Front Cover
 Between sea and sky
 Answered riddle jingles
 A warning
 Wizard frost
 The story of Prince Fairyfoot
 Effie's realistic novel
 The porcelain stove
 If I were a boy
 Crizel Cochrane's Ride
 Jenny's boarding-house
 Juan and Juanita
 The ministering children's...
 Among the gas-wells
 Mrs. Feathertail and squire...
 A philopena
 The Brownies' singing-school
 The human melodeon
 Saru-kani kassen
 The battle of the monkey and the...
 Peas porridge hot
 The letter-box
 Editorial notes
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00181
 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: VID00181
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
        Front Cover 2
        Front Cover 3
    Between sea and sky
        Page 242
        Page 243
        Page 244
        Page 245
        Page 246
        Page 247
        Page 248
        Page 249
        Page 250
    Answered riddle jingles
        Page 251
    A warning
        Page 252
    Wizard frost
        Page 253
    The story of Prince Fairyfoot
        Page 254
        Page 255
        Page 256
        Page 257
    Effie's realistic novel
        Page 258
        Page 259
        Page 260
        Page 261
    The porcelain stove
        Page 262
        Page 263
        Page 264
        Page 265
        Page 266
    If I were a boy
        Page 267
        Page 268
        Page 269
        Page 270
        Page 271
    Crizel Cochrane's Ride
        Page 271
        Page 272
        Page 273
        Page 274
        Page 275
        Page 276
        Page 277
        Page 278
    Jenny's boarding-house
        Page 279
        Page 280
        Page 281
        Page 282
        Page 283
    Juan and Juanita
        Page 284
        Page 285
        Page 286
        Page 287
        Page 288
        Page 289
    The ministering children's league
        Page 290
        Page 291
    Among the gas-wells
        Page 292
        Page 293
        Page 294
        Page 295
        Page 296
        Page 297
    Mrs. Feathertail and squire fuzz
        Page 298
        Page 299
        Page 300
        Page 301
    A philopena
        Page 302
    The Brownies' singing-school
        Page 303
        Page 304
        Page 305
    The human melodeon
        Page 306
        Page 307
    Saru-kani kassen
        Page 308
        Page 309
        Page 310
    The battle of the monkey and the crabs
        Page 311
        Page 312
        Page 313
        Page 314
        Page 315
    Peas porridge hot
        Page 316
    The letter-box
        Page 317
    Editorial notes
        Page 318
    The riddle-box
        Page 319
        Page 320
        Unnumbered ( 83 )
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text



VOL. XIV. FEBRUARY, 1887. No. 4.

[Copyright, 1887, by THE CENTURY CO.]

CELAND is the most beautiful land the
sun doth shine upon," said Sigurd
Sigurdson to his two sons.
"How can you know that, Father,"
asked Thoralf, the elder of the two
boys, "when you have never been
anywhere else?"
"I know it in my heart," said Sigurd devoutly.
It is, after all, a matter of taste," observed the
son. I think, if I were hard pressed, I might be
induced to put up with some other country."
S"You ought to blush with shame," his father
rejoined warmly. "You do not deserve the name
of an Icelander, when you fail to see how you have
been blessed in having been born in so beautiful
a country."
"I wish it were less beautiful and had more
things to eat in it," muttered Thoralf. "Salted cod-
fish, I have no doubt, is good for the soul, but it
rests very heavily on the stomach, especially when
you eat it three times a day."
"You ought to thank God that you have cod-
fish, and are not a naked savage on some South

Sea isle, who feeds like an animal on the herbs of
the earth."
But I like codfish much better than smoked
puffin," remarked Jens, the younger brother, who
was carving a pipe-bowl. "Smoked puffin always
makes me sea-sick. It tastes like cod liver oil."
Sigurd smiled, and, patting the younger boy on
the head, entered the cottage.
You should n't talk so to Father, Thoralf," said
Jens, with superior dignity; for his father's caress
made him proud and happy. "Father works so
hard, and he does not like to see any one discon-
"That is just it," replied the elder brother; "he
works so hard, and yet barely manages to keep
the wolf from the door. That is what makes me
impatient with the country. If he worked so hard
in any other country he would live in abundance,
and in America he would become a rich man."
This conversation took place one day, late in
the autumn, outside of a fisherman's cottage on
the northwestern coast of Iceland. The wind
was blowing a gale down from the very ice-en-


girdled pole, and it required a very genial temper
to keep one from getting blue. The ocean, which
was but a few'hundred feet distant, roared like an
angry beast, and shook its white mane of spray,
flinging it up against the black clouds. With
every fresh gust of wind, a shower of salt water
would fly hissing through the air and whirl about
the chimney-top, which was white on the wind-
ward side from dried deposits of brine. On the
turf-thatched roof big pieces of driftwood, weighted
down with stones, were laid lengthwise and cross-
wise, and along the walls fishing-nets hung in fes-
toons from wooden pegs. Even the low door was
draped, as with decorative intent, with the folds of
a great drag-net, the clumsy cork-floats of which
often dashed into the faces of those who attempted
to enter. Under a driftwood shed which projected
from the northern wall was seen a pile of peat, cut
into square blocks, and a quantity of the same
useful material might be observed down at the
beach, in a boat which the boys had been unload-
ing when the storm blew up. Trees no longer
grow in the island, except the crippled and twisted
dwarf-birch, which creeps along the ground like
a snake, and, if it ever dares lift its head, rarely
grows more than four or six feet high. In the
olden time, which is described in the so-called
sagas of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, Ice-
land had very considerable forests of birch and
probably also of pine. But they were cut down;
and the climate has gradually been growing colder,
until now even the hardiest tree, if it be induced
to strike root in a sheltered place, never reaches
maturity. The Icelanders therefore burn peat,
and use for building their houses driftwood, which
is carried to them by the Gulf Stream from Cuba
and the other-well-wooded isles along the Mexican
"If it keeps blowing like this," said Thoralf,
fixing his weather eye on the black horizon, "we
shan't be able to go a-fishing; and Mother says
the larder is very nearly empty."
I wish it would blow down an Englishman
or something on us," remarked the younger
brother; Englishmen always have such lots of
money, and they are willing to pay for everything
they look at."
While you are a-wishing, why don't you wish
for an American? Americans have mountains
and mountains of money, and they don't mind a
bit 'what they do with it. That 's the reason I
should like to be an American."
Yes, let us wish for an American or two to
make us comfortable for the winter. But I am
afraid it is too late in the season to expect foreign-
The two boys chatted together in this strain,

each working at some piece of wood-carving
which he expected to sell to some foreign traveler.
Thoralfwas sixteen years old, tall of growth, but
round-shouldered, from being obliged to work
when he was too young. He was rather a hand-
some lad, though his features were square and
weather-beaten, and he looked prematurely old..
Jens, the younger boy, was fourteen years old,
and was his mother's darling. For even up-under
the North Pole mothers love their children ten-
derly, and sometimes they love one a little more
than another; that is, of course, the merest wee
bit of a fraction of a trifle more. Icelandic moth-
ers -are so constituted that when one child is a
little weaker and sicklier than the rest, and thus
seems to be more in need of petting, they are apt
to love their little weakling above all their other
children, and to lavish the tenderest care upon
that one. It was because little Jens had so narrow
a chest, and looked so small and slender by the
side of his robust brother, that his mother always
singled him out for favors and caresses.


ALL night long the storm danced wildly about
the cottage, rattling the windows, shaking the
walls, and making fierce assaults upon the door,
as if it meant to burst in. Sometimes it bellowed
hoarsely down the chimney, and whirled the ashes
on the hearth, like a gray snowdrift, through the
room. The fire had been put out, of course; but
the dancing ashes kept up a fitful patter, like
that of a pelting rainstorm, against the walls; they
even penetrated into the sleeping alcoves and pow-
dered the heads of their occupants. For in Ice-
land it is only well-to-do people who can afford to
have separate sleeping-rooms; ordinary folk sleep
in little closed alcoves, along the walls of the sit-
ting-room; masters and servants, parents and chil-
dren, guests and wayfarers, all retiring at night
into square little holes in the walls, where they
undress behind sliding trapdoors which may be
opened again, when the lights have been put out,
and the supply of air threatens to become exhausted.
It was in a little closet of this sort that Thoralf and
Jens were lying, listening to the roar of the storm.
Thoralf dozed off occasionally, and tried gently
to extricate himself from his frightened brother's
embrace; but Jens lay with wide-open eyes, star-
ing into the dark, and now and then sliding the
trapdoor aside and peeping out, until a blinding
shower of ashes would again compel him tp slip
his head under the sheepskin coverlet. When at
last he summoned courage to peep out, he could
not help shuddering. It was terribly cheerless
and desolate. And all the time, his father's words


~5y] E W EN S A N KY 4

kept ringing ironically in his ears: "Iceland is
the most beautiful land the sun doth shine upon."
For the first time in his life he began to ques-
tion whether his father might not possibly be
mistaken, or, perhaps, blinded by his love for his
country. But the boy immediately repented of
this doubt, and, as if to convince himself in spite
of everything, kept repeating the patriotic motto
to himself until he fell asleep.
It was yet pitch dark in the room, when he was
awakened by his father, who stood stooping over
Sleep on, child," said Sigurd; it was your
brother I wanted to wake up, not you."
What is the matter, Father? What has hap-
pened ? cried Jens, rising up in bed, and rubbing
the ashes from the corners of his eyes.
"We are snowed up," said the father quietly.
It is already nine o'clock, I should judge, or
thereabouts, but not a ray of light comes through
the windows. I want Thoralf to help me open the
Thoralf was by this time awake, and finished
his primitive toilet with much dispatch. The
darkness, the damp cold, and the unopened win-
dow-shutters impressed him ominously. He felt
as if some calamity had happened or were about
to happen. Sigurd lighted a piece of driftwood
and stuck it into a crevice in the wall. The storm
seemed to have ceased; a strange, tomb-like
silence prevailed without and within. On the low
hearth lay a small snowdrift which sparkled with
a starlike glitter in the light.
Bring the snow-shovels, Thoralf," said Sigurd.
Be quick; lose no time."
"They are in the shed outside," answered Tho-
That is very unlucky," said the father; "now
we shall have to use our fists."
The door opened outward, and it was only with
the greatest difficulty that father and son suc-
ceeded in pushing it ajar. The storm had driven
the snow with such force against it that their efforts
seemed scarcely to make any impression upon the
dense white wall which rose up before them.
-" This is of no earthly use, Father," said the
boy; "it is a day's job at the very least. Let
me rather try the chimney."
But you might stick in the snow and perish,"
objected the father anxiously.
Weeds don't perish so easily," said Thoralf.
Stand up on the hearth, Father, and I will
climb up on your shoulders," urged the boy.
Sigurd half reluctantly complied with his son's
request, who crawled up his father's back, and soon
planted his feet on the paternal shoulders. He
pulled his knitted woolen cap over his eyes and

ears so as to protect them from the drizzling soot
which descended in intermittent showers. Then,
groping with his toes for a little projection of
the wall, he gained a secure foothold, and, push-
ing boldly on, soon thrust his sooty head through
the snow-crust. A chorus as of a thousand howl-
ing wolves burst upon his bewildered sense; the
storm raged, shrieked, roared, and nearly swept
him off his feet. Its biting breath smote his face
like a sharp whip-lash.
"Give me my sheepskin coat," he cried down
into the cottage; "the wind chills me to the bone."
The sheepskin coat was handed to him on the
end of a pole, and seated upon the edge of the
chimney, he pulled it on and buttoned it securely.
Then he rolled up the edges of his cap in front
and cautiously exposed his eyes and the tip of his
nose. It was not a pleasant experiment, but one
dictated by necessity. As far as he could see, the
world was white with snow, which the storm
whirled madly around, and swept now earthward,
now heavenward. Great funnel-shaped columns
of snow danced up the hillsides and vanished
against the black horizon. The prospect before
the boy was by no means inviting, but he had
been accustomed to battle with dangers since his
earliest childhood, and he was not easily dismayed.
With much deliberation, he climbed over the edge
of the chimney, and rolled down the slope of the
roof in the direction of the shed. He might have
rolled a great deal farther, if he had not taken the
precaution to roll against the wind. When he had
made sure that he was in the right locality, he
checked himself by spreading his legs and arms;
then, judging by the outline of the snow where
the door of the shed was, he crept along the edge
of the roof on the leeward side. He looked more
like a small polar bear than a boy, covered, as he
was, with snow from head to foot. He was pre-
pared for a laborious descent, and raising himself
up he jumped with all his might, hoping that his
weight would carry him a couple of feet down.
To his utmost astonishment he accomplished con-
siderably more. The snow yielded under his feet as
if it had been eider-down, and he tumbled head-
long into a white cave right at the entrance to
the shed. The storm, while it had packed the
snow on the windward side, had naturally scattered
it very loosely on the leeward, which left a con-
siderable space unfilled under the projecting eaves.
Thoralf picked himself up and entered the shed
without difficulty. He made up a large bundle of
peat, which he put into a basket'which could be
carried, by means of straps, upon the back. With
a snow-shovel he then proceeded to dig a tunnel
to the nearest window. This was not a very hard
task, as the distance was not great. The window






was opened and the basket of peat, a couple of
shovels, and two pairs of skees* (to be used in case
,of emergency) were handed in. Thoralf himself,
who was hungry as a wolf, made haste to avail
himself of the same entrance. And it occurred to
him as a happy afterthought that he might have
saved himself much trouble if he had selected the

p ft *- : .', r . i:"; .'- .
._ ,4 V


window instead of the chimney, when he sallied
forth on his expedition. He had erroneously taken
it for granted that the snow would be packed as
hard everywhere as it was at the front door. The
mother, who had been spending this exciting half-
hour in keeping little Jens warm, now lighted a
fire and made coffee; and Thoralf needed no

coaxing to do justice to his breakfast, even though
.t had, like everything else in Iceland, a flavor of
salted fish.

FIVE days had passed, and still the storm raged
with unabated fury. The access to the ocean was
cut off, and, with that, ac-
cess to food. Alreadythe
last handful of flour had
been made into bread,
and of the dried cod which
hung in rows under the
ceiling only one small
and skinny specimen
remained. The father
and the mother sat with
mournful faces at the
hearth, the former read-
ing in his hynin-book,
the latter stroking the
hair of her youngest boy.
Thoralf, who was carv-
Sing at his everlasting
pipe-bowl (a corpulent
and short-legged Turk
with an enormous mus-
tache), looked up sud-
denly from his work and
S glanced questioningly at
his father.
"i Father," he said ab-
1: ruptly, "how would you
I like to starve to death ? "
God will preserve us
from that, my son," an-
swered the father de-
Not unless we try to
preserve ourselves," re-
torted the boy earnestly.
"We can't tell how long
., this storm is going to
last, and it is better for
us to start out in search
of food now, while we are
yet strong, than to wait
-_ -.-_ until later, when, as like-
HIMNEY." ly as not, we shall be
weakened by hunger."
But what would you have me do, Thoralf?"
asked the father sadly. "To venture out on the
ocean in this weather would be certain death."'
True; but we can reach the Pope's Nose on our
skees, and there we might snare or shoot some auks
and gulls. Though I am not partial to that kind of
diet myself, it is always preferable to starvation."

*Skees are a kind of snowshoe, four to six feet long, bent upward in front, with a band to attach it to the foot in the middle.



"Wait, my son, wait," said Sigurd earnestly.
We have food enough for to-day, and by to-
morrow the storm,will have ceased, and we may go
fishing without endangering our lives."
As you wish, Father," the son replied, a trifle
hurt at his father's unresponsive manner; but if
you will take a look out of the chimney, you will
find that it looks black enough to storm for another
The father, instead of accepting this suggestion,
went quietly to his book-case, took out a copy
of Livy, in Latin, and sat down to read. Occa-
sionally he looked up a word in the lexicon
(which he had borrowed from the public library at
Reykjavik), but read nevertheless with apparent
fluency and pleasure. Though he was a fisher-
man, he was also a scholar, and during the long
winter evenings he had taught himself Latin and
even a smattering of Greek.* In Iceland the peo-
ple have to spend their evenings at home; and es-
pecially since their millennial celebration in 1876,
when American scholars f presented the people with
a large library, books are their unfailing resource.
In the case of Sigurd Sigurdson, however, books
had become a kind of dissipation, and he had to
be weaned gradually of his predilection for Homer
and Livy. His oldest son especially looked upon
Latin and Greek as a vicious indulgence, which no
man with a family could afford to foster. Many
a day when Sigurd ought to have been out in his
boat casting his nets, he staid at home reading.
And this, in Thoralfs opinion, was the chief rea-'
son why they would always remain poor and run
the risk of starvation, whenever a stretch of bad
weather prevented them from going to sea.
The next morning-the sixth since the break-
ing of the storm- Thoralf climbed up to his post
of observation on the chimney top, and saw, to
his dismay, that his prediction was correct. It had
ceased snowing, but the wind was blowing as
fiercely as ever, and the cold was intense.
"Will you follow me, Father, or will you not?"
he asked, when he had accomplished his descent
into the room. '"Our last fish is now eaten, and
our last loaf of bread will soon follow suit."
I will go with you, my son," answered Sigurd,
putting down his Livy reluctantly. He hadjust been
reading for the hundredth time about the expul-
sion of the Tarquins from Rome, and his blood
was aglow with sympathy and enthusiasm.
Here is your coat, Sigurd," said his wife,
holding up the great sheepskin garment, and as-
sisting him in putting it on.

And here are your skees and your mittens and
your cap," cried Thoralf, eager to seize the mo-
ment when his father was in the mood for action.
Muffled up like Eskimos to their very eyes,
armed with bows and arrows and long poles with
nooses of horse-hair at the ends, they sallied forth
onrtheir skees. The wind blew straight into their
faces, forci.L their breaths down their throats
and compelling them to tack in zigzag lines like
ships in a gale. The promontory called "The
Pope's Nose" was about a mile distant; but in
spite of their knowledge of the land, they went
twice astray, and had to lie down in the snow,
every now and then, so as to draw breath and
warm the exposed portions of their faces. At the
end of nearly two hours, they found themselves at
their destination, but to their unutterable astonish-
ment, the ocean seemed to have vanished, and as
far as their eyes could reach, a vast field of packed
ice loomed up against the sky in fantastic bas-
tions, turrets, and spires. The storm had driven
down this enormous arctic wilderness from the
frozen precincts of the pole; and now they were
blockaded on all sides, and cut off from all inter-
course with humanity.
"We are lost, Thoralf," muttered his father,
after having gazed for some time in speechless
despair at the towering icebergs; we might just
as well have remained at home."
"The wind, which, has blown the ice down up-
on us, can blow it away again too," replied the
son with forced cheerfulness.
"I see no living thing here," said Sigurd, spy-
ing anxiously seaward.
"Nor do I," rejoined Thoralf; but if we hunt,
we shall. I have brought a rope, and I am going
to pay a little visit to those auks and gulls that
must be hiding in the sheltered nooks of the rocks."
"Are you mad, boy?" cried the father in
alarm. "I will never permit it! "
There is no help for it, Father," said the boy
resolutely. "Here, you take hold of one end of
the rope; the other I will secure about my waist.
Now, get a good strong hold, and brace your feet
against the rock there."
Sigurd, after some remonstrance, yielded, as
was his wont, to his son's resolution and courage.
Stepping off his skees, which he stuck endwise into
the snow, and burrowing his feet down until they
reached the solid rock, he tied the rope around his
waist and twisted it about his hands, and at last,
with quaking heart, gave the signal for the peril-
ous enterprise. The promontory, which rose ab-

Lord Dufferin tells, in his Letters from High Latitudes," how the Icelandic pilots conversed iith him in Latin, and other travelers
have many similar tales to relate.
t Prof. Willard Fiske, of Cornell University, was instrumental in collecting in the United States a library of several thousand volumes,.
which he presented to the Icelanders on the one thousandth birthday of their nation.




ruptly to a height of two or three hundred feet
from the sea, presented a jagged wall full of nooks
and crevices glazed with frozen snow on the wind-
ward side, but black and partly bare to leeward.
"Now, let go!" shouted Thoralf; "and stop
when I give a slight pull at the rope."
"All right," replied his father.
And slowly, slowly, hovering in mid-air, now
yielding to an irresistible impulse of dread, now
brave, cautious, and confident, Thoralf descended
the cliff, which no human foot had ever trod be-
fore. He held in his hand the pole with the
horse-hair noose, and over his shoulder hung
a foxskin hunting-bag. With alert, wide-open
eyes he spied about him, exploring every cranny
of the rock, and thrusting his pole into the holes
where he suspected the birds might have taken
refuge. Sometimes a gust of wind would have
flung him violently against the jagged wall if he
had not, by means of his pole, warded off the col-
lision. At last he caught sight of a bare ledge,
where he might gain a secure foothold; for the
rope cut him terribly about the waist, and made
him anxious to relieve the strain, if only for a mo-
ment. He gave the signal to his father, and by
the aid of his pole swung himself over to the pro-
jecting ledge. It was uncomfortably narrow, and,
what was worse,'the remnants of a dozen auk's
nests had made the place extremely slippery.
Nevertheless, he seated himself, allowing his feet
to dangle, and gazed out upon the vast ocean,
which looked in its icy grandeur like a forest of
shining towers and minarets. It struck him for
the first time in his life that perhaps his father
was right in his belief that Iceland was the fairest
land the sun doth shine upon; but he could not
help reflecting that it was a very unprofitable kind
of beauty. The storm whistled and howled over-
head, but under the lee of the sheltering rock it
blew only in fitful gusts with intermissions of com-
parative calm. He knew that in fair weather this
was the haunt of innumerable seabirds, and he
concluded that even now they could not be far
away. He pulled up his legs, and crept carefully
on hands and feet along the slippery ledge, peering
intently into every nook and crevice. His eyes,
which had been half-blinded by the glare of the
snow, gradually recovered their power of vision.
There What was that? Something seemed to
move on the ledge below. Yes, there sat a long row
of auks, some erect as soldiers, as if determined to
face it out; others huddled together in clusters, and
comically woe-begone. Quite a number lay dead
at the .base of the rock, whether from starvation or
as .the victims of fierce fights for the possession

of the sheltered ledges could scarcely be deter-
mined. Thoralf, delighted at the sight of any-
thing eatable (even though it was poor eating),
gently lowered the end of his pole, slipped the
noose about the neck of a large, military-looking
fellow, and, with a quick.pull, swung him out over
the ice-field. The auk gave a few ineffectual flaps
with his useless wings,* and expired. His picking
off apparently occasioned no comment whatever
in his family, for his comrades never uttered' a
sound nor stirred an inch,. except to take posses-
sion of the place he had vacated. -Number two
met his fate with the same listless resignation ; and
numbers three, four, and five were likewise re-
moved in the same noiseless manner, without im-
pressing their neighbors with the fact that their
turn might come next. The birds were half-be-
numbed with hunger, and their usually alert senses
were drowsy and stupefied. Nevertheless, number
six, when it felt the noose about its neck, raised
a hubbub that suddenly aroused the whole col-
ony, and, with a chorus of wild screams, the
birds flung themselves down the cliffs or, in their
bewilderment, dashed headlong down upon the
ice, where they lay half stunned or helplessly
sprawling. So through all the caves and hiding-
places of the promontory the commotion spread,
and the noise of screams and confused chatter
mingled with the storm and filled the vault of the
sky. In an instant, a great flock of gulls was on
the wing, and circled with resentful shrieks about
'the head of the daring intruder who had disturbed
their wintry peace. The wind whirled them about,
but they still held their own, and almost brushed
with their wings against his face, while he struck
out at them with his pole. He had no intention
of catching them; but, by chance, a huge burgo-
master gull* got its foot into the noose. It made
an ineffectual attempt to disentangle itself, then,
with piercing screams, flapped its great wings,
beating the air desperately. Thoralf, having
packed three birds into his hunting-bag, tied the
three others together by the legs, and flung them
across his shoulders. .Then, gradually trusting
his weight to the rope, he -slid off the rock, and
was about to give his father the signal to hoist
him up. But, greatly to his astonishment, his
living captive, by the power of its mighty wings,
pulling at the end of the pole, swung him consid-
erably farther into space than- he had calculated.
He would have liked to let go -both the gull and
the pole, but he perceived instantly that if he did,
he would, by the mere force of his weight, be
flung back against the rocky wall. He did not
dare take that risk, as the blow might be hard

*The auk can not fly well, but uses its wings for swimming and diving.
*The burgomaster gull is the largest of all gulls. It is thirty inches long, exclusive of its tail, and its wings have a span of five feet.





enough to stun him. A strange, tingling sen-
sation shot through his nerves, and the blood
throbbed with a surging sound in his ears. There
he hung suspended in mid-air, over a terrible preci-
pice- and a hundred feet below was the jagged
ice-field with its sharp, fiercely-shining steeples !
With a powerful effort of will, he collected his
senses, clenched his teeth, and strove to think
clearly. The gull whirled wildly eastward and
westward, and he swayed with its every motion
like a living pendulum between sea and sky. He
began to grow dizzy, but again his powerful will
came to his rescue, and he gazed resolutely up
against the brow of the precipice and down upon
the projecting ledges below, in order to accustom
his eye and his mind to the sight. By a strong
effort he succeeded in giving a pull at the rope,
and expected to feel himself raised upward by
his father's strong arms. But to his amazement,
there came no response to his signal. He repeated
it once, twice, thrice; there was a slight tugging
at the rope, but no upward movement. Then
the brave lad's heart stood still, and his courage
well-nigh failed him.
"Father !" he cried, with a hoarse voice of de-
spair; why don't you pull me up?"
His cry was lost in the roar of the wind, and
there came no answer. Taking hold once more
of the rope with one hand, he considered the
possibility of climbing; but the miserable gull,
seeming every moment to redouble its efforts at
escape, deprived him of the use of his hands un-
less he chose to dash out his brains by collision
with the rock. Something like a husky, choked
scream seemed to float down from above, and
staring again upward, he saw his father's head
projecting over the brink of the precipice.
"The rope will break," screamed Sigurd. "I
have tied it to the rock."
Thoralf instantly took in the situation. By the
swinging motion, occasioned both by the wind
and his fight with the gull, the rope had become
frayed against the sharp edge of the cliff, and his
'chances of life, he coolly concluded, were now not
worth a sixpence. Curiously enough, his agitation
suddenly left him, and.a great calm came over him.
He seemed to stand face to face with eternity; and
as nothing else that he could do was of any avail,
he could at least steel his heart to meet death like
a man and an Icelander.
I am trying to get hold of the rope below the
place where it is frayed," he heard his father shout
during a momentary lull in the storm.
"Don't try," answered the boy; "you can't do it,
alone. Rather, let me down on the lower ledge,
and let me sit there until you can go and get some
one to help you."

His father, accustomed to take his son's advice,
reluctantly lowered him ten or twenty feet until he
was on a level with the shelving ledge below, which
was broader than the one upon which he had first
gained foothold. But-oh, the misery of it!-the
ledge did not project far enough! He could not
reach it with his feet The rope, of which only
a few strands remained, might break at any mo-
ment and-he dared not think what would be the
result! He had scarcely had time to consider,
when a brilliant device shot through his brain.
With a sudden thrust he flung away the pole, and
the impetus of his weight sent him inward with
such force that he landed securely upon the broad
shelf of rock.
The gull, surprised by the sudden weight of the
pole, made a somersault, strove to rise again, and
tumbled, with the pole still depending from its leg,
down upon the ice-field.
It was well that Thoralf was warmly clad, or he
could never have endured the terrible hours while
he sat through the long afternoon, hearing the
moaning and shrieking of the wind and seeing the
darkness close about him. The storm was chilling
him with its fierce breath. One of the birds he tied
about his throat as a sort of scarf, using the feet
and neck for making the knot, and the dense,
downy feathers sent a glow of comfort through
him, in spite of his consciousness that every hour
might be his last. If he could only keep awake
through the night, the chances were that he
would survive to greet the morning. He hit upon
an ingenious plan for accomplishing this purpose.
He opened the bill of the auk which warmed his
neck, cut off the lower mandible, and placed the
upper one (which was as sharp as a knife) so that
it would inevitably cut his chin in case he should
nod. He leaned against the rock and thought of
his mother and the warm, comfortable chimney-
corner at home. The wind probably resented this
thought, for it suddenly sent a biting gust right
into Thoralf's face, and he buried his nose in the
downy breast of the auks until the pain had sub-
sided. The darkness had now settled upon sea
and land; only here and there white steeples
loomed out of the gloom. Thoralf, simply to
occupy his thought, began to count them. But
all of a sudden one of the steeples seemed to move,
then another -and another.
The boy feared that the long strain of excitement
vas depriving him of his reason. The wind, too,
after a few wild arctic howls, acquired a warmer
breath and a gentler sound. It cold not be pos-
sible that he was dreaming. For in that case he
would soon be dead. Perhaps he was dead al-
ready, and was drifting through this strange icy
vista to a better world. All these imaginings flit-



ted through his mind, and were again dismissed as
improbable. He scratched his face with ;the foot
of an auk in order 1., coriirine bhinmelf that h1e wasj
really awake. V'e, there c.-uld be no doubt of it;
he was wide awake. Accordingly he once more
fixed his eyes upon the ghostly steeples and towers,
and-it sent cold shudders down his back-they
were still moving. Then there came a fusilade as
of heavy artillery, followed by a salvo of
lighter musketry; then came a fierce grind-
ing, and cracking, and creaking sound, as if
the whole ocean were of glass and were
breaking to pieces. "What," thought
Thoralf, "if the ice is breaking to pieces!"
In an instant, the explanation of the whole
spectral panorama was clear as the day.
The wind had veered round to the south-
east, and the whole enormous ice-floe was
being driven out to sea. For several hours
-he could not tell how many-he sat
watching this superb spectacle by the pale
light of the aurora borealis, which toward
midnight began to flicker across the sky
and illuminated the northern horizon. He
found the sight so interesting that for a
while he forgot to be sleepy. But toward
morning, when the aurora began to fade
and the clouds to cover-the east, a terrible-
weariness was irresistibly stealing over him..
He could see glimpses of the black water
beneath him: and the shining spires of ice
were vanishing in the dusk, drifting rapidly
away upon the arctic currents with death
and disaster to ships and crews that might
happen to cross their paths.
It was terrible at what a snail's pace the
hours crept along It seemed to Thoralf
as if a week had passed since his father left
him. He pinched himself in order to keep
awake, but it was of no use; his eyelids
would slowly droop and his head would in-
cline-horrors what was that? Oh, he
had forgotten; it was the sharp mandible
of the auk that cut his chin. He put his
hand up to it, and felt something Warm
and clammy on his fingers. He was bleed-
ing. It took Thoralf several minutes to stay
the blood-the wound was deeper than he
had bargained for; but it occupied him and
kept him awake, which was of vital importance.
At last, after a long and desperate struggle with
drowsiness, he saw the dawn break faintly in the
,east.. It was a mere feeble promise of light, a re-
mote suggestion that there was such a thing as day.
But to the boy, worn out by the terrible strain of
death and danger staring him in the face, it was a
glorious assurance that rescue was at hand. The

tears cameinto hisTeyes--not tears of weakness,
.but tears o.f gratitude that the terrible trial had
been endured: Gradually the light spread like a
pale, grayish veil over the eastern sky, and the ocean
caught faint reflections of the presence of theunseen
sun. The wind was mild, and thousands of birds
that had been imprisoned by the ice in the crevices
of the rocks whirled triumphantly into the air and


plunged with wild screams into the tide below. It
was hard to imagine where they all had been, for
the air seemed alive with them, the cliffs teemed
with them; and they. fought, and shrieked,, and
chattered, like a howling mob in times of famine.
It was owing to this unearthly tumult that Thoralf
did not hear the voice which called to him from the
top of the cliff. His senses were half-dazed by the



noise and by the sudden relief from the excitement
of the night. Then there came two voices float-
ing down to him then quite a chorus. He tried
to look up, but the beetling brow of the rock pre-
vented him from seeing anything but a stout rope,
which was dangling in mid-air and slowly ap-
proaching him. With all the power of his lungs
he, responded to the call; and there came a wild
cheer from above- a cheer full of triumph and
joy, He recognized the voices of Hunding's sons,
who lived on the other side of the promontory; and
he knew that even without their father they were
strong enough to pull up a man three times his
weight. The difficulty now was only to get hold
of the rope, which hung too far out for his hands to
reach it.
"Shake the rope hard," he called up; and imme-
diately the rope was shaken into serpentine undu-
lations; and after a few vain efforts, he succeeded
in catching hold of the knot. To secure the rope
about his waist and to give the signal for the as-

cent was but a moment's work. 'They hauled vig-
orously, those sons of Hunding --or he rose, up,
along the black walls up up up -with no
uncertain motion. At last, when he was at the
very brink of the precipice, he saw his father's pale
and anxious face leaning out over the abyss. But
there was another face too Whose could it be?
It was a woman's face. It was his mother's.
Somebody swung him out into space; a strange,
delicious dizziness came over him; his eyes were
blinded with tears; he did not know where he was.
He only knew that he was inexpressibly happy.
There came a tremendous cheer from somewhere,-
for Icelanders know how to cheer,-but it pene-
trated but faintly through his bewildered senses.
Something cold touched his forehead; it seemed
to be snow; then warm drops fell, which were
tears. He opened his eyes; he was in his mother's
arms. Little Jens was crying over him and kissing
him. His father and Hunding's sons were stand-
ing with folded arms, gazing joyously at him.





Resolved he would write a valentine
To a maiden he thought both fair and fine.
" I 'll write it in flowing verse," quoth he;
" Her heart is like ice, but 't will melt for me,
When I vow that I write on my bended knee."
He took paper and ink and a new stub pen,
And to quicken his fancy he counted ten,
While he made a few flourishes now and then.
He rolled up his eyes and wrote, "Evermore";
Arose and said, as he walked the floor,
" Methinks that with motion my mind will soar."
Then he thought, To excitement I seem inclined;
I 'd better sit down to calm my mind,"
And he whistled for thought as do sailors for wind.
He patted his brow and he petted his chin,
With a pensive smile that resembled a grin;
He was sure that now he 'd begun to begin.
He heaved a sigh and scribbled, My lass";
Then mournfully went to watch in the glass
His feelings over his features pass.



^Atop.& (Q


-1 Va-

1887-] WIZARD FROST. 253

He could hear the rat-tat-tat of his heart,
And almost the thoughts he wished to impart.
"If I only," said he, could get a good start "
For inspiration he tore his hair
And gazed at the ceiling, but naught was there.
He groaned, Can this calm be the calm of despair? "
Thus he wore the hours of the night away,
But he wrote not a line for Saint Valentine's day-
For, you see,-- he had nothing at all to say.
To the maiden he thought so fair and fine,.
The post brought many a valentine,
But never a word from Z. S. De Klyn.



WONDROUS things have come to pass
On my square of window-glass:
Looking in it I have seen
Grass no longer painted green,
Trees whose branches never stir,-
Skies without a cloud to blur,-
Birds below them sailing high,-
Church-spires pointing to the sky,
And a funny little town
Where the people, up and down
Streets of silver, to .me seem
Like the people in a dream,
Dressed in finest kinds of lace;
'T is a picture, on a space
Scarcely larger than the hand,
Of a tiny Switzerland,
Which the wizard Frost has drawn
'Twixt the nightfall and the dawn;
Quick, and see what he has done,
Ere 't is stolen by the sun !






"WHAT pool-and what red berries ?" asked
the second nightingale.
"Why, my dear," said the first, "is it possible
you don't know about the pool where the red
berries grow--the pool where the poor, dear
Princess Goldenhair met with her misfortune?"
Never heard of it," said the second nightingale
rather crossly.
"Well," explained the other, "you have to
follow the brook for a day and three-quarters and
then take all the paths to the left until you come to
the pool. It is very ugly and muddy, and bushes
with red berries on them grow around it."
"Well, what of that?" said her companion;
"and what happened to the Princess Golden-
hair? "
"Don't you know that, either? exclaimed her
Ah! said the first nightingale, it was very
sad. She went out with her father, the King, who
had a hunting party; and she lost her way and
wandered on until she came to the pool. Her poor
little feet were so hot that she took off her gold-

embroidered satin slippers, and put them into the
water,- her feet, not the slippers,- and the next
minute they began to grow and grow, and to get
larger and larger, until they were so immense she
could hardly walk at all; and though all the physi-
cians in the kingdom have tried to make them
smaller, nothing can be done, and she is perfectly
"What a pity she does n't know about this
pool! said the other bird. "If she just came
here and bathed them three times in the water,
they would be smaller and more beautiful than
ever, and she would be more lovely than she has
ever been."
"It is a pity," said her companion; but you
know if we once let people know what this water
will do, we should be overrun with creatures bath-
ing themselves beautiful, and trampling our moss
and tearing down our rose-trees, and we should
never have any peace."
That is true," agreed the other.
Very soon after, they flew away, and Fairyfoot
was left alone. He had been so excited while they
were talking that he had been hardly able to lie
still. He was so sorry for the Princess Golden-
hair, and so glad for himself. Now he could find



his way to the pool with the red berries, .and he
could bathe his feet in it until they were large
enough to satisfy Stumpinghame; and he could
go back to his father's court, and his parents would
perhaps be fond of him. But he had so good a
heart that he could not think of being happy him-
self and letting others remain unhappy, when he
could help them. So the first thing was to find
the Princess Goldenhair, and tell her about the
nightingales' fountain. But how was he to find
her? The nightingales had not told him. He
was very much troubled, indeed. How was he to
find her?
Suddenly, quite suddenly, he thought of the
ring Gauzita had given him. When she had given
it to him she had made an odd remark.
When you wish to go anywhere," she had said,
"hold it in your hand, turn around twice with
closed eyes, and something queer will happen."
He had thought it was one of her little jokes,
but now it occurred to him that at least he might
try what would happen. So he rose up, held the
ring in his hand, closed his eyes, and turned
around twice.
What did happen was that he began to walk,
not very fast, but still passing along as if he were
moving rapidly. He did not know where he was
going, but he guessed that the ring did, and that
if he obeyed it, he should find the Princess Golden-
hair. He went on and on, not getting in the least
tired, until about daylight he found himself under
a great tree, and on the ground beneath it was
spread a delightful breakfast which he knew was
for him. He sat down and ate it, and then got
up again and went on his way once more. Before
noon he had left the forest behind him and was in
a strange country. He knew it was not Stump-
inghame, because the people had not large feet.
But they all had sad faces, and once or twice, when
he passed groups of them who were talking, he
heard them speak of the Princess Goldenhair, as
if they were sorry for her and could not enjoy
themselves while such a misfortune rested upon
"So sweet, and lovely, and kind a princess!"
tliy said; "and it really seems as if she would
never be any better."
The sun was just setting when Fairyfoot came
in sight of the palace. It was built of white marble
and had beautiful pleasure-grounds about it, but
somehow there seemed to be a settled gloom in
the,air. Fairyfoot had entered the great pleas-
ure-garden and was wondering where it would be
best to go first, when he saw a lovely white fawn,
with a golden collar around its neck, come bound-
ing over the flower-beds, and he heard, at a little
distance, a sweet voice saying sorrowfully, "Come

back, my fawn; I can not run and play with you
as once I used to: Do not leave me, my little
And soon from behind the trees came a line of
beautiful girls, walking two by two, all very slowly;
and at the head of the line, first of all, came the
loveliest princess in the world, dressed softly in
pure white, with a wreath of lilies on her long
golden hair, which fell almost to the hem of her
white gown.
She had so fair and tender a young face, and her
large, soft eyes yet looked so sorrowful, that Fairy-
foot loved her in a moment, and he knelt on one
knee, taking off his cap and bending his head un-
til his own golden hair almost hid his face.
"Beautiful Princess Goldenhair, beautiful and
sweet Princess, may I speak to you ?" he said.
The princess stopped and looked at him, and
answered him softly. It surprised her to see one
so poorly dressed kneeling before her, in her
palace-gardens, among the brilliant flowers; but
she always spoke softly to every one.
"'What is there that I can do for you, my
friend?" she said.
"Beautiful Princess,"answered Fairyfoot, blush-
ing, I hope very much that I may be able to do
something for you."
":For me!" she exclaimed. "Thank you,
friend; what is it you can do? Indeed, I need a
help I am afraid no one can ever give me."
Gracious and fairest lady," said Fairyfoot, "it
is that help, I think-nay, I am sure-that I
bring to you."
Oh said the sweet princess. You have a
kind face and most true eyes, and when I look at
you,-I do not know why it is, but I feel a little
happier. What is it you would say to me ? "
Still kneeling before her, still bending his head
modestly, and still blushing, Fairyfoot told his
story. He told her of his own sadness and lone-
liness, and of why he was considered so terrible
a disgrace to his family. He told her about the
fountain of the nightingales and what he had
heard there, and how he had journeyed through
the forest, and beyond it into her own country, to
find her. And while he told it, her beautiful face
changed from red to white, and her hands closely
clasped themselves together.
Oh she said when he had finished, I know
that this is true, from the kind look in your eyes.
And I shall be happy again. And how can I thank
you for being so good to a poor little princess
whom you had never seen ? "
Only let me see you happy once more, most
sweet Princess," answered Fairyfoot, and that
will be all I desire -only if, perhaps, I might
once-kiss your hand."




She held out her hand to him with so lovely a
look in her soft eyes that he felt happier than he
had ever been before, even at the fairy dances.
This was a different kind of happiness. Her hand
was as white as a dove's wing and as soft as a
dove's breast. "Come," she said; "let us go at
once to the King."
Within a few minutes the whole palace was in
an uproar of excitement. Preparations were made
to go to the fountain of the nightingales imme-
diately. Remembering what the birds had said
about not wishing to be disturbed, Fairyfoot asked
the King to take only a small party. So no one
was to go but the King himself, the Princess, in a
covered chair carried by two bearers, the Lord High
Chamberlain, two Maids of Honor, and Fairyfoot.
Before morning they were on their way; and the
day after, they reached the thicket of roses, and
Fairyfoot pushed aside the branches and led the
way into the dell.
The Princess Goldenhair sat down upon the edge
of the pool, and put her feet into it. In two min-
utes, they began to look smaller. She bathed them

once, twice, three times, and, as the nightingales
had said, they became smaller and more beautiful
than ever. As for the Princess herself, she really
could not be more beautiful than she had been;
but the Lord High Chamberlain,- who had been
an exceedingly ugly old gentleman,--after wash-
ing his face, became so young and handsome that
the first Maid of Honor immediately fell in love
with him. Whereupon she washed her face, and
became so beautiful that he fell in love with her,
and they were engaged upon the spot.
The Princess could not find any words to tell
Fairyfoot how grateful she was and how happy.
She could only look at him-again and again with
her soft, radiant eyes, and again and again give him
her hand that he might kiss it.
She was so sweet and gentle that Fairyfoot could
not bear the thought of leaving her; and when the
King begged him to return to the palace with them
and live there always, he was more glad than I can
tell you. To be near this lovely Princess, to be
her friend, to love and serve her and look at her
every day was such happiness that he wanted




nothing more. But first he wished to visit his
father and mother and sisters and brothersin Stump-
inghame; so the King and Princess and their
attendants went with him to the pool where the
red berries grew; and after he had bathed his
feet in the water, they were so large that Stump-
inghame contained nothing like them, even the
King's and Queen's seeming small in comparison.
And when; a few days later, he arrived at the
Stumpinghame Palace, attended in great state by
the magnificent retinue with which the father of
the Princess Goldenhair had provided him, he was
received with unbounded rapture by his parents.
The King and Queen felt that to have a son with
feet of such a size was something to be proud of,
indeed. They could not admire himi sufficiently,
although the whole country was illuminated and
feasting continued throughout his visit.
But though he was glad to be no longer a dis-
grace to his family, it can not be said that he en-
joyed the size of his feet very much on his own
account. Indeed, he much preferred being Prince
Fairyfoot, as fleet as the wind and as light as a
young deer, and he was quite glad to go to the

fountain of the nightingales after his visit was at
an end, and bathe his feet small again, and to re-
turn to the palace of the Princess Goldenhair with
the soft and tender eyes. There every one loved
him, and he loved every one, and was four times as
happy as the day is long.
He loved the Princess more dearly every day, and
of course, as soon as they were old enough, they
were married. And of course, too, they used to
go in the summer to the forest and dance in the
moonlight with the fairies, who adored them both.
When they went to visit Stumpinghame, they
always bathed their feet in the pool of the red
berries; and when they returned, they made them
small again in the fountain of the nightingales.
They were always great friends with Robin Good-
fellow, and he was always very confidential with
them about Gauzita, who continued to be as pretty
and saucy as ever.
Some of these days," he used to say severely,
"I '11 marry another fairy, and see how she '11 like
that to see some one else basking in my society I
I 'll get even with her I "
But he never did. THE END.

L. -... i
i' : a-: -:-:.,

-:---W ::' -r *Ii
_=:-:: .... _. ,

Vor,. XIV.-- 7.





"MAMMA, I don't see why I could n't write a
novel, now that it is the fashion to put into novels
just the plain things that everybody sees every
day. You know we have been studying recent
literature in Miss Owen's class at school, and it
seems as if it would be ever so easy to write a story
like those Mr. Howells writes."
But why do you try to make a novel out of it,
Effie? Perhaps you would not find it quite so easy
aiter all. Why not take just a simple story?"
Why, Mamma, a realistic novel is just a simple
story. That's why I like it, and why I think I can
do it. It 's just an account of what real people do
every day of their lives, and you don't have to in-
vent anything at all. It's very absurd, Mr. How-
ells says, to put troubadours and knights and all
sorts of unnatural adventures into a story nowa-
days. People are tired of such things."
"Well, but what will it be, Effie? A love
"No; I think not a love story."
"How are you going to write a novel without a
love story in it? "
"Why, Mamma, that's just it again A realis-
tic novel does n't have to have lovers. Indeed, it
must n't have lovers. All that sort of thing is very
old-fashioned in a novel."
"But, Effie," objected Lilian, Effie's older sister,
"I 'm quite sure Mr. Howells has lovers in his.
Why, don't you remember, one of his stories was
called 'Their Wedding Journey,' and I think
somebody is always married in all of them."
"Well," said Effie, thoughtfully, I 'll tell.you
how I think it is: You can have people engaged
and married, if you can't think of anything better
for them to do, only you must n't make a great
fuss about it. There must n't be all sorts of objec-
tions from the parents, and they must n't turn
pale with passion, and rave at each other in son-
nets, and all that sort of thing. They must just
get engaged sensibly and then go and get married,
the way people really do."
But what will you have your heroine do, if
she does n't fall in love or get married ? "
I don't know yet; I have n't made up my
mind; but I think I shall have her go into a con-
Oh, Effie! Mr. Howells would n't do that.
He would n't use a convent at all "
"Why not? There are convents. It is per-
fectly realistic to take things that really do exist."

"But then there are so few convents; and
comparatively few girls go into them nowadays.
I think, if you are going to be realistic, you will
have to tell just what the average girl, and not
the exceptional girl, does."
Oh, well; of course there are lots of other
.things she can do," said Effie. "I only happened
to think of a convent just then."
A few days afterward, Effie brought her first
chapter to her mother.
The name of the novel is 'Margaret P. Whar-
ton,' she explained. Don't you think it was
very realistic, Mamma, to put in that 'P'? They
don't generally, you know. They just call their
heroine 'Margaret Wharton,' or 'Helen Rains-
ford,' or 'Priscilla Remington'; but real girls al-
most always have an initial, so I put one in."
And what made you decide on a P ?" asked
Papa, who was supposed to be reading the paper,
but who was evidently listening.
"Why, because her middle name was Patter-
son !" answered Effie, promptly. "You would n't
have me put in an A' or a 'G or an 'R,' would
you, to stand for Patterson ? "
"Not for worlds," answered Papa, gravely.
"But, you see, I did n't know it was Patterson,
and in a realistic novel you ought not to leave any-
thing to the imagination. I might have supposed,
you know, that her middle name was. Porter or
Prentice. But go on, my dear."
"'Margaret Whart'- n was not what you would
call a beauty,' read E fe from her manuscript.
Wait a minute, Ermie: ):,u forgot the P.' "
"Oh, well, Papa," exclaimcd Effie, impatiently,
"of course you don't have to put in the 'P' every
time. 'Margaret Wharto n was not -what you
would call a beauty.' You see, Papa," she ex-
plained, in a realistic novel you must never go
to extremes about anything. In the old-fashioned
stories the heroine was always perfectly beautiful;
but real girls are not perfectly beautiful, and so I
could n't let Margaret Wharton "
"With a 'P,' Effie,- "
"- be as handsome as I should have liked to
make her. Margaret Wharton,' she began
again, 'was not what you would call a beauty.
Yet there was something singularly attractive
about her.' "
"Her clothes?" inquired Papa. But Effie con-
tinued, without deigning to notice the interrup-
tion-" 'Her hair, which was of the most beauti-




ful golden color, waved over her forehead in
little, short, lovely curls; while at the back
it was coiled into a shining knot that seemed
to have caught the sunbeams and imprisoned
them in its toils. Her eyes, which were gloriously
black in color, were full of infinite expression and
dreamy loveliness, enhanced in effect by the beau-
tifully arched eyebrows, and by the long lashes
that swept a cheek almost marble jn its pallor,
yet tinged at times with rosy blushes, like an ex-
quisitely tinted shell.' "
"And her nose ?" inquired Papa.
"I have n't come to her nose yet," answered
Effie with dignity. "'Her dainty little ears
peeped out from her luxuriant tresses as if they
wanted to hear the pretty things people were sure
to say about so lovely a face -'"
"Brava, Effie!" interrupted Papa, clapping
his hands. "That 's capital even if it is n't
realistic," he added, under his breath.
'-- while the pure, sweet mouth, arched in
the most exquisite curves, hid from view teeth
that were like a row of shining pearls.' "
How do you know they were like pearls, Effie,
if they were hid from view? Papa suggested.
"' Her complexion,'" continued Effie, undis-
mayed, was of the purest rose and white, while
her graceful head was poised on a throat like that
of a swan. Her -' Oh, dear interrupted the
young author, looking helplessly at her manu-
script, "I do believe I forgot her nose after all;
I 'm so glad you reminded me of it. I can slip
it in right here. Give me a pencil, please. 'Her
nose --'"
"Is that her nose? inquired Papa, pointing
to the A with which Effie was inserting her new
sentence about the nose.
Her nose,' repeated Effie, with a glance of
terrible scorn at her father, was of the purest
Grecian type; while over all her exquisite features
floated an expression of dreamy thought, of ten-
der charm, which added tenfold to their inexpres-
sible loveliness.' "
"Quite a pretty girl," murmured Papa, "for
one who was not a beauty."
"Yes," said Effie, complacently. "She was
pretty. There's no harm in her being pretty,
you know, for lots of real girls are ever.so pretty.
And you could n't expect me to make a heroine
out of an ugly old poke."
"Certainly not," said Papa with emphasis.
"And now I understand the full significance of the
'P' in the middle of her name; it is to remind us
that she was only Pretty, and not Beautiful, if we
are in danger of forgetting it after your descrip-
"But, Effie," said her mother, I don't think

realistic people talk much about tresses when they
mean hair."
"And I don't think," said Lilian, emphatically,
"that they ever describe people at all. I 'm sure
Mr. Howells does n't. He never tells you how
people look, or what they wear; he just begins
and goes right ahead with letting them do some-
"Oh, no, no, indeed, Lilian!" answered Effie,
with full confidence that here, at least, she had
unanswerable arguments for her methods. That
is just exactly what he does n't do. All the critics
say so. Mr. Howells's people never do anything.
Why, Miss Owen told us that was the great objec-
tion that many people made to his work; that
there is so little action in it, and his characters
never seem to be doing anything in particular."
"What do they do, if they don't do anything?"
inquired Papa.
I said they did n't do anything in particular.
They don't stab villains, nor jump overboard, nor
get into railway accidents, nor have to marry a rich
man they hate, to save their father's fortune, nor
do all sorts of things that nobody ever really did
do- except in the old-fashioned novels."
"Well, is n't it time, by the way, that we found
out what Miss Margaret P. was doing? That will
give us the right clew, perhaps. What was your
realistic heroine doing, Effie, with her beaut- I
mean her pretty complexion and her bright eyes ?"
She was walking down Beacon street."
"Ah! that sounds more like it. On the right
side, or the left side ? "
"On the right side, of course, Papa; nobody
ever walks on the left side of Beacon street, going
"I see. In the old-fashioned novel, Margaret
would have walked on the left side of the street,
and so, by her eccentricity, at once have excited a
suspicion that she was about something unusual,
which must not be in the modern work of art.
Go on, my dear; this is very interesting. Why
was this pretty girl walking down Beacon street
on the right side, that lovely day? By the
way, Effie, I am assuming that it was a lovely day
because Miss Margaret was out; but is it well to
leave even so much as that to our imagination ?
Ought you not to say, briefly but unmistakably,
that it was a lovely day ?"
I'm coming to that," said Effie, apologetically.
"But there is one more paragraph first. 'Her
dress was of the costliest velvet, made simply but
elegantly, and looped most gracefully at the back.'
Don't you remember, Lilian, how nicely Mr. How-
ells always describes the way girls loop up their
overskirts?" asked Effie, interrupting herself for
sake of the sympathy she felt sure of at last.




"Ye-s," said Lilian, doubtfully. "But your
description does n't seem just like his. I think it's t
because you describe the wrong thing; you de-
scribe the velvet, and he described the looping."
"But, of course, I could n't say just the same
thing he did, could I ?"
"N-o; but, you see, Mr. Howells is always so
Well, don't you think what I said about her
little ears listening to hear what people said about
her face was funny?"
"Yes, of course, it was funny; but then, you
see, it was n't very funny."
"And it ought not to be!" said Effie, trium-
phantly. "Nothing in a realistic novel ought to be
very anything. You must never go to extremes.
If it 's a little funny, that's enough. Now I shall
go on. 'Around her neck she wore the costliest
fur; her little hands were cased in the dainti-
est gloves to be had at Hovey's .' I think
Hovey's makes it very realistic, don't you, Papa ? -
'while a long and dainty feather curled lovingly
around her little hat, as if it liked to be there.'"
I 'm very glad she wore only a feather in her
hat," replied Effie's father, adding, though a
severe critic might object that a realistic girl
usually wears the whole bird. I am more than
ever persuaded that it was an exceedingly fine
day; still, Effie, don't you think it is time you told
us something about the weather? I infer, from
there being no mention of an umbrella in Miss
Wharton's very complete outfit, that it was not
raining; still, in a realistic novel, nothing ought
to require an effort of the imagination."
I am just coming to that, Papa. 'It was a
lovely afternoon, towards the close of July,- "
"July! Why, I thought she had on furs?"
Oh dear, so she had I must have the furs.
so I '11 just change July to January-they both
begin with a J-'It was a lovely afternoon near
the close of January. A splendid sunset glowed in
the west -' "
"Did you ever know a sunset to glow in the
east ?"
"Oh, Papa! what a terrible critic you are I
don't believe you like Mr. Howells's style."
"Oh, yes, I like Mr. Howells's style very
much; but this does n't seem exactly in his style.
For instance, Mr. Howells never speaks of sun-
But, Papa, a sunset is just as real as a person.
There are sunsets; it is n't anything I invented
out of my own head."
"I know there are sunsets, and I have no doubt
Mr. Howells likes a real genuine sunset to look at,
very much; but he does n't think sunsets belong
to fiction. They are to look at, not to read about.

Now I should n't wonder if you had a page or two
here about the sunset."
"Yes, there are three pages of it, and it is just
ovely And I thought it must be realistic because
it is a description of the very sunset you and I saw
last sumner at Mount Desert."
But do you think a sunset at Mount Desert in
August would be likely to be very similar to the
sunsets on Beacon street in January?"
Oh, dear! Then I might as well give it up.
But, Papa, what do you suppose Mr. Howells
would have said if he had been writing this story?"
"Well, I have n't a very clear idea as yet of
your plot and general scope; but I should say,
with what material you have exhibited as yet, Mr.
Howells would have said just about this: 'Near
five o'clock on a pleasant afternoon in January,
Miss Margaret Wharton was walking on Beacon
street.' "
"But, Papa, how does he ever fill up a whole
novel with such short sentences as that ? "
"Ah, there is his art It is very easy to say
what Mr. Howells does n't put in; but it is n't so
easy to say in advance what he does."
"Well," said Effie, with a sigh, "I don't see
but it 's just as hard to be realistic as it is to be
artistic. I shall give up my novel, and try a story
of adventure."
But don't leave Margaret P. Wharton in the
lurch quite yet, Effie. All I know about her so far
is that she was n't a beauty, though she wore ele-
gant clothes; but, as you say, there is something
singularly attractive about her, and I want to find
out what it is. What were you going to have her
do ? Was it a case for aspirations'? "
"I was n't going to have her do anything.
In realistic novels, people don't have aspirations.
Or, if they do have them," with a sudden recol-
lection, they don't amount to anything. I was
just going to let her go to some teas and theatri-
cals, and perhaps try to do a little artistic work,
or something, and find she could n't "
But is n't that very discouraging to your read-
ers, Effie ? "
Yes, of course it's discouraging; but, then, it
ought to be discouraging. In real life, people
don't find they can do everything they desire;
and it is very silly to do as the old-fashioned nov-
elists did, and represent heroes and heroines as
accomplishing everything they undertake without
any trouble at all, and undertaking, too, the most
unheard-of and difficult things. I was just go-
ing to let my heroine go to Mount Desert in the
summer, and to Washington in the winter, and
put in a few clever little sketches of society life,
and then stop. A realistic novel does n't have to
come to a climax, you know."



"But what do you know yet about society,
Effie ? And how can you write about Washington
when you have never been there? Would n't that
Require too much imagination for an author who
means to be purely realistic ? "
"No; because, you see, the things I should
imagine would be real. I should n't invent drag-
ons and duels and knights and talismans, and all
sorts of things that never existed -- "
"Oh, but, Effie !" interrupted Lilian, "knights
and duels did exist once."
Yes, once; but they were never very common,
and they were never worth writing about anyhow.
It's perfectly proper to invent things, because, of
course, our imagination is a real thing, too, and it
must be meant for something; only we must in-
vent things just like those we see every day."
Then I don't see where the invention comes
in," remarked Lilian, promptly. "I don't think
it takes much imagination to write about a girl's
going to a tea; and, as you say, it seems to me
we were meant to use our imagination for some-
I '11 come to your help, Effie, this time," said
her father. ." It 's all right about using our im-
agination for common things; only you make a
mistake in thinking that imagination is inventing
things. Imagination is not inventing things; it is
seeing things; but it is seeing things that are out
of sight-it is seeing intellectual and spiritual
things, just as the eye sees really visible things."
Then, Papa," said Effie, triumphantly, "you
ought not to have found fault with my imagina-
tion when I said Margaret Wharton's teeth were'
like pearls. They were 'hid from view,' but I
could see with my imagination perfectly well what
they were like."
"Quite true; and I did n't find fault with you
for telling us they were like pearls. I only said
that, from your own point of view, you ought not to
tell us, because you said when you started out
that you were only going to describe what you
saw. I think you will find out, as you go on, that
it requires a great deal more imagination to write
a realistic novel than to write a fairy-tale; because
the object of a realistic story is not to repeat com-
mon things, but to interest people in common
things; not to create uncommon things, but to
show people that common things are not by any
means so uninteresting as they seem at first sight.
The realistic writer must see, not new things, but
new qualities in things; and to do that, he must
have plenty of imagination. He must understand
not only what his heroine's teeth are like, though
they are -' hid from view,' but what her thoughts
are like, though they also are hid from view. This
is the difference, Effie: those whom you call the

'old-fashioned writers' imagined that they must
describe the thoughts and looks and clothes and
actions of a princess, or some creature out of the
range of every-day life; but the realistic writers
have discovered that the thoughts and clothes and
looks and actions of a little beggar-girl can be
made just as interesting to people, if only you can
see what is unseen about them with your mind's
eye. Now, which would you say had really the
nobler imagination-a man who went into his
library and wrote a remarkable poem about the
golden apples of the Hesperides, that were pure
creations of his fancy, or Sir Isaac Newton when
he went and sat down under a common apple-
tree, and set his imagination to work to find out
what made the apple fall to the ground? The
realistic writer is satisfied with the every-day apple-
tree that is quite certain; but here is your mis-
take about him, Effie: He is n't satisfied with
telling you that the apples fell; he shows you how
they fell, and what a great, beautiful, wonderful
law of the universe caused them to fall; and he
makes you feel that the law was all the more
beautiful and wonderful for not applying merely
to one particular apple, or even to the whole
class of apple-trees, but to everything."
"Only that sounds, Papa, as if the realists went
into long and elaborate paragraphs about things,
and I 'm sure they don't. They never stop long
enough to talk about a thing, or describe a law;
they just make you see things, and they always
seem to be the same old things you have always
seen before."
"But with a difference, Effie; with a difference.
A little while ago you spoke of one of Mr. Howells's
heroines who tried to do something and could n't.
I suppose you mean the poor rich girl who lost all
her money, and found that all her fine education
did not help her a bit when it came to earning her
living. Now if Mr. Howells had merely meant by
that to show girls how absurd it was for them to
try to do anything, it would have been a very cruel
story ; but I think he merely meant to show the
parents what scrappy sort of education they were
giving their daughters, with all the money they
were spending for it."
"But don't you think you are very cruel to me
now, Papa, when I am trying to do something, and
you are doing all you can to discourage me ? "
"You said a little while ago, Effie, that it was
a good thing to discourage people; that that was
what the realistic novel was for."
Effie smiled through her tears.
"But only to discourage people from expecting
too fine results, Papa; not to discourage them from
"And I don't wish to discourage you from.try-



ing. Only I wish you to try the right thing.
When I said a common apple-tree was better than
the Hesperides, I did n't mean to deny that the
Hesperides are good in their way. I like realistic
novels,: really realistic novels, very much; but I
like wholly imaginative stories too; and I think
those pretty and delicate touches of yours about
Margaret Wharton's little ears listening to what
people said about her face, and the little feather
that curled around her hat as if it liked to be there,

show that you have a genuine gift at fancy; and if
I were you, I would n't despise. fancy, for it is
really a very good trait in an author."
So it happened that next day at recess, Effie in-
formed her friends:
I've given up my novel, and I'm just going to
try fairy-tales." And she added, with a little sigh,
" Papa says that I may write very good fairy-tales,
but that I have n't imagination enough to be a
realistic writer."




HERE was once a lit-
tle boy by the name
of Hans, who lived
with his father--
whose name also was
Hans--in a small
house in the Black
Forest. This forest
is in Germany, and
it is called "black"
G E, because the trees
have very black
trunks and branches, and because they stand so
near together that even on a bright day it is dark
in the forest, and one always feels, when one is
there, as though the night were coming on.
In this forest dwell many poor peasants who are
able to make enough money to furnish themselves
with black bread and a coarse kind of cheese, by
carving all kinds of curious things out of wood.
Often these wood-carvers are very good artists;
for they all, from father to son, learn to use their
knives as they sit by their firesides during the
long, dark, winter evenings; and by that flickering
light they shape many wonderful and beautiful
Thus had the little boy Hans sat night after
night by his father's side, fashioning wood into
odd shapes and giving to the figures which he
made more of reality than ever his father could
give, though he had worked at the craft for many
long years.
Little Hans could scarcely remember his delicate
mother. She had found the Black' Forest too dark
and drear for her southern brightness, and when

he was a very little child, she had given Hans her
last kiss, and gone where the sun always shines.
Thus the father and son had become inseparable
Hans knew that they had not always been so
poor; that sometime-ever so long before-his
father had been young like himself; that at that
time his father had lived a long way off in a village
of many houses -perhaps forty altogether; that
there was a church, and a grand castle on the hill,
and that very grand people lived therein; that his
father's father had lived in one of the houses
belonging to the castle, and had been the trusted
steward of the lord of the castle. All this and
much more had Hans often heard, for his father
loved to talk of those good old times: and often the
elder Hans did not know when his little son had
gone quite asleep in front of the fire, or had stolen
off to the shelf in the wall, which he called his bed.
But there was one story that never lost its inter-
est for little Hans, that could arouse him even
after the first sleepy nods, and that was the story
of the porcelain stove. The porcelain stove was
the only relic of those better days," of which they
loved to talk, that his father had been able to
keep; but in spite of want, almost of suffering,
he had never been willing to part with the por-
celain stove.
It was large and beautiful. So large that it
quite touched their humble ceiling, and it was of a
design so rare that many a time an artist or trav-
eler, who had stopped to buy some curiously
carved wooden image and had espied this stove in
its poor surroundings, had offered to buy it from
Father Hans for a good round sum.
But, no! -The thought of his boyhood and
his old home, with its comforts and associations,





always prevented him from parting with this
curious heirloom.
Many an hour had little Hans stood before this
great white stove, with its pictures of beautiful
women and gallant gentlemen, with its scenes of
country life and city fashion, and had woven for
himself wonderful fancies that seemed to make the
painted people live.
He would play that he was the gay "'milord" in
powdered wig, lace ruffles, satin coat and waistcoat;
and then he would imagine what the fair dame was
saying, who, in hoop and stately satin, received
with so much grace and condescension her fan
from milord's taper fingers.
There was one other picture that claimed even
more of Hans's attention than did the gallant lords
and dainty ladies, and that was one of a-deep green
forest. There he saw trees such as he had known
ever since his eyes had opened upon the real forest.
There was the very sunlight falling aslant the
black tree-trunks, just as Hans had often seen it
shine before it disappeared altogether on their
longest summer days. What could make him
feel the warmth of the sunlight, and yet, when he
put his hand upon it, was after all only some color
laid on a cold porcelain stove ?
Much did the boy marvel, and always the mys-
tery was unsolved. Hans wondered what the
world could be like outside the Black Forest, and
above all where did the wonderful artists live who
could on cold porcelain make glow such living
All the artistic nature within the child grew and
developed, as he gazed and longed for the secret
by which he, too, could create like marvels.
He knew that there was something within him
that could not find its full expression with only
his knife and a block of wood for tools. He could
carve a leaf with all its delicate veinings and won-
derful variety of indentation; but how could he
produce the tree with its branches clothed in myr-
iad leaves, all fluttering, and dipping, and turning,
as the wind swayed and rocked the branches?
Well he knew that there was a way to express
even the ever-changing light that played upon the
mosses that grew, a soft carpet, under his feet.
All these thoughts and longings did Hans keep
shut up within his own breast; for how could his
father, who toiled each day to provide their bread,-
and who looked upon wood-carving only as a
means to this end-how could he understand what
the child only knew, as he knew some of the
legends of the forest, to dream over and yet to
doubt their reality.
Often had the lad tried to find out some of the
wonders of the great world from his father; but
the reply was always, "What has that to do with

thee, my child? There is no need for thee to
know aught but how to earn thy bread- and what
have we poor peasants to do with cities and grand
folk, unless it be to carve so well that some of
their good gold will come to us and keep the
'angry wolf' from the door?"
And thus the child grew until the age of ten-
in his mind living the life the pictures made for
him, and in his real life suffering privation and
Often, when on summer nights some neighbors
lingered to speak a word to his father, he would
hear them say:
Of what use is it to thee to keep a great stove
like that ? "
"It might bring thee fifty marks, and then no
more wouldst thou have to give thy boy only half
enough black bread."
"Who of us can keep anything for remem-
brance, that can he turned into honest marks ?"
All this did Hans hear and remember, too, al-
though no one dreamed that he cared for the
porcelain stove.
At last came a very severe winter, the frost keep-
ing the peasants housed, and with scant provision.
Hans the father kept on carving wooden figures,
and Hans the child had the best of their scanty
fare. It was a cruel winter for the poor. Ger-
many will long remember it.
One day there came a traveler who was walking
through the forest, for even in those days of frost
and cold there would be now and then a traveler
who would stop with them for rest and refreshment.
He talked much, as heate the good luncheon he
had brought in his wallet, and examined with in-
terest the carvings of father and son. At length he
asked why one who seemed so poor should possess
so beautiful and rare a stove ?
The story was told, and with many sighs the
father said he feared the time had come when he
must part with it.
Run, Hans, to the loft!" he said, "and carve
thy block of wood until I call thee."
The boy climbed the ladder, but he had heard
too much not to wish to hear more, and so he laid
himself down near the door, with his block of
wood in his hand, indeed, but with his knife quite
idle by his side.
He could hear the stranger speak of a great
artist in a distant city who would gladly give a
large sum for a stove so rare and well preserved.
He heard his father's reply:
"The parting would be like a farewell spoken
to a parent or a child; but necessity conquers the
poor. We can not guard affection like the rich."
Then the traveler proposed to have the stove
removed on a certain day, and reluctantly the poor




carver gave his consent. The bargain was made.
But little did the father think of the dreams pass-
ing and forming in his child's mind.
Inspired only by his love for beautiful things,
and his desire to learn from a master, somewhere,
how to create pictures as lovely as those upon the
stove, this was the plan the boy formed to travel,
unknown to any one, inside of the stove, all the
way to the artist who had bought it, and to beg
the master to take him and teach him to be a
great painter like himself!
It was all that Hans could do to prevent himself
from running to tell his father at once. Never
before had he kept anything secret from his good
Nevertheless, something told him that his father
would not approve of his plan, and in this way
he would lose his one chance for getting out into
the world and becoming a great artist.
For great he always dreamed of being, could he
but reach the far city and the master to whom he
and the stove would belong.


AT last came the seventh night since Hans's
resolve was taken; and he knew that the next
morning the stove would commence its journey.
He said very little to his father that evening, but
kissed him more than once before going to his bed
in the wall.
He waited quietly until all was still and he could
hear his father's heavy breathing from his room in
the loft. Then he arose. 'Quietly he went to the
door, and pushed it open. He stood for a moment
almost terror-stricken with the thought of what he
was about to do. Then he crept softly out to the
cattle-shed, where he found a bundle of straw.
With this he returned, and put it inside the stove,
making as good a bed as he could in the dark.
Then he brought a-part of the loaf left from their
evening real, and a little cheese, for he did not
know how long the journey would be, or how
hungry he might become.
These were all his preparations; and then he
went once more to bed to wait for the dawn, when
he knew the carriers would arrive.
At the faint warning light that comes before the
dawn, Hans arose. As he passed his father, he
could scarcely keep from crying out, I am
going from thee, my father! Dost thou not know
thy little son is leaving thee ? But he kept silent,
and soon crept into the stove, and pulled the door
shut after him.
Soon there was the sound of men's heavy tread
outside, and Hans, the father, arose to let the car-
riers in, and to see his beloved stove taken from

its corner, borne out, placed in a cart, and started
on its long journey.
Little did he dream of his real loss, as he re-
turned with downcast look to his poor house.
The roads were very rough from frost and thaw,
and little Hans had a wearying ride.
* He could hear from his companions who walked
by the side of the cart, that this was the first stage
of the trip. They were then on their way to the
nearest railway station. Thence the journey would
be made all the wayeby train.
Many conjectures had Hans as to what this part
of the traveling would be like. He had heard of
a wonderful machine that could carry people along
at a great rate, faster than any horse could run;
that it could fly over rivers and under mountains,
and that one need do nothing but sit still and be
carried. He had often wondered what it could be
like, and now he Was to try it. He was really
on his way to life in the world Yet he could
think of nothing very quietly, or as he used by the
fire at home; for the cart was ever jolting on, and
but for his straw, Hans would have been badly
It was getting quite late in the afternoon when
Hans knew from the conversation of his companions
that he must be approaching the village where he
was to be consigned to the train.
This turn to the left to avoid the hill and we
shall be at the station," he overheard from his
When the cart was brought to a stop near the
platform, the men once more took hold of the
stove and lifted it with its weary little occupant to
its place in the train.
Before long they were in motion, and Hans
realized what flying through the air might mean.
But cramped up in a white porcelain stove, he
found it a very miserable means of progress. He
ate a piece of his loaf, however, and from great
weariness at last fell asleep.
Some time during the night, while it was still
perfectly dark, he was awakened by the very ab-
sence of motion and noise. He opened the stove
door wide and looked out. All was dark and
perfectly still. Not a person, not a thing moved.
Not a voice was heard. Where he was, or what it
could mean, Hans did not know. And for the
first time he forgot that he meant to be a great
artist, and wished himself back in the cottage in
the Black Forest. Apparently the stove-and
Hans inside the stove -had been forgotten.
At last the dawn came, the sun rose.. Men
appeared, talked, and went about their several
occupations. Trains came whizzing past; some
stopping, and some going on, on, as though they
were indeed fiery monsters.



Hans ate more of his bread, and wondered solid foundation, which seemed to be the station
.where the city could be to which he was going. platform.
Late in the afternoon a donkey was fastened by No one paid any regard to the stove, except to
a chain to his car, and was led off, down one gaze at it curiously now and then, and no one
track and up another, until finally, with a loud came to claim it.
clank, the car was attached to a long train of cars, Hans felt that he could not be silent much
all looking alike. Then, after much bustle and longer-he would have to scream, or jump out
confusion, the locomotive
gave a warning shriek,
the bell was rung, Hans
felt the stove once
more begin to sway as
it had done the day be-
fore -and they were off.
Hans prayed that it
might not now be far;
for his cramped position
and the want of foodwere
giving him a strange
feeling, which never in
his life had he felt before.
On, on, all night long !
Sway, sway, and pound,
pound, over the rails.
Sometimes the lad dozed
and dreamed strange,
fantastic dreams of gro-
tesque wooden figures
that could walk and talk;
now they were as tall as
the forest trees and quite
as black, again they were
little and gnarled like the
dwarfs of which he had
Many of the legends
of the forest came back
in troubled dreams to his
wearied brain.
Then he would awa-
ken, frightened, and put
out his hand, and it would
come in contact with
something hard and
cold; and he would re-
member the stove, and
the motion meant.
He ate the morsel of bread that remained, but of the stove, or do something to show he was
it was so tiny that he only became hungrier. At there, or else perish with fatigue.
last he sank down in a half stupor and dreamed When he felt that he could bear no more, he
more fantastic dreams, until he was aroused by the heard a man ask:
train's stopping. "Is this stove for my master, Herr Makart?"
Hans was in a large station, and many men and the station master answered:
were busily working to clear the train of mer- It is so addressed."
chandise. Then there was a pause, and soon after, four
Soon Hans felt the stove lifted and placed on a men came and carried the stove to a cart. The



messenger got up in front, and with a cheerful
chirrup to his horses, they started on the last stage
of the journey.
Up hill and down, through what seemed miles
and miles to the tired prisoner, they took their
course. It was not far beyond the city, but to the
child -poor little artist! how did he support
his weariness?
At last, a long, straight drive, a sharp turn, and
the horses are drawn up before a tall, stately villa,
and Hans heard many voices, but one sweet and
melodious above the rest.

lifted him in his strong arms, and soon saw the
little fellow's eyes open and gaze into his own
with perfect confidence.
Then Hans sat up and said:
"Oh, dear master, do not send me away! I
have come leagues and leagues from my home in
the Black Forest to be with you. Will you teach
me to be a great artist like you, dear master?
The pictures on the white stove are beautiful, but
I can learn to paint those for which you will care
more, if only you will let me live with you. I have
come all the way in the white stove to be with you."


Oh! my beautiful stove! you have come at last!
Carry it straight to my studio, that I may look at
and enjoy it in its place."
Up stairs the stove was carried-and Hans too,
wishing all the time that he might be alone with the
gentle voice, for he felt sure it was the master's.
At last the stove was placed, the master direct-
ing, and sometimes laying his hand on the perfect
work of art. The men were dismissed, and with
one cry of weariness and appeal for care, little
Hans sprang from the stove and threw himself at
the master's feet.
The master stooped to lift the child, but found
him quite fainted away. He gave him water,

The master gave the child one word of promise,
laid him on the sofa to rest, and then bade his
servants prepare a room for the little artist."
And by this name he was ever afterwards called
in the house of the master until many years had
passed. For Hans's father, when he learned all
that his son had undergone for the sake of the art
that he loved, resigned him-not without many
pangs-into the gentle protection of his famous
friend. And in later years the father's self-sacrifice
was well repaid by the son, who had, indeed, be-
come "great "-greater than he ever dreamedof
being when as a little child he planned the journey
in the porcelain stove.




1887.] IF I WERE A BOY.


ONE cold winter day, not
long ago, I was sitting in
the study of a minister, up
in Connecticut. He is a
i rather sober-faced man,
but one who knows some-
thing about boys and girls;
and in our talk he told me
l i ^ that he had just been giv-
ing his young friends two
S! lectures on these subjects:
What I would do if I were
I a Boy," and What I would
do if I were a Girl."
"Capital!" I said. Are
Those titles copyrighted? "
No," he answered.
S- "Very well," I said;
"I '11 use them, then, some time."
"You 're welcome to them," was his reply.
So that is where I got the hint out of which this
article has grown. I don't know what my friend
said to his boys and girls; no doubt it was sensible
and kindly counsel; but he has given me a good
handle for my talk (and for a talk, as well as for a
tool, a handle is sometimes very important), and I
have given him these few words of acknowledg-
ment, as a royalty on his invention. But I must
get to work, or you may think that the tool that I
have fitted to this handle is going to be an auger.
I suppose that there is not a man alive who ever
was a boy, nor any woman neither, who never
was a boy (no, nor any girl, for that matter),
who is not often thinking (and speaking out the
thought, too, very often) of what he or she would
do if he or she were a boy. Men often wish that
they were boys. There was a song I used to hear
them sing: "I would I were a Boy again "
That feeling comes over most men very strong-
ly, now and then. And the reason why men
sometimes wish that they were boys again is, I
suppose, that they see many mistakes that they
made when they were boys, and think that if they'
could try it over again, they could do better -that
they would shun some of the errors that have
marred their lives. But, then, if they were boys
again, they would be nothing but boys, just as

liable to make mistakes the second time as the first,
just as ignorant, and just as headstrong. And, for
my part, after soberly thinking the matter over,
I have come to the conclusion that I would not try it
over again if I had the chance. I have made some
sad mistakes, but the second time I might make sad-
der ones. If I could take my experience back with
me to boyhood, if I could start at ten or twelve
with all or even part of the lessons learned that I
have spent all these years in learning, then I would
gladly try it over again. I know that I should
avoid many serious errors, that I should make
much more of life the second time. It is idle for
me to think of that; that can not be. But I be-
lieve that we are placed together as we are, in
families and in society, the old and the young to-
gether, in order that the experience of those who
are older may be of use to those who are younger.
Suppose that I have been climbing a certain
mountain. The paths are blind and wholly un-
familiar to me, and I meet with several mishaps;
losing my way more than once, and having to re-
trace my steps, but succeeding, at length, in gain-
ing the summit. On my return, at the foot of the
mountain I meet you, and some such conversa-
tion as this takes place:
"Hullo! Going up the mountain?"
"Yes, sir."
"Ever climbed it?"
"No, sir."
Don't know the road then?"
"No; but I guess I '11 find it easy enough.
Lots of people have found the way up, and I 'm
sure I can."
"Oh, yes; you'11 find it, I hope. Though, forthat
matter, a great many people have missed it too.
But, look here! I can tell you something. You
keep right on this path, and by and by you '11
come to a big bowlder, and then the path divides;
the one that goes to the left looks the best and the
most direct, but it is n't; I tried it and it landed
me in a swamp in which I came near being
stuck. The right road, then, is the right road."
S"All right! Thank you! I'll remember that."
"Then just above, half a mile or so, there 's a
big spruce-tree across the path; there you must
turn to the.left. I..went off to the right and was


lost in the. woods, and it was two hours before I
found my way back."
Thank you Big spruce tree across the path;,
turn to the left. I '11 remember."
Yes. And then, when you come to a spring,
a mile or so further on,- a spring at the root of a
beech-tree,- don't go straight on past the spring,
as the path seems to lead you; turn, there, sharp
up the bank. It will be something of a scramble,
but you will strike a better path then that ill take
you up to a view of the South Valley, that they
all say is the finest view on the mountain. I
missed.it, but you don't want to."
"No; of course not! Much obliged. Good-
Good-morning! "
Such talk as that would be-sensible enough,
would it not ? You would not object in the least
to having me give you points, in that way, about
the best path up the mountain. You would take
my word without hesitation. Well, those ot us
who are a little older have been up the mountain
of life ahead of you, and we have got out of
the path now and then, and have learned a great
deal, by bitter experi- n:, about right turnings
and wrong turnings, about swamps and thick-
ets and pitfalls and precipices; and we sometimes
feel very anxious to give you, who are now on
your way up, a few hints from our own experi-
ence- warnings and directions that we know would
be of use to you. And; though boys are some-
times headstrong and conceited, and think they
know a great deal more about the road than their
fathers and uncles and grandfathers ever knew,
yet most of them are sometimes willing to hear
what we have to say, and are thankful to be told.
I believe that you are willing, and, therefore, I
have stopped you for a few minutes at the foot of
the mountain, to tell you some of the walks that I
would n't take, and some of the roads that I would.
take, if I were going up again.
I. If, then, I were a boy again, and-knew what
I know now, I would not be quite so positive in my
opinions as I used to be. Boys generally think
that they are very certain about many things.
A boy of fifteen is a great deal more sure of
what he thinks he knows than is a man of fifty.
You ask the boy a question and he will answer
you right off, up and down; he knows all about it.
Ask a man of large experience and ripe wisdom
the same question, and he will say, "Well, there
is much to be said about it. I am inclined, on the
,whole, to think so and so, but other intelligent
men think otherwise."
When I was eight years old I traveled from
Central Massachusetts to Western N.eA York.
crossing the river at Albany, and going by canal

from Schenectady to Syracuse. On the canal-
boat a kindly gentleman was talking to me one
day, and I mentioned the fact that I had crossed
the Connecticut River at Albany. How I got it
in my head that it was the Connecticut River I do
not know, for. I knew my geography very well
then; but in some unaccountable way I had it fixed
in my mind that the river at Albany was the Con-
necticut, and I called it so.
"Why," said the gentleman, "that is the Hud-
son River."
Oh, no, sir! I replied, politely, but firmly.
"You 're mistaken. That is the Connecticut
The gentleman smiled and said no more. I was
not much in the habit, I think, of contradicting
my elders; but in this matter, I was perfectly sure
that I was right, and so I thought it my duty to
correct the gentleman's geography. I felt rather
sorry for him that he should be so ignorant. One
day, after I reached home, I was looking over my
route on the map, .and lo there was Albany
standing on the Hudson River, a hundred miles
from the Connecticut. Then I did not feel half so
sorry for the gentleman's ignorance as I did for my
own. I never told anybody that story until I
wrote it down on these pages the other day; but I
have thought of it a thousand times, and always
with a blush for my boldness. Nor was it the
only time that I was perfectly sure of things that
really were not so. It is hard for a boy to learn
that he may be mistaken; but, unless he is a fool,
he learns it after a while. The sooner he finds it
out, the better for him.
2. If I were a boy, I would not think that I and
the boys of my time were exceptions to the gen-
eral rule-a new kind of boys, .unlike all who
have lived before, having different feelings and
different wants, and requiring to be dealt with
Sin different ways. That is a tone which I some-
times hear boys taking. To be honest, I must
own that I used to think so myself. I was quite
inclined to reject the counsel of my elders by
saying to myself, "That may have been well
enough for boys thirty or' fifty years ago, but it
is n't the thing for me and my set of boys." But
that was nonsense. The boys of one generation
are not different from the boys of another genera-
tion. If we say that boyhood lasts fifteen or six-
teen years, I have now. known three generations
of boys, some of them city boys and some of
them country boys, and they all are substantially
alike -so nearly alike that the old rules of indus-
try and patience and perseverance and self-control
are as applicable to one generation as to another.
The fact is,.that, what your fathers and teachers
have found by experience to be good for boys will


I LF F .. % '. ,


be good for you; and what their experience has
taught them is bad for boys will be bad for you.
You are just boys, nothing more nor less.
3. If I were a boy, I would not speak disrespect-
fully or contemptuously of or to a woman. Women
and girls are different from men and boys; as a rule,
they are not so strong physically; their ways of
thinking and of judging are somewhat different from
those of men; but they may be different without be-
ing inferior. The fact that they are different is no
reason why you should think of them slightingly
or treat them rudely. The nobler gentleman he
is, the less-possible it is for a man to think or speak
disrespectfully of woman. You have read about
the knights of chivalry and of the honor they
always paid to women; they had rather far-fetched
and fantastic ways of showing their respect, but
the thing they stood up for was the manly thing.
And if I were a boy, I should want to be a chival-
rous boy in my treatment of women, and all-the
more if the woman were my sister or my mother.
Some time or other, my boy, if you live to be an
old man, you will stand where I have stood, at the
grave of your mother; and, if there is any "man"
in you, you will be sorry then for every word of
disrespect you have ever spoken of a woman.
4.' For much the same reasons, if I were
a boy, I would never tease or abuse a smaller
boy; and I would never ridicule any person, male
or female, old or young, because he or she was
lame or deformed or homely or awkward or ill-
dressed, or unfortunate in any way. In fact, I do
not believe that real boys ever do anything of this
5. Another thing I would be careful about, if I
were a boy, would be letting my love of fun lead
me into trespassing upon other people's rights.
Boys like a rousing good time, and they ought to
have it; they enjoy making a noise, and they should
have plenty of chances to make a noise; but they
ought always to be careful lest their rough pleasure
cause pain to some one else. That, you see, would
be sheer selfishness. I have seen boys carry bois-
'terous fun into places where everybody but the
boys wanted it kept orderly and quiet, so that the
enjoyment of others was spoiled that the boys
might have a merry time. That is not fair play;
and no thoughtful and manly boy will want to
have his fun at such expense to the feelings of
others. For this reason and for other reasons, if I
were a boy, I would never play or whisper in any
orderly public assembly, especially in a place of
worship. I would be quiet and attentive and re-
spectful always in prayer time, and in every devo-
tional exercise, because I should remember that
disorderly behavior at such times is not only irrev-
erent, but that it is a great trespass upon the rights

of others, who do not wish to have their attention
distracted by such disturbances.
6. If I were a boy, I would'not lie. I would
suffer much before I would tell a falsehood or know-
in gly make a statement which would convey a false-
hood. I would take great care not to fall into the
habit of misstating or overstating the truth-of tell-
ing big stories. I would feel that the bottom fact of
character is truthfulness, and that a boy who has
habits of untruthfulness, who has fallen into the
way of deceiving or concealing or coloring his state-
ments, is a boy who needs to put right about, or he
will soon be on the rocks. A boy whose word is
good for nothing is in a very critical condition. He
would better pull himself together and make up his
mind very firmly to think twice before he speaks,
and not to say a word that is not exactly true.
7. If I were a boy, I would not use profane
words or foul words of any sort. Boys sometimes
think it smart and manly to use bad language and
to tell vile stories, but it is not. No gentleman ever
defiles his lips in that way.
8. If I were a boy, I would not read such books
and newspapers as I sometimes see boys reading.
Much of this reading furnished for boys is posi-
tively bad unclean, immoral, corrupting. I am
told that books of this character are sometimes
secreted and read stealthily; but the misguided
and foul-minded fellows who could do a thing like
this are not, I am sure, enrolled among the glori-
ous company of manly chaps who read ST. NICHO-
LAS. Many of the books and papers of which I am
speaking are not vile, as a rule, but they are hurt-
ful, nevertheless, to the minds and the morals of
the boys who read them. I know boys who have
read so much flashy fiction that they can not take
any sober and sensible views of life; they seem to
have lost the power to study: they never read
anything but fiction, and that of the lightest sort;
the most entertaining book of history or science is
a bore to them; their minds are so feeble and so
feverish that they are wholly unfitted for the work
of life. If you want to keep your mental grip.and
your moral soundness, never abuse your minds by
feeding them on this sensational fodder.
9. If I were a boy, I would not use tobacco in
any way. There are men who think it right to
smoke, and I am not going to discuss the question
as respects men; but whatever may be said of
them, there is no intelligent man anywhere,
whether he himself smokes or does not smoke,
whether he thinks it right or wrong for men to
smoke, who does not think it always wrong for a
boy. It might be right for your father and utterly
wrong for you. There is a great difference be-
tween the effects of tobacco upon a growing per-
son and its effects upon one who has got his



growth. It hurts a growing boy a great deal
more than it hurts a grown man. I have my
doubts whether any one ever uses it habitually
without being injured by it; but it is perfectly cer-
tain-all the doctors agree on this- that it is
always injurious for boys. Here, for example, is
the word of one doctor who thinks it no harm
for some men to use it: To young persons," he
says, under twenty-five years or so, tobacco, even
in small quantities, is so apt to disorder health, in
some way or other, that for such it should be con-
sidered generally harmful."
Io. For the same reason, if I were a boy, I
would not drink beer or wine or any kind of alco-
holic liquor. Here, too, there is a dispute among
the doctors, some of them saying that men may
sometimes drink wine or beer without harm; but
here, too, they all are perfectly agreed that for boys
such drinks are always harmful. A great many
boys in this country are learning to drink beer.
Some of them think that there is no harm in it.
But in thousands of cases, it has brought a deadly
train of misery along with it. It has crippled many
a man's best powers; it has been the beginning of
drunkenness and of blighted lives. And not onlybe-
cause of the probable harm to yourselves, but be-
cause of the trouble and poverty and sorrow that it
causes all over the land, have nothing to do with it.
I have used much of my time in telling you what
I would not do if I were a boy; let me say a few
words about what I would do.
I. I would have a good time, if I could. I do
not put this first because it is the main thing;
nevertheless, it is an important thing. There are
some little fellows who are not able to have a very
good time. Sometimes a boy's father dies, or there
is sickness and trouble in his family, and he is com-
pelled to go to work in early boyhood, and to work
hard all the time, with small chance for fun. When
such a duty is laid upon a boy, of course he must
do it, and if he is the right sort of fellow, he will
do it bravely and cheerfully; many a boy has
shown his manliness in this way. The courage
and devotion of some boys whom I have known, in
shouldering such burdens as these, are beyond
all praise. But this is not the kind of life that we
would choose for a boy. He ought to work, no
matter what his circumstances may be; he ought
to spend in some useful way a considerable por-
tion of his time out of school hours; but then he
ought to play, as well as to work; to be a lively,
merry, hearty lad. If I were a boy, I would be
.expert, if I could, at all right manly sports; I
would be glad to be the strongest, swiftest, jolli-
est fellow on the playground. But I would do
my work thoroughly first, and take my pastime
afterward with a good conscience.

2. I would have my outdoor fun, too, in the
daytime, and stay at home in the evening.
Home is the right place for boys in the evenings.
The boy who stays at home evenings is not
only safest, he is also happiest. The kind of
diversion he gets by roaming the streets of a
city after dark is a kind that makes him restless
and miserable; it unfits him for any quiet and
reposeful life. Now the truth is, boys, that it is
just as necessary for you to learn how to enjoy a
quiet time, as it is to learn how to enjoy a noisy
and exciting time; and evening is the time, and
home is the place, for you to cultivate this gentler
part of your nature, the part that will make you a
3. If I were a boy, I would consider it a large
part of a boy's business to learn to work. Work
is not naturally pleasant to many of us; the taste
for it has to be acquired. Youth is the time
to acquire it. You can learn to take a tough
problem in arithmetic, or an abstruse chapter in
physics, or a long Greek conjugation, and put
everything else out of your mind, and think right
at it, just as intently as if it were a ball game,
until it is finished. You can learn totake any
other difficult and troublesome job, and fasten
your thought and energy upon it, and do it thor-
oughly. This power of concentration and perse-
verance is one main thing to learn. Knowing
what I now know about life, I am sure that if I
were a boy again, this would be one of the things
that I should try hardest to learn.
4. I would learn, too, to obey. That is one of
the manliest traits of character, after all obedi-
ence. It is what makes a soldier. To be able
promptly and cheerfully to conform to all rightful
authority, to bend your will to the wills of those
who are directing your work this is a noble vir-
tue. It is a great part of discipline to acquire it.
The time to acquire it is boyhood.
5. I would learn self-control. Boys are gener-
ally creatures of impulse. What they feel like do-
ing they are apt to rush ahead and do, without
stopping to consider whether it is wise or not.
In the craving for pleasure of one sort or an-
other, they are not always willing to hear rea-
son. But, unless he is going to make shipwreck
of life, every boy must learn to draw the rein, not
only over temper, but over desire, and to say to
himself now and then, "Hold on! I 'm doing
this, and I 'm not going to be a fool; let 's see
what is right and best' before we go any further."
The power to pull himself up in this way anrd use
his reason and his judgment, instead of letting im-
pulse determine his conduct, is a power that, if I
were a boy again, I should begin to cultivate very
early in life.







IF Mother Nature patches
The leaves of trees and vines,
I 'm sure she does her darning
With needles of the pines I

They are so long and slender;
And sometimes, in full view,
They have their thread of cobwebs,
And thimbles made of dew !

(Founded on an incident of the Monmouth Rebellion.)


IN the midsummer of 1685, the hearts of the
people of old Edinburgh were filled with trouble
and excitement. King Charles the Second, of
England, was dead, and his brother, the Duke of
York, reigned in his stead to the dissatisfaction
of a great number of the people.
The hopes of this class lay with the young Duke
of Monmouth, the ambitious and disinherited son
of Charles the Second, who, on account of the
King's displeasure, had been living for some time
at foreign courts. On hearing of the accession of
his uncle, the Duke of York, to the throne, Mon-
mouth yielded to the plans of the English and
Scottish lords who favored his own pretensions,
and prepared to invade England with a small but
enthusiastic force of men.
The Duke of Argyle, the noblest lord of Scot-
land, who also was an exile, undertook to conduct

the invasion at the north, while Monmouth should
enter England at the west, gather the yeomanry
about him and form a triumphant conjunction
with Argyle in London, and force the usurper,"
as they called King James the Second, from his
Both landings were duly made. The power of
Monmouth's name and rank rallied to his banner
at first a large number of adherents; but their de-
feat at Sedgemoor put an end to his invasion. And
the Duke of Argyle, a few days after his landing
in Scotland, was met by a superior force of the
King's troops. Retreating into a morass, his sol-
diers were scattered and dispersed. Many of his
officers deserted him ina panic of fear. The brave
old nobleman himself was taken prisoner, and be-
headed at Edinburgh, while all the people secretly
mourned. He died without betraying his friends,




~~D E




IF Mother Nature patches
The leaves of trees and vines,
I 'm sure she does her darning
With needles of the pines I

They are so long and slender;
And sometimes, in full view,
They have their thread of cobwebs,
And thimbles made of dew !

(Founded on an incident of the Monmouth Rebellion.)


IN the midsummer of 1685, the hearts of the
people of old Edinburgh were filled with trouble
and excitement. King Charles the Second, of
England, was dead, and his brother, the Duke of
York, reigned in his stead to the dissatisfaction
of a great number of the people.
The hopes of this class lay with the young Duke
of Monmouth, the ambitious and disinherited son
of Charles the Second, who, on account of the
King's displeasure, had been living for some time
at foreign courts. On hearing of the accession of
his uncle, the Duke of York, to the throne, Mon-
mouth yielded to the plans of the English and
Scottish lords who favored his own pretensions,
and prepared to invade England with a small but
enthusiastic force of men.
The Duke of Argyle, the noblest lord of Scot-
land, who also was an exile, undertook to conduct

the invasion at the north, while Monmouth should
enter England at the west, gather the yeomanry
about him and form a triumphant conjunction
with Argyle in London, and force the usurper,"
as they called King James the Second, from his
Both landings were duly made. The power of
Monmouth's name and rank rallied to his banner
at first a large number of adherents; but their de-
feat at Sedgemoor put an end to his invasion. And
the Duke of Argyle, a few days after his landing
in Scotland, was met by a superior force of the
King's troops. Retreating into a morass, his sol-
diers were scattered and dispersed. Many of his
officers deserted him ina panic of fear. The brave
old nobleman himself was taken prisoner, and be-
headed at Edinburgh, while all the people secretly
mourned. He died without betraying his friends,




~~D E


though the relentless King of England threatened I
to compel him to do so, by the torture of the thumb- t
screw and the rack.
Many of his officers and followers underwent the
same fate; and among those imprisoned to await
execution was a certain nobleman, Sir John Coch-
rane, who had been made famous by other politi-
cal intrigues. His friends used all the influence
that their high position accorded them to procure
his pardon, but without success; and the unfort-
unate baronet, a moody and impulsive man by
nature, felt that there was no escape from the terri-
ble destiny, and prepared to meet it in a manner
worthy of a follower of the brave old duke. But he
had one friend on whose help he had not counted.
In an upper chamber of an irregular, many-
storied mansion far down the Canongate, Grizel
Cochrane, the imprisoned man's daughter, sat
through the dread hours waiting to learn her
father's sentence. There was too little doubt as to
what it would be. The King and his generals
meant to make merciless examples of the leaders
of the rebellion. Even the royal blood that flowed
in the veins of Monmouth had not saved his head
from the block. This proud prince, fleeing from
the defeat of Sedgemoor, had been found hiding
in a ditch, covered over with the ferns that flour-
ished at the bottom. Grizel wept as she thought
of the young duke's horrible fate. She remem-
bered when she had last seen him about the court
at Holland, where she had shared her father's exile.
Gay, generous, and handsome, he seemed a creat-
ure born to live and rule. What a contrast was
the abject, weeping coward covered with mud and
slime, who had been carried in triumph to the
grim Tower of London to meet his doom The
girl had been taught to believe in Monmouth's
rights, and she walked the floor trembling with
shame and impatience as she thought of his bitter
defeat. She walked to the little dormer win-
dow and leaned out to look at the gray castle,
far up the street, with its dull and lichen-covered
walls. She knew that her father looked down
from the barred windows of one of the upper
apartments accorded to prisoners of state. She
wondered if a thought of his little daughter crept
in his mind amid his ruined hopes. The grim
castle frowning at her from its rocky height filled
her with dread; and shuddering, she turned from
it toward the street below to let her eyes follow
absently the passers-by. They whispered together
as they passed the house, and when now and then
some person caught a glimpse of her face in the
ivy-sheltered window, she only met a look of com-
miseration. No one offered her a happy greeting.
They all think him doomed," she cried to her-
self. "No one hath the grace to feign hope."

Bitter tears filled her eyes, until suddenly through
he mist she was conscious that some one below
vas lifting a plumed hat to her. I It was a stately
gentleman with a girdled vest and gorgeous coat
and jeweled sword-hilt.
"Mistress Cochrane," said he, in that hushed
oice we use when we wish to direct a remark to
one person, which no one else shall overhear, "I
have that to tell thee which is most important."
"Is it secret?" asked Grizel, in the same
guarded tone that he had used.
Yes," he replied, without looking up, and con-
tinuing slowly in his walk, as if he had merely ex-
changed a morning salutation.
"Then," she returned, hastily, "I will tell
Mother; and we will meet thee in the twilight,
at the side door under the balcony." She contin-
ued to look from the window, and the man saun-
tered on as if he had no care in the world but to
keep the scarlet heels of his shoes from the dust.
After a time Grizel arose, changed her loose robe
for a more ceremonious dress, bound her brown
braids into a prim gilded net, and descended into
the drawing-room.
Her mother sat in mournful state at the end of
the lofty apartment. About her were two ladies
and several gentlemen, all conversing in low tones
such as they might use, Grizel thought to herself,
if her father were dead in the house. They all
stopped talking as she entered, and looked at her
in surprise. In those days it was thought very im-
proper and forward for a young girl to enter a draw-
ing-room uninvited, if guests were present. Grizel's
eyes fell before the embarrassing scrutiny, and she
dropped a timid courtesy, lifting her green silken
skirts daintily, like a high-born little maiden, as
she was. Lady Cochrane made a dignified apol-
ogy to her guests and then turned to Grizel.
Well, my daughter?" she said, questioningly.
I pray thy pardon, Mother," said Grizel, in a
trembling voice, speaking low, that only her
mother might hear; "but within a few moments
Sir Thomas Hanford will be secretly below the
balcony, with news for us."
The lady half rose from her seat, trembling.
Is he commissioned by the governor?" she
"I can not tell," said the little girl; but here
her voice broke, and regardless of the strangers,
she flung herself into her mother's lap, weeping:
"I am sure it is bad news of Father Lady Coch-
rane wound her arm about her daughter's waist,
and, with a gesture of apology, led her from the
room. Half an hour later she re-entered it hur-
riedly, followed by Grizel, who sank unnoticed in
the deep embrasure of a window, and shivered
there behind the heavy folds of the velvet hangings.




VOL. XIV.-18.





"I have just received terrible intelligence, my
friends," announced Lady Cochrane, Standing,
tall and pale, in the lmidst of her guests. The
governor has been informally notified that the next
post from London will bring Sir John's sentence.
He is to be hanged at the Cross." There was a per-
fect silence in the dim room; then one of the ladies
broke into loud sobbing, and a gentleman led Lady
Cochrane to a chair, while the others talked apart
in earnest whispers.
Who brought the information?" asked one of
the gentlemen, at length. "Is there not hope
that' it is a false report? "
I am not at liberty," said Lady Cochrane, to
tell who brought me this terrible news; but it was
a friend of the governor, from whom I would not
have expected a service. Oh, is it too late," she
cried, rising from her chair and pacing the room,
"to make another attempt at intercession? Surely
something can be done "
The gentleman who had stood by her chair-a
gray-headed, sober-visaged man-returned answer:
"Do not count on any remedy now, dear Lady
Cochrane. I know this new King. He will, be
relentless toward any one who has questioned his
right to reign. Besides, the post has already left
London several days, and will doubtless be here
by to-morrow noon."
"I am sure," said a gentleman who had not yet
spoken, that if we had a few days more he might
be saved. They say King James will do anything
for money, and the wars have emptied his treasury.
Might we not delay the post? he suggested, in a
low voice.
"No," said the gray-headed gentleman; that
is utterly impossible."
Grizel, shivering behind the curtain, listened
with eager ears. Then she saw her mother throw
herself into the arms of one of the ladies and break
into ungoverned sobs. The poor girl could stand
no more, but glided from the room unnoticed and
crept up to her dark chamber, where she sat, re-
peating aimlessly to herself the words that by
chance had fixed themselves strongest in her
memory: Delay the.post delay the post! "
The moon arose and shone in through the panes,
making a wavering mosaic on the floor as it glim-
mered through the wind-blown ivy at the window.
Like a flash, a definite resolution sprang into
Grizel's mind. If, by delaying the post, time for
intercession with the King could be gained, and
her father's life so saved, then the post must be
.delayed! But how? She had heard the gen-
tleman say that it would be impossible. She knew
that the postboy went heavily armed, to guard
against the highwaymen who frequented the roads
in search of plunder. This made her think of the

wild stories of masked men who sprung from some
secluded spot upon the postboys, and carried off
the letters and money with which they were in-
Suddenly she bounded from her seat, stood still
a moment with her hands pressed to her head, ran
from her room, and up the stairs which led to the
servants' sleeping apartments. She listened at a
door, and then, satisfied that the room was empty,
entered, and went straight to the oaken wardrobe.
By the light of the moon she selected a jacket and
a pair of trousers. She looked about her for a hat
and found one hanging on a peg near the window;
then she searched for some time before she found a
pair of boots. They were worn and coated with mud.
"They are all the better," she said to herself,
and hurried on tiptoe down the corridor, She
went next to the anteroom of her father's cham-
ber, It was full of fond associations, and the hot
tears sprung into her eyes as she looked about it.
She took up a brace of pistols, examined them
awkwardly, her hands trembling under their weight
as she found at once to her delight and her terror
that they were loaded. Then she hurried with
them to her room.
Half an hour later, the butler saw a figure which
he took to be that of Allen, the stable-boy; creep-
ing down the back stairs, boots in hand.
Whaur noo, me laddie?" he asked. "It's
gey late for ye to gang oot the nicht."
"I hae forgot to bar the stable door," replied
Grizel in a low and trembling voice, imitating as
well as she could the broad dialect of the boy.
"Hech! said the butler. "I ne'er hear ye
mak sae little hammer in a' yer days."
She fled on. The great kitchen was deserted.
She gathered up all the keys from their pegs by
the door, let herself quietly out, and sped across
the yard to the stable. With trembling hands she
fitted first one key and then another to the door
until she found the right one. Once inside the
stable, she stood irresolute. She patted Bay Bess,
her own little pony.
Thou wouldst never do, Bess," she said.
"Thou art such a lazy little creature." The round,
fat carriage-horses stood there. "You are just
holiday horses, too," said Grizel to them, "and
would be winded after an hour of the work I
want you for to-night." But in the shadow of
the high stall stood Black Ronald, Sir John Coch-
rane's great, dark battle-horse, that riderless, cov-
ered with dust and foam, had dashed down the
Canongate after the terrible rout of Argyle in
the bogs of Leven-side, while all the people stood
and stared at the familiar steed, carrying, as he
did, the first silent message of disaster. Him Grizel
unfastened and led out.



2 74


"Thou art a true hero," she said, rubbing his
nose with the experienced touch of a horsewoman;
"and I '11 give thee a chance to-night to show
that thou art as loyal as ever." Her hands were
cold with excitement, but she managed to buckle
the saddle and bridle upon him, while the huge
animal stood in restless expectancy, anxious to be
gone. She drew on the boots without any trouble,
and slipped the pistols into the holsters.
"I..believe thou knowest what I would have of
thee," said Grizel as she led the horse out into 'the
yard and on toward the. gateway. Frightened, as
he half circled about her in his impatience, she
.undid the fastening of the great gates, but her
strength was not sufficient to swing them open.
Ronald," she said in despair, "I can not open
the gates Ronald turned his head about and
looked at her with his beautiful eyes. He seemed
to be trying to say, I can."
"All right," said Grizel, as if he had spoken.
She mounted the black steed, laughed nervously
as she climbed into the saddle. "Now," she said,
go on The horse made a dash at the gates,
burst them open, and leaped out into the road. He
curveted about for a moment, his hoofs striking fire
from the cobble-stones. Then Grizel turned his
head down the Canongate, away from the castle.
She knew the point at which she intended to leave
the city, and toward that point she headed Black
Ronald. The horse seemed to know he was doing
his old master a service, as he took his monstrous
strides forward. Only once did Grizel look back-
ward, and then a little shudder, half'terror, half
remorse, struck her, for she saw her home ablaze
with light, and heard cries of excitement borne
faintly to her on the rushing night wind. They
had discovered her flight. Once she thought she
heard hoof-beats behind her, but she knew she
could not be overtaken.
Through the streets, now narrow, now broad,
now straight, now crooked, dashed Black Ronald
and his mistress. Once he nearly ran down a
drowsy.watchman who stood nodding at a sharp
corner, but horse and rider were three hundred
yards away before the frightened guardian re-
gained his composure and sprang his discordant
Now the houses grew scarcer, and presently
the battlements of the town wall loomed up
ahead, and Grizel's heart sank, for there were
lights in the road. She heard shouts, and knew
she was to be challenged. She firmly set her
teeth, said a little prayer, and leaned far forward
upon Black Ronald's neck. The horse gave a snort
of defiance, shied violently away from a soldier
who stood by the way, and then went through the
gateway like a shot. Grizel clung tightly to her

saddle-bow, and urged her steed on. On, on they
went down the firm roadway lined on either side
by rows of noble oaks-on, on, out into the
country-side, where the sweet odor of the heather
arose gracious and fragrant to the trembling girl.
There was little chance of her taking a wrong path.
The road over which the postboy came was the
King's highway, always kept in a state of repair..
She gave herself no time to notice the green up-
land farms, or the stately residences which stood
out on either hand in the moonlight. She con-
centrated her strength and mind on urging her
horse forward. She was too excited to form a
definite plan, and her only clear idea was to meet
the postboy before daylight, for she knew it would
not be safe to trust too much to her disguise. Now
and then a feeling of terror flashed over her, and
she turned sick with dread; but her firm pur-
pose upheld her.
It was almost four in the morning, and the wind
was blowing chill from the sea, when she entered
the rolling woodlands about the Tweed. Grizel
was shivering with the cold, and was so tired that
she with difficulty kept her place in the saddle.
"We can not hold out much longer, Ronald,"
she said; "and if we fail, we can never hold up
our heads again." Ronald, the sure-footed, stum-
bled and nearly fell. "It is no use," sighed
Grizel; "we must rest." She dismounted, but it
was some moments before her tired limbs could
obey her will. .Beside the roadway was a ditch
filled with running water, and Grizel managed to
lead Ronnld do'\ n the incline to its brink, and let
him drink. -She scooped up a little in her hand
and moistened her tongue; then, realizing that
Ronald must not be allowed to stand still, she,
with great difficulty, mounted upon his back again,
and, heartsick, fearful, yet not daring to turn back,
coaxed him gently forward.
The moon had set long before this, and in the
misty east the sky began to blanch with the first
gleam of morning. Suddenly, around the curve
of the road where it leaves the banks of the Tweed,
came a dark object. Grizel's heart leaped wildly.
Thirty seconds later she saw that it was indeed a
horseman. He broke into a song:
The Lord o' Argyle cam' wi' plumes and wi' spears,
And Monmouth he landed wi' gay cavaliers!
The pibroch has caa'd every tartan thegither,
B' thoosans their footsteps a' pressing' the heather;
Th' North and the Sooth sent their bravest ones out,
But a joust wi' Kirke's Lambs put them all to the rout."

By this time, the horseman was so close that
Grizel could distinguish objects hanging upon the
horse in front of the rider. They were the mail-
bags For the first time she realized her weakness
and saw how unlikely it was that she would be



able to cope with an armed man. The blood
rushed to her head, and a courage that was the
inspiration of the moment took possession of her.
She struck Black Ronald a lash with her whip.
Go she said to him shrilly, while her heart-
beats hammered in her ears, Go !"
The astonished and excited horse leaped down
the road. As she met the postboy, she drew Black
Ronald, with a sudden strength that was born of
the danger, back upon his haunches. His huge
body blocked the way.
"Dismount!" she cried to the other rider.
Her voice was hoarse from fright, and .sounded
strangely in her own ears. But a wild courage
nerved her, and the hand that drew and held the
pistol was as firm as a man's. Black Ronald was
rearing wildly, and in grasping the reins tighter,
her other hand mechanically altered its position
about the pistol.
She had not meant to fire, she had only thought
to aim and threaten, but suddenly there was a
flash of light in the gray atmosphere, a dull rever-
beration, and to the girl's horrified amazement
she saw the horse in front of her stagger.and fall
heavily to the ground. The rider, thrown from
his saddle, was pinned to the earth by his horse
and stunned by the fall. Dizzy with pain.and con-
fused by the rapidity of the assault, he made no
effort to draw his weapon.
The mail-bags had swung by their own momen-
tum quite clear of the horse in its fall, and now
lay loosely over its back, joined by the heavy strap.
It was a painful task for the exhausted girl to
dismount, but she did so, and, lifting, the cum-
bersome leather bags, she threw.them over Black
Ronald's neck. It was yet more painful to her
tender heart to leave the poor fellow she had
injured lying in so pitiable a condition, but her
father's life was in danger, and that, to her, was of
more moment than the postboy's hurts.
"Heaven forgive me," she said, bending over
him. "I pray this may not be his death!" She
clambered over the fallen horse and mounted
Ronald, who was calm again. Then she turned
his head toward-Edinboro' Town and hurriedly
urged him for .ard. But as she sped away from
the scene of the encounter, she kept looking back,
with an awe-struck face, to the fallen postboy. In
the excitement of the meeting and in her one great
resolve to obtain her father's death-warrant, she
had lost all thought of the risks she ran or of the
injuries she might inflict; and it was with unspeak-
-able relief, therefore, that she at last saw the post-
boy struggle to his feet, and stand gazing after her.
Thank Heaven, he is not killed !" she exclaimed
again and again, as she now joyfully pressed Ronald
into a gallop. Throughout the homeward journey,

Grizel made it a point to urge him to greater speed
when nearing a farmhouse, so that there would be
less risk of discovery. Once or twice she was ac-
costed by laborers in the field, and once by the driver
of a cart, but their remarks were lost upon the wind
as the faithful Ronald thundered on. She did not
feel the need of sleep, for she had forgotten it in
all her excitement, but she was greatly exhausted
and suffering from the effects of her rough ride.
Soon the smoke in the distance showed Grizel that
her.native town lay an hour's journey ahead. She
set her teeth and said an encouraging word to the
horse. He seemed to understand, for he redoubled
his energies. Now the roofs became visible, and
now, grim and sullen, the turrets of the castle
loomed up.. Grizel felt a great lump in her throat
as she thought of her father in his lonely despair.
She turned Ronald from the road again and cut
through a clump of elms. She came out in a few
minutes and rode more slowly toward a smaller
gate than the one by which she had left the city.
A stout. soldier looked at her carelessly and then
turned to his tankard of ale, after he had noticed
the mail-bags. Grizel turned into a crooked, nar-
row street lined on each side with toppling, frown-
ing buildings. She drew rein before a humble
house, and slipped wearily from her saddle and
knocked at the door. An old woman opened the
heavy oaken door and Grizel felLinto her arms.
"The bags-the mail," she gasped, aid fainted.
When she recovered consciousness, she found her-
self on a low, rough bed. The old woman was
bending over her.
"Losh keep me !" said the dame. I did na
ken ye! Ma puir bairnie! Hoo cam' ye by
these ? and she pointed to the clothes of Allen.
The bags ?" said Grizel, sitting bolt upright-
"Are under the hearth," said the old woman.
And Ronald?" continued Grizel.
"Is in the byre wi' the coos," said the other
with a knowing leer. "Not a soul kens it. Ne'er
a body saw ye come."
Breathlessly Grizel explained all to her old nurse,
and then sprung off the bed. At her request the
old dame locked the door and brought her the bags.
By the aid of a sharp knife the pair slashed open
the leather covering, and the inclosed packets
fell upon the floor. With trembling hands Grizel
fumbled them all over, tossing one after another
impatiently aside as she read the addresses. At
last she came upon a large one addressed to the
governor. With beating heart she hesitated a
moment, and then tore the packet open with shak-
ing fingers. She easily read the bold handwriting.
Suddenly everything swam before her, and again
she nearly fell into her companion's arms.
It was too true. What she read was a formal



I r
... .... ... .



warrant of the King, signed by his majesty, and
stamped and sealed with red wax. It ordered the
governor to hang Sir John Cochrane of Ochiltree
at the Cross in Edinburgh at ten o'clock in the
morning, on the third day of the following week.
She clutched the paper and hid it in her dress.
The disposition of the rest of the mail was soon
decided upon. The old lady's son Jock--a wild
fellow-was to put the sacks on the back of.a
donkey and turn it loose outside the gates, at
his earliest opportunity. And then Grizel, clad in
some rough garments the old lady procured,
slipped out of the house, and painfully made her
way toward the Canongate.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon when she
reached her home. The porter at the gate could
scarcely be made to understand that the uncouth
figure before him was his young mistress. But a
moment later her mother was embracing her, with
tears of joy.
All the male friends of Sir John were hastily
summoned, and Grizel related her adventure, and
displayed the death-warrant of her father. The
hated document was consigned to the flames, a
consultation was held, and that night three of the
gentlemen left for London.

-, -,"-
> Lt

i's )~t ,Y 'j,
' ~1

The next day, the donkey and the mail-sacks
were found by a sentry, and some little excite-
ment was occasioned; but when the postboy came
in later, and related how he had been attacked by
six stalwart robbers, and how he had slain two
of them and was then overpowered and forced
to surrender the bags, all wonderment was set
at rest.
The Cochrane family passed a week of great
anxiety, but when it was ended, the three friends
returned from London with joyful news. The
King had listened to their petition, and had or-
dered the removal of Sir John to the Tower of
London, until his case could be reconsidered. So
to London Sir John went; and after a time the
payment of five thousand pounds to some of the
King's advisers secured an absolute pardon. His
lands, which had been confiscated, were restored
to him; and on his arrival at his Scottish home,
he was warmly welcomed by a great concourse
of his friends. He thanked them in a speech,
taking care, however, not to tell who was so
greatly instrumental in making his liberation
possible. But we may be sure that he was
secretly proud of the pluck and devotion of his
daughter Grizel.

.. ili ,,, ...







"BUT it would cost more 'n a hundred dollars,
an' I tell you what it is, fellers, we never could do
it in the world."
"How do you know, Pin.White? You never
saw so much money, an' you never:owned a house,
so what 's the use trying' to break it up before you
find out what it is? "
"Oh, I don't know what it is, don't I? Well,
what were you talking' 'bout when you said you
wanted us to help Jenny Wren start a boardin'-
house? An' if I have n't found out about it, Ikey
Jarvis, after all you 've said, s'pose you begin an'
tell us what you mean?"
As Pinney White-whose name, by the way,
when properly pronounced, was Alpenna-made
these -few remarks, which he believed to be in the
highest degree sarcastic, he placed his thumbs
where the armholes of his vest would have been
if he had been wearing any such garment, and
looked about at his companions in a satisfied and
triumphant manner.
Of course I didn't mean that," said Ikey quickly,
understanding that by the use of such strong lan-
guage he had given Pinney at least a temporary
advantage over him. "What I say is, that you
don't know anything 'bout starting' this kind of a
"Wsell, what do you know of it?" asked Tom
Downing, smiling in a manner that Ikey thought
very disagreeable.
"I know what Jenny has told me," replied
Master Jarvis almost angrily; and he then added
more softly, Now, fellers, this is jest the way
SJenny talks, an' I tell you she has more sense in
her little finger, even if she is only fifteen years
old, than the whole of us together. Her mother
owns fifty dollars, an' is so rheumatic that she
won't be able to go out to work very much this
* winter, so she 's got to scare up some way of earn-
in' a livin'. So, Jenny says that if we fellers
would come to board with her, an' bring all the
others we know, there could be good deal of
money made. She 's found a house over on Car-
penter street that she can have for forty dollars a
month, and it '11 hold pretty near every feller in
town what sells papers. She won't have any
money to buy-furniture with, after she pays the

rent, an' she says that if each one of us five boys
will put in ten dollars, that '11 be fifty dollars, an'
we '1 own half the place, an' get our share of all
she makes."
"Oh, that's different from what you said be-
fore," added Tom; and believing now that it was
an opportunity to make money, instead of some
charitable scheme, he began to look upon the
matter with more favor.
"Then if we put in ten dollars, we can stay jest
as long as we want to without payin' anything for
board, can we?" asked Sam Tousey, his eyes
opening wide as he believed he saw an opportunity
of indulging his love of indolence.
"Of course not," replied Ikey quickly, and look-
ing at Sam as scornfully as he dared. "S'posen
we did that, how would Jenny have any money to
run the house with? We 've got to pay our board
jest the same as the others; but when she makes
anything out of the place, we five will get half of
it. Now do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand that part of it," said Jack
Phinney quickly, and then he added in a tone of
painful indecision, "What I 'd like to know is
where we fellers are goin' to get the money that
she wants ?"
"Earn it, of course," replied Ikey, who was
looked upon as the wealthy member of the party.
"You're allers talking' 'bout not havin' any money,
an' you an' Sam oughter be pardners. If you 'd
both work every day like the rest of us, an' took
care of what you made, you 'd have ten dollars
"We would, would we? Well, now that you 're
so smart about it, I don't believe you 've got that
much," retorted Jack.
"If I had all the fellers owe me I would, an' a
good deal more," replied Ikey;- "but I 've got
pretty nigh enough anyhow'."
"Let 's turn to an' find out jest how much
we can raise; then we '11 know what we 're talking'
about," said Tom, who evidently had become
deeply interested in the plan.
The boys had been standing in front of one of the
large newspaper offices in New York City, where
they had met after the morning's work was fin-
ished; and now, in accordance with Tom's propo-
sition, they adjourned to the City Hall Park to
count their treasure. Out of the way of any too
officious policeman, and far enough from one an-
other to preverit the slightest possibility of qies-



tion that any one could take up more than he put
down, the small newsdealers began what was a
protracted, and in some cases an almost painful,
time of mental calculation. Sam, in particular,
had a severe struggle to count correctly the pen-
nies he had spread out on the bench in front of
him ; and if he had not called upon Ikey for assist-
ance, the business of the day would have been
even more seriously delayed.
It was found that Sam had but forty-nine cents,
although he insisted that every fellow who counted
it must have made a mistake, for he was positive
that he had very much more. :
Jack had one dollar and fifty-six cents. Pinney
was the proud owner of four dollars and twenty-
three; Tom had twenty-eight cents more than
Pinney; and Ikey ttiumphantly displayed seven
dollars and ninety cents.
"That's as much as the whole thing-makes,"
Ikey said, as he added the several amounts to-
gether, and wrote down the total in very shaky-
looking figures. "Not half what Jenny wanted,"
he went on, "but, if we agree to go into the thing,
we can soon get enough. Now, what do you say?"
"Who 's to be the boss of the house ?" asked
Sam, looking at his small amount of money as if
he thought it sufficient to entitle him to the position
of president of the corporation, at the very least.
Why, Jenny is, of-course said Ikey. It
will be her boardin'-house, an' we won't have any
more to do with it than the other fellers what lives
there, 'cept that, if any money 's made, we get our.
But we 've got to take hold an' keep the thing
goin', or else we 'd better not have anything to
do with it," said Tom. "I don't believe she '11
make much for a good while, perhaps not for this
winter, an' we 're the ones that '11 have to see that
she gets along all right."
"That's it, that 's jest it!" cried Ikey, de-
lighted because Tom was really showing some en-
thusiasm in the matter. "We 've got to work
hard till she gets started, an' then we '11 stand a
good chance to make some money."
"But don't we have a hand in running' the
house ?" persisted Sam, doubtful as to whether he
would better part with his wealth unless he could at
least be one of the directors.
Jenny says that our work is to get all the fel-
lers we can to board with us, an' to make 'em be-
have theirselves decent," answered Ikey. "We
're to have rules for the place, an' we can fix 'em
,up to suit ourselves."
Then every one of us brings a rule, eh ? and
Sam looked relieved, now that he knew he could
-at least have a voice in the management.
"Yes, every one does that," assented Ikey.

"Now, what do you say? Will you all come
"But what about my havin' only forty-nine
cents?" asked Sam, beginning to fear that he
might not be received as a member of the corpo-
ration with so little cash at his command.
"Why, you'll have to scurry 'round an' get the
money as quick as you can. Put in all you 've
got but jest enough to buy your papers with, this
afternoon, an' then work as hard as you know
There was no necessity for Ikey to ask again if
the others were willing to join him in the enter-
prise, for every one showed, as plainly as the most
sceptical could have desired, how eager he was to
become a stockholder in Jenny's boarding-house.
One trifling detail of business alone remained to
be settled, and they were reminded of this by Tom
Downing, who said:
"Of course it'll be all right for us to give our
money to you or Jenny, 'cause we know it 'll be
put into the house; but you oughter fix up some-
thin' to tell how much each one pays, and what
it's for."
. Pinney nodded his head vigorously to show that
he thought such a course would be the only cor-
rect way of transacting the business, and Ikey
asked in almost a sad tone:
"Do you fellers think I oughter write out a
paper for each one? "
Of course we must all have the same thing,"
said Sam positively; and considering the fact that,
after deducting the fifteen cents needed to lay in
his afternoon stock, Master Tousey had only thirty-
four cents toward starting a boarding-house, Ikey
thought he was asking for almost more than was fair.
It '11 take me 'bout all the afternoon to write
em," he said-with a sigh; "but I can do it, I
s'pose. You fellers give me your money so 's I
can show Jenny I've got it. She 'll hire the
house right away, and I '11 meet you here to-night
'bout seven o'clock to go round to see it, then I '11
have the writing's fixed."
The boys gave their cash into Ikey's keeping,
all save Sam doing so without a murmur. He
appeared to think that he ought to have a receipt
then and there, lest the custodian of the money,
tempted by the possession of so much wealth,
might prove unfaithful to the trust, and flee to
some foreign country. Sam succeeded, after quite
a mental struggle, in stifling his suspicions, and
Ikey started away at full speed to find Jenny,
leaving the directors of the proposed boarding-
house to discuss the different questions that began
to arise, relative to the responsibilities they had
so recently assumed.
Jack Phinney had considerable to say about fel.



lows who iere willing to risk their entire wealth
in an enterprise, and then were debarred from
exercising any governing powers. No one save
Sam paid much attention to his plaint, and the
two sympathized with each other, while Pinney
and Tom tried to decide what rules they could
make which would be most beneficial to the
inmates of Jenny's boarding-house.
"There 's one thing we '11 get Jenny to say,

every one of us owes part of what Jenny-wanted
us to pay."
"Now see here, Pinney White, we 'd better fix
this thing at the start. I 'm not goin' to live with
a lot of fellers that want ter set down to dinner
without washin' their faces, an' you know it. I
would n't put in a cent toward opening' a place that
would be like some, an' you '11 find out that Jenny
will say 'bout the same thing. It won't hurt you a

/ ,'


an' that is that no feller can come to the table till
he 's washed his face."
Tom spoke very decidedly, as indeed he should
have done, since he was overparticular, his inti-
mate friends thought, on the subject of cleanli-
-Pinney looked distressed. He was a boy who
did not believe in the useless waste of soap neces-
sary to wash a fellow's face even once a day, and
he knew of several, whom he had intended to
introduce as boarders, who were quite as econom-
ical in this particular as himself.
"I would n't have that rule, Tom," he said,
almost imploringly. "I know a good many.of
the fellers who would kick if you did, an', besides,
you 'd have to buy soap and towels. I go in for
havin' things jest as comfortable as you do; but
there is n't any use throwing' money away when

bit to wash up every day, an' it '11 make you feel a
sight better, too. Besides, how 'd you look bein'
one of the bosses of a regular house, with your face
as dirty as it is now ? "
Pinney seemed concerned at this last sugges-
tion. He knew very well that there could be no
pleasure in exerting himself to be cleanly; but as
one of the stockholders it did really seem as if he
should change his personal appearance a trifle;
therefore he said:
"Well, we '11 let it go that way an' see how
the fellers will take it; but I 'm 'fraid we '11 have
trouble with some of 'em."
I '11 fix that," replied Tom, decidedly. "Now
let's all see how many boarders we can get before
the evening' papers come out."
Recognizing the necessity of interesting their
friends and acquaintances in the plan so that



Jenny's boarding-house might, at the very com-
mencement, be on a paying basis, the stockhold-
ers started out to. make the scheme known to the
public, and to solicit patronage. In the delight-
ful occupation of news-bearers Sam. and Jack
forgot their supposed grievances.; .or rather, they
soothed their wounded feelings by representing~, to
their particular circle of acquaintances that they
were in reality the very head .and front of the
enterprise, but had allowed a few friends to appear
as if clothed with equal authority.
As the directors had expected, the statement
that Jenny Parsons, otherwise known as Jenny
Wren, was about to open aouarding-lou~c. LaLi~ed .
no small amount of excitement among those who
were acquainted with her or.any of. the.directois.v
Some of the boys were highly delighred i.h the
scheme, believing that it would be more pleasant.
to live tjtl-) ther in that way, than to remain at the
News-boys' Lodging-'house; but at the.same.timne,
they doubted very seriously whether the enterprise
would be a paying one.. Others objected to the plan
in every detail. Others publicly stated that it could
not succeed if Jenny depended upon-two so. notori-.
ously lazy fellows as Sam Tousey and Jack Phinney-
for any portion of the necessary capital. Several
declared that they would not become inmates of
Jenny's boarding-house for the same reason that
they objected to a larger.establishment, which was
that they would not allow others to lay down rules
for them to follow, and that "if Tom Downing
thought he could make the fellows wash their faces
as often as he did his, he was mistaken."
Thus it was that the business community of
which thestockholders of Jenny's boarding-house
were members was divided in opinion as to the
success of the plan; but there were so many who
had promised, under certain stipulations, to engage
board, that Tom and Pinney were perfectly satis-
fied with these first results, even though Sam and
Jack had already begun to grow discouraged.
Ikey met his friends according to agreement,
and was in a high state of excitement regarding
the scheme. He had gone with Mrs. Parsons and
Jenny to inspect and afterward to lease the house.
".It's jest about as nice as it can be for forty
dollars a month, an' when we get it fixed up the
way Jenny's mother says, it '11 knock the spots
out of anything this crowd has ever seen."
I don't believe we can make it go," Sam said
disconsolately. A good many of the fellers think
it '11 bust us all up."
"It can't hurt you but thirty-four cents' worth if
it smashes right away," replied Tom quickly;
"besides, we can get all the boarders the house '11
hold. Most of the fellers you an' Jack was talking'
with are jest the kind we don't want anyhow."

"What do theysay about it?" asked Ikey eagerly.
Pinney repeated all the comments he had heard,
whether they were favorable or not, and even be-
fore he had finished Sam asked Ikey: "Did you
bring the papers you said you 'd write ? "
By way of reply Ikey drew from his pocket,
rith jrn air of triumph, four business cards he had
begged from some store, and -on the back of the
one he handed Sam was the following inscription:


T Jenr,n ha; got all-the money," Ikey'said, after
he had given his friends suticicent time for them
to admire the sper ir e .r of his skill as an account-
ant, "an' she an' ber rimoher are off now buyin'
a lot. o' things. They '11 have the place fixed up
so 's we can sleep there to-night, an' I 'm goin' to
get the things for a big supper."
The idea of a feast was enough to revive all
Sam's former enthusiasm for the scheme, and,
without bringing up again the question of indi-
vidual authority, he displayed the. greatest eager-
ness to start at once for the boarding-house.
The business of the day was nearly ended; Pin-
ney had one paper,left from his alter r ri on's stock,
and when that'had been disposed of by the united
efforts of all the directors, there 'was nothing to
prevent them from going to their new home.
Carpenter street, although it may not be found
on any of the maps of New York City, is located
not far from the principal newspaper offices, and
in less than ten minutes from the time the boys
left Printing House Square they were in front of
a not overcleanly-looking building, which Ikey
pointed out as their future home.
"That's the place," he said in a tone of admira-
tion, while they were yet some distance away-
"Not so very swell looking' outside, but it'll be
mighty nice inside, after it 's fixed up."
"What's the bundle on the steps ? Tom asked
when they were sufficiently near the building to
admit of their seeing the boarding-house more dis-
tinctly by the light of a street lamp.
"I guess that 's some of the things Jenny has
been buyin'," replied Ikey. She must be back,
though she said she was afraid they could n't get
through at the store till pretty late."
If she 's goin' to leave bundles outdoors in that
way, she won't have anything very long," said
Sam as he mentally resolved that it was his duty,
as one of the directors, to read the young landlady
a lecture on carelessness.
Tom was slightly in advance of the others when





he went up the steps, and he lifted the bundle by
one corner roughly, almost dropping it a second
afterward, as a noise very like that of a baby cry-
ing was heard from beneath the ragged shawl'
which covered the package.
"What 's that ? cried Sam, nearly tumbling
down the steps, so startled was he by what he had
After the first surprise, which had caused Tom
to lower the bundle quickly, he raised it again,
and this time no one felt any alarm, although
all were in a complete state of bewilderment, for
there was no longer any question about the matter.
There was a baby in the bundle, and it was crying
as vigorously as if it had the best pair of lungs
in the city.
"Unroll it, Tom, so we can see what it looks
like," said Ikey, while all the boys crowded around
to see Tom undo the wrappings as awkwardly as
only a boy can, regardless alike of the baby's now
almost piercing screams, and the chill winter wind
to which he was about to introduce the unfortu-
nate infant.
It is a regular young one, an' no mistake he
said as he held the chubby little youngster so that
the wind blew directly upon it.
Ikey was already trying the door; but, to his
great surprise, he could not arouse any one. The
house was evidently without occupants, since no
reply was made to his vigorous knocking, and not
a light could be seen from any of the windows.
They have n't come home at all," he said,
turning around just as Tom was trying to per-
suade the very cold-looking baby to have a bite of
a half-frozen apple. "Now, who does that belong
to ?"
By that," Ikey meant the infant; but none of
his companions could answer the question, arid for
some moments every one remained silent, while the
baby screamed its protests against being thus ex-
posed to the cold.
"Better tie it up agin, Tom," suggested Jack,
with an air of wisdom. "It does n't want any
apple, and perhaps the wind 's a little too strong
for it. My aunt don't let any of her babies go out-
doors bareheaded in the winter."
"But where did this one come from ? That 's
what I want to know," persisted Ikey, as he looked
about him in perplexity.
"I '11 tell you jest how it is," replied Tom, as
he spread the shawl on the doorstep, and, laying
the screaming child upon it, rolled the little thing

up much as if it had been some article of mer-
chandise. "This baby did n't come here all by
itself, did it? "
Of course not! assented the others.
Then it's been left here by somebody too poor
to take good care of it. Likely its folks will turn
up before long," said Tom.
"But what '11 we do with it? asked Sam.
"We 'Il wait a while and see," said Tom, sage-
ly. One of you fellers go an' buy a whole slat
of candy, so 's to make it stop hollerin', an' I 'I
take care of it till Jenny comes. We agreed that
every one should make a rule, an' this one is
mine: 'We '11 all own the baby as we own the
boardin'-house'; an', if nobody turns up to claim
him, we can have no end o' fun with him before
winter 's over."
Just then it seemed to all the stockholders as if
it would be a very pleasant thing to own a baby,
and Ikey started at once to buy some candy for
their new property, while Tom sat on the door-
step, trying to still its cries.

(To be continued.)






WHEN at last the strain of the day's alarms and
exertions was over, and was succeeded by dark-
ness, stillness, and temporary safety, poor little
Nita became quite hysterical and sobbed her-
self to sleep on Juan's shoulder. She refused to
eat anything, and was as weary, footsore, and
entirely exhausted a child as can be imagined.
But for the protecting arms that encircled her,
the confidence that Juan's cleverness and daring
had inspired, and her belief that they were to stay
in their tree of refuge for some time, she would
have been utterly miserable. As it was, Juan had
to scold her a little for being so sure that they
would never see their mother again, and so certain
that they would eventually be recaptured. He
told her that she must expect to undergo a great
deal of hardship, that she must be brave, that he
had a capital plan that would put the Indians off
the scent, and finally, that she must go to sleep.
He made a hearty meal from the wallet and threw
down something now and then to Amigo, who had
stretched himself out at the foot of the tree, and
who richly deserved to feast after his admirable
conduct on that eventful day.
"A sensible dog that; not once did he bark
after the Indians appeared, and he only gave one
growl in the thicket. I believe he knows as well
as I what to do." This was Juan's last thought
before he, too, fell asleep.
Amigo's whines awakened him before daylight;
and he was not sorry, for after the fatigue he had
undergone the previous day he would certainly
have slept late-a dangerous indulgence under
the circumstances. He aroused Nita, who awoke
greatly refreshed and much more cheerful. She
was quite ready for breakfast now, and all the
party ate with immense relish of what the wallet
It is lucky that I held on to this yesterday,"
said Juan, "in spite of the way we were chased. If I
had lost it, we should now have nothing at all to
eat. Well, Nita, this is what I am going to do.
I am going to travel due south all to-day, instead
of southwest, so as to puzzle the Indians, who will
be sure that I-am traveling toward Mexico. Let
us start at once."
On hearing this, Nita lost no time in getting
down from her perch, and they set off. She was
so stiff at first that she could hardly move, but the

soreness disappeared in great measure, as they
walked on. They were not yet out of the woods,"
however, and they did not dare to feel too glad,
while as yet they were uncertain whether their foes
had lost or followed up their trail.
They faced south, toward a mountain from which
Juan thought he could get a good view of possible
pursuers, and where they could perhaps find water.
Owing to the extraordinary purity of the atmos-
phere of that region, it seemed to him to be only
about three miles distant, but it proved to be
almost ten. A long walk it seemed under a burn-
ing midday sun, and when they arrived at the
mountain, there was still the ascent to be made.
As soon as they had come within sight of the
woods that covered it, Juan's eyes had eagerly
roved from spot to spot, until they discerned one
piece near the top, where the trees were of a dark rich
green, in decided contrast with those about them.
"There is water, unfailing water! he exclaimed
delightedly. "But you are dreadfully tired, Nita.
You must have a good rest under that large oak
before you begin to climb the mountain. We
will take that ravine, and follow it up." They
both were very weary, and were consumed with
thirst. Nita could only stagger forward a few
more steps; she sank down on the grass, but
rose up again presently, and managed to reach
the tree.
When they had rested in the grateful shade of
the oak for about an hour, they began the ascent,
lured by the thought of the water they needed
and craved. The ravine was dry, and edged by
foliage so pathetically burnt and blighted that one
would not have thought there was a drop of water
within fifty miles of it. But, convinced that he
was right, Juan struggled on, up the steep ascent,
and pushed his way through the brush, encouraging
Nita all the while and helping her when her cour-
age failed or her strength gave out, which hap-
pened again and again. The heat was intolerable,
and her poor little feet were bleeding, her throat
parched, her lips swollen, her whole frame one
great ache.
When they had been toiling along in this way
for some hours, the ravine made a sudden turn to
the left, a refreshing breeze struck them, there
was a little stretch of shade before them, and the
brother and sister sat down to rest. They were
too exhausted to talk, and in the stillness they
presently heard a sound sweeter than any that


1887.] JUAN AND JUANITA. 265

could be made by Thomas's entire orchestra-the
faint silvery tinkle of falling waters Amigo heard
it, too, and bounded off, and after a time came back
dripping, and evidently delighted. The children
gave a cry of joy, but could not move just then.
As soon as they had recovered a little, they pushed
on again, and though they had some hard climb-
ing that tried them sorely, th'e delicious, rippling,
gushing music that grew louder every moment so
animated them that they felt almost brisk, and
marched on until they were brought up suddenly
by a cliff of rock. Juan followed along its base
until he found a tree, the top branches of which
were nearly on a level with the ground above. By
means of this ingenious natural staircase-they
did not stop to look for the one by which Amigo
had ascended-Juan and Juanita mounted safely
into the upper regions, and set off in a sort of limp-
ing run that brought them to what seemed at the
time the loveliest spot that had ever met their
eyes. It was a second, lower cliff of gray stone
to which the winds and storms of thousands of
years had given an exquisite bloom, an infinite
variety of soft neutral tints. From under a ledge
issued a thing of life"-a beautiful little stream
of clear, cold water, that danced out and away from
the overhanging canopy of fine old walnut, pecan,
and pollard-willows, sparkled in the sunshine like
the jewel it was, and fell over the edge of the pla-
teau beyond. About the spring was a green circle
of mosses and aquatic plants, starred with water-
lilies, and fringed with quantities of maiden-hair
The two children dimly felt the charm of the
place; they reveled in the coolness of the shade,
bathed luxuriously in the water, and drank as freely
of it as they dared, after so long a fast. Juan had
to pull Nita bodily away from the spring, and to
insist on her taking only a mouthful at a time.
They both bathed their feet, quenched their thirst
gradually, and ate their frugal dinner; and then
both enjoyed a good long rest, stretched out at full
length in the shade.
This is such a nice place, and I am so tired,
and so are you, Juan! Casteel will never find us
now. Let us stay here for several days," said
Nita. But Juan shook his head, and, getting up,
reconnoitered the neighborhood in true Indian
style. He was gone some little time, and Nita was
beginning to feel anxious, when she saw him com-
ing back with something in each hand, she could
not tell what, at first.
"See! See! Here is a piece of good fortune!"
he called out, waving in the air his treasure-trove -
a pair of old boots and a battered tin canteen. He
was in-high spirits. "We need not suffer again
as we have done to-day," he said. "These have

doubtless been left by some scouting party of
Texicanos.* And, Nita, I am going to make you
a pair of stout moccasins out of the tops of these
boots, so that your poor feet won't be cut by the
stones when we start off again."
"Oh, don't talk of traveling any more to-day,
Juan! I can't. A bird can't fly with a broken
wing," expostulated Nita. "I can not stir. You
are very good to think of making zsafatos t for me,
brother mine. Can't you make a pair for your-
"You shall see," replied Juan; and with his
knife he soon improvised shoes for both, made Nita
pick the thorns out of her feet, cut strips of leather
and bound on her sandals, filled the canteen, and
announced that he was ready to go.
"This is evidently awell-known watering-place,"
he said. "White men have been here, and Indians.
I find deer-runs leading to it, plenty of turkey-
tracks, deer-tracks, some bear-tracks, a few buffalo-
tracks. We will not go very far, but it won't do to
stay here. Do you see those blue peaks over there?
I am going there, and when I get there, I shall
change my course to southwest again, and shall
soon snap my fingers at Casteel and every Co-
manche in the tribe. I know they are working on
a wrong scent to-day, and now that I am thus far
ahead of them, I ought to be able to keep out of
their reach forever."
They both took another drink before leaving,
and Nita gave a lingering look at the merry little
mountain stream and the dense shade, as she
hobbled off obediently behind Juan, with Amigo
reluctantly bringing up the rear. Night found them
plodding along a deer-run, single file, through
the brush; and before the light quite faded, Juan
built a sort of bower of branches, in a protected
spot where some large rocks also afforded partial
shelter, by forming an angle that had only to
be roofed to make a very respectable sentry-box.
Into this the brother and sister crept, while Amigo
mounted guard outside. They were not accus-
tomed to being in the woods alone at night,
and Nita thought the hooting of the owls a sinister
sound, the perpetual plaint of the whip-poor-will
very melancholy, the whole situation alarming.
She lay awake for some time, expecting she knew
not what -but something dreadful.
With Amigo on guard, and with his bow and ar-
rows at his side, Juan felt none of his sister's nerv-
ous terrors. He talked as if his bower were an im-
pregnable fortress, he took some food, made Nita
do the same, and after throwing sonfe small scraps
to Amigo and promising to knock over a rabbit
for him next day, the young brave stretched him-
self out comfortably on the ground and slept the
sleep of a very tired and perfectly healthy boy.
t Shoes.


Neither he nor Nita felt the want of soft beds or
downy pillows. They were .quite used to doing
without such luxuries, and were far less restless
than the Princess in the fairy-tale, who slept on
forty feather-beds.
As for their appetite next morning, it was so
vigorous that they could almost have breakfasted
on tenpenny nails. But alas! and alack! there
was nothing left in the wallet excepting a little
corn that had been parched in the ashes. Even
Amigo only took this under protest, and sniffed
at it in a very ill-bred way. Uncertain when
they should again find water, they were afraid
to drink much from the canteen which they had
filled, knowing that they might have to depend
for their very existence on the precious fluid it con-
tained. One small mouthful, each, they allowed
themselves before beginning the day's journey,
which lay for the most part, after they had de-
scended the mountain, across an open stretch of
shadeless prairie.
As on the previous day, the heat was intense, the
glare almost blinding. Breeze there was none; the
very earth seemed ready to blister under the fierce
heat that rayed down from the sun. But for the
shoes that Juan had manufactured, the children
could scarcely have borne that walk. Amigo called
a halt whenever they passed a tree of any kind,
and lingered in its shade as long as he could.
Once only did they permit themselves the luxury of
a sip of water, but happening to turn, they caught
the wistful expression of Amigo's face, which said,
as plainly as words could have done, Can't you
spare me a drink from that canteen-just one?"
And they stopped several times to relieve his
thirst. It was very unselfish in them, for they
greatly coveted every drop, but they were doubly
repaid; first by the dog's gratitude, and the very
evident benefit he derived from the drink, and
then by an occurrence of which I shall speak
But even that trying, almost unbearable day,
which realized the force of the Arabian proverb
likening great heat to the wrath of God, came to
an end at last. Nita, almost fainting under the
fiery trial, had thought it as endless as it was cruel;
while poor Juan, burdened with his bow and blan-
ket, more than once had felt ready to drop by the
How thankful they were when the shadows
began to lengthen, and they saw that the sun had
almost run its course Before it set, Juan, who
seemed to have eyes set all around his head like a
fly, caught sight of a faint cloud on the horizon-a
thin pillar of smoke, very distant, and so indis-
tinct that it was some moments before Nita could
make it out.
Farewell, Casteel! Farewell, all! "

"There, there! off to the right! Don't you
see it?" said Juan eagerly. It is the Comanches!
I knew they would think I had gone that way."
The smoke of that camp-fire lifted a great dread
from the minds of both, and with the effusiveness
of their race, they fell into each others' arms, and
embraced and kissed each other, while tears of
joy streamed down their cheeks.
"Ah!" said Juan, as he drew a long, free
breath, and continued to gaze at the smoky monu-
ment of his deliverance from the house of bond-
age, "I have given you the dodge! Catch me
now if you can, Casteel! "
His eyes sparkled gayly as he spoke, and he
walked as though his day's march had just begun.
As for Nita, her face more than reflected his hap-
piness, and tired as she was, she actually danced
for joy.
"Adios, Casteel! Adios todos /" she cried out,
waving her little brown hand toward the camp;
and then with a note of regret in her voice she
added, "Adios, Shaneco!-Shaneco was kind
to us, Juan. I shall never forget that."
"We shall never see them any more," said
Juan. "We can walk where we please now, on
hard ground or soft, in sand or mud. And we can
take our own time, and need not travel in the
middle of the day. And do you say now that we
shall never see our mother, Nita? Viva! Viva!
Viva !" f Nita joined in this shout, and Amigo,
not understanding the demonstration, barked once
or twice by way of question; then seeing from the
children's faces that the excitement was a joyous
one, he tried feebly to frisk, whereupon both the
children embraced him, and declared that he was
the dearest dog in the world, the most intelligent,
the most affectionate, and the handsomest. When
Amigo had duly responded to these flattering
speeches, Juan remembered that he had seen a
creek just before this great discovery, and that he
had meant to explore it.
It looks very dry," he said, when they reached
it, "but it is running in the direction of our route,
and we may have the luck to find some water. I
would give a buffalo-robe, if I had it, for a good
drink. I am almost choked, Nita."
He spoke cheerfully, but had little expectation
of coming upon a pool, and what hope he had
dwindled as he went on and saw that the shallow
stream had disappeared as completely as though
it had never existed. All at once, when Juan had
grown very serious under the gravity of the respon-
sibility he had assumed, and was thinking with
dismay of his empty canteen and wallet, Amigo
bounded past him and began trotting along with
his nose close to the ground, sniffing excitedly
here and there.
t"Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!"





"What is he after?" asked Nita; but before
Juan could reply, Amigo had stopped near some
big rocks, and had begun scratching in the sand
with all his might and main.
"Water shouted Juan. And he was right;
for, when he and Nita fell on their knees, and be-
gan scooping out the sand from the hole Amigo
had made, they found in a. little while that the
sand was no longer dry, but wet, a fact that put
so much energy into their efforts that they soon
dug down to fresh water, Amigo's instinct had
divined the hidden spring and had saved them,
as they had saved him, much suffering. Hunger
was far more endurable, now that thirst no longer
tormented them; and, infinitely refreshed, if wo-
fully hungry, they betook themselves to bed -not
a bed of roses, but one of dried grasses.
How their fond mother's heart would have
yearned over them if she could have seen those
two little figures lying out there, under'the stars,
in tranquil sleep,, completely at the mercy of the
world, environed by a thousand dangers, yet for
the time as safe in that lonely wilderness as in
the most populous city !
Whether it was that Amigo did not arouse them,
or that the fear of Comanches no longer troubled
their dreams, the sun was quite high before either
Juan or Nita stirred. Their breakfast was not a very
elaborate one, consisting only of a drink of water
apiece, and they were detained only until the can-
teen could be filled.
"We shall get to the peak before sunset," said
Juan, and I am sure there is plenty of game in the
hills. 'I will kill enough to last us for many days;
so cheer up,.mi hermanita.* We are not going to
starve while I have Shaneco's bow and so much as
a single arrow left."
"I am not so very hungry, Juan. I shall do
very well to-day. I had more than you did from
the wallet, and I feel quite strong," said Nita
brightly. I don't mind anything, now that Cas-
teel'is'not behind us."
Oh, that is all right They will not follow us
any farther, but will go home," replied Juan. And
this was what happened.
--The Indians probably thought that their rebel-
lious captives would certainly die in the wilderness,
either by violence or from starvation; and, con-
tent with this vengeance, they gave up the chase,
and returned to their encampment on the clear
forks of the Brazos. If they had not been under
treaty just then with the United States, they might
have made the search for Juan and Nita a side-
issue of one.of their raids. In that event, the chil-
dren would almost certainly have been recaptured;
but as it was, it did not seem worth their pursuers'
while to go to any more trouble to catch and kill

two children who, as the vengeful Casteel declared,
were sure to perish if left to themselves.
There was a kind of rivalry between the brother
and sister all that morning as to which should
seem least to have felt the fatigue and deprivations
of the last few days. It was well for both that they
had learned fortitude in a severe school, or they
would certainly have broken down under an exact
repetition of the previous days' experience. They
never could have borne it if they had been accus-
tomed to a life of luxury and indulgence, and had
been tenderly nurtured.
A feature of Comanche discipline was to make
the older children do without sleep or food for as
long as their instructors thought necessary; an-
other consisted in making them perform arduous
tasks and run or walk great distances while de-
prived of their natural rest, or while fasting. The
warriors of the future, of course, underwent more
severe tests than the girls, whose lives were to be
more inglorious and homely; but all were in some
measure subjected to these disagreeable educational
So now,-although our poor babes in the woods
were footsore, weary and hungry, they made no
complaint, but with great patience and courage
trudged on, hour after hour, under the burning
sun, stopping when they could go no farther and
taking such refreshment as the sickening warm
water in the canteen afforded.
By noon they had made their way to a small
thicket of mesquite about five miles from the peak.
This offered a relief from the distressing glare of
the plain rather than anything that could be
called shade; and here the children dropped down
on the hot earth, without strength enough to have
carried them another yard--every vital force
completely exhausted for the time. The confi-
dence with which Juan had started out had van-
ished like the morning dew under that terrible sun.
It seemed to him that they had lain down to die.
How was he to know that there was game in the
hills? How were they ever to get there ? What
were they to do for water, now that the canteen
was again empty?
Too proud to express his dejection, and not in
the least understanding that it arose from physical
causes, Juan turned his back on poor little Nita,
threw his arm up over his head, and lay perfectly
motionless for so long that she became seriously
uneasy. When she could stand this strange con-
duct no longer, she pulled anxiously at her brother's
sleeve, saying, Juan Juan! What is the mat-
ter with you? Are you ill? Open your eyes
Look at me! Answer me!"
But Juan would not answer, and still hid his
face. He did not know that he was distressing.

* My little sister."



Nita, and he wished to be as miserable as he "Oh, oh! Mi madre! Mi madre! Quiero mi
pleased. Presently a wail of despair reached him, madre "* sobbed the unhappy child. Her love
and, turning over, he saw Nita weeping piteously, for Juan and her admiration of him were un-
overcome by visions of Juan dying and dead, bounded; she had perfect faith in his ability to
leaving her alone in the wilderness, do anything and everything; but when that sup-
*"Mymother! Mymother! Iwantmymother!"




'' *' '.'.


port failed her, she collapsed altogether, so accus-
tomed was she to lean her whole weight on hitn..
Juan was evidently hopeless or very ill, and, 'in
either event, she was miserable. The sight of his
dear little sister's wretchedness appealed so strongly
to Juan's manly and generous nature, that he sat
up at once and affected a great deal more liveliness
than he felt.
"Pobrecita! (Poor little girl!) what is it? Don't
cry. You 'will see our mother soon; what afflicts
you?" he demanded, soothingly. Ah! you are
starved, poor child You are thirsty, and tired to
death. Oh, if I only had some water and food for
you! And he threw himself down again on his
back with a deep sigh. Now it was Nita's turn to
comfort him, but although he got some strength
from her affection, her assurances that all would
yet be well did not find much of an echo.
It was now getting a little cooler, and the world
was less like a vast oven; Amigo, who had been
stretched out comfortably under a tree, and had
stood the day's journey better than they had ex-
pected, came up to Juan and snuffed about him
restlessly, doubtless with the intention of admon-
ishing him that they ought to be off again. But
Juan did not move, and had not the energy to
respond to. any such demand. Even when the
afternoon had almost all gone, he continued to lie
there, inert, a prey to gloomy doubts and fears.
When he did get up, it was with a bound that
brought him to his feet at once (and of which he
would not have believed himself capable a moment
before). "Look! look! he cried, pointing above
them. Obeying, Nita saw overhead, beautifully
outlined against a deep-blue sky, a large flock of
snow-white doves flying toward the peak..
"It is near sundown; they are seeking water
and a place to roost. See how straight they are fly-
ing toward the hills! We will follow. I was right.
It can't be very far. Come on, Nita," said Juan,
all his interest excited now. "I will help you, if
you can't get along by yourself."
Led by this lovely band of birds, the children

struggled bravely and hopefully on for another
mile, when they were still further cheered to see,
about a half mile beyond them, a long line of pine-
trees, which they knew must be growing on the
banks of a stream or lake. Amazed now at the
frame of mind that had produced his recent
profound depression, and delighted to know that
succor was so close at hand, Juan never stopped,
except to encourage his companions, until they
had reached one of those clear, swift, charming
streams in which that region abounds.
As they approached it, a deer occasionally
bounded off in front of them, or a drove of turkeys
went whirring aside out of their way; but although
both Juan and Nita strung their bows, neither
could get near enough for a shot. Amigo started
a rabbit and gave it a close race, but with no bet-
ter result. There seemed little chance of their
getting a supper, and they were blue enough
about it; but when they reached the river, what
should they see but quantities of fish almost ask-
ing to be caught.
Scarcely stopping to bathe his face or get a
drink, Juan promptly cut a willow pole, fastened
his line to it, found a grasshopper, baited his hook,
and cast out into the stream, while Nita, sure of
the result, ran about with surprising alacrity pick-
ing up dry wood-for a fire. Juan had not to wait
long for a bite; for such was the touching prime-
val innocence of the fish, that no sooner did the
grasshopper light on the water, than there was a
grand rush and scramble among them to get it.
A large, fine trout was soon flopping about on
the gravelly margin of. the river. Two others
joined it in swift succession; and, too hungry to
wait another moment, Juan dropped his pole,
seized these, cleaned them, cut them up, ran sticks
through each morsel, and, with Nita's help, soon
had them in front of the fire.
It seemed to them that the fish would never be
cooked, but at last they were done. And oh, how
brown, crisp, delicious, .incomparable they were,
and what a feast it was to these hungry wanderers 1

(To be continued.)

VOL. XIV.- 19.





LADY in England
was reading a
book called
Children." As
she read, she
thought: "This
tells me of only
a few young peo-
ple who tried to
think of others
rather than of
themselves, and
who were happi-
est when helping
poor, sad folk
f i who needed to
have sunshine
darkhouses. We
must not have
few," said she,
"but nzany such
young helpers. Where shall they be found? "
When this lady thinks, she very quickly begins
to act. There is so much to be done in this big,
busy world, that she believes there is not one
moment to lose.
"Yes," she thought, there is much to do, but
there are many loving hearts, clever fingers, and
ready feet willing to work. I will try to have an
army of young volunteers to fight against selfish-
ness, idleness, sickness, and poverty, who shall
' go about doing good.' The name of the corps
shall be the 'Ministering Children's League'-
a band of helpers On their banner shall be the
words, 'No day without a deed to crown it,' and
this shall be the rule of their lives."
Before very long a number of recruits were gath-
ered together, who came to be drilled at the lady's
house in London. Soldiers must, of course, first
be taught their duty; and these young soldiers
were very eager to learn, and they all had the
same wondering question to ask:
"What are we to do ?"
They heard this simple answer:
Deeds of kindness "
It sounded so cheery and pleasant, that a smile
beamed on every face. We all like to be kind--
shall I say, now and then ? Sometimes we all like
to be cross and disagreeable, but young warriors
must fight against self and conquer their selfish
thoughts. This, however, is a difficult task, and

the kind commanding officer knew how hard her
army would find it, and had, therefore, provided a
very short prayer to be used every Sunday morn-
ing, and very often besides. Every one then
received a card of membership to prove that he
or she had joined the happy League. Plain words
that all could understand were spoken. Kind
friends suggested first one thing, and then another;
and at last, with many hearty good wishes for suc-
cess and victory, the "marching orders were
given, and the band was dismissed. The members
left regretfully, yet went eagerly to their different
homes to begin the work of love, with the prom-
ise of a grand review at the same house at
some future time.
There is a work for all to do; for the big and for
the little people, for boys and for girls. Do you
ask what work? Think for one moment. You
probably have comfortable homes, with every
breakfast, dinner, and tea nicely prepared for you;
you have warm clothing provided for you ; you
have loving parents and friends filling your lives
with gladness. Ah but not very far away from
you, men, women, and children live, who have very
little to eat, very little to wear, and very few to love
them. Why are they there, so near your doors?
I think for you to help, to cheer, to comfort. If you
have not paid them a visit, you do not yet know
what true pleasure is. In those humble homes warm
welcomes and pleasant smiles are always ready for
the ministering child who has given a little time
from play, a little money, a little thought to add
to the happiness of others. If you can not go
yourselves, you can send or bring your offerings to
what is called a "Branch meeting," which means
a gathering of some of the members of the Min-
istering Children's League," held at some house
where they meet together and bring their work,
and hear what is to be done in the future. And
this reminds me of the "grand review of the
young volunteers in England.
It took place'in January, 1886, exactly a year after
the "corps" was first formed. The young soldiers,
boys and girls, came trooping into the same house
where they had met before, and were welcomed by
the same lady whose kind, loving thought had first
brought them together. You will like to know
that only a few weeks before, this lady, Lady
Brabazon, had returned from the United States
and Canada, where she had spent three very
happy months, and where she had found many
true, hospitable friends. There were nearly one
hundred children present at the review, not one




empty-handed; all had brought something to prove
they had tried to be good soldiers and true to
the words on their banner. I think you would
have laughed to have seen one small boy wheel-
ing before him a doll's perambulator, nearly large
enough to hold himself; another clutched in his
arms a big, red scrapbook full of bright pictures
ready to gladden the heart of many a poor, sick
child. Indeed, I heard that in one hospital the
beloved scrapbook was lost for a time, and was at
- last found under a poor little sufferer who had
been carefully lying on it, for fear it should be
taken from him. The girls brought pretty frocks
and pinafores, pillows stuffed with paper, dolls
nicely dressed; there were toys new and old, some
fresh, others neatly mended. I must tell you of
one parcel that pleased me very much; it contained
a petticoat made of thick, warm stuff, with a nice
bodice to it, but sewn on to the top were three
bags filled with candies and tied with neat ribbons.
Well, there were so many really beautiful things, I
can not describe them all to you; there were little
dolls' bedsteads made by a clever boy; there were
woolen scarfs to defy Jack Frost's cold fingers, and
thick gloves and socks for the same purpose.
Lady Brabazon was waiting to speak to her
young guests, and they sat down and listened.
Let me tell you some of the kind words she said.
She began by telling them about her pleasant
journey to America, and of the Branches of the
League she hoped soon to hear were formed
there. At Toronto, she said, there had already
been a meeting in its behalf, and in Ottawa there
were good friends all anxious to forward the cause.
In the United States a kind lady had undertaken
to take charge of the League in that country.*
.* See pa

Lady Brabazon then went on to speak of the
real work of the League, to which all very thought-
fully listened.
Obedience, she said, is the first duty of a soldier,
and she reminded the children of their duty to their
parents not a dull, sullen, slow, unwilling obe-
dience, but a bright, quick, glad and ready obedi-
ence, that delights to do whatever dear Father
and Mother wish. How could children not long
to obey these loving friends, who have taken such
care of them since they were wee little babies,
and who never let an hour in any day pass with-
out planning for their happiness and welfare? It
should be a pleasure for the young soldiers to be
able to minister to them and to help them.
Home, Lady Brabazon then went on to say, is a
very useful field of action for young soldiers. It
is their little world. But although their deeds of
kindness are to begin there, they must not end
She urged them to make their teachers happy, by
learning their lessons well, and trying, by diligence
and care, not to give them any more trouble than
is absolutely necessary. She urged them to be.
sentinels, ever on watch-to keep their eyes wide
open, so as never to miss the opportunity of help-
ing somebody in some way; to make it a rule, if
possible, to give up at least ten minutes out of play-
time, each day, to work for children whose wants
are far greater than their own; to try never to lie
down at night without having done at least one
kind deed during the day!
Before saying good-bye, all joined in singing a
hymn. And then they went home, every volun-
teer, I hope, more determined than ever to be
true to the motto on the banner of the League.
ge 318. A MEMBER.

NEVER, never a day should pass
Without some kindness kindly shown;
This is a motto, dear laddie and lass,
To think upon daily and take for your own.




EfiT I'., E r_; a nlle
drillers, in Washington
County, Pennsylvania, aft-
er long weeks of hard labor in their search for oil,
had reached at a great depth the oil-sand"-
long questioned as existing in that region. They
were happy; and, as the drill hurried down into the
sandrock, their long and patient efforts were re-
warded by an immense flow of-natural-gas. As
the heavy drill and cable came flying out of the
well, forced up by the gas, which poured forth with
a deafening rush and roar, the drillers looked on
with sad hearts and long faces-in fact, with utter
disgust. Theyhad indeed opened up a gusher, but it
was a gas-gusher." They did n't want gas. They
had drilled for oil, and it was oil they had hoped
to get. They waited some weeks, hoping the gas-
supply would be exhausted; but it was a vain hope.
This was the great "McGugin Well "-one of
the largest gas-wells yet discovered. It was fired,
and for months blazed skyward, if not born to
blush unseen," at least to waste its brightness
on the desert air, except so far as it was of use in
lighting up all the country around, and in furnish-
ing a novel attraction, day and night, to countless
excursion parties from near and far. Other wells
were drilled, with a like result; and these contin-
ued discoveries of gas, in connection with some
.others made near Pittsburg, led to the "natural-
gas craze," which took possession of the whole
Pittsburg region for some time. Natural-gas as a
fuel for mills and furnaces and dwelling-houses has

great advantages, and promised large profits to the
owners of the wells. Accordingly, the spring and
summer of 1884 witnessed a frantic forming of
companies and drilling of wells and laying of pipes
along the streets and roads, the highways and
byways, until cautious people almost held their
breath. Pittsburg, as the great central furnace,
was especially interested in the new fuel; and,
besides wells sunk within the city, several lines
of pipe, some twenty or thirty miles long, have
been laid to bring in the.gas from the great wells
mentioned, and from others in different localities.
For mill-purposes, the gas is- distributed under
the boilers, and wherever needed, by a system of
small pipes, the blaze supplying the heat directly;
but for household uses, in stoves and fireplaces,
the gas-pipe is usually placed at the bottom of the
grates, which are filled above with something to
receive and hold the heat. In rooms where the
open grate, burning the soft bituminous coal, has
always been used, a pleasing variety in the ar-
rangement of gas-fires is found. Some people do
away with the grate altogether, and supplant it
with a clever imitation in cast-iron of the old-time
back-log. But the commonly accepted plan is to
retain the grate, filling it generally with coarsely
broken fire-brick, which, when heated, looks much
like anthracite coal. Foundry-slag, properly ar-
ranged, presents a perfect representation of a soft-
coal fire, and is, therefore, more beautiful and desir-
able. Others resort to the novel plan of filling their
grates with porcelain door-knobs, for which purpose
they are bought by the peck or bushel! The quan-
tity of gas burned is regulated by a valve at each fire-
place; and the ease with which a gas-fire is made,
regulated, and put out, coupled with its freedom
from smoke, dust, and ashes, has warmed the heart
of womankind toward it with a very great affection.

Boring for gas is exactly like boring for oil,*
in all its workings; but the after-operations of
pumping and packing, as in the case of some
oil-wells to raise the oil, are not necessary in gas-
wells. If the gas is there, it will come up of its
own free will and. accord, and come with a rush,
blowing tools and everything else out of the well
before it. Indeed, gas men would often be as
glad to keep their treasure down as oil men fire to
get theirs up. The great pressure at which it is
confined in the earth, and the corresponding force
with which it escapes from the well, make it some-

*See article entitled Boring for Oil," in ST. NICHOLAS for November, 1886.




what hard to manage or control. This pressure is
enormous-as high as five hundred pounds to the
square inch in some cases where it has been gauged.
In the great McGugin well, which was not gauged,
the pressure is estimated to have reached eight
hundred pounds to the square inch. Any attempt
to confine the gas in this well for the purpose of
measuring it would doubtless have resulted in
sending the iron casing flying from the well, or in

producing other effects more startling and costly
than satisfactory or agreeable. Indeed, until re-
cently, no plan had been devised by which the
flow of gas from a well could be stopped or re-
duced. The quantity of gas that escapes from
some wells is enormous, but probably no cor-
rect estimate of it has yet been made. Where
the gas is "piped" away to mills and houses, all
that comes from the well may be used; but if it is
not all used, the remainder must be allowed to
escape into the air. This is done at the regu-
lator, where it is burned. The regulator is an
arrangement of pipes and valves, placed between
the gas-well and the town supplied with the gas.
It allows only just as much gas as is being burned
in the town to go on through the pipes, and so
reduces to a proper and safe point the dangerously
high pressure of the gas as it comes rushing
along from the well. The temperature of the gas

as it comes from the wells is about forty-five de-
grees, Fahrenheit.
A burning gas-well is a grand sight. The gas
is carried in pipes to a safe distance from the der-
rick, to be fired. When lighted, a huge column
of flame shoots skyward, sometimes higher than
the derrick. At times it is swept by the wind
along the ground, burning it bare and dry. The
hissing and roaring are almost frightful, and can

be heard many miles away. The night glare, too,
of a burning gusher has been seen at a distance
of thirty miles. The illustration on the next page
represents a near view, at night. From a dis-
tance, we see the great glare in the sky, with the
hills and woods outlined against it. On a clear,
still night the glare is steady, and fades gradually
away, above and around. But on a cloudy, stormy
night the scene changes. The banks of clouds
catch the light, and reflect a deep red glare, soft-
ening away in the distant parts to a yellowish
tint, sometimes growing dull and faint, and anon
flashing up and brightening, as the wind now beats
down the flame and again lifts it skyward. A




group of burning wells north of Washington, Pa.,
has presented many grand and beautiful night-
scenes. Though several miles apart, they appear,
at a distance, to be close together, and their light
intermingles. On a dark night, with all of them
burning, they make a great show. These wells
in full blast-with those flanking them on the
right and on the left, with the broad glare of those
at Wellsburg, W. Va., showing twenty miles to
the northwest, and with those at Murraysville,
Pa., thirty miles to the northeast--make a scene
which would terrify a stranger, if he should
come upon it unaware of the existence of such
things as burning gas-wells. It would only need
columns of fiery lava to convince him that the

whole region was full of volcanoes. And his terror
would doubtless be complete when he saw a great
fiery column shoot skyward, unless he was made
aware of the real cause of the phenomenon, when
he would remain to admire what a moment before
had filled him with alarm. The explanation of the
sudden burst of flame is that it is necessary often to
"blow out the wells and the pipes leading to the
regulator, to keep them from being clogged by the
-salt which gathers in the pipes from the salt-water
thrown up by the gas. The flow of the gas is
stopped for a moment; and when again released,
the gas drives everything before it into the open
air. This escaping gas is burned at the regulator.
The effect of the suddenly increased pressure is to



comets, and the one first
seen was quite generally
mistaken for a comet.
Each one of these is
caused by a burning gas-
well. The light of the
well shines upon the small
ice-crystals which quite
often are floating in the
air, far above us, and
is by them reflected, or
thrown down again, so
that we see it, though the
gas-well may be many
miles from us. Every
well furnishes but one
"comet,"-as we may
call it, for want of a
better name,--which al-
ways appears in the
same place. When the
lower air also is filled with
ice-crystals, we see not
the comets, but great,
fiery streaks, the com-
plete reflections, that


shoot a tongue of flame,
hissing and roaring,
high in air. On a misty
night, when the light is
broken up and diffused,
-the snow-covered hills
sometimes adding their
reflection, the whole
sky is brilliantly illumi-
nated, and the scene is
grand and beautiful.
Now, let us take a
look at another very
beautiful and strange
sight, before going to
bed. Often in the win-
ter there may be seen
in the gas region, far
up in the sky at night,
one or more faint white
streaks, six or eight feet






reach from the points where the comets were,
down across the sky to the horizon at the points
where we see the glare of the distant gas-wells.
We see something of the same kind below instead
of above us, in the fiery belt which appears when
we look across a wide, dark stream at a light upon
the shore. But there is a unique strangeness and
beauty about these fiery columns in the sky. They
stand out boldly against the dark background,
like great, fiery rods, a central bright streak, or
spine, running through them, which shades off
into a beautiful glowing red on each side. They are

regular in shape, apparently.about twenty inches
wide, the sides straight, the: top slightly rounded,
and the bottom fading away, as it reaches the
flame, in the glare of the well.
No description nor pictures of these comets and
fiery columns can give a true idea of their strange
beauty, which does not become commonplace by
reason of a regular, every day- or rather, every
night-appearance, as these phenomena are visible
only under certain favorable conditions. Those
still, chilly nights, when the sky has a hazy appear-
ance, when a few scattering flakes of crisp, dry





snow may be fluttering down, are
the nights upon which the finest
displays are seen; and several
nights may intervene between
these curious and beautiful ex-
hibitions. Sometimes the comets
will appear directly overhead,
and the fiery columns often reach
to a great-height, depending, of
course, on the distance of the ob-
server from the source of illumi-
nation. Recently the top of one
of these reflections was estimated
to be six and a half miles above
the burning well.
As they stand thus in the sky,
the effect is at first sight startling;
indeed, there is a feeling akin to
awe mingling with the sense of
admiration as we look at them.
We are reminded of the "pillar
of fire," which led the Israelites
out of Egypt; and if we stop to
think of the great changes, the
mighty forces, and the wonderful
laws entering into the production
of the strange scene before us,
these modern pillars of fire will
seem scarcely less remarkable to
us than does the ancient miracle.






IT was built, of course, for horses. It had stalls
and hay-lofts and cows' accommodations at one end.
In the corner was a big closet, where there was a
carpenter's bench, which was called the -shop."
It was a large, comfortable barn, with plenty
of room for wagons and carriages. When Uncle
John bought it, it had been empty for six years,
and the only -live thing in it was a woodpecker,
who stuck his head out of a hole in the cupola,
and called to everybody who came by. Uncle
John said he was bidding us welcome, but it
sounded to me more as if he said, "Go 'long!
Who are you "
Oh, I forgot to say--a little way from the
barn,, there 's a house that belongs to it. But
that is n't of much. account, and there 's no need
to describe it. We sleep and have our meals
there, and there are plenty of rooms, if you count
in the attic, for Uncle John and Aunt Rachel and
my cousins, Ruth, Jim and Will, and me. And
there is a spare room that never is to spare because
it's always crowded. Ruth is a young lady, and
Jim and Will are little shavers. My name is
Augustus and I am ten and three-quarters.
Uncle John has n't any animals, but you need n't
think we don't use the barn. Ruth paints, and so
she persuaded Uncle John to let her fix it up for
a studio. Aunt Rachel gave her a lot of old duds,
and she scared up two or three spinning-wheels,
an old-fashioned settle, and no end of things.
So, if you go into the barn, don't forget yourself
and call the draperies bed-spreads, or the divan a
cot (and a rickety one at that!), or the ottomans
old trunks And be careful what you call the
paintings! For Ruth does n't paint pictures- oh,
no! They are impressions/ And they are not
good for anything unless they are all daubs. I '11
tell you how she does 'em. I "pose for her, so
I know. First she screws up her eyes and squints
at me for two minutes, walking about all the
time: That is choosing the "point of view."
Next she plants her easel,, takes a piece of charcoal
in one hand and a: bit of chamois in the other, and
squares off. Then it 's scratch scratch! scratch!
three steps back, square off, and a squint to see if
it's right. It never is, till it has been wiped out a
great many times with the chamois, but that is no
matter, because it 's as easy as nothing to scratch
it in again, and it's never more than fifteen or
twenty minutes before she is done with the chaim-

ois and charcoal, and is hard at it with the paints.
When they begin, there's a great deal more squar-
ing off with daubs and smutches,, and a sweep be-
tween. If you want to know how to do it- get the
brush as full as it will hold, and just. smear it on
as quick as lightning, and you are all right. The
best thing about it is that it does n't take long to
pose, and I get lots of nice things for doing it.
Well, that very first summer at Bonny Haven
she painted one picture that I liked. She has
gone on making "impressions" ever since,, but
she has n't improved single bit. That one pict-
ure is the only good one she ever did or ever will
do, and I offered her everything I had for it, but
she would n't give it to me. It was a picture of
the first chipmunk we tamed. We called him
"Squire Fuzz." Ruth was at work then on a
nornitruIs piece of canvass painting a picture of
Nlarkt Anton, nialkg his speech to the Romans,
and I offered not ornl to pose for Antony, but to
dress up in different costumes, and pose for the
whole rabble if she would only give me that little
speck of a picture of the Squire-but she wouldn't!
Jim is a queer mixture of an owl and a goose.
Sometimes he thinks so hard and seems to know
so much that Uncle John calls him The Philos-
opher," or "Aristotle." Then, at other times, he
behaves as if he had only just been born and
did n't know anything.
One afternoon Cousin Ruth was in the barn,
taking down an impression of me like two-forty on
a plank road, when she spied the squirrel and told
me softly not to move, with me standing on tip-
toe, one 'foot held up behind by a string and
nothing but a hammock-hook to steady a fellow!
I was posing for Mercury that time. But I stuck
it out a whole minute after she spoke, until Chippy
had packed his pouches. Every boy has read
lots of stories about squirrels filling their cheeks
with nuts and corn, but it 's a very different thing
to see them do it. The way they turn a nut over to
see which way it will fit in best, bite off the sharp
points, pack and unpack, until everything suits--
I tell you, even Grandpa and Professor MIoftit will
watch that half an hour at a time! Well, Jim
came out just as we were wishing witl all our
might that. he would, and Ruth said it was more
fun to watch his face than to see anything ever got
up in Barnum's circu:.
After that, we kept a pile of nuts and -corn in a



particular spot which we called the Squire's larder,
and he soon learned to go to it regularly. In a
week he seemed to know us all, and although the
grown folks called him the children's pet," they
cared about him just as much as we did. Aunt
Rachel used to take visitors out to the barn to see
Ruth's sketches, but that was only an excuse.
They would look half a minute at the pictures,
but they would think nothing of watching the
squirrel half an hour. There were Grandpa and

Professor Moffit They were great friends, and
were always talking or reading to each other about
things that nobody but professors understand.
Grandpa knows as much as a professor. The Pro-
fessor had a piece in one of the magazines, and he
and Grandpa spent most of their time talking
about it, until Squire Fuzz came. Then I noticed
they would have their discussions in the barn in-
stead of everywhere else, and right in the midst
of the longest words in the dictionary you'd hear
one of them say, "Hush there he is "-and
it was easy enough to understand their English
after that. Once the squirrel disappeared for a
-week, and they were just as sorry as anybody.
They found Jim sitting by the Squire's larder, with
his face to the wall, making believe he was reading
"Robinson Crusoe." Jim 's a regular brick, and
would n't let anybody see him cry for anything.
He cares so much that I 've taught him a trick
about it. If you shut your teeth together, hold
your breath, and say "Jessy Giminy" to yourself
seven times, it'll keep off a cry splendidly But
it did n't that time. Jim was nearly black in the
face with holding-his breath, andhe-told me after-

ward that he had said "Jessy Giminy" more than
a hundred times, but the tears would spill out; and
when the. poor little shaver was picked up and
got a chance to hide his face in Grandpa's waist-
coat, he just roared! Professor Moffit is a very
kind man. He leaned over and patted Jim on the
back, and said:
"Be consoled, James, my boy. Your missing
favorite is a specimen of the Sciurus striatus, and
is probably concealed in a subterraneous burrow
in the immediate vicinity of this barn. It is not
unlikely that he may re-appear."
I did n't see anything in that so very encourag-
ing, but Jim took his head out of Grandpa's waist-
coat right off, and asked the Professor to say it
again, and he wiped,his face so quick that I got
Professor Moffit to write down what he said, so
that I might learn it, for Sciurus striatus was better
than "Jessy Giminy."
It was then that I offered to pose for the Roman
rabble, and I know Ruth missed a good chance.
I said to her:
Stock 's riz,' Ruth, on that picture, and you
had better sell it now. If the Squire shows so
much as the tip of his tail, your stock '11 go down
quicker than he can scud. But if you wait too long,
the market '11 fail you, for all the people who have
the capital are grown up, and everybody knows
they are n't to be depended on for constancy-
when it comes to animals, I mean. If it were a
portrait of me, now," I said, it would be differ-
ent. If I were the rabble, why, the stock on that
picture would keep on going up, higher and
higher, and an accident to me would be worth lots
to you You 'd get orders for, at least, a dozen
copies But I could n't move her.
And she lost the chance!--for, in a week,
when the family went out of mourning, the Squire
came back, and another squirrel came too. The
Squire had a funny little short tail, but the new
"chip" had a long one, so we named her "Mrs.
Feathertail." She was scared out of her life, and
it took longer to tame her, because the Squire was
such a savage. He seemed to think our barn be-
longed to him, and that all we were born for was
to feed him. If Mrs. Feathertail showed herself,
he 'd drop his provender as if it was red-hot,
and scoot after her like a shot. She had to hide
until he was out of the way, and then she 'd come
in, shivering and shaking, pack her pouches as full
as they could hold, and sneak off. But she grew
bolder by degrees, and at last was as tame as the
Squire. They both grew so tame that they thought
nothing of running up Ruth's back while she was
sketching, and they could find the hickory nuts
wherever we chose to hide them- in our pock-
ets, neckties, boots, or on top of our heads.



They seemed to think people were just walking
trees, and they would take a tripup anybody who
came along. Once a peddler walked into the barn
and, before he could speak, Squire Fuzz darted
up his left leg, around his belt, and down his other
leg. He was so surprised that he forgot what he
had come for, and when Ruth asked him, he
laughed out.and said, "I 'm sure I don't know -
I never saw anything like that in all my born
days!" And then he went on just like this: "I
was down to the village Is it a squirrel ?- They
told me I'd better call and see if you 'd like to
buy-Did you tame him
yourself? A chipmunk?
You don't say !-codfish-
tongues and salt-herrings,
only ten cents.-Well! Do
tell! Look at him take up
that nut !-I can supply
your family once a week
Of all things! 'It's the
queerest sight I ever wit-
nessed. He handles that
nut for all the world just as
my wife handles the loaves
after a baking My eyes See him try to get that
in his jaws !-Well, good-day, ma'am !-Who 'd
'a' believed it ?" And off he went, without know-
ing whether we wanted any codfish-tongues and
salt-herrings or not.
The Squire and Mrs. Feathertail were at swords'
points with each other all summer. As she grew
tamer and bolder, she was not so easily scared
by the Squire, and at last the day came when she
got the better of him. She was sitting on Ruth's
hand, filling her cheeks with pieces of cracked
nuts. She had a piece in her paws when the
Squire appeared a few feet off. He looked ready
to spring:at her. She dropped every-
thing, reared up on her hind legs,
and looked him square in the eyes.
It was. as .plain as print that she
was'thinking, "Your time has come !
I'm going to settle with you, now and ^-
forever! Neither of them moved a
hair. A full minute they glared at
each other. Then the Squire's bob- ",
tail rose up and broke the spell. Mrs.
Feathertail gave a leap, and was after .
him. Around and around the barn
she chased him up one beam, down
another, over the wood piled up in the bin, under
the divan, across both my legs and, at last, out of the
door. What happened outside we did not know;
for, though I was out after them quicker than a
wink, they had gone. But after that, high and
mighty was Mrs. Feathertail, and the Squire never

dared to show himself within
gunshot of her. He be-
came a kind of squirrel-
tramp, and foraged about -
the wood-pile outside, where
Jim kept a supply of nuts
hidden for him.
The poor Squire nearly
lost his life soon after Mrs.
Feathertail got the upper
hand of him in that ugly
way. The cistern at the
back of the barn was found
uncovered one morning, and
there was a grand hunt for
the lid, because we all were
afraid that Jim or Will would
tumble in, heels over head.
Jim had his thinking-cap on
that time, and was the only
one to suggest that the lid
might have fallen inside.
He ran himself to .look,
leaned over, and just took W
one peep before he bobbed
back and screamed. Of
course, I ran to the spot,
and there, down in the cis-
tern, was the cover floating,
and on it the poor little \
Squire, all wet and tired
out, going from side to side, looking over the edges
and seeing nothing but his own face in the black
water for, of course, it was pitch-dark down
there. Will was there, and sat flat down in the
grass and began to roar,'as usual. I said we 'd bet-
ter call Uncle John. Jim ran at once, screaming:
"Papa! Papa! Come quick! Fire Squzz is
drowning! "
And he scared Aunt Rachel nearly
out of her senses, for she thought it
was Will. Uncle John is just splen-
did. He speaks so quietly, and says
exactly the right thing. Stand
back," he said, and of course we all
did. I never heard of anybody that
S did n't mind Uncle John as quick as
a wink. And he just lay down on the
S ground and reached his long arm
down the cistern tillhe could just touch
the Squire's raft with the tips of his
fingers, enough to steady it. Nobody dared to
breathe. It was only about two seconds though,
before up popped the Squire, running along Uncle
John's arm, around his shoulder, over his back,
and off to his hole in the grass. Little Will laughed,
with the tears still rolling down, and hugged his




mother. Jim threw his arms around Uncle John's
leg, and I slung my hat in the air, and shouted,
" Three cheers for Uncle John And the little
chaps helped in the noise, I can tell you; and I
guess Uncle John felt pretty grand and proud.
But that was the last of the Squire. He must
have decided, when he fell into the cistern, that
he had tumbled into an earthquake, and that our
part of the country was n't safe.
That was near the time for our going back to
New York. And Mrs. Feathertail began a new
kind of business. She seemed to be as busily pack-
ing as we were. At any rate, she did not care any
more for nuts or corn, and used the barn simply
as a cross-cut to her nest, where she was collect-
ing dead leaves. She never appeared without her
mouth full, and the quantity that she could carry
at once was surprising. Uncle John declared she
wanted them for feather beds, but we really sup-
posed she covered her winter stores with them.
When we went away, she was still collecting them.
We left several piles of nuts where she and the
Squire could find them; but I found but the next
summer, when I got acquainted with Zenas Dick-
erson, that two rascally boys from the village dis-
covered the nuts and ate them all up in one day.
When we went back the next year, and drove
up to the barn, there was the woodpecker, of
course, sitting at his front door in the cupola.
We boys said, Hulloa! to him, and then went
straight to the places where we had left the nuts.
Of course we did n't find them (because of those
wicked boys),'and we'were sure the squirrels
had taken them. Aunt Rachel did n't think the
boys were so very bad, though, for she said:
How could the boys know whom the nuts were
for? And, after all," she added, "little boys are
almost as nice as squirrels."
We did not really expect to see our old squir-
rels again, and were on the watch for others to
tame. So, one day, when Ruth was up
a ladder hanging her rags and tagsfor
drapery, and I was making tent- / sticks,
Jim suddenly gave one of his lit-
tle young laughs, and said,"Oh,
Gusty! There, sit- J r ting on a
spinning-wheel, : was a chip-
munk staring at us with all
its might. I held out my
hand, andweknewbyits
jump- ing right into it that
it was Mrs. Feather-
tail. Everybodywas glad
to see her back again, and
Sshe went to work at the nuts
and corn as if we had not been
away at all. She came back with

all her pretty ways, and went on
about the same as ever. Three /
other chippies came and used /
to chase one another 1ll over /
the barn, and, although ,0
Mrs. Feathertail was not
very friendly with them,
she never treated them i as she
had the Squire. T h e y
grew tame, and used to take
turns in com- - ing for for-
age, dodging 1 one another,
S instead of squab-
Sbling. We named
them "Wire," "Bri-
er," and Limberlock."
And the third year, when
we went to Bonny'Haven,
and Mrs. Feathertail, the
Squire, and even the wood-
pecker all had disappeared for good, it was one
of those three that we found there. And one
morning, we found a piece of a darling chippy's
tail; and we think a dog must have eaten the rest
of him up.
Zenas Dickerson laughed at the tail when he
saw it, but Grandpa and Professor Moffit did n't
make fun of us, for the Professor said, right off,
when we told him about
it, I am really grieved.
I am so much so, that, if
you will allow me, I will
accompany you to the
grave of the "-he was
too polite to say "tail,"
so he said "the last
remnant of your beloved
Sciurus." And he marched
with Jim, while Grandpa i


went with Will to our animal cemetery in the
woods, which we took good care to have where
Zenas never passes, and where he can't see the
epistle-or is it epitaph?-that Grandpa painted
for us on the tomb-sto-I mean the tomb-shingle.

" Beneath this clod of earth,
Nut-cracker's tail doth rest.
Bonny Haven gave him birth
And gives him his last nest.

" Let none who wander here
Disturb his latter end,
Nor grudge a falling tear;-
So saith Nut-cracker's friend."


ALL day the Princess ran away,
All day the Prince ran after;
The palace grand and courtyard gray
Rang out with silvery laughter.
"What, ho!" the King in wonder cried,
" What means this strange demeanor?"
" Your Majesty," the Queen replied,
" It is the Philopena !
Our royal daughter fears to stand
Lest she take something from his hand;


The German Prince doth still pursue,
And this doth cause the sweet ado."
Then, in a lowered voice, the King:
" I '11 wage he hath a wedding ring.
Our royal guest is brave and fair;
They'd make, methinks, a seemly pair!"

But still the Princess ran away,
And still the Prince ran after,
While palace grand and courtyard gray
Rang out with silvery laughter.




As shades of evening deeper grew,
The Brownies 'round a comrade drew,
An interesting tale to hear
About a village lying near.
"Last night," said he, "with nimble feet
I passed along the leading street,
When strange and wild discordant cries
From many throats awoke surprise.
At once I followed up the sound,
And soon, to my amazement, found
It issued from a building small
That answered for the county hall.

I listened there around the door,
By village time, an hour or more;
Until I learned beyond a doubt
A singing-school caused all the rout.
Some, like the hound, would keep ahead,
And others seemed to lag instead.
Some singers, struggling with the tune,
Outscreamed the frightened northern loon.

Some mocked the pinched or wheezing
Of locusts when the wheat is nigh,
While grumbling basses shamed the strain
Of bull-frogs calling down the rain."

The Brownies labor heart and hand
All mysteries to understand;




And if you think those Brownies bold
Received the news so plainly told,
And thought no more about the place,
You 're not familiar with the race.


They listened to the jarring din
Proceeding from the room within.

Said one at length, It seems to me
The master here will earn his fee,
If he from such a crowd can bring
A single person trained to sing."

Another said, "We '11 let them try
Their voices till their throats are dry,
And when for home they all depart,
We '11 not be slow to test our art."

When scholars next their voices tried,
The Brownies came from every side;
With ears to knotholes in the wall,
To doorjambs, threshold, blinds, and all,

It pleased the Brownies much to find
The music had been left behind;
And when they stood within the hall,
And books were handed 'round to all,



They pitched their voices, weak or strong,
At solemn -verse and lighter song.
Some sought a good old hymn to try;
Some grappled with a lullaby;
A few a futile essay made
To struggle through a serenade;
While more preferred the lively air
That, hinting less of love or care,

That, hungry, wait the noonday horn
To call the farmer from his corn.
By turns at windows some would stay
To note the signs of coming day.
At length the morning, rising, spread
Along the coast her streaks of red,
And drove the Brownies from the place
To undertake the homeward race.

Possessed a chorus loud and bright
In which they all could well unite.

At times some member tried to rule,
And took control of all the school;
But soon, despairing, was content
To let them follow out their bent.

They sung both high or low, the same,
As fancy led or courage came.
Some droned the tune through teeth or nose,
Some piped like quail, or cawed like crows
VOL. XIV.-20.

But many members of the Band
Still kept their singing-books in hand,
Determined not with those to part
Till all were perfect in the art.
And oft in deepest forest shade,
In after times, a ring they made,
To pitch the tune, and raise the voice,
To sing the verses of their choice,
And scare from branches overhead
The speckled thrush and robin red,
And make them feel the time had come
When singing birds might well be dumb.



IF any readers of ST. NICHOLAS wish to give
their friends a hearty laugh, let them prepare
"The Human Melodeon" as an evening's enter-
tainment, according to the following directions:
First let the leader, or organist (who should be
somewhat of a musician), select, to represent the
notes of the scale, eight girls or boys, who must be
sufficiently musical to sing and to remember the
notes assigned them. The organist plays on their
heads, as they kneel in a row, exactly as if they
were the notes of a piano, except that, to the
audience, the scale appears reversed. But this is
to have it in the right order for the organist. The
tunes selected must obviously be in the key of C,
with no sharps or flats. As each head is struck
with the mallet, the person indicated must sing
his or her note in a short staccato way, using the
syllable la. If the head is struck twice, the note
must be repeated in exactly the same way.
The hymn tune "Antioch" is an excellent one
with which to begin. The organist strikes the head
of upper "C" at the right, then "B," then
"A," then quickly "G," then "F," "E," "D,"
"(C," then "G," "A," "A" again, "B," "B"
again, C," and so on. For convenience, as the
cards bearing the letters face the audience, not the
organist, the tunes can be written in the "Human
Melodeon" notation, as shown in the bars of mu-
sic on the next page, which represent the first part
of Antioch. Instead of the notes, are written the

names of the performers-Sue, Hattie, Jane, Sally,
Tom, Frank, Mary, George, or whatever they are.
"The Last Rose of Summer," beginning on
lower "C," "Rig-a-jig-jig," on "G," and "Hush,
my Dear, Lie still and Slumber," on "E," can also
be played.
The simple sounds already described represent
the vox humana stops. The tremolo is made by
strikingthe mouth rapidly two or three times with
the open hand as the note is sung.
So much for the actors; now for the properties:
The cards, which are tied by a string over the
forehead of each performer, can be made of an
old white pasteboard-box cover; the letters may
be painted on, or cut out of black paper and
pasted on.
The stops are represented by napkin rings,
which may be pulled back and forth on long nails
driven into a long narrow board or the side of a
box. The box or board may be kept in position
by a chair.
The barrel at the left should similarly be let-
tered "music," and by means of a cane tied at
one.end to a tack on the other side of the barrel,
the organ-blower should go through the motions
of supplying the instrument with music whenever
it is being played. The cane should be moved up
and down. The organ-blower should also adjust
the stops as directed by the organist, who can not
easily reach them. The performers kneel behind





a curtain which may be made of two shawls folded
to the required length, pinned together in the cen-
ter, and tacked or tied at each end to the barrel
and board.
The mallet, or hammer, for striking the heads
may be made of a ball of white darning cotton, on
the end of a long stick, which may be wound with
white cloth or ribbon. Then, when several tunes
have been well rehearsed, all these preparations
made, and the audience assembled, the folding
doors are drawn back and the organist, bowing to
the audience, makes a little explanatory speech,
the substance of which may be as follows:
"Ladies and gentlemen: I am happy to have
this opportunity of exhibiting for the first time to
so cultivated an audience my great invention, the
Organum Humanum, or Human Melodeon.
"As the theory on which it is constructed is
somewhat complicated, the explanation will require
close attention.
For many years I had thought that the sound
of the human voice in singing would be greatly
improved by an added mental quality. Could the
sound be induced from the brain instead of the
lungs and throat, how easily would this result.
When at last the greatest discovery of modern
times was made,-that in each human skull there
exists an unfilled cavity varying in size in different
people, and connecting with the throat,--at once
how simple became this problem! First, store

E~t4Z~;"~~l~lZ~--zz- ~ HE

musical sound as in this receptacle at the right"
(pointing to the barrel); then through a connect-
ing pipe opening into the base of each skull, blow
your musical sound upward. Of course this pipe,
being behind, is invisible to the audience. The
organ-blower will please blow. Now I strike the
sensitive spot at the top of the skull with the mal-
let, thus: the musical sound is projected down
through the mouth, and this exquisite soul-satisfy-
ing mental tone is obtained.
"My greatest difficulty in perfecting this inven-
tion has been to obtain human specimens possess-
ing the exact size of skull-vacuum necessary for
the notes of the scale. After a long series of
experiments I have at last obtained the perfect
eight which you see before you. The smaller the
vacuum, of course, the larger the brain, and the
higher the note -as for example this high 'C'"
(strikes high C ").
The lowest note, on the contrary, has a large
vacuum and an exceedingly small brain; the inter-
mediate notes vary correspondingly.
"If Mr. Bodkins, the organ-blower, will pull
out the vox humana stop, we will now give you
that glorious old tune 'Antioch.'. We will
now give it with the tremolo stop," etc., etc.

Loud and soft stops; trumpet, or any other kind
of stops may be introduced at the pleasure of the

dztffI Azv-Izrwz4

*' _I r
Sue Hat Jane Sal Tom Frank May Geo. Sal Jane Jane Hat Hat Sue Sue

Sue Hat Jane Sal Sal Tom Frank Sue Sue Hat Jane Sal Sal Tom Frank Frank.

SAID Jeremy Jack to Timothy Tom:
I can spell 'busy,'- can you, sir ?"
Yes; b-i-z, biz," says Timothy Tom,
Z-y, zy; how will that do, sir?"
Well," says Jeremy Jack, "but it seems to me
You could just as well spell it with one little bee."



u 63 K rk, E
i ~SNASSER-jri









and a crab once .
met when go-
ing around a
mountain. The
monkey had
a persimmon-
seed which he
had picked up.
The crab had a

ing to obtain .'">
something that it> ^ ^
could be turned o" ,
to good account 7 .J .' "

exchange that : i .2
small rice-cake a -.
monkey seeing

for this persim-

The crab, without a word, gave up his cake, and took the persim-
mon-seed and planted it. At once it sprung up, and soon became a
tree so high that one had to look up at it, The tree was full of per-
simmons, but the crab had no means of climbing the tree. So he
asked the monkey to climb up and get the persimmons for him.
The monkey got upon a limb of the tree and began to eat the per-
simmons. The unripe persimmons he threw at the crab, but all
the ripe and good ones he put in his pouch. The crab under

the tree thus had his shell badly bruised, and only by good luck
escaped into his house, where he lay distressed with pain and not
able to get up. Now, when other crabs heard how matters stood,
they were surprised and angry, and declared war, and attacked the
monkey, who led forth a great many other monkeys and defied
the other party. The crabs soon found that the monkeys were
too many and too strong for them, and so they became still,
retreated into their fort, and. held a council of war. Then came
a rice-mortar, a pounder, a bee, and an egg to help the crabs, and
monkey,~ ~ ~ ~~.~----3~-~ wh e orhaget ayohe oky addfe
theoterpaty Te ras oonfondtht hemokes er
too any nd to stong or tem, nd s the becme sill
rerae ntthrfoan.hdaconiofw r. hnm
a rie-mrtar a ouner, be, an aneggto hlp he cabs an







together they planned a deep-laid plot to be avenged upon the mon-
keys. First, they asked the monkeys to make peace with the
crabs; and thus they got the king of the monkeys to enter the
home of the crabs alone, and to seat himself on the hearth. Then,
the monkey, not suspecting any plot, took the hibashi, or poker, to
stir up the slumbering fire, when bang! went the egg, which was


r- -- lying hidden in
the ashes, and
burned the arm
of the monkey.
'Surprised and
frightened, he
plunged his arm
into the pickle-
tub in the kitch-
en to relieve the
pain of the burn.
Then the bee,
which was hid-
"THE CRABS RETREATED." den near the
tub, stung him sharply in his face. Howling bitterly, and with-
out waiting to
brush off the
bee, he rushed
for the back
door; butjust
then some sea-
\w weed caught
his. legs and
made him slip.
Then, down
-.) dropped the
pounder, tum-
bling on him
from a shelf,
and the mortar,
too, came roll-
ing down on




roof of the porch and broke his back, and so weakened him
that he was unable to rise up. And then out came the crabs in
a crowd, and brandishing on high their pincers they pinched the
monkey to death.




A GOOD February to you, my-friends! I 'd
wish you a long one, too, but that would be of no
use. You can't get thirty days out of this month,
do what you will -unless you should happen to
find two of the days that you lost in January, and
tack them on.
THE dear little School-ma'am has been putting
some queer ideas into my head of late, For in-
stance, I wish to tell you all, to-day, of a very
queer table. In the first place, it is several hun-
dred years old -very aged for a bit of furniture,
is it not? Well, it is really two thousand years
old. There is scarcely a day in which we do not
use it, and it is as good as new, just as sound and
strong as ever. No; it is not iron, and yet I
can't see how it can ever wear out.
All of you who are old enough have seen it, and,
after a while, you will all get so that you can use
it without having to look at it at all.
It is not used for breakfast, dinner, or any meal.
And it is not of wood, either, as ordinary tables
are. Yet it has many columns, all ornamented
with figures of different sizes and shapes, and these
figures may be so put together as to make others.
There is no end to the number that can thus be
made, although the original set consists of only
nine; some might say ten.
And, now, my account of it is nearly complete.
The table comes all the way from Arabia. There
is much guessing about its origin, too; but, how-
ever it was made, and whoever made it, a very
useful table it is, and you may call it The Multi-
plication Table, if you like.

A LITTLE boy, named Benny, one day went to
the Zodlogical Garden, and there he saw a tiger.

He thought it was the most beautiful animal in
the world; -not so amusing as the monkeys, but
ever so much prettier. On his way home he met
the Deacon, and told him that he wished he had
a tiger for a pet.
But it would eat you up, the first time it was
hungry," said the Deacon.
Oh," answered Benny, "I want one that
would n't eat boy-that would n't like the taste
of a boy."
And you could n't play with it, because a tiger
is large and heavy, and it might knock you down
with a blow of its paw, when you were romping,"
added the Deacon.
To this Benny replied that he did n't want a
large tiger. He wanted a little one.
Very well," said the Deacon, I '11 speak to
the Little School-ma'am about it, and see if she
knows where you can get one of that sort."
'The very next day.Benny received his tiger. It
was about two feet long from the tip of its nose to
the end of its tail, and it was very tame. It had
sharp little white teeth, and in each foot were
claws that would have hurt had the little tiger
torn Benny's cheek with them. But nothing could
have been more gentle than this tiger was; and
instead of hurting its master it played with him,
and so far from knocking him down, it allowed him
to carry it in his arms. No one in the house was
afraid of it, and it became so much at home that
it used to steal upstairs and sleep on the bed.
But the family never called it a tiger." They
had another name for it, with only three letters
instead of five. But it was a very near cousin of
the tiger at the Zo6logical Garden, nevertheless.

DEAR JACK: As nearly as I can judge from my
own observation, and from a careful reading of sev-
eral treatises on birds, they do not fly downwards,
but fold their wings closely to their sides, and make
a dive through the air, just as a swimmer clasps his
hands above his head and dives, head foremost,
into the water. I do not mean to assert this as a
fact, as it is merely what I think.
Hoping, dear Jack, that what I think is right, I
remain, Your constant reader, M. G. B.
I can't decide this question myself, but here is a
letter from your friend, Mr. C. F. Holder, who is a
well-known naturalist. Let us see what he says.
DEAR JACK: I see, in a back number of ST.
NICHOLAS, that one of your young correspondents
appeals partly to me in regard to birds flying down.
But all who have written seem so well posted that
I doubt if I can add anything to their knowledge.
However, I have seen a California quail, a wood-
dove, and a humming-bird flying downward; but
in slow flyers, with large wings and heavy bodies,
the wings are used more or less as parachutes
in going down: in other words, the birds-spread
their wings, and rely upon gravity. This I have
noticed in the sand-hill cranes in their migrations
along the Sierra Madres. A flock, of say a hundred,




will mount upward in a beautiful spiral, flashing in
the sunlight, all the while uttering loud, discord-
ant notes, until they attain an altitude of nearly a
mile above the sea-level. Then they form in regu-
lar lines, and soar away at an angle that in five
miles, or so, will bring them within one thousand
feet of the earth. Then they will stop and begin the
spiral upward movement again until a high eleva-
tion is reached, when, away they go again sliding
downhill in the air, toward their winter home.
It is very evident that a vast amount of muscular
exertion is saved in this way. In some of these
slides that I have watched through a glass, birds
would pass from three to four miles, I should
judge, without flapping the wings.
Very truly yours, C. F. HOLDER.
HERE is a pleasant little letter, printed just as
it was written :
DEAR JACK: I have seen so much about living
barometers in ST. NICHOLAS, that I thought I
would write to you about a little Scotch terrier
dog a lady I know has. If it is going to rain, he
will not eat anything, and, after it stops, he
goes and eats every bit up. Is not that a funny
barometer ?
I learned to row and paddle last summer. Do
many little girls you know know how to row ? I
like it very much.
If my letter is too long to print, will you please
put the part about the dog in? because I want
the little boys and girls to watch and see if their
dogs do the same. Yours, ALLIE.
LAST month I told you of a place where fire al-
most gets cold, but now comes an account of a fire
in a river. It seems hard to believe at first, but I
am told that there is in this very number of ST.
NICHOLAS an article which will explain the miracle
for you. So I need not say more, and I shall give
the account just as it appeared in a newspaper
published in Glasgow, Scotland: "The singular
sight is at present to be witnessed of a fire issuing
from the waters of the River Clyde, a few hundred
yards below Bothwell Bridge, and it has attracted
to the scene thousands of curious spectators. For
some time back, near the mouth of the Auchin-
raith Burn, and not far from the left bank of the
river, the water has in one or two places been seen
to bubble up, the largest of the agitated parts
marking a circle nearly a foot in circumference.
Still no heed was taken of the circumstance until
Thursday last, when an angler, while wading in the
stream, which, owing to the dry weather, is abnor-
mally low, scratched a match to light his pipe, and
on throwing it from him, the water at once caught
fire and emitted a brilliant flame. It is now clear
that the gas issuing from the mineral workings
underneath is finding its way through a fissure in
the strata to the surface of the water, and had been
kindled by the lighted match. The boys amuse
themselves ineffectually trying to put out the

tongue of flame,-which at night, it is seen, rises
to a height of four or five feet,- with branches of
trees. A miner succeeded in extinguishing it with
a flat stone, but it was at once rekindled. Such
occurrences, though rare, are not unprecedented
in Lanarkshire. In 1829, and for some successive
years, the gas issuing from the limestone rock
on the property of Holmes, in Cadder Parish, rose
through the earth and even the water on its surface.
It was easily kindled with a match and burned
brilliantly on the surface of the water."

You all know that our friend Jack Frost is an
excellent artist, and that he very often paints beau-
tiful pictures on your window panes. Well, here
is one of his masterpieces which Mr. Simeon White-
ley has had photographed for your inspection. Jack
painted the original picture upon the plate-glass of

Mr. Whiteley's office windows about a year ago.
Indeed, Mr. Whiteley seems to be favored by this
special artist, for he says that every winter he has
just such beautiful pictures which do not, strange-
ly enough, show themselves on the windows of other
buildings in the same block.

THE Deacon says that in a new dictionary he
has found the word
which is the name given to a little family of fishes
because they have eyes low down.
Why does n't it say so, then ?
[Postscript: The Deacon says it does; but he
knows all the dead languages.]




Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, Peas porridge best when nine days old.

Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, Peas porridge best when nine days old.

I. Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold,
Peas porridge best when nine days old. (Repeat.)
2. In the fields, after snow,
" Oats, peas, beans, and barley grow,"
And the birds sing amain
Over fields of waving grain.
3. How they grow! How they twine!
Fair as beds of eglantine.
Summer suns dye them brown;
Then the farmer cuts them down !

6 -w

4. In days of old, so we 're told,
Boys were fed on peas porridge cold.
Happy days, were they not ?
Peas porridge cold, and peas porridge hot!









DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have a little school for girls; most of my
pupils are subscribers to your valuable magazine. Requiring my
smallest class to write a letter of congratulation, for an exercise, the
other day, one of my very youngest pupils produced this highly
original composition, which I send to you.
Yours respectfully, MARIE HOLMES B--.
My DEAR ISABELLA: I am very glad to hear that you supported
Columbus to three ships and crews, and congratulate you. It is too
bad you did not live long enough to see America. How did you like
the salt-cellar in the middle of your table, and the king that sat above
it, and the servants under it? I suppose you died from the want of
breath. Yours truly, FLORA M- .

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been getting your magazine
for a year, sent by two kind American ladies whom I met in Algiers.
I want you to tell Mrs. Burnett that I want to know more about
Lord Fauntleroy, and how he got on after Dearest came to live with
him. My grandpapa says I may have you for another year. I live
with my grandpapa, but he is much nicer than little Lord Fauntle-
roy's grandpapa, although he is not an earl. I am just nine years
old. I will weary until I hear more about Lord Fauntleroy.
Your loving PENSIE M--.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : In the December number of your magazine,
I found an article which particularly interested me. It was about
"How a great battle panorama is made."
Milwaukee is the only place in the United States where these
panoramas are painted. I have watched the artists paint on
the panorama of the battle of Atlanta, and have found it to be very
interesting. On the picture on pige 105 I recognized one of. the
artists, with whom I am acquainted. They are all German artists
from Berlin, Dresden, Munich, and Vienna. Two years ago I was
in Germany on a visit, where I had a very good time. I was in all
the larger cities and at the Rhine.
From your friend, FRIEDA M-- .

MY DEAR ST. NICsOLAS : I have never written to you before,
although I have taken you as long as I can remember. I live in
Germantown, Pa., and- will be eleven years old on the eleventh of
February. I have no sisters, but two brothers, who are a good deal
younger than myself; the eldest is five; he only began to have les-
sons a short time ago, but I hope he will soon be able to read the
stories for little children in your magazine. I enjoyed Little Lord
Fauntleroy" very much, and I think.Victor Hugo's stories to his
grandchildren are very funny. If you think.this letter worth pub-
lishing, I shall be very glad, for my father does not know I am
writing, and it would be such a surprise to him to see the letter in
Your affectionate little friend, KATHARINE M-.

already gone to press when your note reached us. We can only
suggest that you should correspond with some of the Decorative
Art" societies in New York or Boston. They have facilities for de-
veloping such talents as yours may be, and for profitably disposing
of articles of handiwork if they are really artistic in design and exe-

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl who was born and
brought up in the U. S. Army. My home is now in Fort Custer,
a post built on the Crow Indian reservation. We see lots of Indians
here every day. The post is a large one. We have eight compa-
nies and a band. The Custer battle-field is only ten miles from the
post, and we have visited it. We spent five weeks this summer in
the Yellowstone Park, and saw the geysers and all the wonderful
things there. We have taken you a number of years, and we think
you are just lovely. I am 'most eleven years old. I have one sister
eight years old, and no brothers. Good-bye, dear ST. NICHOLAS.
Always your loving reader, PANSY E. H- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: My little Johnny, five years of age, asks
ST. NICHOLAS if the milky-way was made by the "cow that jumped
over the moon." Yours truly, E. GOULD.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for a year, and now my
mamma is going to get you bound for me. We have a dog called
Fido, and a nice large cat called Dick. He comes up to my bed
every morning, and is glad to see me. I have a brother Walter, one
year younger than myself. Iam eight years old. My mamma gave
me ST. NICHOLAS on my birthday.
I think, when I am a man, I will be a railroad conductor, because
they get the most money from every one. I used to think I would
rather drive a sprinkler, because that was the most fun.
I have an Aunt Effie, six months older than I am. She takes ST.
NICHOLAS, too. This is all I can think of this time.
From your little friend, JIMMIE H. D- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A little while ago, I went to a Greek
christening, and I thought that perhaps you would like to hear
about it. Sometimes it takes place in the house, and sometimes in
the church. The one I saw was in the house. This is the way it
was done. First, two priests came in with a man, who carried a
large metal thing on his back, which looked something like a bath.
This was the font. He put it down in the middle of the room, and
filled it with warm water and oil. While he was doing this, the
priests put on- their robes and letdown their hair, which they
generally wear done up in a small knot at the back of their heads.
Then one took the baby, which was quite naked, and dipped it
three times into the font, saying some prayers at the same time.
After that it was taken out, and put into a lot of clean, new linen,
and given to the godfather, who walked three times around the font,
with the child in his arms, while the priests scattered incense about
and said some more prayers. Then the mother took the baby, and
bound it up tightly in long bands, tied a little muslin cap on its
head, and put it to bed. At the beginning every one was given
lighted candles to hold; and when it was over they gave every one
a little piece of money which had a hole in it, and a piece of blue and
white ribbon tied to it. You are expected to pin this upon your
dress, till you go away. They also gave the guests sweets. Some-
times, instead of a piece of money, they have little silver crosses.
The godfather or godmother provides everything the baby's dress
and clothes, the sweets, and crosses, and also gives the baby a
present. The candles-are rather dangerous, as they give them to
little children as well as to grown-up people. A little child behind
me burned off some of its front hair. It did not burn very much off
.as I caught sight of it just in time; and I told the mother, who was
very much disgusted. But she did not seem to mind the child having
been in danger so much as she minded its hair being burned off.
Now, this is all I can remember, so I will say good-bye.
I remain, your interested reader,

OUR thanks for the receipt of very pleasant letters are due to the
young friends whose names here follow: Norma B. B., Brenda,
Jodie Ellis, Grace Schoff, Louise Huntington, W. H. Logan, M.
Blake, Lovelie M. S., Mills Hutsinpiller, Beatrice Shaw, C. J. H.,
Wm. Crump Lightfoot, Edith and Mulford Wade, A. Dorothy Blun-
dell, Hattie Spencer, Edna C. Dilts, Maud Heaton, Grace, Bessie,
and Hattie, Charley Tausig, Ida C. H., Grace Ackley, Lillie Sav-
age,-Eleanor C. Adams, Grace A. T., Eliza W., Alice Cary, Kath-
arine R. L., Alice Fitch, Maiden-hair and Moonlight," Julian C.
Verplanc, Bessie M. Hope, Warden M. McLee, Ethel N., H. S.,
Emily L. Inness, Mina Lesquereux, E. Vinnie Kremer, Priscilla H.
G., George R. DeB., Lizzie Hines, Sophia Pupikofer, Annie Whit-
ney, John N. Force, Edith Thallon, Elmer B. Lane, Meredith
Kanna, J. I. Pinckney, Irene Lasier, Fred L., Gertrude C., Grace
F. E., Woodie D. Ferguson, Willis C. M., Flossy May B., Made-
line Giron, Harry Schuyler, Ruth E. M.,,Mand McMillan, Walter
Drake, "Dulce," Marcia Bent, Lucy L. B., George Stewart, Clar-
ence H. W., Eric Palmer, Susie Hunter, Molly Johnson, W. T.
Logan, Gertrude M. S., Gracie, Mabelle C., Mabel Van V., Grace
L. W., Howard W., "Sunshine," and Alfreda Gardner.




MRS. FRANCES HODGSON BURNETT has requested us to make a
brief explanatory statement concerning "The Story of Prince Fairy-
foot," which ends in the present number of ST. NICHOLAS. She
originally intended it to be the first of a series, under the general title
of'" Stories from the Lost Fairy-Book,- Retold by the Child Who
Read Them." And in regard to this lost fairy-book, Mrs. Burnett
wrote to the Editor:
"When I was a child of six or seven, I had given to me a book of
fairy-stories, of which I was very fond. Before it had been in my
possession many months, it disappeared, and, though since then I
have tried repeatedly, both in England and America, to find a copy
of it, I have never been able to do so. I asked a friend in the Con-
gressional Library at Washington- a man whose knowledge of
books is almost unlimited to try to learn something about it for
me. But even he could find no trace of it; and so we concluded it
must have been out of print some time. I always remembered the im-
pression the stories had made on me, and, though most of them had
become very faint recollections, I frequently told them to children,
with additions of my own. The story of Fairyfoot I had promised.
to tell a little girl; and in accordance with the promise, I developed
the outline I remembered, introduced new characters and conversa-
tion, wrote it upon note-paper, inclosed it in a decorated satin cover,
and sent it to her. In the first place, it was rewritten merely for
her, with no intention of publication; but she was so delighted with
it, and read and re-readit so untiringly, that it occurred to me other
children might like to hear it also. So I made the plan of develop-
ing and rewriting the other stories in like manner, and having them
published under the title of 'Stories from the Lost Fairy-Book,-
Retold by the Child Who Read Them.' "
The Editor of ST. NICHOLAS, to whom the foregoing facts were
first communicated, was in Europe when "Prince Fairyfoot" was
put into type,- and by an oversight no explanatory note appeared
with the opening chapter. But since the publication of the story
was begun in.this magazine, a correspondent has sent us informa-
tion which enabled us to obtain a copy of the lost fairy-book. It is
a little volume entitled Granny's Wonderful Chair, and the Tales
it Told," published by Messrs. Griffith & Farran, of London, and
Messrs. E. P. Dutton & Co., of New York. The foregoing explana-
tion and apology are due to those publishers; and we wish to make
further amends by heartily commending to our readers the little
book which delighted Mrs. Burnett in her childhood. It is worthy
of the esteem in which she held it, and it contains several fanciful
stories that undoubtedly would interest and please the children of

THE brief account, in this number, of the society founded by Lady
Brabazon to help English boys and girls to do deeds of kindness,
and called The Ministering Children's League," will have a per-
sonal interest to many of our readers; for we are glad to learn that
the League is already a prosperous and growing organization in
America also. From a circular issued by the American secretary
we reprint these paragraphs:
The first branches of the Ministering Children's League in this
country were formed early in November, 1885, in New York City
and Baltimore; and others followed in different parts of the country,
until now there are established one hundred branches, whose mem-
bership varies from two hundred in the larger to five in the smaller.
The chain that binds these Ministering Children together has its
links in twenty-six States and Territories, from Maine to California
and Washington Territory, and from Montana and Minnesota to
Texas and Florida.
"The organization of the League is of the simplest. All members
are expected to try to keep the rule,-' Every member of the League
must try to do at least one kind deed every day'; but each branch
is free to organize as it pleases, and to undertake any good work in
which it may become interested. A Central Secretary keeps the list
of branches, and furnishes the cards and leaflets of the society as
they are required; but no report is asked of the branches, although
such reports, when made, are always welcome. To cover the expenses
of printing and postage, a charge is made of two cents apiece for the
membership cards, and five cents a dozen for all leaflets of the society.
Some branches have prepared gifts for poor and sick children;
others formed themselves into Flower Missions during the summer,

and most have done something for outside people, while they tried
to do their daily, loving, ministering deeds in their own homes.
We shall be glad to increase the membership of the League, and
associates are asked to send the leaflets to friends who are interested
in any way in the care of children; while the members themselves
are desired to invite their boy and girl friends to join the League."
We heartily commend the League and its beautiful rule to all our
readers, and wish it continued success and prosperity. Circulars,
leaflets, and membership-cards may be obtained by addressing the
Central Secretary, Miss M. T. Emery, 43 Lafayette Place,,New
York City.
ALL our readers, we are sure, will enjoy the little story which we
reproduce this month from a Japanese toy-book. The text is a trans-
lation into English of the story as told in Japan, and the pictures are
copies of those drawn by a Japanese artist. Odd as they seem at
first, many young Americans will admire them and will appreciate
the skill with which the artist has pictured that ungainly creature the
crab, in various attitudes and positions. Especially interesting are
the illustrations of the crabs declaring war and the monkeys defying
them, the picture of the crabs and their friends planning a deep-laid
plot to be avenged, and the one showing the reception of the king
of the monkeys at the home of the crabs.
Our thanks are due to the First Japanese Manufacturing and
Trading Co., of New York, for permission to copy the story and the
pictures. In the toy-book sold by that company, the illustrations
are printed in colors, and besides the pictures here shown there are
at the close two drawings for which we have not been able to make
room in the crowded columns of ST. NICHOLAS.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We thank you so much for telling us
about boring for oil. We have wanted to know about it for a long
time. Please tell us who discovered it, when, and how. -We are
your faithful readers, MARY AND MATT S- .
ST. NICHOLAs has referred your query to me, young friends, and I
will try to answer it. Neither when, how, nor by whom petroleum was
discovered is known. It is found in different quarters of the globe,
in springs or floating upon the surface of streams and ponds. Some
of these oil springs have long been known and used,-but without
refining the oil,--those of Rangoon, in Burmah, for hundreds and
perhaps even thousands of years.
But now, concerning our own country. In the Pennsylvania oil
region, these oil springs are common, and they were known to the
early white settlers. How long the Indians had known of them, of
course we can not say. They secured the oil floating on the springs
and streams, and used it as a medicine for rheumatism and sim-
ilar troubles. The white men soon followed their example, until
Seneca Oil," as it was called, became well known, and was sold
and used in many parts of the country. But you may be wonder-
ing how the oil came to be on top of the water. You read in the
November number how the layers, or strata, of rock throughout the
oil region do not lie level, but are tilted; and you can see that
while they "dip further below the surface in one direction, they will
come closer to the surface and "run out" in the other direction.
When the oil sands thus come to the surface in hills, the oil is en-
abled to escape, but very slowly, and it finds its way through the
ground into the springs and streams.
But, coming down to the new era in the production and use of
petroleum--places, dates, and names can be given. A little over
thirty years ago, it was discovered that an excellent lamp-oil could
be made from petroleum, by refining it Up to that time, recollect, it
had been used only as a medicine, and secured only from the springs
and streams. But in order to learn the extent of the supply of the
petroleum, to be converted into lamp-oil, a company was formed to
search for it, by sinking a well. This well-the first oil-well-was
sunk, near Titusville, Pa., by Colonel Drake; and it resulted in the
discovery, in August, r859, of the great underground stores of oil
which have since been sent to brighten and cheer millions of homes
in many lands.






EASY CENTRAL ACROSTIC. Iguana. Cross-words: I. kid. 2. NOVEL ARITHMETIC. I. W-eight. 2. F-our. 3. Eight-y. 4.
eGg. 3. sUm. 4. rAt. 5. aNt. 6. cAt. H-eight. 5. D-one. 6. Of-ten. 7. Ca-nine.
WORD-SQUARE. I. Madcap. 2. Amerce. 3. Device. 4. Crinel. A PENTAGON. I.S. 2. Led. 3. Lever. 4. Several. 5. De-
5. Accede. 6. Peeled. rive. 6. Raven. 7. Lend.
WORD-BUILDING. I. In-land. 2. lo-dine. 3. Pi-rate. 4. En- THE KING'S MOVE PUZZLE. I. Bryant. 2. Byron. 3. Burs.
tire. 5. Os-prey. 6. Ab-beys. 7. Or-ally. 8. At-test. 4. Coleridge. 5. Collins. 6. Cowper. 7. Dana. 8. Dante. 9.
DOUBLE-LETTER ENIGMA. "Twelfth cakes"; the festival is Dryden. io. Emerson. ri. Gay. 12. Gray. 13. Goldsmith.
called "Twelfth-night" 14. Goethe. 15. Greene. 16. Hemans. 17. Homer. r8. Hood.
NUMERICAL ENIGMA. 19. Holmes. 20. Ingelow. 21. Keats. 22. Longfellow. 23.
What shall I wish thee? Treasures of earth? Lowell. 24. Miller. 25. Milton. 26. Montgomery. 27. Moore.
Songs in the spring-time, Pleasures and mirth? 28. Morris. 29. Poe. 30. Pope. 31. Read. 32. Scott. 33
Flowers on thy pathway, Skies ever clear? Shelley. 34. Spenser. 35. Swinburne. 36. Tennyson. 37. White.
Would this ensure thee A Happy New Year? 38. Whittier. 39. Thomson. 40. Wolfe. 41. Wordsworth. 42.
FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL. Willis. 43. Young. 44. Hay.

To OUR P .: 1. e ,: 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 St., New York City.
ANSWERS TO ALL THE PUZZLES IN THE NOVEMBER NUMBER were received, before November 2o, from Maud E. Palmer-Mary
Ludlow Mabel G. Foster and May L. Gerrish Bertha Heald -Beth H.- Uncle, Mamma, and Jamie Sadie and Bessie Rhodes -
Emma St. C. Whitney-The Stewart Browns -" Sandyside "-" Shumway Hen and Chickens"-" The Spencers "-K. G. S.-Pro-
fessor and Co.- W. R. Moore-" Agricola "-Jo and I-" Res "- Maggie T. Turrill-" Blithedale "-" Clifford and Coco "-"San
Anselmo Valley "- Birdie Koehler Nellie and Reggie -" The' Melvilles "-" B. L. Z. Bub, No. 2 "-" Two Cousins "- Edith A.
MacDonald- Arthur G. Lewis- Tony Atkinson- Hazel and Laurel-- Francis W. Islip-" Dash "-Mamma and Fanny B. and W.
-Paul Reese-" Judy and Elsy "- Karl Webb.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE NOVEMBER NUMBER were received, before November 20, from Two-two," 6 -"Tad," Chest-
nuts, Erminie, 2 -"Eloise," t -" Our Jesse," 5 -" Vixen," I -" M. T. Brains," 5- Arthur and Bertie Knox, s K. L. and L.
L., I-"Miss Muffet," i -' Sister," -" Diana Vernon," i- E. D. W., K. K. C., and F. B. G., z-" Goose," 3-"Jolly Joker,"
6 -W. K. C., Lilyan, 5 -" Sally Lunn," 9 -" Ramona," 2 -Raby, 2-" Cockolorum," 3-" Nanki-Po" 4- Henry B., -" Sun-
shine," i- Addie and Shirley Bowles, -" N. Isy Boy," 3-" Bufialo Will," 5 M. I. L., 2- Efie K. Talboys, x -" Ono," 2
-N. T. D., 2-W. G. U., 2-"Livy," 3-Edith Gray, 5-' Canadensus," --Willie and Ned G., 2-A. M., i-Tunnie, 4-Bun-
nie, 4-" Original Puzzle Club," x A. E. P., I-"Ben Zeene," 5 -James R Hu -hi-. i--P's and K's, 5- Marge, --Daisy and
Mabel, 7-Millie Day, 3-Mamie R., to-Colonel and Reg, 2-"Bessie," Mi-,.k-.:,r, ir-F. Ripley, i-Aquila, 6-Jet, ro-
"Yum-Yum," I- Hattie Weil, 4-A. Rettop and others, Paris, 6-"Jack and Sandy," 2-" Lock and Key," 2-" Les Cannois," 8.


I AM composed often letters, and form the name of a fine city.
My 1-2-3 is a verb. My -2-3-4 is a lotion. My 2-3-4 is a kind
of tree. My 3-4-5-6 is the fore part of the leg. My 1-2-3-4-5-6-7
is cleansing. My 8-9 is a preposition. My 9-so is upon. My 8-9
-1o is a measure. S-KAMP."


CROSs-WORDS: s. In forgiveness. 2. To come into possession
of. 3. The goddess of revenge. 4. And so forth. 5. To watch
narrowly. 6. To petition. 7. The nickname of a famous president.
8.To array. 9. A political organization. so. To fill with doubt
and apprehension. P. UZZLER."

I. s. BEHEAD to bruise, and leave to hurry. 2. Behead afastening,
and leave a poisonous serpent. 3. Behead a stone, and leave an
entrance. 4. Behead a grain, and leave a summer luxury. 5. Be-
head.solitary, and leave a numeral. 6. Behead a kind of wood, and
leave lean. 7. Behead to vibrate, and leave part of a fowl. 8. Be-
head,a track, and leave a generation. 9. Behead to comply, and
leave a personage in high authority. ro. Behead to reckon, and
leave a paint.
The beheaded letters will spell the name of a well-known city.
II. s. Behead a place of traffic, and leave ciaft 2. Behead to help,
and leave a wager. 3. Behead to hurl, and leave a kind of tree. 4.
Behead an image, and leave to peruse. 5. Behead a sight, and leave

in what manner. 6. Behead a sign, and leave "children of a larger
growth." 7. Behead particular, and leave a useful substance.
The beheaded letters will spell the name of a political character
prominent in the early history of the United States.


I. THE centrals, reading downward, spell a word meaning to dim.
CROSS-WORDS: I. A depot. 2. To imprint 3. To inspect
closely.: 4. In printing. 5. A bolt. 6. Sensibility. 7. Pushing
forward with violence.
II The centrals, reading downward, spell a word meaning aid.
CROSS-WORDS: i. Tumult. 2. Strong. 3. An animal. 4. In
printing. 5. A tumult. 6. To set in order. 7. Eagerly attentive.

MY primals name a very famous hero, and my finals a place
always associated with his name.
CROSS-WORDS (of equal length): I. Circumscribed. 2. A Peru-
vian animal. 3. Evident. 4. Not transparent. 5. To delay. 6.
Discovery. 7. An important city of Portugal. 8. A papal am-
bassador. "ED. U. CATOR."

ACROSS, to court; downward, a revolving circular body; the cry
of an animal; an exclamation; to perform the part of; a resinous
substance; to regret; to instigate.
The central letters (indicated by stars), when read upward, will
spell the name of a nocturnal bird of South America.




-, 1161,NIV
U-- ... .I -
.t[lu |;i ~ !i- .


T_ .. fi_-


THE words forming this numerical enigma are pictured instead of
described. The answer, consisting of forty-five letters, is one of
Poor Richard's maxims. The Latin quotation embodies the same
EACH of the cross-words contains the same number of letters, and
the zigzag, beginning at the upper left-hand corner, will spell the
name of a famous person.
CROSS-WORDS: I. To confer. 2. To conquer. 3. A small am-
phibious animal. 4. A prophet. 5. An outer garment worn by the
ancients. 6. An aquatic fowl. 7. To decrease. 8. To separate.
9. A narrow and difficult way. io. Sumptuous. ai. To decorate.
12. Compact. 13. To grasp. 14. To impede. 15. A support. 16.
To whirl. "TOPSY AND EVA."


I. UPPER LEFT-HAND DIAMOND: I. In Panama. 2. A sacred
vestment. 3. Defensive arms. 4. A sea-port town of Spain. 5.
Perforated. 6. Disengaged. 7. In Panama.
reckon. 3. To cut into small pieces. 4. The name of a swift ocean
steam-ship. 5. Improves. 6. A prefix. 7. In Panama.

III. CENTRAL DIAMOND : In Panama. 2. Three-fourths
of a word meaning silent. 3. Supplied with copious doses. 4.
A country of Europe. 5. To immerse. 6. A stamp. 7. In
low, buzzing sound. 3. Engaged. 4. A girl's name. 5. A fruit.
6. A great clatter. 7. In Panama.
period. 3. Expulsion. 4. A territory of the United States. 5.
With a loud voice. 6. To cease. 7. In Panama. M. A. s.

I 4

6 5
FROM I to 2, one of nine equal parts; from 2 to 3, a salutation;
from 3 to 4, egg-shaped; from 5 to 4, a dipper; from 6 to 5, to
praise highly; from i to 6, honorable; from I to 4, the period of ini-
tiation; from 2 to 5, pertaining to a doctrine contrary to the Chris-
tian religion; from 3 to 6, to purchase goods beyond the means of
payment. H. A. G.

MOST securely secreted within, I deem
My answer perhaps my WHOLE may be;
But x5or, transposed, 't would seem,
Afaint light one could not fail but see.

F. L. F.


WHEN the stars in the following sentences have been replaced by
the right letters, ten familiar axioms will appear.

I. Lyt "nevr ds.,ar b, yu, mjto,.
2. A bixh, ha.t mk.,s a bom.n. vsg5.
3. Flyy i* tge p.vry o. tge men,.
4. A gi.t, canceec, nees n, aceser.
5. A pny sevd i, a p,noy er.e,.
6. Isn*sr axd Pvr.y age wl. mtd.
7. Ayl bod i. avive ace t.
8. H, wo suis h,s cn.5et wy,ns is m,s,.
9. Lt,ly srks fly, get oks.
10. A h5,sy myn nv,.-r w.nIs we.
When these axioms have been rightly guessed, take from each
a word containing the same number of letters. When these ten
words of equal length have been rightly selected and placed one be-
low the other, the central letters will name certain pretty trifles.




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