Front Cover
 Old shep and the Central Park...
 Sweet peas
 The "S.F.B.P."
 The grasshopper
 The philosopher's escape
 How we were burnt out in Const...
 A sea turn
 Frieda's doves
 A fish acrobat
 Eighth spinning-wheel story
 A Yankee boy's adventure at the...
 An artistic surprise (pictures...
 The witch of Woody Dell
 Marvin and his boy hunters
 The curious house
 Paper: Its origin and history
 For very little folk: Little...
 The St. Nicholas almanac
 Song of the shell-fish
 The letter-box
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover


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mods:accessCondition type restrictions on use displayLabel Rights All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
mods:identifier OCLC 01764817
mods:languageTerm text English
mods:physicalLocation Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in Special Collections, George A. Smathers Libraries
code UF
mods:name personal
mods:namePart Dodge, Mary Mapes
date 1830-1905
mods:roleTerm authority marcrelator Creator
mods:note Description based on: Vol. 2, no. 12 (Oct. 1875); title from cover.
Conducted by Mary Mapes Dodge.
Suspended Mar. 1940-Feb. 1943; vols. 68-69 omitted.
"A monthly magazine for boys and girls."
Published by: Century, Aug. 1881- ; by Educational Pub. Corp. -1940; by St. Nicholas Magazine, 1943.
funding Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
mods:publisher Scribner,
mods:placeTerm New York
mods:dateIssued August 1884
mods:recordIdentifier source ufdc UF00065513_00146
mods:recordContentSource University of Florida
mods:relatedItem original
mods:extent 68 v. : ill. ; 25-30 cm.
mods:title St. Nicholas.
mods:detail Enum1
mods:caption Vol. 11
mods:number 11
No. 10
mods:topic Children's literature
Literature for Children
St. Nicholas: vol. 11, no. 10
Saint Nicholas
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D1 Front Cover
P1 Page
D2 Old shep and the Central Park sheep Chapter
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P4 747
P5 748 3
P6 749 4
P7 750 5
P8 751 6
P9 752 7
P10 753 8
P11 754 9
D4 Sweet peas Poem
P12 755
D5 The "S.F.B.P."
P13 756
P14 757
P15 758
P16 759
D6 grasshopper
P17 760
D7 philosopher's escape
P18 761
P19 762
D8 How we were burnt out in Constantinople
P20 763
P21 764
P22 765
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D9 A sea turn
P25 768
D10 Frieda's doves
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D12 Eighth spinning-wheel story
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P39 782
P40 783
P41 784
D13 Fans 12
P42 785
D14 Yankee boy's adventure at sea-side 13
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P44 787
D15 An artistic surprise (pictures) 14
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P47 790
P48 791
P49 792
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D16 witch Woody Dell 15
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D17 Marvin his boy hunters 16
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St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00146
 Material Information
Title: St. Nicholas
Uniform Title: St. Nicholas (New York, N.Y.)
Portion of title: Saint Nicholas
Physical Description: 68 v. : ill. ; 25-30 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Dodge, Mary Mapes, 1830-1905
Publisher: Scribner
Place of Publication: New York
Publication Date: -c1943
Frequency: monthly
Subjects / Keywords: Children's literature -- Periodicals   ( lcsh )
Genre: periodical   ( marcgt )
serial   ( sobekcm )
Dates or Sequential Designation: -v. 67, no. 4 (Feb. 1940) ; v. 70, no. 1 (Mar. 1943)-v. 70, no. 4 (June 1943).
Dates or Sequential Designation: Began with: Vol. 1, no. 1, Nov. 1873.
Numbering Peculiarities: Suspended Mar. 1940-Feb. 1943; vols. 68-69 omitted.
Issuing Body: Published by: Century, Aug. 1881- ; by Educational Pub. Corp. -1940; by St. Nicholas Magazine, 1943.
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: oclc - 01764817
lccn - 04012675
System ID: UF00065513:00146
 Related Items
Preceded by: Our young folks
Preceded by: Children's hour (Philadelphia, Penn.)
Preceded by: Little corporal
Preceded by: Schoolday magazine
Preceded by: Wide awake

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    Old shep and the Central Park sheep
        Page 746
        Page 747
        Page 748
        Page 749
        Page 750
        Page 751
        Page 752
        Page 753
        Page 754
    Sweet peas
        Page 755
    The "S.F.B.P."
        Page 756
        Page 757
        Page 758
        Page 759
    The grasshopper
        Page 760
    The philosopher's escape
        Page 761
        Page 762
    How we were burnt out in Constantinople
        Page 763
        Page 764
        Page 765
        Page 766
        Page 767
    A sea turn
        Page 768
    Frieda's doves
        Page 769
        Page 770
        Page 771
        Page 772
        Page 773
        Page 774
        Page 775
        Page 776
    A fish acrobat
        Page 777
    Eighth spinning-wheel story
        Page 778
        Page 779
        Page 780
        Page 781
        Page 782
        Page 783
        Page 784
        Page 785
    A Yankee boy's adventure at the sea-side
        Page 786
        Page 787
    An artistic surprise (pictures)
        Page 788
        Page 789
        Page 790
        Page 791
        Page 792
        Page 793
    The witch of Woody Dell
        Page 794
        Page 795
        Page 796
    Marvin and his boy hunters
        Page 797
        Page 798
        Page 799
        Page 800
        Page 801
        Page 802
        Page 803
        Page 804
        Page 805
        Page 806
    The curious house
        Page 807
    Paper: Its origin and history
        Page 808
        Page 809
        Page 810
        Page 811
        Page 812
        Page 813
    For very little folk: Little Dot
        Page 814
        Page 815
    The St. Nicholas almanac
        Page 816
        Page 818
        Page 819
    Song of the shell-fish
        Page 817
    The letter-box
        Page 820
        Page 821
        Page 822
    The riddle-box
        Page 823
        Page 824
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

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AUGUST, 1884.

No. 10.

[Copyright, 1884, by THi CENTURY CO.]



YEA-IP yea-ip !! yea-a-ip! !!" came
in loud, hoarse tones across the Central Park play-
ground, and the sheep anear and afar, startled
from their browse, turned about and, with mouths
grass-tufted, looked in the direction of the shep-
herd and then in that of his aide-de-camp, the dog,
Shep, that is wont to bring them their orders.
Even the young lambs playing follow-my-
leader on the steep rocks to the south of the
field, that have not yet come to look upon life
seriously, paused in their gambols and craned their
necks, as if to say: "Well, what's up now?"
They soon learned.
Hoo, Shep Hoo shouted the shepherd to
his dog, and before the last sounds had left his
lips, the collie was flying across the grassy slope
that separated him from the flock.
The message with which Shep was intrusted was
something like this: Close order all! Stand by to
run for the fold Storm coming! "
Now, the awkward, noisy boatswain of a big ship,
charged with the same kind of order, would have
almost split the ear with his shrill pipings and his
still more boisterous bawling of "All hands on
deck to shorten sail!" And the buglers of a
squadron of cavalry, in delivering such a command
as Shep bore, would have frightened every living
thing within hearing, by their wild trumpeting to
"Saddle horses !" "Mount horses !" and the like.
Shep has a much better way than these. He
runs around and around the flock, repeating in a
pleasant, low tone the orders to march that he

has received. The stranger who does n't know
anything about sheep and about the collie, or
Scotch sheep-dog, would naturally enough look
upon his barking as the ordinary meaningless jab-
bering of uneducated dogs. But if you should
listen to Shep while he is repeating his orders to
the flock, you would find that his barkings, though
usually low-toned, are sometimes emphasized; that
some are short and some long; and that each is
expressive of a distinct idea when taken in con-
junction with his look of annoyance as he runs
after a stray sheep, and of satisfaction when, in
answer to the nudge of his nose, the straggler turns
toward the flock.
It is a language which the sheep may be said
to understand almost perfectly, and the laggards,
or possibly those hard of hearing, run up to him
now and then, as if they had lost a word or two,
and were anxious to gather the exact wording of
the orders. For sheep, like girls and boys, and
even their elders, have a curiosity to know just
what is going on about them.
On the afternoon when they were being called
in much earlier than usual, because of a threat-
ened storm, it was evident that the sheep were
somewhat puzzled, and that the collie was having
not a little trouble with them.
Sheep, of course, don't carry watches, and
therefore can not tell exactly what the hour is, but
they have other means of knowing. The shepherd
will tell you that his flock know it is time to go
home when the afternoon sun sinks behind the



peaked roof of the fold; and as Shep, probably be-
cause he was not so instructed, did not explain the
cause of the unusual orders, they could only con-
clude that they had really been out on the velvety,
fragrant meadow the allotted time, or else that
the machinery that worked that great golden orb
which usually gilds the western sky at their bed-
time, was not in good running order.
The shepherd knows that sheep must not be left
out in the rain, as the water rots their hoofs, and
always alert, he spies a coming storm with almost
the same readiness as the mariner, though the
latter has a barometer to aid him.
After the flock has traversed the entire extent of
field, on its way homeward, it comes upon the
public drive-way that separates the play-ground
from the sheep-fold. It is here that the shep-
herd and his assistant, Shep, have the most trouble
with the flock. Fast-driven horses almost run over
the sheep, and children show a desire to catch the
But Shep is equal to the emergency, and, at
every moment, seems to be just where he is most
needed. Now he has stood his ground in the mid-
dle of the road and stopped a pair of high-stepping
horses, and again he is flying down the bridle-path
to turn homeward a frightened sheep.
All the attentions paid to Shep by strangers, at
such times, are thrown away. Neither the seduc-
tive callings of the spectators nor the whistling
and hooting of the boys have any effect. Shep
keeps busily moving hither and thither, from one
part of the flock to the other, infusing courage into
the timid lambs, and pushing the wild ones with
his nose when they show any inclination to stray.
In fine weather, the sheep usually go out on the
meadow at half-past five o'clock in the morning
and return to their fold at half-past six in the even-
ing. Sometimes, as on Saturdays'during May, for
example, the meadow is given up to the boys and
girls as a play-ground; and it is safe to say that the
disappointment of the boys and girls when they
arrive at the Park and find the red flag flying, is
not a whit keener than that of the sheep when, on
coming out into the yard of a morning, they discover
that the stars and stripes are waving from the staff
in the middle of their favorite feeding-ground. For
this tells them that those curious animals that have
only two legs instead of four, and wear all kinds
of strange and many-colored clothing, are to be
allowed to trample the young grass with un-
sparing feet, or to play at ball, which sport, in
the estimation of a sheep, seems, no doubt, a
meaningless and foolish mode of enjoying one's
self on a beautiful, green meadow.
But sheep, too, have their games, or rather the
lambs have; and among the grassy hillocks and

rocky bluffs on either side of the field there is rare
sport for them.
The curiosity of the lambs sometimes leads them
to approach children on the paths that border the
green; but petting or playing with the lambs is
now forbidden, because children and their nurses
are inclined to offer them all kinds of cakes and
even brown paper, india-rubber rattles, and shoe-
strings. And such articles of diet as those last
named, though consumed by the goat with evident
relish, have a serious and sometimes fatal effect
upon the digestion of the lamb.
But, while visitors are not permitted to approach
the flock, it is not long since an exception was
made to this rule. A lad with paralyzed limbs
used to be wheeled each bright day down the
narrow path that skirts the favorite play-ground of
the lambs at the south of the field, and from his
high cushioned seat he would look wistfully at the
white-fleeced lambs near by as though he would
like to make their nearer acquaintance. At last,
one day, some of the lambs, attracted by the sweet
clover he held in his hand, cautiously approached
and nibbled at the proffered grasses, which con-
sisted of the common variety of clover, the white
and the hare's-foot, a very delicious food for them.
From that moment the boy and the lambs were
firm friends; and, the kindly shepherd having
given his consent, the poor little invalid visited the
flock daily. Indeed, it happened ere long, that
whenever noon came and the visitor did not ap-
pear, some of the lambs were wont to pause in
their gambols and look eagerly up the winding,
hilly path, as if disappointed that the little man
with the fresh clovers was not in sight.
Those who saw him say that it was a pleasure to
watch the lambs gather around him, peer into his
face and even crowd the woman away from the back
of the little three-wheeled carriage in their endeav-
ors to pluck the fresh clover over his shoulder. But
each day his face seemed to grow whiter and thin-
ner, and his hands feebler; and one day in the
autumn, when the foliage that overhung the path
had become red and yellow, and brown and purple,
and the soft southerly breeze had changed to cool-
ish winds from the westward, the well-known tri-
cycle did not appear. The bright sun reached the
meridian and began to sink into the south-west,
but the bearer of the clovers came not, and the
lambs were forced to content themselves with the
young grass clinging to the hillocks. A few days
later, a sad-faced woman in a black gown ap-
peared at the point in the path that had been fre-
quented by the little invalid, and sat for hours
upon a bench near by. It was the same woman
who had come with the boy, and when the lambs
discovered that she brought with her the same



grasses they were wont to receive, they ventured
to approach and eat them out of her lap. But by
and by came the bleak, chilling winds and the
snpw, and the woman appeared no more.
The sheep-fold stands upon an elevation facing
the point where the western bridle-path touches
the main road. It is a stone and brick building,
having two wings, a connecting archway in the
rear and a large yard in front. In this yard are
several boxes, each containing a great chunk of
rock-salt, and when the sheep return from their

land, and to be one of the purest and most
unmixed breeds of sheep in Britain.
The building where the Central Park sheep
are housed is not a model fold. It looks more
like a fortress than a sheep-fold, and it seems to
have been constructed under the misapprehension
that sheep require all the conveniences of the
human family. The fold is pierced with port-holes,
like a block-house, or the gun-deck of a man-
of-war. These holes, however, are now stopped
up with cobble-stones, but before this was done

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feeding-ground, they push and crowd one another
for good positions about these boxes, for they are
very fond of salt. If you should look at the chunks
of salt, you would see that they are honey-combed
in every direction by the sheep's rough tongues.
The sheep wander about the yard till night-fall,
and then straggle into the pens to sleep on the
fresh straw provided for them by the shepherd.
The flock is composed entirely of Southdowns,
a variety believed to be native to the Downs
of Sussex, in England, and said by Mr. Henry
Woods, of Merton, one of the best English author-
ities, to have existed before the conquest of Eng-

there were many mishaps; the lambs, in a spirit
of investigation, often squeezed through the holes
to see where they led, and fell into the depths
below, a distance of eight or ten feet.
At either end of the fold, there are rooms with
"fine panels and furnished with oaken book-cases
and tables. The intention of the builders was to
make libraries of these rooms; but the sheep in
the Park, though they do a great deal of thinking,
and no doubt at times hold long conversations with
one another, or with Shep, their guardian, don't
care much for reading, and don't require any books.
This fact, however, seems not to have become




:apparent to the builders until after the library was
completed, and these costly rooms have been used,
not as reading-rooms, but for storing the wool that
is clipped from the sheep.
Inside the fold, there are two parallel rows of
pens, each having beneath it a diminutive row of
the same shape. These pens are filled with hay
in the indoor season,- when the ground is covered
with snow,- the tall pens being for the sheep, the
short ones for the lambs.
At one end of the fold, distant only a few feet
from the sheep, lies the collie. Indeed, Shep
would not be at ease away from the sheep, for,
though eighteen years old, he has lived among
them from his infancy. Like many another
shepherd dog, Shep, when but a few weeks old,
was put under the care of a ewe whose lambs
had been taken from her to make room for him,
and hence he doubtless feels himself a sort of
kinsman of the flock. Even for a collie, Shep
is unusually sagacious, and in many instances has
shown an intelligence almost human.
A few years ago, Shep being even then an old
dog, an attempt was made to supersede him with
a younger dog of more acute hearing. So poor old
Shep was led away; and, evidently divining what
was going on, showed many signs of distress. He
was given to a gentleman who owns a farm in Put-
nam County, New York-more than fifty miles
distant from New York City. Arrived at the
farm, Shep was wont to sit on the lawn before
the house and look intently in the direction
whence he had been brought. Neither the kindly
words of his new master 'hor the marrowy bones
plentifully bestowed upon him by his mistress,
served to cheer up his faithful old heart or lessen
his longing to be back with the flock he loved so
One day the Park Superintendent came up to
the. farm on a visit, and Shep's heart beat with
delight; for he imagined, though wrongly, that it
was for him that the visitor had come. His new
master took the superintendent out into a field to
see some fine cows, and Shep followed; but the
cows became restive at the sight of the dog.
"Go home, Shep said his new master, turn-
ing sharply upon him. Shep, when he got this
command, brightened up immediately. His eyes
opened wide and his bushy tail, which had drooped
ever since he took up his new quarters, rose high
in the air and curled over his back with its wonted
grace. He understood the words of the order per-
fectly; but he knew only one "home," and that
was in the Central Park sheep-fold, and.with an
alacrity that did credit to his, aged limbs, he
bounded off in the direction where he knew it
stood. He had come by way of a steam-boat that

landed at Poughkeepsie, and with a sagacity that
might be looked for in a human being, but could
hardly be expected in the canine family, he found
his way at once to the wharf. There, not being
able to read the time-table posted upon the wharf-
shed, he sat down behind some barrels and waited
patiently for the boat to come. But the boat
started from the upper Hudson and did not call
at Poughkeepsie until late in the afternoon. Shep
seemed to know that it would come at last, how-
ever, and he improved the interval in taking a few
quiet dozes under the shed.
When the boat arrived, almost the first pas-
senger to get aboard was Shep; he made the
embarkation injust three bounds, and forgetting all
about buying a ticket, hid himself at once among
some great cases of merchandise lying on the
main deck, where he remained, composed and
comfortable, during the journey. The shepherd,
who told this story of his collie, did not say if, upon
the arrival of the boat at New York, the captain
demanded Shep's ticket. But, if he did, it is safe to
say he did n't get it, for Shep left Poughkeepsie
with nothing but his shaggy hair on his back.
The boat, in due time, reached the wharf at the
foot of West Twenty-third Street, New York City;
and, as may be imagined, Shep did not tarry on
the way between the wharf and the Central Park.
Long before his fellow-passengers had their lug-
gage safely landed, Shep had reached the fold and
was being hailed by the sheep with unmistakable
evidences of delight. And from that day, the Park
Superintendent, Mr. Conklin, a warm-hearted
man, would not permit any one to remove the
faithful collie from the fold.
Shep, much to his disappointment, found another
and a younger dog in his former position of pro-
tector of the flock, but he was at once appointed
as instructor to the young dog, a position he yet
holds and in which he is giving great satisfaction.
The younger collie is called Shep Junior, and,
though a very intelligent dog and making good
progress in the collie language, is given o'er much
to frivolity, and has by no means yet secured the
confidence of the sheep. They naturally regard
him as not entirely worthy of their confidence; for
on several occasions he has shown an inclination to
take part in the play of the lambs, which puts an
end to all sport at once, since he is both awkward
and rough. And upon one occasion he intruded
upon a game of Follow-my-leader," and snapped
savagely at a lambgwho had jumped, out of its turn,
from the rocky hillock that skirts the southerly
end of the pasture.
There is reason to believe that old Shep, who
made a dash tto the spot to rescue the lamb,
scolded him soundly, for it is said that, after a




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few vigorous barks from the old dog, young Shep
crouched down and sneaked off the field in the
direction of the fold, trailing his bushy tail in the
dust behind him.
If you should visit the Park some fine morning,
you might see young Shep taking his lessons. He
is never whipped, not even when he does wrong or
makes mistakes, because that breaks the spirit
of a collie, as indeed of any other kind of
dog, and a shepherd dog must of all things be
brave. When he does n't carry out an order cor-
rectly, or in such a way that the sheep can under-
stand him, old Shep is sent with the same order
and Shep Junior is made to keep still and watch
him until it is executed. His first lesson is simply
to guard a hat or a coat or stick thrown upon the
grass by the shepherd, and he is left out with it
sometimes until late in the evening to show him
the importance of fidelity, the very first essential in
a shepherd dog. Next he is taught to gather the
sheep, to take them to the right, then to the left.
After this he is sent on the trail of a lost sheep,
with instructions to bring it back slowly. The
most important lesson, and one young Shep has
not yet learned, is that of going among the flock
and finding out if any of them are missing. This, as
may be imagined, is by no means an easy task with

path on their way home, while he was busy in
keeping troublesome boys away, will take his stand
at the gate of the fold and touch each sheep
with his fore-paw as it passes in. At such timeshe
has the air of a farmer counting his cattle as they
come home at night, and he wears an expression
as if his mind were occupied with an intricate sum
in addition. Whether he is really counting the
sheep or not can not be said positively; but he has
been known, after noting each sheep as it passed,
to rush off up the bridle-path and return with a
straggler. This does much to prove that the
shepherd's assertion that old Shep can count the
sheep is possibly not far from the truth. And Mr.
Conklin, the Park Superintendent, an authority
on sheep and sheep-dogs, says that every well-
trained collie knows by sight the individual mem-
bers of his flock, and, by going among them, can
tell if any are missing. In the annual sheep-trials
in England, he has seen a collie, he says, success-
fully carry out an order to select three sheep from
the flock, and conduct them safely along a danger-
ous and winding path.
One morning Shep, having safely conveyed the
flock to the end of the green, and made sure that no
vagrant dogs were about, returned for his younger
namesake, whose school-hours were about to begin.

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a flock of eighty-two ewes and sixty-nine lambs.
But old Shep can do it, for he knows every member
of the flock, though to the ordinary observer they all
look almost exactly alike. Indeed old Shep can,
if his master the shepherd is not mistaken, per-
form a feat more wonderful than this. The shep-
herd says that Shep, when uncertain whether
some of the flock have not strayed up the bridle-

While trotting leisurely back with his charge,
he heard the shepherd calling loudly for him, and
soon made the startling discovery that the sheep
were nowhere to be seen. A wild dash brought
him to his master's side. He looked up into the
shepherd's face, cocked his head on one side, as-
sumed an expression of apprehension, and gave
three sharp, short barks and two long ones, fol-



lowed by a low wail. Translated into our language,
this meant: I say, old man, where are the sheep ?"
At the same time Shep's tail, which, under ordi-
nary circumstances, curls gayly upward in a semi-
circle, fell about ten points, which indicated a lack
of confidence in the shepherd and a general depres-
sion in his own spirits. For Shep's tail is an infalli-

heavy, and as an ornament it was by no means
attractive. He barked and growled savagely and
tried to shake Shep off, but it was no use. The
more he shook himself, the more firmly Shep's
sharp teeth buried themselves in his ear, and
when he was beginning to howl -with pain, the
shepherd came up and with his great oaken staff

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ble index of the condition of his spirits, just as the
rising and falling of a column of mercury in the
thermometer indicates the temperature of the air.
The only response Shep got was: "They're
a' awa! "
No sooner did he hear this than he was bound-
ing over the grassy undulations to the north-
ward, for he knew that the sheep, when chased by
vagrant animals, generally make for the steep de-
clivity that lies northward and eastward of the
play-ground. Shep was right in his conclusion
that his wards had fled thither. Perched all over
the sharp, steep rocks and boulders were the
sheep. But it was not a lion, or a tiger, or a wolf
that was awkwardly stumbling over the rocks with
blood-stained fangs, but a great shaggy butcher's
dog. In an instant Shep took in the situation. With
three springs he was close up to the marauder, and
at the end of the fourth the powerful freebooter
found himself possessed of what seemed to be a
permanent appendage to his left ear that was far
from comfortable. As an ear-ring it was too

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last bench show of dogs in New York. He is short
of nose, bright and mild of eye, and looks very
sagacious. His body is heavily covered with
long and woolly hair, which stands out boldly
in a thick mass and forms a most effectual screen
against the heat ofl the blazing sun or the cold,
sleety blasts of the winter's winds. The tail is very
bushy and curves upward toward the end. The
color of the hair is almost black, sprinkled with tan,
and there is a white spot on the throat. Were it
not for this white spot, he could not be called a
pure-blooded collie.
Young Shep is certainly an apt pupil, as you
may see if you visit the fold when he is taking his
lessons. He is very intelligent, and though, as
already said, he has not yet mastered the only lan-
guage the sheep understand, he spends much of
his time in thinking.
Sheep dogs, like old Shep and young Shep,
rarely get bones, and, consequently, when they
do have the good fortune to receive such a deli-
cacy, they are inclined to take very good care of it.
Young Shep, when he had picked the bone to

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his complete satisfaction
hole in the yard, and put
ing provision in time of p
in the future. Seeing
is losing his hearing, is b
his scent, .-.t i.:. [1.:
about the :iid :..lh- .. .
ble, and h:, lnrir Lii'-, ( -h
ster's fa-.:,r.r. b.:.n. :.
was too iiu.:jh I, ".,--un
Shep, ard I.- -.:i ,t hn-
self to 'IL 1 ii ,-
learned :.iin: r 'i.r'-

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=---- tite should return and he could enjoy the feast to
S his heart's content. As said before, young Shep is
a thinking dog, and it did not take him long to hit
upon a plan by which the voracious appetite of his
. ~ revered instructor might be foiled at least in so
.& far as the appropriation of his junior's property was
S concerned.
He. first dug an unusually deep pit, scratching
away with his fore-paws for a long time. In the
bottom of the deep hole he carefully buried the
( juicy chicken-bone, covering it with a good supply
of fresh clay. The hole was now only half full,
'. and young Shep was seen searching the yard from
S. end to end. Finally he found what he sought!
1 It was an old bone that had been picked clean and
% even the edges of which had been nibbled off.
t This he carried over to the newly made hole, into
I -which he dropped it, covering it in turn with a
- bountiful supply of clay.
The next day old Shep bethought him that he
IEP.-DRAWN FROM LIFE. would like a good bone to nibble. So he searched
about the yard. The newly turned earth assured
for the time, used to dig a him that a bone was below, and his nose affirmed
t the bone in it, thus mak- it. He went to work with a will, and his labors
plenty for a possible famine were soon rewarded by the sight of a bone. But
this, old Shep, who, if he such a bone! No meat adhered to its sides, and it
y no means parting with was almost white in some places
h'., it :.r - .a. "r.:.n'i ..:'.:":,:.-ur: to the wea-
.,1 ,, ni- tIh I'id Shep just
1 -[ t ,,- .:d with it for a
f h- e- ew moments
f,,." and then car-
i- -- - .- J I tried it to
., 7,the far-
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sor. Being given an unusually delicious and deli-
cate chicken-bone one day, just after his dinner, he
looked around for a safe depository until his appe-

of the yard, where he dropped it. Meantime, young
Shep had come to the door of the fold and had seen
what was going on with ill-concealed anxiety. No



sooner had old Shep retired from the vicinity of
the hole, however, than the younger dog was there,
digging with all his might; and a few minutes later
Old Shep, at the other end of the yard, saw him
extract from the same hole where he himself had
been digging, a fine juicy chicken-bone, that almost
made his mouth water.
Now that young Shep's studies are nearly com-
pleted, old Shep is kept much of the time chained
up in the dark recesses of the fold, and it is indeed
a pitiable sight to see the noble old fellow as he
sits with watery eyes and looks up wistfully in the
shepherd's face in hopes he will relent and let him
go out once more with the sheep and watch them
as they clip the sprouting herbage on the neighbor-
ing hill-sides. But the fact is, old Shep is very

deaf, and all his faculties are waning, for he is
eighteen years of age.
"'E's studied o'er mickle," says the shepherd.
"'E's a'most wore out 'is mind, an' nocht will do
'im now but to wa' till it's a' over an' 'e 's na moor."
That 's it. The faithful old collie has done his
work and done it well, and he must now step aside.
He was a gash an' faithfu' tyke,
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke;
His honest, sonsie, baws'nt face,
Aye gat him friends in ilka place.
His breast was white, his touzie back
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black;
His gaucy tail, wi' upward curl,
Hung o'er his hurdles wi' a swirl."*
This is Burns's description of the mountain collie
in the "Twa Dogs," and a faithful picture also of
old Shep, of the Central Park sheep-fold.

Gash, shrewd; tyke, dog; lap, leaped; sheugh, ditch; sonsie, good-natured; baws'nt, brindled; ilka, every; touzie, shaggy; gaucy,
big; hurdies, hips.



OH, what is the use of such pretty wings
If one never, never can fly? -
Pink and fine as the clouds that shine
In the delicate morning sky,
With a perfume sweet as the lilies keep
Down in their vases so white and deep.

The brown bees go humming aloft;
The humming-bird soars away;
The butterfly blows like the leaf of a rose,
Off, off in the sunshine gay;
While you peep over the garden wall,
Looking so wistfully after them all.

Are you tired of the company'
Of the balsams so dull and proud?
Of the coxcombs bold and the marigold,
And the spider-wort wrapped in a cloud?
Have you not plenty of sunshine and dew,
And crowds of gay gossips to visit you?

How you flutter, and reach, and climb !
How eager your wee faces are!
Aye turned to the light till the blind old night
Is led to the world by a star.
Well, it surely is hard to feel one's wings,
And still be prisoned like wingless things.

"Tweet, tweet," then says Parson Thrush,
Who is preaching up in a tree;
Though you never may fly while the world goes by,
STake heart, little flowers," says he;
For often, I know, to the souls that aspire
Comes something better than their desire!"

THE "S. F. B. P."


'//-,I BIG broth-
ers are awful!
- ,:S I never saw any-
/J thinglike it! They wont
ever tell anybody any-
thing that a body wants to know," Alice
groaned, looking up at her big brother, a hand-
some boy of fifteen.
"Professor Knox thought so this morning,
Alice. He agreed with you entirely. I stuck on
the asses' bridge and could n't get off."
"I don't care about the bridge. I want to
know about that pin, and you wont tell. You could,
if you chose, I know."
"Not if I 'm to remain a gentleman, Ally. I
am pledged to secrecy, and honorable people don't
break promises."
Pledged to secrecy! Alice repeated, as George
walked away in a stately manner. "I like the
sound of that. I don't see why I could n't be
pledged to something, too. I don't see why we
girls should n't keep things, too. George loves to
say that we tell everything. I don't."
Alice set her pretty lips firmly, as she walked
toward school. Just before her were two or three
others, belonging to the same class, talking very
rapidly and gesticulating with books and sandwich-
People will think you 're impolite, girls, to be
talking so loud in the street," she said, as they
waited for her to come up.
"I don't intend to trouble myself much about
manners yet awhile," returned Jessie Kimball,
sending her box into the air and catching it as it
fell. "Time enough to be prim, by and by."
"I should think you did n't," Gussie Sanborn's
quiet little voice broke in. "I can't get a word in
edgewise. I 've been trying to tell you about
Charley Camp and how he fell into the bath-tub,
ever since we started, and it 's no use at all.
There ought to be a law that people should n't

Oh, bother said Jessie. "Who cares, when
every one does interrupt, sometimes ?"
Now, I '11 tll you, girls, I know about Madame
R6camier," said Gussie; for they were all talk-
ing about her the other night, and they said that
though she was one of the best talkers that ever
lived, she was just as good a listener; and then
Father said that to listen well was one of the lost
arts. Mr. Strousby said it was an American vice
for all to talk at once, and he doubted if any one
of us who were then conversing had heard what
any one of the others had said during the five
minutes before. He said ministers were the only
persons who had a fair chance now-a-days."
"There was one good listener there, anyhow,"
said Alice, and her name was Gussie Sanborn.
Now, girls, I have a plan. I think we are often
rude and impolite, and I 've thought of a way to
stop it. There is n't time to tell you now, but
please all come up into the north recitation room
at recess; and I tell you what, I think it will be
real fun,- for every one of us "
"Every one" included seven little girls, who,
when the bell was touched for recess, rushed up the
stairs and shut the door of the recitation room with
a bang. A'lice looked about dubiously, not feeling
quite sure of her ground.
"It's something more than just about being
polite," she said. It's something you 're not to
tell, and you must all promise you '11 not tell, be-
fore I begin. Anyhow, we must n't tell anybody
but our mothers, and I 'm not positively certain
yet about them, unless they promise not to tell
anybody else. Now, who promises? "
"All of us," said Jessie Kimball, speaking for
the seven. Don't we, girls?"
Yes," came from each one, and Alice went on.
"Well, I have it all planned in my mind. It 's a
secret society, like George's, you know,-to be
called the 'Society For Being Polite '-the S. F.
B. P.'-with a president and everything. We 'll
draw lots for the first president, and after that elect



884.] THE "S. F. B. P." 757

in this way: You know our beads that we 're mak-
ing purses with ? Well, we'll make strings of the
very lightest ones, all white or blue or yellow, and
every girl that is impolite shall have a black bead
added to hers. The president will have to string the
beads, and keep count of all the different errors;
and the one that has fewest black beads at the
end of the week shall be the president for the
next week. We must take account of all kinds
of impoliteness: Interrupting; and talking too
loud; and banging doors; and crowding; and
putting on airs; and eating our lunches too fast,-
and everything. But I don't think the president
could stand it for more than a week, having to
watch all the time, you know."
"You'll have to be the first president," said
Jessie, "because you know all about it; but how
will you remember all the times we are impolite? "
Put 'em down," said Alice, briskly. "The
president must have a little blank-book with all
the names, and every Saturday she must foot up
the accounts, and get the strings ready. We
take them off Friday before we go home, and put
them on again Monday, and we must all help pay
for the beads."
"Oh, wont it be fine?" said Jessie. "When
shall we begin? "
To-day is Tuesday," said Alice, reflectively.
It's better to begin right away, if you 've really
made up your mind to do a thing. I have a book,
and we can put down the impolitenesses for the
next four days, and make the first strings Sat-
But we must have a constitution and by-
laws," said Gussie; "secret societies, and other
kinds, always do."
"I think we hardly need them," said Alice.
"Anyhow, if we do, we can get them up after-
ward. Now, remember you all have promised not
to tell a "
"'Certain true, black and blue,
Hope to choke if ever I do,' "
chanted Jessie, loudly.
"One for you," said Alice, drawing out her book.
"We have n't begun we have n't begun !" said
Jessie, pulling away her pencil. "I shall go crazy,
I know I shall, if I must think of every word I say !
Besides, you 're not president yet."
"Yes, she is," said Gussie. "We all agreed,
and now we 've begun. I knew you'd be the first
to get a black bead "
"One for you," said Alice, turning to Gussie.
"That's a taunt."
Each little girl looked at the others in conster-
"We'll have to watch every word we say!"
exclaimed Marion Lawrence. "I never can do it;

and yet we've all promised. I'm afraid my string
will be all black."
"Now," said Alice, as the bell rang again, "I
shall not tell any of you about the others' black
beads until Monday, and I shall put down all my
own rudenesses too, and if I don't, any one can tell
me of them. We are the 'S. F. B. P.,' and

As the week went on Miss Christie wondered
equally at the startling increase of good manners,
and at the air of importance and mystery which
surrounded each little girl. She wondered more
on Monday morning, when the seven appeared
half an hour before the usual time and gathered
in a recitation room, which she was politely re-
quested to yield to them until the bell rang. Alice
locked the door, and then drew a long breath.
I'm thankful it's Monday," she said. Oh,
such a week! I have n't had. a minute's peace,
watching you all, and George saw me stringing
the beads and asked what they were for, and I told
him they had something to do with the 'S. F.
B. P.,' and now he wont let me alone at all, and
is trying constantly to make me tell. Here are
the seven strings in this box. Gussie, you have
only four black beads. I have seven, and Rose
eight, and Marion six, and Mary and Annie Rob-
bins each five. Look at Jessie's "
Alice held up a string, an inch or two of which
was in deepest mourning.
"Twenty-seven, Jessie she said.
"I don't believe it! Show me the book! "
sputtered Jessie. "Twenty-seven times from
Tuesday to Friday afternoon ? It's no such thing,
-so, now "
"One for contradicting," said Alice. Gussie
has the fewest black beads, so she 's the next
president, and she can put it down. Here 's the
book. Has any one told?"
"I have n't," came from every one, with the
greatest promptness.
"That's right. Girls can keep things secret,
even if boys think they can't. This society will
teach us to hold our tongues, and not tell all we
know. George is determined to find out, and so
is Fred Camp, and you must take care or they
will. It's very hard work not to tell things."
All the older girls opened their eyes wide as the
seven answered the school-bell. During the week
each one had worked the four letters on card-
board, and now appeared with a string of parti-
colored beads about her neck, and S. F. B. P."
in large letters just over her heart. Miss Christie
smiled, but said nothing. As the week went on,
Miss Brown, the assistant teacher, said that this
nonsense going on among the little ones had better

THE "S. F. B. P."

be stopped, as it distracted their attention; but
Miss Christie only answered that it did not seem
to her to be doing any harm, and if it proved
harmful she would attend to it.
George, in the meantime, had used every art
known to the mind of boy to find out the mean-
ing of the mysterious letters. Jessie and he were
firm friends, and he felt sure that a little judicious
teasing would give him every detail, and was pro-
foundly astonished that it did not. Fred Camp

day, when Jessie and Alice were locked in their
room, and George with Fred Camp and Will Ash-
ton were looking out sulkily and wondering what
they had better do, Satan, seeing six idle hands,"
at once found mischief for them to do.
"They have n't any business to have secrets,"
said George. It's different with us, of course.
We're old enough to know what we're about. I
don't believe it's anything good, else they would
n't be so mum about it."


pleaded with his cousin Gussie, shocked her by in-
sisting that the letters meant Society for Buying
Pies," and returned each day to the charge with
never-diminished energy. Bribes, threats, en-
treaties, all were useless. The boys grew cross
over their want of success, and one rainy Satur-

"I'd make 'em tell, if they belonged to me," said
Will Ashton, a heavy-looking boy with disagree-
able eyes. "I 'd listen and find out that way, or
else I 'd plague them till they were afraid not to
tell. You can almost always scare a girl."
Let 's get into their room," said Fred. "We



THE "S. F. B. P."

can drop through the transom, you know, over the
door in the back hall. Take the step-ladder and
back right in. Keep quiet now, and we '11 astonish
Alice and Jessie sat at their table altering strings
of beads. Jessie had labored through a week of
the presidency, nearly exposing the whole thing by
her impetuous ways, and writing herself down oft-
ener than any one. There was a decided improve-
ment, however, and she held up her own string
admiringly. Long ago she had bought some fat
black beads, determined to get some fun out of
her iniquities, and now she held them out to
"Only eleven this week," she said. "I have
thick black ones for pushing, and long ones for
screaming, and these flat ones for interrupting, and
I do believe I'm getting a great deal better."
Here came a rattling against the door, and then
a silence.
Go away," said Alice. "You can't come in
now. We 're busy.- My goodness! "
A pair of legs came through the ventilator, waved
wildly for a moment, and then Fred dropped to
the floor, followed by George and Will, who made
low bows as they gazed upon the astonished girls.
You're mean, horrid things to come where
you're not wanted," said Jessie, pushing her book
under the table-cover. "Gentlemen don't do such
things. My father would n't."
Good reason why he could n't. He'd stick
on the way and wave there all day." sang Fred.
" Thank you, Miss Jessie; you did n't poke it so
far under but that I can get it. Now we '11 see -
'Alice Benedict: Bragging, I; Interrupting, 2;
Contradicting, I. Gussie Sanborn: Airs, I;
Sulks, I. Jessie Kimball: Pushing, 4.' "
"Fred Camp, you mean boy! put it down!"
cried Jessie, growing very red, and making dashes
after the book, which Fred held high over his head.
"Look here, Jessie," said Fred, when after a
long chase bout the room she and Alice sank
down panting. "It's no use now. We have
the book, and we 're going to keep it, too, unless
you will tell what it all means. We '11 have the
beads too, and any other little thing we like."
I'11 tell Mother," said Alice, making a dash
toward the door.
"Easy, now," said George, holding her back.
"Mother wont be back till three, for she 's up at
Aunt Myra's. You may scream to Hannah or
Mary if you like, but I guess I can manage them.
You sha'n't come down to lunch, if you don't tell."
I can call fast enough," said Alice.
"Call away," said Will; "We '11 give you
three chances to tell, and then if you wont we '11
put you in the trunk-room and keep you there,

anyhow till your mother comes. She can't scold
me nor Fred. Now, will you tell ?"
"Never!" said Jessie, furiously, and Never! "
repeated Alice.
Once! Now, again Will you tell or wont
you ?"
Will caught Jessie's hands and held them
No," she said again, trying to pull away.
"You're a tyrant! You're a coward! You're
as bad as Fred !"
"Twice. Never mind little pet names. Now,
the last time. Will you tell?"
Alice looked at Jessie, but both were silent.
"Into the trunk-room with them!" Will shouted,
picking up Jessie as though she had been a baby.
George unlocked the door, and he and Fred pulled
along the struggling Alice, who, as they reached
the hall, made a sudden dash for the stairs. Fred
sprang forward, and accidentally slipped upon the
floor in front of her, and Alice, unable to stop,
tripped over his foot, and fell down the stairs,
catching at the banisters, and lying at last in a
little heap at the bottom. Will dropped Jessie,
who flew at him like a little tiger, and then rushed
down after George. Alice's head fell back upon
George's arm as he lifted her.
She 's dead," he said, looking up with a pale
face. She 's dead, and we have killed her "
Will looked at her a moment, then snatched his
cap and ran out at the front door, saying, "I did
n't do it, anyhow."
The two servants had come as the sound of the
fall reached them, and with a storm of words at
.the two boys, they carried Alice to her room and
laid her on the bed. Fred ran for a doctor, and
George for his mother, while poor Jessie sat by
and cried.
She's dead! she's dead. Oh, wurra! wurra!"
moaned Mary.
"Niver a bit," said Hannah, who had been
chafing Alice's hands and moistening her head,
which was badly bruised. "See, now; the darlint
is coming' to herself."
Alice opened her eyes, feebly at first, then
brightly as usual, and sat up.
I thought I was dead," she said, "but I'm only
stiff a little. I did n't tell, did I? "
"No, you did n't, you darling!" said Jessie,
flinging her arms around her. I was just going
to though for a minute, when that awful Will got
hold of me. I never thought George and Fred
were such horrid boys."
Half an hour later, when Mrs. Benedict came in
pale and quiet, not knowing what she might find,
while George, utterly miserable, followed her, hardly
daring to look up, Alice threw her arms about her



THE "S. F. B. P."

mother's neck and held tight, till forced in spite of
herself to look at the astonishing sight of George
actually crying and telling her how glad he was
that she had not been killed.
"I 'll never bully a girl again as long as I live.
I don't care whether you ever tell or not," he said
abjectly. "You're pluckier than any boy I know."
Mrs. Benedict, as she listened to the story of the
day, decided that it held its own lesson, and she
need say nothing. The doctor, when he came,
assured them no harm had been done so far as he
could discover, but he advised quiet for the rest of
the day, which Alice spent lying in state, and
waited upon by George with the greatest deference.
'When the S. F. B. P." again met, Alice, as
she gave out" the strings for the week and compli-
mented the society on the small number of black
beads, opened a little box George had put into her
hand as she left the house. In it was a gold pin,
shield-shaped, bearing the letters S. F. B. P.,"

and around it, in the smallest of German text, the
letters "A. B. T. G. W. N. T."
"He has all the alphabet there anyway," said
Jessie Kimball. What does it all mean ?"
Alice Benedict, the Girl who Never Tells,'"
said Alice, half laughing, half proudly. George
and Fred spent their own money for it to pay for
tumbling me down-stairs; and he said last night,
if we all kept our promises so well, why we would
n't be like most girls, that 's all."
All this was twenty-five years ago. Long ago
the society held its last meeting. Of the seven
only five remain, and Alice is Alice Benedict no
longer. If Alice, Junior, had not pulled out the
little pin from a dark corner of her mother's desk
the other day, and having heard all about it, told
the whole story to her pet Uncle George that
evening after dinner, you would never have
known~ any more than he, the full meaning of
the mysterious letters S. F. B. P.



HE jumps so high in sun and shade,
I stop to see him pass,-
A gymnast of the glen and glade,
Whose circus is the grass!
The sand is 'round him like a ring,-
He has no wish to halt,--
I see the supple fellow spring
To make a somersault!

Though he is volatile and fast,
His feet are slim as pegs.
How can his reckless motions last
Upon such slender legs?
Below him lazy beetles creep;
He gyrates 'round and 'round,-
One moment vaulting in a leap,
The next upon the ground!

He hops amid the fallen twigs
So agile in his glee,
I 'm sure he 's danced a hundred jigs
With no one near to see!
He tumbles up, he tumbles down!
And from his motley hue,
T is clear he is an insect clown
Beneath a tent of blue !





ONCE there lived a wise philosopher (so runs an ancient rhyme),

Imprisoned in this dungeon the philosopher shall be,
This king despised philosophers; he smiled a cunning sme,
And pd d hw to b k hs bd,-bt lg ad v y ri
-7 -- '~- _ __



ONCE there lived a wise philosopher (so runs an ancient rhyme),
Who was prisoned in a dungeon, although guilty of no crime;
And he bore it with a patience that might well be called sublime.
For the cruel king who put him there had made a sterpt in vain.decree:
L. Imprisoned in this dungeon the philosopher shall e,
'Till he find out by his own wise brains the means to make him free."
This king despised philosophers; he smiled a cunning smile,
When his people said: "trour Majesty, the sage is free from guile;
And consider, sir, the poor old soul has been there -such a while "
"Then let him find the way to leave," sternly the king replied.-
Full seven weary weeks had passed; the sage still sat and sighed,
And pondered how to break his bonds,-but long and vainly tried.
He had no money and no tools; he racked his learned brain
To solve the dreary problem-how his liberty to gain.
He wept, and wrung his useless hands;--but groaned and wept in vain.
VOL. XI.-49.


*..-- -L _One morn, as he sat
scheming for the free-
S--:. dom that he sought,
S./ A plow-boy passed the
S 'window, with a cheery
whistle, caught
,Ii-,'-''I' ~... -. lively sound disturbed
Si. the wise man's thought.

L 1111i".' '.' The peasant stopped his
i . ,i merry tune, and peered
I within to see
j I : Who the creature that
inhabited that gloomy
.1.I place might be.
"1 1'VI il "--Easy 't is," quoth the
Philosopher, to sing
S'',,,when one is free."

( i But why do you sit moan-
ing there ?" the merry
peasant cried.
""My prison door is locked
j- and barred," the
mournful sage replied;
." .. 'Who has no money,
-l ~ tools, nor friends for-
ever here may bide "
"But if the door is locked and barred," the stupid boy still cried,
" The window opens outward, and the window opens wide "
The wise man started,-paused,-and then with dignity he eyed
The foolish clown. My boy," said he, a notion so. absurd,
So plain and simple, could not to me have e'er occurred;
But "-(Here he leaped the window without another word).
The plow-boy stared amazed, then slowly shook his head in doubt.
If that 's your wise philosophy," said he, I '11 do without."
And the monarch heard the story with many a merry shout.

ell- N ... ,. .. .. ., ,,.
.I I ..n ,, .' I. .... 1 ,--T .,,> .- -__





S- ---- ivet Ickor-
S- ing up to see how
much we had spent
ONE OF THEO FRE- during the day in the
CONSTANTINOPLE. grand bazaars of Stamboul,*
when Artyn, our guide, en-
tered our parlor with the bundles containing our
Our father had arranged for us to spend the sum-
mer months in that delightful climate, and had en-
gaged quarters at the Hotel Luxemburg, kept by a
Frenchman, on the European plan. It was situated
on the main street and in the central part of Pera.
Pera is one of the suburbs of Constantinople, on
the north side of the Golden Horn, occupying the
entire ridge, and is mainly inhabited by Europeans.
Here all the embassies and the legations of foreign
powers are situated, as well as many hotels, theaters,
and fancy stores; so that the main street of Pera
has quite the air of a street in a European city.
It was about nine o'clock in the evening when
Artyn entered the room, and we immediately
opened our parcels and examined them, each
selecting his own property. There were small em-
broideries, tiny slippers, table and chair covers,
pipes with amber mouth-pieces, tiny coffee cups,
with filigree silver holders, fragrant attar of roses,
little rugs, and many other similar articles intended
for presents to our friends.
In the midst of our pleasant examination we
suddenly heard the loud boom of a cannon, which,
in the stillness of the hour, sounded so loud that it
greatly startled us.
"Ah! a fire!" exclaimed Artyn. "Let us see

here it is," and he listened eagerly,
.vith his finger on his lip. In a moment
Here was another report. "That's two,"
aid he, and waited for more. After
counting six reports, Artyn exclaimed
.1 %,ith surprise, "Why that means Pera,
or its neighborhood."
I '!-i:i makes you think so?" inquired our
't!i. .'l., was sitting on the sofa, enjoying his
.Ir.t -.1r t .;r rest.
STI.. i.umber of guns, sir. This isthe Sixth
I -*.: i:r, ." was the answer.
V \'l..:re are those guns fired?" was the next
"Do you remember, sir, where I took you
last Friday afternoon, half-way up the Bos-
phorus ? "
Well, sir, you must have noticed the high hill
-on our right as we landed. It is called Kennan-
Tip6. As it commands an extensive view of the
Bosphorus, some guns are placed there, and a
watch is posted to note the first appearance of fire
in any part of the city, and to announce it by
firing the cannon."
How do they find out that there is a fire in
Pera, when they are so far. off? "
"Perhaps they have telegraphic communica-
tion," observed our mother, who had come in and
was examining the articles we had purchased.
"Yes, madam," rejoined Artyn, "but it is not
by wires. There are. two towers devoted to that
purpose. One in the city itself, called the Ser-
Asker's tower, on account of its being near the
war department, and the other the Galata tower,
on the northern shore of the Golden Horn,
which we pass almost every day in going to the
city. You have not visited either of them yet.
When you do, you will find that the view from each
of these towers is very extensive. There are
watchers stationed at each tower, who are con-
stantly on the lookout, and the moment they dis-
cover the first sign of a fire they put out a signal,
calling Kennan-T6pe's attention to it. If you will
please to come up with me to the top of the house,
I will show you how the thing is done."
But at that moment Artyn's explanation was

* The Turkish name for Constantinople.

i -, ^ --;
;, ^ :-


suddenly interrupted by a long and dismal yell in
the street.
There!" exclaimed he, that's the neovbetjee,
one of the watch from the Galata tower, who is
dispatched to announce the fire to the different
guard-houses where the fire-engines are kept."
We all rushed to the windows to have a look at
him. He was a young man wearing short, loose
trousers of white cotton cloth. His legs were bare
below the knees; he wore Turkish red pointed
shoes on his feet, without stockings,-a loose
jacket of brown felt over a white cotton shirt, and
his head was covered with a metallic bowl, which
shone brightly. A leather belt encircled his waist,
and was clasped with a large brass buckle in front.
He carried a short spear in his right hand to de-
fend himself, Artyn said, from the dogs which
abound in the streets. But the:, -, .i ii-.. T r, .~.::, 1.
kept carefully out of the way a_ i..:. .,: .Ie, 0 -. 1-o-i
him coming. His yell was t .I i ii'.: p-'!p.- t..- .
make way for him and inform those at the guard-
house of his approach, just as stage-drivers in
America used to sound the horn when approaching
a village, or as a railroad locomotive whistles when
nearing a station. It served also to give due notice
to the guards to be ready to hear from him the
exact locality of the fire, so as to start their engine
with promptness.
This man was soon followed by another dressed
like one of the common porters who brought our
trunks from the custom-house to the hotel. In-
deed, these poor fellows, Artyn informed us, after
working hard all day, serve also on the night-
watch for fires. He carried, in one hand, a long
lantern, four-cornered and covered with parch-
ment, and, in the other, a heavy club, shod with
iron. He stopped before our window and gave
three thumps on the stones, and cried out in a
melancholy tone, Yangun- Var," (" Fire! fire!
at-- ") Immediately everybody who heard
ran out of their houses, and the quiet street began
to be crowded.
"Let us go upon the roof," said George. So
we all hastened up, and there, the night being
clear, we had a fine panoramic view of the city.
We saw both the towers, each of which had put
out a large globular red lantern, suspended from
a long pole, which extended from one of the win-
dows in the direction of the fire. We had a good
view of the fire, too, which was not far off.
Would you like to go and see a Constantinople
fire ? suggested our guide.
Why, yes to be sure exclaimed George
and I, if Father would let us."
"I dare say he will. May they go, sir? It's
worth seeing, and I will take good care of them,"
said Artyn, addressing our father.

Artyn was a young Armenian, educated at Rob-
ert college, on the Bosphorus, and consequently
he spoke English well. Father had taken a great
liking to him. He knew the young fellow was
intelligent, and he had great confidence in his
ability. So he gave us permission to go, since
we were to be under Artyn's care; and George
and I immediately rushed down-stairs, and, clap-
ping on our hats, left the hotel with our guide.
We found the streets, which were quite narrow,
almost impassable; and Artyn, anxious for our
safety, enjoined us to keep together. While
elbowing our way through the motley crowd, we
suddenly heard another thrilling yell from behind
us, and at the sound, the crowd took to the sides
of the street. There were no sidewalks; men and
beasts walked along indiscriminately. When the
throng heard the shout, they quickly separated so .
as to form a clear space, as American crowds
sometimes have to do at a fire.
That shout means that a fire-engine is coming.
Keep close to the wall, or else you 'll be run over
and trampled upon," remarked Artyn.
But I don't hear the rattling of the wheels,"
observed George.
"No, indeed,' rejoined Artyn; and for the
simplest reason in the world,-because the engine
is not run on wheels."
We soon caught sight of the captain of the com-
pany.. He was a tall athletic fellow, dressed like
the neovbetjee we had seen pass by our hotel. He
was coming toward us in a double-quick trot,
brandishing, in a proud manner, the brass spout
that belonged to the hose. He was followed by
the engine and the firemen that belonged to it. 0,
what a sight Most of them were scantily clothed,
and some did not even have caps upon their heads,
but I noticed that all wore the regulation belt with
the large buckle in front. They were evidently of the
class which composed the riffraff of the city. The
engine itself was nothing more than a big-sized
garden pump, carried on the shoulders of eight
men, four in front and four behind. They relieved
one another every now and then with great dexterity
and alertness.
They soon .swept by us, followed by the hose,
which was coiled over a long pole, the ends of which
rested on the shoulders of another file of men. Just
as they reached the next corner, there emerged from
a side street another engine, whereupon a squabble
for the right of way immediately arose. The two
companies jostled and pushed forward, each party
trying to get ahead of the other. After a long ha-
rangue and bluster, accompanied by constant yell-
ing, screaming and hard words, they lowered their
respective engines to the ground and fell into a
regular fight, wrestling, pushing, and knocking one





p ,1

'-.. 1.2 -'

Av I


.. .. - .-.
"TE LCE R WE W E W- c TR O..

.. TE P E W E WE W E S- -

anQther down in a most fero-
cious manner. Their looks
and actions were frantic, and
they fought like madmen.
While they were thus en-
gaged, a third shrill yell
assailed our ears. I thought
another engine was coming,
and wondered what would
be the result, when Artyn
exclaimed :
Ah! There comes the
Ser-Asker, the minister of
war 1 He '11 soon settle their
dispute !" And he did.
He was preceded by a
neovbetjee, who cleared the
way for him, and when he
came up, he promptly or-
dered the companies to take
up their engines and follow
him, which they did with the
utmost meekness and alac-
rity. There was no chance
now for either party to claim
the victory, but they kept up
a subdued rattle of words all
the way.
Does the minister of war
belong to the fire depart-
ment? I inquired of Artyn.
"Oh, no !" said Artyn.
" But all the ministers and
high officers of the Govern-
ment assist voluntarily at
great fires, in order to en-
courage the men and to keep
order, as you have just seen.
Even the Sultan himself is
sometimes present."
How much pay do these
zealous firemen get ? put in
Pay exclaimed Artyn,
with a hearty laugh. No
pay at all. They do it for
the love of it. Glory, sir;
glory and excitement are suf-
ficient pay for them! They
are exempted, however, from
taxes, and each fellow gets
one pair of shoes a year from
the Government; and if, by
accident, they should succeed
in saving a house from the
flames, they get a backshish,
or present, from the owner,


with which they repair to some favorite haunt, and some distance, finally alighting upon other houses
celebrate .their prowess with a crowd of noisy and setting them aflame. In this way, the fire
friends." was spreading dangerously. The people, how-
We had now reached the place where the fire ever, knowing this danger, were watching on the
was raging. We could not get very near to it, but roofs with pails of water; but the firebrands fell
were near enough to watch its progress. It was an so thick and fast that they could not master them.
awful sight. It looked as if the whole city was on We saw many people, whose houses had been fired
fire. Every now and then volumes of thick dark in this manner, running to save their homes.


. -- ..- -- - --""""'--

.. ;ti z i.


smoke ascended, followed by bright flames which
shot suddenly upward like so many tongues of fire
trying to lick the sky. The crash of the falling
houses, the rattle of the tiles with which the roofs
were covered,, the clanking of the engines, the
yells of the firemen, the screams of distressed
women and frightened children, the hoarse shouts
of men madly endeavoring to save their furniture,
-made a terrific din.
The fire originated in a valley on the north side
of Pera hill. The houses, being principally built
of wood and dry as tinder, fell an easy prey to the
devouring element. There was, besides, a strong
northerly wind that fanned the flames. Cinders
in quantities were floating in the air like fire-
works. Even large pieces of wood were detached
from buildings on fire and carried by the wind

Under these circumstances, the tiny fire-engines
could do but little toward arresting the progress of
the fire. It was fast making its way up the hill,
taking in everything in its path.
The water supply, too, was very deficient. It
was either obtained from the public fountains
(whence it was carried to the engines in leather
bags and pails), or it was drawn from deep wells
and private cisterns. These latter, Artyn informed
us, being used as receptacles for kitchen utensils,
are often unavailable; so that the water gives out
soon, or is very slow to reach the engines.
Artyn now suggested that we should retreat
from the place where we were standing; for it was
becoming not only uncomfortably hot, but even
dangerous. From the windows above us, beds,
bedding, and various articles of furniture were



being thrown into the street, where the friends of
t the owners scrambled forward to assist in saving
the property. Before retiring, however, we wit-
nessed two tragic events.
We saw a yourrg- woman brought out of a burn-
ing house with a copper kettle in her hand. She
was screaming wildly, My baby Oh, my baby! "
The woman had been engaged in the kitchen, with
her infant in her arms, and had been busily occu-
pied saving her cooking utensils by throwing them
into the cistern, quite unconscious that her dwell-
ing was already on fire. The firemen, having dis-
covered her in that perilous place, had rushed into
the kitchen and forced her to hasten out. On her
way she had espied a copper kettle, and had in-
stinctively seized it; but in her fright and bewil-
derment, she had thrown her baby into the cistern
instead of the kettle. Fortunately, a sturdy fellow
succeeded in rescuing the baby, and restoring it to
the distracted mother.
The other incident was even more dreadful.
As we stood looking at the fire, we beheld a
man struggling, and the-next moment saw him
thrown deliberately into the flames.
George and I exchanged looks of horror, but
the bystanders seemed to pay little heed to the
occurrence, merely remarking that the man was
an incendiary who had been caught in the act of
spreading the fire for the purpose of robbery.
We now found, that to abandon our position was
not an easy matter. We had to fight our way
through the crowd, and when, by hard effort, we
gained the main street, we discovered that there was
no possibility of getting to our hotel, the fire having
intercepted us. So we had to make a wide circuit
by going down the hill toward the Bosphorus and
up again at the other end of Pera. We noticed on
our way that every vacant spot along the street was
filled with heaps of household furniture, covered
with carpets as a protection from thieves and fall-

ing embers, the owners, or friends of the owners,
standing guard near by.
On the way back, Artyn took us through a most
dismal place, which frightened us almost out of our
wits. We had to pass through the large Turkish
cemetery that lies in the outskirts of Pera. The
somber darkness of the cypress trees was gloomy
enough, and against it the standing monuments,
lit by the glare of the fire, looked like so many
ghosts arisen from their graves to witness the con-
We reached at last the foot of the hill by the
Sultan's palace, and struck out toward Topanne.
When we arrived there, we learned that we could
not get to our hotel, for the simple reason that there
was no longer any such hotel in existence. It had
been burnt to the ground We thought of our
parents, and were greatly alarmed. We felt confi-
dent that they had escaped from the place, but
even if they had, how and where were we to find
them ?
To appease our anxiety on that score, Artyn
Well, young gentlemen, we will go to every
hotel that is not burnt down, and inquire for them.
If not in any of the hotels, they probably are at
the American Legation, which is not touched by
the fire."
We were greatly comforted at this and trudged
on with redoubled vigor. And within an hour, to
our great joy, we found both father and mother
comfortably lodged at the Hotel D'Angleterre.
They were anxiously hoping for our coming, and
were as delighted as ourselves at the reunion.
They, too, carried away by the excitement that
surged around them, had gone out, and before
they bad returned the hotel was in ashes.
But we have never become fully reconciled to the
loss of our "bargains," which were consumed and
buried in the ruins of the hotel.

A BOBOLINK and a chick-a-dee
Sang a sweet duet in the apple-tree.
" When I 'm in good voice," said the chick-a-dee,
" I sing like/you to 'high' C, high C;
But I 've caught such a cold
That for love or for gold
I can sing only chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee!"



IT is all very well to be good, I agree,
To be gentle, and patient, and that sort of thing,-
But there 's something that just suits my taste to a T
In the thought of a regular Pirate King.





FRIEDA grieved most at leaving the cathedral.
For Freiburg itself she cared little. She was
only a lame child, who could not run about with
her strong brothers, and sometimes, indeed, when
her back was very weary, she could not even walk.
But she was not unhappy, for Babele was always
kind, and was so gentle on the days when the pain
came that the touch of her rough, hard-working
hands was as tender as an angel's, Frieda thought.
And then Babele was so droll, and knew how to
tell such delightful tales about the Hillenthal, the
wild mountain pass near Freiburg, through which
the boys often tramped to gather and bring home
flowers for the little sister. "Here are your
weeds, Frieda," they would shout, laughingly,
and would almost bury the little girl under the
fresh fragrant mass of blossoms. The brothers
were rough sometimes with one another, but never
to Frieda. Johann, the eldest, worked with his
father in the picture department of a publishing
house. Heinrich and Otto were still at school.
In the twilight, after the day's work was done
and before it was quite dark enough to light the
candle,- for they were poor and thrifty people,
who had to be careful 'not to waste anything,-
Babele used to take Frieda in her arms and tell
her wonderful tales, not only of the wild H6llen-
thal, but of the Wildsee, the Mummelsee, the
Murgthal, and many another spot in the Black
Forest, as well as legends of the Rhine and the
Hartz Mountains, and of the Thuringian Woods
and the Wartburg; and the most astonishing thing
was, there was never a day when the pain came
that Babele, although she had been telling fairy
tales all these years,-and Frieda was nine years
old now,- did not have a perfectly marvelofis
story to tell, full of unheard-of adventures, and
irresistible charm. And Frieda would listen en-
tranced, until she forgot the poor little aching
back that did not grow straight like other chil-
dren's backs.
But it did not always ache, and Frieda was
really a contented little girl, and merry, toa, in her
quiet way. She used to sit in her low chair and
watch Bibele at her work, and croon sweet solemn
airs she heard in the cathedral, and help, too,
whenever she could. Sometimes she could sew a
button on Johann's shirt, or even darn a sock for
restless little Otto, who wore everything out so fast;
and she was always pleased to be useful.
At night, when the boys came home, they would

tell her what had happened to them during the
day, and she was clever enough to assist Heinrich
and Otto with their lessons, for in her feeble body
dwelt a sweet, strong, and helpful spirit. Then
Johann would explain to her how they made pict-
ures, until she understood the process almost as
well as he. As for her papa, she saw little of him
except during the dinner hour at noon; for he
worked hard all day, and when evening came sat
with his fellow-workmen smoking his pipe, and
seldom came home until after the children were
asleep. He did his best for his family, but he had
never been the same man, Babele said, since his
bright, cheery wife died, and that was a few months
after Frieda was born. And these nine years Bibele
had staid on, and kept the house and the chil-
dren clean, and toiled early and late, and all for
love of Frieda; for it was little wages that she
received, and tl4e growing boys needed more and
more every day, and Frieda's father would have
been desperate and helpless without faithful Bi-
bele. When the neighbors remonstrated and told
her she could get higher wages as servant in some
grand house, she replied scornfully:
A gown on my back, a roof overmy head, and
bread enough for the day what more do I want ?
And I would n't live without Frieda, no, not in the
King's palace and on the King's throne, and that's
the beginning and the end of it."
The neighbors shook their heads and advised
this and that, because neighbors like to seem wise
and delight to give advice, but in their hearts they
thought all the more of Babele for her devotion to
So, though lame and motherless and poor, Frieda
was not an unhappy child. She had many joys,
and the greatest joy of all was the cathedral. They
lived close by, almost in its shadow, and on her
" well days Bibele used to lead Frieda over and
leave her there alone for hours, knowing that no
harm could come to her in that sacred place. The
old beadle knew her well and was kind to her, and
all the people who came regularly learned to look
for the quiet little figure sitting alone by the great
pillar, and to be glad of the gentle smile of greeting
from the pale child with the large brown eyes and
the heavy chestnut hair falling below her waist,
concealing with its beautiful luxuriance the pitiful
little hump between the shoulders.
Strangers often turned to wonder at the blessed,
peaceful look the deformed child wore. But they




need not have wondered. She knew only love at
home, and lived always among beautiful thoughts.
Why should she not be happy?
There she would sit by the hour watching the


warm violet and rose lights from the stained-glass
windows, gleaming and glowing here and there on
the cold stone, now falling on the bowed head of
a peasant woman kneeling with her heavy basket
by her side, now lingering on.the cheek and hair
and soft rich draperies of a fair young girl. How
Frieda loved the changing lights How she loved

all she saw there in the great solemn, still cathe-
dral. The massive shafts, the noble arches, the
slanting rays of colored light, the many voices of
the organ. She knew it all so well, that she could
see every line as clearly
when her eyes were
closed as when they were
K open.
Only once did any-
-. thing ever happen to
f make her refuge seem
less dear and safe. It
was in summer, when
Freiburg is full of stran-
gers. Frieda was so used
to them, she knew at a
glance, when a party
came into the church,
whether they were peo-
ple who really loved the
noble lines as she did,
or whether they were
what she called the
"tired ones" who looked
too weary to love any-
thing, or the business-
like, loud-talking ones
who always mentioned
that they had been in
Milan and Cologne, and
did not think much of
this cathedral." Little
did Frieda care for the
unfavorable comparison.
It was her cathedral, her
world. And little did
S people know how close
San observer the still, frag-
:. ile child was. -She was
S'l too gentle to criticise, but
she unconsciously made
very clever distinctions.
One day a gentleman and
lady and a boy of ten or
twelve entered the cathe-
dral.. "Heisatiredone,"
-on thought Frieda, and
she has been in Milan
." and Cologne." The boy
had small black eyes,
quick movements, was richly dressed, and carried a
little cane. As they passed, the lady gave the lonely
little figure by the pillar a careless glance, and threw
some pennies into her lap. This did not wound
Frieda's gentle spirit. Such a thing had, indeed,
happened now and then, but only unthinking, care-
less people could possibly make the mistake of



imagining that those restful, patient eyes were ask-
ing for charity. Frieda rose slowly, walked over to
a poor-box, and dropped the pennies in. The lady
and gentleman had gone on, and did not see her.
The boy looked at her mockingly with his hard,
bright eyes, and then said: This is the way you
go," at the same time dropping his chin on his
breast, hunching his back, and walking with a slow,
mincing step.
The English words Frieda did not understand,
but the tone and the action were too brutally plain
to mistake their meaning. Like a crushed flower
the lame child sank drooping into her chair, and
looked with wide, sorrowful eyes at the boy, who,
with a grimace and a Good-bye, Owl! ran on
to join his parents.
When Bibele came to take Frieda home, the
little girl was pale and very silent. Babele thought
she was weary, but when the next day and the
next and still another day came, and she said
gently that she did not care to go to the cathedral,
but preferred to stay with her good Babele, the
faithful woman grew anxious.
Is it the pain, my Frieda? "
No, Bibele, it's not the pain. At least, it's not
that pain," the child said, gravely.
Where is the pain, then? asked Bibele.
Only here," said Frieda, pressing her slight
hand against her heart. Then suddenly, for the
first time in her life, she asked :
Why did n't God make me straight, like the
other children? "
And then poor Bibele, whose love had so
guarded the child that no harsh thing had ever
disturbed her peace, knew that some strange hand
had struck a blow, over which her darling had
grieved many days; and, kneeling by Frieda's
bed, she sobbed aloud, and taking the child in her
strong arms, and covering her with kisses, said,
in her warm, German fashion:
"Dearest, dear little heart, what makes the
pain? What cruel thing has happened that my
darling never wants to see the pretty lights or hear
the grand organ any more ? Tell thy Bibele,
little sweetheart."
He had very black eyes and a velvet hat,"
murmured Frieda slowly, and a crimson necktie,
and a little walking-stick with an ivory dog's head.
He did not mean any harm. He did not/know it
would make a pain in my heart to have him show
me how I looked, and he made his pretty little
straight back very ugly,"-she was whispering
now,- and I thought if I was like that, I must
disturb people who come to see tall straight pillars,
so I 'd better stay away."
Bibele trembled from head to foot. She saw it
all now as if she had been present. Her darling,

who had lived in a magic world of legendary lore
and poetry and music, who had known all her life
only the calm, solemn influences of the cathedral
and the tender sweet influences of her simple
home, had been wounded to the heart by this
strange boy, and cruelly awakened to a conscious-
ness of the deformity which separated her from
other children.
My lamb, my angel, I would give much to have
saved thee this and to have kept the pain from thy
heart," Bibele exclaimed, adding fiercely, and if
had that imp here I 'd wring his neck and crush
him in my two hands."
"Oh, no whispered Frieda, laying her gentle
hand on Bibele's lips. "The little strange boy did
not know. He did not know how I love the straight
pillars and high arches. He did not know I forgot
to think of myself because I love them so--and I
am crooked, Bibele," she went on with a piteous
sob I AM. He could not help seeing it."
"Dear heart," said Bibele, kissing the frail
hands again and again, I am only an ignorant
woman, and I don't know how to make things
clear. Even the wise men can't make things clear
always. But I know this much. Something is
wanting everywhere. It must be best so, or it
would n't be so. And thou, my angel, thy back
is crooked, but thy spirit is straight-and the
wicked boy who mocked thee, his back is straight,
but his spirit is crooked- and oh, thou darling of
my heart, perhaps no one loves him as thy old
Bibele loves thee "
No," said the child, thoughtfully, "his papa was
too tired to love him, and his mamma was too busy.
Poor little boy "
There was a long, long silence. Then Frieda
smiled again. Throwing her arms round Babele's
neck, she said softly to her faithful guardian:
"Love is best and the next day she said,
"Please take me over, Babele dear. I want my
lights," and Bibele could have wept for joy as she
led her to the cathedral. If after that Frieda
shrank a little behind her favorite pillar when she
saw a certain kind of boy coming toward her, and
if she breathed more freely when he had passed,
and if her great deep eyes seemed to grow still
larger, still more thoughtful than before, at least
she never complained, and she kept her thoughts
to herself.
Months passed by, and in time she was ten
years old, and everybody was sad because her
papa had died. Babele at first scarcely knew what
to do with the four children. But she was, as usual,
brave and patient, and help came. Frieda's uncle
from Geneva said he would take Heinrich and Otto
and send them to school, and Johann was seven-
teen now and a steady lad, and he must continue


where he was and look out for himself. As to
Frieda, here the uncle hesitated. His own family
was large, his wife had many cares, and was not
very patient. The boys would be out of the house
most of the day, and they would not mind a hasty
word now and then, but this pale, lame child, with
the strange soft eyes-he shook his head doubtfully.
"Ach, I will take the blessed lamb! cried
Babele. She would grieve so among strangers.
Let me take her with me and I will make a home
for her in my old home. Indeed, she shall not
want while I live- and she is like an angel in the
house, she is so wise and so sweet. She brings a
blessing with her wherever she goes."
So all was arranged. Johann was to stay in
Freiburg. Heinrich and Otto were to go to Gen-
eva, and Frieda was to go to Babele's old home.
Frieda was very sad, for she dreaded leaving the
boys. But Johann, Otto, and Heinrich perhaps
could come to her some day, Bibele said, and
could write to her always. But the cathedral,
thought Frieda, could neither come nor write,
and so, in her childish way, she grieved most of
all at leaving the cathedral.


FRIEDA kissed her brothers good-bye with a
large lump in her throat, the day they went off
with their uncle. She tied Otto's cravat with
trembling fingers, and brushed Heinrich's hat in
her motherly little fashion, but did not cry, for
Bdbele had told her that the parting would be
harder for the boys if she were not brave. After
they were gone, and the house began to feel
strangely still and empty, Bibele led her into the
cathedral and left her there for the last time in
her old place. The poor little girl pressed her
cheek against the cold pillar and sobbed as if
her heart would break. At least, she need not
restrain her tears out of consideration for the
cathedral's feelings. That was a comfort. No
one noticed her. The shadows were deepening
around her. Still clinging to the pillar, she wept
until she stopped out of pure weariness. She was
so little, so-troubled. The cathedral was so vast
and tall and calm. She grew quieted in spite
of herself. "Everybody must love Heinrich and
Otto and be good to them, for they are good P'
she said. ':And I can always remember that I
used to be here. Nothing can take that away,"
and the thought comforted her, though a great
sob came with it. Their the organ began. Its
thrilling tones seemed to be the voice of the great
cathedral saying farewell to the pained little soul.
She closed her eyes and sat. motionless. Great

waves of music surged round her. And above the
mighty volume of tone soared a single pure mel-
ody, ever sweeter, ever higher, up into the vaulted
roof, up to the skies, up to heaven itself. The
tired child felt as if she were lying in strong and
tender arms, and as if many murmuring voices
were saying softly, "Be loving! Be brave!
Farewell! She smiled gently. Farewell, little
Frieda Be brave, be brave !" said the voices.
When Blibele came, she found Frieda fast asleep,
her tear-stained but placid face pressed close against
the pillar, her arms clasping it lovingly. The next
day they left. Freiburg. Frieda was quite calm.
She looked at the cathedral spires as they passed.
"Wilt thou go in, once more, my lamb?"
asked Babele, anxiously watching her face.
"No," answered the child, gravely. We said
good-bye to each other yesterday."
It was a short journey to Blibele's old home,
but long and hard for Frieda. She had never been
in the cars, and they jarred and wearied her sadly,
though Babele traveled slowly and gave her long
rests, taking three days to do what she herself
would have done in one, had she been alone. As
they reached their destination, Babele was wild
with delight.
"See, dear heart," she cried, "how it lies among
the hills. It is like a warm nest in this great cold
world. And out beyond, a long, long way, is our
village. And there 's the old castle and the tower
and the great drooping trees of the park."
Now it was far too dark to see anything what-
ever, except the lighted streets of the new city,
but Frieda strained her eyes and dutifully tried
to look in all directions at once to please Blibele,
whom she had never before seen so excited and
gay. Presently a stout, broad-waisted, rosy lass
darted from among the crowd by the station with
a hearty:
"Greeting! Greeting, Biibele! Dost thou not
remember thy cousin Rickele? Have I grown so
old in ten long years?"
"Ac/ was! Thou art little Rickele And thou
wast such a wee bit of a thing!" And Baibele
laughed and cried for joy.
"And the mother greets thee, and she has
chosen a good room for thee, as thou didst write,
and I am to take thee there, but I cannot be
spared long, for the mistress said I was to come
back in an hour, and the mother bids thee and
the little one welcome, and she will come to thee
when she brings her butter and eggs to market
next week; and the neighbors greet thee, Bibele,
and wish thee health and good days with thy home-
coming; and Peter, the shoemaker, has taken the
baker's Mariele, and the wedding is next month,
and the dance will be at the 'Golden Lamb.'"


1884] FRIEDA'S

So the girl chattered on, telling all the news
of the village, swinging the travelers' boxes and
bags, answering Babele's eager questions and
leading the way to the new home.
The chatter, the lights and buildings, together
with her fatigue, made Frieda quite confused, but
she looked up so sweetly at this great, strong, kind
Rickele that the girl's heart was won in a moment.
"I will carry thee, little one she
exclaimed, as they reached a tall dark a
house in a narrow street, and swing-
ing the child up like a feather, she :ilR
bore her in triumph up four long "11
steep flights of stairs to the little .'
room awaiting them.
The room had a sloping ceiling
and a dormer window. There were two
narrow beds in it, a stove, a bare
wooden table, a couple of chairs, a
chest of drawers, a few shelves with
plates, cups, a dish or two, and a
pitcher on them, bright brass kitchen
utensils hanging on the wall, and a
pot of pinks on the window-sill. Poor
as it all was, the bare white floor ~--
shone from its recent scouring, and
the room was as neat and clean as
strong arms and willing hearts could
make it.
With a deep sigh of contentment,
Babele surveyed her apartment. It
was to be her home, and the home of
the being she loved best on earth. To
keep it, she must toil early and late.
What mattered it? It was her own
as long as she could pay for it, and
she was once more among her kins- .
folk--she was among the hills she
had climbed as a girl. The very air
she breathed was dear to her.
"Ah How happy we shall be
in this nest, my Frieda! she ex-
claimed. How beautiful is the
homecoming to the wanderer! But -
thou art weary, my lamb ; thou must
eat a bit and sleep." And she undressed the child
and laid her in her bed, beneath the great red
coverlet of feathers, which seemed like an enor-
mous hen cheerfully spreading its warm wigs over
the tired little girl.
Sleep soft, my treasure "
Good-night, dear Babele; good night, Rick-
ele," murmured Frieda, drowsily, and she sank
to sleep with the shafts of the cathedral rising
before her eyes, and the organ pealing in her ears,
above all the noise and bustle of the journey.
It was after nine the next morning when Frieda

DOVES. 773

woke. Baibele had already prepared their simple
breakfast. The same joy still beamed from her
honest face. She kissed Frieda again and again,
and called her her sweet angel, as she helped her
dress, then led her to one of the little windows in
the roof. The child saw at first only sunshine and
roofs; roofs near, roofs far, roofs everywhere.
It was so high, so strange. At Freiburg they

had no stairs to climb. They were on the ground-
floor. Here they were as high as birds. Frieda
threw open the casement. The fresh spring
breezes touched her cheek and blew her long hair.
The sun shone on steep, red roofs and quaint
gables. Two white doves sat on the roof near by.
Frieda laughed and threw them bread crumbs
from her breakfast. A big cat was solemnly blink-
ing his eyes in a dormer window of the next house.
Beyond the roofs rose the church tower; beyond
the tower the fair, green hills.
"0 Blibele, how happy I am?" cried Frieda.


" When I shut my eyes, I see my cathedral; when
I open them, here are the roofs and the doves."
And Bibele looked at her with tears of joy.
This was the homecoming. It began kindly,
with the welcome of friends and the heaven's sun-
shine. But long days of wearisome work followed.
Babele could not go into service, because of the
child; so she did washing and mending, and
bravely earned each day the bread they ate. The
days she washed at home, Frieda was con-
tented as a kitten, and made the hours fly by with
her sweet songs and quaint remarks. But the
four days of the week, when Babele went off at
day-break and Frieda was alone until toward even-
ing, were very, very long for the little girl, and she
spent them as best she might. With wide-open
eyes she watched the doves, and the roofs, and the
hills, then shut her eyes and saw the cathedral. She
kept the wash accounts, and answered politely if
anybody came to inquire about Bibele Hartneck,
the washerwoman, and when at last Bibele re-
turned, the two were happy as queens.
And Sundays! Ah, those were blessed days.
Then Babele had time to take Frieda down the
four steep flights and out, out into the spring-time,
out among the lilies of the valley, and the yellow
cowslips.and crocuses and slender jonquils, and all
the sweet flowers that grow on the Suabian hills.
Sometimes she would even manage to get taken
out-to Bachsdorf, where her people lived, and
where the irregular, queer little houses seemed to
be gossiping together and nodding their heads till
they almost touched over the narrow straggling
village street, and where the peasants in their red
waistcoats and silver buttons and knickerbockers
would sit the whole afternoon, under the chestnut
trees of the 'Golden Lamb' garden, and Blibele
would laugh as Frieda never heard her laugh in the
old Freiburg days. The week was long and full of
toil, but Sunday, under a fair sky, among kinsfolk
and old friends, brought freedom, joy, and peace.
The two were quite happy Bibele could scarcely
save a penny, but she was strong and brave and
always had steady work. One day there was a
great surprise for Frieda. She was alone. There
came a heavy thumping at the door, and actually
four men brought in a fianino into the small
crowded room. Babele had discovered it among
all sorts of rubbish, at a pawnbroker's shop, and
hired it for a mere nothing.
"Art thou stark mad, Babele Hartneck," cried
the other washerwoman on the same floor. Do
the Freiburg washerwomen scrub to the sound of
music ?" And all the neighbors standing in their
door-ways with their hands on their hips, laughed
loud and long at Blbele's foolishness.
Be easy, neighbor," replied Biibele, stoutly.

" Wash thine own skirts, and I will wash mine.
Thou hast no angel in thy room. Angels in heaven
have their harps. Mine shall have her sweet
sounds. Let me go my way. I am no babe born
yesterday." And the neighbors were silent and
laughed no more; for they loved Frieda's gentle
ways and earnest eyes.
After this bold deed of Bibele's, Frieda never
had one lonely moment. The tones of the piano
were quavering, like those of a very old lady's
voice, but like that, too, it retained afew sweet notes
suggestive of a far-off youth, and Frieda knew how
to bring out all its faint sweetness, and was so
blessed, she did not mind its frequent wheezes.
And what else did this wise, imprudent, loving, ob-
stinate, dear Bibele do ? She found a hard-work-
ing young girl who gave music lessons, and, on
the principle that exchange is no robbery, made
a certain practical little arrangement with her, by
which Bibele had a couple of hours' extra work
now and then, and Frieda, twice a week, a half-
hour's instruction in music. Now, Frieda's life
was quite full. Up in her nest among the roofs, far
above the noise of the busy streets, she was at rest.
Hour after hour she was alone, but not lonely. She
was not strong enough to work hard at her music,
but she loved it, and it loved her and lingered with
her. Besides what her teacher taught her, frag-
ments of old fugues and masses she had heard in
the cathedral found their way from her heart to
her frail little fingers. And when she was weary,
there were the open casement, the red roofs and
gables, the doves, the tower, the hills.
How beautiful and kind the world is !" thought
the little lame child, who spent most of her days
alone in the little room under the roof.
Two years passed in this quiet fashion. Things
had scarcely changed at all. Bibele worked on
as steadily, as cheerily, as ever, managed to pay
her way, and was thankful. One warm June day,
Frieda stood at her casement. Blbele would
not return until five o'clock. The little girl had
softly played an adagio of Beethoven's until she
was weary. She had then fed her doves, who had
fluttered about her, perched lovingly on her shoul-
der, and finally taken their position on the sunny
roof below, cooing and pluming themselves.
"Pretty dears said Frieda, and carelessly tak-
ing up a wash-book from the table near by, and a
stump of a pencil, half unconsciously she began to
draw their softly curving heads. Heads must
have bodies," she said aloud, and presently the
two doves from their beaks to their tails adorned
a blank page of somebody's wash-book. "Doves
can't stand on nothing," murmured Frieda, and
merely to give the doves a resting-place, she hastily
sketched the roof, and then other roofs, the chim-


1884.1 FRIEDA'S

ney, the curious little dormer windows, then, quite
naturally, the old church tower, the lines of the
distant hills, even the great masses of white clouds,
where she saw all the heroes of the fairy tales she
knew so well. It was all done to give the doves a
place to perch upon, and a background.
There, my dears. How do you like sitting for
your portraits ?" and she added a heavier line to
Elsa's beak, and made Lohengrin's tail feathers
more airy. At this moment, Dornrischen and the
Prince happened to appear on the scene, and
perched lower down on the same roof. Dearie
me, I must make you too or you '11 be jealous as
usual! laughed Frieda, and Dornrdschen and the
Prince were added to the sketch.
It was really very curious. Frieda had never
drawn anything in all her life. Her papa used to
draw, and Johann too was quite clever with his
pencil. But a little girl like her !-the idea had
never occurred toher. Now, in this careless fashion,
having finished her doves, she shut her eyes an
instant in order to see better, and then with bold,
clear strokes began to draw the picture that was
imprinted on her soul,--the shafts, the high
arches, the rich window where the lovely lights
streamed in,-in short, the whole of her favorite
corner in the cathedral. Swiftly, unhesitatingly
the child's hand moved. Her cheeks flushed.
The doves fluttered about her in vain. She heard
no sounds rising from the street. She was back in
the old days. Again she was listening to the organ,
and to the high, clear, angel voice leading her soul
far away. And when it was finished, she gave a
sigh of relief, then closing the book, thought no
more about it.
She might indeed have remembered her sketches
and laughingly have shown them to Babele, had
not a misfortune come to them which put such
trifles quite out of her head. Poor Bibele was
brought home that very day with a badly sprained
ankle. She had slipped on a wet floor and fallen,
as she was moving a heavy tub.
She tried hard to be patient and not distress
Frieda, but the prospect of long helpless days with
her foot up in a chair was trying enough to the
active woman, and more than that, she knew they
needed her daily work for their daily bread. But
how good everybody was! The baker round the
corner sent some rolls the next day as s(on as he
heard of the accident, and the butcher a bit of
good meat, and the rival washerwoman on the
same floor came in to take home clothes that were
finished and wash-books -and Babele rubbed her
eyes and said, "'It's'all because of that blessed
angel! "
It was Monday that she came home unfit for work.
Thursday morning there was a violent knock at the

DOVES. 775

door. Bibele started instinctively, but lay back
with a moan, as Frieda opened the door.
A gray-haired old gentleman with shaggy eye-
brows, and looking quite cross, came in. In one
hand he carried a cane, in the other something
very like a wash-book.
He gave one sharp look at Babele with her foot
up another at Frieda, who thought he was more
like an ogre than any being she had ever seen.
Good-morning," he said, gruffly. I wish to
find the young man who made these things in my
book." And he pointed a stern forefinger at
Frieda's sketches.
She came timidly forward. If you please, sir,
it was I. I did n't mean any harm, sir. I was only
making my doves at first. I am very sorry I scrib-
bled in your book, sir."
The gentleman looked at her in blank amaze-
ment. "You was all he could ejaculate, glanc-
ing at the shy little figure before him.
Yes, if you please, sir," said Frieda, now
thoroughly alarmed.
"You, indeed!" said the gruff voice again;
and, taking out his handkerchief, this very strange
old gentleman gave a loud and vehement blast.
Yes, sir," said Frieda, great tears gathering
in her eyes, "and I 'm sure I 'm very sorry, sir."
"H'm!" muttered the stranger, "if you did
it, do it again now."
Frieda seized her stump of a pencil and obe-
diently looked about for a sheet of paper.
STake this," he said, abruptly, giving her the
wash-book. With perfect simplicity the child
took it and began. Leaning an elbow on the
table, and resting her head on her left hand, her
long hair falling over her face, steadily and firmly
she did her work. She quite forgot the cross old
gentleman's sharp eyes, and only saw the soft
violet lights from the stained window, as the pict-
ure grew beneath her sure, rapid touch. The
gentleman stood near, watching her closely. He
gave no sign of sympathy or encouragement, but
Bibele saw his eyes twinkle, and though she did
not understand what it was all about, she felt that
he meant no harm.
Presently, having completed her corner of the
cathedral, Frieda, without a word, began to do
the roofs and doves, calmly beginning as before
with Elsa's head. At this the gentleman smiled,
and then Blibele was sure he meant only good.
Frieda gave him the book.
"H'm !" was his only acknowledgment. But
he did not seem so fierce as he did at first. Frieda
thought him the most extraordinary person she
had ever seen to be so angry because she had
spoiled a couple of pages in his wash-book, and to
grow gentle when she did the same thing over.


Who taught you ? he asked at length.
"Nobody," said Frieda, wonderingly.
And you only wanted to make your doves ?"
"Yes, sir," replied Frieda, meekly.
"And then you thought you'd fill up the oppo-
site page ?"
"Yes, sir," and Frieda began to feel quite
anxious again.
"Well, my dear, you are a witch," remarked
this strange old gentleman. And how it happened
nobody could exactly tell, but Frieda found herself
on his knee, and his eyes did not look ogreish at
all, but quite mild and merry, behind his gold-
bowed spectacles, and they were soon telling him
all about the Freiburg days and the cathedral,
and steady Johann, clever Heinrich, and fly-away
Otto; and the more Babele and Frieda related of
their simple life, the more this most delightful but
very curious old gentleman sniffed and snorted
and wiped his spectacles.. Why--neither Bibele
nor Frieda could. imagine, yet it seemed the most
natural thing in the world to be telling him about
it all. He did not ask many questions, but he
soon knew as much about it as they themselves.
He even discovered Babele's uneasiness, because
she must be idle for so long. He shook her hand
warmly when he rose to go, telling her not to be
troubled; and she took heart of grace without
knowing why.
That was certainly a day of wonderful experi-
ences. In the first place, soon after the gentle-
man went, a great box came, filled with good
things, enough to last for weeks, and on a card
was written:
To the little witch in the roof, from her devoted friend,
And when they were still rejoicing over good
fortune, another knock came, and in walked a
gentleman, who said he was Professor Reinwald's
friend and physician, and the professor had sent
him to look after Bibele Hartneck's sprained ankle.
And later still, a comfortable reclining-chair made
its appearance.
The excitement in the roof was really tremen-
dous. The neighbors came in to wonder, rejoice,
and sympathize, and Baibele, bandaged, and ex-
tended in her comfortable chair, received her
guests with the dignity of a queen.
The professor came again in a few days and after
that frequently. Frieda used to watch eagerly for
him, and grew so used to him, she quite forgot to
be shy -and sang her little songs to him and
played her sweet airs on the queer, cracked piano,
and chattered to him about the heroes of her fairy
tales, until the good man, who was an old bachelor
and who knew nothing about children, really

believed she was the most wonderful little being on
the earth.
And as soon as Bibele was well, he proposed that
they should leave their home in the roof and come
to him. He was a lonely, eccentric, cross old
fellow, he told them, but that was all the more
reason why he should be taken care of and im-
proved, and he needed just such a faithful soul as
Babele to look after his house, and just such a dear
child as Frieda to make his home happy.
And so they came to him, and did indeed make
him as happy as he had made them. It was a great
house, where Babele had every opportunity to bus-
tle about until everything shone to her heart's con-
tent. And Frieda had a garden with great shady
trees and a hammock, a piano whose voice was not
cracked, and best of all she studied systematically
and learned to draw and to be helpful to her other
papa," as she called the professor. For he wasan
architect, devoted to his profession, and he had
recognized, in spite of its childishness and imper-
fection, the real talent in Frieda's sketches of her
dear roofs and her beloved arches.
She never grew tall nor strong, and there were
days when the pain came just as it did when she
was a child, but she was a happy, thankful soul.
The boys did well in school, and came to visit her
every vacation. The first thing Frieda did when
she saw Otto was to tie his cravat, feeling sure it
had been awry ever since he had left her.
She saw the cathedrals of many lands, but never
loved any as she did the one that had taught her
so much that was beautiful and good when she was
a little lonely child in the old days. She saw
famous pictures. She met distinguished men. But
no features ever seemed so lovely to her as Bibele's
rough, adoring face, nobody so clever, so altogether
admirable, as her other papa."
In the professor's studio, directly by his desk,
hang two small pencil sketches a bit of a cathe-
dral interior and a study of quaint steep gables,
with dbves pluming themselves in the sunshine.
The lines are faint. The paper rough and curious.
" And what may this be? inquires a guest who
is examining the professor's rare engravings.
"Ask my daughter Frieda," says the professor,
turning with a tender smile to the lame girl with
the happy face who sits quietly by his desk.
"Ask Bibele, ask our house-angel, what the
doves mean," says Frieda, as Bibele comes to lead
her from the room. And Blbele, who is a privi-
leged character, tries to frown, then tugs violently
at her apron, then asks appealingly, Now, do I
look much like doves, and angels, and such? -
And she is right; she does not by any means,
-the dear, brave, true-hearted Bibele.






ONE warm afternoon, a stroller *..* ,.. - I .
borders of a small pond, threw hi.,:: i... i i I..
side a little tree that leaned ove: ii .. i
that its lowest branches were but .:- -.... -.
the surface. While reclining in 1. ii.id-. :,,. .' "
idly watching the leaves that fell '-.i-.:. ir,.: r .
and sailed away, the stroller sudl..I:, .. -'I I-.
chirping overhead, and looking u . I.:. .. :
limb two small sparrows. Near -,. irr.-r '-
in the air, rising, falling, and now ii -,..' .I.. .
them, was the mother-bird. Sh- .. .i.:
engaged in giving the fledgelings i.... i i!.: ;
in flying. But the young birds c .ii n..r I..: .J
duced to leave their support; the .. .-:!d. ,. '
their little wings and followed th-. -.:. .ii
from the tree by edging along si..i: i l. -.:n .r '
the limb. As she renewed her ef.. r-. I I- I.- .
they went, until finally they were .1.ur i.i. .- ,
tip of the branch overhanging th-- ir.r .,. ..h ,.
reflected their every movement. ...,
For some time these motions of i.t!,. I..iL ,:r -iii. ;
youngwere kept up, and perhaps or. '. t"-- -.
into a doze, for he suddenly beca : h. .. ,
one of the birds had disappeared. jl-o a r. .I .., .
splash had occurred under the limb. ai,-I I ii I ,. : .
mother-bird had changed her cri: ., l- .. : '
alarm. But it was evident from tl.. i:i I .
bird's actions that the little bird 1..I ..
flown away. The stroller concluded r''
it had fallen into the water, and Ii
rose to see if he could recover it.
when there shot up from the water r.
a long, slender fish, that quickly
darted through the
air and snatched the
remaining bird from -
the limb, falling . '.
back into the pond '' '
with a splash and -'' .
a whisk of its tail.- ; .
This startling leap
astonished the .
observer, but it --1 ,
also fully ex- I : ..
plained to him .-
the disap- --
pearance of the other young bird.
The pike was evidently out hunt- both. The mother-1ird was both grieved and
ing, and spying the birds upon dazed by the sudden calamity that had befallen
the limb, it had carefully measured the distance, the fledgelings, and perhaps fearing a similar fate
and by two vigorous jumps had captured them for herself, she soon flew away.
VOL. XI.-50.

~nnc~--~nnr+r;;i*mcrr~,~~~ --- ~












SV.-.. I THINK we little
... ones ought to have a
.. 'J story all to ourselves
S' now," said one of the
SA-i smaller lads, as they
gathered around the
.fire with unabated in-
S -- -- terest.
"So do I, and I
have a little story here that will just suit you, I
fancy. The older boys and girls can go and play
games if they don't care to hear," answered Aunt
Elinor, producing the well-worn portfolio.
"Thanks, we will try a bit, and if it is very
namby-pamby we can run," said Geoff, catching
sight of the name of the first chapter. Aunt Eli-
nor smiled and began to read about-



A BROWN bear was the first tenant; in fact, it
was built for him. And this is the way it happened:
A man and his wife were driving through the
woods up among the mountains, and hearing a
queer sound, looked about them till they spied two
baby bears in a tree.
Those must be the cubs of the old bear that
was killed last week," said Mr. Hitchcock, much
interested at once.
"Poor little things how will they get on without
their mother? They seem so frightened, and cry
like real babies," said the kind woman.
They will starve if we don't take care of them.
I'll shake them down; you catch them in your
shawl and we '11 see what we can do for them."
So Mr. Hitchcock climbed up the tree, to the

great dismay of the two orphans, who growled
funny little growls and crept, as far out on the
branch as they dared.
"Shake softly, John, or they will fall and be
killed," cried the wife, holding out her shawl for
this new kind of fruit to fall into.
Down they came, one after the other, and at
first were too frightened to fight; so Mr. Hitchcock
bundled them up safely in the wagon, and Mrs.
Hitchcock soothed their alarm by gentle pattings
and motherly words, till they ceased to struggle,
and cuddled down to sleep like two confiding
puppies, than which they were not much larger.
Mr. Hitchcock kept the hotel that stood at the
foot of the king of the mountains, and in sum-
mer the house was full of people; so he was glad
of any new attraction, and the little bears were
the delight of many children. At first, Tom and
Jerry trotted and tumbled about like frolicsome
puppies, and led easy lives,- petted, fed, and ad-
mired, till they grew so big and bold that, like
other young creatures, their pranks made mischief
as well as fun.
Tom would steal all the good things he could
lay his paws on in kitchen or dining-room, and
cook declared she could n't have the rascal loose;
for whole pans of milk vanished, sheets of ginger-
bread were found in his den under the back steps,
and nearly every day he was seen scrambling off
with booty of some sort, while the fat cook waddled
after, scolding and shaking the poker at him, to
the great amusement of the boarders on the piazza.
People bore with him a long time; but when, one
day, after eating all he liked, he took a lively trot
down the middle of the long dinner-table, smash-
ing right and left as he scampered off, with
a terrible clatter of silver, glass, and china, his
angry master declared he would n't have such


doings, and chained him to a post on the lawn.
Here he tugged and growled dismally, while good
little Jerry frisked gayly about, trying to under-
stand what it all meant.
But presently his besetting sin got him into
trouble likewise. He loved to climb, and was
never happier than when scrambling up the rough
posts of the back piazza to bask in the sun on the
roof above, peeping down with his sharp little
eyes at the children, who could not follow. He
roosted in trees like a fat brown bird, and came
tumbling down unexpectedly on lovers who sought
quiet nooks to be romantic in. He explored the
chimneys and threw into them any trifle he hap-
pened to find,-for he was a rogue, and fond of
stealing hats, balls, dolls, or any small article that
came in his way. But the fun he liked best was
to climb in at the chamber windows and doze on
the soft beds; for Jerry was a luxurious fellow and
scorned the straw of his own den. This habit an-
noyed people much, and the poor little bear often
came bundling out of windows, to the accompani-
ment of a whack from an old gentleman's cane, or
a splash of water thrown at him by some irate
One evening, when there was a dance, and
every one was busy down-stairs, Jerry took a walk
on the roof, and being sleepy, looked about for a
cozy bed in which to take a nap. Two brothers
occupied one of these rooms, and both were Jerry's
good friends, especially the younger. Georgie was
fast asleep, as his dancing day had not yet begun,
and Charley was waltzing away down-stairs; so
Jerry crept into bed and nestled beside his play-
mate, who was too sleepy to do anything but roll
over, thinking the big brother had come to bed.
By and by Charley did come up, late and tired,
and having forgotten a lamp, undressed in the
moonlight, observing nothing till about to step
into bed; then, finding something rolled up in the
clothes, he thought it a joke of the other boys, and
catching up a racquet, began to bang away at the
suspicious bundle. A scene of wild confusion fol-
lowed, for Jerry growled and clawed and could n't
get out; Georgie awoke, and thinking that his bed-
fellow was his brother being abused by some frolic-
some mate, held on to Jerry, defending him bravely,
till a rent in the sheet allowed a shaggy head to
appear, so close to his own that the poor child was
painfully reminded of Red Riding Hood's false
grandmother. Charley was speechless with laugh-
ter at this discovery, and while Jerry bounced about
the bed snarling and hugging pillows as he tried
to get free, the terrified Georgie rushed down the
hall screaming, "The wolf! the wolf!" till he
gained a refuge in his mother's room.
Out popped night-capped heads, anxious voices

cried, "Is it fire?" and in a moment the house
was astir. The panic might have been serious if
Jerry had not come galloping down-stairs, hotly
pursued by Charley in his night-gown, still waving
his weapon at the poor beast, and howling, He
was in my bed! He frightened Georgie! "
Then the alarmed ladies and gentlemen laughed
and grew calm, while the boys all turned out and
hunted Jerry up stairs and down, till he was capt-
ured and ignominiously lugged away to be tied
in the barn.
That prank sealed his fate, and he went to join
his brother in captivity. Here they lived for a year,
and went to housekeeping in a den in the bank,
with a trough for their food, and a high, knotted
pole to climb on. They had many visitors, and
learned a few tricks, but were not happy, for they
longed to be free, and the older they grew, the more
they sighed for the forest where they were born.
The second summer something happened that
parted them forever. Among the children who
came to the hotel that year with their parents,
were Fred and Fan Howard, two jolly young
persons of twelve and fourteen. Of course, the
bears were very interesting, and Fred tried their
tempers by tormenting them, while Fan won their
hearts with cake and nuts, candy and caresses.
Tom was Fred's favorite, and Jerry was Fan's.
Tom was very intelligent, and covered himself
with glory by various exploits. One was taking
off the boards which roofed the den, so that the
sun should dry the dampness after a rain; and he
carefully replaced them at night. Any dog who
approached the trough had his ears smartly boxed,
and meddlesome boys were hugged till they
howled for mercy. He danced in a way to con-
vulse the soberest, and Fred taught him to shoul-
der arms in imitation of a stout old soldier of the
town with so droll an effect, that the children rolled
on the grass shouting with laughter when the cap
was on, and the wooden gun was flourished by the
clumsy hero at word of command.
Jerry had no accomplishments, but his sweet
temper made him many friends. He allowed the
doves to eat with him, the kittens to frolic all over
his back, and was never rough with the small people
who timidly offered him buns which he took very
gently from their little hands. But he pined in cap-
tivity, refused his food, and lay in his den all day, or
climbed to the top of the pole and sat there look-
ing off to the cool, dark forest with such a pensive
air that Fan said it made her heart ache to see
him. Just before the season ended, Jerry disap-
peared. No one could imagine how the chain
broke, but gone he was, and-to Fan's satisfaction
and Tom's great sorrow-he never came back.
Tom mourned for his brother, and Mr. Hitchcock




began to talk of killing Tom; for it would not do
to let two bears loose in the neighborhood, as they
sometimes killed sheep and did much harm.
"I wish my father would buy him," said Fred,
"I 've always wanted a menagerie, and a tame
bear would be a capital beginning."
"I 'll ask him, for I hate to have the poor old
fellow killed," answered Fan. She not only
begged papa to buy Tom, but confessed that she
filed Jerry's chain and helped him to escape.
"I know it was wrong, but I could n't see him
suffer," she said. Now, if you will buy Tom I '11
give you my five dollars to help, and Mr. Hitch-
cock will forgive me and be glad to get rid of both
the bears."
After some consultation Tom was bought, and
orders were sent to have a house built for him in a
sunny corner of the garden, with strong rings to
which to chain him, and a good lock on the
door. When he was settled in these new quar-
ters, he held daily receptions for some weeks.
Young and old came to see him, and Fred showed
off his menagerie with the pride of a budding Bar-
num. A bare spot was soon worn on the grass-plot
which made Tom's parade-ground, and at all hours
the poor fellow might be seen dancing and drilling,
or sitting at his door, thoughtfully surveying the
curious crowd, and privately wishing he never had
been born.
Here he lived for another year, getting so big
that he could hardly turn around in his house, and
so cross that Fred began to be a little afraid of him,
after several hugs much too vehement to be safe
or agreeable. One morning the door of the house
was found broken off, and Tom was gone. Fred was
rather relieved; but his father was anxious, and or-
dered out the boys of the neighborhood to find the
runaway, lest he should alarm people or do some
harm. It was an easy matter to trace him, for
more than one terrified woman had seen the big
brown beast sniffing around her kitchen premises
after food; a whole schoolful of children had been
startled out of their wits by a bear's head at the
window; and one old farmer was in a towering rage
over the damage done to his bee-hives and garden-
patch by that pesky critter, afore he took to the
After a long. search poor Tom was found rolled
up in a sunny nook, resting after a glorious frolic.
He went home without much reluctance, but from
that time it was hard to keep him. Bolts and
bars, chains and ropes were of little use; for when
the longing came, off he went, on one occasion
carrying the house on his back, like a snail, till
he tipped it over and broke loose. Fred was
quite worn out with his pranks, and tried to sell
or give him away; but nobody would buy or accept

such a troublesome pet. Even tender-hearted
Fan gave him up, when he frightened a little
child into convulsions, and had killed some sheep
on his last holiday.
It was decided that he must be killed, and a
party of men, armed with guns, set out one after-
noon to carry the sentence into effect. Fred went
also to see that all was properly done, and Fanny
called after him with tears in her eyes: "Say
good-bye to him for me."
This time Tom had been gone a week, and had
evidently made up his mind to become a free bear;
for he had wandered far into the deepest wood and
made a den for himself among the rocks. Here
they found him, but could not persuade him to
come out, and no bold Putnam was in the troop
who would creep in and conquer him there.
"We have fooled away time enough, and I
want to get home to supper," said the leader of
the hunt, after many attempts had been made to
lure or drive Tom from his shelter.
So they fired a volley into the den, and growls
of pain proved that some of the bullets had hit.
And as no answering sound followed the second
volley, the hunters concluded that their object was
accomplished, and went home, agreeing to come
the next day to make sure. They were spared
the trouble, however, for when Fred looked from
his window in the morning he saw that Tom had
returned. He ran down to welcome the rebel
back. But one look showed him that the poor
beast had only come home to die; for he was cov-
ered with wounds and lay moaning on his bed of
straw, looking as pathetic as a bear could.
Fanny cried over him, and Fred was quite
bowed down with remorse; but nothing could be
done, and within an hour poor Tom was dead. As
if to atone for their seeming cruelty, Fanny draped
the little house with black, and Fred, resisting all
temptations to keep the bear's fine skin, buried
him like a warrior, "with his martial cloak around
him," in the green woods he loved so well.


THE next tenants of the little house were three
riotous lads,- for Fred's family had moved away,
-and the new-comers took possession one fine
spring day with great rejoicing over this ready-
made plaything. They were imaginative little
fellows, of eleven, twelve, and fourteen; for, hav-
ing read the Boys' Froissart" and other war-like
works, they were quite carried away by these stir-
ring tales, and each boy was some special hero.
Harry, the eldest, was Henry of Navarre, and wore
a white plume on every occasion. Ned was the
Black Prince, and clanked in tin armor, while little


Billy was William Tell and William Wallace by
Tom's deserted mansion underwent astonishing
changes about this time. Bows and arrows hung
on its walls; battle-axes, lances, and guns stood
in the corners; helmets, shields, and all manner
of strange weapons adorned the rafters; cannon
peeped from its port-holes; a drawbridge swung
over the moat that soon surrounded it; the flags
of all nations waved from its roof, and the small
house was by turns an armory, a fort, a castle, a
robber's cave, a warrior's tomb, a wigwam, and
the Bastile.
The neighbors were both amused and scandal-
ized by the pranks of these dramatic young per-
sons; for they enacted with much spirit and skill
all the historical events which pleased their fancy,
and speedily enlisted other boys to join in the new
plays. At one time, painted and be-feathered
Indians whooped about the garden, tomahawking
the unhappy settlers in the most dreadful manner.
At another, Achilles, radiant in a tin helmet and
boiler-cover shield, dragged Hector at the tail of
his chariot (the wheel-barrow), drawn by two antic
and antique steeds, who upset both victor and
vanquished before the fun was over. Tell shot
bushels of apples off the head of the stuffed suit of
clothes that acted his son, Cceur de Leon and Sala-
din hacked blocks and cut cushions a la Walter
Scott, and tournaments of great splendor were held
on the grass, in which knights from all ages, climes,
and races tilted gallantly, while fair dames of ten-
der years sat upon the wood-pile to play Queens of
Beauty and award the prize of valor.
Nor were modern heroes forgotten. Napoleon
crossed the Alps (a hay-rick, high fence, and
prickly hedge) with intrepid courage. Welling-
ton won many a Waterloo in the melon-patch, and
Washington glorified every corner of the garden
by his heroic exploits. Grant smoked sweet-fern
cigars at the fall of Richmond; Sherman marched
victoriously to Georgia through the corn and round
the tomato bed, and Phil Sheridan electrified the
neighborhood by tearing down the road on a
much-enduring donkey, stung to unusual agility
by something tied to his tail.
It grew to be an almost daily question among the
young people, What are the Morton boys at
now ? for these interesting youths were mych ad-
mired by their mates, who eagerly manned the
fences to behold the revels, when scouts brought
word of a new play going on. Mrs. Morton
believed in making boys happy at home, and so
allowed them entire liberty in the great garden, as
it was safer than river, streets, or ball-ground, where
a very mixed crowd was to be found. Here they
were under her own eye, and the safe, sweet tie

between them still held fast; for she was never too
busy to bind up their wounds after a fray, wave
her handkerchief when cheers told of victory,
rummage her stores for costumes, or join in their
eager study of favorite heroes when rain put an
end to their out-of-door fun.
So the summer was a lively one, and though
the vegetables suffered some damage, a good crop
of healthy, happy hours was harvested, and all
were satisfied. The little house looked much the
worse for the raids made upon it, but still stood
firm with the stars and stripes waving over it, and
peace seemed to reign one October afternoon as the
boys lay under the trees eating apples and plan-
ning what to play next.
"Bobby wants to be a knight of the Round
Table. We might take him in and have fun with
the rites, and make him keep a vigil and all that,"
proposed William Wallace, anxious to admit his
chosen friend to the inner circle of the brother-
"He 's such a little chap, he'd be scared and
howl. I don't vote for that," said the Black
Prince, rather scornfully, as he lay with his kingly
legs in the air, and his royal mouth full of apple.
"I do !" declared Henry of Navarre, always
generous and amiable. Bob is a plucky little
chap, and will do anything we put him to. He's
poor, and the other fellows look down on him, so
that's another reason why we ought to take him in
and stand by him. Let's give him a good trial,
and if he's brave we '11 have him."
"So we will! Let's do it now; he's over
there waiting to be asked," cried Billy.
A whistle brought Bobby, with a beaming face,
for he burned to join the fun, but held back
because he was not a gentleman's son. A sturdy,
honest little soul was Bobby, true as steel, brave
as a lion, and loyal as an old-time vassal to his
young lord, kind Billy, who always told him all
the plans, explained the mysteries, and shared the
goodies when feasts were spread.
Now he stood leaning against one of the posts
of the little house whither the boys had adjourned,
and listened bashfully while Harry told him what
he must do to join the heroes of the Round Table.
He did not understand half of it, but was ready for
any trial, and took the comical oath administered
to him with the utmost solemnity.
"You must stay locked in here for some hours,
and watch your armor. That's the vigil young
knights had to keep before they could fight. You
must n't be scared at any noises you hear, or any-
thing you see, nor sing out for help, even if you
stay here till dark. You 'll be a coward if you do,
and never have a sword."
"I promise truly; hope t' die if I don't,"


answered Bobby, fixing his blue eyes on the
speaker, and holding his curly head erect with the
air of one ready to face any peril; for the desire
of his soul was to own a sword like Billy's, and
clash it on warlike occasions.
Then a suit of armor was piled up on the red
box, which was by turns altar, table, tomb, and
executioner's block. Banners were hung over it,
the place darkened, two candles lighted, and
after certain rites, which cannot be divulged, the
little knight was left to his vigil, and the door was
The boys howled outside, smote on the roof,
fired a cannon, and taunted the prisoner with de-
risive epithets to stir him to wrath. But no cry
answered them, no hint of weariness, fear, or
anger betrayed him, and after a half-hour of this
sort of fun, they left him to the greater trial of
silence, solitude, and uncertainty.
The short afternoon was soon gone, and the tea-
bell rang before the vigil had lasted long enough
to suit the young heroes.
"He wont know what time it is; let 's leave
him till after supper, and then march out with
torches and bring him in to a good meal. Mother
wont mind, and Hetty likes to see boys eat," pro-
posed Harry, and all being hungry, the first part
of the plan was carried out at once.
But before tea was over the unusual clang of
the- fire-bells drove all thought of Bobby out of
the boys' minds, as the three Morton lads raced
away to the exciting scene, to take their share in
the shouting, running, and tumbling about in
every one's way.
A fine large house not far away was burning, and
till midnight the town was in an uproar. No
lives were lost, but much property was burned,
nothing but the fire was thought of till dawn.
A heavy shower did good service, and about
one o'clock people began to go home tired out.
Mrs. Morton and other ladies were too busy giving
shelter to the family from the burning house,
and making coffee for the firemen, to send their
boys to bed. In fact, they could not catch them ;
for the youngsters were wild with excitement, and
pervaded the place like will-o'-the-wisps, running
errands, lugging furniture, splashing about with
water, and shouting till they were as hoarse as
At last the flurry was over, and our three lads,
very dirty, wet, and tired, went to bed and to
sleep, and never once thought of poor Bobby, till
next morning. Then Harry suddenly rose with
an exclamation that effectually roused both his
"Boys! Boys We 've left Bobby at his vigil
all night "

"He would n't be such a fool as to stay; he
could break that old lock easily enough," said
Ned, looking troubled, in spite of his words.
Yes, he would He promised, and he '11 keep
his word like a true knight. It rained and was
cold, and everybody was excited about the fire, and
no one knew where he was. I never once thought
of him all night long. Oh, dear, I hope he is n't
dead," cried Billy, tumbling out of bed and into
his clothes as fast as he could.
The others laughed, but dressed with unusual
speed, and flew to the garden-house, to find the lock
unbroken, and all as still inside as when they left
it. Looking very anxious, Harry opened the door,
and they all peeped in. There, at his post before
the altar, lay the little knight, fast asleep. Rain had
soaked his clothes, the chilly night air had made
his lips and hands purple with cold, and the trials
of those long hours had left the round cheeks some-
what pale. But he still guarded his arms, and at
the first sound was awake and ready to defend
them, though somewhat shaky with sleep and stiff-
The penitent boys poured forth apologies, in
which fire, remorse, and breakfast were oddly
mixed. Bobby forgave them like a gentleman,
only saying, with a laugh and a shiver, Guess
I 'd better go home, for ma '11 be worried about
me. If I 'd known being out all night and getting
wet was part of the business, I 'd 'a' left word and
brought a blanket. Am I a Round Table now?
Shall I have a sword, and train with, the rest? I
did n't holler once, and I was n't much scared, for
all the bells, and the dark, and, the rain."
You've.won your spurs, and we '11 knight you
just as soon as we get time. You 're a brave
fellow, and I 'm proud to have you one of my
men. Please don't say much about this; we 'll
make it all right, and we 're awfully sorry," an-
swered Harry, while Ned put his own jacket over
Bobby's shoulders, and Billy beamed at him, feel-
ing that his friend's exploit outdid any of his
Bobby marched away as proudly as if he already
saw the banners waving over him, and felt the
accolade that made him a true knight. But that
happy moment was delayed for some time, because
the cold which he had caught in that shower
threatened a fit of sickness; and the boys' play
looked as if it might end in sad earnest.
Harry and his brothers confessed all to mamma,
listened with humility to her lecture on true knight-
hood, and did penance by serving Bobby like real
brothers-in-arms, while he was ill. As soon as the
hardy boy was all right again, they took solemn
counsel together how they should reward him, and
atone for their carelessness. Many plans were



discussed, but none seemed fine enough for this
occasion till Billy had a bright idea.
Let 's buy Bob some hens. He wants some
dreadfully, and we ought to do something grand
after treating him so badly, and nearly killing
Who 's got any money? I have n't; but it 's
a good idea," responded Ned, vainly groping in all
his pockets for a dime to head the subscription
"Mamma would lend us some, and we could
work to pay for it," began Billy.
No, I have a better plan," interrupted Harry,
with authority. "We ought to make a sacrifice
and suffer for our sins. We will have an auction
and sell our arms. The boys want them and will
pay well. My lords and gentlemen, what say
We will! responded the loyal subjects of
King Henry.
"Winter is coming, and we can't use them,"
said Billy, innocently.
"And by next spring we shall be too old for
such games," added Ned.
"'Tis well! Ho call hither my men. Bring
out the suits of mail; sound the trumpets, and
set on!" thundered Harry, striking an attitude,
and issuing his commands with royal brevity.
A funny scene ensued; for while Billy ran to
collect the boys, Ned dismantled the armory, and
Hal disposed of the weapons in the most effective
manner, on trees, fences, and grass, where the
bidders could examine and choose at their ease.
Their mates had always admired and coveted
these warlike treasures, for some were real, and
others ingenious imitations; so they gladly came
at sound of the hunter's horn, which was blown
when Robin Hood wanted his merry men.
Harry was auctioneer, and rattled off the most
amazing medley of nonsense in praise of the arti-
cles, which he rapidly knocked down to the highest
bidder. The competition was lively, for the boys
laughed so much they hardly knew what they were
doing, and made the rashest offers; but they all
knew what the money was to be used for, so they
paid their bills handsomely, and marched off with
cross-bows, old guns, rusty swords, and tin armor,
quite contented with their bargains.
Seven dollars were realized by the sale, and a
fine rooster and several hens solemnly/presented
to Bobby, who was overwhelmed by this unex-
pected atonement, and immediately established
his fowls in the woodshed, where they happily re-
sided through the winter, and laid eggs with such
gratifying rapidity that he earned quite a little
fortune, and insisted on saying that his vigil had
made him not only a knight, but a millionaire.


THE little house stood empty till spring; then
a great stir went on in the garden, in preparation
for a new occupant. It was mended, painted red,
fitted up with a small table and chairs, and a swing.
Sunflowers stood sentinel at the door, vines ran
over it, and little beds of flowers were planted on
either side. Paths were made all round the lawn.
The neighbors wondered what was coming next,
and one June day they found out; for a procession
appeared, escorting the new tenant to the red
mansion, with great rejoicing among the boys.
First came Billy blowing the horn, then Ned
waving their best banner, then Hal drawing the
baby-wagon, in which, as on a throne, sat the little
cousin who had come to spend the summer, and
rule over them like a small sweet tyrant. A very
sprightly damsel was four-year-old Quccnie, blue-
eyed, plump, and rosy, with a cloud of yellow
curls, chubby arms that embraced every one, and
a pair of stout legs that trotted all day. She sur-
veyed her kingdom with cries of delight, and took
possession of "mine tottage" at once, beginning
housekeeping by a tumble out of the swing, a
header into the red chest, and a pinch in the leaf
of the table. But she won great praise from the
boys by making light of these mishaps, and came
up smiling, with a bump on her brow, a scratch on
her pug nose, and a bruise on one fat finger, and
turned out tea for the gentlemen as if she had done
it all her life; for the table was set, and all man-
ner of tiny cakes and rolls stood ready to welcome
This was only the beginning of tea-parties; for
very soon a flock of lovely little friends came to play
with Queenie, and so many pretty revels went on
that it seemed as if fairies had taken possession of
the small house. Dolls had picnics, kittens went
a-visiting, tin carts rattled up and down, gay bal-
loons flew about, pigmy soldiers toddled round the
paths in paper caps, and best of all, rosy little girls
danced on the grass, picked the flowers, chased the
butterflies, and sang as blithely as the birds.
Oueenie took the lead in these frolics, and got
into no end of scrapes by her love of exploration,
often leading her small friends into the straw-
berry-bed, down the road, over the wall, or to
some neighbor's house, coolly demanding a dint
a water and dinderbed for all us ones."
Guards were set, bars and locks put up, orders
given, and punishments inflicted, but all in vain;
the dauntless baby always managed to escape, and
after anxious hunts and domestic flurries, would be
found up in the road, or under the big rhubarb
leaves, on the high fence, or calmly strolling to town
without her hat. All sorts of people took her to


drive at her request, and brought her back just as
her agitated relatives were flying to the river in
"We must tie her up," said Mrs. Morton,
quite worn out with her pranks.
So a strong cord was put round Queenie's waist,
and fastened to one of the rings in the little house
where Tom used to be chained. At first she raged
and tugged, then submitted, and played about as
if she did n't care; but she laid plans in her
naughty little mind, and carried them out, to the
great dismay of Bessie, the maid.
I want to tut drass," she said in her most per-
suasive tones.
So Bessie gave her the rusty scissors she was
allowed to use, and let her play at making hay till
her toy wagon was full.
I want a dint of water, p'ease," was the next
request, and Bessie went in to get it. She was
delayed a few moments, and when she came out
no sign of Queenie remained but a pile of yellow
hair cut off in a hurry, and the end of the cord.
Slyboots was gone, scissors and all.
Then there was racing and calling, scolding and
wailing, but no Queenie was to be seen anywhere
on the premises. Poor Bessie ran one way, Aunt
Morton another, and Billy, who happened to be
at home, poked into all the nooks and corners for
the runaway.
An hour passed, and things began to look se-
rious,, when Billy came in much excited, and
laughing so he could hardly speak.
"Where do you think that dreadful baby has
turned up ? Over at Pat Floyd's. He found her
in the water-pipes. You know a lot of those big
ones are lying in the back street ready to use as
soon as the trench is dug. Well, that little rascal
crept in, and then could n't turn round, so she went
on till she came out by Pat's house, and nearly
scared him out of his wits. The pipes were not
joined, so she had light and air, but I guess she
had a hard road to travel. Such a hot, dirty, tired
baby you never saw. Mrs. Floyd is washing her
up. You 'd better go and get her, Bessie."
Bessie went, and returned with naughty Queenie,
who looked as if her curls had been gnawed off and
the sand of the great desert had been ground into
her hands and knees,- not to mention the iron-
rust that ruined her pretty pink frock, or the crown
of her hat which was rubbed to rags.
I was n't frightened. You said Dod be'd all
wound, so I goed wite alon', and Miss F'oyd gived
me a nice cold tater, and a tootie."
That was Queenie's account of the matter, but
she behaved so well after it that her friends sus-
pected the perilous prank had made a good im-
pression upon her.

To keep her at home she was set to farming,
and the little house was transformed into a min-
iature barn. In it lived a rocking-horse, several
wooden cows, woolly sheep, cats and dogs, as well
as a queer collection of carts and carriages, tools
and baskets. Every day the busy little farmer dug
and hoed, planted and watered her "dardin," made
hay, harvested vegetables, picked fruit, or took
care of animals,-pausing now and then to ride
her horse, or drive out in her phaeton."
The little friends came to help her, and the
flower beds soon looked as if an earthquake had
upheaved them; for things were planted upside
down, holes were dug, stones were piled, and
potatoes laid about as if they were expected to
plant themselves. But baby cheeks bloomed like,
roses, small hands were browned, and busy feet
trotted firmly about the paths, while the little
red barn echoed with the gayest laughter all day
On Queenie's fifth birthday, in September, she
had a gypsy party, and all the small neighbors
came to it. A tent was pitched, three tall poles
held up a kettle over a "truly fire" that made
the water really boil, and supper was spread on the
grass. The little girls wore red and blue petti-
coats, gay shawls or cloaks, bright handkerchiefs on
their heads, and as many beads and breastpins as
they liked. Some had tambourines and shook them
as they danced; one carried a dolly in the hood
of her cloak like a true gypsy, and all sung, skip-
ping hand in hand round the fire.
The mammas looked on and helped about sup-
per, and Bess sat in the tent like an old woman,
and told pleasant fortunes, as she looked in the
palms of the soft little hands that the children
showed her.
They had a charming time, and all remembered
it well; for that night, when the fun was over,
every one in bed, and the world asleep, a great
storm came on; the wind blew a gale and chimney
tops flew off, blinds banged, trees were broken,
apples whisked from the boughs by the bushel, and
much mischief was done. But worst of all, the
dear little house was blown away! The roof went
in one direction, the boards in another, the poor
horse lay heels up, and the rest of the animals
were scattered far and wide over the garden.
Great was the lamentation next morningwhen the
children saw theruin. Theboys feltthat itwas past
mending, and gave it up; while Queenie consoled
herself for the devastation of her farm by the
childish belief that a crop of new cats and dogs,
cows and horses, would come up in the spring from
the seed sown broadcast by the storm.
So that was the sad end of the little house in the



Oh, ten times finer than sister Ann's

--------- --- -

,,'2,''.\ -.nd sh-e needs them even in winter weather. '
A, ,'l' My sister Kitty has lovely fans,-
C Oh, ten times finer than sister Ann's
.1 tty's are beautiful satin, and pearl,
PI 1itty was always a dressy girl
TL eony, tortoise-shell, lace and gold;
SShimmering, shin ing in every fold;

As bound onr errands of help and pity,
Bedecked and trimmed with fur and feather,-
And she needs them even in winter weather.

Ann's (ah, how many she has!) are plain,
Clean and cool as the summer rain;
Paper and palm-leaf fans are they,
Three for a dime, I have heard her say;
Strong and firm, yet light to bear,
And laden with cool, refreshing air,
As, bound on errands of help and pity,
She carries them through the scorching city.

To-day she is sitting by tiny beds
Cooling poor little, suffering heads;
Fanning lightly -softly- slow
| Till the little ones far into dreamland go.
I often think of these different fans,
7 T TT T7 7 Kitty's, so lovely-and sister Ann's.


(A True Story.)


AND what do you think, Papa! A gentleman
left his horse down on the beach, yesterday, with
his two little children in the carriage. The horse
ran away and came right up past our house "
The speaker was Harry Bradford, a bright boy
of ten years. He was the oldest of five children,
and, with his brother who was three years
younger, he had come to meet their father at
the train, and was now telling him what had hap-
pened since they last saw him.
Mr. Bradford had taken his family to the sea-
side for the summer vacation, and they were en-
joying it to the utmost; for they had taken their
pony, and with riding, boating, and swimming, the
boys were having a royal holiday. The father

remained at his business in the city through the
week, but came to them every Friday night; and
Saturday and Sundays, when the children had
him to join them in their sport and rest, they
considered the best days of all.
The place chosen by the Bradford family was a
mile or two outside one of the fashionable cities by
the sea. Between two rocky headlands, a mile and a
half apart, a beautiful beach of white sand stretched
in a graceful curve, and upon it rolled the surf in
dark-green waves breaking continually into white
foam. Here the children played in the sand, bathed
in the clear water, or rode in their pony-cart along
the hard, smooth beach.
The farm-house where they boarded was about



-~L ~'7~L
-- r;-

--------~---; r6 I
---=---- ~rr;


a quarter of a mile back from the beach, on an
avenue much frequented by riders and driving
parties from the gay city near by.
The coming of summer visitors had occasioned
quite a transformation in the old house. A piazza
had been added to the front, and on it hung a
hammock, while another hammock could be seen
under the apple-trees in the orchard which lay on
the ocean side of the mansion. The grass had
been trimmed to make a smooth lawn, the house
had been painted, red tubs with flowers in them
were placed at various points, and a semicircular
graveled drive-way led from a gate below the
house, at the edge of the orchard, past the front of
the low piazza, and out to another gate as far above
the house as the first was below--the two gates
being perhaps one hundred and fifty feet apart.
Everything about the premises had a very attrac-
tive appearance, especially to Mr. Bradford, as he
came from his hot city office, driving up the pleas-
ant road about sunset, his bright eager boys re-
counting the tale of their week's doings to his
willing ears.
When Harry spoke of the runaway horse, Mr.
Bradford was at once interested, for he imagined
the feelings of the frantic father on seeing his little
children in such imminent danger. So he said:
Did the children get hurt, Harry? "
O, no, Papa; the horse was stopped."
Who stopped him, my boy ?"
Mr. Marsh did, Papa;-but I helped, too."
Finding that no serious consequences had come
from the adventure, Mr. Bradford paid little atten-
tion to Harry's modest avowal of a part in it, and
as the boy said no more about the runaway, con-
versation turned into other channels, and the father
thought no more of it until after supper.
Mr. Marsh, whom Harry had mentioned, was a
New York gentleman, who, with his wife and
baby, was stopping at the same house with the
After the evening meal, Mr. Bradford came out
upon the piazza to enjoy the fresh breeze from the
ocean, and there found Mr. Marsh sitting alone,
and apparently in deep thought.
Mr. Bradford greeted him with a hearty shake
of the hand, and drawing a chair to his side, seated
himself, saying:


"Well, Mr. Marsh, Harry tells me you had
quite an excitement here yesterday. How about
the runaway? "
It was the pluckiest act I ever saw! said
Mr. Marsh, half rising.
Mr. Bradford looked at him in amazement.
What do you mean ? he asked.
Let me tell you about it," said Mr. Marsh.
Yesterday, after we all had come up from
bathing, I sat here on the piazza, reading, with
baby in my lap. Your children were playing on
the grass in the orchard, near that lower gate, and
Mrs. Marsh sat near me on the piazza.
Suddenly we heard the clatter of a horse's feet,
and a shout in a man's voice: 'Stop that horse !
stop that horse !' Looking up, I saw a carriage
containing two little children, about two and three
years old, drawn by a horse that was madly rush-
ing straight up the road. It was a terrible moment.
I turned to give the baby to Mrs. Marsh, and ran
for the upper gate, as I knew the horse would pass
the lower gate before I could get there. But Harry
had seen him too, and as the horse came past, the
boy shot out from the gate like a flash of light,
and without a word sprang at the horse's head,
seized the bridle, and held on with a grip like a
vise. His weight was insufficient to stop the
frightened animal, which dragged the boy, his
feet hardly touching the ground, from the point
where he seized it, over the entire distance to the
upper gate. Here I also was able to clutch the
bridle, and we brought the horse to a standstill.
Whet the father came up, he was so agitated that
he could not speak."
Such was the adventure so simply told by
Harry, when he said But I helped, too."
The readers of ST. NICHOLAS may be glad to
know that this is no story made up from imagina-
tion. "Harry" is a real live boy, only eleven
years old now, though of course his name is not
Harry, nor his father's name Bradford. The
incident here recorded happened in August,
1883, and "Harry" will be as much surprised
as any of you when he reads about it; for he is as
eager to read his ST. NICHOLAS when it comes,
as he is happy to ride his pony or to dive
through the big waves when the surf breaks on
the beach.



I. //




[Known as Baldwin III., the Fifti of the Latin Kings of
How many of my young readers know any-
thing of that eventful and romantic chapter in the
history of Palestine, when, for eighty-eight years,
from the days of Duke Godfrey, greatest of the
Crusaders, to the time of Saladin, greatest of the
Sultans, Jerusalem was governed by Christian
nobles and guarded by Christian knights, drawn
from the shores of Italy, the plains of Normandy,
and the forests of Anjou? It is a chapter full of
interest and yet but little known, and it is at about

the middle of this historic period, in the fall of the
year 1147, that our sketch opens.
In the palace of the Latin kings, on the slopes
of Mount Moriah, a boy of fifteen and a girl of
ten were leaning against an open casement and
looking out through the clear September air
toward the valley of the Jordan and the purple
hills of Moab.
"Give me thy gittern, Isa," said the boy, a
ruddy-faced youth, with gray eyes and auburn hair;
"let me play the air that R6n6, the troubadour,
taught me yesterday. I '11 warrant thee 't will set
thy feet a-flying, if I can but master the strain,"
and he hummed over the gay measure.
But the fair young Isabelle had now found

* Copyright, 1883, by E. S. Brooks. All rights reserved.



something more absorbing than the song of the
Nay, my lord, rather let me try the gittern,"
she said. "See, now will I charm this snaily
from its cell with the air that R6en taught me,"
and together the two heads bent over one of the
vicious little "desert snails of Egypt," which
young Isabelle of Tyre had found crawling along
the casement of the palace.
"Snaily, snaily, little nun,
Come out of thy cell, come into the sun;
Show me thy horns without delay,
Or I 'll tear thy convent-walls away,"

sang the girl merrily, as she touched the strings of
her gittern. But his snailship continued close and
mute, and the boy laughed loudly as he picked up
the snail and laid it on his open palm.
"'T is vain, Isa," he said; "thy snaily is no
troubadour to come out at his lady's summons.
Old Hassan says the sluggards can sleep for full
four years, but trust me to waken this one. So,
holo See, Isa, there be his horns ah oh the
foot of a lion grind thy Pagan shell!" he cried,
dancing around the room in pain, the beast hath
bitten me! Out, Ishmaelite!" and he flung the
snail from him in a rage, while Isabelle clung to the
casement laughing heartily at her cousin's mishap.
But the snail flew across the room at an unfor-
tunate moment, for the arras parted suddenly and
a tall and stalwart man clothed in the coarse wool-
en gown of. a palmer, or pilgrim to Jerusalem,
entered the apartment just in time to receive the
snail full against his respected and venerated nose.
The saints protect us! exclaimed the palmer,
drawing back in surprise and clapping a hand to
his face. Doth the King of Jerusalem keep a
catapult in this his palace with which to greet
his visitors?" Then, spying the two young peo-
ple, who stood in some dismay by the open case-
ment, the stranger strode across the room and
laid a heavy hand upon. the boy's shoulder, while
little Isa's smothered laugh changed to an alarmed
and tremulous "Oh "
"Thou unmannerly boy," said the palmer,
"how dar'st thou thus assault a pilgrim ? "
But the lad stood his ground stoutly. Lay off
thine hand, sir palmer," he said. Who art thou,
forsooth, that doth press thy way into the.private
chambers of the king? /
Nay, that is not for thee to know," replied the
palmer. "Good faith, I have a mind to shake
thee well, sir page, for this thy great imperti-
nence. "
But here little Isa, having recovered her voice,
exclaimed hurriedly: "0 no,-not page, good
palmer. He is no page; he is- "
"Peace, Isa," the lad broke in with that pecul-

iar wink of the left eyelid well known to every
boy who deals in mischief and mystery. "Let
the gray palmer tell us who he may be, or, by my
plume, he goeth no further in the palace here."
The burly pilgrim looked down upon the lad,
who, with arms akimbo and defiant face, barred
his progress. He laughed a grim and dangerous
laugh. '" Thou rare young malapert! he said.
" Hath, then, the state of great King Godfrey fallen
so low that chattering children keep the royal
doors?" Then, seizing the boy by the ear, he
whirled him aside and said: Out of my path,
sir page. Let me have instant speech with the
king, thy master, ere I seek him out myself and
bid him punish roundly such a saucy young
jackdaw as thou."
"By what token askest thou to see the king?"
the boy demanded, nursing his wounded ear.
"By this same token of the royal seal," re-
plied the palmer, and he held out to the lad a
golden signet-ring, "the which I was to show
to whomsoever barred my path and crave due
entrance to the king for the gray palmer, Con-
So, 't is the queen mother's signet," said the
boy. There is then no gainsaying thee. Well,
good palmer Conradin, thou need'st go no fur-
ther. I am the King of Jerusalem."
The palmer started in surprise. Give me no
more tricks, boy," he said, sternly.
Nay, 't is no trick, good palmer," said little
Isabelle, in solemn assurance. "This is the king."
The palmer saw that the little maid spoke truly,
but he seemed still full of wonder, and, grasping
the young king's shoulder, he held him off at
arm's length and looked him over from head to
Thou the king! he exclaimed. Thou that
Baldwin of Jerusalem whom men do call the hero
of the Jordan, the paladin, the young conqueror
of Bostra? Thou a boy "
It ill beseemeth me to lay claim to be hero
and paladin," said young King Baldwin modestly.
But know, sir pilgrim, that I am as surely King
Baldwin of Jerusalem as thou art the palmer
Conradin. What warrant, then, hast thou, gray
palmer though thou be, to lay such heavy hands
upon the king?" And he strove to free himself
from the stranger's grasp.
But the palmer caught him round the neck
with a strong embrace. "What warrant, lad'?"
he exclaimed heartily. Why, the warrant of a
brother, good my lord. Thousands of leagues have
I traveled to seek and succor thee. Little brother,
here I am known only as a gray palmer, but from
the Rhine to Ratisbon and Rome am I hailed
as Conrad, King of Germany "

1884.1 .


It was now the boy's turn to start in much
surprise. "Thou the great Emperor-and in
palmer's garb? he said. "Where, then, are thy
followers, valiant Conrad?"
Six thousand worn and weary knights camp
under the shadow of Acre's walls," replied the
Emperor sadly, the sole remains of that gallant
train of close on ninety thousand knights who
followed our banner from distant Ratisbon.
Greek traitors and Arab spears have slain the
rest, and I am come in the guise of a simple
pilgrim to help thee, noble boy, in thy struggles
againstt the Saracen."
And the King of France ?" asked Baldwin.
"King Louis is even now at Antioch, with
barely seven thousand of his seventy thousand
Frankish knights," the Emperor replied. "The
rest fell, even as did mine, by Greek craft, by
shipwreck, and by the foe's strength or device."
It is a sad story the record of the Second
Crusade. From first to last it tells but of disaster
and distress, amidst which only one figure stands
out bright and brave and valorous the figure of
the youthful king, the boy crusader, Baldwin
of Jerusalem. It was a critical time in the Cru-
sader's kingdom. From Hungary to Syria dis-
aster followed disaster, and of the thousands of
knights and spearmen who entered the crusade
only a miserable remnant reached Palestine, led
on by Conrad, Emperor of Germany, and Louis,
King of France. The land they came to succor
was full of jealousy and feud, and the brave boy
king alone gave them joyful welcome. But young
Baldwin had pluck and vigor enough to counter-
balance a host of laggards.
"Knights and barons of Jerusalem," he said, as
he and the pilgrim emperor entered the audience-
hall, 't is for us to act. Lay we aside all paltry
jealousy and bickering. Our brothers from the
West are here to aid us."
The Syrian climate breeds laziness, but it also
calls out quick passion and the fire of excitement.
Catching the inspiration of the boy's earnest spirit,
the whole assemblage of knights and barons, prel-
ates and people, shouted their approval, and the
audience-chamber rang again and again with the
cries of the Crusaders.
Ere long, within the walls of Acre, the three
crusading kings, the monarchs of Germany, of
France, anl of Jerusalem, resolved to strike a
sudden and terrible blow at Saracen supremacy,
and to win glory by an entirely new conquest, full
of danger and honor-the storming of the city of
Damascus. Oldest and fairest of Syrian cities,
Damascus, called by the old Roman emperors the
"eye of all the East," rises from the midst of
orchards and gardens, flowering vines, green

meadows, and waving palms; the mountains of
Lebanon look down upon it from the west, and far
to the east stretches the dry and sandy plain of the
great Syrian desert.
With banners streaming and trumpets playing
their loudest, with armor and lance-tips gleaming
in the sun, the army of the Crusaders wound down
the slopes and passes of the Lebanon hills and
pitched their camp around the town of Dareya, in
the green plain of Damascus, scarce four miles
distant from the city gates. Then the princes and
leaders assembled for counsel as to the plan and
manner of assault upon the triple walls.
The camp of King Baldwin and the soldiers of
Jerusalem lay in advance of the allies, of France
and Germany, and nearer the beleaguered city, as
the place of honor for the brave young leader who
led the van of battle. From the looped-up entrance
to a showy pavilion in the center of King Baldwin's
camp, the fair young maiden, Isabelle of Tyre,
who, as was the custom of the day, had come with
other high-born ladies to the place of siege, looked
out upon the verdant and attractive gardens that
stretched before her close up to the walls of
Damascus. To the little Lady Isabelle the scene
was wonderfully attractive, and she readily yielded
to a suggestion from young Renaud de Chatillon,
a heedless and headstrong Frankish page, who
"double-dared" her to, go flower-picking in the
enemy's gardens. Together they left the pavil-
ion, and, passing the tired outposts, strolled
idly down to the green banks of the little river
that flowed through the gardens and washed
the walls of Damascus. The verdant river-bank
was strewn thick with flowers and the fallen
scarletblossoms of the pomegranate, while luscious
apricots hung within easy reach, and the deep
shade of the walnut trees gave cool and delightful
shelter. What wonder that the heedless young
people lost all thought of danger in the beauty
around them, and, wandering on a little and still a
little further from the protection of their own camp,
were soon deep in the mazes of the dangerous
But suddenly they heard a great stir in the grove
beyond them ; they started in terror as a clash of
barbaric music, of cymbals and of atabals, sounded
on their ears, and, in an instant, they found
themselves surrounded by a swarm of swarthy
Saracens. The Lady Isabelle was soon a strug-
gling prisoner, but nimble young Renaud, swifter-
footed and more wary than his companion, escaped
from the grasp of his white-robed captor, tripped
up the heels of a fierce-eyed Saracen with a
sudden twist learned in the tilt-yard, and sped like
the wind toward King Baldwin's camp, shouting
as he ran: Rescue, rescue for Lady Isabelle !"




1884.] HISTORIC BOYS. 791

Out of the Crusader's camp poured swift and
speedy succor, a flight of spears and arrows came
from either band, but the dividing distance was
too great, and with a yell of triumph the Saracens
and their fair young captive were lost in the thick
shadows. Straight into King Baldwin's camp sped
Renaud, still shouting: "Rescue, rescue! the
Lady Isabelle is prisoner Straight through the
aroused and swarming camp to where, within the
walls of Dareya, the crusading chiefs still sat in
council, down at King Baldwin's feet he dropped,
and cried breathlessly: My lord King, the Lady
Isabelle is prisoner to the Saracens !"
Isa a prisoner exclaimed the young King,
springing to his feet. "Rescue, rescue, mylords,
for the sweet little lady of Tyre Let who will,
follow me straight to the camp of the foe "
There was a hasty mounting of steeds among
the Crusaders' tents; a hasty bracing-up of armor
and settling of casques; shields were lifted high
and spears were laid in rest, and, followed by a
hundred knights, the boy crusader dashed impetu-
ously from his camp and charged into the thick
gardens that held his captive cousin. His action
was quicker than Isabelle's captors had anticipated;
for, halting ere they rode within the city, the Sara-
cens had placed her within one of the little pali-
saded towers scattered through the gardens for the
purpose of defense. Quick-witted and ready-eared,
the little lady ceased her sobs as she heard through
the trees the well-known Beausant! the war-
cry of the Knights of the Temple, and the ringing
shout of A Baldwin to the rescue Leaning
far out of the little tower, she shook her crimson
scarf, and cried shrilly: "Rescue, rescue for a
Christian maiden King Baldwin saw the waving
scarf and heard his cousin's cry. Straight through
the hedge-way he charged, a dozen knights at his
heels; a storm of Saracen arrows rattle against
shield and hauberk, but the palisades are soon
forced, the swarthy captors fall before the leveled
lances of the rescuers, the Lady Isabelle springs
with a cry of joy to the saddle of the King, and
then, wheeling around, the gallant band speed back
toward the camp ere the bewildered Saracens can
recover from their surprise. But the recovery comes
full' soon, and now from every quarter flutter the
cloaks of the Saracen horsemen. They swarm
from garden, and tower, and roadway, and through
the opened city gates fresh troops of horsemen
dash down the wide roadway that crosses the
narrow river. With equal speed the camp of
the Crusaders, fully roused, is pouring forth its
thousands, and King Baldwin sees, with the joy
of a practiced warrior, that the foolish freak of a
thoughtless little maiden has brought about a
great and glorious battle. The rescued Isabelle is

quickly given in charge of a trusty squire, who
bears her back to camp, and then, at the head of
the forward battle, the boy crusader bears down
upon the Saracen host, shouting: Ho, knights
and barons, gallant brothers, follow me "-and
the battle is fairly joined.
Rank on rank, with spears in rest and visors closed,
the crusading knights charge to the assault. Fast
behind the knights press the footmen--De Mow-
bray's English archers, King Louis's cross bow-men,
Conrad's spearmen, and the javelin-men of Jeru-
salem. Before the fury of the onset the mass of
muffled Arabs and armored Saracens break and
yield, but from hedge and tower and loop-holed
wall fresh flights of arrows and of javelins rain
down upon the Christian host, and the green gardens
of Damascus are torn and trampled with the fury
of the battle. But ere long the wild war-shouts of
the Saracens grow less and less defiant; the en-
trenchments are stormed, the palisades and towers
are forced, the enemy turn and flee, and by the
" never-failing valiancy" of the boy crusader and
his followers the gardens of Damascus are in the
hands of the Christian knights.
But now fresh aid pours through the city gates.
New bodies of Saracens press to the attack, and, led
in person by Anar, Prince of Damascus, the de-
feated host rallies for a final stand upon the verdant
river-banks of the clear-flowing Barada.
Again the battle rages furiously. Still Baldwin
leads the van, and around his swaying standard rally
the knights of Jerusalem and the soldier-monks of
the Temple and the Hospital. Twice are they
driven backward by the fury of the Saracen re-
sistance, and eager young Renaud de Chatillon,
anxious to retrieve his thoughtless action, which
brought on the battle, is forced to yield to another
lad of eleven, a brown-faced Kurdish boy, who in
after years is to be hailed as the Conqueror of the
Crusaders Saladin, the greatest of the Sultans.
The battle wavers. The French knights can only
hold their ground in stubborn conflict; the brave
soldiers of Jerusalem are thrown into disorder, and
the boy-leader's horse, pierced by a spear-thrust,
falls with his rider on a losing field. But hark !
new cry swells upon the air. A Conrad to the
rescue Ho, a Conrad! Rescue for the stand-
ard!" and through the tangledand disordered mass
of the cavalry of France and Palestine press the
stalwart German emperor and a thousand dis-
mounted knights. The Saracen lines fall back
before the charge, while in bold defiance the sword
of the emperor gleams above his crest. As if in
acceptance of his unproclaimed challenge, a gigan-
tic Saracen emir, sheathed in complete armor,
strides out before the pagan host, and the fiercely
raging battle stops on the instant, while the two


great combatants face each other alone. Their
great swords gleam in the air. With feint and
thrust, and stroke and skillful parry the champ-
ions wage the duel of the giants, till, suddenly,
in one of those feats of strength and skill that
stand out as a marvelous battle-act, the sword of
the emperor with a single mighty stroke stretches
the Saracen's armor-covered body at his feet. The
Turks break in dismay as their champion falls.
Young Baldwin rallies his disordered forces, the
war-cries mingle with the trumpet-peal,- and, on
foot, at the head of their knights, the two kings
lead one last charge against the enemy and drive
the fleeing host within the city walls. With shouts
of victory, the Christian army encamp upon the
field their valor has conquered, and Damascus is
almost won.
Then, within the city, preparations for flight
were made, for the city seemed doomed to cap-
ture. But- there is many a slip twixtt the cup
and the lip.". In the camp of the Crusaders
the exultant leaders were already quarreling over
.whose domain the conquered city should be when
once its gates were opened to Christian victors.
.The Syrian princes, the great lords of the West,
the. monkish Knights of the Temple and of-the
Hospital, alike claimed the prize, and the old fable
of the hunters who fought for the possession of the
lion's skin -before the lion was captured was once
more illustrated. For, meantime, in the palace at
Damascus, the captive page Renaud stood before
the Saracen prince Anar, and the prince asked the
boy: "As between thine honor and thyhead, young
Christian, which would'st thou desire to keep ?"
"So please your highness," replied the page,
"my honor, if it may be kept with my head;
but if not--why then, what were mine honor
worth to me without my head? "
Thou art a shrewd young Frank," said the
Prince Anar. But thou may'st keep thy head
and, perchance, thine honor too, if that thou
canst keep thy ready tongue in check. Bear then
this scroll in secret to him whom men do call
Bernard, Grand Master of the Knights of the
Temple, and, hark ye, see that no word of this
scroll cometh to the young King Baldwin, else
shall the bowstrings of my slaves o'ertake thee.
Go ; thou art free!"
"My life upon the safe delivery of thy scroll,
great Prince," said young Renaud, overjoyed to be
freed so easily, and, soon in the Crusaders' camp,
he sought the Grand Master and handed him the
scroll in secret. The face of the Templar was
dark with envy and anger, for his counsels and the
claims of the Syrian lords had been set aside, and
the princedom of Damascus which he had cov-
eted had been promised to a Western baron.

"So," said the Grand Master, as he read the
scroll, the Count of Flanders may yet be balked.
What says the emir? Three casks of bezants and
the city of Ca~sarea for the Templars if this siege
be raised. 'T is a princely offer and more than
can be gained from these Flemish boors."
"Gallant lords and mighty princes," he said,
returning to the council. "'T is useless for us to
hope to force the gates through this mass of gar-
dens, where men do but fight in the dark.
Rather let us depart to the desert side of the city,
where, so say my spies, the walls are weaker and
less stoutly protected. These may soon be car-
ried. Then may we gain the city for the noble
Count of Flanders, ere that the Emir Noureddin,
who, I learn, is coming with a mighty force of allies
for the Saracen, shall succor the city and keep
it from us longer."
This craftily given advice seemed wise, and the
crusading camp was quickly withdrawn from the
beautiful and well-watered gardens to the dry and
arid desert before the easterly walls of the city.
Fatal mistake the walls proved stout and unas-
sailable, the desert could not support the life of so
large an army, whose supplies were speedily
wasted, and through the gardens the Christians
had deserted fresh hosts of Arabs poured into the
city. Victory gave place to defeat and rejoicing to
despair. Days of fruitless assault were followed by
nights of dissension, and finally the crusading host,
worn by want and divided in counsel, abruptly
ended a siege they could no longer maintain.
But in the final council young Baldwin pleaded for
renewed endeavor.
And is it thus, my lords," he said, "that ye
do give up the fairest prize in Syria, and stand
recreant to your vows ?"
"King Baldwin," said Conrad, "thou art a
brave and gallant youth, and were all like thee,
our swords had not been drawn in vain. But
youth and valor may not hope to cope with greed.
We are deceived. We have suffered from treason
where it was least to be feared, and more deadly
than Saracen arrows are the secret stabs of thy
barons of Syria."
"What thou dost claim I may not disprove by
words," said the young King hotly, "for here
have been strange and secret doings." But for
the honor of my country and my crown I may
not idly listen to thy condemning speech. Conrad
of Germany, there lies my gage '
"Brave youth," said Conrad, picking up the
boy's mailed glove, so impetuously flung before
him, and handing it to Baldwin with gentle
courtesy, "this may not be. It is not for such a
noble-hearted lad as thou to longer stand the
champion for traitors."






So the victory almost assured by the intrepidity
of the boy crusader was lost through the treachery
of his followers; but it is at least some satisfaction
to know that the betrayers were themselves be-
trayed, and that the three casks of golden bezants
proved to be but worthless brass.

died at thirty-three, mourned by all Jerusalem;
while even his generous foe, the Saracen Nou-
reddin, refused to take advantage of his rival's
The history of the Crusades is the story of two
hundred years of strife and battle, relieved only

ir .. ___ .... _ --"_"



King Louis and Conrad the Emperor returned
to their European dominions in anger and disgust.
The Second Crusade, which had cost so terribly
in life and treasure, was a miserable failure, with
only a boy's bravery to light up its dreary history.
Sadly disappointed at the result of his efforts,
young Baldwin still held his energy and valor un-
subdued. Poisoned by his Arab physician, he
VOL. XI.-5I.

by some bright spots when the flash of a heroic
life lights up the blackness of superstition and
of cruelty. And among its valiant knights, equal
in honor and courage and courtesy with Godfrey
and Tancred and Richard of England and Sala-
din, will ever stand the name and fame of the
young ruler of the short-lived Latin kingdom of
Jerusalem-Baldwin, the Boy Crusader.


.I.-wt. --.
.. ..

-<, ,'r.. ,)~E L,-o fhLL
h -. l, --- .. """-,.,~ '-' .-

ITTLE Mabel Black-eyes,- bless her pretty face!
And all her quick, imperious ways, and all her childish grace!-
Went out one morning 'mong the birds and 'mong the rose-hung bushes;
Herself as sweet- as roses are, as tuneful as the thrushes.
She drifted down the orchard lane as though the breezes blew her;
Threw back the kisses that the trees in scented blossoms threw her;
And, where the babbling brook bends near, upon its shining way,
A house half hid, she turned aside to call on Mother Gray.
Dame Gray, the "Witch of Woody Dell," sat in her lonely kitchen,
'Twas just the place for all the world you 'd look to find a witch in.
And she was every inch a witch, with dried and swarthy skin,
And sharp, small -eyes, and nose turned down to meet her turned-up chin.
She wore her lofty-pointed hat, her gown of twenty hues,
Her famous scarlet petticoat, her ancient high-heeled shoes.
And when she saw our heroine, she frowned; while from her side
A huge black cat, with back erect, the stranger fiercely eyed.
Poor little Mabel Black-eyes' heart for the moment sank within her.
Oh, dear!" she thought, Would witches eat a little girl for dinner?
I almost wish I had n't come. I knew that I should rue it!
However, I 've an errand, and I guess I 'd better do it."
So, gathering all her courage, she made her finest bow,
And smiled with charming sweetness (Ah! right well does she know how
To gladden all the older folk!); then, in her own bland way,
She proceeded to declare her wish to frowning Mother Gray.
"Good Mother Gray, I just dropped in to ask a little favor.
I --" Then she stopped and stammered, afid could not go on, to save her.
But Mother Gray broke harshly in: "Oho So that's it, is it?
Folks always want some favor done when they pay me a visit."
She eyed her guest a moment. Then, in milder tone,- Well, well,
They all respect the magic power of the Witch of Woody Dell.
Look up and speak your wish, my child. If good, it shall be granted."
So, thus assured, our heroine explained what 't was she wanted.
"You see,"-and then she lowered her voice and suddenly looked sad,-
I've got the awf'lest temper anybody ever had!
And I really can not help it, though I try, and try, and try;
And Nurse declares that everybody '11 hate me by and by.
And so, good, dear, kind Mother Gray, I thought I 'd come to you
(For I 've heard a hundred times of all the wondrous things you do),
To see if I could get some magic medicine to take
That would cure my dreadful temper, and so, perhaps, would make
People love instead of hating me, asievery one does, nearly;
But I want to be so good to all that all will love me dearly.



I I) I

hi i '

I~ ~ 3 *' I I~
T1 -7 77.I ,r ':
A.A ~

Then ih.: lookedd up so besee
* '"-:. ry sweetly,
Tl-t ...'.. rih stern old witch's
t. !: i completely.
** Ah.!:i' .Al,.in! -Well, well!
i:.- .:.l old Mother Gra)
A I.t ;.-: v-ed her handkerc
I,.:.: i -uspicious way.
* 'Tiii ,l.-k child, yes, lu
chanced to come to me
For yours is quite a serious
we will see
What can be done." So sayi

chingly, and yet
heart was won
L.. ....-- ; : '

chief about in a,

cky,-that you "

case. However,
ing, she got up

ing, she got up

from her chair
And with her cane she hobbled to the wooden cupboard where
She kept the thousand drugs and charms by whose mysterious spell
She exercised her marvelous power as Witch of Woody Dell.

From the shelf she took a phi/al. "Now here, my child," said she,
"Is a certain cure for ills like yours, if taken faithfully
According to directions. Now list to me, and mind
That you remember every word! Whenever you 're inclined
To answer back, say naughty words, or do what is n't right,-
First, ere you say or do a thing, run quick with all your might
And get a cup (take heed 't is either glass or chinaware);
Then measure out nine teaspoonfuls of water with great care,-
To which add next five drofs of this, frecisely,- for, be sure,

- \ \l



One single
Then slow

I- -

led-for cure.. .' .
ly count just twenty-eight, and -r I. '
the while
Being very careful not to spl-.:' i

word, or smile);
This done, drink off the potion-go back, and, strange

to say,
You '11 find your angry feelings have vanished quite away.
Do this, .. --, as I 've said, each time that you are tempted,
And I promise you a perfect cure before the phial's emptied."


With many thanks and many bows Miss Mabel took the phial
And hastened homeward joyfully to give it instant trial,
Repeating the directions o'er-

"The sequel? do you say?
Well, that was but a month ago,-and only yesterday
I heard her mother saying:-" I should really like to know
What has come over Mabel, to change her temper so !
She 's always been a loving child, though fiery from the start,-
But of late she 's grown so gentle that she's winning every heart."
Whereat I smiled all to myself, but I did not choose to tell
About Miss Mabel's morning call on the Witch of Woody Dell.


". / .'






MR. MARVIN called Neil and Hugh to him and
said that he had some directions and instructions
to give them.
We are about to begin quail-shooting," he
said, "and I think we are going to have rare
sport. The game is abundant, the weather fine,
and the covert very favorable for fair shooting.
Now, you will find that so soon as the quails com-
mence to rise you will begin to grow excited. All
I ask of you is that you will promise to be careful
with your guns. There is danger of your being
so eager to shoot every bird that is flushed that
you will not stop to think where your shot may
go. You must always remember that the new and
improved guns which your uncle gave you .shoot
very hard and far, and that great sorrow and dis-
tress might be caused by the slightest carelessness
or mishap. Besides, the habit of coolness and
caution, if acquired in your boyhood, will prove of
the greatest value to you throughout your lives.
There is an old adage which says: 'Look be-
fore you leap.' A good maxim for the hunter is:
' Look before you shoot.' Not only look at the
game, but look beyond it, and be sure that your
shot will hit nothing but the object of your aim.
Now, shooting over fenced farms is quite dif-
ferent from shooting on the open prairie. While
hunting here in this valley, you will be constantly
climbing over fences. You must remember that
you are positively forbidden to climb a fence with
a load in your gun. It is but the work of a mo-
ment to open the breech and take out the shells.
So much by way of caution, for the sake of
safety. Now, a word or two about the best practice
in quail-shooting. This game when flushed rises
with a suddenness and force that are quite trying
to the eyes and nerves of young shooters. The
sound made by the wings of the bird adds to the
startling effect. This is apt to throw you off/your
guard and render you somewhat confused and un-
certain of hand and vision. The quail's flight is
very swift, and you must shoot quickly; but you
must also shoot deliberately. Be sure that you
fire your right-hand barrel first, as it scatters the
shot wider, and reserve your left-hand barrel for
the longer range, especially if you wish to make a
double wing-shot.

In flushing quail, the bird will sometimes rise
at your very feet, so to speak, and then there is
danger that you will be in too much haste to fire.
The best way to prevent random shooting, in such
a case, is to wait till your vision has adjusted itself,
that is, until you clearly see the direction of the
bird's flight. When once you have command
of your vision, and have acquired the power of
centering it on the flying game, you will be able to
cover your point of aim with your gun without any
When your dog has pointed game, do not rush
suddenly forward to flush it. Consider a moment,
and look about the landscape to see if any person
or animal is visible. Next consider in what di-
rection the game is likely to fly. If any thick
covert is near, it is quite safe to presume that the
bird will go in that direction. Now step slowly and
firmly forward, holding your gun in front of you
with the muzzle pointing upward and away from
The bird will rise in a steep incline to the
height of, perhaps, ten or fifteen feet, and there
steady itself for a strong, straight flight. If you
can get your aim or cover your bird -at about
the time it begins to fly level, you will find your
shot most satisfactory.
In raising your gun to your shoulder to take
aim, be careful not to have it catch or hang in any
part of your clothing. Lift it with a swift but de-
liberate motion, and set the butt firmly in the hollow
of your right shoulder, with your right forefinger
barely touching the front trigger. Don't dodge or
wink when you fire; keep every muscle and nerve
perfectly steady. If you fire but one barrel, im-
mediately open your gun and reload that bar-
rel. Then send your dog to bring in your bird,
-that is, provided you have killed one."
After this little lecture was over, they all got
ready for a tramp in the adjacent fields.
Samson was left to take care of the camp, and
very soon the hunters were ranging over the roll-
ing fields of that pretty valley, following their
enthusiastic dogs.
Quails were soon found. Neil and Hugh were
together when Don, the dog set apart to their use,
found a large bevy in a patch of broom-sedge near
the middle of about fifty acres of fallow land.
"Now, Hugh," said Neil, "let 's do as Mr.
Marvin said. Let 's keep cool and look before we
shoot. There 's no one near us, and just so we

* Copyright, 1883, by Maurice Thompson,



don't shoot each other or the dog we shall do no around in a marshy place hunting for quail. Hugh
harm, even if we miss the birds." did this, not knowing that quails prefer dry fields
While Hugh was speaking Neil had clutched ,where small grain or weed-seeds are abundant.
his gun nervously, and got ready to shoot. The loss of so much time without seeing a bird
"Oh, I'm pretty cool," said he; "come on, gave him little chance to compete with Neil, who,
let's flush the birds and get to business." without a dog, flushed a small flock and succeeded
"No," said Neil; "you can't hit anything while in making several fine shots, adding six birds to his
you 're trembling in that way. Steady yourself, bag. Once he saw a bird flying toward him. It
and be sure you've got aim before you fire." was coming from 'the direction in which Hugh
"Pshaw !" exclaimed Hugh; "I'm all right, was hunting, and so Neil would not shoot till it
You just be sure about yourself, and get your own had passed him. He turned about and tried to
aim; I '11 get mine." get a good aim, but somehow he missed again.
This was not said in an unpleasant way, for Every young shooter will find this trouble at
Hugh was only in a hurry and did not want to be first. He will feel quite sure that he aims cor-
bothered with advice. He walked forward as he rectly, but he will fail to stop his bird. This
spoke and flushed the birds. They rose in a close usually arises from a bad method of directing the
body with a loud roar of wings. There were at gun. It may be that the young hunter holds his
least twenty of them. head too high, in which case he will over-shoot;
Hugh quickly leveled his gun and fired at the or he may fail to pull the trigger just as he fixes
center of the flock. Down came five birds. He his aim, and thus miss by shooting too low or
forgot to fire his left-hand barrel, so pleased was behind his bird. If the butt of the gun be held
he with his luck. against the arm, instead of in the hollow of the
Neil waited until after Hugh's bird had fallen; shoulder, it may derange the aim. Nothing but
then he singled out a quail of the scattering bevy careful, intelligent practice can overcome these
and brought it down in fine style. Quick as faults.
thought he aimed at another and pulled the trig- Neil got eleven birds in all. Hugh got but
ger of the left barrel. His last shot missed. seven.
Hugh gathered up his five birds and cast his eyes The guns of Uncle Charley and Mr. Marvin
rather saucily at Neil. kept up an almost incessant booming about a
"-I guess," said he, I was almost as ready for quarter of a mile away.

business as you were."
"You seem to be four ahead of me, to start
with," Neil replied; "but the race is not won till
it's done."
"All right," said Hugh, confidently, as he re-
loaded the empty barrel of his gun; "we'll keep
count and see who beats."
The birds had scattered pretty widely in some
low weeds along a fence-row. Neil had marked
two down "; that is, he had noted where they set-
tled near an old stump. He left Hugh to follow
Don, and went to flush his birds himself. They
rose almost together. He fired right and left;
but, as before, only killed one. He heard Hugh
fire twice in close succession, and at the same time
Mr. Marvin and Uncle Charley began a perfect
volley over in a neighboring field of corn-stalks.
He followed the bird he had missed to where it
had lit in a clump of blackberry briars. When it
got up he missed it again with his right barrel, but
quickly covered it again and killed it with his left.
"I am in too big a hurry when they rise," he
thought; "I must try and overcome the fault."
Neil's knowledge of the habits of the quail gave
him quite an advantage over Hugh, who had never
studied such things. For instance, Neil never
would have wasted an hour of his time beating



WHEN our friends reached camp, Judge had
returned from the village, bringing a bundle of let-
ters and papers.
The quails were turned over to Samson to be
prepared for market, as it had been agreed that
all the game killed by the party, over and above
what they needed to cook, should belong to Mr.
Marvin, Uncle Charley bearing all the expenses
of the excursion.
When the game was counted it was found that there
were one hundred and ten birds as the day's bag.
Neil and Hugh each received a letter from their
father, and Hugh had one from Tom Dale. By
the time these were read, a very late dinner had
been spread, and they all ate with that gusto
known only to hunters, and which would not be
considered very elegant in polite society. But
when men and boys get out into the freedom of
the woods and fields for a time, they become just
a little savage and animal-like, and are apt occa-
sionally to break through some of the stricter rules
of the parlor and dining-room.



Tom Dale's letter brought a full account of all
that the Belair boys had been doing since Neil and
Hugh had left the village. A heavy snow had
fallen, and the coasting out at Dobbins' hill had
been fine, and there was good skating on Lorin-
ger's mill-pond.
"Just think of it! said Hugh; here we sit
in our shirt-sleeves, with a balmy wind blowing
over us, while they are all bundled in furs and
mittens and overcoats, skating on the ice or coast-
ing in the snow. I think it's more fun to be here,
don't you? A fellow can't enjoy himself rightly
with a pinched nose and benumbed fingers. And
then the wind off the snowy prairie is terribly cold
and biting, sometimes."
It's the change that one enjoys, I think," said
Neil. "Don't you remember Gus Fontaine, who
came to Belair from San Antonio, Texas, and
how he was charmed with our winter sports ? I
never saw a boy like sleigh-riding so much; and
rabbit-hunting,- why, he said he wanted to go
rabbit-hunting every day He seemed never to
get cold, and the keener the wind blew, and the
more the frost-crystals flew, the better he liked the
Oh, well," said Hugh, Gus was a queer boy,
anyhow. Do you remember how he astonished us
the first time that he rode one of Papa's'young horses
around the lot without any bridle or saddle, and
gave us what he called the Comanche war-whoop?
He could ride almost any horse, in that way, and
if he fell off, it never seemed to hurt him a bit."
"Well, he 'd learned all that on the Texas
plains," said Neil. It all depends upon where
you live. Now, there was Ted Brown, from Ad-
dison Point, Maine, who came to see us last sum-
mer, just think how he used to talk about the
starboard and larboard side of the table at dinner,
and how he used to yarn about what storms he
had been in on his father's fishing-smack, and
about seeing man-seals, and whales, and sea-lions,
and all that sort of thing. But he enjoyed being
with us on the farm; all boys enjoy a change of
climate and scenery."
Mr. Marvin was well pleased with the result of
the day's shooting. The birds would bring several
dollars, he said.
Well," remarked Hugh, "I think I shall be a
market-hunter. It's just as good as being a lawyer,
or merchant, or physician, or preacher."
You are mistaken, my boy," said Mr. Marvin,
gravely. I know what I am saying when I tell
you that you must not think of throwing away
your life on so precarious and toilsome a business.
Even as recreation from the effects of overlabor,
hunting has its drawbacks; but after you have
followed it through wind and rain and sleet and

storm for years, it becomes immensely irksome
as a regular business. Then, too, a fellow soon
begins to feel that he has thrown away his life.
When I was a young man I was graduated from
a good college, and I might have made something
of myself if I had n't caught the naturalist's
fever; but I took to the woods and the fields and
became a homeless, wandering bird-shooter. Of
course, I'm too old to change now; but I never
want to hear you speak again of following my
mode of living. No, no, you and Neil have a
higher aim. You must make your lives great and
"Well," said Hugh, "if I do not become a
market-hunter, I shall be a farmer, I think, like
Uncle Charley, and own cattle, and sheep, and
hogs, and horses, and broad fields of corn, and
beautiful green pastures."
Night had now come on. They all went to bed
early, Hugh and Judge among the first, for they
had secretly agreed to get up before daylight and
go off to hunt some hares by moonlight, in a little
glade not far from camp. This glade was in the
midst of a dense pine wood, and Judge avowed that
hares always met in a glade to dance on moonlight
nights. But they had their trouble for nothing.
Not a hare did they see. The morning was a
lovely one, however, and the still, beautiful valley
lay as if asleep in the soft moonshine. They
watched the glade for, an hour or more and re-
turned to camp just as Samson had lighted a
fire for breakfast.
Neil was up and was writing in his diary and Mr.
Marvin was cleaning one of his guns. He showed
Hugh all the mechanism of the locks and breech-
fastening, and explained to him how each piece
was made to exactly fill its place, but with such
economy as to take up the least possible space.
I should not have advised your father to allow
you to have a gun, if there had been no breech-
loaders," said he; for I consider a muzzle-loading
gun too dangerous for a boy to handle. The
beautiful construction of a breech-loader ren-
ders it entirely unnecessary for the shooter ever
to turn the muzzle toward himself, and the re-
bounding locks with which it is furnished pre-
vent accident from any chance blow the ham-
mers may receive. No boy ought ever to have a
gun that has not rebounding locks."
The sun soon came up over the range of blue
hills east of the valley, and the cardinal grossbeaks
began to call from tree to tree down by the rivu-
let. It was like a May morning in the North, only
the air was more balmy, and a resinous fragrance
seemed to fill all space -it was the smell of the
turpentine of the pines and the odor of the liquid


THE fortnight spent by our friends in the North
Georgia valley was one long to be remembered by
them, especially by Neil and Hugh.
Mr. Marvin took great pains to train the boys in
all the tricks and turns of quail-shooting, and at
the same time he made plain to them the hidden
dangers that lurk in the path of the young hunter.
He very much desired that no accident should
befall his young friends, and he well knew that it
required constant vigilance to.prevent the possi-
bility of any calamity from their fervor and excit-
ableness. Neil seemed quite prudent and cautious,
but. Hugh, being younger and of a more sanguine
and impulsive nature, was constantly doing some-
thing that threatened danger to himself or to some
one else. Not that he meant to be careless or
unmindful of the safety of those about him, but he
seemed to forget everything else and entirely lose
himself for the time in whatever chanced to be
uppermost in his mind. It was impossible for him
to keep steady and cool, as Neil could. What he
did was always done without the slightest fore-
thought and with a rush and a bang," as Mr.
Marvin said, one day.
Old Samson, who heard the remark, expressed
his estimate of Hugh's temperament by replying:
"Dat 's so, Mass' Marvin., Ef Mass' Hugh 'u'd
happen to t'ink ob it, he 'd jump inter de fire afore
he could stop hisse'f! "
Mr. Marvin and Uncle Charley chided Hugh
very often about his reckless and heedless ways,
and he honestly and earnestly tried to be more so-
ber and careful. He improved quite rapidly in his
shooting, though it was plain that he never would
be able to compete with Neil, who was beginning
to be a fine wing-shot at both single and double
birds. It may be well to explain just here that by
"double birds" is meant, in the sportsman's par-
lance, two birds at which the shooter fires right and
left. If he kills both birds one after the other, the
hunter calls it a double shot, or "killing a double."
Neil had studied faithfully, and had used every
endeavor to conquer all his faults in shooting. He
had written down in his diary all the rules of shoot-
ing, as given to him by Mr. Marvin and Uncle
Charley. He had learned these rules by heart and
had practiced them assiduously.
On the contrary, Hugh jumped to all his conclu-
sions. He forgot every rule as soon as he saw a
bird, and depended entirely upon sudden impulse
to direct his action.
In a future chapter I shall record all of Mr. Mar-
vin's rules of shooting in simple and direct language,
and everyyounghunterwillfind them ofvalue to him.

Let us now, however, witness the last quail-
shooting of our friends in the Georgia valley.
A slight drizzling rain had fallen all through the
night, but the sun came up clear and strong, and
the air was all the sweeter from the dampness that
hung on the woods and fields. The distant mount-
ain knobs and peaks were as blue as indigo; the
fields of corn-stalks shone like gold.
Now for our farewell hunt," said Uncle Charley,
as he loosed his dogs and took his fine gun from its
Neil looked out over the valley and wished that
he could paint well enough to sketch the scene in
colors just as it then appeared. He found this
ambition to be an artist growing upon him. He
was all the time studying objects and landscapes
with a view to their picturesque effect or pictorial
values. He carried about with him a small manual
on free-hand sketching from Nature, which he had
almost worn out in studying it over and over. But
he was also a close observer of all that went on
around him, whether among the plants and trees,
the birds, or the people of the region. The memo-
randa in his note-book were as various as the
phases of Nature; and while an artist might have
laughed at his sketches, they were not so bad, after
Quails were easily found that day. Our friends
had not been out half an hour before their guns
began to boom in every direction. Hugh, as usual,
was excited and carried away with the thrilling
sport, and banged away at every feather that
stirred. He seemed to act on the principle that as
the game was plentiful it did not matter how often
he missed, and that if only he kept up his firing,
some of his shot would be sure to hit.
A very large bevy of quails was found in a field
of what the North Georgia farmers call crab-
grass," which was about knee-high and very thick.
The birds were scattered and began to rise one at
a time. Neil, Hugh, and Judge were near each
other. The first shot fell to Hugh, who knocked
over his bird in fine style, handling his gun like
an old sportsman. Judge's turn came next, and it
made the others laugh to hear the funny "click-
floo-bang of his rickety old flint-lock. The click"
was when the flint struck the face of the steel, the
"floo was the flash of the priming on the pan,
and the "bang" was the gun's report. Each
sound was separate and distinct. But Judge
brought down his quail all the same. Neil tried
for a double, and (a record not usual with him)
missed with both barrels.
The game was now rising at almost every step
and the shooting became fast and furious. Judge
was not having a fair chance, for, of course, his gun
being single-barreled and muzzle-loading, he had




to stop and go through the tedious process of load-
ing every time he fired; whereas Hugh and Neil
had nothing to do but press a spring, open the
breech, and slip in the shells ready loaded and
capped. But it was astonishing to see how rapidly
the young negro got powder, wads, and shot down
that dingy old barrel, and .how nimbly he glided
about in search of birds.
Neil seemed in bad luck somehow, his birds
always presenting difficult shots, and he missed
quite often. This put him out of conceit with
himself a little, and whenever a shooter loses self-
reliance, his chance for any brilliant display of
marksmanship is entirely gone.
Hugh was in the highest state of exhilaration.
He was successful with almost every shot, and his
self-confidence was perfect. Two or three times he
had sent his shot dangerously near Neil or Judge
in the hurry and activity of his exercise. He had
killed more game than Neil, and the latter was
strenuously endeavoring to retrieve his lost luck.
They had now driven the scattered remnant of
the bevy of quails across the field to a fence-row
grown up with sassafras bushes and persimmon
saplings. Hugh was on one side of this fence and
Neil and Judge were on the other side.
The birds had become quite wild, so that they
were rising at longer range than usual, and whirring
away with all the speed their wings could give.
Neil killed two or three in fine style, and began to
regain his nerve. At length, two rose together,
one going up the fence to his left, the other going
down the fence to his right. He killed the first
with a shot from his right barrel, and, turning
quickly, covered the other and fired his left. As
he pressed the trigger for his second shot, he saw
too late that Judge was nearly in line. He tried to
stop, but the gun would fire. Boom !
"Oh, massy! Goodness! Oh, I's killed! I's
killed! Oo! Oo Ohee! Oh, me! Oh, me and
Judge fell upon the ground and began to roll over
and over. His wild screams could be heard at a
long distance from the spot.
Mr. Marvin and Uncle Charley heard them, and
ran with all their might, reaching the place quite
out of breath and greatly frightened.
"What in the world is the matter?" exclaimed
Uncle Charley, in a half-stifled voice.
Neil and Hugh were bending over Judge, who
was still rolling over and over in an agony of fright.
Mr. Marvin pushed the boys aside and began to
examine the wounded negro.
"This is more of your miserable work, Hugh,"
said Uncle Charley, turning his agitated face
toward his younger nephew. I 've been afraid of
something of the kind; you're so heedless and
wild, you-"

"It was n't Hugh," quickly exclaimed Neil;
"Idid it!"
"You, Neil! You!" That was all Uncle
Charley could say. He stood stupefied with
amazement. The idea of Neil's having acted so
recklessly seemed too strange to be true.
Meantime, Mr. Marvin had stripped off some of
Judge's clothes and was examining the wounds
more carefully to see if any help would be needed.
He was relieved to find no very dangerous wounds.
But Judge continued his screaming, loudly de-
claring that he was already dead.
Neil and Hugh stood mournfully looking on,
their hearts heavy with dread.
It was with much difficulty that Mr. Marvin and
Uncle Charley kept Judge still enough for a band-
age, made of a handkerchief, to be put around his
arm where the wound that was bleeding most
freely was located.
"Oh, what shall I do, what shall I do!" cried
Neil, wringing his hands and gazing blankly at
You did n't go to do it," said Hugh, in a voice
meant to be consoling; but his whitened face and
purple lips told how intensely excited he was.
"Oh, I'11 die, I '11 die I want ter see mammy
- take me to mammy bawled Judge.
"He 's going to--to--die!" Neil huskily
murmured, in an agony of apprehension, and
leaning on his empty gun for support.
Hugh was leaning on his gun also.
Uncle Charley looked up, and exclaimed inquir-
ingly :
Boys, are those guns loaded? "
"Mine is," said Hugh, quickly lifting it and
slipping out the shells. Both hammers were
cocked and both barrels loaded !
Then it was that the boys, for the first time in
their lives, saw good, kind-hearted Uncle Charley
lose his temper. His face grew very red.
"You boys must be little better than idiots "
he cried, looking almost furiously back and forth
from one to the other. "You are resolved, it
seems, to kill yourselves and everybody else !"
Then he turned upon Judge, who was still
screaming and tumbling around, and touching him
on the shoulder, said:
"Now, Judge, be quiet, instantly "
Judge ceased his cries at once and became
perfectly quiet. Mr. Marvin was seen to smile
grimly in the midst of his surgical work. When
the bandage had been well adjusted and Judge's
body carefully examined, Uncle Charley said:
Get up, now, and put on your coat."
"I I did n' want ter be killed, nohow," sobbed
Judge, as he scrambled to his feet.
By great good fortune, his hurts were not

serious. Five shot had struck him-two in the sun filled the valley with golden light, Uncle
left arm, one in the shoulder, one in the neck, and Charley gave orders to strike the tents and make
one in the breast. These had been mere scatter- ready for moving. Judge declared that "de
ing pellets on the outer rim of Neil's load, as soreness
Judge had not been directly in range, mos' all /,<
It was a relief to all concerned when the true goneout .
state of the wounds became known; but Neil and o' dem J/ '
___________ -> Ar~V\ i- 44

if> if>-


Hugh hung their heads and pondered deeply.
The lesson of so grave an accident was impressing
itself upon their minds. How terrible it would
have been if Judge had been killed!

JUDGE was a very sore boy for several days, and
had to take good care of himself, in order to pre-
vent his wounds from inflaming and making him
sick. This delayed the departure from the valley
for nearly a week.
In the meantime, a disagreeable wind and rain
came on, making it very uncomfortable to be out-
of-doors. Neil brooded over his mishap a great
deal. He felt as if he had been guilty of a great
crime. He had been so sure of his own ability to
avoid all accidents that it made his signal mistake
doubly inexcusable to himself. Hugh was gloomy,
too, so that with the sad weather and a lack
of cheerful conversation, the camp was a stupid
place for awhile.
But when the clouds blew away at last, and the

shot-holes," and everybody grew lighter-hearted
with the brightening of the weather.
Nothing of any especial interest happened on
their way back to Uncle Charley's farm in Tennes-
see, until they had reached a deep hollow on the
northern slope of the mountain, where they saw
a fine flock of wild turkeys run into a thick
wood some two or three hundred yards ahead
of them. This reminded them that the next day
would be Thanksgiving Day, and a roast turkey
would be just the thing for their Thanksgiving
Samson and Judge were left to drive the wagons,
while the rest turned out with their guns to give
chase to the game.
Neil and Hugh were very eager to add turkeys
to their list of game. Mr. Marvin saw their
haste and stopped them to speak a few sharp
words of warning and advice. Neil's face flushed,
and he promptly said:
You can rely on me, Mr. Marvin; I shall
never be careless again."
Hugh promised, also, and "then they all went
rapidly and noiselessly into the wood.





The boys, who were walking side by side,
chanced to come upon the flock at the head of
a short, deep ravine, from which issued a clear,
cold mountain spring. The birds were fifty
yards away, giving but a poor opportunity for a
successful shot; but each of the boys fired right and
left, and one big gobbler" fell, tumbling to the
very bottom of the ravine, where they heard him
splash the water of the spring stream.
Neil and Hugh ran to secure their game, but on
reaching the edge of the ravine they found its sides
so steep that descent into it seemed impossible.
They could look down and see the big black bird
lying on its back in the shallow stream.
Some small trees grew in the rough soil on the
jaws of the ravine; below them there was an al-
most vertical fall of damp and dripping rock for
a distance of nearly thirty feet.
Neil began to look around for some means of
descent. He could not bear the idea of leaving
such noble game lying where it fell. A little dis-
tance from where they stood there was a place
where a huge piece of the rocky bluff had dropped
out many years ago. This had formed a sort of
projection some fifteeh feet below the verge of the
precipice, and out of it grew a gnarled cedar-tree,
whose top came above the plateau upon which the
boys were standing.
Neil handed his gun to Hugh, and seizing a limb
of the cedar-tree, swung himself to its body, and
then climbed down to the projection. This was
quite easy, but he found himself still twelve or
fifteen feet above the bottom of the dusky and
chilly ravine. From this point, however, the descent
of the rocky side was somewhat slanting, and so
he easily slid down without accident. The air was
damp and of disagreeable odor, and Neil hurried to
get the turkey, which he found to be a very large
one, weighing, he thought, nearly twenty pounds.
He picked it up, and started to climb out. Now,
with a sudden sinking of the heart, he discovered
that he could not go up that steep incline, down
which he had slipped with so little difficulty. He
could not make a single step upward on the damp,
slippery surface of the slanting stone. He let the
turkey fall and called to Hugh. No answer came.
This frightened him. Could it be that his brother
had gone away? He called again as loudly as he
could. Not a sound came back in response.
Somewhere far away, as it seemed to him, he heard
the report of a gun. He ran along the spring
stream a short distance to see if there was any
available outlet to the ravine, but the water soon
lost itself'by flowing into a fissure of a stone wall
which some convulsion of Nature long ago had
thrown across the way.
Here was a situation that would have daunted a

stronger heart than Neil's; but, much to his credit,
the boy kept quite calm. He at once felt that
his escape depended on the practical application
of his common sense. If he should give way to
fright, he could not hope to get out. He searched
in every direction for a tree that he could use for a
ladder, but there was none.
"Surely," thought he, there must be some
way out."
As he was walking along near the wall of one
side of the gulch, his eyes chanced to fall upon the
track of a large animal's foot in the soft clay. Neil
knew in a moment that it was a bear-track. It
was larger than his hand and looked as if it had
been made quite recently. The animal had been
walking along close to the base of the cliff and
there were two or three places where it had dug
the dirt out of the crevices in the rock, as if hunt-
ing for food or a good spot for a lair. But Neil
was much more interested in getting out of that
gloomy place than he was in studying bear-tracks.
He hallooed to Hugh again and again without get-
ting any answer. Suddenly the thought came to
him that Hugh had run after Uncle Charley and
Mr. Marvin to get them to come and help him
Of course that's it," he thought; and then
he grew very much calmer. It could not be long
before they would come to look for him, in any
event. He would have felt much better if he had
had his gun, but he tried to make the best of his
situation by a careful search for some means of
getting out without waiting to be helped by Uncle
Charley and Mr. Marvin. It annoyed him to
think that here was another ugly result of his want
of prudence, after all that had happened and after
all his good resolves. As he wandered around,
climbing over fragments of stone and through
tangles of scrubby cedars, he found a sort of zig-
zag slender path, that appeared to lead right out
of the ravine. His heart grew light in a mo-
He started up the path, but remembering his
turkey, he went back and got it. The ascent'was
very difficult, but Neil was a good climber, and his
desire to make his way out without help whetted
his energy. He crawled rather than walked up
the angular path, dragging the turkey after him.
Some distance from the bottom of the ravine, at a
point where the path crossed a sandy ledge, Neil
saw the bear's foot-prints again, but this time they
pointed in the direction in which he was going.
Ah," thought he, this is Bruin's path. No
doubt he came down into the gulch for water. If
only I had Samson's dog to start on the track! He
would soon find the old fellow's den."
A little farther up he came to a place where a




pine-tree had tumbled into the ravine and lodged
against a wild mass of stones directly across the
path. At first it seemed impossible to get past
this obstruction; but he soon saw where the path
led under the log and over the stones. With great
difficulty he crawled along, creeping under and
over and around, as the tracks led. If it had not
been for the turkey, his progress would have been
m ore ..l. Tl,. l d i-, .
exer- :. i : ij oI i i, u i .I- I l i-. I :
w a s .:.' ,: 1 h - : l I' r1 ,i ,-i' i .: r
h ow i'uL']i': ,h n l.,l,: i[ ,-,:,: htint. H- : ,:lhi'L... l i,:, i -c

aroused from a quiet nap. And as the bear effect-
ually barred his further progress, Neil ran back
along the path he had been following, and at last
climbed a tree to wait until help should come
to him.
He had let go of his turkey when he fell over the
stones, and he had not taken the trouble to pick it

WOO ..

i 3

top (.1 :.:,; .!' -r:i :. Ri-.: -A.a..
a w ild .. .: -tr. .. j : n i -

p oin r k.. .Ji-: r,.1ni .:.,- r!,.. ..ri, ,,.I -
whe .' 1i ir.- t V' : .li_
h im .t ho l'[.- ,I l [1* "*i i lki : ".'ni,: z. .-\r
the same time a hollow, hoarse snort
or growl reached his ears, and even
before he could scramble to his feet he saw, wit
consternation, a huge black animal sitting upo
its haunches under a shelf of rock not twenty fei
away from him.
It was a bear, and it was eying him savage
To have stumbled upon a bear in that lonely ravine
and without his gun, was not a cheering experien(
to the young hunter, who did not waste any tin
examining old Bruin's premises. He only saw th;
the place was quite a comfortable den, and th:
Mr. Bruin sat there with half-open eyes and snar
ing mouth, as if greatly vexed at having bee


h up again, especially as it had tumbled down near
n to the bear's feet,- nearer than Neil cared to go.
:e WHEN Neil handed his gun to Hugh and
ie started down into the ravine, Hugh saw a fox-
it squirrel some distance away. Now a fox-squirrel
it was an animal which Neil and he had been trying
1- very hard to get as a specimen for their father's
n cabinet at home. But, as yet, they had failed.



He placed Neil's gun against a tree and went on a
long, rambling chase after the little brown-bodied,
black-headed, white-nosed animal whose great
bushy tail kept waving in the distance ahead of
him. He soon forgot Neil and the turkey and
thought of nothing but of how he should manage
to get a shot at the squirrel. After a vigorous and
roundabout run through the woods, he at length
saw his game run up a low, gnarled oak-tree that
grew on a dry, stony ridge.
"Now," thought Hugh, I shall gethim at last!"
But to his chagrin, the next moment, with a
guttural quack, the squirrel dived into a hole in a
big knot about thirty feet from the ground.
Hugh kept quite still for, perhaps, half an hour,
watching the hole to see if the little.animal would
not come out again; but it did not, and he turned
away, and went immediately back to the road
where the wagons were standing.
Mr. Marvin and Uncle Charley were already
there with two turkeys which they had killed.
"Where's Neil ?" inquired Mr. Marvin, as
Hugh came up.
Why, I left him over yonder in a gulch," said
Hugh. He went down into it to get a turkey we
killed, and I went on after a fox-squirrel."
They waited a long while, but Neil did not
come. Uncle Charley wished to camp for the
night beside a spring some miles distant, and there
was no time to spare.
"What in the world can be keeping the boy "
exclaimed Uncle Charley rather impatiently, for he
did not like to wait.
"If you '11 go with me, Hugh, we'll see if we
can find him," said Mr. Marvin. Show me the
way to the place where you killed your turkey."
Hugh readily assented, and they walked rapidly
to the ravine.
Here's his gun," said Hugh, he has n't come
out yet."
Why, how did he ever get down into this ugly
place ?" queried Mr. Marvin.
I I- I don't know; I got after the squirrel
and did n't watch him," said Hugh, going to the
edge of the bluff and gazing down.
Mr. Marvin now called Neil in a loud voice.
Almost immediately an answer came, as if from
some point midway between them and the bottom
of the ravine.
Is that you, Mr. Marvin ? "
Yes; what are you doing ?" replied Mr. Marvin.
"I'm up in a tree. There 's a bear down here.
I'm afraid to climb down." It was Neil's voice,
but it sounded unnaturally. The poor boy had
grown weary of waiting for them.
What kind of a bear is it ? asked Mr. Marvin,
in a doubting tone.

Why, it's a black bear, and a big one, too,"
cried Neil, emphatically. I ran almost against
it, and it growled and snarled at me. Have you
your gun? "
Yes, my Winchester rifle; but how can I get
down there ?"
I don't know, and I can't imagine how I am
going to get out, either."
"Well, stay where you are for awhile, and I'11
see what can be done. Are you really sure you
saw a bear ? "
I tell you I know I did," answered Neil, posi-
tively. It's right down here in its den now. If
you'll come down, I '11 show it to you."
Mr. Marvin turned to Hugh and said:
Go back and tell your uncle to come, and to
bring all the rope there is in the wagons. Be
quick, now, and don't forget to tell him to fetch his
rifle, too."
Hugh ran as fast as his legs could carry him.
Mr. Marvin's practiced eye had taken in the
situation almost at a single glance. He saw that
he must have a rope with which to lower himself
into the bed of the-ravine.
In a very short time, Uncle Charley and Hugh
came with their guns and the ropes.
What's up now ? demanded Uncle Charley.
"Nothing up," said Mr. Marvin, but some-
thing down. Neil is in the ravine, and a bear
has treed him, I guess."
SThe situation was soon explained to Uncle
Charley, and it was decided that Mr. Marvin
should be lowered into the ravine.
Two or three of the long, strong ropes used for
tethering the horses were tied together and one end
having been securely fastened to a tree at the edge
of the cliff, the other end was flung below. Mr.
Marvin then swung his gun on his back, and taking
hold of the rope, climbed down without trouble
by pressing his feet against the face of the rock.
Where are you, Neil?" he cried as soon as
he reached the ground.
"Here!" answered Neil, rapidly descending
from his perch in a little tree. He was looking
rather haggard and pale.
Well, where is your bear? said Mr. Marvin,
with a touch of sarcasm in his tone.
"Now, Mr. Marvin, you are making fun of me,"
said Neil, in a half resentful tone, "but come with
me and I '11 show you." Saying this, he led the
way to the bear-tracks.
"Look there What do you say to that?"
he asked, pointing them out to Mr. Marvin, who
examined them carefully.
"They are genuine bear-tracks," said Mr.
Marvin, "and fresh ones, too. Where did you
see the bear himself? "


Up yonder, farther," said Neil, pointing with
his finger; but I want my gun before I go."
Mr. Marvin now began to have some faith in the
bear story, and he said they would go back and
have Neil's gun lowered to him by the rope.
This was done in a few moments, and at Neil's
suggestion Uncle Charley and Hugh went around
the head of the ravine to the other side and sta-
tioned themselves near the place where they sup-
posed the bear might come out of the hollow.
Now," said Mr. Marvin, as Neil loaded his
gun with shells of heavy shot, let's find your bear
in short order; there's no time to lose."
Well, come on," said Neil, leading the way.
They soon reached the little, crooked path. Mr.
Marvin scrutinized this very closely before starting
to follow it. The rough, vine-covered heap of
stones and the fallen tree were just visible. Neil
pointed them out to Mr. Marvin and said, almost
in a whisper:
S" The bear is right over on the other side of those
stones under the edge of a projecting part of'the
cliff. He's a big one, too "
Mr. Marvin started up the path and Neil followed
him closely. Their progress was slow, owing to the
steepness and narrowness of the way, but the dis-
tance was so short that they soon reached the pile
of stones. Mr. Marvin noiselessly climbed up and
peeped over. Neil was by his side in a moment.
The bear was now standing on its haunches, with
its fore-feet lifted off the ground. It really was a
monster in size, and appeared to be ready for a
Aim at his breast, Neil Mr. Marvin rapidly
The next instant the ravine shook with the re-
ports of their guns. The bear was hit, but it did
not fall, nor did it attack, as Mr. Marvin had feared
it might, but ran, rather nimbly for so large an
animal, up a ledge of the bluff a little to one side
of its den.
Lookout above !" yelled Mr. Marvin. "Bear
coming! "

All right, let him come!" rang out Uncle
Charley's clear voice.
Scarcely had the words been spoken, when
"bang went his gun and Hugh's. Uncle
Charley fired his rifle three times, Hugh shot
"Dead bear!" shouted Uncle Charley. "Come
Mr. Marvin and Neil discovered that there was
an easy and well-defined path'out of the den,
following which they soon emerged from the gulch
and found themselves where Uncle Charley and
Hugh were standing by the dead bear.
"He ran right at us! cried Hugh, excitedly.
"We did n't have much time, I tell you! Is n't
he a big one ?"
Neil was too much out of breath to speak. He
stopped and gazed at the huge animal and felt
truly thankful that he had escaped from its ter-
rible claws.
"But where 's your turkey, Neil?" asked Hugh.
"Why, I forgot it," said Neil, it's down there
in the bear's den, I suppose."
Uncle Charley went with them into the bear's
den, where they found the turkey lying upon the
bones of some small animal that the bear had eaten.
It 's a wonder he had n't made a luncheon of
the turkey," said Hugh.
He was n't hungry, perhaps," said Uncle
When Mr. Marvin had finished skinning the bear
he hung the hide and hams across a long pole so
that he and Uncle Charley could carry them to
the wagons.
Samson and Judge opened their eyes very wide
when they heard the story of Neil's adventure.
It was late at night when they reached the camp-
ing-place and they were all too tired and sleepy to
talk much. The following day they reached Uncle
Charley's house in time for supper.
Samson and Judge got all the negroes of the
place around them and entertained them with
highly colored accounts of the trip.

(To be continued.)





Cri~ /t- -\-

t t i t:.:

1l '1~ /. 1 ./X".
ties 4,~k I .

M1 I' K I f T
i N XI I!-I -i I- ir, ii. h

V 'I i r


tr- -it. .:.-, i' -. . n o e
T.. -k 't I11- H L. i A. : 0lir iiiewr .-

it:. !o ri. .\L- u -i i t retth ee

I i ,.. I..
ii i,- .tL ,
r -11: c dne

It is not buttressed on the land,-
Its airy filagree and scheme
Seem products of a fairy's hand.

How swung aloft, how lightly stayed,
Without a window, board, or pane-
A dream in definite shape arrayed,
A castle from the realms of Spain !

Thy woven wonder does not cease,-
And yet thy blood-stained doors deter
Wayfarers fond of life and peace!

No revelers in those chambers meet,
No jocund footsteps jar the floor,-
For, they who step within retreat
At once, or leave it nevermore !




MY first day's-work for others, when fourteen
years old, was performed in a paper-mill in west-
ern Massachusetts, where I learned some Latin in
spare moments, and saved enough money to pre-
pare for college.
To give a complete history of paper would fill
every number of the ST. NICHOLAS for a year.
The hornet, whose sharp sting is the terror of
children, is the recognized pioneer of paper-mak-
ers. His cellular nest, on trees and rocks, is
built of material which resembles the most deli-

cate tissue-paper. Weaving must have been sug-
gested by the intricate spider's web and the
building of dams by the skillful beaver.
Man has always, been slow to learn from Nature.
Writing was first done on leaves and stones. In
the libraries of London, Vienna, and Copenhagen
are carefully treasured palm-leaf manuscripts
written by the ancients. The innermost bark of

birch-trees answered for paper in India and Ger-
many, and even to this day the Indians write upon
the leaves of the mulberry, bamboo, and yucca.
Many centuries before Christ, Numa left writ-
ings upon lte papyrus, whence our name, paper,
is derived. This plant, which was revered as
sacred by the old Egyptians, grows abundantly in
shallow streams and marshes in upper Egypt
and Syria. Bruce found it growing in the River
Jordan, and noticed a curious fact, that it always
presented the sharp, angular side of its pear-shaped
stem to the swift current. The stem is eight or
ten feet high, two inches in diameter, and crowned
with a fringe of hair-like leaves, which circle a
blossom of slender spikelets. Beneath the brown
sheath which envelops the root-stalk of this dark-
green plant lie other sheathes which are very
transparent. These, when split into thin leaves
and dried in the sun, were glued together, and
formed the roll of papyrus, on which many of
the ancient writings have come down to us. This
paper was both flexible and durable. Specimens
from Pompeii can be seen in the museum at Naples.
In the fifth century papyrus paper, of which
many varieties existed, was largely manufactured
at Alexandria, and yanked high in the commerce
of nations. Its use continued until about seven or
eight centuries ago.
In China the four most precious things" are
the paper-plant, ink and its saucer, and the brush.
Eighteen hundred years ago, the Chinese, acting
upon the wasp's suggestion, made paper from
Sfibrous matter reduced to pulp. Now, each prov-
ince makes its own peculiar variety from the inner-
most bark of different trees. The young bamboo,
which grows six or eight inches in a single night,
is whitened, reduced to pulp in a mortar, and sized
with alum. From this pulp sheets of paper are
made in a mold by hand. The celebrated Chinese
rice paper, that so resembles woolen and silk fab-
rics, and on which are painted quaint birds and
flowers, is manufactured from compressed pith,
which is first cut spirally, by a keen knife, into thin




slices, six inches wide and twice as long. Im-
mense quantities of paper are used by the Chinese
for a great variety of purposes. Funeral papers,
or paper imitations of earthly things which they de-
sire to bestow on departed friends, are burned over
their graves. They use paper window-frames, paper
sliding-doors, and paper visiting-cards a yard long.
It is related that when a distinguished representa-
tive of the British Government once visited Pekin,

begun to make, is old-fashioned with them. The
skill of the Japanese in.handlinglong fibers without
injury enables them to make their parchment-like
paper very tenacious and durable.
It is claimed that the Mandarin Teailien invented
rag paper. Whether this is true or not, the Chinese
secret was early known in Persia and Arabia, and
gradually the Europeans began and rapidly im-
proved the art of manufacturing paper. Parch-

- -

Ip r

''' 'Lii I-
ii F 'I' Il ;

i: I' _


several servants brought him a huge roll, which,
when spread out over the large floor, proved to be
the visiting-card of the Chinese Emperor.
Early in the Christian era, the Japanese employed
silk faced with linen, and also wood shavings, for
writing material. In 6o1, A. D., they began to
make paper from vegetable fiber, and their in-
genuity is indeed marvelous. From several hun-
dred varieties of paper they manufacture lanterns,

)"1 .'. 1 -
.:7 7 r '
'...-. ,



ment, prepared sheep-skin, and vellum, or clear
calf-skin, were laid aside. Eight hundred years
ago, Spain made paper from cotton, and in 1302
a finer quality from linen. In the fourteenth cent-
ury, France, Germany, and Italy became quite
skilled in the art. Queen Elizabeth knighted
Spielman, a German, who established the first
paper-mill in her kingdom. The business in Eng-
land was greatly increased by the Huguenots

S..-. 1

-. -I

4 7 1 ii' 'll. I '' u'-' !I Ij

.1 *1 ..

,I '1 , T, ,


candle-wicks, hair-pins, umbrellas, artificial flowers,
fans, handkerchiefs, hats, sword-proof helmets,
telescope tubes, water-proof under-clothing, etc.
A formal Japanese poet uses in writing, for poetry
or songs, four distinct kinds of paper, specially
designed. Imitation leather, which we have just
VOL. XI.-52.

whom Louis XIV. drove out of France. The paper-
mill built near Chester creek, in Delaware, in
1714, was probably the first paper-mill in the
United States. The owner supplied paper to
Benjamin Franklin. The old hand process can
still be seen there.




Many years ago in New England, laws were exchanged for big sacks of odds and ends saved in
made which required people to save carefully all scrap-bags. Manya successfulmerchantandbanker

paper material; and bell carts went through the was originally a keen-witted tin-peddler, who
cities ringing for rags. Yankee tin-peddlers drove learned human nature in the homes of the people,
their red wagons through village and town, loaded and constantly viewed new scenes and gathered
with pails, brooms, and shining tin-ware, which were fresh experience as his old horse jogged along.



Until 1750, paper material was reduced to tial principles were those of the modern paper-
pulp in a crude mortar; but in that year this engine.

I ...... .
WA- h,!~ _


tedious process was superseded by a machine In the paper-mills of to-day, we see scores of
run by windmills, a Dutch invention. Its essen- women and girls removing from the rags all hooks


and eyes, buttons, pins, pieces of woolen and silk;
and cutting the rags into narrow strips on sharp
scythes fixed to tables. These strips are carefully
sorted into three or more baskets. A revolving
wire sieve removes the dust, and the rags are put
into a huge iron or wooden boiler, with caustic
soda and lime, which wash out the grease and
dirt. In the case of print-papers or wood-chips,
the ink is removed from one and the sap and
resin from the other..

placed in a row, makes a very long machine.
This paper-making machine is shown on this page,
and the diagram below furnishes us with the names
of the most important parts, viz.: The screen,
vat, wire cloth, press or felt rollers, dryers, calen-
ders, reels, and slitters.
In 1798, Louis Robert, a Frenchman, substituted
for the old-fashioned hand mold an endless wire
web, by which paper of great width, length, and
uniform thickness could be made. His valuable
invention was much improved by the Messrs.
I Fourhi..;- c- h l..:..:.l.- :! .: L..n..-n,
a n .d h ':,_ b.-- l! t .u i. fl.-:r i ..i ...'.'e.'l ..', A.i-T..-- !.:1 ;iiiS.


The rags are then ready to be converted into
pulp.. The huge machine which is used is called
an engine," and was invented in Holland. It is
quite unlike a stationary or railway engine. It is
shown on the preceding page,-as an elliptical
tub, separated by a partition into two chambers.
Under the curved box-cover, a cylinder filled with
over fifty dull steel blades, and attached to the
shaft, revolves rapidly over a bed of steel bars.
The blades draw out the fiber of the rags by a
kind of shearing action. The first work or proc-
ess of the engine is to partially reduce and wash

By the aid of the diagram, let us examine this
"bird's-eye view" of a complete paper-making
machine. The receiving-vat on the right of the
machine is constantly supplied with prepared pulp
by a pump, all imperfections being removed by the
screen. A stop-cock or other arrangement regulates
the supply of pulp, thus controlling the thickness of
paper to be made. The pulp, diluted with water,
flows over an apron upon an endless wire cloth, or
web, which has from 3500 to 5000 holes to the square
inch. As the water escapes through the wire cloth,
the fibers of the pulp are gently shaken together.

clean the material, and requires from three to four
hours. This cleansed material is called "half-
stuff," and is emptied into vats, where it is bleached
perfectly white by chloride of lime. Next, the
beautiful snow-like, half-beaten stuff is again put
into the engine, and slowly reduced to fine pulp,
which, when mixed with water, resembles cream,
the natural yellow color being changed to a bluish
tint by the use of a very little ultramarine.
The. pulp is now ready to be converted into
paper by a series of ingenious contrivances, which,

A roller of fine wire net-work imprints the water-
marks which give the name "woven" paper; when
the wires are stretched only one way, it is called "laid "
paper. The imprint of a fool's cap and bell, much
used formerly, gave the name "foolscap" paper.
The newly formed wide sheet of wet paper passes
to an endless felt belt, by which it is conveyed
between iron press rolls, around a dozen or more
steam dryers, again around smooth calenders, and
then upon the reels, finally through slitters, into
a sticky liquid,' and between knives; and, at last,


8:I 2


the long soft paper, freed from water, is smoothed,
sized, and wound on reels.
Paper is thus made so rapidly, that if the roll
were allowed to run off from the machine in a con-
tinuous strip, a child could not keep up with a
marked point on that strip, except by running. In
the finishing-room the paper is again smoothed,
cut into sheets, ruled, sorted, counted, folded,
stamped, and put up in reams, quarter-reams,
and half-reams, for book or letter use.
Coarse papers are made on a unique revolving
cylinder, which gathers the pulp on its surface of
wire work. It was invented in 1822, by Mr. John
Ames, of Springfield, Mass. Formerly, several
weeks were required to complete the slow hand
process of changing crude material into finished


.... i. C __ f 4 1..i.-..
---- i-

ii,.,. *- ^ l '- ....s?

made in the United States by one thousand mills,
each averaging two tons daily.
The four thousand paper-mills in the world
make annually a million tons of paper-one third
of which is used for newspapers.
Holyoke, on the Connecticut river, is called the
"Paper City." It turns out daily one hundred
two-horse wagon-loads of beautiful papers of
varied tints. At Castleton, on the Hudson River,
millions of postal-cards are made each year for
the Government, out of wood-pulp. Paper has
become as great a necessity as iron, and is em-
ployed in fully as many ways. Scores of railways
use paper car-wheels. Stoves and chimneys, even,
are made of paper. It is used for pencils, for lumber
(in imitation of mahogany), for roof-tiling, jewelry,

-, .- .,
-- - i -' "- .

i, ~ '- I --- 'I
.- ," .- _.- _...


paper. Now it can be accomplished in a single
day, at one third the old-time cost.
Poplar, spruce, and basswood are used in immense
quantities for making paper pulp. Even the banana
and palmetto yield excellent fiber. Of late, a soft
and transparent quality of paper has been made
from common grasses. Bank-note paper is made
from linen, silk fiber being introduced to prevent
counterfeiting by making certain markings in
the paper which can not easily be imitated. Many
bank bills have red silk threads running along the
edges and across the ends. Letter paper is made
from linen and cotton mixed; printing paper chiefly
from wood-pulp,-rags being added for book
and magazine paper, like that used for ST.
NICHOLAS. Waste papers, straw, old ropes, jute,
manilla, and like substances make common papers.
One third of the paper consumed in the world is

bronzes, false teeth, water-cans, row-boats, flour
barrels, powder kegs, clothing, shoes, collars,
blankets, and carpets. A fashionable New York
lady once gave a party, at which the women wore
paper dresses. A paper house was exhibited at the
Sydney Exhibition, the doors, floors, and furniture
being made from paper. In Sweden, paper thread
is made. Thin silk paper, with tasteful, designs
painted in oil, pasted on common window-panes,
makes an admirable imitation of stained glass.
Paper dipped in chloride of cobalt makes the
French barometer flowers," which are blue in fair
weather and change to pink on the approach of rain.
You will see, from all this, that a thorough knowl-
edge of chemistry, and of the principles of me-
chanics, is necessary for the successful manufacture
of paper, and that paper-making is one of the
greatest industries of modern times.







LIT-TLE Dot has eight dolls. Some of them have no arms or legs.
These she loves the best. They are oft-en ver-y sick. One doll has no
head. This one she al-ways says has the head-ache.
When her broth-er laughs, she says: "I dess your head would ache, too,
if it were tut off."
Lit-tle Dot has a fun-ny grand-pa-pa. When grand-pa-pas are fun-ny,
they are ver-y fun-ny in-deed.

Once, when he came for a vis-it, she got her new-est doll and set, it on
his knee. Then he trot-ted it up and down, and sang a lit-tle rhyme.
if it Were tut off."

This pleased her so much that she brought one more doll, and then one
more, un-til she had brought them all.


Grand-pa-pa sang a rhyme for each one. Here are the rhymes he sang:

One doll-y, one;
0, now we '11 have fun!
Two doll-ies, two;
There 's room here for you.
Three doll-ies, three;
Here, take t' oth-er knee.
Four doll-ies, four;
Just room for one more.

Five doll-ies, five;
O-ho sakes a-live!
Six doll-ies, six;
Well, well what a fix!
Sev-en doll-ies, sev-en;
Don't scare up e-lev-en.
Eight doll-ies, eight;
Hi, hi! you 're too late.

But no, he made room on his knees for the last one, too; and then he
put his long arms a-round them all, and trot-ted with all his might, and sang :

0, the dolls of lit-tie Dot,-
What a fun-ny, bump-y lot!
Eyes of brown and eyes of blue,

0, how

hair, and curl-y, too;
man-y dolls she's got,-
lit-tle, darl-ing Dot!

THERE once was a ver-y rich pig,
Who wore spec-ta-cles, al-so a wig;
And at last grew so stout
That, to trav-el a-bout,
He had to in-dulge in a gig.







-_ __ -- _-_-_ _- -- - l

ONCE a year the Sun goes courting,
Courting in.the Sky;
When he meets the stately Virgo
With the s iakling eye.

Day Moon's Moon's
of Age. Place.

Fri. 10 Ophiuch
Sat. 11 Sagit.
S 12
Mon. 13
Tues. 14 Capri.
Wed. FULL Aqua.
Thur. 16
Fri. 17
Sat. 18 Pisces
S 19
Mon. 20
Tues. 21 Aries
Wed. 22 Taurus
Thur. 23 "
Fri. 24
Sat. 25 Gemini
5 26
Mon. 27
Tues. 28
Wed. NEW
Thur. 1
Fri. 2
Sat. 3 Virgo
a ,
Mon. 5
Tues. 6 Libra
Wed. 7 Scorpio
Thur. 8 "
Fri. 9 Ophiuch
Sat. 10 Sagit.
A 11

Holidays and Incidents.

Battle of the Nile, 1798.
Battle of Blenheim, 1704.
8th Sunday after Trinity.
Shelley, born 1792.
Atlan. Cable, landed 1858.
Ben Jonson, died 1637.
H'yVI. of Germ'y,d. 1106.
Richelieu, died 1788.
Isaac Walton, born 1593.
9th Sunday after Trinity.
Thos. Betterton, b. 1635.
Thos. Bewick, b. 1753.
Tiberius II., died 582.
( near Aldebaran.
( near Saturn.
Venus very brilliant.
10th Sunday after Trinity.
(17th) 5 close to Venus.
Honor de Balzac, d. 1850.
Robert Herrick, b. 1591.
Lady Montagu, died 1762.
John B. Gough, b. 1817.
(24th) ( very close toMars.
11th Sunday after Trinity.
James Watt, died 1819.
Prince Albert, born 1819.
Bat. of Long Island, 1776.
Leigh Hunt, died 1859.
John Locke, born 1632.

Mars near Spicasev'l days.
12th Sundayafter Trinity.


IN the heat of the day,
When too hot to play,
How nice to go down to the river,
And swimming, and dashing,
And diving, and splashing,
To cool off ourselves to a shiver!


(See Introduction, page 255, ST. NICHOLAS for January.)*

AUGUST 15th, 8.30 P.M.
VENUS, JUPITER, and SATURN are morning stars. MARS
is just setting. We are now looking at a part of the sky in
the south, which is not visited by any planet during the year
except MERCURY, which is so difficult to find, on account of
its closeness to the sun, that no attempt to pcint it out has
been made in these accounts of our evening skies.
Spica is setting, and the red star Antares is twinkling in the
south-west. Arcturus is high up in the west. Overhead burns
Lyra, the beautiful star of Tke Har/. Near Lyra, to the
east, is a large triangle of four stars in the constellation of
Cygnus, or The Swan. The brightest of the four is Arided.
Between Arcturus and Lyra is Alphecca, in the Norlke~a
Crown. High up in the south-east is a row of three stars.
The center star is a very bright one we have not noticed be-
fore; it is Altair, in the constellation Aquila, or 7ke Eagle.
Notice how bright the Milky Way is near the triangle of
Cygnus. Rising in the north-east are four bright stars in the
form of a very large square. It is one of the most conspicu-
ous objects in the heavens, and is called the Square of Pegasus.
The right-hand star, the one leading the way, is Markab,
which, with the next two, belongs to the constellation Pegasus,
The Flying Horse. The fourth star of the square, the one
farthest north, is Alpherat, in the constellation Andromeda.


"WHITHER away so fast ? said the Butterfly to the Locust, one warm morning.
"To take my place with the birds and the bees in the midsummer chorus," replied the Locust; will
you come, too ? "
"No," said the Butterfly, "I don't sing. My beauty is what I travel on; my wings are very much
admired, you must admit."
"Very true," said the Locust in reply, "but don't you know that handsome is that handsome does, and
that looks are not everything? "
Just-then a little girl made a sweep at the Butterfly with her net, and nearly caught him. "Well," said
the Butterfly, you may be right, but I think in my case looks came very near being too much, that time."
Z-z-z-z-z-z-," said the Locust, as he went on his way.

The names of planets are printed in capitals,- those of constellations in italics.



WHEN the weather is wet,
We must not fret;
When the weather is dry,
We need not cry;
When the weather is cold,
No use to scold;
When the weather is warm,
We should not storm--
But be thankful together,
Whatever the weather."

DEAR JACK: We examined a daisy yesterday through a micro-
scope, and saw really over a hundred beautiful flowers in it; indeed,
the entire yellow center proved to be nothing but flowers on the
outer rows and buds in the middle. Several times since, I have
said to myself Oh, that daisy,- how wonderful it was "
Yours affectionately,

ALBANY, June 9th.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In the May number of your magazine I
saw the query: "How many flowers in a daisy ?" On looking this
morning, I found to my great surprise that the flower-head of a
daisy contained four hundred and sixty-seven perfect flowers! I
suppose you know that each of these minute flowers had five sepals,
petals, and stamens, and one simple pistil. I study botany and
enjoy it very much. Yours sincerely,


I AM told that one morning--it was on the
twenty-eighth of last November-a French astron-
omer saw in the sunny skies of France a pure
white rainbow. The sun, by the way, happened
to be very pale at the time, and the frosty air held
aloft a light fog through which, opposite the sun,
the snow-white rainbow softly curved itself.
As a rule, I prefer my rainbows colored, but this
must have been a very lovely sight. The Little

School-ma'am assures me that Monsieur Cornu, as
this astronomer is called, has sent a full account
of the rainbow to the French Academy of Sciences.
Now, this academy is n't a boys' and girls' school,
pray understand, but an institution for grown
people. The Deacon says it's an academy where
the sciences themselves go to school, but that
must be only his odd way of stating it.


WELL, well, it 's delightful to ask you young
folk a question; for straightway your replies come
pouring in I wish you could read all the letters
that came to settle the slate-pencil question; but
as that is not practicable, I must be content with
thanking the good writers thereof--one and all-
and reading to you these two letters selected from
the budget:
WAWARSING, N. Y., May 30, A884.
DEAR JACK: In the June number of ST. NICHOLAS you asked
where slate-pencils come from.
Slate-pencils are of two kinds --slate and soap-stone. Soap-stone, or
steatite, is a variety of talc, which is a mineral of a light-green color,
and greasy to the touch. It is used as a blackboard crayon.
The deposit of soap-stone from which our pencils come is at Castle-
ton, Vermont. The mineral is worked immediately after it is quar-
ried, as it would become hard and brittle from exposure to the air.
The stone is split, and sawn into small pieces, and then split again
into pieces about seven inches long by one wide, and one-third of an
inch thick. After undergoing the successive operations of planing,
rounding, sawing, and sharpening, about one one-hundredth of the
original stone appears in the form of pencils. The waste is used in
the manufacture of paper.
There is variety of slate called "graphite slate," which is used
for tracing lines, and when of sufficiently good quality, as a drawing
crayon. Respectfully,

DEAR MR. JACK: I would like to reply as brieflyas I can to your
query in the June ST. NICHOLAS regarding slate-pencils.
Broken refuse slate is used mostly in their manufacture. A large
quantity is put into a huge mortar, and pounded into small particles.
It next goes into the hopper of amill; thence into a bolting-machine,
from which it comes out as fine as flour. It is then mixed with a
small quantity of pulverized soap-stone, and the whole is kneaded
into a stiff dough, by passing it through rollers.
This dough is now made into charges that is, short cylinders,
four or five inches thick, and containing from eight to ten pounds
each. Some of these are placed in a retort with a changeable nozzle,
so as to regulate the size of the pencil, and subjected to tremendous
pressure, which pushes the mixture through the nozzle in a long
cord, like a slender snake, passing it over a table, slit at right angles
with the cords, to give passage to a knife which cuts them into
the proper lengths.
Next comes the drying, which occupies a few hours; and they are
then ready for the baking process, after which they go to the finish-
ing-room, where rapidly revolving emery wheels smooth and point
them ready for use. Yours truly,
E. M. C.

MARCH 20, x884
DEAR JACK : ST. NICHOLAS told some funny stories about birds
getting ndes on the backs of fishes, and I saw a strange thing a few
days ago. As the steamer Gate City was coming from Savannah,
the captain thought he saw a wreck. He steered the ship over to it,
and it proved to be a very large dead whale floating on the water,
with its side high and.dry, and on top of him was a big sea turde
stealing a ride. Did you ever hear of such a funny sea voyage?
Yours respectfully, A. L. H.


SAN FRANCISCO, June 6, '84-
DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Our daily paper contains this
morning such an interesting account of a brave hen defending
her chickens that I am going to copy part of the story, so that you
may show it to all the other ST. NICHOLAS boys. The paper says
it is a true story and that the hen is California born and bred, which
of course pleases me, for I am a San Francisco boy.




"The hen," says our writer, "while scratching with her brood or
chickens recently, was charged upon by a full-grown rat. She im-
mediately gathered her flock and awaited the onslaught. The rat,
somewhat checked by her bold front, crouched for a moment, and
then made a dart for one of the chicks. In an instant the old hen
flew at her enemy, and striking it with her bill, grabbed it by the
back and threw it in the air. The rat came down with a thump
upon the walk, but before it could regain its feet the hen repeated
the performance, and kept it up until the rat was only able to crawl
away a few feet and die. After contemplating her foe for a few mo-
ments, the old hen called her brood around her and walked off."
That's what I call pluck, for I can tell you it is not every hen
that will face a full-grown rat. Rats steal chickens sometimes from
right under their mothers' noses. Ifthathen had been born in ancient
Rome instead of in California, I suppose we all should be learning
the story from our Roman histories. The goose that saved the
Capitol was n't a circumstance to her. Your admiring friend,

DEAR JACK: I read in Cassell's Magazine that a Scotch gentle-
man, Mr. Gordon, of Dundee, had invented a shell which would
distribute a large quantity of oil over the sea, so as to calm the
stormy waves. The writer goes on to say that this shell can be fired
from a mortar, and that it is fitted with two fuses, which are set
alight by the explosion in the gun, and bur although the shell is
under water. On the bursting of the shell, the oil spreads over the
surface, producing smooth water. The plan, he adds, was recently
tried with success; the object being to still the sea between two ships
in order to let a boat pass from one to the other.
Now, this idea seemed to me so excellent that I immediately pro-
ceeded to experiment for myself. I filled our bath-tub nearly full of
water, and then, after lashing the miniature sea into fury, I poured a
bottleful of oil upon it, and lo the waves subsided beautifully.
So far, so good; but there was another storm raised in that other-
wise happy home which I prefer not to describe in this letter.
Yours respectfully,
P. S. How was I to know that olive oil costs like sixty?

ONE of the girls of the Red School-house has
had a present of an apron, I hear, and Deacon
Green has written her a verse in honor of the

TALKING of the busy bee, it seems that my friend
Sir John Lubbock, the patient and painstaking
British naturalist, has had the boldness to pry
into certain personal matters of insect life. In
short, he has been timing a bee and a wasp to find
out which insect was the smartest; and lo, and
behold the wasp came out ahead -left the busy
bee nowhere, in fact. You shall read the very
account which has been sent to my pulpit:
"As regards the industry of wasps, Sir John Lubbock timed a
bee and a wasp, for each of which he provided a store of honey,
and he found that the wasp began earlier in the morning (at four
A. M.) and worked on later in the day. This particular wasp
began work at four in the morning, and went on without any rest
or intermission till a quarter to eight in the' evening, during
which time she paid Sir John one hundred and sixteen visits."
WHAT very common and well-known leaf bears
the letter V plainly marked in lighter green on its
What leaf bears a mark resembling a horse-
shoe ?
What flower carries a well-formed lyre which
can be discovered by gently, pulling the flower
apart ?
What blue flower bears well-imitated bumble-
bees ?
What double flower seems formed of tiny dove-
like things meeting their bills?
What graceful leaf grows its seed on its under
surface ?
Can any one find two blades of ribbon-grass
exactly alike ?
Please address "Jack-in-the-Pulpit," in care of
THE CENTURY COMPANY, 33 East Seventeenth
street, New York.


mL mucb

cts 0 bQ.,

Q0uA to try to live

IJ to (ny a rr Pi

)IS adreciA eI

too blr: for me.!

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KIss me, Mother," said August, ".and give me a hearty welcome; my love for you is so warm, and I 'm
so glad to get back again. I 'm sure you need me, too. July has done all she could, and now it is my turn
to help. See what lovely lilies I have brought you, fresh and dripping from the pool; they are my fairest
flowers, and all others seem to wither at my touch. I am not a very good gardener, but I can put a blush
on the cheek of the peach."
Yes, indeed, my dear," said Nature, and you must begin to mellow the apples. The pears, too, want
that russet brown that you alone can give them; don't forget the melons, nor to pull out the silk tassels of
the corn. But, my dear, you are sometimes a little too fierce and impetuous; be as moderate as you can."
Indeed, I '11 try, Mother," said August, kissing her warmly; and now I must go to work, for I see Corn
beckoning me with his green banners."


LOBSTER, Lobster in the pot,
Prithee why so red?
Are you angry, that they took you
From your watery bed?
Will you, wont you, will you, wont you,
Say why this change occurs? /
Pinching, flopping, jumping, hopping,
Lobby, Lobby-sters.
Pretty Shrimp, dressed all in pink,
I pray you leave your shell;
You are really so delicious,
We're sure to treat you well.
Will you, wont you, will you, wont you,
Wear your tail in crimp?
Skipping, shiny, slim, and tiny,
Shrimpy-impy Shrimp.

Clumsy Crab, in scarlet coat,
And waistcoat very white,
If I touch you, you must promise
Truly not to bite.
Will you, wont you, will you, wont you,
Promise not to grab ?
Sideways crawling, ever sprawling,
Crabby-abby Crab.
Mrs. Clam, down in the mud,
Pray tell me what you sing?
I hear you when I walk the beach,
In summer, or in spring.
Will you, wont you, will you, wont you,
Please to tell me, ma'am?
Roasted, toasted, and much boasted,
Clammy-ammy Clam.




CONTRIBUTORS are respectfully informed that, between the ist of June and the 15th of September, manuscripts can not conveniently
be examined at the office of ST. NICHOLAS. Consequently, those who desire to favor the magazine with
contributions will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date.

WE trust that Mr. Bolton's article on "Paper" will so interest
our readers that they will not fail to visit a paper-mill, if ever they
have the opportunity. Mr. Bolton, in giving the history, has
merely touched upon the general processes of paper-making, but
these need to be seen to be fully understood. The illustrations
to the article show some of the principal machinery, and it may
interest our readers to know that the sketches were made at the
mills which manufacture the paper on which ST. NICHOLAS is
printed. Our thanks are due to the proprietors of these mills,
Messrs. S. D. Warren & Co., of Boston, Mass., for courtesies
extended to our artist.

OUR apologies are offered to Mr. William W. Kent, the artist who
made the graceful drawing of "The Bashful Marguerite," on page
627 of the June ST. NICHOLAS. By a misprint, his name appears in
the table of contents for that month as W. W. Kemble.

HERE are two interesting letters, which have come a long way,
being both dated, as you will see, at Colombo, Ceylon:
COLOMBO, CEYLON, May 3, 1884.
verses were penned on the occasion of the departure for home of
two young ladies (aged respectively eleven and nine) who had
brightened our home by their presence for a few weeks. They
made great pets of our dogs, and I am sure that the regret experi-
enced by the animals at the departure of their two little friends has
not been exaggerated in the accompanying lines.
Perhaps the poem may find favor with some of your readers.
Yours obediently,
Good Mother Towzer, sitting at her door,
Bade her puppies cease their play, and rest upon the floor;
Very sad, very sad, very sad was she,
And both her puppies wrung their paws
And wept in sympathy.
By came Mr. Toby,- Have you heard the news?
Our two young ladies leave to-day think what we shall lose! "
Very sad, very sad, very sad were they,
And each took out its handkerchief
And hid its little nez.

Mrs. Bonny creeping, creeping up the stairs,
Stretched herself upon the floor, and thus gave vent her cares:
Deary me, deary me! alas, alack-a-day!
0, who will come and fondle me
When they have gone away ? "
"Bow-wow," said Mr. Caesar, appearing on the scene,
We must not thus give way, my friends, though our anguish
be so keen!"
(But very hoarse, very hoarse, very hoarse was he;
For he 'd been howling all the night
In sheer despondency.)
Then down the road, with sprightly step, Miss Topsy came in view,
Cheer up, my friends, they 'll come again when autumn skies are
blue! "
Come again, come again, yes, that's what they must do !
We may be happy yet, dear friends,
When autumn skies are blue "

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A friend of ours has just begun to take
you in for us. We live in a pretty suburb of the capital, Colombo.
Itis very hot here, and is now the hottest season, so every one is go-
ing or gone up country to enjoy the cool mountain air. in place of
Colombo heat and red dust, which is as dense as a London fog.
Ceylon is avery nice place, though not so nice as ournative England.
In the Sanitarium, ice may be found on the water, nearly half an
inch thick, but there is no snow, which is a great drawback, we think.

The natives are very funny people; most of them wearno clothes,
tho' men and women wear a few garments, consisting of jackets,
comboys and turbans. They are very fond of heat, and are never
happy unless they are chewing betel, chunam, and tobacco. Betel
is a leaf, from which a hot pepper is made; chunam is what they
whitewash the walls with, something like lime. There are a great
many different kinds of people here, Singhalese, Gamil, Turks, Indi-
ans, Cochin Gamils, Afghans, Arabs, Moormen, etc. Therearemany
different kinds of religion Roman Catholicism, Mohammedanism,
Buddhism, etc. Our coolie is a Buddhist, and will not kill any animal,
for fear the spirit of his grandmother is in it.
Your grateful reader,


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I go to Belmont Girls' Grammar School,
and am trying for the Normal School, so I have to work very hard.
A question came up in class the other day, and though our kind
teacher looked in all the books at her command, she could not find
an answer for our question.
Now, I would like to know if any reader of your valuable magazine
can give me the answer to this question. Why is the harbor of Con-
stantinople, Turkey, called the "Golden Horn." The good reader



who can answer this will receive my warmest thanks, and you, dear
ST. NICHOLAS, for printing it for me.
From your affectionate reader, MIRIAM.
Who will answer Miriam's question?

WASHINGTON, D. C., Feb., 1883.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am twelve years old, andlive in this beauti-
ful city. I think you are the nicest magazine, both for young and
old, that I have ever read, seen, or heard of. I want to tell you and
your readers of a reading-club that my mother got up for my benefit.
We have thirteen members (we expect to have more), but still we
have very pleasant times together. The exercises consist of reading
and game-playing. I am Secretary, and have to write the minutes or
pay a forfeit. I think it would be nice for some boys and girls of
every city to get up a little club of that kind.
I hope you will print this, dear ST. NICHOLAS, as I would be
extremely proud to see it in the Letter-box.
Your friend, PARK R. DAVIS.

C. W.-We can not explain the very great similarity of the verses
on page 620 of our June number, to "Phil's Secret"-a little
poem by Mrs. Laura E. Richards, published three years ago. Had
we known of the resemblance sooner, we, of course, would not have
printed the verses.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: My brother takes you for me. I think
the Letter-box is a nice thing. I want to tell you about our red-bird.
She plays dead; that is, she lies on her back and lets us push her
about and she will not move anything but her eyes. I expect my
brother will make a little wagon with wires and teach her to draw it.
I have six birds: two canaries, two mocking-birds, one red-bird,
and one finch. Both of the mocking-birds sing beautifully, and one
of the canaries sings well, but the other canary and the red-bird and
the finch do not sing. The canaries and the finch stay in one cage.
The red-bird's name is Meshak, but we call him Redman most.
If any of the readers of the ST. NICHOLAS will write to me, I will
tell them how to keep and train a red-bird. I am nine years old.
When school closed, a few days before Christmas, last year, I got
two prizes. I also got a prize in Sunday-school. My letters so long,
I am afraid you will not publish it, but I hope you will.
Good-bye, JOSIE MYER.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In August of last year, when I was visiting
my grandfather, in Rutland, Vt., I resolved to go to the marble
quarries, about three miles away, in the town of West Rutland.
So I saddled Prince (my pony) and set out. When I arrived there,
I hitched Prince to a post and went over to the quarries.
The first one I came to belonged to Sheldon and Sons; and of this
one I made the most thorough examination. This quarry is a very
long one, but not so deep as the others. Judging from the deepest
one, it is somewhat over 220o feet deep. In the middle is a large
arch of marble, called a pillar, that had not been cut away and
which extended across -forming a brace to protect the workmen
from being buried by the caving-in of the sides.

Down in the bottom there were steam-engines that kept moving
backward and forward about five feet, and constantly cutting the
marble on each side in succession, with broad steel drills. As soon
as the blocks are cut out, they are hoisted up with derricks worked
by steam. They are then put on stone-boats, drawn by oxen, and
carried to the mill, where they are cut into different shapes in great
gangs, in which are several saw-blades; not saws, as would be sup-
posed, but simple blades of sheet-iron. When sand is thrown in, the
saw-blades rub it back and forth on the marble, and the quick motion
causes friction, which slowly cuts it. Then the marble is taken into
another department, where it is washed and polished.
The next one is commonly called the covered quarry, being
covered over by a platform. This is one of the smallest, but the
deepest of them all, being about 275 feet deep (this a man told me)
-over three times as deep as our school-building is high. It is
very dark and gloomy in the bottom, caused by the walls being
blackened by the smoke of the engines.
The next one was the Gilson and Woodfin quarry, into which I
descended by some rudely erected steps. When I got down I
found it was very different from what it appeared to be from the
top; for, at one side, it was cut in horizontally forty or fifty feet, and
the men had to wear small candles on their heads. It took me
nearly a half-hour to climb up again. This quarry is next to the
covered one in size.
In the quarries the men look like minute dwarfs in a cave.
Being well satisfied with my ramble, I set out to find Prince and
go home. But when I came to where I had left him, there was the
headstall hanging to the post, and Prince gone! -
I looked round for awhile, and found him in another part of the
marble-yard, cropping grass in a plot about five feet square, among
great, heavy blocks of marble. Catching him by the fore-lock, I led
him back and put on his headstall and rode home.
Prince is a Shetland pony. He is only ten hands high, although
he is fifteen years old. F. D. S.

HARTFORD, CONN., March, 1884.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I take you and like you very much.
Although I have taken you a long time, this is the first time I have
written to you. In one of your numbers I saw the question, How
are rubber balls made ?" I asked my cousin, who works in a rubber
store, and he said, "They were made on a mold and joined in the
middle. And in order to make them stay round, a little water is put
in before they arejoined. Then they are put in a hot place, and the
water turns to steam, which expands the rubber. Then it is suddenly
cooled, and the steam turns back to water. Then they make a hole
and let the water out" I remain yours truly,

WE are indebted to the following young friends for pleasant letters,
which we should be glad to print if there were room. Laura Lari-
mer, Ellie A. N., Marion F. S., Pansy," Fannie Stetson, Ellen
Blanford Hewitt, Clara M. Upton, Nellie B., Edith P. Palfrey,
Alice A. Maynard, L. H. W., Bertie A. Page, Leonore R., C. Hol-
combe Bacon, Nellie McN. Suydam, Mamie King, A. L. Zecken-
dorf, Anna B. Graf, Laura Taylor, Eric Boegle, Loy Lucas, Belle
Cruise, Eloise Knapp, Ernest T. Mead, E. B. Ogden, C. McC.


NOTWITHSTANDING the summer is upon us, we have a long list
of new and enthusiastic Chapters this month, and extend to one and
all a hearty welcome.


The Philadelphia Chapters are taking hold of the work prepara-
tory to our September meeting with a will, and have issued to each
Chapter a formal invitation in a very tasteful and attractive form.
Moreover, an interesting programme is in preparation-beginning
with a reception in the evening of September 2d, at which we hope
to meet as many of our friends as possible. We could not possibly
have a meeting called under more favorable auspices, and if this one
shall not prove a grand success, as we believe it will, it will be only
because our members are too widely scattered to assemble in very
large numbers.


No. Name. No. of ANembers. Address.
651 Portland, Maine (A)....... 4..W. H. Dow, 717 Congress St.
652 Dowagiac, Mich. (A) .... i...Frank Perry.
653 Providence, R. I. (C) ..... 4. .F. S. Phillips, 65 John St.
654 Philadelphia, Pa. ()...... Max Greenbaum,433 Franklin.
655 New Lyme, 0. (A)........ 7..W. H. Cooke.
656 Moravia, N. Y. (A).......... 6..F. S. Curtis.
657 Apponaug, R. I. (A) ..... 2o..Miss Mamie E. Bissel.
658 Chicopee, Mass. (B).... ..Miss Edith Bullens.
659 Williamsville, N. Y. (A)... 6..H. E. Herr.
660 Louisville, Ky. (B) ........ 2..Miss Mary Sherrill, n0o8 First
661 Wakefield, Mass. (A).... 4. .Miss Helen Montgomery.
662 Keyport, N. J. (B)........ 4..Miss Florence Arrowsmith,
box 149.


663 Chelsea, Mass. (A)........ 6..H. B. Hastings, 13 George St.
664 Holyoke, Mass. (A)....... 5..R. S. Brooks, 184 Beech St.
665 So. Framingham, Mass. (A) 4..W. E. Harding, box 263.
666 Ionia, Mich. (A).......... 4..Archie L. Crinns.
667 Biddeford, Me. (A)....... 5..Luther Day, box 849.
668 Brooklyn, N. Y. (I)....... 8. AliceColton,136MontagueSt.
669 Salisbury, Mass. (A)...... M..Miss Helen Montgomery.


62 Ypsilanti, Mich.............Mrs. C. R. Whitman.
158 Davenport, Iowa..... .....E. Putnam.


Specimens from Yellowstone park.- W. J. Willard, Sec., Stock-
port, New York.
,,- .-, Ni 1-l. .-: b. hole in side, for same.-J. G.
Sarr'-. : .. !. Chicago, Ill.
I... i: .-.i I il. ..- .v'. i Anoka, Minn.
Gold .. ..r --.I. ," : worms and cocoons.-C. F.
McLear. -.: .... 1-c. i. '
A set t .. .i ,' for sets of Omns
'.: .- sch.-Edward McDowell,
.,-.J, :. -L. W. Gunckel, Dayton, O.
Silk c...: .. ... : .: 1. i.amed.-J. H. Earp, Green-
castle, Indiana.
Insects, fossils, plants, minerals, ,--, blown by small hole in
side, for same.-W. M. C'*-r- I- '. q, Iowa.
The Secretary of Ch. i- :- i .:: Minnie L. French, instead ot
Mr. E. M. Warner.
E. L. Douglas has been elected Pres. and Frank M. Elms Sec.
of Newton, Mass., Ch. 481.


lot. Fossil coral, in answer toW. D. Grier.-The fossil figured
in June number is Petrata Corniculum. It is one of the conical
corals of the Trenton limestone. The top is a cup, radiated with
plates. When living it had, no doubt, many beautiful colors.-
Charles Ennis, Pres. 563.
Io Beetles on the beack.-When at "Old Point," in April, I
was astonished by the large number of insects I found washed up by
the tide. Besides potato-bugs innumerable, I found weevils, tiger-
beetles, "lady-birds," etc.; in all, 60 varieties.-Alonzo H.- Stewart.
103. Squirrel.-My brother Fred saw a squirrel sitting on a
broken maple limb, catching the.dripping sap on its paw and licking
it off.--Bertie Dennett.
104. Ans'galleries.- C. F. G. asks if there are galleries in the
homes of ants. Yes. One day last spring I raised an old log that was
lying by the sea-shore above high-water mark, and I found that a
colony of ants had made their home beneath it There were rooms
and passages like a house, and in some places pieces of grass had
been put across like rafters. I saw the nurseries, too, and when I
raised the log, the ants began to carry the puae into the lower
rooms. I also saw the queen-ant. She had wings. One of the
workers came and escorted her down into the lower part of their
o05. Eleven-leafed clover.-A lady of this village has found an
eleven-leafed clover.-C. A. Jenkins, Sec. 447, Chittenango, N. Y.
1o6. Pimpla lunator.- Last fall I found Pimla lunatorin great
numbers on an old maple log. Their ovipositors were buried in the
wood. Opening the log, I found several borers, each with a small
puncture in its back, which, however, extended only through the
outer skin. Between this and the inner skin were a great number
of tiny eggs.- E. L. Stephan.
107. Chlimunks as builders.- I was spending the summer at
Lake Rousseau, Muskoka. While there I usedto feed a pretty
little chipmunk. He grew so tame that he would take a crumb from
close beside me. He had several storehouses. One was in a
rotten stump. One day I broke in the top of the stump to see
what he had inside. I did not find his store, but a day or two after-
ward, when I went to look at it, I found that it had a new roof.
It looked just as if it had never been broken. When I made a hole

in the new roof, I found it was an inch and a half thick, and
made of scraps of the rotten wood. There seemed to be nothing
to fasten it together, and nothing under it to support it. I think
the chipmunk must have made it, yet I do not see how he could.
Can any one explain it?-Willie Sheraton.
[Has any one else observed any such roof-building? Or are
Canadian chipmunks more clever than ours ?]
108. Durable wood.- The farmers here use the larger wood of
the osage orange for fence-posts. I have seen some no larger than
my wrist, that have been in the ground nineteen years, and are to
all appearance as sound as ever. The farmers claim that it will
"never rot."-W. H. Foote, Manito, ll.
log. Spider's web.- How many yards of web can a spider spin
in one season ? C. S. Lewis, Sec. 6xo.
xxo. Attiide, or jumping sfiders.--This family includes spiders
conspicuous for the brilliancy and variety of their coloring, and also
for the singularity of their forms. Making no webs, they are to be
found upon leaves of trees and shrubs, and also on the ground
or grass, or under dead leaves. Crevices in rocks and walls and
interstices among stones" are their common haunts, and when not
wandering, they are to be found in silk bags. This group is more
numerous in species than any other in the order Araneidans. In
collecting, the sweep-net will be found useful. Place the specimens
in alcohol, about 80oo, not too many in the same bottle. The larger,
soft-bodied specimens require considerable alcohol, and for these,
after two or three days, a change of alcohol is desirable. Above
are illustrations of several forms of jumping spiders that fairly well
illustrate the family; the males are less common than the females,
and hence, more important. See drawings for the differences
between males and females. In collecting, twelve or fifteen speci-
mens of the same species are not too many.- Geo. W. Peckham,
Biological Laboratory, Milwaukee High School, Milwaukee, Wis.
iii. Wild birds.- In answer to your question whether any one
has seen a wild bird leave the egg, I will say that I have watched a
young robin come from the egg, and have stood under a tree while
a boy at the top described the movements of a young cooper's hawk
that was just coming into the world.--R. B. Worthington.
r12. Dandelions.--I have noticed with interest how beautifully
dandelion stems accommodate themselves to the length of the grass
they grow in. The flowers on a -1c"e.-t; l" -n ne-e"r r.ie their
heads high, but those in a meadow (c -i ..: ..-i I r i.., : -C.
113. Chelifer.-I found under E0-: I-:r. i .-.: .:'-..:.':. one
of the "false scorpions" (fseudo-scorfiones). I was told at the
Agricultural Department that they had never before been found in
pine. Does any one know to the contrary? Natural size, 1-15
inch.-G. W. Beatty, Washington, D. C. :
r14. Dragonfly.- Mylittle boy says there is a dragon-fly about
one inch long, and of a dark-green color, that feeds on butterflies.
It waits on a leaf near a flower, and when a butterfly approaches,
seizes and devours it.-Mrs. R. L. Van Alstyn.

[Will some one tell us the name of this dragon-fly ?]


The reports from the Chapters are uniformly encouraging.
There have been none to give up, although a number have
adjourned until September. Miss Lucy Parsons writes that 639
has held a successful entertainment to raise money for a club-room.
168 has prospered "far beyond our expectations," writes Jennie A.
Doyle, and she adds: "On May 24th, all the Buffalo Chapters had
an excursion to East Aurora. Ninety-eight tickets were sold; con-
sequently, it was a decided success."
So. Williamstown, 617, has held regular fortnightly meetings, and
very interesting reports have been read on botany, mineralogy, and
ornithology. Secretary A. L. Bates adds: "Several of the faculty
have joined us, and make it very interesting."
We trust none of our young friends will become discouraged at not
seeing their reports in print. We print your letters as fast as prac-
ticable. As a general rule, those that are shortest, and.that contain
hints of your methods of work that may prove of practical use to
others, have the best chance.
President's address: HARLAN H. BALLARD,
Lenox Academy, Lenox, Mass.






IF any clever fisherman these lines will disentangle,
Full two and thirty hidden fish he '11 find for which to angle.
The boys had gone to view
The smack, ere leaving port.
Now, Hal, eager for sport,
The boat did shake, but soon looked blue,
For the skipper's word had ablow to match it-
"Don't make a muss, else you will catch it!
Get up, Ike do go down below, -
Go, boy!" sternly he spoke, and low.
Isaac, lamenting, rued that day,
For he found the man had docked his pay.

The old gray linguist, somber amid his books,
Saw the ruddy, chubby child, and lost his carping looks;
For, oh! a cheerful word or smile
Will whisper cheer, and thoughts beguile.
It conjured up his melting mood,
It routed all his selfish code.
"Pluck me a jasmine now," he cries.
"Hark ye, and pick ere lights the bee
His cup of sweets the fairies prize,
The fairies' almoner is he.
But, rob as slyly as they may,
Their best enchantments thrown away,
The bee leaves nought for man or fay;
And, hid in lily cup, or poised on clover,
Has hived a cell of sweets ere summer's over."

THE answer to the above rebus is an extract from The Complete
Angler," by Izaak Walton. /
I AM composed of six letters.
The first half of my letters, transposed, spells that which belongs
to the animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms. It has lightened
the labors of mankind in all branches of industry for countless gener-
ations. It inspires the epicure with rapture and the invalid with
loathing. Without its aid, the mechanic would be at a loss, and
travelers' movements greatly retarded. It has formed the basis of
speculations which have enriched and impoverished thousands. It is
as intimately associated with the masterpieces of pictorial art as with
the prosaic purposes of our own land and times. It is found in the

Arctic regions and in the torrid zone; in trees, and in the earth.
Three of my letters spell an evil passion. Three of my letters spell
a valuable product of the earth. Three of my letters signify fiction.
Three of my letters spell the name ofan animal. Three of my letters
spell something pertaining to a fish. Three of my letters spell a chief
ruler. Three of my letters spell to contend. Four of my letters
spell to range. Four of my letters spell a character. Four of my
letters spell above. Four of my letters spell to rend asunder. Four
of my letters spell the surname of the hero of a poem by Robert
Browning. Four of my letters spell fondness. Four of my letters
spell a musical instrument. Four of my letters represent something,
the taking of which implies the renunciation of all other earthly things;
yet these same four letters, with a trifling difference of arrangement,
spell that which is essentially vile. Cut off my tail, and I become a
fruit. Cut off myhead, and I become somethingwhose aid is neces-
sary for us to do that which is represented by cutting off both head
and tail. Among my letters may be found those necessary to spell
two well-known Scripture names, also an important river in France.
My whole is the Christian name of a celebrated ruler. J. w. E.

FI ew hda on saltuf, ew oldsuh keat on ulasepre ni kearrming
hoste fo steroh; fi ew dah on riped, ew loshud ton ervicepe t ni
IN each of the following sentences a word of five letters is con-
cealed. When these are found, transpose the letters of each word.
making four new five-letter words. Syncopate the central letter of
each of these words and transpose the remaining four letters so that
they will form words which, when taken in the order here given,
will form a word-square. The four syncopated letters, transposed,
spell a serving-boy.
I. She says that grammar especially is very instructive. 2. Do
not be so particular, George, about your food. 3. In Alabama,
plenty of cotton is raised. 4. But it can not be said a less amount is
raised in Mississippi. j. P. D.

I. i. A sailor. 2. Impelled. 3. A trailingplant. 4. To excite.
5. Described. 6. To hinder. 7. A color.
II. i. A covering for the head. 2. Household gods. 3. Apoem
set to music. 4. A mechanic. 5. A countryman. 6. To endure.
7. An insect. CYRIL DEANE.

I AM composed of sixty-seven letters, and form a couplet from a
poem by Young.
My 3-45-25-6 is to beat. My 15-51-44-55-12-35-47 is unaf-
fected. My 20-27-42-57-50-18 is covert. My 67-30-64-29-60 is to
negotiate. My 32-62-17-41 is a garden vegetable. My '-
16-1 is the cry of a certain animal. My 22-2-40 is misery. 'I -
56-36-63 is to angle. My39-0o-24-9 is a repast. My 46-5-14-31
is to throw out, My 19-37-59-61 is an open vessel. My 43-34-4-
II-53-8 is undeviating. My 28-38-66-21-13-54 is powerful. My 23-
65-33-52-7 is to boast. HELEN D.

ACROSS: i. A tree which grows mostly in moist land. a. Per-
taining to a royal court. 3. A resin used in making varnishes.
A small wax candle. 5. One of the most beautiful women of
DOWNWARD: I (two letters). An exclamation. 2 (four letters).
Tardy. 3. Pertaining to a duke. 4. To run away. 5. To mature.
6. A vehicle. 7. A letter. "A. P. OWDER, JR."



b~ J

.i*j .. .,-- ,i I I' i .-
-- . '1 "

Ii_ I

,II .. )

j- )


THE answer to the foregoing rebus is a quotation from Mother Goose.


the number of letters being always the same, and the letters remain-
ing always in the same order. Sometimes the metamorphoses may
be made in as many moves as there are letters in each given word,
but in other instances more moves are required.
EXAMPLE: Change LAMP to FIRE, in four moves. ANSWER,
i. Change BLACK to BROWN, in seven moves. 2. Change ROME
to YORK, in five moves. 3. Change BASLE to PARIS, in six moves.
4. Change HOMER to BURNS, in seven moves. 5. Change BEAR to
LION, in four moves. 6. Change BIRD to NEST, in five moves. 7.
Change GIVE to TAKE, in four moves. 8. Change COLD to HEAT, In
four moves. 9. Change RISE to FALI, in four moves. w.


MYfirst gathers lawyers and loafers;
My second's a queer kind of beast;
My third is the basis of whisky;
My fourt must be female at least.
My whole has no sense of propriety,
And sometimes eats folks-for variety. w. H. A.


EACH of the words described contains the same number ofletters.
When rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in the order
here given, the second row of letters, reading downward, will spell a
famous building of Athens, and the fourth row, a famous building
of Rome.
CRoss-woRDS: i. Quickly. 2. A law, or rule. 3. To bore. 4.
To condescend. 5. A large box. 6. Compct. 7. A scornful
look. 8. A tribunal. 9. An adversary. F. A. W.


I. To leave. 2. One who prepares matter for publication. 3. A
THE problem is to change one given word to another given word, hook on which a rudder is hung to its post. 4. A famous king of the
by altering one letter at a time, each alteration making a new word, Huns. 5. Revolved. 6. Walks. c. F. HORNE.

EASY BEHEADINGS. Bartholdi. i. B-alms. 2. A-lone. 3. NOVEL ACROSTIC. Third row, independence; fifth row, fire-
R-hone. 4. T-hose. 5. H-arks. 6. O-live. 7. Label. 8. D-over. crackers. Cross-words: i. stIfFly. 2. coNcIse. 3. orDeRed.
9. I-deal. 4. prEtEnd. 5. dePiCts. 6. stEeRed. 7. poNiArd. 8. deDuCts.
LIBERTY PUZZLE. x. Boot, foot. 2. Hoes, toes. 3. Land, 9. chEcKer. 1o. haNkEers. Ii. seCuRed. 12. trEaSon.
hand. 4. Mink, link. 5. Dyes, eyes. 6. Deck, neck. 7. Gate, SEXTUPLE CROSSES. I. From 9 to 14, benison; from x to 8,
date. 8. Rose, nose. 9. Vase, base. ro. Gold, fold. ic. Mace, finished. II. From 9 to 14, cabinet; from I to 8, penitent. III.
face. 12. Pair, hair. 13. Jars, ears. 14. Crow, brow. From 9 to 14, aspired; from I to 8, marigold.
GEOGRAPHICAL PUZZLE. I. Florence. 2. May. 3. Nancy. 4. COMPOUND ACROSTIC. Primals, beat; finals, rice. Cross-words:
Sydney. 5. Charles. 6. George. 7. Nancy. 8. Black. 9. i. BaR. 2. Ell. 3. ArC. 4. TiE. Central letters transposed:
Shetland. o0. Prince Edward. II. Skye. 12. Clear. x3. North. rail, lair, liar.
14. May. 15. Horn. 16. Turkey. 17. Vienna. 18. Sandwiches. THREE RHOMBOIDS. Reading across: I. o. July. 2. Peal. 3.
i9. Oranges. 20. Cork. 21. Worcestershire. 21. Oder. 23. Java. Gray. 4. Dyed. II. 1. Heat. 2. Trap. 3. Mire. 4. Lyre. III.
24. Wind. 25. Rainy. 26. George. 27. Wight. 28. Red. 29. i. Fans. 2. Dale. 3. Pike. 4. Pent.
Ogeechee. 30 .Onoidaga. 31. Indian. 32. Long. 33. Yellow. EASY INVERSIONS. I. Doom, mood. 2. Drab, bard. 3. War,
34. Canary. 35. Superior. 36. Fear. 37. Florence. 38. Farewell. raw. 4. Dew, wed. 5. Pool, loop. 6. Edile, elide. 7. Emir,
CONCEALED WORD-SQUARE. x. Agile. 2. Gates. 3. Items. 4. rime. 8. Pans, snap.
Lemma. 5. Essay. INSCRIPTION PUZZLE. Place the puzzle before a looking-glass,
CHARADE. Nose-gay. and, with a card, cover in turn the lower half of each line of the
FRAMED WORD-SQUARE. From r to 2, croylstone; from 3 to 4, inscription. The words "Independence now and independence for-
provisions; from 5 to 6, florascope; from 7 to 8, browsewood. ever" will appear, Below are the articles, door, fin, deed, pen,
Included word-square:- Spar. 2. Peri. 3. Aria. 4. Rial. pence, and car.
ANSWERS TO MAY PUZZLES were received, too late for acknowledgment in July, from John, Lily, and Agnes, Cannes, France, Ii.
ANSWERS TO ALL THE PUZZLES IN THE.JUNE NUMBER were received, before June 20, from Paul Reese-S. R. T.-"H. and Co."
- Maggie T. Turrill-- "Captain Nemo"- Madeleine Vultee- Daisy, Pansy, and Sweet William Clara and Belle- San
Anselmo Valley "-" Shumway Hen and Chickens "- Eisseb Lucy M. Bradley.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE JUNE NUMBER were received, before June o2, from Hettie F. Mayer, i-Louise O. Gregg, 2-C.
S. Gore, x -C. L. Holt, --Artie L. Zeckendorf, -C. H. Langdon, Jr., i-Fannie Stetson, 2-R. McKean Barry, 4-Edith
Leavitt, 4-Frank Brittingham, i-Mabel B. Canon, 4-Birdie Koehler and Laura Levy, 5-"Navajo," 3-W. Powell Robbins, i-
J. B. Reynds, 4- Dora H. H. Doscher, i Curtis Calver, i Ina D. Mercer, 3 Adelaide, i Addie Sheldon, 6- CorinneT. Hills, I
-Josephine R. Curtis, i-Ellen Lindsay, i-Fred. A. Barnes, i-H. B. Muckleston, M. Jeanet Doig, x-R. H., i-Ruth and
Marion, G. Maude Fierd, 5- Helen M., 7- Lilian C. Carpenter, i-W. K. Taylor, I- Clara M. Upton, 4- Clarence F. Winans,
2-B. C., 3-"Rooster," 2-Oscar M. Steppacher, x-Jennie and Birdie, 8-Emma C': : 3-Florence R., 3--Tr r. I H.:. ard,
2-Minnie E. Patterson, 2-R. H. Mack, --Katherine Smith, 4-"Pepper and 'I .. 7- S. E. S., 8-Jennic '. ..l-., 3-
Clare and Floy Hubert, 5-George Habenicht, i-Martha S. Tracy, i-T. and A., 2-Maggie and C. O'Neill, 3-Effie K. Talboys,
8-Arthur G. Lewis, 3-George C. Beebe and John C. Winne, 4- Grace Zublin, 3-Alex. Laidlaw, 6- "The Sintwisters," 4-Fred
S. Kersey, I Ida and Walter, 2-Hessie D. Boylston, 5-" Warwick House," 5 -Whm arid Bhb, Elizabeth H., I R. L.
Spiller, 2 Inez T. Dane, 5 Edith M. Boyd, i M. Alice Barrett, 3 Leon Robbins, Emmie B. Taylor, 3 Bertha-Palmer, 2 -
Emma and Irene, 4 "Nemo and Nullus," 8 Bessie Burch, 7 Nelie and Daisy, a Chester Aldrich, 5 Canary Bird, 4 Edward
Livingston Hunt, 3-Alice H. N.', 2-Mary S. Hicks, 6-" Unknown," 6-Hattie Jamieson, 2 -Le Bar Schoonover, i-Nannie
Duff,5 -Mary Lou, 8-"Hora," I -Arthur J. Clark, 2- "Mollyand Mouche," 8-F. Smyth, 6--E. Muriel,. ard .Edith W.
Grundy, 9- Ida and Edith Swanwick, 7 -Eleanor and Maude Peart, 4-Hugh and Cis, 9- "Prue Dish," 8 Timotheus Gibbs,
Esq.," 5 -Birdie Pierce, 2 Sallie Viles, 8- Mabel L. Haines, 8 E. P. Thomson, 6- A. V. Luther, 3--W. A., 2-M. H: Shaffner, i
No name, 6-- "North Star," 9-M. W. Aldrich, 5-Ida G., 2-F. Smith and F. Hoyt, 4 Marguerite Kyte, a- Charles H. Kyte,
9- Ryal Tarr," 3- Edith H. Moss, i Hattie, Clara, and Mamma, 9 Nicoll and Mary Ludlow, 8 Eva Wade, r -Appleton H.,
5-Muriel, 6-A. E. Hyde, 4-Ed.-Westervelt, 4-Annie. M. Hirst, 7-Livingston Ham, 5--Jessie A. Platt, 9- "An. Ocean," 9-
Kittie Loper, 2-Hattie Dodd," 5-L. M. N. and E. L. D., 8-Jennie Balch, 6-Lida Bell,.2. .