Front Cover
 A city of old homesteads
 The knavish kite (jingle)
 The blind lark
 Song of singers
 Sixteen and six
 Victor Hugo's tales to his...
 The man who drove downstairs
 Historic girls
 Juan and Juanita
 Talking in their sleep
 Hide and seek
 Boring for oil
 Richard Carr's baby
 In a flamingo rookery
 Molly's poetry
 St. Nicholas dog stories
 A little captive
 The brownies in the gymnasium
 Dolly's lullaby (words and...
 The Agassiz association: Sixty-seventh...
 The letter-box
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00178
 Material Information
Title: St. Nicholas
Uniform Title: St. Nicholas (New York, N.Y.)
Alternate 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
Subject: Children's literature -- Periodicals   ( lcsh )
Genre: periodical   ( marcgt )
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
Bibliographic ID: UF00065513
Volume ID: VID00178
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
 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
        Page 1
        Page 2
    A city of old homesteads
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
    The knavish kite (jingle)
        Page 11
    The blind lark
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
    Song of singers
        Page 19
    Sixteen and six
        Page 20
    Victor Hugo's tales to his grandchildren
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
    The man who drove downstairs
        Page 26
        Page 27
    Historic girls
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
    Juan and Juanita
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
    Talking in their sleep
        Page 40
    Hide and seek
        Page 41
    Boring for oil
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
    Richard Carr's baby
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
    In a flamingo rookery
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
        Page 57
    Molly's poetry
        Page 58
    St. Nicholas dog stories
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
    A little captive
        Page 66
    The brownies in the gymnasium
        Page 67
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
        Page 71
    Dolly's lullaby (words and music)
        Page 72
        Page 73
    The Agassiz association: Sixty-seventh report
        Page 74
        Page 75
        Page 76
    The letter-box
        Page 77
        Page 78
    The riddle-box
        Page 79
        Page 80
        Unnumbered ( 82 )
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text


VOL. XIV. NOVEMBER, 1886. No. I.

[Copyright, 1886, by THE CENTURY CO.]



How MANY of you know what an old home-
stead is? Those of you who do will perhaps be
quite indignant with me for asking such a ques-
tion; but in these days, when almost everybody is
trying, as hard as he can, not only to live in a
handsomer house than that in which his grand-
father lived, but in a handsomer house than
that in which he himself lived a year ago, it is
not easy for children to have many associations
with their temporary homes. Even those of you
who know what an old homestead is, probably
think of it as some nice big old house away off in
the country, without any neighbors, where people
go for a month or two in summer for the sake of
the old associations.
But I know where there is a whole city of home-
steads. It is, indeed, a veritable city, with paved
streets, gas-lamps, a custom-house, and a mayor.
But almost all of its citizens dwell in Id home-
steads, the homes of their fathers, gradfathers,
and great-grandfathers. There are few really
modern houses in the place, for, although there are
plenty of Queen Anne window-panes, they dateback
to the era of genuine small windows, and every
one who stays at Portsmouth, or who comes to
Portsmouth, is far too anxious to dwell in a home-
stead to think of building a house cut bias," as
are the latest caprices of architecture at Newport
or in New Jersey. Our very town itself has the
generous air of being an old homestead, with its
splendid old elms, its ministers who never think
of staying less than twenty-five years in its pulpits,

its door-plates on private houses and signs over
the stores with names of people who have long
been dead. But you must not think we are tak-
ing a Rip Van Winkle nap. Oh, no! we know
what the modern fashions are, only we prefer the
old ones. You must not think of Portsmouth as a
queer little old town set away to cool in the heart of
lonely and sequestered mountains. No, indeed!
Within eight or nine miles of it, in four directions,
are four of the most popular summer resorts of the
day. You know them all by name: the Isles of
Shoals, Rye Beach, Newcastle, and York. Fash-
ion flits through our streets in phaetons; money
knocks at our door and tries to buy our old china;
beauty gazes at our old .portraits and gets a hint
for her next new gown; taste builds beautiful
villas as near to us as it possibly can.. Bless you !
we are not half so deaf as the man who blows the
horn on the tally-ho that rattles up from the
beaches seems to think. If we are old, it is be-.
cause we prefer to be old, thank you! And we'
know the world. Its city people come to us to get
cool, and its Lieutenant Greely comes to us from
the Arctic circle to get warm; its giddy kirls waltz in
our parlors; its yachts skim through our harbor, itsm
navy anchors off our shores; its poets find no haunts
so favorable to the sweetest inspiration. -For here
Edmund C. Stedman found the rocks on which to
build the summer castle, whither and whence his
most charming fancies come and go; while Celia
Thaxter knows no surf or ocean breeze or white-
sailed outlook that can compare with ours. We


quite understand our own value, and make no
effort to assimilate the gay life that is welcome to
rush past us and leave us behind. We know too
well that fashion and beauty and money and taste
are really envying us. We know what it means

T- ;- I..-. .
when .i hear tiit ],r.: inil. ----:
forthb : ,. il :t e iei I i .rp ,d
in cr: and:.:r, rie :, r Er ir, t.i I
mak e trer k st i c. old -r: :! ari .

to ]lrc:hia-._ rl' tl" r *,.i,
china. \\r on greara ,. hers I
we dri e *"r :,1 ,i r tc.:, call oin r, --
city rierid. ;r Ryt pe : ,.r I -,,:
Shoal and th- C -. ,.; i .4:
not n.-. c i,= ', ,t ,rj o irLu ,ur
Indi :ha. l: I- .- ib ..ij u our
shoulders th de real India shawls
that our own great-grandfathers KE
brought home themselves from India to our own
great-grandmothers-and saying carelessly :
"'Oh, no! we are at the homestead, you know,
:or ih.: summer."
;-'Somehow it seems very inelegant to be reduced
Sto the necessity of paying four or five dollars a
day for board at a hotel, when you compare it
with having a homestead that not only opens its
doors to you, but, as Mr. Emerson says, nails them
back, entreating you to come with all of your
eleven children and stay for at least three months.
Of these Portsmouth homesteads, some are his-
torical and famous. Some are so old that the

bricks of which they are built were brought from
England. Some are so very old that they are now
scarcely habitable. But most of them are simply
grand, square old houses, with great big airy rooms,
fronting close upon the street perhaps, with rather


a pride in- keeping their fine old gardens a secret
from the passer-by. Mystery and old-fashioned
charm begin at the very threshold. The door is a
single door, but it is wider than both the doors of
New York houses put together, and it is adorned
with a great big beautiful brass knocker. -There
is a door-bell, too; for, to tell.the truth, modern
conveniences are convenient, and we are not so
obstinate but that we accept new things which do
not thrust out the old. Nothing must be displaced;
but anything that can find room for itself beside
the old is welcome to take root with us. If you
will let the knocker stay, you may add a door-bell; if





you will keep the old lamps, that used to burn
sperm oil, on the mafitel, you may have a gas-
chandelier pendent from the ceiling; if there is
room for a gladiolus beside the peonies, you are
welcome to plant one; there is no harm in hang-
ing a hammock under the'old apple-trees; and we
will even throw out a bay-window from the library
if it can be done without disturbing too many of
the ladies'-delights that have always blossomed
there. Oh, no we are not obstinate; we are only
Once inside the door, you will find yourself in a
great hall, perhaps lined with family portraits of
dowagers in satin and brocade or of elderly gentle-
men in knee-breeches, buckles, and ruffled shirts,

one old colonial house, not many years ago, when
they began scraping off the wall-paper before put-
ting a new one on, they found the walls under the
old paper, the whole length of the staircase, painted
in colored landscape -a most remarkable land-
scape, with an almost life-size Abraham sacrificing
a quite life-size Isaac on one side, and on the other,
a colonial gentleman in the resplendent uniform of
the King, with a crown painted on his holster,
riding a most remarkable steed. It is needless to
say that the proud and delighted family who owned
the house did not go to the expense of a new wall-
paper. This is the house, too, which had the
honor of having Benjamin Franklin attach to it
the first lightning-rods to be tried in the State.


portraits reaching from the floor to the ceiling, or
from the high wooden dado to the ceiling. Or
perhaps there will be no portraits and no dado,
because the walls are paneled in wood from top to
bottom, with no wall-paper at all. In the hall of

But, whatever there may be on the walls, there
is sure to be a broad and lovely staircase, with
a landing half-way up, where a great window with
a tempting window-seat looks out upon the garden.
And hanging from the stairs, you will see four


ancient fire-bucketswith the family name on them,
kept since the days when the law obliged people
to have them, with two bags, each holding two
bushels, for the removal of valuables, because
there were then no steam fire-engines. On the first
floor there will be several living-rooms: a parlor,
whose carpet was first put down fifty-six years ago,
when it was imported from Europe as part of the
wedding preparations for a young bride coming
into the family; a library, with old bookcases, and
desks, the contents of which you shall hear later,

had to send for it to Delft, in Holland, where it was
made. The quaint furniture of these rooms would
not probably seem to you very quaint; for it is so
beautiful in form and finish, so "sincere," as art-
ists will tell you, that modern upholsterers are do-
ing their best to imitate it, and, wherever you live,
you have probably seen some like it.
But the dining-room this is the real center of
the lower floor. I know one of these dining-rooms,
long and narrow, which with only one window had
eight doors. One of these doors led to a secret


with perhaps a door, on one panel of which all the
letters of the alphabet are carved in a monogram in
relief, with panels of wood let into the walls above
the doors, on which whole scenes from the Bible
,have been exquisitely carved; and a sitting-room
with its immense fireplace where great logs burn
on brass andirons, with a great high narrow man-
tel-piece beautifully carved and painted white, and
with genuine old Dutch tiles, sometimes three rows
of them, set in their places when people could not
buy that kind of decorative art on Broadway, but

staircase,-oh, such a grand place for playing En-
chanted Castle, or pirates, or even plain hide-and-
seek, especially now that a modern portidre hides
the door as well as the staircase Most of the
other doors led into closets-the great closets
stored with china so beautiful that it all might be
put nowadays behind glass doors in the parlor.
In one of these, great blue platters line the walls
with such a feast of color that I like to sit down
opposite the door and make somebody open it sud-
denly and dazzle my eyes with the wealth of deep



rich blue. The big round pewter platter,
on which the whole of a "boiled dinner"
used to be sent up, now hangs on the wall
as a curious flaque;, but the shelves are lined with
queer coffee-pots, and great mugs,--with perhaps
a china frog, life-size and raised from the bottom in
relief so that whoever drank from them would find
this creature staring up at him from the bottom as if
alive,-and dear little custard-cups, and wonderful,
wonderful teacups And then the silver; not only
the old-fashioned urns and teapots and creamers,
but the darling little teaspoons marked curiously
with three initials in this way: M. M.-meaning
that this was the silver of the Hooker family, and
that the particular Hookers for wha these tea-
spoons were made were your great-graTlfather and
great-grandinother, Michael and Mary.
Out in the kitchen you may still see the great
brick oven which used to be heated by building a
fire of wood in it,- when the bricks were hot,
all the ashes were raked out. Just as she went to
bed, the cook would put her bean-pots of beans,
her brown bread and white, her pies and puddings
and cake, all at once, right into the oven where
the fire had been, and the heat of the bricks would
cook them all, gently and thoroughly, so that
when she came down in the morning she would
find her day's baking all done! People will tell

you that noth-
ing nowadays
tastes so good
as things that
were cooked
in those old ovens; but I notice they all have a
fine new modern range close at hand, and that the
brick ovens are kept as a matter of sentiment for
Thanksgiving Day.
Before we leave the lower floor, I must tell you
of one parlor at Berwick, with a wall-paper on it
that is known to have been there over a hundred
years. Of course it was brought from England,
and it must have been a very expensive thing; for
instead of one little figure, designed to fill perhaps
a foot of space, and then repeated all over the
wall, this is one consecutive landscape, running
around the room, without one of its figures repeated
a single time There was not room on the wall for
even the whole of one of the ships; so the tops of
the masts seem to disappear through the ceiling,
and may be supposed to run up through the floor
of the chamber above.
Upstairs you will find spindle-legged toilet-
tables, bureaus with brass handles, revolving
washstands, and great high beds with canopies




-* ---. -

and curtains; but the gem of the house is up and effects" not unlike those that appear in some
still another flight,- the gem of the house is the of Mrs. Holmes's wonderful works to-day. Some of
garret! these have been framed and hung downstairs; but
Here, first, are the trunks: the hair trunks, with one that was never finished I have seen laid away
the owners' initials in brass nails, and the queer with the needle still in it, just as it was left by the
portmanteau in which the eldest son packed his embroiderer, now many years in her grave. Woe
things when he went to Harvard. How many of to the careless visitor who should happen to draw
your elder brothers, do you suppose, would think out that needle Indeed, I think none of us would
they could carry their things" for college in a offer to finish the embroidery, or guarantee stitches
single thin portmanteau? Here, too, is the dear as dainty.
little trunk, hardly bigger than you think now Here in one corner is the great green cotton
you must have for your Paris dolls, which was umbrella, the first one ever used in the family,
fastened on at the back of the chaise in which four or fiv mes as large as those we carry now.:
your grandfather and grandmother made their And yond,, on the wall, hangs the copper warm-
wedding-tour from Portsmouth to Boston, before ing-pan, that, when any one was ill, in the days
there were any railroads. If you open some of when people slept in rooms so cold that the water
these trunks, you will find rare displays of great froze in the pitchers, used to be filled, first with a
fans almost as big as those we put now in front of layer of ashes and then with a layer of hot coals,
the fireplace, huge bonnets and perhaps a great and moved around and around between the sheets
green calash, and pieces of really exquisite em- to take off the awful chill. Here are the little foot-
broidery that would be no disgrace to our modern stores that used to be carried by a handle every
decorative art rooms. I don't mean any of the Sunday to church, and the tinder-boxes with which
old-fashioned worsted work, nor the tombs with they struck a light before ever there were matches.
weeping-willows, nor even the fine old samplers Cabinets lean against the wall, a little too shabby
of the past, but work done just as it is now to be left downstairs, but with inlaid work so fine
done, with beautifully shaded silks and flosses, and delicate that it would cost a small fortune to



put them in complete repair. In the smoke-clos
built against the chimney the family ham used
be smoked every winter. In it now are store(
away the tin kitchen, in which meat used to I
roasted before the open fire, and the crane th
used to hang in the big fireplace of the sittingn
room," and the candle-molds for the time wh<
every family made its own candles. Think of i
And there on the shelves are piles upon piles
newspapers, from the days when a newspaper w
something to be preserved with care.
And at nightfall, when after sunset the coc
dewy air brings out all the faint, sweet odors (
the flowers, we shall wander down in the gard4
among beds of phlox and love-lies-bleedin
between rows of tall holly-
hocks and sunflowers. We
shall not pick any of the
roses, for those are gathered
in the morning with the dew
on them. We are going to
make rose-water next week,
kindling the little wood fire
under the gypsy kettle out-
of-doors, and distilling the
delicate perfume of our own
garden in the summer to last
us all through the winter. -
Every morning for a month
we have been picking the
roses,- one morning there
were five hundred and forty,-
and shaking the petals off into
a great firkin. No, we must
leave the roses and wander
on to the little summer-house
at the foot of the garden, near
the pond that is more like a
river than a pond, with its
gates that let in or shut out
the salt tides from the great
river just beyond.
-But, if it should happen to
be a rainy evening, we shall
have a still better'time. Then
we shall go into the library
and open the queer old book-
cases and take down the copy '
of Milton that is a hundred
and fifty years old, and the
"Baxter's Saint's Rest," pub-
lished in 1649, with its leaves
eaten by a genuine bookworm. We shall turn o\
the old fashion-books and laugh at the gowns a
coats that were very, very queer much less thar
hundred years ago. Here are the old novels, soi
of them with the remarkable information on t

title-pages that they are "By a Lady," and, best of
all, here are the children's school-books. These
are inscribed on the fly-leaf as "Presented to "
by his or her affectionate father or mother or
friend, showing that the children of those days
were expected to take school-books for presents.
One of the funniest of these is a little grammar
with pictures to illustrate the rules. To illustrate,
for instance, active, passive, and neuter verbs,
there is a picture of a father whipping his little
boy,- the father is active, the boy is massive, and
the mother, sitting by herself on a stool, looking on,
but doing nothing, is neuter.
If the books should give out, though they never
would, we can look over the half dozen old news-

S ,. ) I I

'er papers that we brought down from the file in the
nd garret. Here, in one of the date November I,
i a 1823, I see a note" to the effect that Sir Wal-
ne ter Scott is fitting up his house at Abbotsford with
he gas." Here, too, are the strangest advertisements !



notices of the public lotteries, by which Harvard
College was at one time largely supported, the
Legislature itself authorizing the lotteries by which
thirty thousand dollars were raised for the build-
ing of the dormitories Stoughton and "Hol-
worthy It is very funny, too, to find that our
dear old town has kept not only her old elms and
old homesteads, but her old grievances. Here are
the people in 1807 complaining of the odors from
the South Mill Pond," just as they complained
of the same thing in this morning's Chronicle. In-
deed, in many ways the newspaper hardly seems
old. The advertisements contain precisely the
same names as to-day. In the "Marriages" we
read the notice of the marriage of the lady to
whose granddaughter's wedding we went yester-
day; a famous bull is advertised from the same
farm which is advertising the same thing nowa-
days; the father of one of our most famous Boston
surgeons advertises that in the afternoons he will
" extract and replace teeth, fill and repair defect-
ive ones, and perform all other operations of a
Last of all, we shall open the old desk. Here is
a treasure-trove, indeed. I must have convinced
you, I think, that nothing that ever entered this
house'was ever lost or torn or injured; so we are
not surprised to come across even little scraps of
waste paper with the names of people invited to an
evening party in 1829, with marks against those
who accepted the invitation. Here is a little box
of some black pasty stuff with which they used
to mark those wonderful handkerchiefs, as fine as
cobwebs and as large as small table-cloths, hemmed
with stitches that perhaps you could discover with
a microscope. We had the curiosity once to try
some of it on a bit of cloth, and, though it is
known to have lain in that desk forty years at
least, it was soft and black and distinct as ever.
In one pigeon-hole are files of the bills for the
children's schooling. From the time she was six
years old until she was eleven, your grandmother's
bills for instruction in the best school the town af-
forded read thus :

Mr. Alden's Academy for Young Ladies.
Conditions: z. One dollar, at entrance, which is to be paid only
once by the same pupil, however long she may attend this institution..
2. Thirty cents a week, from the time of entrance to the time of
leaving the Academy.
3. Mr. Alden is at the expense of providing a convenient build-
inrg, tables, benches, inkstands, and ink.

Miss -- to Timothy Alden, Jr. Dr.
To instruction, at thirty cents a week, Dolls. Cents.
Nineteen weeks .................... 5 70

After she was eleven, the bills are a little more
elaborate, thus:

Rev. Mr. Alden's Academy.
i. One dollar to be paid by each pupil on entering.
2. The masters pay seven dollars a quarter.
3. Those misses who attend to the working of muslin and em-
broidery pay seven dollars, and the rest six dollars, a quarter.
4. The room rent is assessed equally on the pupils.

Dolls. Cents.
To.instruction, one quarter................ 7 oo
To room rent ............................ o 25
To books and stationery................... i o9

8 34%

At the close of the term, printed "Rewards of
Merit." were issued, stating that Miss "has
repeated, memoriter, the questions and answers
throughout the Principles of Religion and Moral-
ity, which are composed in about seventy duodeci-
mo pages," or that "during the quarter just closed,
Miss -- finished repeating, memoriter, select
parts of Mason's Self Knowledge to the amount of
two thousand eight hundred and ninety lines."
In another pigeon-hole are little notes written
by the young gentlemen of the town to invite the
young ladies of the family to drive with them, and
here--take them up very tenderly--are your
grandfather's love-letters.
Not exactly love-letters; not what in these days
of impassioned rhetoric we should call love-letters.
I think we may venture to open them and take just
one peep; for even the love-letters of those days
were' so formal and stately that they were hardly
too sacred for even a stranger to read. And well
might they consider the chances of their being
read by people farless entitled to the privilege than
the great-grandchildren of the lady to whom they
were addressed; for in those days there were no
envelopes; nor were there steamers to carry the
mails. Your grandfather, who was. in Sweden,
would hand his sheet of paper, carefully folded and
fastened with red wax, to the master of some slow
sailing-vessel, and it would take its chances, sent
in November, 1812, of being indorsed in your
grandmother's delicate hand as "received April,
1813." TheyNali are addressed to "Miss--
Esteemed Friend," and signed, "V'our most obedi-
ent and humble servant." In one of them he is a
little disappointed at not having heard from her.
He is not distressed lest she should have removed
from him the friendship" with which she
"honored him" before he left; but he is sorry
that a letter has been lost. Did he ever receive it ?
There isno record of it, but I thinkhe did receive that
or anotherjust as good. Certainly she never removed
her "friendship" from him; for her portrait,
painted sixty years later, hangs beside his on the
wall above us; and are not we, sitting around
the same fireplace where they sat, sons and sons'



wives and grandsons, what Dr. Holmes would call Simple as they are, there is a heart-beat in every
the wonderful echoes of that maiden's 'Yes' ? word, and those heart-beats were not for us Let
Still, I wish we could find a record of its being us tie them reverently together again, and put
received. But we will not hunt for it. After all, them quietly back where they have rested for two
the letters are too sacred even for us to read. generations.


Chirr-a-whirr I the squirrel says,
My boy, you can't catch me !
Before you reach the lowest bough,
I 'm to the top of the tree."

" I think," said the wren to the jay-bird,
" Your dress is very fine;
But for work and play, you should lay it away
For a plainer one like mine."

If you would have your learning stay,
Be patient; don't learn too fast.
The man who travels a mile each day
Will get round the world at last.

Love you best the budding Spring,
Or gay Summer's blossoming ?
Which is to your heart most dear,
Autumn hues or Winter cheer?

here once Cwas a 'Knav;xs oFN Kite
M/' Wt.o5e caitong cuere terrnbke ouite
Tor i tQc a 'poor oCireK
h H Pa woanke) hirm QCKeX,
An tpen goBleA him up at one Ulfe.

.- ,

--p=_ WY-YYJ


u/ ,,
^ '4 ^ ^


.. . ...... Every morning
IGH up in an old house, full ,"- "''"..S'-t.. '. ,% Mother gave them
of poor people, lived Lizzie, their porridge,
with her mother and baby Billy. -locked the door,
The street was a narrow, noisy and went away to work, leaving something for the
place, where carts rumbled and children's dinner, and Lizzie to take care of herself
dirty children played; where the and Billy till night. There was no other way, for
- sun seldom shone, the fresh wind seldom blew, and both were too helpless to be trusted elsewhere, and
the white snow of winter was turned at once to there was no one to look after them. But Lizzie
black mud. One bare room was Lizzie's home, knew her way about the room, and could find the
and out of it she seldom went, for she was a pris- bed, the window, arid the table where the bread'
oner. We all pity the poor princesses who were shut and milk stood. There was seldom any fire in
up in towers by bad fairies, the men and women the stove, and the window was barred, so the little
in jails, and the little birds in cages, but Lizzie prisoners were safe, and day after day they lived to-
was a sadder prisoner than any of these, gether a sad, solitary, unchildlike life that makes
The prince always comes to the captive prin- one's heart ache to think of.
cess, the jail doors open in time, and the birds Lizzie watched over Billy like a faithful little
find some kind hand to set them free; but there mother, and Billy did his best to bear his trials,
seemed no hope of escape for this poor child, and comfort sister, like a man. He was not a rosy,
Only nine years -old, and condemned to life-long rollicking fellow, like most year-old boys, but pale
helplessness, loneliness, and darkness-for she was and thin and quiet, with-a pathetic look in his big
blind, blue eyes, as if he said, "Something is wrong;
She could dimly remember the blue sky, green will some one kindly put it right for us?" But he
earth, and beautiful sun; for the light went out seldom complained unless in pain, and would lie for
when she was six, and the cruel fever left her hours on the old bed, watching the flies, which were
a pale little shadow to haunt that room ever since, his only other playmates, stretching out his little
The father was dead, the mother worked hard hands to the few rays of sunshine that crept in now
for daily bread, they had no friends, and the good and then, as if longing for them, like a flower in a
fairies seemed to have forgotten them. Still, like cellar. When Lizzie sung, he hummed softly; and
the larks one sees in Brittany, the eyes of which when he was hungry, cold, or tired, he called Lib t
cruel boys put out, that they may sing the sweeter, Lib !" meaning Lizzie," and nestled up to her,
Lizzie. made music in her cage, singing to baby; forgetting all his baby woes in her tender arms.
and when he slept, she sat by the window listen- Seeing her so fond and faithful, the-poor neigh-
ing to the noise below for company, crooning bors loved as well as pitied her, and did what they
to herself till she, too, fell asleep and forgot the could for the afflicted child. The busy women
long, long days that had no play, no school, no would pause at the locked door to ask if all was
change for her such as other children know. right; the dirty children brought her dandelions



from the park, and the rough workmen of the fac-
tory opposite, with a kind word would toss an apple
or a cake through the open window. They had
learned to look for the little wistful face behind the
bars, and loved to listen to the childish voice which
caught and imitated the songs they sung and whis-
tled, like a sweet echo. They called her "the blind
lark," and, though she never knew it, many were
the better for the pity they gave her.
Baby slept a great deal, for life offered him few
pleasures, and, like a small philosopher, he wisely
tried to forget the troubles which he could not
cure; so Lizzie had nothing to do but sing, and
try to imagine how the world looked. She had no
one to tell her, and the few memories grew dimmer
and dimmer each year. She did not know how to
work or to play, never having been taught, and
Mother was too tired at night to do anything but
get supper and go to bed.
The child will be an idiot soon, if she does not
die," people said; and it seemed as if this would
be the fate of the poor little girl, since no one came
to save her during those three weary years. She
often said, "I'm of some use. I take care of
Billy, and I could n't live without him."
But even this duty and delight was taken from
her, for that cold spring nipped the poor little
flower, and one day Billy shut his blue eyes with a
patient sigh and left her all alone.
Then Lizzie's heart seemed broken, and people
thought she would soon follow him, now that her
one, care and comfort was gone. All day she laid
with her cheek on Billy's pillow, holding the bat-
tered tin cup and a little worn-out shoe, and it was
pitiful to hear her sing the old lullabies as if baby
still could hear them.
"It will be a mercy if the poor thing does n't live;
blind folks are no use and a-sight of trouble," said
one woman to another as they gossiped in the
hall after calling on the child during her mother's
absence, for the door wa 'left unlocked since she
was ill.
-"Yes, Mrs. Davis would get on nicely if she
had n't such a burden. Thank Heaven, my chil-
dren are n't blind," answered the other, hugging
her baby closer as she went away.
Lizzie heard them, and hoped with all her sad
little soul that death would set her free, since she
was of no use in the world. To go and be with
Billy was all her desire now, and she was on her
way to him, growing daily weaker and more con-
tent to be dreaming of dear baby well and happy,
waiting for her somewhere in a lovely place called
The summer vacation came, and hundreds of
eager children were hurrying away to the mountains
and seashore for two months of healthful pleasure.

Even the dirty children in the lane felt the approach
of berry-time, and rejoiced in their freedom from
cold as they swarmed like flies about the corner
grocery where over-ripe fruit was thrown out for
them to scramble over.
Lizzie heard about good times when some of these
young neighbors were chosen to go on the poor
children's picnics, and came back with big sand-
wiches buttoned up in their jackets; pickles, pea-
nuts, and buns in their pockets; hands full of faded
flowers, and hearts brimming over with childish
delight at a day in the woods. She listened with
a faint smile, enjoyed the woodsy smell of the
green things, and wondered if they had nice picnics
in Heaven, being sorry that Billy had missed them
here. But she did not seem to care much, or hope
for any pleasure for herself except to see baby again.
I think there were few sadder sights in that great
city than this innocent prisoner waiting so patiently
to be set free. Would itbe by the gentle angel of
death, or one of the human angels who keep these
little sparrows from falling to the ground ?
One hot August day, when not a breath came
into the room, and the dust and noise and evil
smells were almost unendurable, poor Lizzie lay on
her bed singing feebly to herself about "the beau-
tiful blue sea." She was trying to get to sleep that
she might dream of a cool place, and her voice -
was growing fainter and fainter, when suddenly it
seemed as if the dream had come, for a sweet odor
was near, something damp and fresh touched her
feverish cheek, and a kind voice said in her ear:
Here is the little bird I 've been following.
Will you have some flowers, dear? "
"Is it Heaven? Where's Billy ?" murmured
Lizzie, groping about her, half awake.
"Not yet. I 'm not Billy, but a friend who
carries flowers to little children who can not go and
get them. Don't be afraid, but let me sit and tell
you about it," answered the voice,' as a gentle hand
took hers.
I thought, may be, I'd died, and I was glad, for
I do want to see Billy so much. He's baby, you
know." And the clinging hands held the kind one
fast till it filled them with a great bunch of roses
that seemed to bring all summer into the close,
hot room with their sweetness.
Oh, how nice how nice I never had such a
lot. They're bigger 'n' better 'n dandelions, are n't
they? What a good lady you must be to go 'round
giving folks posies like these! cried Lizzie, trying
to realize the astonishing fact.
Then, while the new friend fanned her, she lay
luxuriating in her roses, and listening to the sweet
story of the Flower Mission which, like many other
pleasant things, she knew nothing of in her prison.
Presently she told her own little tale, never guess-


ing how pathetic it was, till, lifting her hand to
touch the new face, she found it wet with tears.
"Are you sorry for me? she asked. "Folks
are very kind, but I 'm a burden, you know, and
I'd better die and go to Billy; I was some use to
him, but I never can be to any one else. I heard
'em say so, and poor
Mother would do better
if I was n't here."
My child, I know a
little blind girl who is
no burden but a great
help to her mother, and
a happy, useful creature,
as you might be if you
were taught and helped
as she was," went on the
voice, sounding more
than ever like a good
fairy's as it told fresh
wonders till Lizzie was
sure it must be all a
"Who taught her?
Could I do it? Where's
the place ?" she asked,
sitting erect in her eager-
ness, like a bird that
hears a hand at the door
of its cage.
Then, with the com-
fortable arm around
her, the roses stirring
with the flutter of her
heart, and the sightless
eyes looking up as if
they could see the face
of the deliverer, Lizzie
heard the wonderful sto-
ry of the House Beauti-
ful standing white and
spacious on the hill, with
the blue sea before it,
the fresh wind always
blowing, the green gar-
dens and parks all about, I
and, inside, music, hap- r,\A-
py voices, shining faces, __
busy hands, and year "A KIND VOICE
after year the patient
teaching by those who dedicate themselves to this
noble and tender task.
"It mustbe better'n Heaven!" cried Lizzie, as she
heard of work and play, health and happiness, love
and companionship,usefulness and independence,-
all the dear rights and simple joys young creatures
hunger for, and perish, soul and body, without.

It was too much for her little mind to grasp at
once, and she lay as if in a blissful dream long
after the kind visitor had gone, promising to come
again and to find some way for Lizzie to enter into
that lovely place where darkness is changed to light.
That visit was like magic medicine, and the

child grew better at once, for hope was born in her
heart. The heavy gloom seemed to lift, discom-
forts were easier to bear, and solitude was peopled
now with troops of happy children living in that
wonderful place where blindness was not a burden.
She told it all to her mother, and the poor woman
tried to believe it, but said, sadly:



s886.1 THE BLIND LARK. I;5

"Don't set your heart on it, child. It's easy to
promise and to forget. Rich folks don't trouble
themselves about poor folks if they can help it."
But Lizzie's faith never wavered, though the
roses faded as day after day went by and no one
came. The mere thought that it was possible to
teach blind people to work and study and play
seemed to give her strength and courage. She
got up and sat at the window again, singing to
herself as she watched and waited, with the dead
flowers carefully arranged in Billy's mug, and a
hopeful smile on the little white face behind the
Every one was glad she was better, and nodded
to one another as they heard the soft crooning,
like a dove's coo, in the pauses of the harsher
noises that filled the street. The workmen tossed
her sweeties and whistled their gayest airs, the
children brought their dilapidated toys to amuse
her, and one woman came every day to put her
baby in Lizzie's lap, it was such a pleasure to her
to feel the soft little body in the loving arms that
longed for Billy.
Poor Mother went to her work in better spirits,
and the long, hot days were less oppressive as she
thought, while she scrubbed, of Lizzie up again;
for she loved her helpless burden, heavy though
she found it.
When Saturday came around, it rained hard,
and no one expected the flower lady." Even Liz-
zie said, with a patient sigh and a hopeful smile:
"I don't believe she'll come; but, may be, it
will clear up, and then I guess she will."
It did not clear up, but the flower lady came,
and as the child sat listening to the welcome
sound of her steps, her quick ear caught the tread
of two pairs of feet, the whisper of two voices, and
presently two persons came in to fill her hands
with midsummer flowers.
"This is Minna, the little girl I told you of.
.She wanted to see you very much, so we paddled
away like a pair of ducks, and here we are," said
Miss Grace gayly; and as she spoke Lizzie felt soft
fingers glide over her face, and a pair of childish
lips.find and kiss her own. The groping touch,
the hearty kiss, made the blind children friends at
once, and, dropping her flowers, Lizzie hugged
the new-comer, trembling with excitement and
delight. Then they talked, and how the tongues
went as one asked questions and the other an-
swered them, while Miss Grace sat by enjoying
the happiness of those who do not forget the poor,
but seek them out to save and bless.
Minna had been for a year a pupil in the happy
school, where she was taught to see with her
hands, as one might say; and the tales she told
of the good times there made Lizzie cry eagerly:

"Can I go? Oh, can I go ? "
"Alas, no, not yet," answered Miss Grace
sadly. "I find that children under ten can not
be taken, and there is no place for the little ones
unless kind people care for them."
Lizzie gave a wail, and hid her face in the pil-
low, feeling as if she could not bear the dreadful
Minna comforted her, and Miss Grace went on
to say that generous people were trying to get
another school for the small children, that all the
blind children were working hard to help on the
plan, that money was coming in, and soon they
hoped to have a pleasant place for every child
who needed help.
Lizzie's tears stopped falling as she listened, for
hope was not quite gone.
"I '11 not be ten till next June, and I don't see
how I can wait 'most a year. Will the little school
be ready 'fore then?" she asked.
"I fear not, dear, but I will see that the long
waiting is made as easy as possible, and perhaps
you can help us in some way," answered Miss
Grace, anxious to atone for her mistake in speak-
ing about the school before she had made sure
that Lizzie could go.
"Oh, I 'd love to help; only I can't do any-
thing," sighed the child.
You can sing, and that is a lovely way to help.
I heard of 'the blind lark,' as they call you, and
when I came to find her, your little voice led me
straight to the door of the cage. That door I
mean to open and let you hop out into the sun-
shine; then, when you are well and strong, I hope
you will help us get the home for other little
children who else must wait years before they
find the light. Will you?"
As Miss Grace spoke, it was beautiful to see the
clouds lift from Lizzie's wondering face, till it
shone with the sweetest beauty any face can wear,
the happiness of helping others. She forgot her
own disappointment in the new hope that came,
and held on to the bed-post as if the splendid plan
were almost too much for her.
"Could I help that way ?" she cried. "Would
anybody care to hear me sing? Oh, how I 'd love
to do anything for the poor little ones who will
have to wait."
"You shall. I 'm sure the hardest heart would
be touched by your singing, if you look as you do
now. We need something new for our fair and
concert, and by that time you will be ready," said
Miss Grace, almost afraid she had said too much;
for the child looked so frail, it seemed as if even
joy would hurt her.
Fortunately her mother came in just then, and,
while the lady talked to her, Minna's childish


chatter soothed Lizzie so well that when they left
she stood at the window smiling down at them
and singing like the happiest bobolink that ever
tilted on a willow branch in spring-time.
All the promises were kept, and soon a new life
began for Lizzie. A better room and well-paid
work were found for Mrs. Davis. Minna came as
often as she could to cheer up her little friend, and,
best of all, Miss Grace taught her to sing, that by
and by the little voice might plead with its pathetic
music for others less blest than she. So the winter
months went by, and Lizzie grew like mayflowers
underneath the snow, getting ready to look up,
sweet and rosy, when spring set her free and called
her to be glad. She counted the months and
weeks, and when the time dwindled to days, she
could hardly sleep or eat for thinking of the happy
hour when she could go to be a pupil in the school
where miracles were worked. :
Her birthday was in June, and, thanks to Miss
Grace, her coming was celebrated by one of the
pretty festivals of the school, called Daisy Day.
Lizzie knew nothing of this surprise, and when her
friends led her up the long flight of steps she
looked like a happy little soul climbing to the gates
of Heaven.
Mr. Constantine, the ruler of this small king-
dbm, was a man whose fatherly heart had room
for every suffering child in the world, and it re-
joiced over every one who came, though the great
house was overflowing and many waited as Lizzie
had done.
He welcomed her so kindly that the strange
place seemed like home at once, and Minna led
her away to the little mates who proudly showed
her their small possessions and filled her hands
with the treasures children love, while pouring into
her ears delightful tales of the study, work, and
play that made their lives so happy.
Lizzie was bewildered, and held fast to Minna,
whose motherly care of her was sweet to see.
Kind teachers explained rules and duties with the
patience that soothes fear and wins love, and soon
Lizzie began to feel that she was a truly pupil"
in this wonderful school where the blind could read,
sew, study, sing, run, and play. Boys raced along
the galleries and up and down the stairs as boldly
as if all had eyes. Girls swept and dusted like
tidy housewives; little fellows hammered and
sawed in the workshop and never hurt themselves;
small girls sewed on pretty work as busy as bees,
and in the schoolroom lessons went on as if both
teachers and pupils were blessed with eyes.
Lizzie could not understand it, and was contend
to sit and listen wherever she was placed, while hei
little fingers fumbled at the new objects near her:
and her hungry mind opened like a flower tc

the sun. She had no tasks that day, and in the
afternoon was led away with a flock of children, all
chattering like magpies, on the grand expedition.
Every year, when the fields were white with daisies,
these poor little souls were let loose among them
to enjoy the holy day of this child's flower. Ah,
but was n't it a pretty sight to see the meeting be-
tween them, when the meadows were reached and
the children scattered far and wide with cries of joy
as they ran and rolled in the white sea, or filled
their eager hands, or softly felt for the dear daisies
and kissed them like old friends! The flowers
seemed to enjoy it, too, as they danced and nod-
ded, while the-wind rippled the long grass like
waves of a green sea, and the sun smiled as if he
said :
"Here 's the sort of thing I like to see. Why
don't I find more of it?"
Lizzie's face looked like a daisy, it was so full
of light as she stood looking up with the wide
brim of her new hat like the white petals all round
it. She did not run nor shout, but went slowly
wading through the grass, feeling the flowers
touch her hands, yet picking none, for it was hap-
piness enough to know that they were there. Pres-
ently she sat down and let them tap her cheeks
and rustle about her ears as though telling secrets
that made her smile. Then, as if weary with so
much happiness, she lay back and let the daisies
hide her with their pretty coverlet.
Miss Grace was watching over her, but left her
alone, and by and by, like a lark from its nest in
the grass, the blind girl sent up her little voice,
singing so sweetly that the children gathered around
to hear, while they made chains and tied up their
This was Lizzie's first concert, and no little
prima donna was ever more pelted with flowers
than she; for when she had sung all her songs, new
and old, a daisy crown was put upon her head, a
tall flower for a scepter in her hand, and all the
boys and girls danced around,her as if she had
been Queen of the May.
A little feast came out of the baskets, that they
might be empty for the harvest to be carried home,
and, while they ate, stories were told and shouts of
laughter filled the air, for all were as merry as if
there was no darkness, pain, or want in the world.
Then they had games, and Lizzie was taught to
play, for till now she never knew what a good
romp meant. Her cheeks grew rosy, her sad little
I face waked up, she ran and tumbled with the rest,
and actually screamed, to Minna's great delight.
t Two or three of the children could see a little,
Sand these were very helpful in taking care of the
Little ones. Miss Grace found them playing some
i game with Lizzie, and observed that all but she




were blindfolded. When she asked why, one
whispered, "We thought we should play fairer if
we were all alike." And another added, "It
seems somehow as if we were proud if we seeedtter
than the rest."
Lizzie was much touched by this sweet spirit,
and a little later showed that she had already


little mind,- a lovely page, illustrated with flowers,
kind faces, sunshine, and happy hopes. The new
life was so full, so free, she soon fell into her place
and enjoyed it all. People worked there so heart-
ily, so helpfully, it was no wonder things went as
if by magic, and the poor little creatures who
came in so afflicted went out in some years inde-
pendent people, ready to help themselves and
often to benefit others.
There is no need to tell all Lizzie learned and



learned one lesson in the school,
when she gathered about her
some who had never seen, and
told -them what she could re-
member of green fields and
daisy-balls before the light went
out forever.
"Surely my little lark was
worth saving, if only for this
one happy day," thought Miss
Grace, as she watched the
awakened look in the blind faces, all leaning toward
the speaker, whose childish story pleased them.well.
In all her long and useful life, Lizzie never forgot
that Daisy Day, for it seemed as if she were born
anew, and, like a butterfly, had left the dark chrysa-
lis all behind her then. It was the first page of the
beautiful book just opening before the eyes of her
VOL. XIV.-2.


enjoyed that summer, nor how
proud her mother was when
she heard her read in the curi-
ous books, making eyes of the
little fingers that felt their Way
along so fast, when she saw
the neat stitches she set, the
pretty clay things she mod-
eled, the tidy way she washed
dishes, swept and dusted, and
helped keep her room in order.
/ But the poor woman's heart
was too full for words when she
heard the child sing,-not as before, in the dreary
room, sad, soft lullabies to Billy,- but beautiful,
gay songs, with flutes and violins to lift and carry
the little voice along on waves of music.
Lizzie really had a great gift, but she was never
happier than when they all sang together, or when
she sat quietly listening to the band as they prac-



ticed for the autumn concert. She was to have a
part in it, and the thought that she could help to
earn money for the Kindergarten made the shy
child bold and :glad to do her part. Many people
knew her now, for she was very pretty, with the
healthful roses in her cheeks, curly. yellow hair,
and great blue eyes that seemed to see. Her
'mates and teachers were proud of her, for, though
she was not as quick as some of the pupils, her
sweet temper, grateful heart, and friendly little
ways made her very dear to all, aside from the
musical talent she possessed.
Every one was busy over the fair and the con-
cert; and fingers flew, tongues chattered, feet
trotted, and hearts beat fast with hope and fear as
the time drew near, for all were eager to secure a
home for the poor children still waiting in dark-
ness. It was a charity which appealed to all
hearts when it was known; but, in this busy world
of ours, people have so many cares of their own that
they are apt to forget the wants of others unless
something brings these needs very clearly before
their eyes. Much money was needed, and many
ways had been tried to add to the growing fund,
that all might be well done.
"We wish to interest children in' this charity
for children, so that they may gladly give a part
of their abundance to these poor little souls who
have nothing. I think Lizzie will sing some of the
pennies out of their pockets, which would other-
wise go for bonbons. Let us try; so make her
neat and pretty, and we '11 have a special song for
Mr. Constantine said this, and Miss Grace car-
ried out his wish so well that, when the time came,
the little prima donna did her part better even
than they had hoped.
The sun shone splendidly on the opening day
of the fair, and cars and carriages came rolling
out from the city, full of friendly people with
plump purses and the sympathetic interest we all
take in such things when we take time to see, ad-
mire, and reproach ourselves that we do so little
for them.
There were many children, and when they had
bought the pretty handiwork of the blind needle-
women, eaten cake and ices, wondered at the
strange maps and books, twirled the big globe in
the hall, and tried to understand how so many
blind people could be so busy and so happy, they
all were seated at last to hear the music, full of ex-
pectation, for "the pretty little girl was going to
It was a charming concert, and every one en-
joyed it, though many eyes grew dim as they wan-
dered from the tall youths blowing the horns so
sweetly, to the small ones chirping away like so

many sparrows, for the blind faces made the sight
pathetic, and such music touched the hearts as
no other music can.
"Now she 's coming! whispered the eager
children, as a little girl climbed up the steps and
stood before them, waiting to begin.
A slender little creature, in a blue gown, with
sunshine falling on her pretty hair, a pleading
Look in the soft eyes that had no sign of blindness
but their steadfastness, and a smile on the lips
that trembled at first, for Lizzie's heart beat fast,
and only the thought, I 'm helping the poor
little ones," gave her courage' for her task.
SBut, when the flutes and violins began to play
like a whispering wind, she forgot the crowd be-
fore her, and, lifting up her face, sang in clear sweet
WE are sitting in the shadow
Of a long and lonely night,
Waiting till some gentle angel
Comes to lead us to the light.
For we know there is a magic
That can give" eyes to the blind.
Oh, well-filled hands, be generous!
Oh, pitying hearts, be kind!

Help stumbling feet that wander,
To find the upward way;
Teach hands that now lie idle
The joys of work and play.
Let pity, love, and patience
Our tender teachers be,
That, though the eyes be blinded,
The little souls may see.

Your world is large and beautiful,
Our prison dim and small;
We stand and wait, imploring-
Is there not room for all ?
Give us our children's garden,
Where we may safely bloom,
Forgetting in God's sunshine
Our lot of grief and gloom."

A little voice comes singing,
Oh, listen to. its song!
A little child is pleading
For those who suffer wrong.
Grant them the patient magic
That gives eyes to the blind i
Oh, well-filled hands, be generous!
Oh, pitying hearts, be kind!

It was a very simple little song, but it proved
wonderfully effective, for Lizzie was so carried away
by her own feeling that as she sang the last lines she
stretched out her hands imploringly, and two great
tears rolled down her cheeks. For a minute many
hands were too busy fumbling for handkerchiefs to
clap, but the children were quick to answer that
gesture and those tears, and one impetuous little
lad tossed a small purse containing his last ten cents
at Lizzie's feet, the first contribution won by her
innocent appeal. Then there was great applause,



and many of the flowers just bought were thrown
to the little Lark, who was obliged to come back
and sing again and again, smiling brightly as
she dropped pretty curtsies, and sang song after
song with all the added sweetness of a grateful
Hidden behind the organ, Miss Grace and Mr.
Constantine shook hands joyfully, for this was the
sort of interest they wanted, and they knew that
while the children clapped and threw flowers, the
wet-eyed mothers were thinking, self-reproachfully,
"I must help this lovely charity," and the stout
old gentlemen who. pounded with their canes were
resolving to go home and write some generous
checks, which would be money invested in God's
It was a very happy time for all, and' made
strangers friends-in the sweet way which teaches

heart to speak to heart. When the concert was
over, Lizzie felt many hands press hers and leave
something there, many childish lips kiss her own,
with promises to "help about the Kindergarten,"
and her ears were full of kind voices thanking and
praising her for doing her part so well. Still later,
when all were gone, she proudly put the rolls of
bills into Mr. Constantine's hand, and, throwing
her arms about Miss Grace's neck, said, trembling
with earnestness, "I 'm not a burden any more,
and I can truly help How can I ever thank you
both for making me so happy? "
One can fancy what their answer was and how
Lizzie helped; for, long after the Kindergar-
ten was filld with pale little flowers blooming
slowly as she had done, the Blind Lark went on
singing pennies out of pockets, and sweetly re-
minding people not to forget this noble charity.



I WILL sing you a song of singers:
Listen, and you shall hear
How the lark on high, in the breast of the sky,
Sings to the opening year.
In a still blue place for a moment's space
All song from wing to crest,
He sings in the sun -and the rapture done,
Sinks to his silent nest.

I will sing you a song of singers:
Listen, and you shall hear
How the wind of the south, with a sweet warm
Sings in the heart of the year.
It is hey! for the fields of roses, and hey! for the
banks of thyme;
And hey for the shady closes with a lilt and
a laughing rhyme !
And the lake will ruffle its bosom,
And curl its foamy crest,
When the murmuring sigh of the wind comes nigh
The lilies upon its breast.

I will sing you a song of singers:
Listen, and you shall hear
The song close hid of the katydid,

In the falling of the year.
Wide in the leafy ranges,
He sings in the waning light,
And his love-song knows few changes
Under the stars of night.
Shrill in the forest reaches,
In doublet of satin green,
He sings, as his wild mood teaches,
His one song to his queen.

I will sing you a song of singers:
Listen, and you shall hear
The song of the snow, soft, soft and low,
In the night-time of the year.
Out of the deeps of heaven,
All in a pure white glow,
Under the stars of even,
Sings the angel of the snow.
And the heart must learn to listen
And bend its wayward will,
While the frost flakes glow and glisten
And the winter air is chill.
And the song is pure as pity,
And glad as glad can be,-
For an angel sings with brooding wings
The song of charity.




ister at the 8asel sat,
Sthe chair, her ),sy-cat;
ooln uon t canvas' deal,
Susy) trait dI 4 ear.

6t whenS;)5ter left bie room,
ussys 5ortrdait met its doom ;
little 35ster nadu| miss,
Made an awful foch- tlke tf !!




TOWARD the end of May, 1885, there died in
Paris the greatest of French poets--a great poet
who was also a great novelist and a great dramatist;
a great poet who had always a warm heart for the
sick and the suffering; who was always ready with
strong words for the defense of the weak and the
oppressed, and who was always very fond of little
children. This great poet was Victor Hugo. He
lived to be more than eighty years old; and when
he died, the city of Paris, which he had ever loved
and splendidly praised in prose and verse, gave him
the most magnificent funeral that a mourning peo-
ple could give. His body lay in state under the
Triumphal Arch built by Napoleon to commemo-
rate the great deeds of the Grand Army. Thou-
sands passed before the body of the poet to do it
honor, and countless thousands filled the surround-
ing avenues. When the day of the funeral came,
the first place was reserved for two children, a
little girl, Jeanne, and a little boy, Georges, the
grandchildren of the great poet. [His own sons
had died long before their father.] And through-
out Paris men were offering for sale portraits of
Victor Hugo holding Miss Jeanne and Master
Georges on his knees.
It was the sweet companionship of his little
grandchildren that brightened and comforted the
last years of the old poet's life. He who in his
verses had never tired of singing of the joys of
childhood and of the blessing of youth, found in his
own old age a solace in the love of two little chil-
dren. They lived with him, and they ruled the
house with a rod of iron. As became a grandfather,
he was very indulgent; and the grandchildren
might easily have been spoiled had it not been for
the watchful care of their mother, and for their

own frank and kindly dispositions. The grand-
father, who had not come into his second childhood,
although he was more than fourscore years of age,
made himself young with the grandchildren; he
played with them, he entered into their feelings
and their fun, he put himself on a level with them.
When Miss Jeanne had been naughty, and her
mother deprived her of her. dessert after dinner,
Victor Hugo refused to eat his dessert alone; and
as the little girl was naughty for three days, for
three days the old poet went without the fruit of
which he was very fond.
A French gentleman, Monsieur Richard Les-
clide, who was Victor Hugo's private secretary
and thus had a chance to see the tender inti-
macy of the grandfather and the grandchildren,
has collected into a book his memories of the poet's
table-talk; and in his book he has set down many
pleasant anecdotes. He records some of the little
games the poet used to play with his small friends,
and of the little jests he invented to tease them.
For instance, in the cherry season, Victor Hugo
would make a great pretense of dividing a basket of
the fruit equally between himself and one of his
grandchildren; but he had devised a variation of
the schoolboy joke, called Heads I win, and Tails
youlose! He beganto distribute the cherries, say-
ing, One for me, and one for you, and one for me
again Then he would pause for a moment before
beginning once more. One for me, and one for
you, and one for me again! At first this seemed
to sound perfectly fair, but as soon as the child saw
that the poet got two for one, he made a puzzled pro-
test, to the great delight of his grandfather.
The stories which Victor Hugo. wrote have been
translated into all the leading languages, and they



have been read by millions of people; so it is not
to be wondered at that so successful a story-teller
should have been called upon to tell tales to his
grandchildren. They often cried aloud for a story,
and he was always ready to obey. Sometimes, it is
true, it was inconvenient for him to give up what
he was doing to amuse a little girl and a little boy;
but he never refused their request. If he had really
no time to give them, he had a little trick by which
he got them to release him. The poet began to tell
a story, the hero of which soon felt thirsty, so that
he went into an inn and ordered a cup of coffee, and
.while it-was preparing he took up the newspaper
and read it. -And when he arrived at this point in
the narrative, Victor Hugo used to take up the
newspaper and read it-aloud, saying that this was
just what the man in the story was reading. Now
the political articles in a Parisian newspaper did
not at all amuse the poet's grandchildren, and so
they left the poet alone shortly, and went off to
some other play; and in time they came to under-
stand that whenever the hero of a story was thirsty
and began to read a paper while his coffee was get-
ting ready, then they might as well at once aban-
don all hope of going on with the narrative any
The tales which Victor Hugo used to tell to his
grandchildren were not many, but they varied
greatly in the telling. There were a great many
possible variations in any one story, which might
make it either very long or quite short. Of these
stories M. Lesclide has set down four, which he re-
membered from having heard the poet tell them
often. These were, "The Story of the Hermit,"
"The Story of the Ass with Two Ears; "The
Story of the Good Flea and the Wicked King,"
and "The Story of the Good Dog." Of these,
"The Story of the Hermit" is the shortest: and
it is very short, indeed; for the poet was never al-
lowed to finish it. Here it is:


ONCE upon a time, in a cave under a mountain,
there was a poor hermit who appeared to live in
great poverty. He prayed to heaven; he sub-
mitted himself to all sorts of mortifications of the
flesh; and he was the admiration of the people of
the country, who brought him roots and old crusts
of bread to keep him from dying of starvation.
Well, while every one thought him so hungry and
so wretched, he was eating veal--the pig!

Here. the tale was always interrupted by an
Instant demand, for an explanation of this unex-
pected veil -.an~i the discussion which arose always
became so entangled and so protracted that nobody

ever heard the end of the story; and we do not
know now what became of the hermit or why he
gorged himself on the secret veal.

A little longer, and yet not altogether com-
plete, was The Story of the Ass with Two Ears."
It was not as great a favorite with the poet's grand-
children as "The Story of the Good Dog." As
M. Lesclide says, it begins well, but it does not
exactly come to an end. However, such as it is,
here it is:


ONCE upon a time there was an Ass who was a
very good ass, but whose life was very agitated.
This was because of a little difficulty of hearing, with
which nature had afflicted him. When his right
ear heard "yes," his left ear heard "no." When
the right ear heard turn to the right," the left
ear heard "turn to the left"-an embarrassing
situation! In this case the Ass used to decide not
to budge-which was in accord with his con-
templative character.
In the morning he went as usual to his master
when he got up, to take his orders for the day,
waving his ears to show that he was ready to obey.
"Shall I bear the cabbages to market?" he
asked with an intelligent look.
"Yes," heard the right ear.
"No," heard the left ear.
The good Ass was much troubled by these
contradictory injunctions. He supposed that his
master was undecided as to what ought to be done
with his cabbages. Then he asked, crying aloud
like an ass:
"Shall I instead take the sacks to the mill ?"
"He is still undecided," said the Ass to him-
self. Braying again, the Ass asked:
Shall I instead go and roll in the hay with the
asses of my acquaintance ?"
"And yet," said the Ass to himself, "I must
really do something."
And so he went to roll in the hay.

One of the tales the children liked best-was
"The Story of the Good Flea and the Wicked
King." This was a tale which was more elaborate,
and which lent itself to moreiq-,atii: Whenever
Victor Hugo proposed to tell zhis tale, the children
used to insist that he should do the gestures, and
he always promised to do the gestures,. as they
wished. This is the tale:



ONCE upon a time there was a Wicked King who
made his people very unhappy. Everybody de-
tested him, and those whom he had put in prison
and beheaded would have liked to whip him.
But how? He was the strongest; he was the mas-
ter; he did not have to give account to any one;
and when he was told that his subjects were not
content, he replied:
"Well, what of it? I don't care a rap!"
which was an ugly answer.
As he continued to act like a king, and as he
became every day a little more wicked than the
day before, this set a certain little Flea to thinking
over the matter. It was a little bit of a Flea who
was of no consequence at all, but full of good
sentiments. This is not the nature of fleas in gen-
eral, but this one had been very well brought up;
it bit people with moderation, and only when it
was very hungry.
What if I were to bring the King to reason ?"
it said to itself. It is not without danger-but
no matter I will try !"
That night the Wicked King, after having done
all sorts of naughty things during the day, was
calmly going to sleep, when he felt what seemed
to be the prick of a pin.
"Bite !"
He growled and turned over on the other side.
"Bite! Bite! Bite!"
[Here it was that the gestures came in. A sharp
slap of the hand indicated where the Flea had
attacked the King, and the story-teller bounded
about on his chair, the better to express the ago-
nies of the monarch.]
"Who is it that bites me so?" cried the King
in a terrible voice.
It is I," replied a little voice.
"You? Who are you?"
A little Flea who wishes to correct you!"
"A Flea! Just you wait! Just you wait, and
you shall see "
And the King sprang from his bed, twisted his
coverings and shook the sheets, all of which was
quite useless, for the Good Flea had hidden itself
in the royal beard.
"Ah," said the King, it has gone now, and I
shall be able to get a sound sleep."
But scarcely had he laid his head on the pillow,
Bite !"
"How? What? Again?"
"Bite! Bite!"
"You dare to return, you abominable little
Flea! But think for a moment what you are

doing! You are no bigger than a grain of sand,
and you dare to bite one of the greatest kings on
earth "
"Well, what of it? I don't care a rap !" an-
swered the Flea in the very words of the King.
Ah, if I only had you "
Yes, but you have n't got me "
The Wicked King did not sleep at all that night,
and he arose the next morning in a killing ill-
humor. He resolved to destroy his enemy. By
his orders, they cleaned the palace from top to
bottom, and particularly his bedroom; his bed
was made by ten old women, very skillful in the
art of catching fleas. But they caught nothing,
for the Good Flea had hidden itself under the col-
lar of the King's coat.
That night, this frightful tyrant, who was dying
for want of sleep, lay back on both his ears,
although this is said to be very difficult. But he
wished to sleep double, and he knew no better
way. I wish you may find a better. Scarcely had
he put out his light when he felt the Flea on
his neck.
"Bite Bite!"
Ah, pounds What is this? "
It is I-the Flea of yesterday."
"But what do you want, you rascal- you tiny
"I wish you to obey me, and to make your
people happy "
Ho, there, my soldiers, my captain of the
guard, my ministers, my generals Everybody!
The whole lot of you "
The whole lot of them came in. The King was
in a rage which made everybody tremble. He found
fault with all the servants of the palace. Every:
body was in consternation. During this time, the
Flea, quite calm, kept itself hid in the King's
The guards were doubled; laws and decrees
were made; ordinances were published against
all fleas; there were processions and public pray-
ers to ask of Heaven the extermination of the Flea,
and sound sleep for the King. It was all of no
avail. The wretched King could not lie down,
even on the grass, without being attacked by his
obstinate enemy, the Good Flea, who did not let
him sleep a single minute.
"Bite! Bite!"
It would take too long to tell the many hard
knocks the King gave himself in trying to crush
the Flea; he was covered with bruises and contu-
sions. As he could not sleep, he wandered about
like an uneasy spirit. He grew thinner. He would
certainly have died, if, at last, he hadAnot made
up his mind to obey the Good Flea.
"I surrender," he said at last, when it began




4"r" .11

0 .21

~ r' '
-. '"~ 'F




again to bite him. I ask for quarter. I will do Thank you. What must I do ?"
what you'wish." Make your people happy "
So much the better. On this condition only I have never learned how. I do not know
shall you sleep," replied the Flea. how-- "

i--.--.~.3-L_~ '"
.,I =~%



Nothing more easy; you have only to go
Taking my treasures with me? "
Without taking anything "
"But I shall die if I have no money !" said the
"Well, what of it? I don't care !" replied the
But the Flea was not hard-hearted, and it let the
King fill his pockets with money before he went
away. And the people were able to be very happy
by setting up a republic.

Perhaps the greatest favorite of all these new
" Tales of a Grandfather" was The Story of the
Good Dog," which is admirably moral. It inter-
ested Hugo's grandchildren even more than The
Story of the Good Flea and the Wicked King"-
although there were no gestures to set it off.
Here it is:


ONCE upon a time there was a very Good Dog
who was called by a name I can not now remem-
ber. He was a Dog with an excellent disposition.
I should like to have been his friend. Unfortu-
nately he was very ugly, dragging one paw, having
a sore over one eye, and bathing himself rarely.
This was in part the fault of his master, a little
Boy, as naughty as possible, who never said a kind
word to him. He called him "dirty Dog," and
when no one was looking, for every one is ashamed
when he is doing wrong, he would give the poor
beast a great kick, and say:
"There! Take that!"
The Dog cried, Hee-ee hee-ee as dogs do
when they are whipped, and ran away like a thief;
but in a little while he came back, for he had been
told to take care of the little Boy, and it was said
that there were wolves abroad in the land.
One day a hungry wolf came out of the woods,
and seeing the little Boy beating the Dog, he
thought that the Dog would be glad enough to
get rid of this bad master. The Dog did not
agree with him at all, and as the wolf absolutely
insisted on tasting the little Boy, he fought, and
was badly bitten, but showed himself so brave
that the wild beast, intimidated by this bold de-
fense, went back into the forest. The little Boy,
all trembling, had hidden himself behind a tree,
and had picked up a big stick to defend himself.
When he saw the poor Dog come back to him, all
joyous at his victory, he got very angry:
Oh, you wretched beast," he cried, "how you
frightened me by fighting with that fearful wolf! "
And so to avenge himself for his fear, he broke

his stick over the head of the Dog, who ran away,
whining and badly wounded.
A few days after, a new adventure happened
to the poor Dog. His master had stopped on
the edge of a pond. He had provided himself
with pebbles, and it was his intention to make
these jump along the surface of the water, by
throwing them horizontally. The Dog, after hav-
ing been rebuffed more than once,- it must be said
that he was very dirty, indeed, that day,- had sat
him down and was looking at his master playing.
All at once -splash -the little Boy slipped on
the edge of the pond and fell into the water,
Splash! gurgle, gurgle, gurgle! Splash! gurgle,
gurgle, gurgle He was swallowing the foul water.
and he was just on the point of drowning, when
the Dog, who had instantly plunged into the
water, gripped the boy by the collar of his jacket
and bore him back to the shore. But, alas! the
Dog had torn the jacket, -just a tiny bit,--and
the naughty little Boy had lost his cap. This put
him in a great rage. The Dog jumped into the
water again to get the cap; but, taking advantage
of the stones he had under his hand, the wicked
Boy began to throw them at him and to force
him down and to drown him.
[Here Victor Hugo's grandchildren were never
able to restrain their indignation. They were
always so kind to the cats and dogs which they met
that they could not understand the misdeeds of the
little boy; .and they felt sure that he would certainly
be punished for his evil-doing.]
The Dog at last got himself out of the water
and took up his miserable life again. But what
had happened to him was as nothing compared
with what was going to happen to him.
The poor beast fell ill. He was scarred and
mangy; if you had tried to take him up with the
tongs, the very tongs would have revolted. His
half drowning in the pond had given him a terror
of water which contributed not a little to his un-
cleanliness. The naughtiness of the little Boy
seemed to have stained him too.
It happened that one stormy day, the little Boy,
followed by his victim, took it into his head to
climb up into an apple-tree to steal the apples.
This apple-tree belonged to a fierce peasant, who
never gave any quarter to robbers, and who would
have killed a man for a simple pippin. He was
supposed to be away. The wicked little Boy had
climbed up into the tree in spite of the barking of
the Dog, who protested and told him plainly,
"You are doing wrong! You are a thief! These
apples are not yours! Instead of listening to him
the naughty child with all his might threw a green
apple, as hard as a stone, and it hit the Dog in the
middle of his forehead, and made an enormous


bump. But who says that the wicked are not pun-
ished? At the moment when this naughty little
wretch lifted up his head, do you know what he
saw? The peasant, the terrible peasant, standing
by the next hedge, his gun in his hand, and shout-
ing in a terrible voice':
Have you any money to pay for my apples? "
Alas the wretch had not a cent. He felt that he
was lost; he thought of the abominable effects of
the discharge of a gun when it goes into one's
'body, of how he would certainly be killed and
buried, and. almost wild with terror, he cried:
Come to me, my Dog "
Then was seen almost a miracle. You know
well enough that dogs can not climb trees--
[Here little Jeanne Hugo used to interrupt with
the breathless remark that "cats can."
"But there are circumstances in which all is
-changed," her grandfather would say.]
This old, dirty Dog jumped, bounded and re-
bounded like an elastic ball, fastened himself to the
branches with his teeth, and got in front of his
horrid master just at the moment when the gun
-went off.

He received the charge full in the breast.
His dying eyes turned to the little Boy to beg'
him for help; but the Boy was already far away.
He was running across the fields like the thief
.that he was.
But this is what the peasant saw with his own
The smoke of the shot, which had enveloped
the poor beast, seemed to have transfigured it.
'The animal was no longer black,.was no longer
dirty; there was something all around barm hke the
glow of an aurora. His dog's hair grew longer
and more lustrous about his fine head, which took
on a celestial expression, and great wings grew
out of his back.

Here the story came to an end. So great was
the interest felt in the Dog that neither of the chil-
dren thought of the little Boy or of the peasant.
Once, however, Master Georges Hugo happened to
ask what became of the Good Dog's wicked master.
"He remained wicked," Victor Hugo answered,
"and he was cruelly punished for it. Nobody
loved him !"



No DOUBT many of you are familiar with that
*one of Mr. Edward Lear's delightful nonsense
rhymes, in which he declares that
There was an old person of Buda,
Whose conduct grew ruder and ruder;
Till at last with a hammer
They silenced his clamor,
By smashing that person of Buda.

Well, this same town of Buda seems also to
'have been the home of other eccentric individuals.
Among these was the celebrated Count Sandor,
who some years ago owned a splendid palace on
the rocky height known as the Schloss-berg,"
or fortress rock, around which the town is built.
Buda is the capital of Hungary, and is situated
in the western part of. that kingdom, just below
the point where the Danube, with a great bend,
turns to the south. The river at Buda is four-
teen hundred feet wide, and on the opposite bank
is the larger city of Pesth. The two cities are
connected with a suspension bridge, as are New
York and Brooklyn, and frequent ferry-boats ply
between. Indeed, the two cities have so many

interests in common, that they are often spoken of
as one, under the combined name of Budapest.
This Count Sandor, of whom I have spoken as
living in his fine mansion on the Schloss-berg in
Buda, was very fond of horses, as are all Hunga-
rians, and he kept in his stables a large number of
fleet and blooded horses for riding, racing, and
other purposes.
The Count Sandor was as daring as he was
adventurous, and his feats of horsemanship were
not only eccentric, but dangerous. He would force
his horses to plunge down from rocky heights, to
scale almost perpendicular cliffs, to dash across the
Danube upon floating cakes of ice, to leap over
streams and chasms, and to clear fences, walls, and
even moving carriages at a single bound.
The guests of this harum-scarum count, when
they accepted his invitation to a ride, needed to
have their wits about them, for they never knew
just what to expect of their host and his horses.
He would think nothing of overturning a carriage
in some especially dangerous-looking place, just
for the fun of frightening his companions and



amusing himself at their expense, and his
horses were trained to send their riders flying
over their heads, when off on some pleasantly
planned horseback excursion--a surprise not I-
always acceptable to such of the riders as were
indifferent horsemen.
Orie of his most foolhardy escapades oc-
curred one day in the year 1827. There was
in the city of Buda a long and steep stone
staircase which connected the -
higher section of the town, around .-_..
the Schloss-berg, with one of
the lower sections, known as
Christian street. This staircase
was not far from the mansion of the X,
Count. Sandor, and on that par- I
ticular day the eccentric count had
for his riding-companion a German artist named -
Johann Prestel, ,- Ii..: and daring a man as
was the count. The footman of Count Sandor
was also in the carriage.
Suddenly, as they drove past the head of
the staircase, the count, almost
without a word, turned his four-
in-hand toward the steep pas-
:sage-way, and, flicking hislong
whip above the ears of his lead-
ers, drove the team headlong
down the stone staircase.
How the wheels must have
bumped and rattled down the
steps! The count was a very



expert driver and could guide his plunging steeds
with much skill and ease, so that this ride downstairs
was not as fearful or dangerous as it would have
been with a less skillful driver; but it was wild
enough as it was, and even the bold artist found
the staircase quite long enough for such a down-
ward dash.
He made a spirited drawing of this singular
adventure, which is reproduced in the illustration
on the preceding page. This, together with a large

number of other sketches of similar feats of horse-
manship, was preserved by the count in what
has for years been known and celebrated among
horsemen as the Sandor Album."
Such a ride as this of Count Sandor's down the
stone staircase in Buda, was doubtless both daring
and skillful, but we, I think, would much prefer to
ride along a level road, and not with so audacious
and venturesome a driver as was this man who
drove downstairs.



[Afterward known as the Good Queen Maud" ofEngland.]

ON a broad and deep window-seat in the old
Abbey guest-house at Gloucester, sat two young
girls of thirteen and ten; before them, brave-
looking enough in his old-time costume, stood a
manly young fellow of sixteen. The three were in
earnest conversation, all unmindful of the noise
about them-the romp and riot of a throng of
young folk, attendants or followers of the knights

and barons of King William's court. For William
Rufus, son of the Conqueror and second Norman
King of England, held his Whitsuntide genmt,
or summer council of his lords and lieges, in
the curious old Roman-Saxon-Norman town of
Gloucester, in the fair vale through which flows the
noble Severn. The city is known to the young
folk of to-day as the one in which good Robert




Raikes started the first Sunday-school more than a
hundred years ago. But the gemdt of King Will-
iam, which was a far different gathering from good
Mr. Raikes's Sunday-school, was held in the great
chapter-house of the old Benedictine Abbey, while
the court was lodged in the Abbey guest-houses,
in the grim and fortress-like Gloucester Castle,
and in the houses of the quaint old town itself.
The boy was shaking his head rather doubtfully
as he stood, looking down upon the two girls on
the broad window-seat.
Nay, nay, beausire;* shake not your head like
that," exclaimed the younger of the girls. "We
did escape that way, trust me we did; Edith here
can tell you I do speak the truth-for, sure, 't was
her device."
Thirteen-year-old Edith laughed merrily enough
at her sister's perplexity, and said gayly as the lad
turned questioningly to her:
Sure, then, beausire, 't is plain to see that you
are Southron born and know not the complexion of
a S.ortt;:h mist. Yet 't is even as Mary said. For,
as w erhave told you, the Maiden's Castle standeth
higl-placed on the crag in Edwin's Burgh, and
hath many and devious pathways to the lower gate.
So when the Red Donald's men were swarming up
the steep, my uncle, the Atheling, did guide us,
by ways we knew well, and by twists and turnings
that none knew better, straight through Red Don-
ald's array, and all unseen and unnoted of them,
because of the blessed thickness of the gathering
"And this was your. device?" asked the boy
"Ay, but any one might have devised it, too,"
replied young Edith modestly. Sure, 't wag no
great device to use a Scotch mist for our safety,
and 't were wiser to chance it than stay and be
stupidly murdered by Red Donald's men. And
so it was, good Robert, even as Mary did say, that
we came forth unharmed from amidst them and
fled here to King William's court, where we at
last are safe."
Safe, say you; safe?" exclaimed the lad im-
pulsively. Ay, as safe as is a mouse's nest in a
cat's ear-as safe as is a rabbit in a ferret's hutch.
But that I know you to be a brave' and dauntless
maid, I should say to you--"
But, ere Edith could know what he would say,
their conference was rudely broken in upon. For
a royal page, dashing up to the three, with scant
courtesy, seized the arm of the elder girl, and said
Haste ye, haste ye, my lady Our lord King
is even now calling for you to come before him in
the banquet-hall."
Edith knew too well the rough manners of those

dangerous days. She freed herself from the grasp
of the page, and said:
"Nay, that may I not, master page. 'T is
neither safe nor seemly for. a maid to show her-
self in baron's hall or.in King's banquet-room."
Safe or seemly it nay not be, but comeyou
must," said the page rudely. "The:King demands
it, and your nay is naught."
And so, hurried along whether she would dr no,
while her friend, Robert Fitz Godwine, accom-
panied her as far as he dared, the young Princess
Edith was speedily brought into the presence of
the King of England, William II:, called, from the
color of his hair and from his fiery temper, Rufus,
or "the Red."
For Edith and Marywere both princesses of Scot-
land, with a history, even before they had reached
their teens, as romantic as it was exciting. 'Their.
mother, an exiled Saxon princess, had, after the
conquest of Saxon England by the stern Duke
William the Norman, found refuge in Scotland,
and had there married King Malcolm Canmbre,
the son of that King Duncan whom Macbeth had
slain. But when King Malcolm had fallen beneath
the walls of Ainwick Castle, a victim: to English
treachery, and when his fierce brother Donald
Bane, or Donald the Red, had usurped the throne
of Scotland, then the good Queen Margaret died
in the gray castle: on the rock of .Edinbiurgh, and
the five orphaned children were Lonly saved, from
the vengeance of their bad uncle :Donald by the
shrewd and daring device of the: young Princess
Edith, who bade their good -uncle Edgar,! the
Atheling, guide them, under cover of the mist,
straight through the Red-Donald's knights and
spearmen to England and safety.; ,
You would naturally suppose that the vorst pos-
sible place for the fugitives to. seek.safety was: in
Norman England; for Edgar the Atheling, a Saxon
prince, had twice been declared King of Englahd by
the Saxon enemies of the Norman conquerors, and
the children of King Malcoliw'and Queen Margaret
-half Scotch, half Saxon-were, by blood and
birth, of the two races most :hateful to the con-
querors. -But the Red King in: his rough s6rt of
way-hot to-day and cold to-morrow-had shown
something almost like friendship -f6r this Saxon
atheling, or royal prince, who might .have been
King of England had he not wisely submitted to
the greater power of Duke William the Conqueror
and to the Red William, his son. .More than this,
it had been rumored that some:two years before,
when there was truce between the Kings of Eflng
land and of Scotland, this harsh and headstrong
English King, who was as rough and repelling as a
chestnut burr, had seen, noticed, and expressed a
particular interest in the eleven-yeai-old Scottish

* "Fair sir": an ancient style of address, used especially toward those high in rank in Norman times.


girl-this very Princess Edith who. now sought his
protection. : .
So, when this wandering uncle boldly .threw
himself upon Norman courtesy, and came with his.
homeless nephews and nieces straight to the Nor-
man: court for safety, King William Rufus not
only received .these children of his hereditary foe-
men with favorand royal welcome, but gave them
comfortable lodgment in quaint old Gloucester
town, where he held.his.court.
But even when the royal fugitives deemed them-
selves safest were they in.the greatest danger.
Among the attendant knights and nobles of
King William's court was a Saxon knight known
as Sir Ordgar, a "thegn," or baronet, of Oxford-
shire; and because those who change their opin-
ions-political or otherwise-often prove the most
unrelenting enemies of their former associates, it
came to pass that Sir Ordgar, the Saxon, conceived
a strong dislike for these orphaned descendants.of
the Saxon Kings, and convinced himself that the
best way to secure himself in the good graces of
the Norman King William was to slander and
accuse the children of the Saxon Queen Margaret.
And so that very day, in the great hall, when
wine was flowing and passions were strong, this
false knight, raising his glass, bade them all drink
Confusion to the enemies of our liege the King,
from the base Philip of France to the baser Edgar
the Atheling and his Scottish brats !"
This was an insult that even the heavy and
peace-loving nature of Edgar the Atheling could
not brook. He sprang to his feet and denounced
the charge:
"None here is truer or more leal to you, lord
King," he said, than am I, Edgar the Atheling,
and my charges, your guests."
SBut King William Rufus was of that changing
temper that goes with jealousy and suspicion.
His flushed face grew still more red and, turning
away from the Saxon prince, he demanded:
"Why make you this charge, Sir Ordgar?"
"Because of its truth, beausire," said the faith-
less knight.. For what other cause hath this false
Atheling sought sanctuary here, save to use his
own descent from the ancient kings of this realm
to make head and force among yourlieges? And
his eldest kinsgirl here, the Princess Edith, hath
she not been spreading a trumpery story among
the younger folk, of how some old wyrd-wif f
hath said that she who is the daughter of kings
shall be the wife and mother of kings? And
is it not further true that when her aunt, the Ab-
bess of Romsey, bade her wear the holy veil, she
hath again and yet again torn it off, and affirmed
that she, who was to be a queen, could never be
made a nun? Children and fools, 't is said, do
Pronounced thane.

speak the truth, beausire; and in all this do I see
the malice and device of this false Atheling, the
friend of your rebellious brother, Duke Robert,
as you do know him to be; and I do brand him
here, in this presence, as traitor and recreant to
you, his lord."
The anger of. the jealous King grew more un-
reasoning as Sir Ordgar went on.
"Enough he cried. Seize the traitor, -
or, stay; children and fools, as you have said, Sir
Ordgar, do indeed speak the truth. Have in the
girl and let us hear the truth. 'Not seemly?' Sir
Atheling," he broke out in reply to some protest
of Edith's uncle. "Aught is seemly that the King
doth wish. Holo! Raoul! Damian! sirrah pages!
Run, one of you, and seek the Princess Edith, and
bring her here forthwith "
And while Edgar the Atheling, realizing that
this was the gravest of all his dangers, strove,
though without effect, to reason with the angry
King, Damian, the page, as we have seen, hurried
after the Princess Edith.
"How now, mistress!" broke out the Red
King, as the young girl was ushered into the ban-
quet-hall, where the disordered tables, strewn with
fragments of the feast, showed the ungentle man-
ners of those brutal days. "How now, mistress!
do you prate of kings and queens and of your own
designs you, who are but a beggar guest? Is it
seemly or.wise to talk,- nay, keep you quiet, Sir
Atheling; we will have naught from you,- to
talk of thrones and crowns as if you did even. now
hope to win the realm from me from me, your
only protector? "
The Princess Edith was a very high-spirited
maiden, as all the stories of her girlhood show.
And this unexpected accusation, instead of fright-
ening her, only served to embolden her. She
looked the arigry monarch full in the face.
'T is a false and lying charge, lord King," she
said, "from whomsoever it may come. Naught
have I said but praise of you and your courtesy to
us motherless folk. 'T is a false and lying charge ;
and I am ready to stand test of its proving, come
what may."
"Even to the judgment of God, girl?" de-
manded the King.
And the brave girl made instant reply, "Even
to the judgment of God, lord King." Then, skilled
in all the curious customs of those warlike times,
she drew off her glove. "Whosoever my ac-
cuser be, lord King," she said, "I do denounce
him as foresworn and false, and thus do I throw
myself upon God's good mercy, if it shall please
him to raise me up a champion." And she flung
her glove upon the floor of the hall, in face of the
King and all his barons.
t Witch-wife, or secress.



It was a bold thing for a girl to do, and a mur-
mur of applause ran through even that unfriendly
throng. For, to stand the test of a wager of
battle," or the "judgment of God," as the savage
contest was called, was the last resort of any one
accused of treason or of crime. It meant no less
than a duel to the death between the accuser
and the accused or their accepted champions, and,
upon the result of the duel hung the lives of those
in dispute. And the Princess Edith's glove lying
on the floor of the Abbey hall was her assertion
that she had spoken the truth and was willing to
risk her life in proof of her innocence.
Edgar the Atheling, peace-lover though he
was, would gladly have accepted the post of cham-
pion for his niece, but, as one also involved
in the charge of treason, such action was denied
For the moment, the Red King's former admi-
ration for this brave young princess caused him to
waver; but those were days when suspicion and
jealousy rose above all nobler traits. His face
grew stern again.
"Ordgar of Oxford," he said, "take up the
glove! and Edith knew who was her accuser.
Then the King asked, "Who standeth as cham-
pion for Edgar the Atheling and this maid, his
niece ? "
And almost before the words were spoken young
Robert Fitz Godwine stood by Edith's side.
"That would I, lord King, if a young squire
might appear against a belted knight!"
"Ordgar of Oxford fights not with boys!"
said the accuser contemptuously.
The King's savage humor broke out again.
"Face him with your own page, Sir Ordgar,"
he said, with a grim laugh. "Boy against boy
wouldbe a fitting wager for a young maid's life."
But the Saxon knight was in no mobd for
"Nay, beausire; this is no child's play," he
said. "I care naught for this girl. I stand as
champion for the King against yon traitor Athe-
ling; and if the maiden's cause is his, why then
against her too. This is a man's quarrel."
Young Robert would have spoken yet again as
his face flushed hot with anger at the knight's
contemptuous words. But a firm hand was laid
upon his shoulder, and a strong voice said:
"Then is it mine, Sir Ordgar. If between
man and man, then will I, with the gracious per-
mission of our lord the King, stand as champion
for this maiden here and for my good lord, the
noble Atheling, whose liegeman and whose man
am I, next to you, lord King." And, taking the
mate to the glove which the Princess Edith had
flung down in defiance, he thrust it into the guard

of his cappelline, or iron skull-cap, in token that
he, Godwine of Winchester, the father of the boy
Robert, was the young girl's champion.
Three days after, in the tilt-yard of Gloucester
Castle, the wager of battle was fought. It was no-
gay tournament show with streaming banners,
gorgeous lists, gayly dressed ladies, flower-decked
balconies, and all the splendid display of a tourney
of the knights, of which you read in the stories.
of romance and chivalry. It was a solemn and
somber gathering in which all the arrangements.
suggested only death and gloom, while the accused
waited in suspense, knowing that halter and fagot
were prepared for them should their champion
fall. In quaint and crabbed Latin the old chroni-
cler, John of Fordun, tells the story of the fight,.
for which there is neither need nor space here.
The glove of each contestant was flung into the
lists by the judge, and the dispute committed for
settlement to the power of God and their own good
swords. It is a stirring picture of those days of
daring and of might, when force took the place of
justice, and the deadliest blows were the only con-
vincing arguments. But, though supported by the
favor of the King and the display of splendid armor,
Ordgar's treachery had its just reward. Virtue
triumphed, and vice was punished. Even while
treacherously endeavoring (after being once dis-
armed) to stab the brave Godwine with a knife
which he had concealed in his boot, the false Sir
Ordgar was overcome, confessed the falsehood of
his charge against Edgar the Atheling and Edith
his niece, and, as the quaint old record has it,
"The strength of his grief and the multitude of
his wounds drove out his impious soul."
So young Edith was saved; and, as is usually
the case with men of his character, the Red King's.
humor changed completely. The victorious God-
wine received the arms and lands of the dead
Ordgar; Edgar the Atheling was raised high in
trust and honor; the throne of Scotland, wrested
from the Red Donald, was placed once more in
the family of King Malcolm, and King William
Rufus himself became the guardian and protec-
tor of the Princess Edith.
And when, one fatal August day, the Red King
was found pierced by an arrow under the trees of
the New Forest, his younger brother, Duke Henry,
whom men called Beauclerc, the good scholar,"
for his love of learning and of books, ascended the
throne of England as King Henry I. And the
very year of his accession, on the IIth of Novem-
ber, 1oo, he married, in the Abbey of Westmin-
ster, the Princess Edith of Scotland, then a fair
young lady of scarce twenty-one. At the request
of her husband she took, upon her coronation
day, the Norman name of Matilda, or Maud, and



by this name she is known in history and among
the Queens of England.
So, scarce four and thirty years after the Norman
conquest, a Saxon princess sat upon the throne
of Norman England, the loving wife of the son of
the very man by whom Saxon England was con-
"Never, since the battle of Hastings," says Sir
Francis Palgrave, the historian, "had there been
such a joyous day as when Queen Maud was

this young queen labored to bring in kindlier man-
ners and more gentle ways. Beautiful in face,
she was still more lovely in heart and life. Her
influence upon her husband, Henry the scholar,
was seen in the wise laws he made, and the
"Charter of King Henry" is said to have been
gained by her intercession. This important paper
was the first step toward popular liberty. It led
the way to Magna Charta, and finally to our own
Declaration of Independence. The boys and girls


crowned." Victors and vanquished, Normans and
Saxons, were united at last, and the name of
"Good Queen Maud" was long an honored
memory among the people of England.
And she was a good queen. In a time of bitter
tyranny, when the common people were but the
serfs and slaves of the haughty and cruel barons,

of America, therefore, in common with those of
England, can look back with interest and affec-
tiond upon the romantic story of "-Good Queen
Maud," the brave-hearted girl who showed her-
self wise and fearless both in the perilous mist at
Edinburgh, and, later still, in the yet greater
dangers of the black lists of Gloucester."






[THIs story of- two unfortunate fortunates mice, let us say, seized by a tiger and escaping from under his
very paws -is founded upon an actual experience. It is affectionately dedicated to all children everywhere by
the Aurhor.]

CHAPTER I. was not making, w:'aoes, or fortillas, f she was
sprinkling and, sweeping the fldors and court-
yard, or bringing in great earthen jars of water,
.ABOUT ten. years ago, there was not a happier or spreading out the family linen to bleach infthe
faiily in all Mexico than one living near the sun, or training the rebellious tendrils of he grape-
village of Santa Rosa, province of Coahuila, and vine that covered one side of the house and supr-'
consisting, of a ranchero, his wife Anita, and their plied themwithimmensebunc hes of deliciousParas ,
twochildren, Juan and Juanita. grapes at one season of the ;year-in short, doing
They had a great deal to be grateful for and something for.the good of the household;
to enjoy; a comfortable home, large flocks and. And noimatter ";here she went, she was always
herds,--which constitute the wealth of that coun- followed by Juan and Juanita, \ho trotted after
try,-health, work, and, best of all, a tender-love her from morning until night, yet always- felt
for one another. They hada great deal of another themselves welcome and no more in the way than
thing, some of which they could very well have did the chickens they saw under this or that hen's'
spared-name. wing when they went out to feed. the poultry that
The father called himselfDon Jos6 Maria Cruz de swarmed about the place. I fhis mother seized Juan
las Santas,* prided himself upon his pure Castilian when he ran up to her ith the crook n of his broad
lineage, and was nevertired talking of his "sangre sombrero heaped full of e:gg;. it nas to draw him
azul," or. "blue blood," and his superiority to to her side and stroke hi; hair and pra'ie him'l.or
ordinary Mexicans. having found them. Or. if Juanita tumbled iilto
His wife had no aristocratic pretensionswhatever, the book near which the Sr nora a.s washing in
and. instead of always talking about the past, wasI laborious Mexican fashion, the garment, whatever
content to do her duty in the present. She was a it was, was dropped, nd -oon the drippinglittle
simple and rather ignorant woman, but so well did figure.was being pressed against her 1lqving heart,.,
she apply, herself to her home duties, that never while the tndriest articulate and inarticulate cries
had any man a truer, better wife, children a more of sympathy and affection. were poured out on
passionately devoted, self-sacrificing mother, nor the unfortunate, and so much love sshone in the
house, a more capable mistress than the Sefnora mother's soft, brown. eyes' that it was worth any.
Anita. If she had a fault, it was that she was alto- child's while to get a wetting" in order, to see it'
gether too unselfish, and she would willingly have there and hear the caressing, Mi ahna !_Mi
worked herself to death for those she loved. vida I" (" My soul !: My life! ") that came so music-
And there was enough to do; for, although Don ally from the Sefiora's lips.
Jos6 was reckoned a rich man, he lived as simply Busy as she was, the Sefiora found time to
in most respects as his poorer neighbors, and never do a great deal of "mothering," and her children
seemed to think of spending his money on serv- lived always in the sunshine, indoors and out, as
ants, carriages, fine clothes, and the like luxuries, joyous and volatile as the butterflies they chased,
Fortunately he was, not too fine a gentleman to as brown as the berries they sought, forever leap-
work, in spite of his excessive vanity about the ing and dancing like the brook in which they were
Cruz de las Santas, whose renown he honestly .forever wading, the happiest of created things.
thought filled the world. On the contrary, he They did not deserve much credit for being happy,
diligently herded his own sheep, sheared them in for, except in the golden age of the world, there
season, branded his cattle, trained his horses, and were never two children who had more to in-
did other outdoor work, and he naturally ex- terest and amuse them, and less to vex them.
pected the Sefiora Anita to be equally -industri- Their few tasks came properly under the head of
ous. Nor was he disappointed; for when she .pleasures; they had no lessons to learn, only a
Pronounced in English: Hosay Mareea Croos day las Santas.. t Mexican dishes.
VOL. XIV.-3.


few simple rules to obey; no fine clothes to soil
or spoil; and as for playfellows, they had each
other, the pigeons, chickens, lambs, ducks, pup-
pies, and other young things about the place, not
to mention the birds, frogs, squirrels, and one espe-
cially sagacious and long-suffering shepherd-dog,
Amigo, their most faithful friend and constant
companion. They were so happy and so busy that
it did not often occur to them to be naughty; but
if they did get into trouble, it was always Don Jos6

- *--'

smooth and hard. The ceiling was festooned with
long strings of jerked beef, and onions, and red
peppers-the latter a prominent ingredient in
everything the Seiora cooked, and so much rel-
ished by Don Jos6 that it was his habit to pull
off a handful at odd times and eat them as we
would grapes or figs, although they would certainly
have .choked any one who was unaccustomed to
the luxury.
Perhaps, amonghis other distinguished peculiar-



who punished them and the Sefnorawho made them
sorry for what they had done. As soon as she dared
do so, she would go to them, take them in her arms,
murmur softly, "Pobre desgraciado!" ("Poor dis-
graced one !") or "Nina mia (" Mylittle girl! ")
pour balm into all their wounds, take all the sting
and the bitterness out of their sore hearts, and so
lead them out, chastened and mild, to kneel at
their father's feet and beg forgiveness; and then
she sent them out to play, and smiled as she
heard their shouts and laughter.
Their home, or hacienda, was not in the least
like any house that you have ever seen, most likely.
It was roughly but strongly built of stout pickets
driven firmly into the earth near enough together
to allow the space between to be daubed with clay
and thatched with tule, a long reed that grows in
Mexican country wherever there is standing water.
Inside there were no carpets, curtains, mirrors,
pictures, or books, and only a little furniture of
the simplest kind; but, though homely, it was
home-like, which is not always the case with
finer houses. The floor was only the earth in-
closed, but much tramping and the Sefiora's end-
less sweepings and scourings had made it quite

ities, the Maria Cruz de las Santas had been made
fireproof, and so could indulge in.dainties that
would have proved fatal to ordinary people; per-
haps Don Jos6 had earned his insensibility to
burning liquids and vegetables by'a long course of
Spartan banquets, and would himself have been
blown up early in his career by one of the dozen
peppers with which he now seasoned every meal.
However that may be, it really seemed as though
he could swallow molten lead without winking. A
spoonful of those tiny live-coals called chillis dis-
appeared down his throat without bringing the
least additional tinge of color into his sallow cheek
or the suspicion of tears to his eyes; he always
took his coffee boiling; and as for the catsups and
sauces that we call hot and serve with soup or
fish, it is my belief that he would have mistaken.
them for ice if they had come in his way.
Everything within the hacienda was kept in a
tidy state by the Sefiora, the few cooking-utensils
bright and clean, the family effects disposed in
an orderly fashion about the room, the walls of
which were whitewashed regularly twice a year.
So good a housewife was sure to have some place
to store precious things, and accordingly in one





corner there were some rude shelves where small
packages of coffee and sugar, dried -fruil, and
what not were kept; and it was a spot tlhat inter-
ested Juan and his sister more than any other, for
here were always to be seen one or more tall pyra-
mids of a confection, called fpeloncillos wrapped
in golden straw. How their eyes did glisten, to
be sure, and their mouths water when the Senora
got one down, slowly unpacked it, and then broke
off a piece and divided it between them! This
was almost sure to happen on Sundays, the days
of their saints, the festas of the Annunciation and
Assumption and all the great festivals, on San
.Miguel's day, San Antonio's day, and whenever
they were supposed to deserve the treat. There
was nothing they liked better, not even loaves
of the fine Mexican bread known as fan de gloria,
which they enjoyed equally in the baking and the
eating. It was a blissful performance to watch
the Seniora get out her materials, deftly fashion
each little cake in turn, make the sign of the cross
on it, and pop.it into'the oven; it was still more
dclighrful to see them taken out, so hot, brown,
delicious I arid to be given as many as two hands
could hold, and to run off to the garden with
them So good a woman as the Sefiora could
hardly be lacking in piety: every morning and
evening she was wont to kneel in humble, fervent
prayer, with little Juan on one side and Juanita on
the other repeating after her their taternosters.
And if the children were not made to study his-
tory and geography and arithmetic, like most
young Americans, they. at least had before them
constantly the example of their sweet mother,
and so got by heart, in the best way possible, the
first and. greatest of all lessons -love to God and
Near the house on one side was the corral, or
pen, for the sheep, with the shepherd-dogs guard-
ing it -like. Eo many trusty sentinels. On the
other was the Sefiora's garden, where she had
lovely flowers growing or blooming always, great
bushes studded with oleander blossoms, clamber-
ing vines of jessamine or morning-glory, cacti,
aloes, and dwarf palms. Some of the children's
most delightful hours were passed in this sunny,
fragrant spot, rolling about on the ground with
Amigo, caressing their mother's tiny Chihuahua
dogs Chula and Preciosa, making wreaths to fling
about their necks, or playing hide-and-seek be-
hind the oleanders, while the Sefora industriously
clipped, watered, shaded, or smoked .the plants,
planted or gathered seeds, or' daily plucked im-
mense bouquets which a prodigal nature daily re-
placed. Her work done, .hi; would ofl:-n sit down
on the steps of a rickety porch attached to that end
of the house where shade and a breeze were nearly

always to be found; the children and the little dogs
would swarm somehow into her lap ; and there she
would fondle and caress them all with that wealth
of soft labials which the Spanish language pos-
sesses, or sing in a high, sweet, but, it must be
confessed, very nasal, voice song after song; and
in some of them, "El.Suego," "ifMananitas Alle-
gras," "Si go te amo," t the children would join.
And now I'come to the one cloud in the beauti-
ful blue of that heaven on.earth-a cloud that
sometimes appeared a mere speck for months to-
gether and so far away that it was almost lost
sight of, and then suddenly grew black and ter-
rible and threatened to overspread the whole sky
and work the most dreadful ruin and desolation.
It needed but a look at the hacienda to tell the
whole story, for all along its walls at regular inter-
vals were holes through which to fire upon an at-
tacking party, and the house and outlyingbuildings
were inclosed in a picket-fence, with gaps here and
there, intended to serve the same good end. The
haunting terror, the curse of the country, was that
it was liable to be overrun at any time by the In-
dians, who would sweep down upon it from their
distant strongholds in the mountains, steal all the
cattle and sheep they could find, and murder the
peaceful inhabitants, ^men, yomen, and children,
or else carry them off into a captivity so horrible
that it was dreaded more than death. The Mexi-
cans, when they'had any warning of the-approach
of the savages, would hastily drive their flocks and
herds into the corrals, the poorer neighbors seek-
ing shelter and protection from the richer; but it
often happened that they were taken completely,
by surprise, and then terrible scenes ensued.
Every hacienda was for the time converted into.a
fortress, always well provisioned in expectation
of these forays, and so well defended, that the
Indians, who were not prepared to lay regular
siege to it with artillery, scaling4ladders, battering-
rams, or any of the appliances of civilized warfare,
and who could not wait to starve the garrison out,
were generally repulsed after a few fierce assaults.
At the time of which I write, there had been
no Indian raids for fully'eighteen months, and a
feeling of perfect security had gradually grown up.
The flocks were growing larger and larger, and
were every day driven farther 'and farther from
thejacalst and haciendas in search of fresh past-
ture. Don Jos6 heard in Santa Rosa that all the
Indians had been chased out of Mexico never to
return, and he spread the good news far and wide.
Even the timid Sefiora Anita breathed freely at
last; she no longer made herself unhappy when her
children (as children will) strayed out into the
surrounding country and did not come back until
late, and she even formed the habit of sending

* Pronounced pay-lone-cilyos. t "The Dream," Happy mornings," "If I love thee." Sheepbuttr; pronounced hah-cals.


them every day to carry their father's dinner to
him wherever he might be. It was a great weight
lifted from her mind and heart, and never had she
been busier or happier. It was true that they
sometimes heard vaguely of Indian depredations
in Texas, but that was not Mexico; and was not
everybody quite sure that all danger was over?
But one bright, beautiful summer day, when all
the world looked so lovely that there seemed to be
no room for trouble or sorrow in it, a terrible thing
happened that overwhelmed not only the Las San-
tas family, but many another, in grief unutterable.
It came in this way. The day opened with a
gorgeous sunrise with splendid tints of rose and
gold which the Sefora lingered to admire as she
walked back to the house from the well in the fresh
coolness of the early morning, carrying on her head
a huge oya,* so nicely poised that not a drop of its
contents brimmed over. As much could not be said
for Juan and Juanita, who with smaller jugs tried
to imitate her example, for, instead of following
their mother and making at least an attempt to
achieve the same graceful, erect, smooth way of
gliding over the ground, they ran on ahead and
kept turning and twisting their heads and looking
back at her, which caused small streams of water
to pour down their backs or laughing faces, while
the Seiora made a mild pretense of scolding them,
and reilly rejoiced in their beauty, health, and
happiness. The sun itself, now fully revealed,
was not as cheerful a sight to her as her two
merry, lovely children, and she watched all their
movements with fondest pride and delight. Break-
fast over, the gate of the courtyard was thrown
open, and through it the long procession of lowing,
hooking, trampling cattle pushed themselves and
one another out into the open, followed by an im-
mense flock of sheep and goats trotting meekly,
bleating pitifully, running awkwardly to right or
left in timorous battalions as ,the herders cut at
them with their long whips, or as Don Jos6's vicious
little mustang bolted in among them and, feeling
a pair of enormous rowels driven into its sensitive
sides, bolted out again. The gates were then shut
again and made fast, and those who were left be-
hind at the hacienda settled down to the usual
peaceful and monotonously regular duties of the
The Sefiora first made some preserves and then
betook herself to a favorite employment, the man-
ufacture of the beautiful Mexican blankets, which
is one of the great industries of the country. She
had many difficulties to contend with in mak-
ing them. Her only loom was a row of wooden
pegs driven in the walls, her spinning-wheel was

almost as primitive, the wool from her sheep of
but an indifferent quality; but such was her energy
and womanly skill that she somehow contrived to
clean, card, spin and dye very beautiful yarns,
brilliant of hue, unfading, and of many shades.
Of these she made, from designs of her own, hand-
some, durable, waterproof blankets, that, in spite
of all the local competition, fetched a third more
than any others in the market of Santa Rosa when
she chose to sell them, which was not often. On
that particular morning she finished putting in the
warp and woof of d serafa f for Don Jos6, and, hav-
ing filled her large shuttle with yarn, went hope-
fully to work upon the border as though it was to
be the work of a day, instead of a year, thrust-
ing the shuttle patiently in and out, in and out,
between the threads with her slender, supple,
brown fingers, and singing "Mananitas Allegras"
more through her nose than ever.
When she saw by her clock (the broad band of
sunshine streaming in at the door) that it was
high noon, she put by her weaving, got dinner,
and, while the children were eating, put up Don
Jos6's midday repast in a rush basket and filled a
gourd with fresh water. She presently dispatched
Juan and Juanita with these, following them to the
door, and giving each a fond embrace as well. as
maternal counsels and cautions. She stood there
watching them as they trotted briskly across the
sun-baked courtyard, carrying the basket between
them. Amigo, who had been taking life comfort-
ably in the shade on the other side of the ha-
cienda, dashed after them at the -last moment.
The Sefiora got a last glimpse of the children's
laughing faces as they successively stooped and
patted Amigo, looked back at her, and called out,
"Adios, Mamacita" (" Good-bye, little mother!")
"Adios, ninos adorados!" ("Good-bye, dar-
lings!"t) she replied affectionately, and kissed
her hand to them.
The gates closed on the outgoing trio.
The Sefiora went back to her dinner and then
settled down to her work, well content to have some
hours of uninterrupted labor to give to the serafa,
which she intended should be the handsomest she
had ever made--a birthday gift for her husband.
The children walked away westward across the
sunburnt, rock-bound plain toward the. place
where they knew they should find their father and
the flock. Whenever the basket got too heavy for
them, they stopped; and they were by no means
in such haste as to feel debarred from enjoying
themselves. They picked many flowers on their
leisurely way; they spent almost three-quarters of
an hour in watching and thwarting the innumerable

* Earthen-jar.. t A blanket having in the center a hole through which the wearer slips his head. The serapa is worn by the
Mexicans when they go abroad. Literally, Good-bye, adored children! "




companies of large red ants that were marching in
long files across the country; and they applied them-
selves seriously to the work of thrusting their fingers
into the large fissures made in the prairie by many
parching months of excessive heat, and hollowing
out a trench into which Amigo's tail could be neat-
ly fitted and then covered with earth. This was a per-
formance of which they never tired; and when he
had stood enough of these attempts to raise him in

saved them from a good scolding. Their father's
vexation, like his appetite, was soon appeased,
however. Juanita was soon allowed to light his
pipe and to sit down in his lap, and Juan fell to
playing with the cord of his father's immense som-
brero, braided and coiled about the brim in imi-
tation of a snake with its tail in its mouth, and
then tried the hat on, saying proudly, It is not
much too big for me, is it, Padre mio ?" although



the scale of animals by depriving him of his caudal
appendage, he would get up suddenly, shake him-
self violently, as likely as not sending a small
cloud of dust into their eyes, and stalk away good-
humoredly, his only rebuke the dignified one of
refusing to come back when called. It was not
until Amigo had made this stand that the children
realized how late it was growing, and when at last
they came to the edge of the little thicket of mes-
quite trees, where Don Jos6 had sought'refqge from
the noonday glare, not all their voluble excuses

it continually slipped down over his black curls
and laughing eyes. Once, when this happened,
Amigo growled and rose up and began to nose
about uneasily, but lay down' again when re-
proved by Don Jos6, who said "That stupid dog
does n't know you."
The day was still and sultry, and it seemed as
though all the world was holding its breath. The
scanty foliage of the mesquite shrubs was motionless
overhead. Nothing was to be seen but the sunlit
plain before them stretching away to a semicircle

4 i




of low distant hills, .a beautiful little lake close by
reflecting the flood of light which poured down
upon it, a few buzzards soaring with the most ex-
quisite grace and repose high in the blue inten-
sity and immensity of the Mexican sky. There was
nothing to be heard but an occasional bleat from
the flock brought to shade and water near the
lake. A more perfectly tranquil, peaceful scene
could not be imagined. Don Jos6, having smoked,
bethought himself of his usual midday siesta, and
sent the children away; and nothing loath, they ran
off to play under the trees with the kids and lambs,
and to feed the shepherd-dogs. This took some
time, during which Don Jos6 slept profoundly,
having laid aside his pistols and the heavy belt in
which his knife was stuck, and propped his gun
against a tree. For, although he had grown care-
less, as people who live in perilous times- and
places are apt to do whenever there seems no
immediate danger of losing life or property, he
never dreamed of leaving the hacienda without
being well armed. Long imffunity from Indian
raids had effaced the anxiety he had sometimes
felt about the safety of his wife and children, and
for himself he had no fear; but, if only from sheer
force of habit, he would no more have thought of
leaving off his knife or pistols than his boots when
he dressed himself in the morning. When the
children returned they found their father awake,
refreshed, good-humored, and disposed to caress
his little daughter, who perched again on his lap
while he stroked her hair and admired its texture
and abundance, her large dark eyes which looked
up at him, and, above all, her fair skin, proof of
the Castilian blood of which he was so proud.
"You are now six years old, are you not, Juan-
ita mia ? he said.
Yes, Father mine. And Juan is eight," she
In a year, so, like this," said Don Jos6, meas-
uring with his hand a certain distance from the
ground; "in another, so-and so-and so-and
so-and so," the hand rising every time.
He went on talking of the days to come when
' she should be big enough ,for this and that, and
succeed one by one to the occupations and digni-
ties of Mexican womanhood, while the children
listened and laughed. But he was interrupted.
The shepherd-dogs began barking furiously, and
rushed into the chaparral* Don Jos6 sprang to
his feet, armed himself, and seized his gun, think-
ing that wolves or the Mexican lion or leopard
were attacking the flocks. The children nestled
close to him, and he looked hesitatingly at them,
reluctant to leave them. At that moment the
-sound of horses' feet and wild yells- came to them

from the direction of the lake and they knew
that.the Comanches were upon them! It was a
frightful moment, and the children were paralyzed
by terror. But Don Jos6, being an old woods-
man, did not lose his presence of mind for one
moment, though he turned pale under the shock.
"Run! run to the chaparral! hide! fly!" he
called out to the children in a voice of agonized
earnestness; and, as they obeyed, he too.ran, but
toward the Indians, to divert their attention from
Juan and Juanita.
He had not gone far when a loud scream from
Juanita told him that his ruse had failed, and,
turning, he rushed back again, to see that three
Indians had come in from that side, v here they
had probably for some time been concealed and
watching him.
They were so intent upon catching the chil-
dren that they did not notice the return of the
father until he fired on one of them and shot him
through the heart. Don Jos6 then drew his pistol
and began an attack on the other two, who were
glad to take shelter behind trees from his well-
directed fire. Taking advantage of their defeat,
he seized a child by each hand and tried to gain
the shelter of a dense thicket near by. But his
success was only momentary, for fifteen or twenty
Indians burst into the open ground and opened
fire upon him. He soon fell mortally wounded,
but still cried out, "Run! run!" with -all the
energy of his soul.
Disobeying him for the first time in her life,
Juanita would not leave him, but dropped down
by him, threw her arms around his neck, and, hid-
ing her face on his bosom, shrieked out her grief
and terror; while poor Juan, who could not bear
to leave either of them, added his cries to hers.
The Indians closed in around the little group,
and now began one of those terrible scenes too
common in both Mexico and Texas. At last even
their hideous revenge was complete, and Juanita
felt herself seized by the hair from the rear, and
sank on her knees with a shriek of despair. The
mother of the brave whom Don Jos6 had slain
had determined to take what vengeance she cSuld
for his death, and began raining cruel blows on
the trembling child at her feet. But this fresh
calamity, instead of further subduing Juan's spirit,
seemed to have the effect of arousing him from
a horrible dream. The squaw's attack upon the
little sister he loved so transported him with fury
that, lost to .every consideration of prudence or
personal fear, he tore off a hard, dry mesquite
limb from the nearest tree, and dealt the old
Indian woman a series of blows on the head that
came so fast and furious that she was forced to let

* Thick and brambly underbrush.




Juanita go and give her whole attention to her
enraged assailant.
She was a woman much above the ordinary
stature, and with her painted face, black, snaky
locks, and glittering eyes, she might have
appalled an older and bolder enemy; but Juan


was beside himself with rage, and his very size
gave him an advantage, for he slipped from her
grasp over and over again, dodged here and there,
struck at her when she least expected it, and
darted about her very much as a hornet might
have done. The odds were so great, though, that
the battle must have gone against Juan had he

not been suddenly reinforced by Amigo, who,
with a savage growl, leaped against the squaw with
all his sharp teeth showing. Utterly infuriated,
she drew her knife and made a fierce lunge at Juan,
who swerved swiftly to the right, and replied with
a blow that nearly stunned her. The Indians yelled
their approval of his cour-
age, and just as she was
-about to spring upon him
Again like a tigress, one
of the chiefs coming up,
seized and held her firmly
for a moment, shook her
in reply to some fierce
words that she muttered
in her rage, and then
pushed her down on the
ground, where she lay
panting and glaring at
The chief now announ-
ced that he should take
the children as his prizes,
and forbade their being
further injured, saying
that Juan would make a
bravo soldado (brave sol-
dier), and should be re-
ceived into their tribe,
where he would take the
place of the warrior they
had lost. Don Jos&'s flock
was then hastily gathered,
and the Indians prepared
to fly with their booty be-
fore the Mexicans could
rally and pursue them.
The children were taken
up behind two Indians,
and the whole party push-
ed rapidly across the plain
to the hills, where they
took the trail and began
winding up the side of the
mountain. Arrived at a
certain high point, they
halted and were joined
by some Indians stationed
CALLED DON JOSA." there to look out for
The spot commanded a beautiful view of the
valley spread out at their feet, which was made
more impressive by being enveloped in great part
by the peculiar gloom of a fast-approaching storm,
across which the late afternoon sun sent long,
melancholy shafts of amber light as it reluctantly
withdrew from a vain struggle with the powers of


darkness. But there was no one to enjoy the
The Indians exchanged a few words and nods
and grunts, and -then drove their heels-into .the
flanks of their horses, impatient to: get a night's
start of possible avenging rancheros. The chil-
dren, alarmed by the. Way the mustangs slipped
about on the stony hillside, clung desperately to
the Indians in front of them, speechless with fright
and misery and exhaustion.
As they were about, to move on again, Juanita
looked down, and there, far below her in the dis-
tance, dimly seen in: the waning light, was, the
hacienda.. Her impulse was to throw herself from

the horse as the first step toward reaching it, and
she made some such movement, but was jerked
back into place-by her old enemy, the squaw. Her
poor little heart was bursting with anguish. Hold-
ing out her arms toward the hacienda she broke
into passionate sobs and a piteous cry, "Mi
madre! Mi madre!" ("0 my Mother! my
Mother! ")
The old squaw half turned and struck her.
The very clouds overhead could not stand the
sight of so much wretchedness, and let fall a great
shower of pitying tears, shutting out the last ray
of sunlight from the world, and of hope from the
hearts of two captive and despairing children.

'(To be continued.)



You think I am dead,"
The apple-tree said,
"Because I have never a leaf-to show-
Because I stoop,
And my branches droop,
And the dull gray mosses over me grow !
But I 'm all alive -in trunk and shoot;
The buds of next May
I fold away-
But I pity the withered grass at my root."

"You think I am dead,"
The quick grass said,
"Because I have parted with stem and blade !
But under the ground
I am safe and sound
With the snow's thick blanket over me laid.
I 'm all alive, and ready to shoot,
Should the Spring of the Year
Come dancing here-
But I pity the flower without branch or root."

You think I am dead,"
A soft voice said,
"Because not a branch or root I own !
I never have died,
But close I hide
In a plumy seed that the wind has sown.
Patient I wait through the long winter hours;
You will see me again-
I shall laugh at you, then,
Out of the eyes of a hundred flowers !"



In and out
and roundaouf,

anti e

"iA and ^at,
wit A&y s sboe,

/~Ply d^e~

/el i5 curled ujon tfe seat
5offti/\af draws near
A/\ Ihhe spies her little feet,
She i6 cauit, I fear !

- hi.

ReJady reaJy,
then /\af criec
(lyyou t
I f.
St- an

Wben AA furn'd
her eyey 7o hide

in Csp~m







F you will take a map
of Pennsylvania, and
draw a heavy line
from Washington,
Washington county
(down in the south-
western corner of the
State, near smoky
Pittsburg), to Brad-
ford, McKean county
(in the northern part
of the State), you
Swill have marked
Sthe general location
and direction of the
great oil and natural-gas regions of the State, as
they are at present known.
Along this line and perhaps more to the left,
or north and west of it than to the other side -
lies the oil-belt," or the strip of territory within
which oil and natural-gas are found.m This
strip, or belt, is irregular in width, varying from
forty to sixty miles, and its boundaries are not
clearly marked or known; so that test wells,
or "wild-cat wells as they are called, often lead
to the discovery of rich oil territory in sections be-
fore supposed to be "off the belt," as the saying
is. However, a knowledge of one general fact has
been gained- that the oil-belt, in its general di-
rection, lies along what is known as the "forty-
five-degree line," a line running midway between
the north and east and the south and west points
of the compass. And this line, you will notice,
runs nearly parallel with the Allegheny mountains.
Oil is not found everywhere within the "belt,"
but it seems to be collected far under the surface
of the earth, in great basins, or "fields" as they are
called- the Bradford field," and "the Butler
field," for instance. After a while, the fields are
pumped dry, and then new ones are searched for,
and if found are, in their turn, emptied. These
fields are separated by many miles of "dry," or
barren, "territory. And the fields themselves are
often divided into a number of pools" by narrow
strips of dry territory.
Geologists differ in their theories as to the origin
of the oil, and how it comes to be where it is now
found, far below the soil, in certain rocks--from
which it takes its name, "rock oil," or petroleum,
from two Latin words, petra, a rock, and oleum, oil.
The operations connected with boring for oil

can be most readily explained and understood by
following, in imagination, the work as it actually
goes forward, or rather downward, in some real
well. Let us, then imagine ourselves the locators
and owners of a well, and so note all the facts in
regard to the work. The writer has selected a real
well, now flowing, as a good one for us to bore
over again, in fancy, as its history presents all the
operations and circumstances connected with the
boring and after-working of any well. Some of
these processes, however, are not found necessary
with a great many oil-wells.
Having selected the spot, we must get ready our
"rig"- our buildings, machinery, and tools. Upon
a foundation of heavy timbers laid upon the
ground, we build our derrick-a tall, skeleton-like
building, twenty feet square at the bottom, and
tapering on all sides to the top, which is about
three feet square, and is over eighty feet from the
ground. While we are at the top, let us make fast
the two pulleys over which our cables, or ropes, are
to run. We will go down by the ladder, which
is a necessary part of the derrick, for, in boring,
frequent trips to the top must be made. The
corner-pieces of the derrick-
its "legs," as they are called.
-are simply planks nailed
together in trough-shape,
and placed one section
S above another, to the top;
S\ but the numerous braces

(C; 4



and cross-braces bind them firmly together and
make the structure stanch and strong. The
lower part of the derrick is boarded up, floored,
and roofed, making a large room in which the
hired drillers work. Two sides of this room
extend a little beyond the main part. In one of
the recesses, or added spaces thus formed, is
placed the bull-wheel- the great reel on which is
wound -the drill-cable; in the other is the black-
smitb's forge, which is needed for repairing and



*This refers only to Pennsylvania. Oil is found in other places, but nowhere else has it been of such value to the world.

t886.1 BORING FOR OIL. 43

'4', ea.

A R MR:v

i 4l. JLI ./ J '' .
F A &
O jj

--- -- -- -- -- --4"
Mr li Brn i

.:r.- In0)- -- -

.. i ... ..i ......r 4 ~

-.c -. ~ II ~ I.
43u'ltr 0

ear. 4 4?
<& ce'- 4*44.--
o ~ ~ Ict4 I iiN6t P

Ji oInin ( "

e 4-
I A y '



sharpening tools. The engine
is placed some distance from
the derrick; the engine-
house and derrick being
connected by a long, nar-
row, covered passage-
way, called the belt-
house, in which run the
belts from the engine,
to drive the bull-
wheel and other
machinery. The
boiler which sup-

plies the steam is usually left outside to the tender
mercies ofthe weather. Midwaybetween the derrick
and the engine-house, and against the belt-house,
is a second reel, but smaller than the bull-wheel,
on which .is wound a smaller rope, used with the
sand-pump and bailer. Still closer to the derrick
stands a huge square post, ten or twelve feet high,
firmly braced. Balanced across the top of this
post is a great beam,.one end of which extends
into the derrick to a
point over the well-
hole in the center.of
the floor; the other
end can be connected
with a crank beside
the belt-house, when
necessary, by means
of a heavy shaft. This
beam is the walking-
beam, and is so piv-
oted upon the top of
'the great post that
when it is attached to
the crank, and the y
engine is started, the -- -
ends of the beam al-
ternately go up and DIAGRAM OF DRILLING, AS SEEN
ternately go up an FROM TE REAR OF THE DERRICK.
down. So much for
our shop aid machinery. Now for our tools.
Boring for oil or natural-gas is not done like
wood-boring, though the word may have led you to
suppose so. The hole is cut or broken, deeper and
deeper, by the continued dropping of the heavy
drill, the lower end of which is given a blunt
edge. The drill is composed of several separate
parts-the bit, or cutting-part, at the bottom;

the stem, next above; then the jars; and at the
top, the sinker, to which the cable is attached.
These parts screw into one another very tightly
at the ends, and are readily put together
or taken apart. The bit is four feet*
long, four inches in diameter at the upper
end, where it screws into the stem above,
slightly flattened upon two sides, and
widening at the bottom to the size of the
hole to be drilled. (Three and often four
sizes of bits are used in a single well.
From five hundred to seven hundred
feet are bored with a ten-inch bit,
after which a seven and five-
eighths inch bit is used, then a
five and five-eighths inch bit, and
frequently the last section of the
well is bored with a four and a
EAM. quarter inch bit.) The stem is a
ER- solid, round, iron rod, four inches
through, and thirty-five to forty
feet long; it gives weight and force to 1
the blow. The jars are about six feet
long,, and consist of two heavy steel jaws
fitting closely together, but made to slide
up and down upon, or within, each other,
somewhat like two links of a close chain.-
The sinker is another heavy piece like
the stem, adding needed weight and
balance; it is twelve feet long, and forms
the upper part of the drill. The accom-
panying diagram gives a good idea of the
form and shape of the various parts of the
drill, although it is impossible within so
small a space to show the relative sizes of
the separate sections. The drill complete
is about seventy feet long, and weighs
three thousand pounds.
In beginning the actual work of boring,
the heavy cable, or drill-rope, is wound
upon the bull-wheel, and the end carried
up over the pulley at the top of the derrick,
and brought down to be made fast to the
drill, at the top of the sinker. The upper
part of the hole for seventy or eighty feet
is "spudded" out, until the top of the
-long drill can get below the walking-
beam, when the regular drilling, orboring,
is commenced. As the work is the same THE
at all points, we need not follow it foot DRILL.
by foot; let us take it up at the depth of, say, five
hundred feet. Before reaching that depth, the
drill will have passed through various veins of clay,
limestone, sandstone, bituminous coal, etc., and
will have tapped ihany streams of fresh water; and
now, at a depth of five hundred feet, it is cutting
and breaking its way through solid rock.

* There are other sizes of tools, but the dimensions here given are the sizes commonly used.


x886.] BORING FOR OIL. 45

Entering the drill-room, we find the drill is
about to be "run." It is now hanging at one
side of the derrick, out of the way of another ope-
ration, which has just been finished. The drillers
(for there are two men, a drillerand a tool-dresser,
to a set, and two sets, each working twelve hours,
from twelve o'clock to twelve) are able to control
the machinery by means of cords and levers, with-
out leaving the derrick. The bull-wheel is started
slowly, and the drill raised and swung over
the hole. Then the bull-wheel is reversed, and
the drill plunges down the well. As its speed
increases, the cable spins off the rumbling bull-
wheel, and the whole derrick creaks and rocks.

well two or three feet every time, and keeping this
up at the rate of thirty or more blows a minute.
Every time the drill is raised for a blow, the
driller catches the handles of the clamps and twists
the rope a little. This slight twisting of the
rope at the top turns the drill a little for each
blow, though the point of the drill is hundreds or,
it may be, thousands of feet below. And this
turning is necessary to keep the hole round and
true, and to prevent the tools from becoming
wedged or fastened in seams of the rocks.
The clamps hold the cable fast to the walking-
beam, and so, after the drill has cut a short distance,
it can get no deeper, though it should go up and


The drillers watch the cable, and, as they see by
the length unreeled that the drill is near the
bottom, they check its speed, and stop it as it
touches. The drill must be raised a short dis-
tance, and allowed to drop back, and this opera-
tion must be continued repeatedly and regularly;
every blow thus given by the drill cuts and breaks
the hole still deeper. For this work, the walk-
ing-beam is brought into action. Clamps con-
nected with the derrick-end of the beam are made
fast to the cable, the shaft at the outer end is
attached to the crank, and the engine is started.
Up and down go the ends of the walking-beam,
raising and dropping the drill at the bottom of the

down forever; it is at the end of its rope, and must
be lowered. It is not lowered by giving the clamps
another hold a little higher up on the cable; the
clamps remain as they are. But attached to them
is a long screw, four feet long, set in an iron
frame. The upper end of the frame is fastened
to the walking-beam, and forms the connection
between it and the clamps. By letting out
this screw, the drill is lowered; and so, without
stopping the work, the driller every little while
lets out some of the screw, and so keeps lowering
the drill, as it cuts its way, until all the screw
has been let out. The drill has then cut the length
of the bit, or one "bit," as the drillers say. Some-


times, in favorable material, a new grip: of the
cable may be taken and the screw run out again,
so as to cut a length of two bits before' the loose
pieces of rock are taken out of the hole; but usu-
ally they are removed at the completion by the
drill of each bit. The clamps are loosed, and
the cable thus freed. The bull-wheel is started,
and the timbers creak and .groan as the cable is
wound up, until, with a rush, the long, black drill
suddenly shoots out of the hole, all dripping with
muddy water, and is again swung to one side to
rest there until the hole has been cleaned out.
Water is always kept in the hole to make the
drilling easier, even if, as sometimes happens, it
must be poured down from the top; the bits of
broken and powdered rock at the bottom are
therefore lying in water.. To get this rock and
water out, the sand-pump is used. This is an
iron bucket, four or five inches in diameter and
six or eight feet long. It has at the bottom a
valve which takes in the muddy water and bits of
stone, as the pump sinks, and prevents their escape
when it is raised.
The sand-pump is attached to the smaller rope,
wound upon the outside reel and running over the
smaller pulley at the top of the derrick. It is
"run" one or more times, until the hole is again
clean. Then it is put aside, the drill is again
swung over the hole, and, with a great rattle
and roar and a general creaking and groaning, it
darts down once more to cut its way into nature's
Water, fresh and salt, is usually present, and
greatly interferes with the work. For while it is true
that there must be water in the hole while drilling
is going on, yet the supply is generally far greater
than the demand-water often standing in the hole
almost to the top. Usually, no attempt is made to
remedy this until the well has been drilled below
all the fresh-water streams-say, five hundred
feet down, in our well; then the nuisance is done
away with by "casing" the well, which means,
'.lining it with iron pipe. On some fields, two and
often three strings or sizes of casing are needed.
First a pipe seven and five-eighths inches- in
diameter is sent down to shut off the fresh-
water streams. Then, to keep.out a soft caving
rock, a smaller pipe, five and five-eighths inches
in diameter, is sent down inside the first casing
and to a far greater depth; while frequently, inside
this, a four and a quarter inch pipe is put down,
still farther, to shut out the salt water near the
bottom. Every "string" extends to the top of the
well, and should fit easily in that-section of the
well which is of the next larger diameter. If it does
not, the hole must be reamedd out" ; that is, it
must be drilled over again with a wider bit, called

a reamer, and thus enlarged to make room for the
casing. This is a tedious operation and, of course,
stops for a time all the work of drilling or deep-
ening the well. When the reaming has been ac-
complished, the casing is put down., The long
pieces or joints of pipe are screwed together at
the ends, at the top of the well, as they are being
lowered, and so they form a water-tight lining to
the well, the lower end resting upon the shoulder, or
rim, left by the reamer.
Now, drilling goes on again, as at first, and no
more trouble from water may arise -at least, none
from fresh water; but frequently, in certain regions, -
large basins of salt water are tapped at great
depths. If there is not much water coming in,
the bailer can be used; it is another long bucket,
similar to the sand-pump, and designed to clear
the well of water or oil. But sometimes the bailer
will not answer, and the workers must then again
resort to casing. And if they wish to continue the
same size of casing they have last used, all the hun-
dreds of feet of it already in must be drawn out,
and the tedious reaming process be begun where
it was left off, and continued for hundreds of feet
until it reaches below the salt-water inlet. And
the casing to that depth must then be put down,
before the work can again go on.
Other hindering incidents and accidents, while
they may not occur, are always to be expected in
every well. The cable may break, and the tools
be "lost." "Fishing-tools" are then attached
to the cable, and the drill is fished for until it is
caught and drawn up. Or, the bit may meet a
'seam in the rock, so that it can not cut the hole
true at the bottom. Sometimes special tools must
be employed to remedy this, though sending down
a wooden plug, and drilling through it, may cause
the bit to cut again as it should. Again, the bit
may get so fastened in such a seam that the drill
can not be raised. Now the "jars at the top of the
drill come into play. Without them the tools could
never be loosened. A steady pull on the cable avails
nothing; but as the jaws can slide two or three feet
up and down upon each other, every jerk upon the
cable brings them together with a heavy jar. This
generally loosens the bit, though it may require
several hours, or even days, to accomplish it.
Finally, it sometimes happens that the bit can
not be jarred loose, or the lost tools can not be
"fished" out, and then the well must be aban-
doned, and all the work done must go for nothing.
Otherwise, however, the work goes on, day and
night, until the hoped-for oil or gas is found, or
the well is abandoned as a "dry hole." This does
not mean a hole free from water, but one in which
oil-or gas, if it has been drilled for-is not found.
The well that is probably the deepest one in the




world is such a dry hole. It is the Buchanan well,
near Washington, Pa. It is four thousand three
hundred and three feet deep nearly twice the
depth of any other deep well.
Wells drilled for oil are abandoned, sometimes,
because gas is struck in such volume as to prevent
further drilling-often the heavy drill and long
cable are blown entirely out of the well by the great
force of the escaping gas.
Let us say that we have been drilling for two
months, and are down to the oil-sand. This is
not a bed of loose sand, but a deep vein of sand-
stone, very loose, or porous, and full of pebbles. It
is only in these beds of sandrock that oil and natu-
ral-gas are found. There are several well-known
oil-sands, lying at different depths, the third layer
from the surface being the one usually furnish-
ing or "producing" the greatest quantities of oil
or gas. At Washington, Pennslyvania, it is two
thousand two hundred feet below the surface,
but it lies less deep as we go northward, all the
rocks dipping to the southwest.
When the sand is reached, all fires and lights
are put out, and the boiler and forge are re-
moved to a considerable distance from the well,
as a sudden rush of oil or gas, if fire were within
reach of it, would create a very extensive and
expensive bonfire. The drilling goes cautiously
on; the drill cuts down into the sandrock, and we
"strike oil!" At once all is excitement, and the
news is telegraphed abroad that oil has been found.
The well is plugged until a tank can be built for
the oil; and while we are waiting for this, let us
learn some fact about "producing wells," as they
are called.
A "gusher" is a well which throws out large
quantities of oil; a record of eleven thousand bar-
rels a day has been reached
by one well! There must
be plenty of oil in the sand,
and enough gas to force it up
the well, to give us a gusher.
But a well may be a gush-
er at the start, and afterward
-change; or sometimes, as we
Shall see, it may be made
T G-D. a-. gusher, though it shows
THE "GO-DEVIL"-USED but little oil at first. Unless
FO SHOOTINGl AN there is considerable gas in
(SEE NEXT PAGE.) the sand, the oil, whether
much or little, can not be forced up. If there is no
gas, the oil must be pumped up, and the well is
called a "pumper." An iron pipe, two or three
inches wide, with a valve at the bottom, is put
down the well, like the casing; a "sucker rod"
of wood or iron is put in, the end attached to the
walking-beam, and the oil pumped up and into


tanks. Where there is considerable gas, but not
enough to lift the well full of oil and make a
gusher, -we may make the oil flow by "packing"
the well, instead of pumping it. The small
pipe is put in, but without the sucker-rod, and
the space all around it, at the bottom, is closely





I packed with a rubber ring made for the purpose. But
This leaves but a small hole for the oil to flow up ready
through, and the pressure of the gas through this well fl
smaller hole is often sufficient to raise the oil to the It is d
surface; and the well flows. When a well does not six da
produce much oil at first, or when the production a few
of ai gusher has fallen off, it is sometimes thought rick.
that the quantity may be increased by loosening, brief
or breaking up, the sandrock at the bottom of to, bi
the well. To do this, the well is "torpedoed," or ando
"shot." The torpedo is a long tinbucket or shell of be;
filled with nitro-glycerine-from twenty to one Bu
hundred and fifty quarts, as the case is supposed to oil-wi
demand. It is carefully lowered to the bottom, and calle
when all is ready, a queer-looking, pointed piece kept
of iron, called the go-devil," is dropped down money

-the well, and, striking -a
cap on the top of the tor-
'pedo, causes a terrific ex-
plosion at the bottom of the
well. This explosion breaks
and loosens the sandrock
around, and gives the oil-
or gas, if in a gas-well-a
chance to get to the well.
The explosion is faintly
heard, but it is not felt, at
the top of the well. The "ye-
sponse" may come quickly,
or may be delayed for some
hours; or it may not come
at all, which means, gener-
ally, that there is but little
oil, if any, to come. A good
shot, in a good well, may
soon respond by sending
the oil gushing up into the
tanks, or high above the
derrick, if the tanks are not
connected with the well.
In a seemingly. poor well,
the production is thus often
greatly increased, and the
well made a gusher.
Different sections of the
oil-regions produce differ-
ent qualities of oil. From
some wells, it comes clear
and yellow; from others,
thick and dark. Pipes
carry it from the wells to
great tanks, from which it
is sent to the refineries by
rail, in tank-cars, or through
S pipe-lines across the coun-
try, over mountain, valley,
and stream.
Sto return to our well. When our tank is
,the plug is removed, and for a little while the
ows steadily. Then, let us suppose, it stops.
killed deeper into the.sand, and, every five or
Lys, as the gas-pressure gathers, it gushes for
minutes, throwing the oil high above the der-
It is finally shot, and responds with another
gush -and again stops. Packing is resorted
it without success. Finally, pumping is tried,
ur well, we will say, now yields a fair quantity
dutiful amber oil of the finest quality.
t almost every well is more than an ordinary
ell, for a time; it is a "mystery." A well is
Sa mystery when the amount of its yield is
secret by the owners, for the purpose of making
y by affecting the price of oil in the market.






If a new well proves to be a gusher, the
price of oil is lowered; if but a "small pro-
ducer or a dry hole, prices go up. So, by
keeping secret the character of a new well,
those on the "inside" are able to take advan-
S tage of any changes that occur in the price of
S oil through the rumors which immediately get
afloat concerning it, and to make money by
buying and selling oil- speculating, as it is
called. It sometimes happens, even, that
false rumors are circulated by interested per-
sons. Every effort is made, however, to dis-
cover what the mystery really is. Scouts"
are sent out for that especial purpose, and they
use every device and stratagem to obtain the
desired information, sometimes even climbing
trees and endeavoring with field-glasses to spy
out the secret. On the other hand, every
effort is made to prevent them from learning
anything; and some amusing and exciting in-
cidents occur in consequence. A guard is on
duty at the well, day and night, and outsiders
are kept at as great a distance as possible.


VOL. XIV.-4.


1-i^ QK'1


,, .


'*J S5.






A FEW years ago, all boys living in the
town of Princeton who were of that age when
it is easy to remember the fall, winter, spring,
and summer as the foot-ball, coasting, swim-
ming, and base-ball seasons, regarded Rich-
ard Carr as embodying their ideal of human
When they read in the history- primers
how George Washington became the Father
of his Country, they felt sure that with a like
opportunity Richard Carr would come to the
front and be at least the Stepfather of his
They lay in wait for him at the post-office,
and as soon as he came insight would ask
for his mail and run to give it to him; they
would go ahead of him on the other side of
the street, cross over and meet him with a
Very important How do you do, Mr. Carr ?"
Sand were quite satisfied if he gave them an
amused Hello, youngster in return.
Their efforts to imitate his straight, military walk,
with shoulders squared and head erect, were of great
benefit to their lungs and personal appearance.
Those ragged hangers-on of the college, too,
who picked up odd dimes from the students by
carrying baggage and chasing tennis balls, waited
on Richard Carr, and shouted Hurrah for you,
Carr whenever that worthy walked by.
Those who have not already guessed the position
which Richard Carr held in the college will be
surprised to learn that he was the captain of the
college foot-ball team, and those who can not

understand the .admiration that Arthur
Waller, and Willie Beck, and the rest .of
the small fry of Princeton felt for this young
man would better stop here--for neither
will they understand this story.
Among all these young hero-worshipers,
Richard Carr's most devoted follower was
Arthur Waller "Arty,"' as his friends
called him; for, while the other boys, look-
ing. upon Carr as their ideal, hoped that in
time they might' themselves be even as
great as he, Arthur felt- that to. him at
least this glorious possibility must be de-
nied. Arthur was neither strong nor -
sturdy, and could, he knew, never hope to
be like the captain of the foot-ball team,
whose strength and physique seemed there-
fore all the grander to him.
He never ran after Carr, nor tried to draw
his attention as the others did; he was ,
content to watch and form his own ideas
about his hero from a distance. Richard Carr
was more than the captain of the team to him.
He was the one person who, above all others,
had that which Arthur lacked-strength; and so
Arthur did not merely envy him,-he worshiped
Although Arthur Waller was somewhat older in
his way of thinking than his friends, he enjoyed
the same games they enjoyed, and would have
liked to play them, if he had been able; but, as
he was not, the boys usually asked him to keep the
score, or to referee the matches they played on the

A! c niq 'HL DAve 5 -




i886.] : RICHARD CARR:S BABY. 51

cow pasture with one of the college's cast-off foot-
balls. On the whole, the boys were very good to

It was the first part of the last half of the Yale-
Princeton foot-ball match, played on the Princeton
grounds. The modest grand stand was filled with
young ladies and college boys, while townspeople
of all sorts and conditions, ages, and sizes covered
the fences and carriages, and crowded closely on
the whitewashed lines, cheering and howling at
the twenty-two very dirty, very determined, and
very cool young men who ran, rushed, dodged, and
"tackled" in the open space before them,- the
most interested and least excited individuals on the
Arthur Waller had crept between the specta-
tors until he had. reached the very front of the
crowd, and had.stood through the first half of the
game with bated breath, his finger-nails pressed
into his palms, and his eyes following only one of
the players., He was: entirely too much excited
to shout or call as the others did; he was perfectly
silent except.for the little gasps of fear: that he
gave involuntarily when Richard Carr struck the
ground with-more than the usual number of men
ontop of him.
Suddenly, Mr. Hobbes, of Yale, kicked the ball,
but kicked it sidewise;. and so, instead of going
straight down the field, it turned-and whirled over
the heads of the crowd and settled among the car-
riages. A.panting little Yale man tore wildly
after it, beseeching Mr. Hobbes, in agonizing
tones, to put him "on side." Mr.. Hobbes ran
past the spot where the ball would strike, and the
Yale man dashed after it through the crowd.
Behind him, his hair flying, his eyes fixed on the
ball over his head, every muscle on a strain, came
Richard Carr. He went at the crowd, who tum-
bled over one another like a flock of sheep, in
their efforts to clear the way for him. With his
head in the air, he did not see Arthur striving to
get out of his way; he only heard a faint cry of
pain when he stumbled for an instant, and, look-
ing back, saw the crowd closing around a little
boy who was lying very still and white, but who
was not crying. Richard Carr stopped as he
ran back, and setting Arthur on his feet, asked,
"Are you hurt, youngster ?" But, as Arthur only
stared at him and said nothing, the champion
hurried on again into the midst of the fray.

"There is one thing we must have before
the next match," said the manager of the team,
as the players were gathered in the dressing-rooms
after the game, "and that is a rope to keep the
people back. They will crowd on the field, and

get in the way of the half-backs, and, besides, it is
not safe for them to stand so near. Carr knocked
over a little kid this afternoon, and hurt him quite
badly, I believe."
"What 's that?" said Richard Carr, turning
from the group .of substitutes who were explaining
how they would have. played the game and ten-
dering congratulations.
"I was saying," continued the manager, "that
we ought to have a rope to keep the people off the
field; they interfere with the game; and they say
that you hurt a little fellow when you ran into the
crowd during the last half."
"Those boys should n't be allowed to stand in
front there," said Richard Carr; "but I did n't
know I hurt the little fellow. Who was he?
where does he live? Do you know ?"
"It was the widow Waller's son, sah," volun-
teered Sam, the colored attendant. "That's her
house with the trees around it; you can see the roof
from here. I think that 's where they took him."
"Took him exclaimed Richard Carr, catch-
ing up his great-coat. "Was he so badly hurt?
You must wait until I come back, Sam."
Sam looked after him in astonishment as he ran
on a jog-trot toward the gate. "That's a nice
example to set a team," growled Sam. "Run-
ning off to sick chillun without changing' his
clothes or rubbing' down. He should n' be capt'n
efhe don't know any.better dan dat."
A pale, gentle-faced woman, who looked as if
she had been crying, came to the door when
Richard Carr rang the bell of the cottage which
had been pointed out to him from the athletic
grounds. When she saw his foot-ball costume,
the look of welcome on her face died out very.
Does the little boy live here who was hurt on
the athletic grounds ?" asked Richard Carr, won-
dering if it could have been the doctor she was
"Yes, sir," answered the lady coldly.
"I came to see how he was; I am the man
who ran against him. I wish to explain to you
how it happened-I suppose you are Mrs. Wal-
ler?" (Richard Carr hesitated, and bowed, but
the lady only bowed her head in return, and said
nothing.) "It was accidental, of course," con-
tiiued Carr. "He was in the crowd when I ran
in after the ball; it was flying over our heads, and
I was looking up at it and did n't see him. I hope
he is all right now." Before the ladycould answer,
Richard Carr's eyes wandered from her face and
caught sight of a little figure lying on the sofa in
the wide hall. Stepping across the floor as lightly
as he could in his heavy shoes, Carr sat down beside
Arthur on the sofa. "Well, old man," he said,


taking Arthur's hands in his, "I hope I did n't
hurt you much. No bones broken,- are there?
You were very plucky not to cry, let me tell you.
It was a very hard fall, and I'm very, very sorry;
but I did n't see you, you know."
Oh, no, sir," said Arthur quickly, with his eyes
fixed on Richard Carr's face. I knew you did n't
see me, and I thought maybe you would come when
you heard I was hurt. I don't mind it a bit, from
you. Because Willie Beck says he is the captain
of our team, you know -that you would n't hurt
any one if you could help it; he says you never hit
a man on the field unless he 's playing foul or try-
ing to hurt some of your team."
Richard Carr doubted whether this recital of his

virtues would appeal as strongly to Mrs. Waller as
it did to Arthur, so he said, "And-who is Willie
Beck? "
Willie Beck! Why, don't you know Willie
Beck ? exclaimed Arthur, who was rapidly losing
his awe of Richard Carr. He says he knows you;
he is the boy who holds your coat for you during
the practice games."
Richard Carr saw he was running a risk of hurt-
ing some young admirer's feelings, so he said,
"Oh, yes, the boy who holds my coat for me.
And he is the captain of your team, is he ? Well,
the next time you play, you wear this cap and tell
Willie Beck and the rest of the boys that I gave it
to you because you were so plucky when I knocked
you down."
With these words he pressed his black and orange
cap into Arthur's hand and rose to go, but Arthur

looked so wistfully at him, and then at the captain's
cap, that he stopped.
"I 'd like to wear it, Mr. Carr," he said slowly.
I 'd like to ever so much, Mamma," he added,
turning his eyes to where Mrs. Waller stood look-
ing out at the twilight and weeping softly,-"but
you see, sir, I don't play myself. I generally
referee. I 'm not very strong, sir, not at present;
but I will be some day,- wont I, Mamma? And
the doctor says I must keep quiet until I am older,
and not play games that are rough. For he says
if I got a shock or a fall I might not get over it, or
it might put me back- and I do so want to get
well just as soon as I can. You see, sir, it's my
spine "
At this the tender-hearted giant gave a gasp of
sympathy and remorse, and, sinking on his knees
beside the sofa, he took Arthur in his arms, feel-
ing very guilty and very miserable.
For a moment, Arthur only looked startled and
distressed, and patted Richard Carr's broad back
with an idea of comforting him; but then he cried:
Oh, but I did n't mean to blame you, Mr.
Carr! I know you did n't see me. Don't you
worry about me, Mr. Carr. I 'm going to get well
some day. Indeed I am, sir "

Whether it was that the doctor whom Richard
Carr's father sent on from New York knew more
about Arthur's trouble than the other doctors did,
or whether it was that Richard Carr saw that
Arthur'had many medicines, pleasant and un-
pleasant, which his mother had been unable to
get for him, I do not know,- but I do know that
Arthur got better day by day.
And day after day, Richard Carr stopped on his
way to the field, and on his way back again, to see
his "Baby," as he called him, and to answer the
numerous questions put to him by Arthur's com-
panions. -They always assembled at the hour of
Richard Carr's. arrival in order to share. some of
the glory that had fallen on their comrade, and to
cherish and carry away whatever precious thoughts
Richard Carr happened to let drop concerning
foot-ball, the weather, or any other vital subject
of college life.
As soon as the doctor said Arthur could be
moved, Richard Carr used to stop for him in a
two-seated carriage and drive him in state to the
foot-ball field. And after he had drawn up the
carriage where Arthur could get a good view-of
the game, he would hand over the reins to one of
those vulture-like individuals who hover around
the field of battle, waiting for some one to be hurt,
and who are known as "substitutes." In his black
and orange uniform, one of these fellows made a
very gorgeous coachman indeed.



And though the students might yell, and the
townspeople shout ever so loudly, Richard Carr
only heard one shrill little voice, which called to
him above all the others; and as that voice got

cheeks all aglow, and the substitute's arm around
him to keep him from falling over in his excite-
ment. And the other teams who came to play
at Princeton soon learned about the captain's

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'1ZI1a'1 .,, "I4
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stronger day by day, Richard Carr got back his
old spirit and interest in the game, which, since the
Yale match, he seemed to have lost.
The team said Richard Carr's Baby brought
them luck, and they called him their "Mascot,"
and presented him with a flag of the college colors;
and when the weather grew colder they used to
smother him in their white woolen jerseys, so that
he looked like a fat polar bear.
It was a very pretty sight, indeed, to see how
Richard Carr and' the rest of the team, whenever
they had scored or had made a good play, would
turn first for their commendation to where Arthur
sat perched above the crowd, waving his flag, his

"Baby," and inquired if he were on the field;
and if he was, they would go up and gravely shake
hands with him, as with some celebrated individual
holding a public reception.
Richard Carr is out West now at the head of
a great sheep ranch, and Arthur Waller enters
Princeton next year. I do not know whether he
will be on the team, though he is strong enough;
but I am sure he will help to hand down the fame
of Richard Carr, and that he will do it in such a
way that his hero will be remembered as the pos-
sessor of certain qualities, perhaps not so highly
prized, but quite as excellent, as were those which
fitted him to be the captain of the team.

Now, players all, mark what I say:
Whatever be the game you play,
Wit against size may win the day.




-'M ;S.

___ -I-




DID ever you sail in a dream-canoe
To the honey-comb reefs of Kandikew,
The island built by aquatical bees
Who carry their sweets down under the seas?
The sands of the beach that shimmer and shine
Are powdered sugar white and fine;
While billows of syrup fall and rise
O'er candy pebbles of every size.


There 's a perfume borne on every breeze
From the fruit preserves on the orchard trees;:
There are limpid jellies in every lake,
And hills and mountains of frosted cake;
There are children here who roam at will,
Free to forage and eat their fill,
But they lack one thing of bliss complete -
For they can not endure the taste of sweet!

So they sigh in vain for a sylvan shade
With brooks and rivers of lemonade,
And lakes of vinegar clear and strong,
Where they'd fish for pickles the whole day long.
And ships come sailing from happier climes
With crab-apples, cranberries, lemons, and limes,
For these, I 've heard, and 't is doubtless true,
Are all they can eat in Kandikew.



MONG the many vessels
A that find their way into
the great ports of Boston
and New York, certain
low, trim-looking schoon-
ers are conspicuous. They
might' almost pass for
yachts. They are, gen-
erally, New England ves-
sels, in the fruit trade,
running between Nassau
or other Southern ports
and New York or Bos-
ton. Many of these ves-
sels on arriving at New
York lie alongside the
East River docks in the
neighborhood of Fulton ferry, and are well worth
a visit during the busy months when bananas and
pine-apples, oranges and lemons and other tropical
fruits are in season. Besides the cargo of tropical
luxuries, the skipper of one of these boats usually

has, stowed away on board, some curiosity, some
strange lizard or hermit-crab, or curious bird, that
he is bringing home to a friend. It may be imag-
ined, therefore, that visits of curiosity to a lately
arrived fruiter are often well repaid; and so there
was nothing remarkable in the fact that one morn-
ing about four o'clock, when the docks were cold
and deserted, and the watchmen were hiding in
dark corners endeavoring to steal a nap before the
sun rose, a party of boys walked hurriedly down
one of these long East River piers in New York
and anxiously inquired if Capt. Sam Whittlefield's
schooner Red Snapper had been spoken.
"She 's about off Governor's Island now," said
the sleepy watchman. The boys, glad to know
that the schooner was so near, waited her arrival
with some spasmodic exercise and many impatient
looks along the line of tapering masts that fringed
the East side docks southward toward the Battery.
At last they were rewarded when, after a half hour
of waiting, the Red Snapper hove in sight behind
a fussy little tug. As the sun looked over the tops





DID ever you sail in a dream-canoe
To the honey-comb reefs of Kandikew,
The island built by aquatical bees
Who carry their sweets down under the seas?
The sands of the beach that shimmer and shine
Are powdered sugar white and fine;
While billows of syrup fall and rise
O'er candy pebbles of every size.


There 's a perfume borne on every breeze
From the fruit preserves on the orchard trees;:
There are limpid jellies in every lake,
And hills and mountains of frosted cake;
There are children here who roam at will,
Free to forage and eat their fill,
But they lack one thing of bliss complete -
For they can not endure the taste of sweet!

So they sigh in vain for a sylvan shade
With brooks and rivers of lemonade,
And lakes of vinegar clear and strong,
Where they'd fish for pickles the whole day long.
And ships come sailing from happier climes
With crab-apples, cranberries, lemons, and limes,
For these, I 've heard, and 't is doubtless true,
Are all they can eat in Kandikew.



MONG the many vessels
A that find their way into
the great ports of Boston
and New York, certain
low, trim-looking schoon-
ers are conspicuous. They
might' almost pass for
yachts. They are, gen-
erally, New England ves-
sels, in the fruit trade,
running between Nassau
or other Southern ports
and New York or Bos-
ton. Many of these ves-
sels on arriving at New
York lie alongside the
East River docks in the
neighborhood of Fulton ferry, and are well worth
a visit during the busy months when bananas and
pine-apples, oranges and lemons and other tropical
fruits are in season. Besides the cargo of tropical
luxuries, the skipper of one of these boats usually

has, stowed away on board, some curiosity, some
strange lizard or hermit-crab, or curious bird, that
he is bringing home to a friend. It may be imag-
ined, therefore, that visits of curiosity to a lately
arrived fruiter are often well repaid; and so there
was nothing remarkable in the fact that one morn-
ing about four o'clock, when the docks were cold
and deserted, and the watchmen were hiding in
dark corners endeavoring to steal a nap before the
sun rose, a party of boys walked hurriedly down
one of these long East River piers in New York
and anxiously inquired if Capt. Sam Whittlefield's
schooner Red Snapper had been spoken.
"She 's about off Governor's Island now," said
the sleepy watchman. The boys, glad to know
that the schooner was so near, waited her arrival
with some spasmodic exercise and many impatient
looks along the line of tapering masts that fringed
the East side docks southward toward the Battery.
At last they were rewarded when, after a half hour
of waiting, the Red Snapper hove in sight behind
a fussy little tug. As the sun looked over the tops



of the tall buildings, and cast its good-morning
beams into the dark slips, she ran in and was
made fast.
How are you, Captain ? shouted one of the
expectant group, as there came on deck a short,
fat, red-faced man, with so jolly and good-natured
a countenance that you would wish to shake hands
with him at first sight.
"Wal', wal'," exclaimed the Yankee skipper
with a laugh of recognition, Why, it's the boys "
Then commenced a series of questions-" Have
you brought my centipede?" "Could you find
a hermit-crab, Captain Did you remember
Tom's octopus?" and so on, until the captain,
ruddier than ever from laughing, invited all hands
on board. As they tumbled down the compan-
ion-way ladder, those ahead came to a sudden
halt, for out of the gloom was heard an unearthly
"honk! honk! honk!"
Come right on down said the jolly skipper.
"Don't mind the singing; it 's my pet flamingo."
As their eyes became accustomed to the darkness
of the place, the boys saw a magnificent flamingo
sitting very contentedly on a box at the end of the
cabin, with its neck (or so it certainly seemed) tied
in a bow knot.
"He does n't need any necktie," laughed the
captain; "he can tie his own neck into more
quirks and knots than you can imagine. Where
did I get him ? Wal', as they say, thereby hangs a
tale. You '11 find the plantains and pomegranates
in that. first locker, and here 's some guava jelly
and Nassua biscuit. When you 've discussed them,
I '11 tell you about my pet."
When breakfast, in which the boys and the long-
necked flamingo joined, was over, and the captain
of the galley had removed the dishes, Captain Sam
lighted his pipe, gave a preparatory look around at
his small but attentive audience, surrounded him-
self with a cloud of smoke, through which his jolly
red face gleamed like the sun in a fog, and began
his yarn.
"In this last cruise," he said, "I was delayed in
Nassau three weeks before I could get all the pine-
apples and fruit that I wanted, and in the mean
time I did n't know what to do with myself, for
I 'm one of the kind that has to keep on the go,
or else give up altogether.
But one day I met a friend who had a planta-
tion on one of the outer Keys; he asked me to go
on a hunting trip with him, and I took him up on
the minute. He lent me a gun, and the next day
we were on board his smack and off.. For a week
we cruised about from one place to another, and
then he told me he was bent on showing' me the
finest curiosity-in the Bahamas. That same after-
noon we brought up in a cove at Andros Island,

one of the biggest of the whole lot, and I reckon
about ninety miles long, more or less. As they say
in the geographies, it is bounded on the north, east,
south, and west by water; principal productions-
sand and crabs. That night we slept aboard ship.
The next morning, bright and early, we took the
little dingey boat and had a couple of the men and
the captain's son, a lad about the size of one of you
boys, to row us over to the land.
We pulled along the shore, which was broken
up by bays and creeks that seemed in places to cut
clean through the island. The water was as clear
as crystal, and corals, sea-fans and plumes, and
angel-fish with wonderful colors could be seen in
countless numbers; now and then, too, we ran
over a big nurse shark, or a turtle that made off
leaving' a big wave behind to follow and tell just
where it was goin'. All at once we rounded a
point and saw a sight so queer that I must have
sung out; for the men stopped pullin' and we all
looked for about a minute and did n't say a word.
We had popped 'round a point and entered a little
bay where the land was low. The sand was a pure
white, but all along shore, a good way in, was a
line that looked just like a streak of scarlet cloud,
such as we often see in the south at sunset. It
was morning' then, however, and the contrast was
too bright for clouds.
'What do you think of that?' said my friend:
'If that is fi't worth coming' twelve hundred miles
to see, I 'm mistaken!'
"'What is it?' I asked.
"'Why,' says he, 'birds, man! nothing' but
flamingoes And that is n't the funny part of it-
every bird lives on a monument.'
"I thought," continued the captain, "that this
was a joke, but the men gave way at the oars, and
we went toward the red streak with a rush. And
soon, sure enough, I could make out the forms of
the birds, though every one looked at first like a
scarlet dash of color. They were standing along
shore in rows and groups, their long, light-colored
necks moving this way and that; and the minute
they heard the splash of the oars and saw us, they
rose in a regular cloud,--not like ordinary birds,
mind you. They just started and ran along the
beach into the water, and so gradually got head-
way; and then they rose into the air in a great
crimson cloud, their long slender legs towin' along
"We all were so excited that we hardly knew
what we were doin'; but our idea was to catch
some of the birds alive, and, as some of them were
still struggling to get up, we ran the boat into the
sand and tumbled out on the shore, and in a mo-
ment were in the strangest kind of .a rookery you
ever heard of, I '11 warrant? Overhead was the


great, cloud of birds flyin' off to sea, the beating
of their wings, and their screams of 'honk I honk I'
making' such a noise that you 'd have thought a
hurricane was coming' on. We could hardly hear
ourselves speak. We made a dash to get ahead,
but it was almost impossible; for the nests were
columns of mud or clay from two to four feet
high, and were packed so closely together that we
could n't get over them quickly, I.assure you. One
of the men made a leap over a nest, but fell into a
hole and was well-nigh wedged in. We tried to fol-
low, floundering.along, knockin' over the mounds,
laughing' and shoutin', but soon had to give it up;
and as I crawled up on one of the bird-monuments,
I saw that the captain's boy had beaten-us all, and
was right in the midst of the rookery. He 'd taken
a long sprit as a pole, and so jumped from one
mound to another. .Then we all took oars and fol-
lowed his lead, and in that way we got along quite
Hard? Yes; most of the nests were solid as
rock, so we merely had to jump from one to an-
other.. Some, however, were soft on top, and
sometimes we slipped and fell down between them
into the mud.. Several of the birds in their fright
had been unable to rise, and were struggling in
among the nests, and there I caught my bird; I
grabbed him before he could rise. And eggs?
Almost ever nest had one or two, and the num-
ber of nests I could-n't begin to count. There were
thousands of 'em, filling that entire point of
land, another point near at hand, arid extending
along shore. They were built right on a mud flat
at the edge of the Water, so that the tide, when
high, probably rose among them and they were
almost surrounded. Some of the mounds were
only two feet high,-.others, three and four; but
all looked something like old-fashioned churns,
but scooped out at the top, just enough to hold
the eggs. Some of the nests had just been made,
and.:the eggs had been pressed into the mud,
while other eggs had rolled off into the mud and
water; so I think the young flamingoes must
have a rather hard time of it." .
"How do they make their nests? ". asked one
of the boys.
Well," replied the. captain, my friend some-
time before had watched the birds building their
nests, and he said that the holes we saw by the sides
of niany nests were places from which the birds had
taken mud in their beaks, and gradually piled it
up, the idea being to make a column, so that the
eggs will be high above the water. As they build
them, the sun hardens the marl and makes the
rest nearly as hard as stone. Some of the nests we
saw had been .built the year before, and we could
see where the birds had mended them in places."

"If they were four feet high a bird could n't sit
with its legs hanging over," suggested one of the
"That 's just the point I wanted to tell you
about," said the captain. "The picture-buuos all
show the nest with the bird upoi it, with its long
legs on the ground; but that's a mistake, as we
saw them sitting on the nests, and they had their
feet doubled up under them like any bird.
"By the time we had found out how to travel
over those monuments, or the 'city on stilts,' as the
lad called it, the birds were well out of the way,
and we examined the rookery at our leisure. The
more we looked, the more wonderful it seemed.
Just imagine,_ if you can," said. Captain Sam,
"two thousand or more mounds of mud of all
sizes, looking like churns, small at the top and
increasing' in size to the bottom, packed in to-
gether, and every one holding' one of those beau-
. tiful red, black, and white colored birds. And when
they rose, the birds seemed to move away like
wheels revolvin' in the air.
"They 're funny fellows, I can tell you," the
captain went on. "I met a man down the coast
who told me that once when he was huntin'
on the Florida low-lands he came upon a whole
colony of flamingoes among the mangrove trees.
He watched-their antics for some time-some
standing' on one leg, some with their long necks
in all sorts of curious positions, some stalking up
and down as solemn as parsonss-and he thought
it would n't be a bad idea to play a joke on
"So he took a fish-line, and when the birds flew
away he fastened one end of the line to the root
of a tree and climbed with the other end up into
another tree.
"Before long the birds came back, and then the
fun began. As soon as one or two stepped
across the line, the man in the tree gave it a pull,
and the flamingoes began hoppin' and trippin'
and dancin' about, now falling' down, now jumpin'
across and really seemin' to enjoy it immensely.
He actually had 'em all a-skippin' rope and there's
no tellin' how long they 'd 'a' kept it up if it had n't
been so very funny that my friend could n't help
laughing' out loud; that frightened them off.
That may seem a rather brisk story," said Cap-
tain Sam; "but, from what I've seen of my
specimen, I fully believe it.
"I tried to bring away a nest for him, as some of
them were overturned, but it was too difficult, and
we were a long way from home. My flamingo was
not hurt, and I took him aboard and fastened him
to.the riggin', and in a short time he became per-
fectly tame, and now demands mote attention than
I have time to give him. He has all sorts of



curious tricks; curls his neck about mine, which The truth is, he's got too much top hamper and
I suppose is the flamingo way of putting an arm wants re-riggin'."
around my neck, then he will put his head into my Here the tall bird fell off of his box; and as the


1 i
, :,,\ ^


pocket and nibble my hands. In fact, he is a very captain picked his pet up, he said, "Now that
sociable fellow; but he has a hard time in a gale we 've righted him, suppose we go and look at
of wind, and does n't seem to get his sea legs. your curiosities."

~p-~Ill 4~~

,r r.~



i *-~'- .. ...- ------ --- .. ---.-- ._-_

_. -.-- ". :

THE heiress was arranging her collection of
post-marks, her mother was mending a hole which
a sharp stick all by itself" had poked in a small
dress, and I was trying to find where I had left off
in a recent novel, and wondering if it would make
much difference if I were to- lose a few pages.
Presently the heiress began to say, rather softly:

"To him who, in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language."

As the heiress is only about half-past nine years
old, this was n't the sort of soliloquy that I expected,
and I asked her,
What 's that, Molly ? "
"That 's poetry, Papa," she replied.
Do you know any more of it?" I asked.
Some," she said; and with a little prompting
she repeated twenty lines or so.
"Where in the world did you learn that ?" I said.
"Up at school," she answered. "That's
'Thanatopsis,' Papa."
"Theyhaven'tbeen t.-ai.:hig i tc. ou?" Isaid,
feeling rather doubtful about the expediency of fill-
ing the juvenile mind with
"Sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall."

"No," she said. "They did n't teach it to me,
but Addie Palmer 's been learning it and I heard
her recite it."
How do you like it ? I asked.

Well," said the heiress, assuming a medita-
tive attitude with her chin on her hand, I think
it's rather sad. I believe I '11 write some poetry,
Papa, and the very first thing I write will be a
cheerful Thanatopsis.' "
In pursuance of this resolution the heiress
seated herself in her chair at the table on the fol-
lowing evening, and, having instructed her mother
and me that we were to sit very still and not talk,
she began her poem.
SIt was a great labor. She sighed, bit her pen-
cil, remarked that thinking was very hard work,
and had to have her pencil sharpened once when
she .had borne down too hard on it. But at last
ihe handed ,:ui-r the completed poem, with the re-
inark'ith:t -he meant to write three verses, but it
a3s uchi hard work that she thought that one

W" build o, publish it, Papa? she asked.
I* Mblll ." said I, I usually leave that question
to an er:l:r."



DEAR little snowdrops, deep under the snow,
You must be weary of winter, I know.
Sweet little snowdrops, far down in the ground,
You will be kissed and caressed wheh 'you 're



(An Adaptation from the Spanish of Cervantes.)

THERE was in a great city in Spain a large
slaughter-house where some butchers were hired
to kill all the meat for the people in the city. One
of these butchers was named Nicholas, and he was

butchers, however, stole a great deal of the meat.
They killed the cattle in the night, and when they
cut up the meat they would lay aside many nice
pieces, and before daylight their wives' or their
friends' little servant-girls would come, crowds
of them, with bags and baskets to get what the
butchers had stolen for them and carry it off to
their homes before the sun rose. The reason
Nicholas taught his dog to carry the basket was to


not a good man at all. He owned some puppies,
and as they grew up he taught them to catch
the cattle for the butchers and to hold them by
the ears so they could be killed. That was all
the work the dogs had to do, and they had plenty
*of meat to eat, so they grew large and strong. One
.of these dogs Nicholas taught to carry a great bas-
ket. The dog would take the handle in his teeth
.and walk carefully, and let nobody touch the bas-
ket till he got to the place where he had been told
-to go; then he would wag his tail politely, while
the meat was taken out, and would then carry
-home the empty basket.
Now Casar-for that was his name -was a good
-dog, and he saw a great deal that was wrong going
-on among the butchers; but then he thought,
" My' business is to mind my master." The

save his wife and his friends the trouble of send-
ing their servants for it. So one morning just
about daylight Nicholas gave Casar the big bas-
ket and told the dog to take it to his wife.
Casar set off, very steadily and carefully, but on
the way an old man (to whose house he used oftefi
to carry meat) looked out of an upper window and
called him in a kind and gentle tone. Of course
he stopped. And the man came down to the door
and called him in, and petted and praised him and
talked to him and made him very happy. But
then he took all the meat out of the basket and
put one of his old shoes into it and covered it up
and said, "Go back to old Nicholas and tell him I
wish never to deal with him again."
Of course, the dog could not tell the message, but
Nicholas when he saw the old shoe in the basket



was in a fury, and he snatched his knife to kill
Caesar; but the dog ran for his life. He ran all
day long as fast as he could go,- far -far beyond
the great city, out through the country, and up
among the hills; and when it grew dark he was so
tired and so hungry! "At any rate," he thought,
"Nicholas can't catch me here," and he lay down
and went sound asleep.
When it grew daylight, he found there was a
large flock of sheep sleeping near him. "Ah,"
he thought, "this is fine! I always thought it was
good work for a dog to take care of sheep -let
me see if I can't persuade the shepherd to have me
for his dog." Just then the shepherds came,

The shepherd took off his hat and said, "He is
a stray dog; he does not belong to any one around
here; but he has all the marks of a good breed,
and will make a fine dog."
"Then give him the collar of the dog that died
last week and keep him," said the master. "Make
much of him; a petted dog will love the flock."
And off he rode.
The shepherd brought out a collar that was all
set with iron spikes, and he put a lot of bread and
milk into a wooden trough for Caesar's breakfast.
Then they followed where the flocks had spread and
scattered themselves upon the hills to feed. The
dog thought, This will be a pleasant life for me;



stretching themselves, out of a little hut near by,
and one of them called to Casar. He went
quietly, wagging his tail and licking the shep-
herd's shoes, as much as to say, "Do let me stay
with you !" The man looked at his teeth to see
how old he was, and patted him. Just then up rode
the owner of the flocks. He did not look like a
shepherd; he rode a good horse and was hand-
somely dressed; he wore pistols and a dagger, and
had a gun in his hand. He ordered the shepherds
about, and they were very humble.
"Whose dog is that?" said he.

shepherds are good, gay, happy people, and I
shall be as good as a dog can be." For when he
used to go to the pretty lady who had sent the
message to Nicholas, he often had to wait there,
and he had heard her reading in some of her books
to her companions what a pleasant life it was to be
a shepherd or a shepherdess; how the shepherds
sat under shady groves, by the side of the pleasant
brooks and rivers, and played sweet music on their
flutes and guitars, and sang all sorts of beautiful
songs, and danced with the pretty shepherdesses;
while their faithful dogs now and then ran all



around the sheep to make sure that they were safe,
and then came back to listen to the music. But
Casar soon found that that was the way shepherds
do in story-books, but not in reality; at least, those
shepherds were very different. They were dirty
and stupid, they slept in the sunshine, or, if the
wind blew, under the shelter of a rock. Sometimes
they mended their old shoes. And, as to the music
--all they ever played was an ugly noise, made by
clattering two sticks together; and their singing
was all one sound, over and over,- no words, only
" dum, dum, dum," or do, do, do "; a dog could
howl better music.
Only one thing was true as told in the story--
the dogs took care of the flock; and that Cesar
did, night and day. Wherever the sheep went over
the mountains, he was constantly racing around
them, that no wolf should ever get a chance
to steal even 'one poor little lamb. The rough
rocks made his poor paws sore sometimes, he ran
on them so fast and so much; and oh he got so
tired! And what were soaked bread and milk-
mostly milk too for food, when his work was so
hard? He was hungry all the time -dreadfully
hungry. And yet, with all his faithful watching,
when the master came to see how the sheep were
getting on, the shepherds would always bring
parts of torn sheep and say, The wolves have
had so many." And then the master would scold
and say, Beat the dogs," and the shepherds
would beat them, and Caesar would think, This
is a puzzle! When did the wolves get at those poor
sheep?" But one day he found out the puzzle.
He saw a smoke rising among some rocks, and
there he spied those wicked shepherds. They
had killed some sheep and were having a fine
dinner together; then they took what was left and
tore it, and rubbed it on the rocks, so as to make it
look as if the wolves had bitten it! They were the
wolves themselves, and dishonest men, and they
had beaten the poor dogs for what they themselves
had done! Caesar thought, I 'l work no more
for these bad masters and so he ran away again,
down from the hills and through the country to
another city. There he walked about awhile, half
starved, trying to find a home to suit him. At last
he saw a very nice large house; and the owner of
it, who looked like a rich merchant, came out of
the door; so he went toward the gentleman, and
wagged his tail and tried to make friends; and
the gentleman called to one of his servants and
said: Here 's a fine dog, and I know by his eyes
that he is an honest one. He seems to have lost
his master and to want another. He 's thin enough,
poor fellow; take him in and feed him he '11 make
us a good watch-dog." .
Alr!" thought the dog, there's nothing like a

gentleman! How kind he is 1 Indeed I will be a
good watch-dog for them !"
The servants fed him, and they showed him
behind the front door a little mat to lie upon.
What had become of his spiked collar I don't
know-I suppose it had been worn out, for they
put a very handsome one on him with a chain to
it, and they showed him who belonged to the
family, or were good friends that often went in and
out-to them he was to wag his tail. If strangers
came to the door, he was to growl,-if any bad-
looking people, to bark with all his might. At
night they unchained him and let him out-of-
doors. He could now get some exercise and fresh
air; but he must go around the outside of the
house and. the stables and sheds, and the garden
that was behind the house, and watch everything
carefully all night; and that he gladly did for
so kind a master. His master had two sons who
went to school every day; and a servant walked
before them to carry their books and a satchel
with their luncheon in it. Now you know Nicho-
las had taught Caesar to carry things, and he
wished to carry the satchel, instead of the ser-
vant; so when the boys were getting ready for
school one day, he took hold of the handle with
his teeth, and when the servant wanted to take
it from him, he growled, and went in front of them
and wagged his tail to them. They understood
what he wanted, and said, Cesar wants to. go
to school with us; unchain him and see if he
wont carry the knapsack as well as a man."
Now he was a happy dog. Every day he walked
on in front till they came to the school-house.
The other scholars would try to make him give
them the satchel; but he would not let them have
it. He carried it gravely and properly to the
janitor, who took care tf all the scholars' bags,
then went back out of the school-room and sat just
outside the door, straight, like a man, looking
directly at the teacher who was talking to the
scholars or hearing their lessons. He thought
it was fine to have a chance to get an educa-
tion. At noon the boys all played with him,
and gave him part of their dinners. They all
liked him very much, he was so big and so good-
natured; and when they went home at night, then
he kept watch again at his master's door. But the
teachers gave the boys lessons to learn at noon,
and, though he was quiet, he interfered with their
studies, for the lads would not let him alone. It
was such fun for them to have him for a play-
mate,-but every afternoon the lessons were not
properly learned. So his young masters said,
We must not let Casar go to school with us any
more. He is a good dog, but the boys will not.sit
down and study while we have him there."



Poor Casar! how sad he felt when they went
away and left him chained at home and it was very
tedious lying in one place all the time, and not
having any more education. Then he had a new
trouble. There was a cook, who, after dinner,
used to bring a plate of bones for him and for
two great cats that lived at the same house.

master would not allow the door to be opened at
night. So he watched sharply. He thought, "If
they steal the least thing, I '11 bark with all my
might." But they did not steal anything, and the
cook brought him such good feasts! At last he
thought what he would do. He would not bite the
cook, of course. He would be a strange watch-dog

AIM L----.7--. --

S' /

,U ''

I.,,, I




But as Caesar could not go any farther than
the length of his chain, they would generally get
more than their share, and he had too good
manners to make a noise or 'quarrel with them,
and so he really did not have enough. He sighed
when he remembered what-quantities of nice white
bread cakes the scholars used to feed him.
Now, this same cook used to sleep in the kitchen,
apd he had a friend who worked in the stables
and slept in the courtyard outside the front
door. When everybody, except Caesar, was
asleep, he would come softly and bring him some
more dinner, and pat him so kindly, and unlock
and open the big door and let in his friend, and
the two would talk together in a whisper for a long
time. Then the friend would go out, and the cook
would lock the door, and go back to the kitchen be-
'fore any one waked up. So now Caesar had enough
to eat again, but he was not happy; for he knew his

to bite one of the household; but he decided he
must stop the cook's bad ways. So the next time
the cook came slyly creeping along with his plate
of meat, Caesar caught hold of his clothes and tore
them, and scratched the cook's legs with his
claws. He did not make the least noise, nor did
his victim dare to. For a whole week afterward,
the door was not opened, and Caesar thought he
had cured the cook of his naughtiness-but no; he
got some more clothes, and brought the dog food
again, but kept out of his reach and opened the
door as before. Then Caesar lay on his mat and
thought and thought, "What ought I to do? My
master thinks I shall do what is right--and what
is right? If I bark and rouse the house, the serv-
ants will be punished, and I shall have no more
treats. They really don't do any harm, they only
talk together, but at the same time I know my
master trusts me to guard that door, and he would



~- r:



not let them open it at night. I don't know what
I ought to do.: It is too hard a question for me. I
must run away and find a new master." So the
next time he was let out for a run, he ran indeed,
out of the city and far off to another large town,
where he made friends with some policemen, and
soon gained one of them for his master. They
found him very useful.
He went about the streets with them at night,
and if they saw any one stealing they would point,
and Caesar would run far quicker than they could,
and catch the rascal and hold him till they came
up to put him in prison. He did not like the work
very well; though he staid there a long while, and
was as good as any policeman of them all.
One night his master was not there, but the
others were going out to patrol the streets and
they called him to go too; so he went. There was
a great .wall around the town with gates that
were fastened at night; but there was a hole in
this wall, where some stones had fallen out, as
Casar had noticed, and there was a church in
that part of the town.: They saw a man slinking
out of the church, and sneaking along as if he
had been stealing.
"A thief!" the men said, and set Casar on him.
He rushed down the street and seized the man-
and it was his own master !
He was so ashamed and frightened that he let go
and ran out of the hole in the wall and raced off
fifty miles before he stopped to rest. Then he hid
in a wood and slept and rested himself. Then he
trotted along till he came to a town where there
was a great crowd. There were troops of soldiers
marching through the town. They had flags fly-
ing, and music; and he saw a man drumming
whom he had seen before -so he walked along
beside the drummer, who remembered him and
said, "Casar, poor fellow, how came you here?
Do you want to go to be a soldier ?" Ard he said
to his companions that here was a bright dog,
that would make fun for them when they had
nothing to do. For this happened at a time when
there was no fighting going on.
The drummer was a good-natured master to
Casar and fed him well. He taught him many
droll tricks, and he taught him to stand upon his
hind legs and dance, and keep time to the music;
and the men all said they never saw a dog dance
so nicely. His master had some very pretty clothes
made for him, and when they came into a town
where they were to stay all night, he would go
out with his drum and call through the streets:
"If any wish to see the Wonderful Learned Dog,
let them come to such a place at seven o'clock."
And people would come to see Cesar's pranks
and his dancing, and pay money at the door;

so his master thought a great deal of him, and
he was very busy and contented. He did n't
like it as well as-going to school, but it did very
well. At last they came to a town where his
master hired a large room, and there was a great
crowd to see the Learned Dog, and all were
astonished to see how he understood and did
everything his master told him. Then up got
somebody and said, "That is not a dog, for no
dog can do such things It is just a boy dressed
up like a dog,- and it is a great shame to call a
boy a dog, and it ought to be stopped."
Then some others said, "Yes 1 yes! put the man
in prison!" Still others screamed out, "Let the
fine 61d doggie dance We have paid our money
to see him-dogs know as much as boys !" and
so they scolded and angered one another and s6on
began to fight. "Police! police !" some people
shouted; then all began to run. And what became
of Caesar's master.? Caesar did not stop to see,
but he, too, ran off as fast as he could, and wriggled
off his clothes and left them in the street.
Then, aftermore wandering, he took a poet forhis
master, and he liked him very much. He was gentle
and kind, and his friends were all polite gentlemen,
so Caesar was in good company. But he soon found
his master had nothingto eat for himself half the
time, so he thought, My master would be better
off without me, though he is too kind to say so."
And as he walked about the town, thinking whether
to run away again or not, he took notice of a large
hospital where many sick people were nursed and
taken care of. The good brethren that lived.
there went out through the town to bring in sick
people or anybody that was in distress, so Casar
made friends with them and carried things for
them, and, when the nights were dark, walked
ahead with a large lantern, and he did not have to
run away any more, for he was almost as good and
kind as his new masters, and many a poor fellow
who had been hurt or fallen ill rejoiced to see him
coming with his lantern. And now he was well
fed--with nice white meat, and bread and every-
thing that he liked; and so he had a good home
at last, and no more troubles.



SOME years ago, while wintering in Venice, a
friend, who knew my fondness for pets, brought me
two dear little doggies. One of them I decided to
keep as my own; but I gave the other to a young
friend who was living with me. They seemed so
happy together that we gave them the names of
Placido and Contenta, which are the Italian words


for "peaceful" and "contented," and we found
great pleasure in feeding and caressing them. They
enjoyed each other's society for a month or more,
but when the mistress of Placido was obliged to re-
turn to her home, she found that it was not possible
to take with her the new-found and dearly-prized

pet. So she sorrowfully resigned it into the hands
of a young officer in the Italian navy. A collar of
silver with mysterious inscriptions upon it was fas-
tened around Placido's neck, and a paper in imita-
tion of a legal document was drawn up, transferring
this precious object from one owner to the other.
Now these little dogs are unlike any that Ameri-
can children ever see. They are a deep yellow color,

and in the sunlight their coats shine like beaten
gold. They have small heads and fine narrow
muzzles, with ears and tails cut short like those of a
terrier. In shape they are somewhat like tiny Spitz
or Pomeranian dogs. Their hair is soft as floss-
silk, and their large dark eyes are as tender and lov-

ing as those of a gazelle. Placido grew to be much
larger and stronger than his sister, though there is
still a family likeness between them. His life at first
was chiefly passed with his new owner in the arsenal,
but when the latter received orders for a two-
years' cruise in the IEgean Sea, Placido was taken
to Genoa, where he lived in a luxurious though
somewhat monotonous manner during his master's



absence. I can not easily describe the development
of Placido's intelligence; but I can assure you that
his little sister grew daily in beauty and cleverness,
though not in size. If she was taken to walk on the
riva, which is to the water-streets of Venice what
a sidewalk is to the avenues of other towns, she
would constantly leave the servant's side to seek
in all the gondolas for her mistress, and would each
time return disappointed. Though her gentle man-
ner and sensitive temperament seemed to indicate
timidity, she would encounter with absolute fear-
lessness the wild and lawless cats that make their
home among the arches of the Ducal Palace. One
day a savage creature flew at her and tore her face
until the blood flowed freely; but Contenta was
Indeed, far from being frightened at the feline
race, she was always restless at a certain hour of
the evening, when she considered it necessary to
go to the kitchen to put the cats to bed." This
operation consisted in barking violently at the
household mouse-catchers, until they flew before
her in terror and took refuge in the garret. Then
Contenta returned to the drawing-room with the air
of saying, "Behold me, once more I have done my
duty! And this feat was the more remarkable
since she was smaller than the cats.
She frequently sat alone in a room for hours,
patiently waiting for mice ; but I regret to say that
she destroyed her own chances by barking when
they made a noise in the wall. In spite of this, how-
ever, she often caught them as they ran across the
room, and she then seemed perfectly, verjoyed
at her own prowess. On one occasion, so I have
been assured, Contenta seized, worried, and killed
a large rat in the courtyard; but as I was not
myself a witness to that deed of daring, I can
not, of course, give it as an actual fact in this
faithful history. But I can narrate an incident which
is much more remarkable, and which I know to be
perfectly true. We were about to start on a jour-
ney- the halls were filled with trunks, and all was
ready for departure, when to our surprise we saw
Contenta busily engaged, as we thought, in up-
rooting the plants from the large flower-pots of the
front balcony. On investigation, we found that she
had drawn forth from their hiding-places numer-
ous bones which she had concealed from time to
time in the earth. She nibbled a little at the most
savory among them, and' then appeared quite
ready to leave home, with no care upon her mind.
At this time, I am sorry to say, she began to
treat me with caprice, and seemed to transfer her
affections to our traveling-servant. His voice was
more quickly obeyed than was mine, and Contenta
evidently preferred his society to that of any one
else. This strange freak was so annoying to me
VOL. XIV.-5.

that I determined to get another dog; accord-
ingly, in Florence, I took to my affections a new
pet a tiny white terrier of Maltese ancestry. He
was smaller than anything I had then seen in
the dog-world, and was consequently very delicate.
He sat on my shoulder and never left me by day
or night. After his arrival, Contenta seemed sad
but consoled herself with the servants.
When we returned to Venice in the month of
October, the demon of jealousy seemed roused
at last in the capricious breast of Contenta. She
visibly pined and seemed to wish to return to me,
but I was obdurate, as the fragile Lino quite ab-
sorbed my care and attention. One fatal day I
went out in the gondola to sketch; the boat was
attached to a buoy, I was busy with my work, and
the little Florentine played about the prow of the
boat. Suddenly I heard a gentle splash in the
water, and looking up, I saw my Lino carried rap-
idly down by the tide. To loosen the gondola and

strive to save him was the work of a moment. He
was swept by the current within reach of some
workmen who were caulking a ship's sides, and
one of them seized the poor little dog and gave
him to me. He was so small that one might have
thought him a little drowned kitten. Once at
home, we tried all possible restoratives, but that



cold bath was too much for so frail a body, and
within three days he panted his tiny life away.
He was buried under the oleanders -in the court-
yard, and on his small white marble tombstone
are these words in golden letters:
BORN in the Tuscan fields
With the violets of the year;
Dead by the sad sea wave
.Ere yet those fields were sere.
Lightly may earth and flower
Lie on his gentle breast:
.Nor wind nor wintry shower
Disturb my Lino's rest.

After Lino's death, Contenta returned to her
devotion to me, and remained loyal and faithful.
Clever dogs are possessed of wonderful mem-
ories. Placido, on his return to Venice after a two-
years' absence, remembered the street on.which
his sister lived, and ran 'away from his master to

greet her and all the household with violent dem-
onstrations of joy.
I am sure, too, that Contenta knew whenever she
,approached her old home; for after long journeys
in many lands, by, rail and steamer and carriage,
during which time she slept peacefully and was a
most exemplary traveler, the moment she heard the
call Venezia she would become restless, never
ceasing to look out at the windows of the railway
carriage, and never sleeping a moment during the
last four or six hours of the journey.
She was a born smuggler, and when her ticket
had not been taken, she was quite aware that she
ought not to be seen by the railway officials. The
moment the train slackened speed, she would creep
into a place of concealment where she would re-
main motionless until the five or ten minutes at
the station were past, and would emerge from
hiding only when the train was again fairly in



SOME one has prisoned in a cage
A little chipmunk with black eyes;'
Sometimes he gnaws the wires in rage,
Sometimes in weary dullness lies.
It 's clear'to me, he longs to be.
Over the stone wall leaping,
Up the tall tree, nimble and free,
Or in its hollow sleeping.

He has a soft bright coat of brown
With pretty stripes of darker hue,
In the woods scampering up and down,
With merry mates he throve and grew.
And oh! and oh I he longs to go
Back to the forest flying -
He has a nest, for aught I know,
Where little ones are crying.

His captor looks at him each morn,
But has no loving word to say,
Brings him some water and some corn,.
And then forgets him all the day.
Poor little thing! who fain would bring
Nuts from the great trees yonder,
Drink water from some hill-side spring,
And freely, wildly wander.

Pent in a narrow wire-walled box,
He pines in vain, no joy he takes;
The moss, the leaves, the woods, the rocks,
For these his little sad heart aches.
My word I plight that I to-night
Will wake, while some are sleeping,
And to the woods by bright moonlight
The chipmunk shall go leaping!






THE Brownies once, while roaming 'round.
By chance approached a college ground;
And, as they skirmished every side,
A large gymnasium they espied.
Their eyes grew bright as they surveyed
The means for exercise displayed.
The club, the weight, the hanging ring.
The horizontal bar, and swing,
All brought expressions of delight, ,
As one by one they came in sight.
The time was short, and words 0
were few
That named the work for each
to do.
Their mystic art, as may be I

On pages now in volumes bound,
Was quite enough to bear them in
Through walls of wood and roofs of tin.
No hasp can hold, no bolt can stand
Before the Brownie's tiny hand;

The sash will rise, the panel yield,
And leave him master of the field.

When safe they stood within the hall,
A pleasant time was promised all.

m V 9 I



Though not the largest in the band,
I claim.to own no infant hand;
And muscle in this arm you '11 meet
That well might grace a trained athlete.
Two goats once blocked a mountain pass,
Contending o'er a tuft of grass.
Important messages of state
Forbade me there to stand and wait;
Sl Without a pause, the pair I neared
And seized the larger by the beard;
SIi dragged him from his panting foe
'_- H II And hurled him to the plain below."

" For clubs," a second answered there,
" Or heavy weights I little care;
But give me bar or give me ring,
Where I can turn, contort, and swing,
And I '11 outdo, with movements fine,
The monkey on his tropic vine."


Said one, The clubs let me obtain
That Indians use upon the plain,
And here I '11 stand to test my power,
And swing them 'round my head an hour;

Thus skill and strength and wind they tried
By means they found on every side.
Some claimed at once the high trapeze,
And there performed with grace and ease;



They turned and tumbled left and right,
As though they held existence light.

At times a finger-tip was all
Between them and a fearful fall.
On strength of toes they now depend,
Or now on coat-tails of a friend-
And had that cloth been less than best
That looms could furnish, east or west,
Some members of the Brownie race
Might now be missing from their place.
But fear, we know, scarce ever finds
A home within their active minds.
And little danger they could see
In what would trouble you or me.
Some stood to prove their muscle strong,
And swung the clubs both large and long
That men who met to practice there
Had often found no light affair.

They found a rope, as 'round they ran,
And then a tug-of-war began;
First over benches, stools, and chairs,
Then up and down the winding stairs,
They pulled and hauled and tugged around,
Now giving up, now gaining ground;
Some lost their footing at the go,
And on their backs slid to and fro
Without a chance their state to mend
Until the contest found an end.

Their coats from tail to collar rent
Showed some through trying treatment went,
And more, with usage much the same,
Had scarce a button to their name.
The judge selected for the case
Ran here and there about the place
With warning cries and gesture wide,
And seemed unable to decide.
And there they might be tugging still,
With equal strength and equal will-

But while they struggled, stars withdrew
And hints of morning broader grew,
Till arrows from the rising sun
Soon made them drop the rope and run.



GOOD-DAY, my friends! much obliged to you
for assembling here this fine morning, when the
hickory-nuts and walnuts are dropping over yonder,
and the squirrels are too busy to come and chatter
their pretty nonsense to me. Now we '11 proceed
to take up-no, no; not a collection, but a new
Little School-ma'am, or your friend Mr. Holder,
answer us an important question about birds? It
is this: We two live next door to each other, in
the country, and since we 've known you we have
grown very fond of noticing things like the habits
of animals. Well, among other points, we 've
noticed that the birds we have watched flying up
into the air have one way of going up, and another
of coming down. They evidently move their wings
in mounting, but, in their descent, they seem to
us to just fall gracefully through the air, simply
using their outspread wings to balance them and
to regulate their speed. Are we right? When
birds are wounded, you know, they have no power
to hold out their wings properly, and so they have
to tumble, poor things I but when they have their
senses, they can drop down gently from the far
sky and slant themselves in just the right way.
We watched, too, the fowls in the poultry-yard
come down from high roosting-places, and though
they mhde a good deal of noise and fuss with their
wings, it seemed to us it was not because they were
trying to fly down with their clipped wings, but
that they were trying to balalice themselves. We
may be wrong (we almost always are, my brother
says), but that is our opinion.
This letter' is composed by us both, and is a
true account of our observations, and we would

like to have it answered, if you will show it to your
hearers, dear Jack. Your young friends,


WHY is it very hard for a goat to be good?
This question was asked during the noon recess
at the little red school-house yesterday. The boy
who asked it is quite a funny boy, so everybody
tried to give a lively answer.
"Because he 's too hard-headed," shouted one.
"Because he wont mind his ma," ventured
"Becauth he dothent know how," lisped a pretty
little fellow with yellow curls.
"Because he gives too manybuts," said the dear
Little School-ma'am, glancing brightly at certain
scholars who are fond of making excuses.
"Because people are never extra good to him,"
answered a tall boy rather sheepishly.
"I don't know about that," put in a chubby little
maid. Some people are very good to ammamuls."
"All wrong!" cried the funny boy. "Do you
give it up? Why is it very hard for a goat to be
good? I made it up my own self. Do you want
to know ?"
"Yes, yes. Tell us!" cried one and all.
Well," said the funny boy very gravely, "it 's
because he was born a little wee-kid."
The next thing I knew, the entire school was
chasing that boy.


DEACON GREEN received a letter not long ago
from a crony of his, who wrote that he had tome
across a new moral to an old fable. And the
Deacon read it to his young friend, Tom Walker,
as they met near my pulpit the other evening.
Here it is:
The hare that slept till overtaken by a tortoise said, This comes
from racing with an unworthy competitor. Had I been matched
with a fox, I should have won.' "
"Well," said the Deacon slowly, as he closed
the letter, "that's the hare's side of the case, I
suppose. But I 've noticed--have n't you?-
that folks who lose in contests are very apt to try
to comfort themselves with a good excuse. Be-
sides, can we admit in advance that he would
have won in -a race with the fox ? The fox is a
very clever and unscrupulous fellow. Now, it
would be just like the fox to try to trick the hare
into taking a nap somewhere along the course -
and, ten to one, the hare would be silly enough to
be tricked!"
Yes, sir," said Tom smiling, "the hare doesn't
seem to be fully awake even yet. If, after all these
years, the moral you 've just read is the best
reason he is able to give for losing that race -why,
he.'d better let the tortoise explain it!"
"But pray don't let the tortoise hear you say
that!" rejoined the Deacon. His account of it
would be as slow as his pace. Nevertheless, for
my own part, I 've always admired the good,




honest, steady work done by the tortoise on that
"Right you are, sir!" exclaimed Tom. "It
was the tortoise, not the hare, that had the 'walk
over,' as we boys say; but he had to walk over
every inch of it."
Tom is a good fellow, and has a habit of winning
running-matches himself, though he 's no tortoise,
you may be sure. In fact, according to the boys
who go through my meadow, he 's a "sprint
runner," which, I suppose, means something
IN the West Indies, there lives a mouse who
likes cocoa-nuts. So up the tree he runs, and,
selecting a fine soft nut, nimbly gnaws a little hole,
and then in he goes. Now he is in fine quarters. He
has plenty to eat and drink, and a very good place
for little naps. He improves his opportunities and
eats and eats; and as cocoa-nut milk fattens mice,
he soon grows to a fine large size. After a time he
decides to come out, but alas! the hole seems to
have grown a little smaller! So he turns and
takes a little more of the milk,-no need to go
away hungry, you know. Well, the end of it is,
that, either through laziness or stupidity, he never

was the way it began. And of course when a story
begins in that way, something is bound to happen !
So it was in this case. What happened was a rat.
And, of course, he made for the chicks; and, of
course, the hen (as the chicks well knew) had a
bad temper; and so-well, as to what happened
next, why look at the picture !
And just here, by the way, I propose to arise
in my might and protest! For what can be more
unjust, say I, than for an artist, who calls himself
my friend, to send me a long rigmarole about a
thrilling adventure of this sort, when the picture
he sends with it tells the whole story in advance ?
How am I to "lead up to an exciting climax, I 'd
like to know, when the climax itself is illuminated
for you before I 've said a word ? This thing must
be stopped!
You see now why I had to skip so much in tell-
ing you this story. I could n't possibly catch up
with the picture before you saw it, and the moment
you saw it the story was told I
But no! There 's the conclusion! You know it
already, eh? "The rat was drowned?" do you
say ? Not a bit of it! And the chicks did n't all
live happy ever after, either! That rat outran the
hen, leaped across the brook on some convenient
stones, and an hour later, when the hot-tempered

---- ---si, :-' / -
'Ifl: I ,'-, *'' t 1 -
-.- -' -,., --- -_"_" -. .

gets out! And when the people come to that hen was in the barn trying to peck a china egg to
tree to gather cocoa-nuts, behold there is a mouse pieces, Mr. Rat quietly returned and ate one of her
in one of the very finest! chicks.-But if the artist had pictured that scene,
I would never have consented to tell the story at all.
ONCE upon a time, a matronly hen and her
fine brood of promising chicks were wandering BY the way, my friends, I 've had some letters
along the pebbly shore of a limpid stream, at from you asking me to tell what I expect to see on
peace with themselves and all the world That Hallow-e'en night-just as if I 'd tell anybody !


" /, j



Andantino-Softly. _

I. Sleep, dear; sleep, dear, fold ing eye -lids wax en
2. Sleep, dear, sleep, dear, round cheeks tint-ed pure-ly,

2p -t ea. a

p witAi left Pedal.

Q:~2 -|*: -:p == =: t^ = -- ..-[- :G*

0 ver eyes like corn-flowers brightly blue ; Rest here, rest here, lit tie head so flax en;
Red lips gath ered in a rose bud pout; Bye-bye, bye-bye, now she's dreaming sure-ly;

- | |_----- ----- I

----^ 'a---------'--- w-- --z-----b-_-^s--- -
~ i L

P ~



z886.] DOLLY'S LULLABY. 73

Soft I'll hush you, just as moth-ers do: Dol-ly's good, she does not cry When she hears her
How I won-der what she dreams a bout I Oh I how ver y, ver y odd Must be Dol-ly's


lu by, Oh, quite eas i ly she goes to sleep Yes, at an y time of day
Land of Nod Ah, what happens when she goes to sleep? I sup-pose she must for get,


F .... .--. "

I may choose for night, in play, Oh, quite eas i ly she goes to sleep.
For she nev er told me yet. Pray, what happens when she goes to sleep ?

-------- pp

'It w



THE Second National Convention of the AGASSIZ ASSOCIATION
was held in Davenport, Iowa, August 25, 26, and 27, 1886. Prob-
ably no readers of ST. NICHOLAS need to be told what this
Association is, unless perhaps some of the younger readers, whose
subscription to this magazine begins with the present number. All
such will find a complete history of our organization in the files
of ST. NICHOLAS since November, 1880.
Our first convention met two years ago in Philadelphia. At that
meeting the Eastern States were largely represented, while the dis-
tance to be traversed prevented the attendance of many delegates
from the West. It was partly in order to accommodate our Western
Chapters that this year's convention was appointed for Iowa. A
stronger reason was found in the fact that the Chapters of Iowa
have been the first to organize themselves into a State Assembly,
called the Iowa Assembly of the Agassiz Association. By means
of this union of forces, the Iowa Chapters were able consistently to
assume the labor and expense of the Convention, which would have
proved a task far too burdensome for any single Chapter. Indeed,
the Philadelphia meeting had been rendered possible and successful
only by a similar action on the part of the local Chapters, which, to
the number of twenty or more, had combined to form the Philadel-
phia Assembly.
The officers and members of the Iowa Assembly deserve the
highest praise for the energetic, self-sacrificing, and intelligent way
in which they perfected every arrangement calculated to add to
the interest of the convention and the comfort and pleasure of the
delegates. Preparations were begun months in advance, and by per-
sonal subscription and solicitation, and by fairs, lectures, and exhibi-
tions, more than three hundred dollars was raised. Besides this,
the city was canvassed for places at which delegates should be enter-
tained; the railroads were induced to grant the concession of low
fares; a fine hall was secured and tastefully decorated for themeet-
ings; and the press of the city was thoroughly informed of the history
of the A. A. and the purposes of the convention. With the money
raised a steamer was chartered for the excursion on the Mississippi;
a band of musicians was engaged to enliven the trip; a special rail-
road' train was hired to convey the delegates to Rock Island, for a
,visitto the Government Arsenal; an elaborate banquet was prepared.
In a word, everything was done that devotion, liberality, and hos-
pitality could suggest.
The General Convention opened on Wednesday, and, on the day
before, the Iowa Assembly convened for its annual session. Under
the efficient management of President E. P. Boynton, this Assembly
has already attained a remarkable growth, and shows every sign
of strength and permanence. I have never attended a meeting of
young persons conducted with more enthusiasm, interest, and dig-
nity. There was no trifling. Every appointment was fulfilled;
every paper was carefully prepared; and the showing then made
of the work done by the several Chapters during the year was so
gratifying that it was well worth a journey of a thousand miles to
hear the report of it.
On Wednesday afternoon the NAtional Convention was called to
order by the President, at half-past two.o'clock. After prayer by
Rev. O. Clute, of Iowa City, who has long been a member and a

warm friend of the A. A., Charles Putnam, Esq., President of the
Davenport Academy of Sciences, delivered an eloquent address of
Among his first words were these: "When the students of our
schools and colleges voluntarily put aside the mere amusements
which are wont to dominate those early years, and thus journey
from far and near to take wise counsel and engage in serious study,
we are encouraged to look hopefully forward into the future for
achievements in scientific research which shall be worthy of our race
and age."
The President of the A. A. responded in a few words, voicing the
gratitude of the delegates for Iowa's kind words and deeds of wel-
come. The first paper was then read by Mrs. Ferris. It was writ-
ten by Mr. M. R. Steele, of Decorah, and its subject was The
Rivers of Iowa."
The succeeding papers were: White and Yellow Water-Lilies,"
illustrated by beautiful mounted specimens, by Arthur Cox, of Iowa
City; "Modes of Work," by J. N. Houghton, of Grinnell; "The
Unionidae of the Mississippi," by Louis Block, of Davenport;
"Technical Terms," by J. F. Clarke, of Fairfield; Why Coal is
not found in Wisconsin," by J. G. Laughton, of Chapter 134,
De Pere, Wis.; "The Agassiz Association, an Educational Insti-
tution," by Mrs. F. A. Reynolds, of Chapter 852, Willis, Montana
Territory; "The Egyptian Lotus and its American Cousins," by
Miss Jessie L. Hoopes, of Chapter 950, Swarthmore, Pa. ; "The
Distribution of Lead," by Mr. Cary Carper, of Chapter 807, Bur-
lington, Iowa; and Notes on the Grasshopper," by Mr. George L.
Marsh, of Marshalltown, Iowa.
In.the evening the delegates marched in a body to the banquet-
hall, which had been elaborately decorated.
Three long tables extending across the hall were laden with all
that goes to make a delicious banquet. They were adorned with
flowers, gracefully arranged in beautiful sea-shells; while here and
there more elaborate designs lent dignity to the scene. One of the
handsomest wreaths was of pure white flowers, on which the name
Agassiz appeared, in flowers of glowing red, thus combining the
national colors of Switzerland. After the delegates had enjoyed the
feast, Prof. McBride, of the Iowa State University, acting as toast-
master, called upon the President of the Association to respond to
the first toast, Louis Agassiz.
Among the other toasts proposed, and happily responded to by
members and friends of the A. A., were: "The Scientists who Help
Us"; "The Agassiz Association in Our Homes"; "Our Girls";
"Our Boys "; "The Iowa Assembly of the A. A."
At the conclusion of his speech in response to the last toast,
President Boynton surprised the Presidentof the A. A. by presenting
to him, on behalf of the Iowa Assembly, an extremely handsome
jeweled watch charm, in the form of the Swiss cross, our Association
The proceedings of Thursday opened with a pleasant trip to Gov-
ernment Island, where a photograph of the entire convention was
taken, with the grim background of one of the arsenal buildings.
In the afternoon, after a lively discussion of some of the ninety-
five intricate questions found in the Question-Box, a number of papers
on Methods of Work, 'and a series of very interesting historical
sketches of various Chapters of the A. A., were read, and President
H. H. Ballard gave an address on "The History and the Aims
of the Agassiz Association." In the evening Professor McBride



delivered a lecture of surpassing interest and pathos on Palissy,
the Huguenot potter.
On Friday a delightful excursion was made down the Mississippi
to Buffalo, where a picnic was enjoyed on the beautiful grounds of
Captain Clarke.
During the week, and particularly on Wednesday morning, the
delegates were received most cordially at the Academy of Sciences,
where many pleasant hours were spent in'-examining the rare and
valuable specimens belonging to that institution--indian relics,
copper axes, pipes, ancient pottery, and the much-discussed tablets
with strange inscriptions. We must mention as the most beautiful
objects in the Academy two slabs on which lie tangled, in a pattern
of marvelous grace and loveliness, no less than nineteen different
species of crinoids, or "stone-lilies," which have been so skillfully
worked out by the patient dexterity of Mr. Pratt, the curator, that
each is perfect in stem and flower, and every several joint.
On the whole, the convention was a marked success. It served to
acquaint the delegates with one another, to establish friendships,
quicken zeal, and arouse popular interest It will result in the for-
mation of many new Chapters, and in the organization of Assem-
blies" in other States. Already, in Massachusetts, Illinois, New
York, Michigan, Dakota, Kansas, Nebraska, and Maine, move-
ments are on foot looking toward this desirable end; and it is almost
safe to predict that the next National Convention will meet in one
of those States, under the auspices of its State Assembly."
H. H. B.

THE preceding report of our Convention, at Davenport, brings our
Association pleasantly to the close of another year.
The outlook for the future was never so bright. Many new Chap-
ters are rapidly organizing, and old Chapters are uniting in State
Assemblies; new courses of study are being planned, and better
methods of work are being learned.
Now, at the beginning of the year, is the best time to join us.
Look over the files of ST. NICHOLAS for the past five years, or write
for our A. A. HAND-BOOK, and you will learn all about our history
and our aims. We most cordially invite you all, young and old, to
join us in our work.
We are planning two important courses of study for the coming
year--one, a continuation of the course in mineralogy, so success-
fully accomplished under Professor Crosby, and the other, a some-
what similar course in elementary zoblogy. If nothing unforeseen
shall occur, we hope to make definite announcement of one or both
these courses in the December number of this magazine. Let us
now take a survey of the work accomplished during the year by the

Chapters 6o0 to 700, inclusive.
60o, Purvis, Miss. We have lately received a beautiful lot of
shells that came as ballast on a ship from the West Indies. We
should like to exchange with other Chapters, and can furnish speci-
mens of Mississippi flowers.- R. S. Cross, Sec.
604, Fredonia, N. Y. Our Chapter steadily holds its way, get-
ting and doing what good it can. Our six members have observed
and learned much during the year, and all have the benefit of what
one learns. One visited Kansas, Nebraska, and Dakota, and
brought home to us mineral specimens and an interesting account
of the wonderful and beautiful scenery of the West. Two of us vis-
ited the noted Panama Rocks," in this county, so interesting to
geologists. One has taken the course of study in minerals, which has
proved a great help to us all. Our entomologist has raised, besides
many, other species, twenty Luna moths and thirty of the Bombyx
mori. Wishing continued prosperity to the A. A.- Mrs. Jennie N.
Curtis, Sec.
605, Graveslend, Essex Co., N. J. I am pleased to be able to
tell you that our Chapter is gaining ground rapidly. We have had
fifteen dollars appropriated from the treasury for the purchase of
books to form the nucleus of a library. Hoping to increase in good
work, and grateful for kind words from you:- Wilber W. Jackson,
[This refort-ame a_ ago, buthas not been printed.]
609, Brooklyn, N. Y., After our vacation, it was good to come
'together again, and see what each had to tell of summer work. One
brought four cases of mounted insects; another, a quantity of speci-
mens from the seashore; another, many pressed flowers. One of
the very youngest had a note-book with notes of some interesting
things she had seen, as, for instance, a snake-skin which she had
picked up on the road. It was wrong side out, and perfect from
head to tail. Two members studied caterpillars from observation,

keeping them in a room in the wood-house. One borer caterpil-
lar made its way into the side of a pine box, where it is now, with
the entrance neatly gummed up.
One of the older members was able to interest some little children
in the A. A. during the summer, and they saw all the changes
of the Danais Archiefpus, from tiny caterpillars just hatched on
the swamp milkweed, until the perfect butterfly came out. The
cocoon, you know, is one of the most beautiful, and these children
were so interested, that they collected other caterpillars, and soon
had fouror five kinds of cocoons, besides butterflies and dragon-flies
mounted, and, best of all, their eyes open to look around them and
see what they too can find. We meet every Wednesday afternoon
at three o'clock, and seldom have a member absent, which is a good
sign that we like to come.- Philip Van Ingen, Cor. Sec.
[This report, too, has been wnaitinginxourpigeon-hole some time.]
6fo, Racine, Wisconsin. In February last an effort was made
to renew the work of this Chapter. A meeting was held, March 2o,
at which the following officers were elected and renewed: H. L.
Wheeler, President; Geo. S. Whitney, Treasurer; F. C. Emery,
Secretary; Chas. F. Lewis, Corresponding Secretary.
From this meeting the Chapter has been doing good work. The
specimens collected during the past two years have been to a great
extent classified. Lectures have been given on "Air," "Circula-
tion of the Blood" (with illustrations), "Termites," and "Hive
Bees." These were all excellent and very instructive.
We have several cocoons in a case, and from others have hatched
some fine moths. We have aroom where we meet, and in which are
the cabinets (2), specimens, books, and instruments, In connection
with our Chapter we have what we call an associate membership.
This consists of those members of the school who are not old enough
to become regular active members, and of those who are desirous of
becoming active members. These associates have the access to the
room when an active member is in it: they collect specimens fdr the
Chapter, and may attend the meetings, but need not. By means of
this we are able to train the younger boys, and test the steadfastness
of the older ones.
We have about one hundred classified geological specimens, thirty-
five of which have been lately presented to us. These latter are
Lake Superior ores. We have also about one hundred unclassified
We have about forty o6logical specimens, a good number of books,
and several instruments. Among these is a microscope. We also
have the use of a very powerful microscope belonging to the college
630, N. Y. City. Our Chapter was only organized a little over a
month ago, but we are getting on very well. The members who
study ornithology are fast making a collection of birds. During the
winter we expect to meet once a week.-Rufus Hatch Jr., Sec.
644, Philadelphia, Pa. At present we have on our roll the names
of fourteen active and four honorary members. Our meetings are
held on the first and third Mondays of each month, and for the last
six months have been well attended, much of the interest manifested
being due to a series of lectures on chemistry, well illustrated with
experiments by our Curator, Geo. E. Paul. Papers have been read
on various subjects, among them "The Cicada" (Professor Holt,
one of our honorary members, being present with his specimens and
adding much to the evening's instruction);
"Cyclosis in vegetable cells";
"Volvox Globator" ;
"What is a Diatom";
Hydra Vulgaris";
(These four were illustrated by specimens under the microscope,
two of our members owning instruments.)
The Chemistry of Bread-making," etc.
The Chapter had its picnic on June 24th, on the banks of the
Wissahickon Creek. As part of the entertainment we had a heavy
hail-storm; none of the stones were longer than Y-inch, but their
numbers made up their lack of size. We noticed that the stone had
a white snowlike nucleus, then a layer of clear ice, and outside
another layer of hardened snow.- E. F. Lindsay, Sec., 25 South
6th St.
645, Bath, N. Y. The following question has been asked, and
not answered by any of us; we should like to have it put in ST.
NicHOLAS-What is instinct? We are getting along as well as
usual, having about eight or ten regular members. With the best
wishes for the prosperity of the A. A.-Wm. H. Church, Sec.
655, New Lyme, Olio. No. 655 was organized in the spring of
'84 with seven (7) members.
As most of us were students at So. New Lyme, the Chapter soon
broke up, for many of us were from abroad.
Nevertheless, since that time I have not given up.
I, the only member at the present time, am at New Lyme still, at-
tending school. I spend what time I can in collecting, studying,
and labeling specimens.
During the winter I spent a good many hours out in the cold try-
ing to draw snow crystals. I succeeded in getting quite a large
number. I will copy them as soon as possible, and send them to
As to collecting butterflies and insects, I have had no luck at all.



In my last term of school (which closed June 17), I began botany
and became very much interested in it. I therefore obtained a lim-
ited knowledge of flowers.
I have exchanged with different persons and obtained a large
number of specimens. I have also received some very fine speci-
mens from friends in the West.
- My whole collection contains about 200 specimens.-F. E. Loucks.
672, Chicago Lawn. Will youplease publish for me a notice in the
next issue of the ST. NICHOLAS, asking all the Chapters in Illinois
to correspond with me in regard toorganizing a State Assembly? 1
hope we will be able to organize in llinois. It will draw the mem-
bers closer together, and benefit us in many ways.
Your obedient servant, George L. Brockman,
Mount Sterling, Illinois.

[ We call the special attention of all Illinois Chapters to this im-
portant announcement.]

676, Burlington, N. J. This Chapter has the honor of reporting
to you that it is in a fine condition, and has admitted one new mem-
ber, whose name is Robert Ewan. The following report is respect-
fully submitted to you for inspection, and is a true statement of the
condition of our Chapter at the present time.
Our collection embraces,
Minerals .......... .272-300 specimens.
Birds' eggs......... 200-225
Fossils ......... ....50- 75
Also woods, mosses, petrifactions, marne curiosities, land and
water shells, and other articles not classified. Also Indian ax-heads,
corn-pounders, arrow and spear-heads, drills, skinners, etc., in ad-
dition to about 500 coins (U. S. cents, etc.)--which are plainly not
formations of nature 1 Charles P. Smith, Jr.
678, Taunton, MAIass. Since my last report our Chapter has de-
creased in membership, but increased in interest. There are now
only four members in our Chapter. This year has been the most
successful since we began. In the winter, we had lecturesand essays
on different subjects, some of which were illustrated by the polyop-
ticon. On the evening of Agassiz's birthday we gave an entertain-
ment and an exhibition of specimens. In the winter we had an
unfortunate accident by which we lost quite a number of eggs, but
we have worked harder than ever, and made good the loss, along
with more valuable specimens. We are at work now, principally
on minerals and plants. Our curator has mounted some pretty
specimens of seaweed, while on a vacation. We have discovered in
this locality some very fine specimens of pink chalcedony. We took
Professor Crosby's course in mineralogy, and found it highly inter-
esting. Wishing success to the A. A.- Daniel J. Mehegan, Sec.
682, Philadelhkia, Pa. During the year our Chapter has had no
formal meetings, but as the members are in the same family we do
not find them necessary.
In July the Chapter was presented with several cucujos from Cuba
which we kept alive several weeks on sugar-cane from Cuba. They
make a beautiful greenish light, over which they have perfect control.
The Secretary devoted the month of August to the collection and
study of the common Lepidoptera of Philadephia, of which he
has quite a collection.-Jas. E. Brooks, Sec.
684, Gilbertsville, N. Y. Our meetings during the winter were
held less frequently, and the attendance was so limited that we were
inclined to be discouraged, but now the interest is rapidly increasing,
and our meetings will, no doubt, prove very profitable.
Several new members have been added during the past year, and
visitors are present at nearly every meeting. During the winter
many of our subjects were taken from the Grallatores. Other sub-
jects were the large animals, such as the elephant, rhinoceros, etc.
During the spring we studied fishes, especially those of our streams.
Elizabeth Bryant, Sec.
698, Middleport, N. Y. Our Chapter is just as lively to-day as
ever it was. At the closing exercises of our school, we had our cab-
inets, pictures, and charter, all trimmed with bunting and flowers,
and a visiting clergyman gave us a very high compliment and wished
us-the best success. A good many of us can analyze any of the
common flowers. We have fifty members.-J. W. Hinchey, Pres.
700, Mt. Pleasant, Iowa. We havejust finished Professor Crosby's
lessons in mineralogy, and found them very instructive. We have
about two hundred specimens, but they are not all classified. We sent
three delegates to the convention at Davenport. They enjoyed it
very much, and we hope to profit by it. We expect to continue the
study of geology, but will not rely so much on books and minerals
from a distance, but study the minerals found around home.-Grace
Roberts, Sec.


[Besides the following, a late but gratifying report comes from
585, Buffalo, N. Y.]

514, Iowa City, Iowa. Our Chapter is progressing. We num-
ber fourteen members. For the -past year we have held meetings
once a week, with but three exceptions. Of those meetings one
out of every three would be a lecture; while the other two would be
taken up with papers and discussions by the members.
We have a large cabinet filled with fossils, minerals, and marine
specimens. We have some forty bird-skins and a good start on a
collection of insects; also one hundred pressed plants, analyzed and
mounted. Different members have made about sixty excursions
in this vicinity during the year. Yours truly, Dillon L. Ross, Sec.
584, Colorado Strings. We are a family of father, mother, and
two sons, who are both over twenty-one, and we are all interested in
this "undeveloped country." We have a way of getting informa-
tion about birds and rocks, but until the appearance of Professor
Coulter's "Rocky Mountain Botany," we could only gather and ad-
mire the flowers. The A. A. mentioned Professor Jones among its
scientists, and we knew him to be good authority; so, to avail our-
selves of his knowledge, we joined the Association, and are not sorry.
We have transplanted into our yard the following wild shrubs and
Bear raspberry. Columbine (four species).
Spirea (two species). Larkspur.
Saxifrage. Meadow rue.
Plum. Red gilia.
Choke-cherry. Geranium (three species).
Flowering currant. White lily.
Wolfberry. Cactus (six species).
Wild rose. Penstemon (six species).
Woodbine. Fairy-bell.
Peas. Anemone (two species).
Clematis (two species). Moccasin flower.
Harebell. Violet (two species).
We have also a large collection of the wild flowers of this region,
dried and named as far as we have been able to get their names. We
are arranging a cabinet of shells, mosses, and seeds.--Mrs. E. B.
McMorris, Sec.
PENTREMITES and oilitic limestone, for fossils and minerals.-
John W. Durkee, Jr., Bowling Green, Ky.
Correspondence on botany desired with Chapters far South or
North.-Miss Nellie Scull, Rochester, Ind.
Fine specimens of serpentine, marble, felspar, mica, garnets in the
rough, and conglomerate, all correctly labeled with name and local-
ity, for Indian relics, etc.-E. C. Gilbert, 217 William St, Bridge-
port, Conn.
Minerals. Lists exchanged.- Daniel J. Mehegan, Taunton, Mass.
Lepidoftera.- J. F. Estes, Sec., Arnold's Mills, R. I.


No. Name. No. of Members. Address.
976 Malden, Mass. (C) ..... 9..Miss Nellie Esau.
977 Bridgeport, Conn. (B) ... 4.. E. C. Gilbert, 217 William St.
978 Ashburnham, Mass. (B)..x2..Mrs. A. B. Marble.
979 Chillicothe, 0. (A)....... 4..John Ruhrah.
980 Des Moines, Iowa (A).. 4..Miss Jessie Sharpnack,
1,45 9th St.
981 Cumberland, R. I. (A)... 5..J. F. Estes, Arnold's Mills, R. I.
982 Rindge; N. H (A) ..... 8..Ansel Phelps, Camp Harvard.
983 Birmingham, Ala. (B).... 4..John L. Hibbard, box 492.
630 New York, N. Y. (Q) ... 6..Rufus Hatch, Jr., 475 5th Ave.
350 Orange. Cal. (A) ........ 4..M. F. Bradshaw.
9go York, Pa. (A).......... 5.. Miss Annie Strickler.
2 Cape Romain, S. C. (A) .t2..Miss Mary Van B. Stevenson
(via McClellanville).
88 New York, N. Y. (C).... 4..R. S. Bright, 643 W. 48th St.
4 Lacrosse, Wis. (A)....... 4..Mrs. D. S. McArthur,
212 S. 6th St.
680 Taylorville, Il. (A)....... 4..Samuel Cook.
887 Grinnell, Iowa (A) ...... 4.."A. A. Box 523."
90o Hartford, Conn.......... 7..F. W. Colton, 31 Firb-.r ct
742 Jefferson, 0. (B) ........ I..A. E. Warren, Ric- Vi\ta, Va.


907 Meriden, Iowa..............Members removed from town.
421 Petaluma, Cal .............. Miss Cora E. Derby.
299 Watertown, N. Y............Nicoll Ludlow, Jr.
All are invited to join the Association. Secretaries of Chapters
80o-9oo, please report at once. Address all communications for this
department to MR. HARLAN H. BALLARD,




HERE are four more letters from far-away lands one of the litt
writers living in Russia, another in Queensland, another in Sou
Africa, and a fourth in the Sandwich Islands:
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little Russian girl who lives
Moscow. 1 have been receiving your journal for the last thr
years, and like it more than any other journals I receive. I third
SLittle Lord Fauntleroy is the prettiest story I ever read. I hoj
you will print this letter; please do. We spend the summer in t
country, and we enjoy ourselves very much. I have been in tl
Crimea last year, and will go there again this autumn. It was the
I saw the sea for the first time, and I love it very much. I was on
very near being drowned. We went out to sea in a boat, and
storm came on; our mast was broken, and two or three waves we:
over the boat, so that we were quite wet, but still we came safe
to shore.
I am afraid this letter will be too long if I go on.
Your loving little reader, MAROUSSA S.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: You are the dearest and best of all n
books, and I do want to write and tell you so.
My father has taken ST. NICHOLAS four years for me, and nc
they are bound.
I live on a small island in the Pacific. I have two little brothel
Jack and Leonard, and we have fine games on the rocks.
I have just had a lovely doll out from England, where we used
live two years ago.
I have not read your big stories yet. I like "Little Red Hen
in September number, 1885, very much, and I think the Brownies
very funny.
We have some very pretty flowers, most of them grown from see
we brought from England.
We go out in a boat sometimes.
Please do print my letter in the Letter-Box. Mother thinks p<
haps you will, as you don't have many letters from little girls
North Queensland. I am seven and a half years old.
From your little friend, DOROTHY S- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been taking you for a year
more, and I think you very pleasant to read; and it seems to
that I can not part with you. Papa brought me the first numbers
you, but he is going to get me the other numbers also. My eld(
sister, Rosa, is eleven years old, and I have a little sisaur Ella, w
is four years old, and I am eight years. So, dear ST. NICHOLAS,
Your constant reader, KATIE A. TEPPE.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In one of the late numbers of the ST. NICi
iAS I read a very interesting article on Vegetable Clothing," an
thought perhaps some of the readers of the ST. NICHOLAS would li
to hear about the vegetable clothing that the natives of the Sandwi
Islands used to wear. The cloth is called tapa, or kapa. It is ma
from the bark of the Wauke tree. The bark is soaked in water ur
the fibers are all separated; then it is spread out on a flat surfa
and pounded with a hard wooden mallet until all the fibers adhe
together. The mallet has different patterns cut out on it, and as
tapa is pounded, the pattern is stamped on it. It is very scan
and costs a great deal now, as there are only a few old natives w
know how to make it. I have lived here just one year, and expi
to go back to California soon. I think this is a delightful pla'
and would much rather stay here a year or twd longer than to
back now. The fruits of the island are delicious. We have fi1
mangoes, guavas, pawpaws, oranges, ohias, and bananas all ripe no
I am afraid I am making this letter too long, so I will say, "Alohb

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The following incident came to my knoi
edge only a few days ago, and I thought it so good that I ha
determined to send it to you.

le Budd is a small boy of six summers. His teacher had been trying
th to explain to him the movement of the earth upon its axis. At might,
when he was being put to bed, he surprised his mother by asking
that she would wake him very early the next morning. His mother
in asked him why he wished to get up so early. He replied, "I want
Sto see China go by."
k Very truly yours, JOHN G. READING, JR.
a DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Don't you wish you could come up here
ly to Stockbridge? My little five-year-old city cousin is here and finds
many curious things to interest him. He has just finished dictating
to me a letter to his father. He says in it, The trees are all made
of wood, and- the-leaves are painted green inside and out" This
shows the value of observation.
Yours truly, MAISY M. G.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In reading "George Washington," in
.w yourJuly number, I saw an account of the battle of Monmouth.
We live about four miles from the battle-ground. The old Tennent
as, church, which stood on the battle-ground, is still standing and in
good repair. It has two rows of small windows and a quaint little
to steeple. Inside, the pulpit is built very high and has a sounding-
board hanging over it. The pews are high, straight-backed, and
," very uncomfortable; many of them are stained with the blood of
the Revolutionary soldiers. Visitors sometimes chip pieces out with
their penknives to carry away as mementoes. Just outside the door
ds stands a sturdy oak which stood there at the time of the battle. At the
west end of the church is the grave of Colonel Moncton, a Scotch
soldier of the British army. Farther down the road on the battle-
er- ground stood the ofd Tennent parsonage, where the Rev. William
in Tennent lived. When they tore it down, several years ago, many
relic-seekers went there for relics, and my father has a cane, the
wood of which was cut from a beam in the house. Monday, the
S2th of June, was the one hundred and eighth anniversary of the
battle. Hoping this letter will not be too long to print, I remain,
Your interested reader, MARIANA VAND- .

ne DEAR ST. NICHOLaS: I enjoy you somuch that I thought I
of ought to write and tell you so. I think that Little Lord Fauntle-
est roy is the loveliest story And is n't he the dearest and most inter-
ho testing little fellow I was very much interested in From Bach to
Wagner," as 1 love music dearly, and- I was very sorry when it was
ended. I like Historic Girls very much, too; and I think Miss
Swett's stories are all perfectly delightful. I hope that she will
write another one soon; they are so natural, I think, and it seems
to me she must know and love girls and boys very well. I hope,
if we have any French historic girl, that it will be Joan of Arc, for I
0o- like her very much; she was so splendidly brave. I have taken
SI you for a long time, and I should like to take you always, even
ke when I am grown up. I wonder if all your readers hate to grow
ch up as I do. Now, good-bye, dear ST. NICHOLAS.
de Your true reader, MADELINE S. ASHMOND.
ho DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: My brother has taken you for a year, and
t ware all very fond of you. My brother has had a lot of letters from
SAmerica about some pop-corn in a letter of his in the February num-
go ber. Please print this, as it is the first I have written. I would
Sbe so pleased to have it put in. I am nine years old. My brother
is writing this for me. Your affectionate little reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: One night my papa came home from up-
town with a ST. NICHOLAS. It was the Christmas number of e88o.
Since that time my sister and I have had every numberbut one. We
are all very much interested in "Little Lord Fauntleroy." Papa
vl- and mamma and a number of our neighbors are reading it. I think
ve Lord Fauntleroy is very cute," and often wish he was my brother.
Your constant reader, MABEL T--.




The following are the final letters received by ST. NICHOLAS con-
cerning the vexed question of curve-pitching:
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Allow me to give a hint toward the solu-
tion 6o the ball-curve question.
If a light piece of wood, say two inches square and a foot long, be
thrown sidewise, with a swift rotation, it will make a sharp curve in
the direction of the rotation ; because one side rolls over the air un-
obstructed, while the opposite side rolls swiftly against the air, and
that side acts as a sail, striking obliquely against the air with force
enough to crowd it out of right line.
I suppose a ball curves for the same reason, and therefore it would
not curve in the vacuum.
A rifle-ball curves from another cause, and it would .curve still
more in a vacuum. E. C. G.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been very much interested in the
discussion of the "curved" ball, and wish to submit the following
explanation of "why a ball curves," for those of your readers who
may be interested in the problem.
I consider Mr. Stevens's theory correct, as given in your Letter-
Box for April, but the force he has in mind is in reality overcome by
a greater force, which causes the ball to curve in the opposile direc-
tion, as stated by Mr. Folsom.
In order the more fully to understand tta he action of this force, let
us suppose a ball to be thrown swiftly forward without rotation.
The air meets all parts of the front of the ball at the same velocity,
and hence there is no tendency for the ball to deviate from its course.
But now, while moving forward, suppose the ball to rotate rapidly
from right to left about a vertical axis, the air will then meet the
right-hand portion of the ball with a velocity equal to the forward
motion of the ball lns the motion of rotation, and the left-hand por-
tion with a velocity equal to the forward motion minus the motion
of rotation. Hence it is plain that the air impinges upon the right-
hand portion of the ball with greater velocity than on the left-hand
portion. This difference of velocity causes a difference of pressure,
which is greater on the right-hand side of the ball than on the left,
and hence the ball is crowded over" to the left, causing the "out-
The anonymous communication in your February number gives
all the conditions correctly, but arrives at a wrong conclusion, as in
fact the ball would curve the other way under the conditions there
A complete discussion of this problem would be interesting, but
would take too much space and time for the present purpose. If the
above is of sufficient interest to warrant it, please insert it in the
Letter-Box. An interested reader, ARTHUR C. BRAUCHER.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wish to reply to your correspondentFred.
N. Folsom, whose letter willbe found on page 476, April number of
ST. NICHOLAS, regarding the fact- for it is a fact- that a ball thrown
with a twist will not curve the right way to suit the theory of Robt.
L. Stevens and others. It seems to me the followingis the solution:
a The ball is thrown from P with
the left twist, as indicated in the dia-
f gram, but instead of curving to the
Right, as R. L. S. supposes, it takes
the path P, B and curves to the left.
Now with the ball in motion at M, there is a compacted cushion of
air in front of it and comparatively little behind it. The side w
carries air, by friction, backward, while x carries it forward. That
carried by w meets no resistance and is thrown off tangentially, in
the rear of the ball; that carried by r is opposed by the air-cushion
before spoken of, and tends to collect at the point z. Consequently
the ball meets resistance at z, the effect of which is to drive it in the
curve P, B. Quod erat denmonstrandnum. J. L. K.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Like Mr. Fred. Folsom, I am not a sub-
scriber to you, but I have bought you of our newsdealer for about
seven years, and so I also claim my little say on the curve ball
The ball most certainly does curve in the opposite direction from
that indicated in your February number (the circumstances being
the same), and the same mistake is in the explanation in the April
number also.
Now I should like to offer an original explanation; and in the first
place I will say that I think the air has nothing to do with it.
When the ball leaves or starts from
A ...-. 0, it is supposed to be revolving as
S-"(--f' -"""'-- indicated by the arrow. We will mark
--- ^ the upper half A, and the lower B.
SWhile the ball is going the distance
from O to 0', we suppose the ball
makes one-fourth of a revolution, and then we will see that the
upper half, A, has gone farther than the lower half, B. A, A > B, B.

Now the ball has a new upper half, D, and a new lower half, C,
and in another one-fourth revolution D will again go farther than
C. D, D> C, C.
Thus we see that the tot is constantly gaining on the bottom, and
the ball must, therefore, curve. The same is true of any direction
(sideways or up) in which the ball may whirl.
I have drawn the path of the ball straight, for convenience, and
have also imagined that the ball changes its upper half at every one-
fourth revolution; but of course it does change constantly, but the
effect is just the same.
I hope you will publish this explanation, as I am confident that it
is correct; and I further believe that if the whole distance, the veloc-
ity, and the distance the ball goes while revolving once were given,
a skillful mathematician could figure the distance the ball would
curve. Yours forever, STEVE GOODMAN.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wish so much to put a letter in your
Letter-Box and let you know how much we all enjoy your magazine,
which I have taken for a long time. I go to school to the Cobble-
stone school; so we call the scholars cobble-stones. My teacher,
Miss A--, takes your beautiful magazine for the school, and reads
to us every day. We are very much interested in Frank R. Stockton's
writings, especially when he took us to Naples and the buried cities
of Pompeii and Herculaneum. We are also anxiously waiting for
the next number to see what the queer little Brownies are going to
do. I am nine years old. Perhaps next month you will hear from
another cobble-stone; we are nearly sixty in number, and all of us
wish to tell how we like you.
Your little friend, CARL P-.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you since I was eleven,
for nearly three years. I like you better than any English magazine,
and we all think you are awfully jolly.
I have sent you a little poem; it is my first, so I do hope you will
print it. I should like to write a book of poems.
I shall take you always, even when I am grown up.
Always your loving ERICA.


A SEA-GULL white speeds o'er the deep blue sea;
The sheep and lambs wind slowly o'er the lea;
The children, laughing gayly, run home to tea.
A pretty yacht blown onward by the wind,
A lovelier sight I 'm sure you ne'er would find.-
Remember, children, always to be kind.

The children, off to school, run o'er the hill,
Over the brook and meadows, past the mill;
The hunter, gun in hand, goes forth to kill.

ANOTHER young poet, a girl of thirteen, sends us the following:
A week to-day,
Since a lovely baby-boy came to stay,
In the cozy cottage over the way.

Of course he 's sweet,
From crown of head to soles of feet;
But he needs a name to make him complete.

What's in a name ? "
Beautiful meanings they oftticies claim;
No life will be worse for a good old name.

Man of his word"
Means Roger; Phineas, name of a friend ";
Gilbert, "light of many" ; Hugh, "mighty to the end."

Shall we call him
Ralph, Robert, or George ?- (all family names-
Malcolm and Donald have similar claims).

What odds to me?
Why care Iso much what the name shall be?
I the baby's young auntie,-don'tyou see?





PI. THERE is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dripping in warm light the pillared clouds.
LONGFELLOW.- "Autumn."
DECAPITATIONS. Eastern, astern, stern, tern, ern, R. N. (Royal
Navy), N.
EASY HALF-SQUARE. I. Panama. 2. Aside. 3. Nina. 4. Ada.
5. Me. 6. A.
Laced. 4. Fiction. 5. Deign. 6. Don. 7. N. II. N. 2.
Cup. 3. Canal. 4. Nuncios. 5. Paint. 6. Lot S. III. x.
N. 2. Nap. 3. Natal. 4. Natures. 5. Parma.. 6. Lea. 7. S.
IV. i. N. 2. Hop. 3. Hotel. 4. Notices. 5. Pecan. 6. Len
(to). 7. S. V. i. S. 2. Aim. 3. Armed. 4. Similes. 5.
Melee. 6. Dee. 7. S.
CONNECTED WORD-SQUARES. Scabbard. Upper square: x.
Sect. 2. Echo. 3. Cham. 4. Tomb. Lower square: I. Brad.
2. Race. 3. Acre. 4. Deed.
UNIFORM REMAINDERS. Tear. i. Hearty. 2. Hatred. 3.
Maters. 4. Barter. 5. Retard. 6. Crates. 7. Prated. 8. Parted.
9. Stream. ao. Cretan. ia. Stared. 12. Treats..

ILLUSTRATED PUZZLE. Harvest-time. I. Humiliation. a. Ap-
pellation. 3. Renovation. 4. Valuation. 5. Exhortation. 6.
Situation. 7. Transportation. 8. Temptation. 9. Isolation. 0o.
Misquotation. ix. Education.
DOUBLE ACROSTICS. I. Primals, Heir; finals, Loom. Cross-
words: r. HerbaL. 2. EskinO. 3. IndigO. 4. RansoM. II.
Primals, Cachalot; finals, Physeter. Cross-words: I. ClasP. 2.
ApisH. 3. CrazY. 4. HymnS. 5. AlonE. 6. LeasT. 7. OlivE.
8. TapiR.
The sweet, calm sunshine of October now
Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold
The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough
Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
BRYANT. October, 866,"
CUBE. From I to 2, steamers; 2 to 4, seashore; 3 to 4, glad-
some; I to 3, skimming; 5 to 6, swimmers; 6 to 8, sandwich; 7 to 8,
strength; 5 to 7, skippers; to 5, sails; 2 to 6, seals; 4 to 8, earth;
3 to 7, gulls.
PECULIAR ACROSTICS. All Hallow E'en. All Saints' Eve. Cross-
words: l. mArtiAl. 2. gLobuLe. 3. sLeekLy. 4. cHeriSh.
5. cAravAn. 6. pLastIc. 7. gLowiNg. 8. rOseaTe. 9. sWin-
iSh. xo. rEverEs. as. rEserVe: 12. aNnulEt.

To OUR PUZZLERS: In sending answers to puzzles, sign only your initials or use a short assumed name; but if you send a complete
list of answers you may sign your full name. Answers should be addressed to ST. NICHOLAS Riddle-box," care of THE CENTURY CO.,
33 East Seventeenth street, New York City.
ANSWERS TO ALL THE PUZZLES IN THE AUGUST NUMBER were received, before August 2o, from Paul Reese- Edith Noel-Beth H.
-L. and N. T.- Hugh G. Leighton-M. E. P.-Maggie T. Turrill-Effie K. Talboys and J. A. S.-"N. 0. Tarys"-Hazel-
Nellie and Reggie -" Original Puzzle Club "- Francis W. Islip.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE AUGUST NUMBER were received, before August 20, from Harriet A. Dick, a Chiddingstone and
Elmhurst, 6-" Clio," N. L. H., 3--J. F.Weir, r -" Nelly Bly," 3--Alice R. D., 4 -" Friedrich," 4 -M. Sherwood, 8 -W. E.
G., I--L. M. S., -- L. B. R., i-" Gen'l K.," 5- F. D., 5 -" Nanki-po," 3--Alice M. and Daisy M. B., I -L. W. Mitchell, i-
S. K. W., r- J. A. H., 2 Addie Bowles, I J. E. Nickerson, H. R. H., 3- Chase, 2 -Lizzie W., 4 -" N. Bumpo," 2-" Miss
Hurricane," o -" S. Lunn and J. Cake," ix L. D. S., 3 Ada H., I -"J. A. Berwock," 4-" Violet K.," 2 -I. C. A., i Retlaw,
3-" Lord Dolphin," 2- E. D., 2- Ernest G., E. A. Haight, I- Elsie, 2- Algarve, 4--J. A. M., x -" Oakdale, L. I.," io-
A. E. P., 2 -C. M., 2--E. B. N., i-" Ninon," 3--E. C. Patterson, H. H. C., I--"R. O. O. Ster," 6- Colonel and Reg, i -
W. K. C., i-"Lynn C. Doyle," 3 -W. H. C., a--" Yum Yum," i -E. W. and K. B. Knight, 4-" Ben Zeene," 5 "Lilyan," 2 -
Bayard Sweeney, 3-W. G. U., r-Celynn, 7-X. Y. Z., 9-K. C. and H. S., 9-F. H. Knauff, 3-Jo and I, ro-W. R. M., ro-
E. S. C., i-C. C. Rittenhouse, 8-" Agricola," 9-Emilie Q. N. Moon, 4-Dolph, 2-Noiram Krap, 4-Two Cousins, x--Puzzler,
a -" Little L. F.," 2 Nell, Lou, and Jo, 7 Waterbury, 9 -A. G. L., 6- W. L. C., 2- C. and H. Condit, 9--"Ronnoc," 2- Gex,
3 Lily Wells, 2 Alfred and Howard, I F. Jersey, ro G. Whiz and S. K. I., i Stuffand Nonsense," 5 -One of "The Pards,"
6-J. C.,'4.


I. ACROSS: i. Conical. 2. A cavalry sword. 3. Purport 4. At
no time. 5. To crowd or compress closely.
DOWNWARD: i. In store. 2. Like. 3. To touch lightly. A
boy's name. 5. To re-establish. 6. To wander. 7. A color. 8.
Two-thirds of a fashionable covering for floors. 9. In store.
II. ACROSS: I. To fasten. 2. Abodyofwater. 3. Tested. 4. To
follow. 5. Stalks.
DOWNWARD: I. In secure. 2 An exclamation. 3. To perform.
4. Withered. 5. Aches. 6. A home. 7. Owed. 8. A printer's
measure. 9. In secure H. H. D. AND "TOPSY AND EVA."

EACH of the following anagrams may be transposed to form the
name of a famous man.
a. C. will love R. more. 2. I fed regal jams. 3. A pale barn
poet? No, no. 4. I am Jan N. Flinnberk. 5. A wit-mill, Tip.
6. A soft hen's for Jem. 7. No, call a Brahmin. 8. Butcher Mo-
riul's chops. TOPSY AND EVA."
MY primals, when read downward, will spell the name of a wheat-
prdducing State.
CROSS-WORDS: z. A city of New Hampshire. 2. The State in
which Lincoln's youth was spent. 3. A State noted for its silver
mi~s. 4. A republic of Central America. g. A celebrated river of

Asiatic Turkey. 6. The name of a town of India which means
"city of the lion." 7. A large river whose name begins and ends
with the same letter. 8. The largest of the United States. 9. A
river of South America. S. G. s.
BELST eb hotes saftse hwit meplis plyent wedcron,
Wheer lal eth durdy yalmif drouan
Gluha ta teh jetss ro kraspn halt even laif
Ro sihg thiw pyt ta meos furlumon tela.


S 6

3 4

7 . 8
FROM I to 2, to dismay; from 2 to 4, marine; from 3 to 4, pertain-
ing to the tropics; from I to 3, aromatic; from 5 to 6, to become
mortified; from 6 to 8, capable of being drawn out; from 7 to 8, to
choke; from 5 to 7, splendid; from I to 5, a banner; from 2 to 6,
part of a tea-pot; from 4 to 8, part of the ear; from 3 to 7, sailors.





York in the year 0830; the fourth row of letters spell a kind of
. ship first built in that year; and the last row of letters will spell
small but useful instruments first manufactured in that year.
CROSS-WORDS: The son of Agamemnon. 2. A kind of swallow.
3. What a Frenchwoman calls table-linen. 4. To bathe all over.
Full to the top. 6. What a washerwoman should do to help m
cleaning linen (two short words). 7. The nationality of one of the
friends of Job. 8. To encompass. 9. Excess beyond what is
wanted. E. L. E.


THE answer to this rebus is a very familiar maxim, and the
Latin quotation above it embodies the same idea.

To A word of two letters, meaning a Roman weight of twelve
ounces, add a small coin, and make a mounting upward, 2. To
the same two letters add the name of a German metaphysician, and
make sideways. 3. A long step, and make awry. 4. To begin a
voyage, and make to set upon. 5. Dispatched, and make to yield.
6. A gesture, and make a person to whom property is transferred.
7. Declines, and make stock-in-trade 8. Dimension, and make
any court ofjustice. 9. Kind, and make to arrange in order. io.
Certain, and to make confident. II. A bird, and make the rear of a
ship. z1. A waiter, and make wrong. L. LOS REGNI."

MYvirst, though false and bad and low,
At bottom 's good always:
At night my second 's seen, although
'T is always round by day.
My whole 's a sport that's all the go,
And yet has come to stay. ADA AND HARRY.

ACROSS: 1. In cantaloupe. 2. A genus of serpents. 3. An ex-
clamation of regret: 4. A chemical substance. 5. A chief officer.
6. Chinese weights. 7. A name by which seaweeds were formerly
called. 8. A boy's name. 9. In cantaloupe.
DOWNWARD: I. In cantaloupe. 2. A part of a circle. 3. Close
by. 4. A plaster. 5. An alliance. 6. Tartness. 7. The joints
covered by the patella. 8. Printers' measures. 9. In cantaloupe.
EACH of the words described contains seven letters. When these
have been rightly guessed and written one below the other, the first
row of letters will spell the name of vehicles introduced into New


I. UPPER SQUARE: I. A kind of food mentioned in the Bible.
2. To profit. 3. Termed. 4. A relative. 5. A kind of tree.
II. LEFT-HAND SQUARE: x. An agreeable odor. 2. A compet-
itor. 3. Egg-shaped. 4. Indian corn. 5. A kind of tree.
III. CENTRAL SQUARE: I. A kind of tree. 2. To depart. 3.
Ventures. 4. An incident. 5. Intermissions.
IV. RIGHT-HAND SQUARE: I. Pauses. 2. A girl's name. 3.
Polish. 4. Rigid. 5. Repose.
V. LOWER SQUARE: x. Reposes. 2. To bring into active opera-
tion. 3. A Spanish form of address. 4. A figure of speech. 5.
To scatter. M. A. S.
I. I. A friend. 2. A compound of oxygen and abase free from
acid and salt. 3. Sleeplessness. 4. A Roman magistrate. 5. To
let anew.
II. I. Employment. 2. To mature. 3. A fruit. 4. A city of
Hindostan. 5. An epic poem written by Virgil.
III. I. To cast down. 2. A division of Southern Germany.
3. To grant entrance. 4. To take by force. 5. To engage in.
IV. Ornamental vessels. To venerate. Pertaining to
the sun. 4. To obliterate. 5. Withered.
V. i. An open shed for sheltering cattle. 2. A musical drama.
3. The goddess of female beauty. 4. To break forth. 5. Molds
of the human foot.
VI. i. The beginning of a journey. 2. A river of Europe. 3.
Overhead. 4. To vie with in return. 5. Plentiful in forests.
F. L. P.


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