as that ?"
asked the old woman sternly. And our poor boy,
too delighted at being understood and talked to at
all to notice her severity, answered:
Because I wish I were anything else than the
thing I am. I would do anything in the world to
get rid of this hateful birch-bark body, which pre-
vents my walking and running, and makes other
children afraid of me, and oh I 'm so unhappy;
and please, ma'am, you are the only one who ever
understood what I say, and can't you help me to
turn into a real boy, or else let me die here ?"
And the poor fellow was so affected that a sort of
dampness spread all over him, which was the best
he could do in the way of tears.
"I," said the old woman, "am a fairy, and to help
you is precisely the reason I am here; and I have
been moved to do this, not only because you are
so wretched, but because I think you are a very
good boy indeed, and will make a very good man.
I cannot, however, do much for you," continued
she, raising her hand as she saw he was about to
interrupt her (and you all know, children, how
dreadful it is to interrupt older people when they
are talking); "you will have to help yourself.
Listen to these words: When you make yourself
as useful in the world as if you had a body like
other boys, you will receive your reward."
With these words she vanished in a white mist,
leaving the boy stunned with astonishment, and
even more in despair than before, for did not every
one fly at his approach, and how could he be useful
to them if they did that? However, being a brave
little soul, he finally rose, and for a week went from
place to place trying to get near enough to any one
to see if he could be of any use. But he was afraid
of grown men and women; and the children all
ran shrieking to their mothers whenever they saw
him coming. One cheering thing he observed
though, which was that if people would only lose
their fear of him, it would be very easy indeed to


[FEBRUARVY,






THE STORY OF A BIRCH-BARK BOY.


be as useful as most of the boys he saw, and he
thought it very strange that big boys who were
almost men should consider it necessary to pull
their sisters' hair, or break their dolls' heads, or
jump out of dark places suddenly to frighten them,
or do a hundred other teasing things well known to
suffering girls.
One day he was sitting disconsolately on the sea-
shore, when he heard a faint cry. When I say
heard, I do not mean heard as you hear, for you


-7 a.


only come and save her." And from appearances
it was highly probable that she never would. How
pretty she was, with her golden curls all tossed and
tumbled by the wind, her great blue eyes filled with
tears, and her dear little underlip quivering !
The dreadful danger that she was in touched the
heart of our boy deeply, or rather the place where
his heart ought to be, and yet If it had been any-
thing but this," the poor fellow thought.
I have not told you the sad fact that water was


7


-r
I -~* -
S -


~~.11
C


-


THE BIRCH-BARK BOY TO THE RESCUE.


know he did n't have any real ears, but the birch-
bark was so thin that his soul understood things
and felt them in a mysterious way, without his
knowing exactly how. At any rate I will use plain
language and say that he heard a faint cry, and
looking up saw a small row-boat slowly gliding past
him out to sea, with no one in it but a little girl.
She it was who had uttered the cry. Poor little
thing! There she was drifting out to the wide
ocean all alone, and crying piteously, and saying,
between her sobs, that she "never, never would
run away to play in a boat again if some one would


death to him. To get wet would indeed put a stop
to all his hopes of ever being like other boys, for
the dampness would penetrate through and through
him, and he would then flatten and come apart.
At one time he would not have cared, but now
when his hopes were raised so high, could he dash
them to the ground with one ruthless blow ? More-
over, it was exceedingly painful to him, or he would
have been tempted long ago to stand out in a hard
shower and thus put an end to his wearisome ex-
istence. Then it was more than probable that his
labor would be useless, for he would be wet through


225





THE STORY OF A BIRCH-BARK BOY.


before he reached her, and even if he were not,
how could he be of any assistance ? He hesitated,
looked, and hesitated again, when he heard a sob,
fainter than any before. A plan occurred to him,
by which he thought he might possibly save her,
and he sprang to his feet resolved to do and die.
Her life is worth more than mine ever could
be," he sighed; and instantly he began what looked
like- a species of gymnastic exercises in the air.
The wind was blowing directly toward the sea, and
he wanted to go inland, but he had learned to reg-
ulate his singularly formed body in such a manner
that he could go in whatever direction he wished
with the greatest rapidity, no matter from what
quarter the wind blew. I don't pretend to know
how he did it, but I suppose it was upon something
the same principle as a schooner tacking. At all
events he was at a store in the town in less than
five seconds; all the people screamed, and tumbled
over one another in their eagerness to get out of
the way, but he, unheeding them, rolled a ball of
strong twine up his arm with great dexterity, and
sped away till he reached the boat, now quite a
distance from land. The poor little girl shrieked
with horror when she perceived him, which sent a
pang through him, but he quietly dropped the ball
of twine into the boat, and tried to tie the end of it
to the ring in the bow. I do not know how many
hours it would have taken him to accomplish this,
or even if he could have succeeded at all, had not
the little girl, whose name was Mabel, seen what
he was endeavoring to do, and taking heart, tied
the string quickly in a strong, hard knot. After
this he had little difficulty in making her under-
stand also that the other end was to be fastened
round his body. Now began the "tug of war,"
for how was this poor little weak boy to tow a row-
boat to land, over heavy swells, and with the wind
dead against him? How he did do it he never
knew, but his strength just lasted long enough to
reach one of the huge piles of an unfinished wharf,
to fly several times round it in order to secure the
boat, and he fell, fainting, into the water. He felt
himself slowly flattening, but before he quite lost
consciousness he heard the voices of the men who
were carrying home little Mabel.
He did n't die, though; of course he did n't; but
was washed ashore, where he had a peaceful sleep,
and awoke with the most singular sensation of
weighing four or five hundred pounds. He thought
too he heard a voice say :
Because you hesitated, the deed was not com-
plete; therefore the cure cannot be complete. But
cheer up You have done nobly, and in due time
shall receive your reward."
He roused himself on hearing these words in
order to see who spoke, but he could perceive


nothing save a white mist in the distance, which.
vanished immediately; and was it he who heard
those words, or another boy-a real boy-who was
sitting on the beach, gazing around in astonish-
ment ? No; it was himself, for there was his skin
of birch-bark, only much softer and more delicate
than before, stretched over as handsome and as
solid a body as you would care to see. He could
still hear and see a little by the same mysterious
method I spoke of, but he was perfectly dumb; not
a sound could he utter. The most remarkable of
all was that he was dressed in a full suit of clothes;
very nice clothes they were too, and so our boy
thought till he discovered one defect that the fairy
(not being used to boys) thought he would not per-
ceive. There was not a sign of a jfocket anywhere
about them. I don't know how he found out this
fatal fact so soon, for, never having been able to
wear any clothes before, naturally one might sup-
pose that he would not feel the want of pockets so
keenly as boys who have had them all their lives.
He seemed to know all about them, however, by
instinct, and it would have melted a heart of stone
to see him sitting mournfully on the beach, clapping
his hands first to one side of his trousers and then
to the other, and searching in all parts of his jacket
and vest, once even looking up his sleeve to find
some traces of the catch-alls, without which it would
hardly seem necessary for boys to have clothes at
all. The kind fairy knew too much, however, to
risk his life for a few moments' gratification; for
she had read in the newspapers what things go
into boys' pockets, and knew that a huge jack-knife
is the first requisite. Now if this boy's skin, being
yet made of birch-bark, should be cut by accident,
no matter how slightly, it never would heal, and
she wished to avoid all accidents of that kind. She
accordingly provided him with a little cottage just
outside the town, and at meal-times a nice break-
fast, dinner or supper, as the case might be, was
set before him. I am grieved to say that he was
obliged to eat with his fingers, his guardian not
even allowing him to use a table-knife lest it should
slip and cut him. He learned better afterward,
however.
He soon became accustomed to his new mode of
life, and often wandered round the town in search
of some one to whom he could render assistance;
also he wanted to see little Mabel again. Day after
day passed, and though he stared at the people in
the carriages and on the sidewalks, in stores and
in houses, he did not see her. He had a pretty
hard time of it besides. The rude boys in the
streets hooted at him, and called him Heathen
Chinee and Mummy," and asked him Who
tanned him last ?"
All these remarks made him feel very unhappy,


226


[FEBRUARY





THE STORY OF A BIRCH-BARK BOY.


and discouraged him very much; and one day
when he had been treated worse than usual, having
had a narrow escape from a sharp stone thrown at
him, he sat down in his little house the picture of
despair. As he was gloomily looking out of the
window at the setting sun slowly sinking behind
the dark hills, he thought he discerned a faint light
reddening the sky in another direction. He as-
cended to the roof to see what it meant, and
perceived that a large house in the heart of the
town was on fire. This made him still more mel-
ancholy than before, for any approach to flame
cracked his brittle skin in a hundred places, so that
the fairy had even to heat his cottage by steam.
Alas !" cried he, "I might be of some use
now, if it were not for my unfortunate skin. I will
go, though, and watch for my chance, and perhaps
I may be able to assist the sufferers after they are
removed from the scorching heat."
So he went into the town, and followed the crowd
of people, hustling and jostling one another, all
running in one direction, not more than half of
them knowing why or where they were going.
Our boy found that as soon as he came near
enough to the fire to feel the heat, his skin began to
crack, and to become exceedingly painful; so he
ensconced himself on the top of a high building,
behind a damp blanket, where he could see every-
thing that went on, without being near enough
to injure himself. The fire raged furiously, but
though it was impossible to save the burning man-
sion, the surrounding houses stood in no danger,
as they were separated by a small park. It was
now quite late, and would have been very dark
were it not for the glare of the flames, darting up-
ward like gigantic tongues, roaring, and making
the very air around to sing with the intense heat.
One part of the building was nearly burned, and
with a crash the side wall fell to the ground; but
what was it that sent such a thrill through the heart
of the boy, making him start to his feet, with every
nerve quivering beneath his brown skin ? Nothing
but the shrill shriek of a child sounding distinctly
above the din of falling walls and the rush of the
flames. He had heard that voice before, and if it
was Mabel within those burning ruins, crying for
help, she must be saved.
Taking no thought of his own peril, he dashed
out into the street and straight toward the flaming
house like a whirlwind. Over the red-hot em-
bers he flew, suffering the most frightful tortures,
only thinking of Mabel and hoping to be able to
reach her before he died. She was in a part of the
house that had caught last, and was now standing
at the window before a wild background of flames,
calling for help with all the energy of mortal terror.
Her father was miles away, and knew nothing of


the fire. Her poor mother, who had supposed her
to be at the house of a friend, was running back-
ward and forward, wringing her hands and offering
enormous rewards to any one who would venture
to save her darling. Just at that moment there
appeared another form in the casement. A cry of
hope resounded through the crowd as our boy un-
rolled a coil of rope he had snatched from one of
the firemen as he passed. It was the work of a
moment to fasten it securely around Mabel's body,
and prepare to lower her to the ground, which was
fortunately quite free from embers directly under
the window. A man rushed forward to receive her,
and our boy, with supernatural strength, lowered
her gently till she was in the arms of the man, who
lifted her high in the air, amid the shouts and
applause of the crowd. The applause, however,
soon changed to groans, for hardly had the child
been restored to the embraces of her mother when
the whole interior of the house in the part where
our hero was standing gave way with a frightful
crash, and, with one whirr-r-r bang, this world was
over for the birch-bark boy.
The next morning the father returned to town,
and found his home in ruins. But he soon placed
Mabel and her mother in comfortable rooms, where
they could stay until their new home could be made
ready. Hardly had the little family assembled
when the door-bell rang. An old woman wished
to see them on important business. They were all
three rather surprised when they saw their strange-
looking visitor; but having been brought up in the
best manner, they did not manifest their astonish-
ment by either look or word until the old woman
said:
Would you not like to see the boy that saved
your little girl's life ? "
Indeed we would," exclaimed all three together.
"But we thought he was killed and buried in the
ruins. How is he? Where is he? Who found
him ?"
But is he really alive? cried little Mabel, her
blue eyes dilating. "Ah! no, he cannot be; he
must be dead, and you are cruel to come here and
tell stories." And with these words her tears and
sobs broke forth afresh.
"Hush, Mabel!" said her mother quickly, for
something in the old woman's look or manner im-
pressed her she could hardly tell how, though she
did not know their visitor was a fairy.
"Never mind, n-e-v-e-r mind," answered the fairy
soothingly. I like her the better for being fond
of the boy who twice preserved her life; but I can
assure you he is alive and well, as you shall see for
yourself if you will come to the cottage just outside
the town at three o'clock this afternoon. I saved
him from the fire myself, for I am his guardian."





HOW DOLLS ARE MADE.


With these words she vanished in a mist, leaving
them in a state of astonishment not to be de-
scribed.
Our story is all told, as much as any story can
be told. Of course Mabel and her parents went to
the cottage outside of the town; of course they
found there a beautiful youth,-birch-bark boy no
longer, but as fine a young fellow as one could wish
to see,-who recognized Mabel at once, and gladly


accepted the father and mother, who said he must
go home with them and be Mabel's brother. And,
of course, they all were happy as could be to the
very end of their lives.
But our boy, for some strange reason, though he
could talk, and leap and romp like any other young
fellow, never liked to go alone to the forest, and to
his dying day he always shuddered when he heard
the old proverb, "His bark is worse than his bite."


HOW DOLLS ARE MADE.

BY OLIVE THORNE.


DARLING Rosabel came from the rag-bag.
From the rag-bag 1 you don't see how anything
nice can come from such a place, do you say?
I fear you '11 be shocked when I tell you that not
only Rosabel, who is a "perfectly lovely'" wax
doll, but your own most precious dolly, if she 's
anything better than china, probably came out of
the same dreadful place.
To be sure her head, neck, hands and feet are
all of wax outside, and as only this covering shows,
she is just as good- and as pretty as though she
were wax all through; and you know the old say-
ing that "beauty is but skin deep." But, never-
theless, she did come out of the rag-bag, and I'll
tell you all about it, while she sits there on the
sofa, elegantly dressed, and looking as lovely as
though she never even heard of such things as
rags.
The true story of her life, since she was first
created, would be very interesting; but it would
make a big book, and I can't tell you half of it.
A new doll, did you say? Well, I know she has
not lived long in her present shape, but you must
remember that she was not always a doll; she was
once wrapped up in a green bud, growing on a
bush. She came out of that a long white bit of
cotton, went through ever so many processes, and
became cotton cloth of some kind; was bought
and sold, and made up, and used, washed and
ironed, and worn out as cloth, just to begin with.
Think of all that probably happened to her before
she even became rags !
That was only the beginning. After being worn-
out rags she went into the rag-bag or the alley,
made a journey on the back of a rag-man, went
through a dreadful course of soaking and washing,
and boiling, and bleaching, and pressing, and dry-


ing, and ever so much else, before she came out
nice clean paper, ready for use again. Did you
suspect your dolly had ever been paper?
Well, she was paper once, and who can tell what
may have been her life while in that state, whether
she was beautiful note-paper and carried loving








A









i, ."





THE MODELER AT WORK.

messages from one friend to another, or whether
she was used for business writing, or for wrapping
up confectioners' dainties, or whether she was made
into a book or not, or did good or harm. She'll
never open her lips to tell of her past life; but you
may be sure she was put to some use as paper, and









could tell strange stories of what she has seen, if turn around if he wishes. From a lump of soft
she could only remember-and.talk. clay, .he has cut and shaped a doll's head and
You see she's very old, older than any of you, neck, and in another lump of clay near him, you
see he has stuck his
spare knives. When
the model is finished,
the modeler makes
It. "lines on it, with color-
ed crayons, as a guide
to the next workman,
who is called a molder.
S- When the pattern,
V or model, is ready,
.- --. ,there must be made
___ ,a mold, in which to
-- -.- -- I shape the paper pulp
from the kettle. This
TIN'. .is made by the molder.
He takes the pretty
-clay model, when it is

S '"--Z I it face up, in a dish of
w __et clay, pressing the
"-'clay into every corner
IN THE MOLD. up to the colored line
which the modeler
and I don't think it's respectful to old age to treat made. This being done, he builds a wall of
her as some of you do. I hope you'll mend your clay around the mass, coming up some inches
manners toward her, now that you know about her higher all around than the face of the model, which
age and dignity. is left uncovered. The whole looks like a box half
When the paper of which she is made was old full of clay, with a face looking out of it. In the
and soiled, and unfit for use,
it was taken to a doll manu-
factory, in the little city of .
Sonneburg, near the north- -a _- 'I
ern border of Bavaria, and -- -- '" "-
there it went through the *'^-^-- T
operations that made it into ... t* .
this pretty doll. I can show i
you, as well as tell you about -
it, for here are some sketches .' .
taken for ST. NICHOLAS in ,. .-- -
one of those very factories. -
The first thing, of course,
is to make that mass of paper -
into a clean pulp, and we'll
leave it boiling away in a big )
kettle, while we see what the
doll-makers are doing, to get
ready to use it. First they .-. ......
must have a model of Miss ,., .-.. -' .
Dolly's head. A model, you .PR
know, is a figure made of the WO T R OG
exact size and shape of the head, for a pattern. upper picture on this page, you see one man hold-
Now look at the picture on page 228. The man ing the clay walls together, while the other one pours
is making a model. You see he has a narrow work- over the face some melted sulphur which he has
bench which he can make higher or lower, or even taken from the stove. Sometimes plaster of Paris


1875.J


HOW DOLLS ARE MADE.


229







HOW DOLLS ARE MADE.


is used instead of sulphur, but it is not thought
to be so good.
The mold is not done yet. The clay was put on
merely to protect that part of the head while the
rest was molded. When the sulphur is cold, the
box is turned over, and the clay taken away, leav-
ing Miss Rosabel with her face buried in sulphur..
It's well she cannot smell; the vis-
itors to the room who can, do not
care to stay long.
Clay walls are again built up, and
more sulphur is poured in to make
a mold for the back of her head.
The boxes on the floor in the pict-
ure are molds, as they look when
done, and the open one shows you --. i
the two separate sides.
Now the mold is finished, and we .. ,
must go back to. our paper pulp, ,t-i
which we left boiling, you know. -
When soft and ready for use the --
water is squeezed out, and other i-
things added-some powdered clay
to make it stiff, and a little glue to
make it sticky. These are worked -
up together till the mass is about like
dough, and indeed it is made into
loaves, as you see in the third picture.
The loaves are on the floor, under the table, and
the man with the rolling-pin is rolling out the
paper dough-papier mach6 it is called-for the
other man to shape. He makes it a little thicker
than pie crust, and then cuts it into pieces the
right size for use, making a pile of them, with flour
or powdered clay between to prevent their sticking
together.
The man next to him is pressing one of these
thin cakes of paper dough into the molds for
Dolly's head, and the third man is making it fit
more nicely into every crack and corner of the
mold, with a tool of some sort, so that it will be a
perfect copy of the original model. You see they
are smoking. That is because they have to keep
the room very hot so that the heads will dry quickly,
and the heat makes the workmen so sleepy that
they smoke to keep themselves awake.
See the half heads laid out to dry on the table,
and the finished heads on the shelves behind the
workmen.
But to go on, when, the man has carefully fitted
the sheet of dough into every part of the mold, he
pares off the edges with a knife as you see a cook
cut the crust from a pie plate, lifts the half head
out of the mold, and lays it on the table to dry a
little. When dry enough it is again pressed in the
mold to give it a more perfect shape, and then is
dried for the last time, The two halves being


finished, they are glued together, and Miss Rosa-
bel for the first time takes an upright position on a
shelf, where she stands till she is hard and dry, look-
ing more like stiff pasteboard than anything else.
Miss Dolly is not very pretty in that state, I
must admit. She is of a dingy gray color, with no
eyes and no hair. However, she is not yet finished.


SMOOTHING AND COLORING DOLLS' HEADS.


Her next journey is to the eye-setter. A rough
doctor he. is, and the first thing he does is to cut
off the top of her head, by running a sharp knife
around it, and knocking the piece out with a ham-
mer.
What for? Merely to put in her eyes, my dear;
and a curious operation it is, too. If they were
immovable eyes, like a common doll's, they would
be simply glued in; but in a young lady of Miss
Rosabel's pretensions, who meekly shuts her eyes
when her mamma lays her down, there is much to
be done.
In the first place, the eyes themselves, life-like
as possible, have been carefully made of glass, in a
large factory which turns out nothing but eyes.
These the eye-setter now fastens to a piece of curved
wire with a ball of lead on the end. It is the weight
of this lead which makes her eyes close when her
"tead goes down. Then the workman, with a sharp
knife, cuts a hole for each eye, and goes on to put
them in. I can't explain exactly how he makes
them all secure, but there is plaster to hold them
in place, and support the cheeks; a cork, or
sponge, to keep the lead from hitting her chin;
pieces of wood to. prevent her head from being
easily crushed, and various arrangements by means
of which the whole is made firm and strong, and
able to endure the hard knocks she may expect, in
the rough life before her.


230


[FEBRUARY,







HOW DOLLS ARE MADE.


When everything is .in, the cut-off slice of her
head is glued on again, and Miss Rosabel has re-
ceived all the furnishing for the inside of her head,
that she will ever have. If your poor doll ever is so
unfortunate as to break her head,, you can look in
and see all this machinery, if you like.
Now the inside is finished, the next thing is to
put on her lovely complexion.
First must be removed any roughness, such as
bits of glue at the seams of her head.
Women now go to work on Miss Rosabel's head,
as you see in the picture on the opposite page.
One of them is filing the roughness off, and the
other is giving it a coat of ruddy flesh-colored
paint, from the top of the head to the ends of the
shoulders. Dolls who have hair made of the same
material as their heads, like bisque and china dolls,
have the hair varnished black, but Rosabel has real
hair, so she is colored alike all over. A frightful-
looking object she is, too, with color enough for a
boiled lobster.
When she has received her color, and got dry,
which she does under the hands of these rather
sour-looking women, she proceeds to the next
operator, who is the waxer. You see him below.
In the kettle is boiling clear white beeswax, and


one giving her a thin coat of wax, and toning down
her flaming complexion into the delicate pink
which you see. The reason she was painted so
red, you know, is that she may have the proper
tint when the wax is on.
I should have told you before that her hands and
feet were made in the same way as her head,
molded, and painted, and waxed.
In this picture you see the bodies of cloth or
leather. They are made by families outside of the
factory, and brought in all ready for the heads.
Can your dolly cry? Rosabel can, and therefore
her body is stuffed with hay, because sawdust, the
usual stuffing, would get into her crying machine,
and make her dumb forever after. To give her a
voice, you must know, she has a sort of a bellows-
like arrangement, such as you have seen attached
to a toy cat, which when pressed would mew.
These parts are all made and put together out-
side of the factory and the finished bodies brought
in. And now comes the next process, which is
coloring her face. You thought she had color
enough. Well, she has her flesh tint, but her lips
are white and she has no eyebrows, nor lashes,
and no brighter cheeks than firebrands, which will
never do. She must go to the painting room.


1.


7 .U ,. &

|' -, .-'.l-'; ' l .,

i.' 2' .2., ".1


THE WAXER.


into it you see Miss Dolly has been dipped, and is
being held up to drain. If she had been intended
for a cheap doll, she would have received but one
dip, but being destined to belong to the aristocracy
of the doll world, she received several dips, each


On the next page you will see one of the workmen
in this room.
In this room is a long table with several work-
men, each of whom does only one thing. The
first one paints Miss Dolly's lips, and sets her down






HOW DOLLS


i"P,
1 '




I ->- 1, ,









her cheeks. The fourth pencils her eyelashes, and









every step.
-
--, I'


... .. r. .! ,. f ,- "'









on the other sig, made of him. The next one takes her

foundationher cheeks. The fourth, andpencils her eyelashes, andon, but







locks made of fine wool, which look
so she goes on down the table, growing prettier at-

wavy. IBut she has curlyet no hair. Now Rosabel has a


and gluedof to the dolls in the factorl by curlhave,


up tight, and boiled to make it stay


whether long or short. If it is yel-
low, it is the natural color of the
wool; if any other color, it has been
dyed.
Here is a picture of girls arranging
the hair, and you see they seem
to enjoy the work. Sometimes the h'v
i hair is elaborately braided, and done
up in style. I dare say you have s'
seen it put around in a droll German
coil, and held by tiny hair-pins.
Generally, however, it is preferred in
curls or loose waves.
Now the head is done; and how
many people do you suppose have
had a hand in bringing it from the i
paper pulp to the present state ? You '
can't tell ? Not less than thirty-eight,.
each one of whom never does but one
thing, and thus becomes very skillful.


But though the head is finished, Miss Rosabel is
not yet out of the factory. She must have her
head, as well as her hands and feet, glued fast to
her body; and then-last but by no means least-
she must have a wardrobe. Cheap dolls have
merely one garment, loosely stitched together by a
machine at the rate of about two cents a dozen.
But our dolly was sent to a regular dolls' dress-
maker, and clothed from head to foot in a very
pretty suit. Of course it is not in style now, for it
was made several months ago, you must know.
The last picture shows the dolls going to the
warerooms. You see how neatly they are packed
in the basket cradle, and carried between two girls.
In the warehouse Miss Rosabel was surrounded by
hundreds and thousands of fellow dolls, many of
them made in the same mold with herself, and as
like her as twin sisters could be.
I have read of one of those warehouses, where
twelve rooms were filled with dolls, of all sizes from
one inch long to two feet high. One room was
entirely filled with wooden-jointed dolls, an inch
and a-half long, piled in a loose heap from floor to
ceiling, and another room contained nothing but
dolls' heads. There were millions of dolls in that
one house.
You wish you could go there ? It would be in-
teresting to you. It looks very droll to see a cart
going through the streets filled with dolls' legs,


0 1 -




=.. -; -;


DRESSING DOLLS' HAIR.


232


ARE MADE.


[FEBRUARY,







HOW DOLLS ARE MADE.


for instance, each one with clean white stocking
and bright slipper painted on.
One wholesale house in that town buys thirty
thousand of the inch and a-half babies every week
the year round. For my part, I should think a few
years of such work would nearly pave our streets
with wooden dolls. A smart worker can make
twenty dozen of this size in a day.
Would n't it be funny to live where almost the
only business carried on is toy-making? Where
grown up men and women spend their whole lives
in inventing, improving, and making dolls that


there I found her last winter, on the day before
Christmas, and brought her home to a little girl
that I know.
I 'm obliged to confess, before I finish, that
Rosabel and others made in that factory are not
the very nicest dolls made. There is the genuine
wax doll, whose head is of wax all through, and
whose curls, and eyebrows, and eyelashes are of real
hairs, put into the head one by one. Such a doll,
with her wardrobe, costs several hundred dollars,
and is too nice to play with, though very pretty to
look at. No doubt, you little city maids have seen


GOING TO THE WARE-ROOMS.


talk, and turn their heads, and shut their eyes, and
creep, and walk, besides engines that run, and
horses that draw a load, and steamboats that go-
a million of dollars' worth in a year, and all to
amuse the great army of little folks in the world ?
The children who live in that fairy land, how-
ever, care very little for toys; the poor little crea-
tures are all workers. When very young they
begin to learn to make some one toy, or part of a
toy, and they spend their whole lives at it. The
pay is small, anid every one of the family must
help..
But to go back to Rosabel. From that ware-
house she was packed in a box and sent on a sea
voyage. Arrived in America, she was once more
brought to light, set up in a shop window, and


them, with their beautiful trunks full of clothes,
dresses of all sorts, shoes, gloves, parasols, jewelry,
pocket handkerchiefs, brushes and combs, and
nearly everything a grown lady needs in her trunk.
Do you wish you had one ? Well, my dear, let
me tell you a secret; you would n't enjoy it half so
much as you do dolls you can play with, and dress
and attend to yourself. They are puppets,-not
babies.
The other dolls in your play-house, the bisque
and china, are made in the same way as Rosabel,
only the dough is of clay instead of paper pulp,
and the heads are baked to make them hard.
-So your pretty bisque dolls are made of mud,
and your wax ones came from the rag-bag. Is n't
it wonderful what changes go on in the world ?


VOL. II.-6.






THE YOUNG SURVEYOR.


THE YOUNG SURVEYOR.

BY J. T. TROWBRIDGE.


CHAPTER V.
THE BOY WITH ONE SUSPENDER.
JACK'S first thought, after assuring himself that
his horse was irrevocably gone, was to run for help
to the line of settlements on the other side of the
grove, where some means of pursuit might be ob-
tained.
He knew that the road which Mr. Wiggett had
described could not be much beyond the hollow
where his wagon was; and, dashing forward, he
soon found it. Then, stopping to give a last
despairing look at the billowy line of prairie over
which his horse had disappeared, he started to run
through the woods.
He had not gone far when he heard a cow-bell
rattle, and the voice of a boy shouting. He paused
to take breath and listen; and presently with a
crashing of bushes three or four horned cattle came
pushing their way through the undergrowth, into
the open road, followed by a lad without a jacket,
with one suspender and a long switch.
"Boy," Jack cried, "how far is it to the nearest
house ?"
"Our house is jest down through the woods
here," replied the boy, stopping to stare.
"How far is that?"
"Not quite so far as it is to Peakslow's house."
"Where is Peakslow's house ?"
"Next house to ours, down the river."
Seeing that this line of questions was not likely
to lead to anything very satisfactory, Jack asked:
Can I get a horse of anybody in your neigh-
borhood,-a good fast horse to ride ?"
The boy whipped a bush with his switch, and
replied :
"There aint any good horses around here, 'thout
't is Peakslow's; but one of his has got the spring-
halt, and t' othet 's got the blind staggers; and
he's too mean to lend his horses; and, besides, he
went to Chicago with 'em both this morning."
Jack did not stop to question the probability of a
span thus afflicted being driven on so long a
journey; but asked if Mr. Wiggett had horses.
"No-yes. I believe his horses are all oxen,"
replied the boy; not very fast or good to ride,
either."
Thereupon Jack, losing all patience, cried out:
"Isn't there a decent hag to be had in this
region ? "


"Who said there wasn't?" retorted the boy.
"Where is there one ?"
We've got one."
"A horse?"
"No; a mare."
Why did n't you tell me before ?"
"'Cause you asked for horses; you didn't say
anything about mares."
Is she good to ride ?"
"Pretty good,-though if you make her go
much faster 'n she takes a notion to, she's got the
heaves so folks '11 think there's a small volcano
coming!"
How fast will she go ?"
"As fast as a good slow walk; that's her style,"
said the boy, and whipped the bushes. "But,
come to think, father's away from home, and
you '11 have to wait till to-morrow night before you
can see him, and get him to let you take her."
Boy," said Jack, tired of the lad's tone of levity,
and thinking to interest him by a statement of the
facts in the case, ",I've been hunting, and a rascal I
trusted with my horse has run off with him, and I
have a harness and a buggy and a couple of dead
deer out there on the prairie."
"Deer? echoed the lad, pricking up his ears at
once. Did you shoot 'em? Where? Can I go
and see 'em ?"
Jack was beginning to see the hopelessness of
pursuing the horse-thief that night, or with any
help to be had in that region; and he now turned
his thoughts to getting the buggy home.
Yes, boy; come with me," he said.
The boy shouted and switched his stick at the
cattle browsing by the wayside, and started them
on a smart trot down the road, then hastened with
Jack to the spot where the wagon and game had
been left, guarded by Lion.
But Jack had another object in view than simply
to gratify the lad's curiosity.
If you will hold up the shafts and pull a little,
I'll push behind, and we can take the buggy
through the woods. After we get it up out of this
hollow, and well into the road, it will be down-hill
the rest of the way."
You want to make a horse of me, do ye ? cried
the boy. "I wasn't born in a stable !"
Neither was I," said Jack. But I don't ob-
ject to doing a horse's work. I'll pull in the
shafts."


234


[FEBRUARY,







THE YOUNG SURVEYOR.


0 good !" screamed the boy, making his switch
whistle about his head. "And I 'll get on the seat
and drive !" And he made a spring at the wagon.
But Lion had something to say about that.
Having been placed on guard, and not yet relieved,
he would permit no hand but his master's to touch
anything in his charge. A frightful growl made
the boy recoil and go backward over the dead deer.
"Here, Lion! down with you !" cried Jack, as
the excited dog was pouncing on the supposed in-
truder.
The boy scrambled to his feet, and was starting
to run away, in great terror, when
Jack, fearing to lose him, called out:
"Don't run! He may chase you
if you do. Now he knows .you are
my friend, you are safe, only stay .,
where you are."
"Blast his picture' !" exclaimed the ,-- \
boy. He's a perfect cannibal! i !
What does anybody want to keep *
such a savage critter as that for ?"
"I had told him to watch. Now .
he is all right. Come "
"Me? Travel with that dog? I
would n't go with him," the boy de-
clared, meaning to make the strongest 'I z
possible statement, "if 't was a mil-
lion miles, and you'd fill the road with
sugar-candy all the way !" And he --
backed off warily.
Jack got over the difficulty by send-
ing the dog on before; and finally,
by an offer of money, which would
purchase a reasonable amount of .
Augar-candy,-enough to pave the
short road to happiness, for a boy of
thirteen,-induced him to help lift
the deer into the buggy, and then to
go behind and push.
They had hard work at first, get-
ting the wagon up out of the hollow; and the boy,
when they reached at last the top of the hill, and
stopped to rest, declared that there was n't half the
fun in it there was in going a-fishing; the justice
of which remark Jack did not question. But after
that the way was comparatively easy; and with
Jack pulling in the shafts, his new acquaintance
pushing in the rear, and Lion trotting on before,
the buggy went rattling down the-woodland road
in lively fashion.

CHAPTER VI.
"LORD BETTERSON'S."
ON a sort of headland jutting out from the high
timber region into the low prairie of the river bot-


tom, stood a house, known far and near as Lord
Betterson's," or, as it was sometimes derisively
called, Lord Betterson's Castle," the house being
about as much a castle as the owner was a lord.
The main road of the settlement ran between it
and the woods ; while on the side of the river, the
land swept down in a lovely slope to the valley,
which flowed away in a wider and more magnificent
stream of living green. It was really a fine site,
shaded by five or six young oaks left standing in
the spacious door-yard.
The trouble was, that the house had been pro-


UP-HILL WORK.

jected on somewhat too grand a scale for the time
and country, and, what was worse, for the owner's
resources. He had never been able to finish it;
and now its weather-browned clapboards, unpainted
front pillars, and general shabby, ill-kept appear-
ance set off the style of architecture in a way to make
beholders smile.
"Lord Betterson took a bigger mouthful than
he could swaller, when he sot out to build his
castle here," said his neighbor, Peakslow.
The proprietor's nanme-it may as well be ex-
plained-was Elisha Lord Betterson. It was thus
he always wrote it, in a large round hand, with a
bold flourish. Now the common people never will
submit to call a man Elisha. The furthest they
can possibly go will be 'Liska, or 'Lisy ; and, ten


X875.]


235







THE .YOUNG SURVEYOR.


to one, the tendency to monosyllables will result in
'Lishe. There had been a feeble attempt among
the vulgar to familiarize the public mind with 'Lishe
Betterson ; but the name would not stick to a
person of so much dignity of character. It was
useless to argue that his dignity was mere pompos-
ity; or that a man who, in building a fine house,
broke down before he got the priming on, was un-
worthy of respect; still no one could look at him,
or call up his image, and say, conscientiously,
"'Lishe Betterson." He who, in this unsettled
state of things, taking a hint from the middle name,
pronounced boldly aloud, "LORD BETTERSON,"
was a public benefactor. "Lord Betterson" and
" Lord Betterson's Castle had been popular ever
since.
The house, with its door-posts of unpainted pine,
darldy soiled by the contact of unwashed childish
hands, and its unfinished rooms, some of them
lathed, but unplastered (showing just the point at
which the owner's resources failed), looked even
more shabby within than without.
This may have been partly because the house-
keeper was sick. She must have been sick, -if that
was she, the pale, drooping figure, sitting wrapped
in an old red shawl, that summer afternoon. She
looked not only sick, but exceedingly discouraged.
And no wonder.
At her right hand was an empty cradle; and she
held a puny infant- in her arms, trying to still its
cries. At her left was a lounge, on which lay the
helpless form of an invalid child, a girl about eleven
years old. The room was comfortless. An old,
high-colored piece, of carpeting half covered the
rough floor; its originally gaudy pattern, out of
which all but the red had faded, bearing witness to
some past stage of family gentility, and serving to
set off the surrounding wretchedness.
Tipped back in a chair against the rough and
broken laths, his knees as high as his chin, was a
big, slovenly boy of about seventeen, looking lazily
out from under an old, ragged hat-rim, pushed over
his eyes. Another big, slovenly boy, a year or two
younger, sat on the door-step, whittling quite as
much for his own amusement as for that of a little
five-year-old ragamuffin outside.
Not much comfort for the poor woman and the
sick girl shone from these two indifferent faces.
Indeed the only .ray of good cheer visible in that
disorderly room gleamed from the bright eyes of
a little girl not more than nine or ten years old,-
so small, in truth, that she had to stand on a stool
by the table, where she was washing a pan of
dishes.
0 boys !" said the woman in a feeble, complain-
ing tone, "do, one of you, go to the spring and
bring some fresh water for your poor, sick sister."


"It's Rufe's turn to go for water," said the boy
on the door-step.
"'Taint my turn, either," muttered the boy
tipped back against the laths. Besides, I 've got
to milk the cow soon as Link brings the cattle
home. Hear the bell yet, Wad?"
"Never mind, Cecie!" cried the little dish-
washer, cheerily. I'll bring you some water as
soon as I have done these dishes."
And, holding her wet hands behind her, she
ran to give the young invalid a kiss in the mean-
while.
Cecie returned a warm smile of love and thanks,
and said she was in no hurry. Then the child,
stopping only to give a bright look and a pleasant
word to the baby, ran back to her dishes.
I should think you would be ashamed, you two
great boys!" said the woman, "to sit round the
house and let that child, Lilian, wait upon you, get
your suppers, wash your dishes, and then go to the
spring for water for your poor suffering sister !"
"I'm going to petition the Legislature," said
Wad, "to have that spring moved up into our
back yard; it's too far to go for water. There
come the cattle, Rufe."
"Tell Chokie to go and head 'em into the barn-
yard," yawned Rufe, from his chair. "I wonder
nobody ever invented a milking machine. Wish I
had-one. Just turn a crank, you know."
You'll be wanting a machine to breathe with,
next," said the little dish-washer.
"Y-a-as," drawled Rufe. I think a breathing
machine would be popular in this family. Chil-
dren cry for it. Get me the milk-pail, Lill; that's
a nice girl!"
"Do get it yourself, Rufus," said the mother.
"You'll want your little sister to milk for you,
soon."
I think it belongs to girls to milk,," said Rufe.
"There's Sal Wiggett,-aint she smart at it,
though ? She can milk your head off! Is that a
wagon coming, Wad?"
"Yes!" cried Wad, jumping to his feet with
unusual alacrity. "A wagon without a horse, a
fellow pulling in the shafts, and Link pushing be-
hind ; coming right into the front yard !"
Rufe also started up at this announcement, and
went to the door.
Hallo !" he said, "had a break-down ? What's
that in the hind part of your wagon ? Deer! a deer
and a fawn Where did you shoot 'em ? Where's
your horse ?"
Look out, Rufe!" screamed the small boy
from behind, rushing forward. Touch one of
these deer, and the dog '11 have ye! We 've got
two deer, but we've lost our horse,-scamp rode
him away,-and we want -- "


236


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"We do, do we?" interrupted Wad, mockingly.
" How many deer did you shoot, Link?"
"Well, I helped get the buggy over, anyway!
And that's the savagest dog ever was And-say !
will mother let us take the old mare to drive over
to North Mills this evening?"

CHAPTER VII.
JACK AT THE "CASTLE."
FOR an answer to this question, the person most
interested in it, who had as yet said least, was
shown into the house. Rufe and Wad and Link
and little Chokie came crowding in after him, all
eager to hear him talk of the adventure.
And, 0 ma!" cried Link, after Jack had briefly
told his story, "he says he will give us the fawn,
and pay me besides, if I will go with him to-night,
and bring back the old mare in the morning."
I don't know," said the woman, wrapping her
red shawl more closely about her, to conceal from
the stranger her untidy attire. I suppose, if Mr.
Betterson was at home he would let you take the
mare. But you know, Lincoln,"-turning with a
reproachful look to the small boy,-" you have
never been brought up to take money for little
services. Such things are not becoming in a family
like ours."
And in the midst of her distress, she put on a
complacent smirk, straightened her emaciated form
and sat there, looking like the very ghost of pride,
wrapped in an old red shawl.
"Did you speak of Mr. Betterson ?" Jack in-
quired, interested.
That is my husband's name."
Elisha L. Betterson ?"
"Certainly. You know my husband ? He be-
longs to the Philadelphia Bettersons a very
wealthy and influential family," said the woman,
with a simper. "Very wealthy and influential."
"I have heard of your husband," said Jack.
If I am not mistaken, you are Mrs. Caroline
Betterson-a sister of Vinnie Dalton, sometimes
called Vinnie Presbit."
You know my sister Lavinia !" exclaimed Mrs.
Betterson, surprised, but not overjoyed. "And
you know Mr. Presbit's people ?"
"I have never seen them," replied Jack, "but
I almost feel as if I had, I have heard so much
about them. I was with Vinnie's foster-brother,
George Greenwood, in New York, last summer,
when he was sick, and she went down to take care
of him."
And I presume," returned Mrs. Betterson,
taking another reef in her shawl, that you heard
her tell a good deal about us; things that would
no doubt tend to prejudice a stranger; though


if all the truth was known, she would n't feel
so hard toward us as I have reason to think she
does."
Jack hastened to say that he had never heard
Vinnie speak unkindly of her sister.
You are very polite to say so," said Mrs. Better-
son, rocking the cradle, in which the baby had
been placed. "But I know just what she has said.
She has told you that after I married Mr. Betterson
I felt above my family; and that when her mother
died (she was not my mother, you know,-we arc
only half-sisters), I suffered her to be taken and
brought up by the Presbits, when I ought to have
taken her and been as a mother to her,-she was
so much younger than I. She is even younger by
a month or two than my oldest son; and we have
joked a good deal about his having an aunt younger
than he is."
Yes," spoke up Rufe, standing in the door;
"and I've asked a hundred times why we don't
ever hear from her, or write to her, or have her
visit us. Other folks have their aunts come and
see 'em. But all the answer I could ever get was,
Family reasons, Rufus!' "
That is it, in a word," said Mrs. Betterson;
"family reasons. I never could explain them; so
I have never written to poor, dear Lavinia-though,
Heaven knows, I should be glad enough to see her;
and I hope she has forgiven what seemed my hard-
ness; and-do tell me (Mrs..Betterson wiped her
eyes) "what sort of a girl is she? how has she
come up ?"
She is one of the kindest-hearted, most un-
selfish, beautiful girls in the world !" Jack exclaimed.
" I mean, beautiful in her spirit," he added, blush-
ing at his own enthusiasm.
"The Presbits are rather coarse people to bring
up such a girl," said Mrs. Betterson, with a sigh-
of self-reproach, Jack thought.
"But she has a natural refinement, which noth-
ing could make her lose," he replied. Then, it
was a good thing for her to be brought up with
George Greenwood. She owes a great deal to the
love of books he inspired in her. You ought to
know your sister, Mrs. Betterson."
The lady gave way to a flood of tears.
It is too bad! such separations are unnatural.
Certainly," she went on, "I can't be accused of
feeling above my family now. Mr. Betterson has
had three legacies left him, two since our marriage;
but he has been exceedingly unfortunate."
Two such able-bodied boys must be a help and
comfort to you," said Jack.
"Rufus and Wadleigh," said Mrs. Betterson,
are good boys, but they have been brought up to
dreams of wealth, and they have not learned to take
hold of life with rough hands."


2 37






THE YOUNG SURVEYOR.


Jack suggested that it might have been better
for them not to have such dreams.
"Yes-if our family is to be brought down to
the common level. But I can't forget, I can't wish
them ever to forget, that they have Betterson blood
in their veins."
Jack could hardly repress a smile as he glanced
from those stout heirs of the Betterson blood to the
evidences of shiftlessness and wretchedness around
them, which two such sturdy lads, with a little less
of the precious article in their veins, might have
done something to remedy.
But his own unlucky adventure absorbed his
thoughts, and he was glad when Link vociferously
demanded if he was to go and catch the mare.
"Yes! yes! do anything but kill me with that
dreadful voice!" replied the mother, waving him
.off with her trembling hand. "Don't infer from
what I have said," she resumed, gathering herself
up again with feeble pride, that we are poor.
Mr. Betterson will come into a large fortune when
an uncle of his dies; and he gets help from him
occasionally now. Not enough, however, to enable
him to carry on the farm; and it requires capital,
you are aware, to make agriculture a respectable
profession."
Jack could not forbear another hit at the big boys.
It requires land," he said; and that you have.
It also requires bone and muscle; and I see some
here."
True," simpered Mrs. Betterson. But their
father has n't encouraged them very much in doing
the needful labors of the farm."
He has n't set us the example," broke in Rufe,
piqued by Jack's remark. "If he had taken hold
of work, I suppose we should. But while he sits
down and waits for somebody or something to
come along and help him, what can you expect of
us?"
Our Betterson blood shows itself in more ways
than one !" said Wad, with a grin, illustrating his
remark by lazily seating himself once more on the
door-step.
Evidently the boys were sick of hearing their
mother boast of the aristocratic family connection.
She made haste to change the subject.
Sickness has been our great scourge. The
climate has never agreed with either me or my
husband. Then our poor Cecilia met with an ac-
cident a year ago, which injured her so that she has
scarcely taken a step since."
An accident done a-purpose !" spoke up Rufe,
angrily. "Zeph Peakslow threw her out of a
swing-the meanest trick They 're the meanest
family in the world, and there's a war between us.
I'm only waiting my chance to pay off that Zeph."
Rufus!" pleaded the little invalid from the


lounge, you know he could never have meant to
hurt me so much. Don't talk of paying him off,
Rufus!"
Cecie is so patient under it all!" said Mrs. Bet-
terson. "She never utters a word of complaint. Yet
she does n't have the care she ought to have. With
my sick baby, and my own aches and pains, what
can I do ? There are no decent house-servants to
be had, for love or money. 0, what wouldn't I
give for a good, neat, intelligent, sympathizing girl!
Our little Lilian, here,-poor child !-is all the help
I have."
At that moment the bright little dish-washer,
having put away the supper things, and gone to
the spring for water, came lugging in a small but
brimming pail.
"It is too bad!" replied Jack. "You should
have help about the hard work," with another
meaning glance at the boys.
"Yes," said Rufe, "we ought to; and we did
have Sal Wiggett a little while this summer. But
she had never seen the inside of a decent house
before. About all she was good for was to split
wood and milk the cow."
"0, how good this is !" said the invalid, drink-
ing. "I was so thirsty! Bless you, dear Lill!
What should we do without you ?"
Jack rose to his feet, hardly repressing his in-
dignation.
"Would you like a drink, sir ?" said Lill, taking
a fresh cupful from her pail, and looking up at him
with a bright smile.
Thank you, I should very much But I can't
bear the thought of your lugging water from the
spring for me."
"Why, Lillie !" said Cecie, softly, "you should
have offered it to him first."
I thought I did right to offer it to my sick sister
first," replied Lill, with a tender glance at the
lounge.
You did right, my good little girl!" exclaimed
Jack, giving back the cup. He looked from one
to the other of the big boys, and wondered how
they could witness this scene and not be touched
by it. But he only said:
"Have these young men too much Betterson
blood in them to dress the fawn, if I leave it with
you ?"
"We 'll fall back on our Dalton blood, long
enough for that," said Wad, taking the sarcasm in
good part.
A little young venison will do Cecie so much
good !" said Mrs. Betterson. ".You are very kind.
But don't infer that we consider the Dalton blood
inferior. I was pleased with what you said of La-
vinia's native refinement. I feel as if, after'all, she
was a sister to be proud of."


238


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At this last display of pitiful vanity, Jack turned
away.
The idea of such a woman concluding that she
may be proud of a sister like Vinnie !" thought he.
But he spoke only to say good-by; for just then
Link came riding the mare to the door.
She was quickly harnessed to the buggy, while
Link, at his mother's entreaty, put on a coat, and
made himself look as decent as possible. Then
Jack drove away, promising that Link, who accom-
panied him, should bring the mare back in the
morning.
Mother," said the thoughtful Lill, "we ought
to have got him some supper.".
"I thought of it," said the sick woman, "but
you know we have nothing fit to set before him."
He won't famish," said Rufe,-" with the large
supply of sauce which he keeps on hand Mother,
I wish you would n't ever speak of our Betterson
blood again; it only makes us ridiculous."
Thereupon Mrs. Betterson burst into tears, com-
plaining that her own children turned against her.
0, bah !" exclaimed Rufe, with disgust, stalk-
ing out of the room, banging a milk-pail, and
waking the baby. "Be sharpening the knives,
Wad, while I milk; then we '11 dress that fawn in,a
hurry. Wish the fellow had left us the doe instead."

CHAPTER VIII.
HOW VINNIE MADE A JOURNEY.
LEAVING Jack to drive home the borrowed mare
in the harness of the stolen horse, and to take such
measures as he could for the pursuit of the thief
and the recovery of his property, we have now
to say a few words of Mrs. Betterson's younger
sister.
Vinnie had perhaps thriven quite as well in the
plain Presbit household as she would have done in
the home of the ambitious Caroline. The tasks
early put upon her, instead of hardening and em-
bittering her, had made her self-reliant, helpful and
strong, with a grace like that acquired by girls who
carry burdens on their heads. For it is thus that
labors cheerfully performed, and trials borne with
good-will and lightness of heart, give a power and
a charm to body and mind.
It was now more than a year since George Green-
wood, who had been brought up with her in his
uncle's family, had left the farm, and gone to seek
his fortune in the city. A great change in the
house, and a very unhappy change for Vinnie, had
been the result. It was not that she missed her
foster-brother so much; but his going out had oc-
casioned the coming in of another nephew, who
brought a young wife with him. The nephew filled
George's place on the farm, and the young wife


showed a strong determination to take Vinnie's
place in the household.
As long as she was conscious of being useful, in
however humble a sphere, Vinnie was contented.
She did her daily outward duty, and fed her heart
with secret aspirations, and kept a brave, bright
spirit through all. But now nothing was left to her
but to contend for her rights with the new-comer,
or to act the submissive part of drudge where she
had almost ruled before. Strife was hateful to her;
and why should she remain where her services were
now scarcely needed?
So Vinnie lapsed into an unsettled state of mind,
common enough to a certain class of girls of her
age, as well as to a larger class of boys, when the
great questions of practical life confront them:
" What am I to be ? What shall I do for a living?"
How ardently she wished she had money, so that
she could spend two or three entire years at school!
How eagerly she would have used those advantages
for obtaining an education which so many, who
have them, carelessly throw away! But Vinnie
had nothing-could expect nothing-which she did
not earn.
At one time she resolved to go to work in a fac-
tory; at another, to try teaching a district school;
and again, to learn some trade, like that of dress-
maker or milliner. Often she wished for the free-
dom to go out into the world and gain her livelihood
like a boy.
In this mood of mind she received two letters.
One was from Jack, describing his accidental visit
to her sister's family. The other was from Caroline
herself, who made that visit the occasion of writing
a plaintive letter to her dear, neglected Lavinia."
Many tears she shed over these letters. The
touching picture Jack drew of the invalid Cecie, and
the.brave little Lilian, and of the sick mother and
baby, with Caroline's sad confession of distress, and
of her need of sympathy and help, wakened springs
of love and pity in the young girl's heart. She
forgot that she had anything to forgive. All her
half-formed schemes for self-help and self-culture
were at once discarded, and she formed a coura-
geous resolution.
"I will go to Illinois," she said, "and take care
of my poor sister and her sick children."
Such a journey, from Western New York, was
no small undertaking in those days. But she did
not shrink from it.
"What!" said Mrs. Presbit, when Vinnie's de-
termination was announced to her, you will go and
work for a sister who has treated you so shamefully
all these years ? Only a half-sister, at that! I 'm
astonished at you I thought you had more sperit."
For anything she may have done wrong, I am
sure she is sorry enough now," Vinnie replied.


1875.]


239






THE YOUNG SURVEYOR.


Yes, now she has need of you !" sneered Mrs.
Presbit.
"Besides," Vinnie continued, "I ought to go,
for the children's sake, if not for hers. Think of
Cecie and the poor baby; and Lilian, not ten years
old, trying to do the housework I can do so
much for them !"
"No doubt of that; for I must say you are as
handy and willing a girl as ever I see. But there 's
the Betterson side to the family,-two great, lubberly
boys, according to your friend's account; a proud,
domineering set, I warrant ye! The idee of mak-
ing a slave of yourself for them! You '11 find it a
mighty uncomf 'table place, mark my word!"
I hope no more so than the place I am in now,
-excuse me for saying it, Aunt Presbit," added
Vinnie, in a trembling voice. "It isn't your
fault. But you know how things are."
0, la, yes S she wants to go ahead, and order
everything; and I think it's as well to let her,-
though she'll find she can't run over me But I
don't blame you the least mite, Vinnie, for feeling
sensitive; and if you've made up your mind to go,
I sha' n't tender ye,-I 'll help ye all I can."
So it happened that, only f6ur days after the re-
ceipt of her sister's letter, Vinnie, with all her
worldly possessions contained in one not very large
trunk, bade her friends good-by, and, not without
misgivings, set out alone on her long journey.
She took a packet-boat on the canal for Buffalo.
At Buffalo, with the assistance of friends she had
made on board the boat, she found the captain of
a schooner, who agreed to give her a passage
around the lakes to Chicago, for four dollars.
There were no Cailroads through Northern Ohio
and across Michigan and Indiana, in those days;
and, although there were steamboats on the lakes,
Vinnie found that a passage on one of them would
cost more money than she could afford. So she
was glad to go in the schooner.
The weather was fine, the winds favored, and
the Heron" made a quick trip. Vinnie, after
two or three days of sea-sickness, enjoyed the voy-
age, which was made all the more pleasant to her
by the friendship of the captain and his wife.
She was interested in all she saw,-in watching
the waves, the sailors hauling the ropes, the swell-
ing of the great sails; in the vessels they met or
passed, the ports at which they touched, the fort,
the Indians, and the wonderfully clear depth of the
water at Mackinaw. But the voyage grew tiresome
toward the close, and her heart bounded with joy
when the captain came into the cabin early one
morning, and announced that they had reached
Chicago.
The great Western metropolis was then a town
of no more than eight or ten thousand inhabitants,


hastily and shabbily built on the low level of the
plain stretching for miles back from the lake shore
In a short walk with the captain's wife, Vinnie saw
about all of the place she cared to; noting particu-
larly a load'of hay "slewed," or mired, in the
mud-holes of one of the principal streets; the sight
of which made her wonder if a great and flourish-
ing city could ever be built there!
Meanwhile the captain, by inquiry in the resorts
of market-men, found a farmer who was going to
drive out to the Long Woods settlement that after-
noon, and who engaged to come with his wagon to
the wharf where the "Heron" lay, and take off
Vinnie and her trunk.
"0, how fortunate!" she exclaimed. How
good everybody is to me! Only think, I shall
reach my sister's house to-night !"

CHAPTER IX.
VINNIE'S ADVENTURE.
IN due time a rough farm-wagon was backed
down upon the wharf, and a swarthy man, with a
high, hooked nose, like the inverted prow of a ship,
boarded the schooner, and scratched his head,
through its shock of stiff, coarse hair, by way of
salutation to Vinnie, who came on deck to meet
him.
Do' no's you '11 like ridin' with me, in a lumber-
wagon, on a stiff board seat."
0, I sha' n't mind," said Vinnie, who was only
too glad to go.
What part of the settlement are you goin' to ?"
he asked, as he lifted one end of the trunk, while
the captain took up the other.
To Mr. Betterson's house; Mrs. Betterson is
my sister," said Vinnie.
The man dropped his end of the trunk, and
turned and glared at her.
You've got holt o' the wrong man thi, time I "
he said. I don't take nobody in r wagon to
the house of no sich a man as Lord Betterson. Ye
may tell him as much."
Will you take me to any house near by ?" said
the astonished Vinnie.
"Not if you're a connection of the Bettersons'
I won't for no money! I've nothing' to do with
that family, but to hate and despise 'em. Tell 'em
that too. But they know it already. My name 's
Dudley Peakslow."
And, in spite of the captain's remonstrance, the
angry man turned his back upon the schooner, and
drove off in his wagon.
It took Vinnie a minute to recover from the shock
his rude conduct gave her. Then she smiled faintly
and said:
"It's too bad I could n't have a ride in his old


240


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wagon But he wouldn't be very agreeable com-
pany, would he?"
So she tried to console herself for the disappoint-
ment. She had thought all along: "If I can do
no better, I will take the stage to North Mills;
Jack will help me get over to my sister's from
there." And it now seemed as if she might have
to take that route.
The schooner was discharging her miscellaneous
freight of Eastern merchandise,-dry goods, gro-
ceries, hardware, boots and shoes,-and the captain


TOO OBLIGING BY HALF.
was toc. much occupied to do anything more for
her that a mi-noon.
She grew restless under the delay; feeling that
she ought to make one more effort to find a con-
veyance direct to Long Woods, she set off alone to
make inquiries for herself.
The first place she visited was a hotel she had
noticed in her morning's walk,-the Farmers'
Home;" and she was just going away from the
door, having met with no success, when a sli-m
youth, carrying his head jauntily on one side, came
tripping after her, and accosted her with an apolo-
getic smile and lifted hat.
"Excuse me,-I was told you wanted to find
somebody going out to Mr. Betterson's at Long
Woods."
0, yes do you know of anybody I can ride
with ?"


I am in a way of knowing,-why, yes,-I think
there is a gentleman going out early to-morrow
morning. A gentleman and his daughter. Wife
and daughter, in fact. A two-seated wagon; you
might ride on the hind-seat with the daughter.
Stopping at the 'Prairie Flower.'"
0, thank you! And can I go there and find
them?"
I am going that way, and, if you please, I will
introduce you;" said the youth.
Vinnie replied that, if he would give her their
names, she would save him the trouble.
For, despite his affability, there was
something about him she distrusted
and disliked,-an indefinable air of
insincerity, and a look out of his eyes
of gay vagabondism and dissipation.
He declared that it would be no
S,, trouble; moreover, he could not at
that moment recall the names; so, as
4,i'ii there was no help for it, she let him
S. walk by her side.
"'.' At the "Prairie Flower,"-which
was not quite so lovely or Tragrant a
- f public-house as the name had led her
to expect, -he showed her into a small,
dingy sitting-room, up one flight of
S.' stairs, and went to speak with the
clerk.
"The ladies will be here presently,"
Si he said, returning to her in a few
minutes. "Meanwhile I thought I
_-- would order some refreshments."
-- And he was followed into the room
by a waiter bringing a basket of cake
and two glasses of wine.
"No refreshments for me!" cried
S' Vinnie, quickly.
"The other ladies will like some,"
said the youth, carelessly. Intimate friends of
mine. Just a little cake and sweet wine."
But you have ordered only two glasses And
a few minutes ago you couldn't think of their
names,--those intimate friends of yours!" returned
Vinnie, with sparkling eyes.
The youth took up a glass, threw himself back
in a chair, and laughed.
"It's a very uncommon name-Jenkins; no,
Judkins; something like that. Neighbors of the
Bettersons; intimate friends of theirs, I mean.
You think I'm net acquainted out there? Ask
Carrie ask the boys, hi, hi "-with a giggle and
a grimace, as he sipped the wine.
"You do really know my sister Caroline?" said
Vinnie.
The youth set down his glass and stared.
Your sister I wondered who in thunder you






FASHIONS IN VALENTINES.


could be, inquiring your way to Betterson's; but
I never dreamed-excuse me, I would n't have
played such a joke, if I had known !"
"What joke?" Vinnie demanded.
"Why, there's no Jenkins-Judkins-what did
I call their names ? I just wanted to have a little
fun, and find you out."
Vinnie trembled with indignation. She started
to go.
But you haven't found me out," he said, with
an impudent chuckle.
I 've found out all I wish to know of you," said
Vinnie, ready to cry with vexation. "I've come
alone all the way from my home in Western New
York, and met nobody who was n't kind and re-
spectful to me, till I reached Chicago to-day."
The wretch seemed slightly touched by this re-
buke; but he laughed again as he finished his
glass.
Well, it was a low trick. But 'twas all in fun,
I tell ye. Come, drink your wine, and make up;
we 'll be friends yet. Wont drink? Here goes,
then!" ,
And he tossed off the contents of the second
glass.


"Now we '11 take a little walk, and talk over our
Betterson friends by the way."
She was already out of the room. He hastened
to her side; she walked faster still, and he came
tripping lightly after her down the stairs.
Betwixt anger and alarm, she was wondering
whether she should try to run away from him, or
ask the protection of the first person she met, when,
looking eagerly from the door-way as she hurried
out, she saw, across the street, a face she knew,
and uttered a cry of joy.
"Jack! 0, Jack!"
It seemed almost like a dream, that it should in-
deed be Jack, then and there. He paused, glanced
up and down, then across at the girlish figure start-
ing toward him, and rushed over to her, reaching
out both hands, and exclaiming:
Vinnie Dalton is it you ?"
In the surprise and pleasure of this unexpected
meeting, she forgot all about the slim youth she
was so eager to avoid a moment before. When
she thought of him again, and looked about her,
he had disappeared, having slipped behind her,
and skipped back up the stairs with amazing agility
at sight of Jack.


(To be confined.)







FASHIONS IN VALENTINES.

BY ALEXANDER WAINWRIGHT.


THERE was a time when valentines were simply
love-letters written on very fancy note-paper, with
some poetry and a bunch of forget-me-nots at the
head. Years ago my dear old grandmother made
me happy by sending one of these, which I have
still, and very pretty it is, although the ink is faded
to a yellow. The poetry is especially nice, but the
punctuation marks are left out, as they did n't care
about these troublesome little things in the good
old days. I think it said:

When the sunshine is around thee
In the dark and silent night
In the cottage and the palace
May thy way be always bright!"

Of course I couldn't imagine who sent it, -nobody
who gets a valentine ever can,-but I strongly sus-
pected Sally Lawton, and she had a bite out of all
my apples until I found out my mistake. Tommy
Jones was her valentine, and I gave him a punching


for it, too, as he was mean, and pretended all the
while that he did n't like her.
However, the old fashion has passed away, and
valentines are now very elaborate things, employing
thousands of skillful workmen in their manufacture.
They serve as the covers of all sorts of costly
presents, and some of them are real works of
art. Clever designers are constantly employed in
the invention of new combinations, pleasing effects
of grouping or color, and whimsical surprises. The
most careful labors of draughtsmen, lithographers,
wood-engravers, painters, color-printers, card-board,
artificial flower and feather makers are spent upon
them, to say nothing of the assistance given by
workers in silk, silver and glass. Even the tropical
forests of Brazil and the depths of the sea are ran-
sacked for fresh materials.
There is one firm in London which has three
hundred and sixty-eight different kinds of valen-
tines. The cheapest are two cents each, and the


[FEBRUARY,


242






FASHIONS IN VALENTINES.


finest cost nearly sixty dollars. All are pretty, and
some are magnificent. One is called "Love's
Photograph." A tiny mirror is hidden beneath a
bunch of flowers, and some dear girl finds that the
reflection of her own face is your love's photograph.
There are true lovers' knots painted on the softest
satin; birds of bright plumage under gauze; girls
in silver frames; paper flowers which bloom when
the valentine is opened and close when it is shut;
more paper flowers hidden behind screens of silver
and in little wicker baskets, with exotic flowers
painted by hand on the finest silk and framed in
silver lace.
No florist ever succeeded better than the mod-
ern valentine-maker does in putting together


More than this, marine flowers gathered from the
bottom of the Mediterranean Sea are used in val-
entines, and real birds are quite common. As Lucy
opens the box that comes for her with a whole
string of postage-stamps upon it, it is possible that
she will find the cunningest of humming-birds in a
little nest, holding a message in its beak. Not the
picture of one, mind you, but a real one, that has
been caught and stuffed for the valentine-maker.
The latest fashion in valentines is to combine
them with useful articles. A lace or pearl-handled
fan, costing sixty dollars, is secreted beneath
flowers and mottoes and Cupids. A fine silk
necktie, for a gentleman or boy, is wrapped in
white gauze, with the tender sentiment: Through


11 1, 1P.1 I I' ",
'I .1112 ~ 1'' iI I

? i


NUNS MAKING FEATHER FLOWERS.


the prettiest colors. Blush roses and forget-me-
nots; camelias, with rich dark green leaves; lilies
of the valley, water lilies, ferns and pansies are
combined with a wondrous degree of taste and skill.
Sometimes the valentine is the miniature of a
transformation scene in a theater. It is folded and
unfolded by an ingenious arrangement, which re-
veals a garden, with a flock of birds flying over it,
and a lake of mirror-glass, with a swan upon its
shining surface.
Sometimes, too, the flowers are neither painted
nor made of paper or muslin.
Far away in Brazil, there is a large convent, in
which the sedate nuns make gay artificial flowers
entirely out of the feathers of the gorgeous birds that
haunt the forests of South America. I cannot give
you an idea of how rich and lustrous they are.


cloud and sunshine I am thine." Articles of dress
or jewelry often are enclosed.. Sometimes a smok-
ing-cap or a pair of embroidered slippers. The
descriptive catalogue of Mr. Rimmel, the London
perfumer, includes valentines containing Japanese
ornamental hair-pins, cravats, pin-cushions, chate-
laine bottles, brooches, gold watch trinkets, lockets,
turquoise and garnet rings, silver ii:-r.-. brooches,
ear-rings and bracelets, head-dresses and double
smelling-bottles. Then, too, there are musical
valentines in the form of glove and handkerchief
or jewel-cases. One magnificent affair costs forty
dollars. It is made of pale blue silk, and trimmed
with gilt. At one side is a compartment for gloves,
and at the other a place for handkerchiefs, with
two beautiful smelling-bottles in the middle. As
the lid is raised, a musical-box, hidden underneath,


243






THE LITTLE TORN PRIMER.


plays a favorite air, such as, "Then you'll remem-
.ber me," or an air from an opera.
I am not sure that the new custom of making ex-
pensive presents is better than the old one of
writing a love-letter, and it certainly is not a proof
of greater affection in the senders.
A pleasant improvement might be made upon
both the old and new customs without sacrificing
the observance of the day. Let the boys and girls
make their own valentines, during the long winter
evenings. All the necessary materials may be
purchased for twenty-five or thirty cents at a sta-
tioner's store. Suitable designs are to be found in
many books, and some tinsel, crayons, water-colors,
and lace-paper would enable clever young fingers
to produce very pretty things. There might, for
instance, be a simple Grecian border around a
sheet of lace-paper, and, inclosed within this, a
lily, a rose, or some illuminated verses. Decal-


comanie would do very well, in case the valentine-
maker could not draw; or, better still, pressed
leaves might be called to the service. A red
autumn waif or two, carefully dried, pressed, and
mounted on tinted paper, and surrounded by a
wreath of ivy, would be pretty. Or one might
make something lovely out of very delicate grasses,
mosses, and lichens, arranging them at the head
of the paper, leaving space for a letter beneath.
This would call for a tasteful box-envelope. A
little care, taste and patience would work wonders
with the simplest materials.
Valentines of' this kind would be more highly
prized by a sincere friend, too, than the finest pro-
ductions of the professional valentine-maker. At
the same time, their preparation would afford you
many hours of amusement, and exercise in the use
of color and form that would be profitable to you
in countless ways.


THE LITTLE TORN PRIMER.

BY MARGARET EYTINGE.


MILLIE ran into the dining-room and threw her
books down on the dining-table.
I knew all my lessons to-day," she said, "and
I want my dinner; and oh did you have black-
berry pie ?"
But what I am going to tell is not about Millie
or blackberry pie, but about the books after Millie
and her mamma had gone out of the room and left
them to themselves.
"Millie is a very clever little girl," said the
Grammar, "and talks very well. I take great
credit to myself for teaching her to speak so cor-
rectly."
Yes," said the Arithmetic, "she is bright, and
can't be beat in Addition, Subtraction, Multiplica-
tion and Division. Really bright children always
understand my rules; I make them so clear and
plain."
She should be very much obliged to us," joined
in the Geography, "for without us she could not
be clever at all. For instance, see how much I
tell her. I describe all countries, including her
own; all bodies of water, all mountains, the differ-
ent kinds of people-thousands of things. In fact,
I think the information I impart" (most books use


big words) "the most interesting and valuable she
obtains."
Pshaw !" sneered the History. You're alone
in that opinion. Where does she learn all the par-
ticulars about different countries, including her
own, as you say ? Christopher Columbus, a native
of Genoa, Italy, discovered America in the year
1492. He set sail with three small -- '"
Oh, do stop that," interrupted the other
books; "we've heard that until we are sick of
it."
Sometimes I wish he had never set sail," added
the Geography.
Where does she learn about the great battles,
-the lives of the kings, queens, and emperors ?"
continued the History, waving its cover triumph-
antly; "about the illustrious Father of his Country,
George Washington, who never -- "
Don't believe it interrupted the books.
"And if he never did, History does," said the
Arithmetic-" many a one. It is onlyfigures that
never lie."
"From what does our Millie gain knowledge"-
here spoke the Natural History-" of beasts and
birds and fish ? All things that walk, or fly, or


244


[FEBRUARY,






BLUE AND PINK.


creep, or swim, or stop still and only breathe? all you can tell if she could not read it ? You would
The wonderful habits of the insects, the traits of be nothing without me !"
the massive elephant, and the capers of the mis- You !" cried the others, in a scornful voice.
chievous monkey ?" Yes, me," answered the little torn Primer. "I
"My friends "-here joined in a tiny voice for taught her her letters. Without knowing them,
the first time, causing the books to stand up on what good would any book be to her ?"
their edges and look over at the corner of the room How tiresome small books are," said the His-
where lay the little torn Primer, from which it pro- tory.
ceeded-" my friends, I know you all help to make "I guess I'll take a nap," yawned the Geogra-
Millie wise and learned; but of what use would be phy. And so the conversation ended.


THE MARMOSETS.
[SEE FRONTISPIECE.]


MARMOSETS are cunning little monkeys from
South America, and are often very tame and gentle.
These little creatures are about the size of squirrels,
but they have very old and wise faces. Some of
them look as if they knew as much as anybody.
But the two in our frontispiece, which is copied


from a beautiful picture by Sir Edwin Landseer, do
not seem to know what sort of an insect it is that
has alighted on the leaves of the pine-apple. So
they have jumped up to examine it. If they come
too close and get its little sting in one of their noses,
they may find out more than they want to know.


BLUE AND PINK.
(A Valentine Story.)

BY SUSAN COOLIDGE.


i I wo valentines lay together in
the pillar post-box. One was
r- pink and one was blue. Pink
S '-' lay a-top, and they crackled to
1 ^' .. I each other softly in the paper-
1 -'-'-- language, invented long sinee
S- by Papyrus, the father of
Manuscript, and used by all written and printed
sheets unto this day. Listen hard, next time you
visit the reading-room at the Public Library, and
you will hear the newspapers exchanging remarks
across the table in this language.
Said the pink valentine : "I am prettier than
you, much prettier, Miss Blue."
Blue was modester. "That may be true, my
dear Miss Pink; still, some folks like blue best, I
think," she replied.
I wonder they should," went on Pink, talking in
prose now, for valentines can speak in prose and in
rhyme equally well. You are such a chilly color.
Now I warm people. They smile when they see
me. I like that. It is sweet to give pleasure."


I like to give pleasure, too," said Blue, mod-
estly. "And I hope I may, for something beauti-
ful is written inside me."
What? oh what?" cried Pink.
"I cannot say," sighed Blue. "How can one
tell what is inside one ? But I know it is some-
thing sweet, because
She who sent me here,
Is so very fair and dear."
Blue was running into rhyme again, as valen-
tines will.
"I don't believe a word of it," said Pink, dig-
ging her sharp elbow into Blue's smooth side.
"Nothing is written inside me, and I 'm glad of it.
I am too beautiful to be written on. In the middle
of my page is a picture, Cupid, with roses and
doves. Oh, so fine There is a border too,
wreaths of flowers, flowers of all colors, and a
motto, Be mine.' Be mine What can be better
than that? Have you got flowers and 'Be mine'
inside, you conceited thing? If not, say so, and
be ashamed, as you deserve to be."






BLUE AND PINK.


Again the pink elbow dented Blue's smooth en-
velope.
But Blue only shook her head softly, and made
no answer. Pink grew angry at this. She caught
Blue with her little teeth of mucilage and shook
her viciously.
"Speak," she said. "I hate your stuck-up,
shut-up people. Speak "
But Blue only smiled, and again shook her head.
Just then, the pillar-post opened with a click.
The postman was come. He scooped up Pink,
Blue, and all the other letters, and threw them into
his, wallet. A fat yellow envelope of law-papers
separated the two valentines, and they had no
further talk.
Half-an-hour later, Pink was left at the door of
a grand house, almost the finest in the town.
Charles, the waiter, carried her into the parlor,
and Pink said to herself: "What a thing it is to
have a mission. My mission is to give pleasure !"
"A letter for you, Miss Eva," said Charles. He
did not smile. Well-behaved waiters never smile ;
besides, Charles did not like Eva.
Where is your tray? demanded Eva, crossly.
"You are always forgetting what mamma told you.
Go and get it. But when she saw Pink in her
beautiful envelope, unmistakably a valentine, she
decided not to wait. Never mind this time," she
said; but don't let it happen again."
Who 's your letter from, Evy ?" asked grand-
mamma.
I have n't opened -it yet, and I wish you
would n't call me Evy; it sounds so back-woodsy,"
replied Eva, who, for some mysterious reason, had
waked that morning very much out of temper.
Eva said her father, sternly.
Eva had forgotten that papa was there. To
hide her confusion, she opened the pink envelope
so hastily as to tear it all across.
0 dear she complained. Everything goes
wrong."
Then she unfolded the valentine. Pink, who
had felt as if a sword were thrust through her heart
when her envelope, was torn, brightened up.
"Now," she thought, "when she sees the
flowers, Cupid and doves, she willbe pleased."
But it was not pleasure which shone on Eva's
countenance.
"What's the matter?" asked papa, seeing her
face swell and angry tears filling her eyes.
"That horrid Jim Slack !" cried Eva. He
said he 'd send me a valentine just like Pauline's,
and he has n't. Hers was all birds and butterflies,
and had verses "
Yours seems pretty enough," said papa, con-
solingly.
It's not pretty enough," responded Eva, pas-


sionately. "It's a stupid, ugly thing. I hate it.
I wont have it."
And, horrible to state, she flung Pink, actually
flung her, into the middle of the fire. There was
time for but one crackling gasp; then the yellow
flame seized and devoured all-Cupid, doves,
flowers! Another second, they were gone. A
black scroll edged with fiery sparkles reared itself
up in the midst of the glow; then an air-current
seized it, it rose, and the soul of Pink flew up the
chimney.
Blue, meantime, was lying on the lap of a little
girl of twelve, a mile or more from this scene of
tragedy. Two plump hands caressed her softly.
"Sister, may I read it to you just once more?"
begged a coaxing voice.
Yes, Pet, once more. That'll make five times,
and they say there is luck in odd numbers," said
another voice, kind and gay.
So Pet read:

"My dear is like a dewy rose
All in the early morn;
But never on her stem there, grows
A single wounding thorn.
My dear is like a violet shy,
Who hides her in the grass,
And holds a fragrant cup on high
To bless all men who pass.
My dear is like a merry bird,
My dear is like a rill,
Like all sweet things or seen or heard,
Only she's sweeter still.
And while she blooms beside my door,
Or sings beneath my sky,
My heart with happiness runs o'er,
Content and glad am I.
So, sweetheart, read me as I run,
Smile on this simple rhyme,
And choose me out to be your one
And only VALENTINE."

Isn't it lovely ?" said Pet, her blue eyes dancing
as she looked up.
Yes, it's very nice," replied sister.
I wish everybody in the world had such a nice
valentine," went on Pet. How pleased they 'd
be. Do you suppose anybody has sent Lotty one ?
Only that about the bird would n't be true, because
Lotty 's so sick, you know, and always stays in
bed."
"But Lotty sings," said'sister. "She's always
singing and cheerful, so she's like a bird in that."

Birdies with broken wings
Hide from each other;
But babies in trouble
Can run home to mother,"

hummed Pet, who knew the ST. NICHOLAS jingles
by heart. But poor Lotty has n't any mamma to
run to," she added, softly.


246


[FEBRUARY,






BLUE AND PINK.


No; and that's a reason why it would be so
specially nice to give her the pleasure of a valentine
like yours."
I wish somebody had sent her one," said Pet,
thoughtfully.
I don't suppose there is another in the world
just like yours," said sister, smiling at Pet.
Then she can't have one. What a pity."
She might have this of yours," suggested sister.
But-then-I should n't have any," cried Pet.
"0 yes, you would, and I '11 tell you how," said
sister. "You've had all the pleasure of getting it,
and opening and reading it, already. That's yours
to keep. Now, if I copy the verses for you on
plain white paper, you can read them over as
often as you like, till, by and by, you learn them
by heart. When you have done that they will be
yours for always; and, meanwhile, Lotty will have
the pleasure of getting the valentine, opening,
reading, learning, just as you have done-so you
will get a double pleasure instead of one. Don't
you see ? "
That will be splendid," cried Pet, joyously.
" Poor Lotty, how glad she will be And I shall
have two pleasures instead of one, sha' n't I ? "
"How nice," thought Blue, "to have given two
pleasures already "
Sister copied the verses, a fresh envelope was
found, and Blue was sent on her way. When she
was carried upstairs to Lotty's room, she thought it
the pleasantest place she had ever seen. Sunshine
was there-on the wall, on the plants in the win-
dow, most of all in Lotty's face, as she sat up in
bed, knitting with red worsted and big needles.
When Blue was put into her hands, she laughed
with astonishment.
For me 1" she cried. Who could have sent
it ? How pretty it is-how pretty A great deal
too pretty for me. Oh, what a kind, dear some-
body there is in the world "
Everybody in the house was glad because Lotty
was glad. Grandmamma came in to hear the valen-
tine; so did papa, and Jack, Lotty's big brother,
and Fred, her little one. Even the cook made up
an excuse about the pudding, and stole upstairs to
hear the fine verses which somebody had sint to
Miss Lotty. It's swate as roses she is, any day,"
said cook; "and good luck to him for sinding it,
whoiver he is."
By and by, Lotty's tender heart began to busy
itself with a new plan.
"Grandma," she said, "I'm thinking about
little Mary Riley. She works so hard, and she
hardly ever has anything nice happen to her.
Don't you think I might send her my valentine-
ih a different envelope, you know, with her name
on it and all ? She 'd be so pleased."


But I thought you liked it so much yourself,
dear," replied grandmamma, unwilling to have her
darling spare one bit of brightness out of her sick-
room life.
"Oh, I do; that's the reason I want to give it
away," said Lotty, simply, and stroking Blue, who,
had she known how, would gladly have purred
under the soft touch. "But I shall go on liking it
all the same if Mary. has it, and she '11 like it too.
Don't you see, grandmamma? I've copied the
verses in my book, so that I can keep them."
Grandmamma consented. The new envelope
was found, Mary's address was written upon it, and
away went happy Blue to give pleasure to a fresh
friend.
This is best of all," she said to herself, as Mary
laid aside her weary sewing to read over and over
again the wonderful verses, which seemed to have
dropped out of fairy-land. She almost cried with
pleasure that they should be sent to her.
I wish I could buy a frame for 'em-a beautiful
gold frame," she whispered to herself.
Pink would have been vain had she heard this;
but Blue glowed with a purer feeling-the happi-
ness of giving happiness.
Mary read the verses over a dozen times at least
before putting them aside; but she did put them
aside, for she had work to finish, and daylight was
precious. The work was a birthday frock. When
the last stitch was set, she folded it carefully, put
on cloak and bonnet, and prepared to carry the
frock home. Last of all, she dropped Blue into her
pocket. She did not like to leave it behind. Some-
thing might happen, she thought.
It was quite a grand house to which the birthday
frock went. In fact, it was next door but one to
the house in which Pink met with her melancholy
fate. The little girl who was to wear the frock was
very glad to see Mary, and her mamma came up-
stairs to pay for the work.
Have you any change ?" she said. Come
nearer to the fire. It is cold to-night."
Mary was confused by this kindness. Her fingers
trembled as she searched for her porte-monnaie,
which was at the bottom of her pocket, underneath
her handkerchief. She twitched out the handker-
chief hastily, and with it, alas came Blue. They
were close to the grate, and Blue was flung into the
fire. Mary gave a scream and made a snatch. It
was too late Already the flames had seized it;
her beloved valentine was gone, vanished into
ashes!
Was it anything valuable ?" asked the lady, as
Mary gave a little sob.
Oh, n-o-yes, ma'am; that is, it was verses.
I never had any before. And they were s-o beauti-
ful replied poor Mary, half-crying.


247






THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE-PLACE BEDROOM.


The lady gave her an extra dollar for the sewing,
but this did not console Mary.
Meantime, the ghost of Blue flew up the chim-
ney. Upon the roof hovered a dim gray shade. It
was the ghost of Pink, wind-blown for a little space.
How sad life is sighed Pink's ghost-
"I was young, I was fair,
And now I 'm in the air,
As ugly gray ashes as ever were."

"How sweet life is!" murmured the ghost of
Blue-
I've only lived a little while,
But I have made three people smile."

A chickadee who heard the two ghosts discours-


ing now flew down from the roof-peak. He
gathered Blue's ashes up into his beak, flew down
into the garden, and strewed them about the root
of a rose-tree.
"In the spring you '11 be a rose," he said.
Then he flew back, took up Pink's ashes, bore
them into another garden, and laid them in the
midst of a bed of chickweed.
Make that chickweed crop a little richer, if you
can," he chirped. "All the better for the dicky-
birds if you do ; and a good thing for you too, to
be of use for once in your life."
Then the chickadee flew away. Ghosts have to
get accustomed to plain speaking.
This was the end of Blue and Pink.


THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE-PLACE BEDROOM.

BY MARY A. HALLOCK.


WHEN I was a little girl, and went to visit
grandma Lewis, I always slept in the "fire-place
bedroom." I don't know why it was so called, for
almost all the rooms had fire-places; perhaps be-
cause this room was so small and the fire-place so
big. It was just across the hall from grandma's
room; the doors were opposite, only my room,
being in the wing, was two steps lower than the
hall. It had one window opening on an old wooden
balcony, so overgrown with trumpet-creeper that
the railing was quite hidden. Two or three slats
were nailed across the lower part of the window,
and grandma often warned me never to climb over
them or set foot on the balcony, for a carpenter,
who had been making repairs on the house a year
or two before, had told her it was unsafe.
When I was a little girl," said she, I used to
lean over that railing and pick cherries from a big
tree that grew so close to the house, its branches
almost touched the windows; that was a good while
ago, my dear; there's nothing left of the cherry-
tree now but that old stump where I set my box of
geraniums."
"Was that picture here when you were a, little
girl, grandma," I said, pointing to one which hung
over the mantel-the only picture in the room.
No, my dear. Your Uncle Henry brought that
from England when he was a young man. He
could tell you all about it if he were here. I
believe he bought it at an auction sale of old books,
pictures and furniture. It was labeled, 'Portrait-


supposed to be two children of the Bourhope fam-
ily-(painter unknown).' If your uncle were here
he could tell you about it."
Grandma went out of the room in her still way
and left me musing before the picture. It was a
boy and girl sitting together in a deep window-seat
reading from the same book. The boy might have
been fifteen; he looked tall and slim; his thick
brown hair was tied back with a ribbon; he seemed
to be reading very intently, leaning forward with
his head resting on his hand. The girl looked
younger than her brother. She was fair and round,
dressed in a quaint, close-fitting gown of creamy-
white satin, with facings and petticoat of blue; her
light hair was drawn up and fastened in a knot with
loops on the top of her head; there were white
frills round her neck and sleeves, and a broad band
of black velvet round her fair throat. She leaned
back, one little foot in its quaint, high-heeled slip-
per, pushed out; one arm round the neck of a dog
which had pressed close to her, resting his head
against her lap. The window-seat was paneled in
dark carved wood, and great bars of sunlight
streaming in, made a glow of liglit and color
through the picture.
I had spent hours gazing at these two readers so
silently intent on the great book spread open before
them; they filled a good share of my daily thought.
I had made up a dozen different stories about them,
and it was with great interest I discovered that they
had once really lived. It seemed to me dreadful


248


[FEBRUARY,







THE PICTURE IN .THE FIRE-PLACE BEDROOM.


that they should have been labeled like old rub-
bish and sold at auction. What had become of
that Bourhope family," whose pictures had wan-
dered into such strange places ? All that afternoon
I was turning over ini my mind a list of pretty
names that would "go" with Bourhope-Lionel


all those years. I must have sat there a long time.
I had come back to the question of a name, and said,
half aloud, to myself: What shall I call her ? "
"Call me Dorothy, please," a soft voice answered.
Yes, it certainly came from the picture, for, look-
ing up, I saw that my girl had turned her face and


THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE-PLACE BEDROOM.


and Amy, Geoffry and Agnes, Philip and Ethel;
no, Marjorie or Elsie, or -; it was a difficult mat-
ter to decide, and I was still thinking about it that
night in my room after grandma had lighted my
candle and given me her good-night kiss. I sat
down on the foot of the bed, half undressed, to take
another look at my hero and heroine. In the
uncertain candle-light they looked strangely real.
I could almost fancy I saw the girl's drooped eye-
lids tremble as if she were about to look up at last
from her book. How tired they must be, reading
VOL. II.-17.


was smiling down at me, while a faint color came
to her cheek.
It seemed quite natural to hear her speak at last,
but could it be possible that her name was just
plain Dorothy? "You don't really mean it," I
said. "It sounds so common; why, it's like a dairy-
maid's name !"
Here the boy looked up and said haughtily:
Many ladies of our family have been called
Dorothy; it is my mother's name, and she does n't
look like a dairy-maid."


28751.]


249






THE PICTURE IN THE FIRE-PLACE BEDROOM.


"Nobody said she did, stupid I The little girl
does not think my name pretty-no more do I. I 'd
far rather be called Clara or Isabel."
It is your name, and mamma's, and I like it,"
said the boy with a half-smile and half-frown.
"Well, I'm glad you do; only you need n't be
cross about it."
Here I offered some apology for having spoken
slightingly of Dorothy's name, but Dorothy's broth-
er begged I would n't mention it-he was always
"too quick; then he leaned across his sister's lap
and began pulling the dog's ears, while she said:
"'T is not for yourself you are quick, Walter; you
speak up always for others."
He laughed at that, an'd sprang up, shutting the
big book with a bang.
You should go to court, Dolly, with your fine
little speeches. I 'm going to feed my spaniel pups.
Will you come, too? They are such beauties-as
like as the peas in a pod."
And all like their mother, I suppose. No,
thank you; she killed my pet kitten last spring,
and I don't care to see her horrid little pups! "
"Why, Dorothy, surely you would n't blame
the puppies for what their mother did before they
were born ?"
"I don't blame them; only I don't like them."
"Well, girls are queer. Next, you wont like
me, because I'm Juno's master. Come Vik." He
whistled to the dog, and they both went away out
of sight down a long hall, the dog's quick feet rat-
tling beside the boy's echoing tramp.
Dorothy leaned back against the wainscot and
threw up one arm behind her head. "Walter is
vexed with me, but he wont stay vexed long; he
never does; he always gives up first whenever we
quarrel. I should n't wonder if we soon heard him
calling under the window."
She smiled down at me half triumphantly under
her drooped eyelids, and I thought to myself that,
for all she was so pretty, perhaps she was a little
spoiled; but I only said: "What can you see from
that window ?"
Oh, the terrace, and the yew-tree walk, and
perhaps Walter with his dogs. Let us look and see
if he has gone."
I wish I could," I began to say, and then I




C 7.


found myself beside Dorothy in the window-seat.
She pushed open .the casement, and we both leaned
out. Below was the terrace, with its broad stone
railing, and the yew-tree walk beyond, crossed with
dark lines of shadow. It was all very still in the
low afternoon sunlight. Walter was not to be seen,
and while we listened for him, another sound came
softly from a distant chamber.
"Ah," said Dorothy, "that is mamma's harp.
She will begin to sing by and by; shall we go down
and hear her ?"
I was eager to go at once, when I suddenly
remembered that I was half undressed.
"Never mind," Dorothy said, "you can wait
here a moment and I will fetch you something to
put on."
We went together down a long hall, .with many
dim old pictures hung high above the wainscoting,
and a row of deep windows, like the one we had
just left, throwing broad bars of light across the
floor. Each time we crossed the shadow into the
light, Dorothy, with her fair hair and shining dress,
looked more and more unreal in her beauty. At
the end of the hall hung a curtain of tapestry. I
did not see any door, but Dorothy lifted one end
of the curtain, and, looking back, said: "Wait
here a moment." Then she dropped the heavy
curtain between us, and I heard her footsteps going
on a little way, then down a short flight of steps.
A door seemed to open, for suddenly the music
sounded very loud and sweet; then died away
again.
I waited a long time for Dorothy, but she did not
come. It grew dark and cold in the hall, a wind
waved the curtain a little now and then, and let in
a gleam of lamp-light that shot a long reflection
across the polished floor. I thought I would just
raise the curtain a little and call Dorothy, but I
never did, for I suddenly found myself lying across.
the foot of the bed in my own little room. A shut-
ter had blown open, my candle was flaring wildly,
and there, in the picture over the fire-place, sat
Walter and Dorothy Bourhope reading as they had
always been.
I felt very stiff and cold, and somehow disap-
pointed.
If I had only raised that curtain a little sooner t


250


[FEBRUARY,


AJ







THE FAIRY WEDDING.-



THE FAIRY WEDDING.

BY MARY A. LATHBURY.


251


A LITTLE brown mother-bird sat in her nest, "'Then the air was astir as with humming-birds'


With four sleepy birdlings tucked under her
breast,
And her querulous chirrup fell ceaseless and low,
While the wind rocked the lilac-tree nest to
and fro.

"Lie still, little nestlings! lie still while I tell,
For a lullaby story, a thing that befell
Your plain little mother one midsummer morn,
A month ago, birdies-before you were born.

I'd been dozing and dreaming the long sum
mer night,
Till the dawn flushed its pink through the
waning moonlight;
When-I wish you could hear it once !-faintly
there fell
All around me the silvery sound of a bell.

"Then a chorus of bells So, with just half an
eye,
I peeped from the nest, and those lilies close by,
With threads of a cobweb, were swung to and
fro
By three little rollicking midgets below.


wings !
And a cloud of the tiniest, daintiest things
That ever one dreamed of, came fluttering
where
A cluster of trumpet-flowers swayed in the air.

"As I sat all a-tremble, my heart in my bill,-
'I will stay by the nest,' thought I, 'happen
what will;'
So I saw with these eyes by that trumpet-vine
fair,
A whole fairy bridal train poised in the air.

" Such a bit of a bride Such a marvel of grace !
In a shimmer of rainbows and gossamer lace;
No wonder the groom dropped his diamond-
dust ring,
Which a little elf-usher just caught with his wing.

" Then into the trumpet-flower glided the train,
And I thought (for a dimness crept over my
brain,
And I tucked my head under my wing) Deary
me!
What a sight for a plain little mother like me !'"







252


WHEN I was a boy I lived in one of those rustic
neighborhoods on the outskirts of the great Maine
woods." Foxes were plenty, for about all those
sunny pioneer clearings birch-partridges breed by
thousands, as also field-mice and squirrels, making
plenty of game for Reynard.
There were red foxes, cross-grays," and "sil-
ver-grays ;" even black foxes were reported. These
animals were the pests of the farm-yards, and made
havoc with the geese, cats, turkeys, and chickens.
In the fall of the year, particularly after the frosts,
the clearings were overrun by them night and
morning. Their sharp, cur-like barks used often
to rouse us, and of a dark evening we would heat
them out in the fields, "mousing" around the
stone-heaps, making a queer, squeaking sound
like a mouse, to call the real mice out of their grass
nests inside the stone-heaps. This, indeed, is a
favorite trick of Reynard.
At the time of my story, my friend Tom Edwards
(ten years of age) and myself were in the turkey
business, equal partners. We owned a flock of
thirty-one turkeys. These roosted by night in a
large butternut tree in front of Tom's house-in the
very top of it, and by day they wandered about the
edges of the clearings in quest of beech-nuts, which
were very plenty that fall.
All went well till the last week in October, when,
on taking the census one morning, a turkey was
found to be missing; the thirty-one had become
thirty since nightfall the previous evening. It was
the first one we had lost.
We proceeded to look for traces. Our suspicions
were divided. Tom thought it was "the Twombly
boys," nefarious Sam in particular. I thought it
might have been an owl. But under the tree, in
the soft dirt, where the potatoes had recently been
dug, we found fox-tracks, and two or three ominous
little wads of feathers, with one long tail feather
adrift. Thereupon we concluded that the turkey
had accidentally fallen down out of the butternut-
had a fit, perhaps-and that its flutterings had at-
tracted the attention of some passing fox, which
had, forthwith, taken it in charge. It was, as we
regarded it, one of those unfortunate occurrences
which no care on our part could have well foreseen,
and a casualty such as turkey-raisers are unavoid-
ably heirs to, and we bore our loss with resignation.
We were glad to remember that turkeys did not
often fall off their roosts.
This theory received something of a check when


our flock counted only twenty-nine the next morn-
ing. There were more fox-tracks, and a great many
more feathers under the tree. This put a new and
altogether ugly aspect on the matter. No algebra
was needed to figure the outcome of the turkey
business at this rate, together with our prospective
profits, in the light of this new fact. It was clear
that something must be done, and at once, too, or
ruin would swallow up the poultry firm.
Rightly or wrongly, we attributed the mischief
to a certain "silver-gray" fox that had several
times been seen in the neighborhood that Autumn.
It would take far too much space to relate in de-
tail the plans we laid and put in execution to catch
that fox during the next two weeks. I recollect
that we set three trapi for him to no purpose, and
that we borrowed a fox-hound to hunt him with,
but merely succeeded in running him to his burrow
in a neighboring rocky hill-side, whence we found it
quite impossible to dislodge the wily fellow.
Meanwhile the fox (or foxes) had succeeded in
getting two more of the turkeys.
Heroes, it is said, are born of great crises. .This
dilemma of ours developed Tom's genius.
"I'll have that fox," he said, when the traps
failed; and when the hound proved of no avail, he
still said: I 'll have him yet."
But how?" I asked. Tom said he would show
me. He brought a two-bushel basket and went
out into the fields. In the stone-heaps, and beside
the old logs and stumps, there were dozens of de-
serted mouse-nests, each a wad of fine dry grass as
large as a quart box. These he gathered up, and
filled the great basket.
"There," said he, triumphantly, "don't them
smell mousey ? "
They did, certainly; they savored as strongly
of mice as Tom's question, of bad grammar.
And don't foxes catch mice ?" demanded Tom,
confidently.
"Yes, but I don't see how that's going to catch
the fox," I said.
"Well, look here, then, I '11 show ye," said he.
"Play you's the fox; and play 't was night, and
you was prowling around the fields. Go off now
out there by that stump."
Full of wonder and curiosity, I retired to the
stump. Tom, meantime, turned out the mass of
nests, and with it completely covered himself. The
pile now resembled an enormous mouse-nest, or
rather a small hay-cock. Pretty soon I heard a


A DROLL FOX-TRAP.



A DROLL FOX-TRAP.

BY C. A. STEPHENS.


[FEBRUARY,







x5~s.l A DROLL FOX-TRAP.


low, high-keyed, squeaking noise, accompanied by
a slight rustle inside the nest. Evidently there
were mice in it; and, feeling my character as fox
at stake, I at once trotted forward, then crept up,
and, as the rustling and squeaking continued,
made a pounce into the grass-as I had heard it
said that foxes did when mousing. Instantly two
spry brown hands from out the nest clutched me
with a most vengeful grip. As a fox, I struggled
tremendously. But Tom overcame me forthwith,
choked me nearly black in the face, then, in dumb
show, knocked my head with a stone.
"D 'ye see, now!" he demanded.
I saw.
But a fox would bite you," I objected.
"Let him bite," said Tom. "I '11 resk him
when once I get these two bread-hooks on him.
And he can't smell me through the mouse-nests
either."
That night we set ourselves to put the stratagem
in operation. With the dusk we stole out into the
field where the stone-heaps were, and where we
had oftenest heard foxes bark. Selecting a nook
in the edge of a clump of raspberry briars which
grew about a great pine-stump, Tom lay down,
and I covered him up completely with the contents
of the big basket. He then practiced squeaking
and rustling several times to be sure that all was
in good trim. His squeaks were perfect successes
-made by sucking the air sharply betwixt his
teeth.
"Now be off," said Tom, "and don't come
poking round, nor get in sight, till you hear me
holler."
Thus exhorted, I went into the barn and estab-
lished myself at a crack on the back side, which
looked out upon the field where Tom was am-
bushed.
Tom, meanwhile, as he afterward told me,
waited till it had grown dark, then began squeak-
ing and rustling at intervals, to draw the attention
of the fox when first he should come out into the
clearing, for foxes have ears so wonderfully acute,
that they are able to hear a mouse squeak twenty
rods away, it is said.
An hour passed. Tom must have grown pretty
tired of squeaking. It was a moonless evening,
though not very dark. I could see objects at a
little distance through the crack, but could not see
so far as the stump. It got rather dull, watching
there; and being amidst nice cozy straw, I pres-
ently went to sleep, quite unintentionally. I must


have slept some time, though it seemed to me
but a very few minutes.
What woke me was a noise-a sharp suppressed
yelp. It took me a moment to understand where I
was, and why I was there. A sound of scuffling
and tumbling on the ground at some distance
assisted my wandering wits, and I rushed out of
the barn and ran toward the field. As I ran, two
or three dull whacks came to my ear.
Got him, Tom?" I shouted, rushing up.
Tom was holding and squeezing one of his hands
with the other and shaking it violently. He said
not a word, and left me to poke about and stumble
on the limp warm carcass of a large fox that lay
near.
Bite ye ?" I exclaimed, after satisfying myself
that the fox was dead.
Some," said Tom; and that was all I could get
from him that night.
We took the fox to the house and lighted a
candle. It was the silver-gray."
Tom washed his bite in cold water and went to
bed. Next morning he was in a sorry and a very
sore plight. His left hand was bitten through the
palm, and badly swollen. There was also a deep
bite in the fleshy part of his right, arm, just below
the elbow, several minor nips in his left leg above
the knee, and a ragged "grab" in the chin.
These numerous bites, however, were followed by
no serious ill effects.
The next day, Tom told me that the fox had sud-
denly plunged into the grass, that he had caught
hold of one of its hind legs, and that they had
rolled over and over in the grass together. He
owned to me that when the fox bit him. on the chin,
he let go of the brute, and would have given up
the fight, but that the fox had then actually at-
tacked him. "Upon that," said Tom, "I just
determined to have it out with him."
Considering the fact that a fox is a very active,
sharp-biting animal, and that this was an unusually
large male, I have always thought Tom got off very
well. I do not think that he ever cared to make a
fox-trap of himself again, however.
We sold the fox-skin in the village, and received
thirteen dollars for it, whereas a common red fox-
skin is worth no more than three dollars.
How, or by what wiles that fox got the turkeys
out of the high butternut, is a secret-one that
perished with him. It would seem that he must
either have climbed the tree, or else have practiced
sorcery to make the turkey come down.


1875.1


A DROLL FOX-TRAP.






254 A GREAT TRAVELER.


I N
4-


I
-



~, W


- .,


I'





~


4/
ai '










d"


VAMBERV AND 4IS DONEVE


[FEBR UARY,






A GREAT TRAVELER.


A GREAT TRAVELER.

BY JOHN LEWEES.


IT would be very natural in any of us to suppose
that no. man who depended for his conveyance upon
so small a donkey as that one on the opposite page,
would be likely to go far enough to gain a reputa-
tion as a great traveler. But although a small
*donkey is not to be despised, when it comes to
pulling and carrying and bearing hardships, still
the man in the picture did not depend upon a
donkey.
Indeed, with the exception of his own legs, he
did not really depend upon any of the ordinary
methods of traveling, for he seemed to be able to
go pretty much where he pleased, whether people
in general were able to get there or not.
This man-Arminius Vambery-was born in
Hungary in 1832, and very early in life became
noted for his knowledge of languages, especially
those of Eastern countries. The first use that he
made of his knowledge of these difficult tongues
was to teach them to other people.
He set up at Pesth as a teacher of languages; but
as the Austrian authorities expelled him from the
city for political reasons, he concluded to travel,
and put his acquirements to a practical use. So he
went to Constantinople, and thence to many parts
of the East, never before reached by a European
traveler.
Some of the places which he visited were con-
sidered to be sacred, and no unbeliever was allowed
to come near them, under penalty of instant death
were he discovered. But Vambery disguised him-
self as a dervish, and traveled, sometimes alone and
sometimes with pilgrims and caravans, through the
deserts of Tartary to the city of Khiva. From here
he made his way to Bokhara, a celebrated city of
Central Asia, one of the great seats of Mahometan
learning. It ought to be a learned place as well
as a religious one, for there are said to be one
hundred and three colleges and three hundred and
sixty mosques within its walls. A good Mahom-
etan in Bokhara might go to a different mosque
almost every day in the year.
When Vambery had satisfied his curiosity in
Bokhara, as far as was possible, he pushed on to
Samarcand, an important city about one hundred
and thirty miles to the east. Samarcand possesses
the tomb of Timur, and used to be the capital of


one of the .greatest empires ever known, and the
center of Asiatic learning and commerce. But it
has dwindled away very much since that time; and
when Vambery visited it, it was full of interest, of
course, but bereft of much of its ancient magnifi-
cence and splendor.
We cannot follow Vambery in his various wan-
derings. Sometimes he bestrode his little donkey,
and sometimes he sailed in curious vessels on the
Caspian Sea. He lived in Turcoman tents; hunted
wild beasts; traveled with caravans; rode alone on
his camel at night through the solitary desert; met
with escaped murderers who lived in caves; came
across a whole army of wild and savage asses, who
offered battle to him and his party; attended grand
festivals, where all the guests plunged their hands
into the dishes; went to fairs where everybody,
buyers and sellers, was on.horseback.
At one time, he came very near being discovered
by a sharp young prince, who declared that he
believed he was an Englishman in disguise. But
the good dervish, Vambery, seemed so offended
and shocked at such a speech, that after awhile the
prince was very sorry that he had hurt the poor
man's feelings.
At last our traveler, having reached the borders
of Persia, on his homeward journey, threw off his
disguise, and mounted on a good horse and at-
tended by a faithful servant, soon reached Teheran,
where he was cordially welcomed by both the
English and the native citizens. Even the Persian
King thought so well of his exploits that he made
him a member of the Order of the Lion and the
Sun. I don't know what particular advantage
this was to Vambery, but it was a compliment, and
I suppose he liked it.
Vambery has written a book called Travels and
Adventures in Central Asia," and also several other
books about Persia and Asia.
When I last heard of him he was Professor of
Oriental languages at the University of Pesth.
It is a very fine thing to travel and see strange
countries and strange people, but when you are
obliged to make believe that you are a strange
person yourself, and run the risk of being killed if
you are found out, it would, in most cases, be better
to stay at home.


2875.]





FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS.


THE RIDE TO SCHOOL.

"THOU shalt have a ride to school on my sled," said Carl to his chub-by
lit-tle sis-ter Ka-ren; "and Gretch-en and I will be the horses."


I ,,Iv


Oh, that is beau-ti-ful !" cried Ka-ren, with
and she danced a-round in her lit-tle red shoes.
They were three Ger-man chil-dren who lived


bright, beam-ing eyes;

with their fath-er and


[FEBRUARY,





FOR VERY LITTLE FOLKS.


moth-er in the far a-way West-ern State of Min-ne-so-ta, where it is so
cold in win-ter that the snow lasts a long while.
Then Carl pulled his sled out of the barn, and Ka-ren was seat-ed in
the mid-dle of it, with her lit-tle bask-et, which held three round cakes.
and a ro-sy ap-ple. Gretch-end pinned a -large warm shawl o-ver her hood,
put on her nice wool-en mit-tens, and, kiss-ing her sweet lit-tle face, said:
"Look, how ro-sy she is;" and Ka-ren smiled back on her, say-ing:
" Yes, that is fine, dear sis-ter."
Then Gretch-en put her lunch bask-et on the sled; but Carl had his,
lunch in a nap-kin, which he slung o-ver his shoul-ders; and, tuck-ing his
trou-sers in-to his boots, a-way they all went, laugh-ing and sing-ing.
The lit-tle rob-ins scratched in the snow, cry-ing "Tweet, tweet, we
want some-thing to eat." The pig-eons strutt-ed up and down the roofs
of the hous-es, or flew a-way to the barn, say-ing, soft-ly, "Coo, coo, coo,
come to the barn, ver-y good eat-ing there-coo, coo, coo.! The pus-sy
cat sneezed, and lift-ed her paws ver-y high, for she ha-ted the snow, and
wished it were al-ways sum-mer.
But the lit-tle Ger-man chil-dren liked win-ter as well as sum-mer.
They were the ver-y best chil-dren in school that day;, and, when school
was o-ver, Carl and Gretch-en gave Ka-ren an-oth-er de-light-ful ride.




_JI ,







I GAVE my puss a mac-a-roon,
And bade her eat with a sil-ver spoon;
I brought a glass of spark-ling wine,
And bade the pret-ty creat-ure dine.

But see what came of it, a-lack!
That naught-y pus-sy turned her back;
Now was n't it a dread-ful sight
To see a puss so im-po-lite ?


257


875s.1






JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.


h, i e W' a.. s.



-\ ,I










J ACK-IN- THE-m'ULI'I r.i

GOOD-MORROW, my boys and girls! What shall
Jack tell you about this tirhe ? Something about
something, eh ? That 's easily done. What say
you to
CROWS' NESTS MADE OF FISH-BONES?
THE crows who live near my wood always build
their nests of interwoven sticks and twigs, and they
are strong enough to last year after year, if they
are not as handsome as those of some other birds.
But one of my crow-neighbors tells me that he has
cousins who live on far-away islands where there
are neither trees nor shrubs, and these crows build
their nests, and very good-looking ones too, of the
dried and bleached bones of large fish that have
been thrown up on the shore.
Queer nests, I should think, but they show the
ingenuity and perseverance of the birds. How
much better than to sit down and caw sulkily that
they will not build any nests at all, because they
can't get just the material they prefer for the pur-
pose.
TUMBLE-WEEDS.
MY Eastern children will say, "What ai-e tumble-
-weeds ?" when they first see this paragram; but
the little Western folk will shout, Ho i ho
we 've seen them The funniest things that ever
were !"
All I know about them is that they belong to
the Western prairies, but don't make their appear-
ance until the land has been broken by the plow.
Then they start up and take possession for a year
or two, and after that they slowly disappear.
They have great big heads, formed of a net-work
of stiff little branches, and their roots are like
slender young beets. Late in the season, when
they get dry, the wind tears them up, roots and
all, and off they go, skipping, flying and tumbling
over the country like good fellows. They look, in


the distance, like some sort of lively animals, and
what is more, it would take a lively animal to catch
them; for sometimes, in a high wind, they can out-
run a galloping horse.
I wish some of the well-behaved children here-
about would take a hint from the tumble-weeds,
and be a little more nimble in their ways. One of
these days a good run will be set down among the
lost arts-see if it is n't-if the children don't play
more. There is a teacher in a gricky green gown
who walks through our meadow sometimes with
her girls, making the poor things all march in a
double row like soldiers. Don't I wish she 'd take
a hint from the tumble-weeds !
THE SUMMER-SURGEON.
SUCH news The strangest little surgeon! But
you shall hear all about him. He always carries a
small case of the .queerest, sharpest instruments
that were ever made. He is the tiniest little fellow,
and his wonderful instruments can only be seen
when they are placed under a glass called a micro-
scope, which magnifies them, or makes them large
enough to be seen.
In this surgeon's case there are two cutting-
blades, or lancets, two tiny saws, one hollow tube,
and one sharp-pointed instrument, which is also
hollow, like a tube. Now, when he thinks it worth
while to bleed any one, he opens his little case, and
first pierces the skin with the sharp blades; then
he cuts the flesh with the two little saws to make
the blood flow fast, and then he pours through one
tube a fluid into the wound to make the blood thin
enough to flow easily, after which he draws up the
blood through the other tube into the vessel pre-
pared for it, until he thinks that he has bled the
poor patient enough.
Now what do you suppose .this surgeon's name
is? He is called Mr. Gnat, and he is none other
than the troublesome little insect that stings one
so often in summer. He uses all these wonderful
instruments just to get a sip of blood from some
tempting boy or girl-the rascal!
SAILORS' LANGUAGE.
I AM always in my pulpit, but not always preach-
ing. I spend the most of my time in listening to
all sorts of strange and wonderful things, in order
to tell them to my children. But sometimes I hear
things that puzzle me very much. The other day

two sailors were talking together, and it took more
than my wit to find out what they meant. One said
he had just come from the "roaring forties," where
he had many times "sailed in the teeth of the
wind," and had been "caught in the eye of the
storm." You would have believed his observation,
that his companion was as deaf as a coal-bunker,"
if you had heard the tone in which he shouted out
his remarks.
Then the other sailor began to talk. He said
that he too had just returned from a voyage. The
sea had been as smooth as blubber most of the
time, but one night when there was "just a capful
of wind," and "all s'ls were "set" to catch it,
and "everything was as quiet as a night dog-


'258


FEBRUARYY,






JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT.


watch," down came a brig and struck her right
" amidships." An', sir, the cap'n only had time
to sing out to man the gig, the jollyboat and dingy,
when in the water we were Indeed," the sailor
went on to say, I s'pose we 'd ha' gone to Davy
Jones' locker if the brig had n't sent along her dory
and yawl to pick us up."
Now what do you suppose any sober-minded
Jack could make of all that? I can't describe to
you how it bothered me to carry all these queer ex-
pressions in my head till my traveled bird-friends
should come along. Some of them had taken long
voyages in ships, and so could understand the terms
my sailors had used.
Well, the end of it all is, I know now that the
"roaring forties" means the distance on the At-
lantic Ocean between the fortieth and fiftieth
parallels of latitude; that the sailors gave the name
to that space because the ocean is so stormy
there. To sail in the "teeth of the wind" means
to proceed in the direction from which the wind
comes, and to be "caught in the eye of the storm"
is to be right in the center of it, which is a very
-dangerous thing. A capful of wind" turns out
to be a nice brisk wind, not a gale, nor even a
:spanking breeze-which last, by the way, is a wind
that blows quite strongly, but steadily, and is just
what a sailor likes best.
As for "s'ls," that is only the sailor-sound for sails.
When I heard that a "dog-watch" means- a
watch that is two hours long, I could n't imagine
what sort of a watch it could be; but it appears
that when a ship is at sea there must always be
some one to keep watch night and day, in order to
avoid accidents. So one officer will watch from
six o'clock till ten, another from ten o'clock till
twelve, a third from twelve o'clock till two, and a
fourth from two o'clock till six. The two short
periods between ten o'clock and two in the day-
time, and the same in the night, are called dog-
watches.
Upon hearing this, I was going to remark that
this was a very queer name, but remembering that
all the other names and terms were queer too, I
said nothing about it.
As for hitting "amidships," that only means
that one vessel struck the other in the center.
Yawl" and dory," and many of the other words
are plain enough, now that I understand them;
but we have had sailor-talk long enough for this
time.
A LETTER TO JACK.
HERE is a letter just received from my kinsman,
*Green Dragon:
Chinquepin Island, Mississippi River.
DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I am sure you remember your cousin
Green Dragon, We were well acquainted in the long-ago days be-
fore railroads and reapers.
What a famous preacher you are getting to be, my dear cousin !
There's not a pulpiter in the land so quoted as you. Your fame has
come across the prairies to my island home in the midst of the Mis-
sissippi's mighty waters. I am happily situated here, at the head of
the Keokuk Rapids, in sight of the old Mormon town of Nauvoo,
safe for centuries, I think, from the march of civilization. I don't
like this same civilization. I 'm sure it means no good to us flowers.
Just think how it has spoiled our sweet Rose! You and I remember
the time, Jack, when she was an open-faced, simple-hearted wood-
nymph, that either of us would have died for. Now see what a
fluffy, artificial, made-up look she has!


But there's one flower here civilization has not corrupted. Jack,
Jack, my dear cousin, did you ever see her-the great American
lotus,-the Indian Queen ? She is like a dream of the Tropics.
Down in the ooze, under the solemn waters, is the long, snake-like
root; up through the wave rises the sinewy stem; on the river's
bosom, spread out like a knightly shield, freely floats the leaf-a yard
and a-half wide, Jack. Bravely uplifted above the flood, in her yel-
low robes and glistening amber jewels, sits the regal lotus, sweeten-
ing the breeze with her warm, spicy, almond-flavored breath.
There are strange stories told of this Queen Lotus-of how priests
and sages of old made pilgrimages to her home in the Nile; of how
she played "bo-peep" with Moses in the bulrushes. Pharaoh's
daughter, it is said, was making her periodical visit to the lotus when
she discovered the handsome boy. Between ourselves, Jack, I don't
believe this lotus of mine, here on the il ississippi, is the same as the
ancient lotus of the Nile. I heard a scientific gentleman say that the
Nile lotus is purple. My lotus is a delicate, creamy yellow.
The children along the Mississippi like lotus-nuts, and call them
water-chinquepins. The German children call them Yankee-nuts.
The white water-lily, a relative to my lotus, is sometimes seen here;
but her home is the lake. Flowers and folks are both better off at
home. Here the lily draggles; she can't lift herself above the re-
tiring waters. Your cousin, GREEN DRAGON.

STARVING CHILDREN.
IT'S a terrible thing to say, but I'm told that
some children are starving this winter. Find them
and feed them, my darlings. Ask your parents to
help. Good warm clothes that you never wear
should not be.stowed away in your homes now.
Somebody needs them.

BERGMEAL.
A NORWEGIAN boy, with eyes as blue as wood-
violets and hair of the pale gold color of a daffy
that has grown in the shade, lately told a young
lady, in my hearing, about a very queer sort of
flour that he had seen at home, and in a few other
countries-Tuscaniy, in Italy, for instance. It is
called bergmeal, he said (or bergmehl, from the
German berg, mountain, and mehl, meal). To
give a loaf of bread made from this flour, would be
almost literally to give a stone for bread; for the
bergmehl, our boy said, is not made from grain,
but from a very fine white or cream-colored pow-
der, mainly composed of flinty shells, so very small
that one square inch of the powder is said to con-
tain millions of them.
Is this bread good, and can one live upon it ?"
the young lady asked the Norwegian lad.
He shook his head rather sadly, and said, No,
it is not good, and one could not live upon it alone;
but in hard times when grain-flour is very scarce and
costly, the poor people go out upon the mountains
and gather this powder to mix with grain-flour, to
make it last longer."
He said that there was something else in the berg-
mehl besides the particles of flinty shells, and that
this something had a little nourishment in it; but
the main thing is that the mountain-flour increases
the bulk of the food, and even that is an advantage
in times of famine.
I was glad that the poor people of Norway could
get this bergmehl when they could not get good
grain-flour; but I would much rather we should
send them a few shiploads of wheat, or rye, or
buckwheat, or Indian-corn. Would n't you, my
dears ?

DON'T forget the birds this cold weather. Scat-
ter crumbs for them, my children.


18751.


259









THE LETTER-BOX. [FEBRUARY,


THE LETTER-BOX.


HERE is a letter from a little girl, printed word for word as it was
written:
Orland, October sx, 1874.
ST. NICHOLAS: Seeing that a good many have written for this
book, I thought I would see what I could do about writing a story,
although I am but a little girl, nine years old. You cannot expect
much from me.
Dear boys and girls, I am going to tell you a story about my little
pig. You may think this rather beneath the notice of a little girl, but
I do not agree with you. Any little boy or- girl who did not have
pity for a little motherless lame pig, does not have any heart.
One day, as my grandpa was out in the barn-yard, he saw a little
lame pig laying down on the ground. It could not walk; but grandpa
brought it in the yard and fed it some milk for two or three days, and
then I asked pa if I could have it, and he said I might, and then I
took it and fed it, and you may think it funny because I took the
dish that. I fed it with and washed it. It was in the summer. I took
cold water and washed the pig, and wiped it, and it held just as still
while I did it. It got over being lame, and grew, till all at once it
began to refuse its food; and one morning when I went out to feed
it I found it missing. 1 looked all over for it, but could not find it.
Finally we found it in the wood-pile; we took it out and buried it.
I read in my last magazine about a little girl who had a cat, who
would ring at the hall-door. Now my grandpa (the same grandpa
that helped me take care of my little pig) had a cat that would open
the door, and not wait for any one to open it. BIRDIE.

WE gladly print three verses from a poem by E. B., entitled,
THE COOKY WITH A HOLE IN IT.
Little man did you ever see
A cooky as nice as this?
Spiciness, yellowness, richness,
All to be bought for a kiss !
And see, it is made with a hole, sir,
Framed in for the middle, so;
To hang it upon your finger,
Or even peep through, you know.
Spoke the little man then, 0 yes, ma'am !"
Still a small doubt stirred his soul.
Yes," again said little man, softly,
But how do you eat the hole?"

JENNIE F. V. writes: I would like to tell other girls of a way of
putting coal on the fire so as not to make a noise. It is useful to
know about it, in case anyone is sick, or there is a little baby asleep
in the room, or you are helping to take care of your poor grandfather,
sick with rheumatism. The last is my case, Grandpa cannot bear
the noise made by putting coal on the fire, so I was glad to learn of a
good way of doing it softly. I put the coal in little .- '
bags that the cook saves for me (but I suppose pieces i '" -
would do to wrap them in). Then, when I get a scuttleful of these
bags of coal, I wash my hands, and Mary carries the scuttle up to
grandpa's room for me. It is very handy. I can then lay these
little bags of coal on the fire so softly that a mouse could n't hear it;
and it is easier, too, than lifting the scuttle. Besides, it does n't soil
my hands. Sometimes when the fire is n't good I break the bag just
a little, so that the paper will catch fire more easily."

Brooklyn, November 23, 1874.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: You told us last May how to make a
Christmas City," so I have made one. It is on a board three
feet long, and two wide. There are fifty houses in all. It is laid out
with streets, and green yards with fences around them, and gravel
walks and flower-beds, and trees and shrubbery. Two of the yards
have croquet sets, and two have artificial ponds. There is a river in
one part of the city, and a park in the center. No two houses are
exactly alike. There is a cathedral, with a chapel, a bishop's palace,
and a nunnery. There are two churches with parsonages; a college
with a chapel and library; and three houses for the President and
Professors, all enclosed in one yard, which I call College Square.
There are three farm-houses and twelve cottages and a school-house;
two hotels, two stores, a theater, a bank, eight mansion-houses, four
barns, and two little summer arbors beside the river. I was nine
years old when I commenced my city, but did not finish it till after I
was ten. But I fear I am writing too long a letter for your time and
patience. I will only add that I sent my City to the county fair, and
got five dollars premium for it. I am thinking some of making a
Holiday Harbor, but do not know as I can make the ships. I hope
St. Nicholas will have a good big turkey for his Thanksgiving dinner;
I think he deserves one for making me so happy.-From your friend,
LIZZIE M. BENNETT.


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The Letter-Box asks why the mark in paper
is called a "water-mark." It is so called because made by the wire
through which the water is drained from the pulp of which the
paper is made. ARNOLD GUYOT CAMERON.


C. V. T.-We do not wonder that "The Hidden Hand in the
conundrum picture puzzled you. We intended that it should do so.
You could not, it is true, "find" the hidden hand in the picture in a
literal sense, but surely the expression, "find," is quite allowable in
this case. Ours was a riddle, or conundrum picture, and we expected
that all who undertook to interpret it would let their fancy shed light
upon their wits.
Long ago, we said to a dear old negro:
"Eliza, here's a conundrum for you. Why is a person with the
rheumatism like a church window? "
"Dunno, chile," said she. "You '11 hab to tell ole 'Liza dat, I'se
thinking. "
"Why, Eliza, don't you know ? It's because,it's full of pains."
G' 'long," cried Eliza, highly indignant. Done come tellin'
'Liza no sich stuff; 'taint no sich thing. Dey's different kinds of
pains, dem is. Don't s'pose dey rubs limiment on church winder-
panes, does yer? Ole 'Liza aint gwine to believe no sich stuffas dat,
no how."
It has been a surprise and a pleasure to us to note that out of all the
nine hundred and more who sent answers to our conundrum picture,
only seven have since expressed any dissatisfaction whatever, and,
strange to say, the things that they find fault with are the very answers
(printed in December ST. NICHOLAS) that a very large majority of
the children sent in without hesitation.

DEAR EDITOR: You have so many fine stories about animals in
ST. NICHOLAS, that I want you to please put this one in. A lady
who came to see my mother told it to us last night. She said that in
the house right back of hers in Brooklyn, they have a pet parrot.
On week-day mornings this parrot always has a good deal to say
about wanting this and that; but on Sunday mornings last Summer
it would rouse the neighbors by 1-. .b..; "Mary Elizabeth, get
ready for Sunday-school I! Mary Lk:I' rI., get ready for Sunday-
school !" over and over again. The lady said that the bird was in
its cage hanging out of an upper window, where no one could talk to
it and tell it what to say without being seen or heard, and it never
said this on any morning but Sunday. Do you suppose the parrot
could count ?-Your respectful friend, LANE M. WEST.

Boston.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Do you consider the expression, "can't see
it," as slang? I like that society of"Non-askers," mentioned by
John Gregg in the Letter-Box for last June. Don't you think the
girls ought to join ? Do you think it a good plan to learn poetry ?
.Can you tell me who wrote that poem on "The Burial of Moses,"
beginning:


"By Nebo s lonely mountain,
On this side Jordan's wave;
In a vale in the land of Moab,
There lies a lonely grave? "
Yours respectfully, M


INNIE THOMAS.


The expression, can't see it," is not necessarily slang, but it may
be used as slang, and is then disagreeable to refined persons.
Whether it is slang or not depends entirely on the motive of the per-
son using it.
We wish that every one of our girls would join the Non-askers.
There can be no doubt that, for many reasons, committing poetry-
good poetry-to memory is an excellent practice.
The poem you speak of was written, we believe, by a Mrs. Alex-
ander, and appeared first in a small monthly publication, the Chris-
tian Miscellany, issued by the Wesleyan Methodist Conference Pub-
lication Office in London.

CARRIE MAIRE AND LOUISE QUINTARD -The army of Bird-de-
fenders has adopted a preamble and resolutions, which fully explain
"what it has to do." You will find them in Mr. Haskins' article,
" For the Birds," in ST. NICHOLAS for December, 1873, orin Letter-
Box of the number for May, 1874.


THE LETTER-BOX.


[FEBRUARY,







THE LETTER-BOX.


CHARL writes: "Noticing that another contributor to your Riddle-
Box is using the norn de lumne 'Charl,' I suggest that it would be
well for the latest Charl to select a different name."


EDWIN S. BELKNAP wants to know how to make a sun-dial. Who
can tell him ?

OSWEGO BOY, who asks to be told "thow to turn one's hand into
an old woman."-As other young folks also may wish to see or
exhibit this old woman during the fireside season, we will answer







-e

face. u te pu a
__-un .is -omlet. By movingth



....
^



your query by two pictures. The first will show you the markings
of India-ink, or burnt cork, to be made on one hand (the left, not the
rght; our artist has made a mistake there);
the second will show you how to double -
the same hand so as to form the old woman's '
face. You then put a little kerchief on her
head, tying it under her chin, and Mrs. .-
McGrundy is complete. By moving the .
ended tdyhumb slowy the lady will appear I. /
to be opening and closing her mouth. A fg o .,duldist
little practice will enable you to accompany
this lip motion with appropriate speech, so
that Mrs. McGrundy may say a few words to her admiring friends.
By way of variety, a small frilled cap with a black band can be
made for the old lady's use, and a sort of stuffed gown can be held
up closely to the head by means of a cord secured to the gown and
held tightly between the second and third fingers of the doubled fist.


BIRD-DEFENDERS.
THE army of Bird-defenders has received a large number of recruits
since our last issue.
WILLIAM J. ELDRIDGE (who writes that he is keeping an alphabet-
ical list of the Bird-defenders) sends, besides his own, the names of
John J. Eldridge, Lizzie H. Eldridge, Alice G. Troth and Lilian S.
Troth.
BERTHA J. RICKOFF, of Cleveland, Ohio, sends the following list:
Fanny Beckwith, Alice Burrows, Annie Burrows, Maud Hanna,
Anna Shipherd, Nellie Runcy, Lillian Harwood, Florence Hyde,
Mabel Allen, Tilly Huntington, Maggie Huntington, Annie Smith,
Albina Sanders, Willie Rickoff, Bell J. Watterson and Bertha J.
Rickoff.
LIBBIE M. BUTLER sends her own and the following names:
,Minnie Clements, Ella Van Patten, Gertie Layner and Jennie Butler.
CLINTON B. POE sends this list: Sam K. Poe, Robert A Gregory,
Arthur Kimerly, Carrie Johnson, Waldo Morgan, Jennie Lawrence
and Clinton B. Poe.
CHARLIE J. BIGELOW joins the army, and sends other names, as
follows: Frank Dingman, Willie Randall, Charlie Randall, Willie
Ebberlie, Nellie Burton, Sarah Pompenella and Hattie Sullivan.
FLORENCE B. LOCKWOOD asks to be enrolled in company with a
few recruits: Katie Radford, Conchita Cisneros, Clemencia Mestre,
E. J. Tiemann, M. C. Murray and Benoni Lockwood.
LILY F. CONKEY sends her second list: Cornelia W. Smith, Min-
nie Adams, Nellie Wilkinson, Helen Kellogg, Willie Dane, Minnie
Ashley, Flora Page, Selina Steinitz, N. J. Spurr and Frank L.
Douglass.


Besides the above, the following new names have been enrolled:
John C. Howard, Sallie F. Bailey, Fred N. Luther, Mamie Beach
and Lillie McGregor, Will E. Brayton, F. Green, George S. Brown,
S. Weaver, Minnie L. Sherman, Rob R. Sherman, Katie T. Hughes,
Ollie Hughes, Harry Winn, Lizzie M. Bennett, Henry K. Gilman,
Ruth and Mabel Davison, George F. Pease, Frankie L. Jones,
Mabel W. Baldwin, Henry 0. Riddell, Harry N. Covell, A. R.
Diamond, Willie G. Foote and Lincoln Righter.


"MAlACHEN."
Translation of German Sketch in December Number.
EARLY, when daylight appears, the peasant gets out of bed. He
opens the chamber door arnd shuts it again, to go to his day's work,
of which the beginning consists in lighting a fire, in order first of all
to prepare the coffee. His wife meanwhile cleans the room, puts
things in order, and arranges her hair. If she is long about it, her
husband gives her a cross look. She does not really care much about
that; but it is not very cheering to have the remark constantly made
to you: See that you hurry now; I am so worried, I can do noth-
ing." At last, as he sets out to go to the fair, there is so bad a snow-
storm that he hardly knows what to do, &c., &c.
Translations have been received from Corydon P. Karr, Fred W.
McKee and S. A. Ammon, Joseph Jastrow, Sigismund Dormitzer,
Carrie Hesse, Mary B, McCoy, Emily Schumann, Lizzie Bradford,
James Espy, Edith W., Clara M. Gearhart, Willie E. Mayer and
0. Smith.

THE question, "Who Was He?" in the paragraph of the Decem-
ber Letter-Box concerning a certain noted man, has been correctly
answered by the following-named boys and girls, who send word that
Dr. Samuel Johnson is the person referred to: Thomas Noel, Clara
Lee, Libbie M. Butler,- Mamie Wagner, T. C. Merrel, Georgie L.
Blood, Nettie E. Williams, A. R. Diamond, Olive Pratt, Mamie
Beach and Lillie McGregor, John O. C. Ellis, Laura A. Wilson, C.
W. and M. P., Clifton B. Dare, Lizzie Johnson, May Ogden, Stella
M. Luce, Edith W., five members of the reading-class of Mrs. E. P. T.,
Lillie F. Conkey and Nellie S. Colby.


OUR Word-makers will receive attention next month.


BOOKS RECEIVED.
Nursery Noonigs. By Gail Hamilton. Harper & Bros., New
York. (A good strong book for parents.)
The Man in the Moon, and Other Peonle. By R. W. Ray-
mond. J. B. Ford & Co., New York. (A collection of very enter-
taining stories.)
F. Grant .& Co.; or, Partnershids. By George L. Chaney.
Roberts Bros., Boston. (A good book for boys.)
Children's Stories. By Eleven Harvard Sophomores. Roberts
Brothers, Boston. (Capital for the little folks.)
A Practical and Critical Grammar of the English Language.
By Noble Butler. John P. Morton & Co., Louisville, Ky.
Twilight Stories, by Miss B. C. Rogers; Twenty Stories and
Twenty Poems, by Mrs. C. E. R. Parker; Bob Tinker and His
Friends, by Mary E. C. Wyeth; Bessie Kirkland, by Mrs. M. E.
Miller; LilZie; or, The Little C/hrisian's Toilet, by Mrs. H. E.
Brown; Joe and Sally; or, A Good Deed and Its Fruits; Little
Folks' Picture Book; Four "Dot" Books. Published by the
American Tract Society, New York.
Little Storiesfor Little Peofle. By James Barren Hope, Nor-
folk, Va.

Music RECEIVED.
Friendshift's Gift. A collection of popular pieces, simplified by
E. Mark. S. T. Gordon & Son, New York.
Fusionen Waltz. Strauss.
Students' Ball Waltzes. Strauss.
The Haffy Children. Six easy dances for the piano. By Jos.
Rummel. S. T. Gordon & Son, New York.
Songs of Lafland and Finland. Translated and adapted to the
music by Selma Borg and Marie A. Brown. Philadelphia.







262 NICHOLAS! ST. NICHOLAS! [FEBRUARY,




























NICHOLAS! ST. NICHOLAS!

The "Ice-Boat Song," from "Hans Brinker."
GEORGE J. Huss.


1. Friend of sail ors
2. While through wintry
3. Sun ny spar kes
With Spirit 4. Fret ty gifts and
.. .. .










.4 y-og les.-sonFes .ti ,-val adge, Bid_ .-.-...-..ing O'er the fBn- se.
GEORGE J. Huss,








w h ~r z, 4. Pret -n ---ty gifts and
I --- _--+ --I- --+ -I- --. -- -k- - -E -- --
1 1h S "ich-o las "Le s g to t
p crase .... .............. ....... ... Pf-=^ P_ sempre staccato.






V1 and of children! Dou-ble claim have we As in youth-ful joy we're sailing O'er a fro zen sea '
Sair we're rushing, As our voic-es blend, Are you near us? do you hear us, Nich-o las, our friend ?
3 bghtbefore us hase a -waythe cold! Hearts t -,, .. welcome Never can grow old.
4 lov-ing les-son, Fes -ti-val andglee, Bid "i, on rr, -. i. ing O'erthe fri z-en sea.












I Nich o-las I Saint Nich-o-las I Let us sing to thee.
A Nich o-las I Saint ich-o-las I Nev er can grow old.
4 Nich o-las I Saint Nich-o-las I So we sing to thee.

2 Nic o-as I AitNc--a!oeca vered
3Aih-ols1SitI~c-ols1Hy-e a rwod
4 ih-ola Fan#Pc--a 1S w in ote







.THE RIDDLE-BOX.


1 Nich o-las Saint Nich-o-las I Let us sing to thee. Nich o-las I Saint Nich-o -las I Let us sing to
2 Nich o -las I Saint Nich-o-las I Love can ney-er end. Nich o-las I Saint Nich-o las I Love can nev er
3 Nich o las 1 Saint Nich-o-las I Nev er can grow old. Nich o-las! Saint Nich-o las I Nev er can grow
4 Nich o las 1 Saint Nich-o-las I So we sing to thee. Nich o-las I Saint Nich-o las 1 So we sing to









| Badingfor the 1st, 2d, and Sd verses. Endingfor the last verse.


THE RIDDLE-BOX.


REVERSALS.
I. TAKE a word meaning to separate, reverse it, and
find a snare for vermin. 2. Belonging to animals of a
certain kind; reversed, to barter. 3. A pest to society ;
reversed, a kind of bird. 4. A nocturnal animal; re-
versed, an appendage to a cap. 5. A modern means of
divination; reversed, a mineral. 6. To treat with con-
tempt; reversed, small sweet-cakes. 7. An ancient poet
or minstrel; reversed, a color. 8. Departed in haste ;
reversed, a kind of ware. R. G.

HIDD-EN ACROSTIC.
AT the foot of a bed,
And the base of the stair;
In the night, and the light,
In the back of a chair;
On the old marble mantel,
In the edge of the door;
At the head of the table,
And inside a store.
Now place, me together,
And, like the lost geese,
The whole you '11 find never,
For I 'm only a piece. ALDEBARAN.

DROP-LETTER PUZZLE.
EVERY other letter is omitted. N-v-r-o-d-m-w-a-y-u-
o-o-u-d-r-t-n. (A bit of proverbial advice worth heed-
ing.) RUTHVEN.


CHARADE.
My second wakes when by my first
The birds are set a-singing,
And with the echo of their joy
The forest deep is ringing.

My whole, a dainty, fragile thing,
Braved wind and wave and tide,
And now enshrined in history's page
It lives, a nation's pride.

RIDDLE.
IN my first, or my fourth, or it may be my third, you '
will find my second her whom you have been so long
seeking, for she may become my whole. Marry her and
get the money. P. v.

CROSS-WORD.
MY first is in crow, but not in hawk;
My second is in landing, but not in dock;
My third is in horse, and also in mule;
My fourth is in govern, but not in rule;
My fifth is in patch, but not in mend;
My sixth is in tear, but not in rend;
My seventh is in trouble, but not in grief;
'My eighth is in robber, but not in thief;
My ninth is in saw, but not in seen;
My whole is the name of a wicked queen.
T. W. M'G.


263







THE RIDDLE-BOX.


REBUS.
(The solution is a stanza from Tennyson's "In Memoriam.")



.. 4.









V -- I


i2


I) I.


PUZZLE.
ONE hundred and one by fifty divide,
And then if a cipher be rightly applied,
And your computation agree with mine,
The answer will be one taken from nine. x.
COMBINED SQUARE-.WORD AND DIAGONAL.
SQUARE-WORD: I. Part of every carpet. 2. An open
space, 3. Used in guiding horses. 4. A short breath-
ing. Diagonals : A writing-a glimpse. M.


NUMERICAL ENIGMA.
THE answer contains
eleven letters, and is the
name of a river of the
United States. The I, 9,
II, 5 is a medium. The
8, 2 is an exclamation.
The 10, 7, 6, 2, 4, 3, is a
body of water.
RUTHVEN.

SQUARE-WORD.
i. A SERVANT. 2. A
sacred shield. 3. Rare.
4. A Hindoo chief. 5. A
governor of a castle. 6.
Looked obliquely.
RUTH G.


TRIPLE ACROSTIC.
THE primals, centrals,
and finals form the names
of three musical instru-
ments. I. Smooth. 2.
Concord. 3. A soldier.
4. To environ. R.


REVERSIBLE DIAMOND PUZZLE.
1. A CONSONANT. 2. To marry. 3. A mechanical
power. 4. A cave. 5. A consonant. Reversed: I. A
consonant. 2. A boy's name. 3. A feast. 4. Moisture.
5. A consonant. J. s. R.
STAR PUZZLE.
I. SLANG for companion. 2. Deceased. 3. A color.
4. To make certain kinds of liquors. 5. To twist.
C. A. M.


ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN JANUARY NUMBER.


A PLUm PUDDING.-T. Mace (M-ace). 2. Flour (Flower). 3.
'Clove (C-love). 4. Currants (currents). 5. Indian-meal. 6. Allspice
(awls-p-ice). 7. Molasses (Mo. lasses). 8. Candied lemon-peel (can-
-did-lemon peal). 9. Citron (sit run). 'io. Suet (Sue ate).
ENIGMA.-Do not judge the feelings of others by your own.
DOUBLE AcRosmic.-Rainbow, Sunbeam.-Riddles, Adieu, In-
,dian, Nab, Believe, Opera, Wisdom.
REVERSIBLE DIAMOND PUZZLE.-L, Wen, Repel, Ned, R.
RIDDLE -Camel, Carmel, Caramel,
GEOGRAPHICAL ACROSTIc.-St. Nicholas.-Saratoga, Tanganika,
Nanking, Iceland, China, Himalaya, Obi, Lapland, America, Scot-
land.
BEHEADED RHYMEs.-Spin, pin, in. Charmed, harmed, armed.
EAsy DIAMOND PUZZLE.-E, Ear, Easel, Red, L.


A PICTURE PUZZLE.-The inscription on the sign:
Rove not from pole to pole. The man in here
Will shave you close and smooth, from ear to ear;
And that without a scratch to mar your beauty.
Your hair he'll cut to suit you in a trice,
And when 'tis done, you'll marvel at the price.
Then let your wanderings stop,
And enter in this shop.
AN ENTERTAINMENT.-I rented neat, entertained, entered in at-
estimate, time seat, I set meat-sixteen on, extension-side-table,
blest idea, lest I bade-several, reveals-meats, steam-Keats, takes,
steak, skate-is grave, gravies-I on no, onion-Arago sat, Saratoga
-gets veal be, vegetables-conversation, tin covers on a-amused,
am used, made us-separate, ate pears-a speech, peaches-apricots,
to a cnsp-rice came, ice-cream-sinew, wines, swine-left, felt.


ANSWERS TO PuzZLES IN DECEMBER NUMBER were received previous to December i8th, from James E. Whitney, Jr., Florence B.
Lockwood, James Alexander, Jr., Milly I. Smith, Lizzie M. Park, M. E. and G. H., Bessie T. B. Benedict, "May B. Not," Susie A.
Murray, James McCall, Jr., Mabel W. Baldwin, Jacob A. Hountain, George Loutzenheirer, Fannie Griswold, Carrie A. Johnson, E. H. B.,
Edgar L. R., Libbie M. Butler, Henry 0. Riddell, Clara Lee, Pennsylvania and California," Helen Worrell Clarkson, Adelle T. Peck
and Lizzie M. Knapp, Florence Palmer, "May and Rhecia," Everett B. Clarke, Maggie Charlton, Harriet Lagourtz, Louise F. March,
Clinton B. Poe, Charles George Martin, Alice W. Ives, Ruth C. Stetson, Mamie Beach and Lillie McGregor, Carrie L. Hastings, Edwin B.
Saunier, Helen B. Fancharl, Nanna Fife, John B. Neale, Frank E. Vaughan, Eva G. Wanzer, D. P. L. Postell, Laurens T. Postell, Susie
M. Brown, Ida E. Christianoy, John 0. C. Ellis, Fred H. Wilson, Herbert E. Mathews, Lilian Carter, Clara Carter, Franklin M. Welsh,
A. L. Benedict, Lulu Isabel Needham, Bennie Melvin, Katie T. Hughes, Willie Thorn, Frank S. Halsey, Jessie Field, James J. Ormsbee,
F. B. James, Agnes Stevens, Hattie Beecher Scoville, Ella Condie, Maggie T., Lizzie C. Brown, Eugenia C. Pratt, Eddie L. Heydecker,
Robert Van Voorhis, Jr., Arthur M. Little, Willie Boucher Jones, John C. Howard, Sophie Winslow, Rachel Hutchins, Carleton Brabrook,
-Gertie Bradley, Katie Walsh and Bessie Shubrick, Julia Dean Hunter, Arnold Guyot Cameron, Emily Bodstein, Arthur E. Smith, Stella M.
Luce, Howard G. Nott, D. W. McCullough, Rosa M. Raymond, Arthur C. Burnham, Neenah M. Dunn, Florence B. Lockwood, Mary S.
VWilcox, 0. Smith, Lily F. Conkey, Freddy Forehand, Nellie S. Colby, John Ruggles Slack, M. L. Palmer, May Trumbull, Lucy Barbour,
Grace Nunemacher, George H. Smith, Jr., Lizzie C. Wells, and C. D. Benedict.


264


[FEBRUARY.


A%


7 r' 7:-_