Front Cover
 "Fauntleroy" and Elsie Leslie...
 The cross - To my pet
 The bells of Ste. Anne
 The baby's bead
 Daddy Jake, the runaway
 My childhood's enchantress
 The bird that never knew he was...
 Ancient and modern artillery
 How Antonio saved the king
 The Cob family and rhyming...
 The story of a doll-house
 A little caller
 The routine of the republic
 A home-made scare
 A bit of color
 The heavenly guest
 A valentine (words and music)
 The bunny stories
 The letter-box
 A six weeks' imprisonment
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00211
 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: VID00211
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
    "Fauntleroy" and Elsie Leslie Lyde
        Page 403
        Page 404
        Page 405
        Page 406
        Page 407
        Page 408
        Page 409
        Page 410
        Page 411
        Page 412
        Page 413
    The cross - To my pet
        Page 414
    The bells of Ste. Anne
        Page 415
        Page 416
        Page 417
        Page 418
        Page 419
        Page 420
        Page 421
        Page 422
        Page 423
        Page 424
    The baby's bead
        Page 425
    Daddy Jake, the runaway
        Page 426
        Page 427
        Page 428
        Page 429
        Page 430
        Page 431
    My childhood's enchantress
        Page 432
        Page 433
        Page 434
    The bird that never knew he was caught
        Page 435
    Ancient and modern artillery
        Page 436
        Page 437
        Page 438
        Page 439
        Page 440
        Page 441
    How Antonio saved the king
        Page 442
        Page 443
        Page 444
    The Cob family and rhyming Eben
        Page 445
        Page 446
        Page 447
    The story of a doll-house
        Page 448
        Page 449
        Page 450
    A little caller
        Page 451
    The routine of the republic
        Page 452
        Page 453
        Page 454
    A home-made scare
        Page 455
    A bit of color
        Page 456
        Page 457
        Page 458
        Page 459
        Page 460
        Page 461
        Page 462
        Page 463
    The heavenly guest
        Page 464
        Page 465
    A valentine (words and music)
        Page 466
    The bunny stories
        Page 467
        Page 468
        Page 469
        Page 470
        Page 471
        Page 472
        Page 473
    The letter-box
        Page 474
        Page 475
    A six weeks' imprisonment
        Page 476
        Page 477
        Page 478
    The riddle-box
        Page 479
        Page 480
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text


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APRIL, 1889.

No. 6.


I THINK it was during the year 1884 that the
Editor of ST. NICHOLAS asked Mrs. Frances
Hodgson Burnett to give her a serial story for
young readers. Mrs. Burnett was already well
known as one of the most popular writers of the
day, but I believe that up to that time she had
written no long story for children, or with a child
for hero or heroine. It is always interesting to
know how anything we care for and have come to
think of almost as part of our own every-day life,
began; so, I think, to all readers of ST. NICHO-
LAS, and, indeed, to every child who can read, the
history of "Fauntleroy" must have its interest and
charm. "Fauntleroy," who began his dear little
life, so useful in more ways than we can know, in the
pages of ST. NICHOLAS, is now telling to hundreds
of people daily what one sweet child can do; what
message of peace and good-will one little life can
bring to many who doubtless have battled more
with the pride and evil and hard-heartedness of
their own natures than they might care to admit,
but who may absorb the lesson of Fauntleroy's
life, taught all unconsciously by him.
In due time there appeared in ST. NICHOLAS
the story of Little Lord Fauntleroy," which has
hardly a rival in the juvenile literature of our
century. Mrs. Burnett had a model for the hero
in her own boy Vivian, whose quaint sayings
and doings suggested the character to her mind.
Around them she wove the incidents of the story.
In his ways and speech Vivian was just such a

boy as Fauntleroy might have been, and so she
devised the pretty romance with this child as its
center and moving impulse. It is by no means
an improbable story. In England there is that -
to us unfamiliar law of entail. Titles and estates
must descend in some instances to the nearest of
male kin. For instance, Fauntleroy's grandfather
was an earl, which is an old title in England, intro-
duced before the days of William the Conqueror,
when Great Britain was under the rule of various
nobles who were like sovereigns on their own
territory. In those days such nobles had almost
unlimited power, and their lands and castles were
guarded and fortified so as to resist all attacks
from neighboring nobles; the peasants and ten-
ants the dependents,- young men and maidens,
squires and pages,-all who were within the cas-
tle gates and the domain of the earl or baron,
were under his rule and his protection; they must
swear loyalty to him; must defend his rights ; and
though bound to serve the king, their first idea of
what was called fealty was to the earl or baron whom
they served; in tournament, or in battle, they rep-
resented him. So of course he felt himself a great
authority, and his title, and usually the estate,
went to the eldest of his sons, and to the male heirs
of this son. If the eldest son died without a male
heir, then the second son succeeded, and so on.
But an estate can for a time be tied up by its owner,
so that it shall go with the title, and if this be done,
a subsequent possessor can in no way prevent the

Copyright, 1889, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved.


property from descending to the next holder of
the title. Now, although the old days of fortified
castles, of dispute and warfare between neighbor-
ing barons or earls, have passed away, the titles-
the power of entail and the great, splendid, often
lonely, castles remain; and an earl, who, like
Fauntleroy's grandfather, loses his eldest son,
knows that wherever on the earth's surface the
next heir may be found, be he rich or poor, high
or low, he must one day, by law, come into the
family name, estate, and power.
You can easily fancy how many complications,
how much trouble, this might bring about. Faunt-
leroy's case is entirely possible. His father, young
Captain Errol, was the third son of the Earl
of Dorincourt. Errol" was what they call the
family name. An earl, like a duke, has a title;
for instance, the Earl of Dorincourt. Many of
these titles were given hundreds of years ago,
either for some deed of valor or for property be-
stowed upon a noble, or perhaps seized by him,
or granted as a matter of favor from the king.
But he and all his children have a family name,
by which the latter are addressed. The family
name of the Earl of Dorincourt was Errol. The
heir to an earldom has usually a title of his own
which belongs to him until he becomes earl. In
the Dorincourt family "Fauntleroy" had for gen-
erations been the title of the heir. Whoever was
acknowledged to be the heir to the earldom was at
once to be called Lord Fauntleroy. Had Cedric's
father outlived his older brothers, he would have
had this title, but when the earl's three sons were all
dead, and there were no other children in the
Dorincourt family, you see it turned out quite
naturally, although very unexpectedly, that the
little son of Captain Errol, born in America, and
knowing next to nothing of his English relatives,
and certainly having no expectation of succeeding
to the title, became Lord Fauntleroy," or, accord-
ing to an English custom, "Fauntleroy." The
Earl of Dorincourt, writing a letter, would sign
himself simply "Dorincourt"; Cedric, after his
inheritance, would be spoken of in the same way,
and would sign his name '"Fauntleroy."
The honors and powers which by tradition and
English rule belong to the families and descendants
of the nobles ought to make the English nobility very
anxious to be worthy of their responsibilities and
their names. You know Cedric felt this, when he
found himself for the first time in the castle library
with pictures of his ancestors on all sides and the
old earl watching him so critically.
With this leading idea, Mrs. Burnett wrote story
which, I think, preaches its sermon as clearly as do
the wild-flowers which God sends every spring-
time to the woods and hillsides. There is this little



child, brought up by his American mother, never
dreaming of honors and worldly distinctions, but
believing that everything on earth must be fair,
and good, and kindly, because he has never seen
nor heard of anything else. I need not even out-
line the story of Lord Fauntleroy to readers of this
magazine, in which it originally appeared. It was
read widely during 1885 and 1886. Published in
book form, it maintained its popularity; always,
it taught its lesson. And it seems to me that
lesson is best condensed in the text with which we
are all familiar, Suffer little children to come
unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven."
Thoroughly to appreciate Cedric's character is to
understand the meaning of these words, spoken
nearly nineteen hundred years ago.
Before Little Lord Fauntleroy," Mrs. Burnett
had written for ST. NICHOLAS a short story called
"Editha's Burglar," the story of a little girl who
tries to influence a burglar not to "burgle" loud
enough to wake or frighten her mother.* Mr. Au-
gustus Thomas dramatized the story, making a
charming little play which Mr. Frohman of the Ly-
ceum Theater wished to bring out. The question
was, who could act Editha ? It must be a child,
of course, and a child who would enter into the
spirit of the part. So it came about that a little
girl named Elsie Leslie Lyde was chosen; and all
who saw her know how well she embodied the
character. Her success as Editha led naturally to
her playing the part of Fauntleroy; and now the
little girl is inseparably associated with her perfect
personation of the little lord.
Let me tell you something of her own life.
Elsie Leslie Lyde is not yet ten years old. She
was born in New Jersey, not far from Newark,
of mixed English and American ancestry. Her
mother's family are English, but they have for some
years been settled in America. On neither side
have there been any actors, though there have
been a few writers and more clergymen. Elsie's
dramatic genius is a surprise to every one, and it
is as great a surprise that she has preserved her
entire unaffectedness, her simplicity and childish
charm, when we consider that much of her life is
passed before the footlights, and that applause is
constantly ringing in her ears. But this only proves
that she can act Fauntleroy because she is like
him in heart, and spirit, and feeling. She had
been playing for a time with Mr. Joseph Jefferson,
in Rip Van Winkle," before she undertook
"Editha." As "Meenie and Hendrick her
ability was clearly shown, and when Fauntleroy
was dramatized by Mrs. Burnett and brought out
in England, Elsie was engaged to create the role
in America. The child, in her home life, is admi-
rably trained and very judiciously cared for. Un-

* See ST. NICUOLAS for February, 1880.


doubtedly she possesses a genius, which, sooner or
later, surely would have asserted itself. And she
has her future to consider above all things. She
is to be well educated, and I think her professional
life at present tends toward that. No child's per-
formance could be better than her Fauntleroy."
Through the pages of ST. NICHOLAS the story had
spoken to thousands; and dramatizing it was only
to extend its sweet influence. There had never
before been a play all centered about a child; with


trations by Mr. Reginald B. Birch were so admi-
rable that, in arranging what is called the "busi-
ness of the play, they were of great service. It
is interesting to observe how closely these popular
pictures are followed. The costume of the little
heir, as shown in Mr. Birch's drawings, has been
carefully imitated upon the stage. Children in the
audience recognize with audible delight the Faunt-
leroy they know,- the dear little boy who has
smiled upon them from the printed page,-who,

- :


no love-story; very little side-plot; the moral lesson
just what the child's life taught. Here, at last, was
such a play, and I think of all children I have ever
known, Elsie was best fitted to take the part of
the hero.
I was asking her the other day whether she
enjoyed it. Her face glowed. Oh, yes; because
Fauntleroy is so ': '/" Elsie, you see, was
one of the many children who read and loved the
story, and it has come quite naturally to her to
embody the part, because out of something in her
own gentle and loving nature she understands that
of Cedric, Lord Fauntleroy.
When Elsie came to play "Fauntleroy," it was
necessary to remember the hold the story had upon
the affections of the public. The well-known illus-

by the way, was first drawn from a portrait of Mrs.
Burnett's son Vivian. They are equally pleased
to see Hobbs, the round-faced and didactic grocer,
and Dick, the "professional boot-black." They
recognize also the dignified Mr. Havisham, with
his carefully poised arms and hands, and, finally,
gaze with respect at the Earl, his features clear cut
and "high," as the English say, his gouty foot
stretched out, his aristocratic profile turned toward
the audience while he watches Fauntleroy writ-
ing his first lordly letter, in that charmingly
familiar pose in the great chair. In the well-
known scene, where the old Earl goes out to
dinner leaning heavily upon Fauntleroy's sturdy
shoulder, the reproduction of Mr. Birch's drawing
is exact.

~. ~c~


Elsie entered so thoroughly into the meaning of
the play that she was able to make various sugges-
tions, and to put in many amusing touches which
have emphasized the childish charm of the charac-
ter; but this belongs entirely and only to her stage
life, of which she rarely speaks. She is inter-
ested in many other things,- her friends most of
all,- and she is the most delightful guest, always
pleased, readily amused, and unaffected in her
enjoyment of what is done for her entertainment.
Once she called to see the Editor of ST. NICHO-
LAS when several friends were present. It was, I am

told, quite a memorable occasion to Elsie, for a
neighbor who was one of the company sang a pretty
song which delighted her very much. Then, to the
little girl's surprise, the singer, handing her the
manuscript sheet, told her that both the music and
the words had been composed on that very after-
noon, and that they were dedicated to Elsie Leslie.
[This pretty song will be found on page 466, of
the present number of ST. NICHOLAS.] Several
of the guests congratulated Elsie, among them Mr.
Birch; and whether he translated aright the wist-
ful look in the child's eyes as he held the sheet of





music, or received a hint from one of Elsie's trust-
able friends, I do not know, but he at once laid the
music upon the library table and took out his pen-
cil. Then, while the guests stood watching, Elsie
pressing closest and most interested of all, he rap-
idly drew on the back of the music-sheet a sketch
of Lord Fauntleroy making his bow to Elsie. Only
once was the silence broken. As Lord Fauntle-
roy's figure took shape upon the paper, under the
artist's deft fingers, Elsie, with her sunny head
nearly touching the table, exclaimed softly:
Oh! Why How long are his poor legs going
to be ?"
This sketch, a reduced copy of which you see
here, of course enchanted the little girl. The sou-
venir is among her special treasures; and these
are many carefully, I may say sacredly, kept
by this little maiden, who seems to value all such
tributes just in proportion to her affection for the
Among the chosen few very dear to Elsie's
heart, is Mr. Gillette, the dramatist, author of
"Held by the Enemy" and "The Professor."
He corresponds with her charmingly, and her
letters, with many points of character and action
in the child's life, suggest to my mind dear "Pet
Maijorie (the little girl whom Sir Walter Scott
so loved), whose story Dr. John Brown has so
touchingly written.
Not very long ago Mr. Gillette took Elsie out in
Central Park upon a tricycle, and, as her hands be-
came very cold in spite of her little gloves, he lent
her his large fur gauntlets, which she thought great
fun. But she was surprised and delighted the next
day when there arrived the dearest little pair of
fur-lined gloves, with these verses prettily written
for her in red ink and black by this loving friend:

To my little love
With the sunny hair
In golden strands,
I'send a little glove
For her little pair
Of dainty hands.

Those precious hands so dear
I couldforever hold,-
Little Loves,-
I 'd have them always near,
I 'd keep them from the cold,
Without gloves.

But 't would be cruel to her
To be before herface
Without end;
I 'm sure she 'd much prefer
That now to take my place,
Gloves I send.




When we are apart
In far distant lands,-
W which may be,-
Will the little heart
That owns the little hands
Think of me?

If we have to part
Will the Chain of Love
Broken be?
Will the little heart
Referred to just above
Care for me ?

"Ah," says Elsie, "Mr. Gillette is so trust-
able !"
And this pet word of hers is the key to much
in her character. Deceit, or even exaggeration, is
impossible to her, a fact the more commendable
when we consider that she has a vivid imagi-
nation and revels in fancies and dreamland. But
touch reality and Elsie is practical, downright, and
to the point, while, like Fauntleroy," she believes
all the world to be kindly and expects nothing but
what she herself has always given love, and ten-
derness, and sympathy.
It was in Boston that one evening she went on
the stage eager to see a certain person in a pro-
scenium box, for she had just received the follow-
ing letter, which, like the others in this sketch, is
now printed with the consent of its writer:
BOSTON, Wednesday.
MY DEAR LITTLE GIRL: I found your pretty letter
waiting for me when I arrived yesterday morning, and as
soon as I had read it I felt quite sure we should be friends.
Every one tells me what a dear little Fauntleroy you make,
and I am looking forward with great pleasure to seeing
you play to-morrow night. When you see in one of the
boxes a little lady in a yellow brocade dress, who smiles
at you and looks delighted, you will know who it is. Then
after the play I shall try to see you for a few minutes,
because of course I shall want to kiss you and tell you
how pleased I am. I have no little girl of my own, but
I have two boys, and one of them used to be just like
Fauntleroy, and they both have always called me Dear-
est." That was why I made Fauntleroy call his mother
so. I know what a sweet little name it is. Mr. Gillette
told me in New York how beautifully you play. I am
sure he loves you as you say.
Your Affectionate Friend,

Mr. Edwin Booth is Elsie's ideal artist. Her in-
terest in his performances is intense, appreciative,
and among her treasures is a little note written just
after the famous tragedian saw her play.

NEW YORK, Nov. 12, 1888.
DEAR LITTLE LADY: Mr. Barrett and I were de-
lighted with your charming performance of Little Lord
Fauntleroy, and we both wish you health and happiness.


You can imagine, too, the delight with which
she received the following letter from America's
distinguished comedian, Mr. Joseph Jefferson. It
was written, appropriately, on St. Valentine's Day.

ORANGE ISLAND, LA., Feb. I4th, 1889.
MY DEAR ELSIE: I write this to congratulate you on
your recent great success.
You see your fame has reached me. And so now you
are a bright little star illuminating thousands of happy
mortals; I hear, too, that your good fortune has not
spoiled you,- that is the best news of all.
I am glad to know that you began your career upon
the stage with me,- though you owe me nothing, for
you were so bright that teaching you would have marred
rather than benefited you. I am going to see you act as
soon as I get an opportunity.
Good-bye.- That you may always be happy and use-
ful is the wish of your old friend, J. JEFFERSON.

"Editha interested her greatly. It was such
"fun," she says, to play it, and her faith in the
power of moral suasion as therein shown was
recently illustrated in a most amusing way. A queer
sound was heard by the family at night; some one
seemed to be trying to break into their apartment.
Elsie was awake; she sat up in bed listeningeagerly.
Whoever or whatever it was, ceased; nothing more
was heard, but afterward, Elsie, in telling a friend
about the occurrence, said very gravely: I had
made up my mind that if it had been a burglar, I
would have done Editzha to kim. / "
To Mr. E. H. Southern, who played the Burg-
lar," she wrote not long ago this quaint little note :
October 24, 1888.
DEAR MR. SOTHERN : It is just one year ago since we
were playing the Burglar and now we are playing Lord
parts. Do you like Lord Chumley as well as the Burg-

lar ? I like Lord Fauntleroy better, it is longer you know.
Love to all, especially Mr. A- ; is Dora a good girl, and
does she do her part well? I water-color-painted the
little picture on the front page, but did not draw it. With
love from your little friend,

And here is his answer:
MY DEAR OLD ELSIE: I received your very sweet
letter to-night. It was delightful of you to think of-me. I
am so glad of your great success. I wish I could see you
in your lord, but I fear I shall not have a chance to do
so. I like my lord very much, but I still have some
affection for the poor old burglar, although you took all
the piece away from poor me, no matter how hard I
cried nor how well I burled." Dora is a very good
girl, and has done .;I.- rl..:IJll in her part. I think your
water-color painting is lovely, and I think the little yel-
low girl is just like you. Mr. A- sends his love to
you and so do all the others, and even your old burglar
sends a lot of love too.
God bless you, dear !

Many people in Elsie's audience -" grown-ups"
as well as children-would like to know some-
thing of the home life and the surroundings of the
dear little girl who is helping to make "Fauntle-
roy a classic with us. Her hours at the theater
are, of course, not easy ones. She has to be "on
time"; for it is business as well as pleasure. She
is earning money wherewith to educate herself,
so she can not -indulge in the thousand and one
caprices which govern many small people of my
acquaintance who think it a hardship to have
" lessons every day. No, Elsie has her work in life
to do and she does it cheerfully and, as we all
know, well. The moment she is off the stage



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home life begins. There is no
affected, silly chatter about her
theatrical triumphs. When the
play is over, Lord Fauntleroy's
suit and hat are laid aside and
left at the theater, and little
Elsie Leslie Lyde is popped
into her dress and cloak and ,
driven .home, to be put to ,l..il
bed cosily and comfortably in z_- 1.'' hll_
her pretty room. This room,
which she enjoys in the morn-
ings before she takes her walk, .,
or her ride on her pony, is ..i' '
very sunshiny. A flood of '.', -
light streams in upon Elsie's .
own particular corner, which '., i
contains her special belongings. .,.',
There is her desk--the one ...

Progress Club-such a pretty
little desk: exactly the right ''
height for a little girl nine years ,l'
old. Upon it she has her own 'i
pens, pencils, and stationery, /
and paper for her dolls, too! / qf "':
These dolls are very important ''. i .---.
people in Elsie's life. On the
upper shelf of the desk is a -
row of books which have been. -
given her, many containing, in-
scriptions from the authors. For
instance, when Mark Twain sent /
her "Huckleberry Finn," he
wrote on the fly-leaf that it was LSIE AT HER LITTLE DESK. (DRAWN F
"one of the stateliest poems of modern times." many interruptions
On this desk is her diary, which she tries to to her exercise, her
keep regularly; but it is hard work, as she has too sit around the desk


P i- I

and must attend punctually
rest, her meals. The dolls
and are well cared for, and

whenever the busy little
"mother" can spare an
hour or has a congenial
little visitor, she is glad
enough to play with
them. Not long ago
-- one of the dolls-I sup-
''~- pose it must have been
the favorite daughter-
wrote a pretty letter
to the Editor of ST.
To be sure, the dolly's
mamma helped her to
write it, but then the
doll's letter sounded
very like "the child,"
as Elsie calls her.
)F ELSIE'S DOLLS. Here is Elsie's letter.




January 30th, 1889.
MY DEAR MRS. DODGE: You must not expect very
much from my little daughter because she is only 5 years
old, and she teased me so hard to let her write to you
that I could not say no, and you must excuse her bad
writing. I hope you will love her as much as she loves
you, because she is all the time talking about you, and
I hope you will get this letter because the child is so
angsuch to have you get it.
Your little friend, ELSIE LESLIE LYDE.

And here is the doll's letter:

January 3oth, 1889.
DEAR MRS. DODGE: I am Elsie's little dolly, and I
thought I would write you a letter, because my mamma
is going to write to you and I can put my letter in hers,
and I just wanted to write to you and say that I love you
very much, because my mamma told me all about you
and I think you must be lovely.
Your faithful friend, ELSIE'S LITTLE GIRL.

Well, Mrs. Dodge's dog Fido answered it, and
Mrs. Dodge wrote the following note with Fido's let-
ter, which is given below. (The paper, you might
like to know, has a pretty four-leaved clover in the
corner for good luck.)

MY DEAR ELSIE: Your lovely letter and the very
sweet note from your little daughter have pleased me
ever so much. I have a walking toy-dog named
Fido, and he says he would like to write to your little
girl. I hope you will not object to this, as he is a very
good dog, and is always most polite to persons smaller
than he is. When next you come to see me, I shall be
glad to introduce him to you. He is not on wheels, but
he moves his legs beautifully when he walks, and turns
his head with much feeling. Good-bye, dear Elsie.
Your sincere friend, MARY MAPES DODGE.

And this is Fido's letter:
course, means Elsie's "daughter" doll]: Mrs. Dodge
showed me the lovely letter you wrote her, and I am
astonished that a little girl of five years can write so
nicely. I am only Mrs. Dodge's little toy-dog Fido,
and my paws are pretty stiff, so you must excuse my
poor penmanship. Mrs. Dodge takes a great deal of
pains in educating me, but as there is no Harvard
Annex for dogs, I never can be very well educated. Still,
a dog can be very agreeable without knowing Latin and
Greek. I can nod my head and walk quite nicely. Can
you? And do your eyes open and shut? Mine
don't. I have a red collar with bells on it. .
I wish you and I could go to the park together if your
dear mamma is willing. Mrs. Dodge sends her love to
you, and says she loves you because you are Elsie Lyde's
little girl. Good-bye. I forgot to say I have to be wound
up with a key. Do you? Good-bye again. Give my
love to your mamma. Does she have to be wound up
before she plays Lord Fauntleroy?
Your little friend, FIDo.

Perhaps I could do no better than to give my
readers an account of an actual day in Elsie's life -
a chance day I take as an example one of many
happy days I have spent with her; but it will let
Aher young friends see something of the home life of

the child who is just now attracting an amount of
attention and admiration that, were it bestowed on
some little persons of my acquaintance, might be
very dangerous and bewildering.
I have told you of Elsie's sunny room -there,
late in the morning, she awakes. Meta, her
French nursery-governess, appears, and Elsie is
bathed and dressed and has a simple, wholesome
breakfast. I think sometimes it must be hard
work to dress her, for she is "on the hop, skip,
and jump," wanting to take up this, that, or the
other, and not liking a bit better than any other
little girl to have the tangles combed out of her
profuse golden hair. [And just here I may men-
tion for the benefit of interested readers that Elsie
never wears a wig. The shower of golden tresses
which Fauntleroy tosses about are all natural,
as she knows to her sorrow many a morning.]
As to her dress, she wears guimpes and Green-
away gowns at home simple, childish, and pretty,
and she has a keen sense of color and tasteful adorn-
ment, though I have never detected any vanity in
her. Naturallyshe likes to find something to make a
train out of and to walk about "playing lady I
should be sorry for her if it were not so!
After breakfast, she plays with her dolls or
amuses herself at her desk. Meanwhile Elsie's
mother has received the many letters which come
for the child daily and which contain all manner
of things, from requests for autographs to friendly
invitations. The other day came a note which
delighted Elsie. A lady wrote to say she had a
new little girl a baby just born whom she had
named "Elsie Leslie." Well, Elsie would like to
answer everybody-to acknowledge every kind-
ness- to show her real appreciation but how can
she ? Writing is to her just what it was to darling
Pet Marjorie: The "thoughts come but the pen
won't always work "; and although Elsie has a lov-
ing, careful sister, like Marjorie's "Isabella," there
is not time in the little life, nor would it be right, to
allow her to undertake too much, especially as Elsie
can do nothing carelessly. This sister, by the way,
is so important a part of Elsie's life that no sketch
of the little girl could be complete without tribute
to her. Eda Lyde is all devotion to her little sister;
proud of her, tender with her, but conscientious,
and a capital monitress when needed.. I am sure
all of Elsie's friends will be interested to know
that not many years ago, when Eda was a child
herself, she showed such dramatic ability that
her recitations became too popular among her
mother's friends for the child's peace of mind. She
felt too intensely what she recited. Her heart was
nearly broken over the woes of the heroes or' hero-
ines of the poetry she learned and repeated, and
so she was obliged to put it aside for a time, al-




though she since has been successful in dramatic
work of another character.
Regular study just now is forbidden Elsie, as
her mind is sufficiently exercised, but she is learn-
ing French with extraordinary rapidity and very
little trouble to herself. So anxious was she to prove
her progress to me that she wrote me a letter in
French soon after the arrival of her governess, the
ideas and writing all her own, but of course the
French dictated. Indeed, I think I liked it best
because of Elsie's saying in her conscientious
fashion, "You know of course I did n't know the
French words all myself. You see of course I
did n't." In the letter she put in--"Elle [the
governess] me dit comment 6crire les mots."
Mid-day sees her in the park for a walk or at the
riding-school for her ride, then home again bloom-

ing and gay. If there are visitors the little girl,
approaching them, politely holds out her hand with
her pretty "How do you do?" but she shows plainly
how little any compliments affect her. She has her
luncheon, more play,-and then comes the tug
of war: the afternoon nap! Oh, I know all chil-
dren will sympathize with her dislike of this The
other day visions of my own childhood arose as
Elsie tried so hard to postpone the unwelcome
hour! We had been having a good time, talk-
ing, and then came the order,
"Now, Elsie, time for your nap "
Elsie is sitting on my lap. We have been dis-
cussing various things, and she remarks, Oh-
well -one moment-what were you saying about
- 'um riding "

Elsie! comes gently from her mother again,
"You must go to bed now."
Elsie slides down reluctantly-reaches the door-
goes down the hall- comes back.
"Well -see here- before you go oh, I know
what I wanted to say. Can you play any of the
'Pearl of Pekin ?"
I confess my incapacity for this performance,
while Elsie hovers around the door.
"Well I can a little --just oh, lease let
me do it i "
And a moment later she is at the piano, her head
on one side and her left hand picking out -one of
the operatic airs.
"Now, Elsie, you must go."
Well," very lugubriously, ".I sup-pose so."
And the little girl disappears in Meta's direc-
tion, to awake two hours later, have a light dinner,
and then drive to the theater, where, when she is
not on the stage, she is occupied with some child-
ish amusement in her large, comfortable dressing-
room behind the scenes. But one great delight
the child has, and she welcomes newly every time-
the sight of children in the audience the sound
of their laughter-that delicious, happy ripple
which, when I listen to it at "Fauntleroy," sounds
in my ears like music -this pleases her exceed-
ingly, for her sympathy with people of her own age
is intense. Watch her at play with other children,
and this may easily be seen. Talk to her own
little friends about her, and you will find out
whether it is the child or -the actress they love
Everything she sees or hears interests her; but
she likes to have reasons. She has them nearly
always for what she does herself. She judges of
people and things. with quick intuition, and, like
Fauntleroy, shrinks anxiously from hurting any
one's feelings. Mrs. Burnett says that Elsie plays
the part so well because of her natural resemblance
to the character of the dear little lord; and just
as he preaches his sermon of winning all hearts by
love and faith -by gentleness and lack of guile -
so does Elsie preach hers.
Certainly there are some children who come
into the world with special gifts of character as
marked as any talent. I am sure that Elsie's abso-
lute simplicity, earnestness, and freedom from all
affectation are the special endowment of nature;
and because of this, we who love her and see her
at home constantly, can hope much for her future.
Her whole heart goes into everything done for and
about others. No one can see her at her little
desk writing a letter without realizing her anxiety
to do well whatever is to be done at all; and her
composition and fluency are extraordinary in spite
of the funny spelling, which troubles her sorely and




therefore will soon be a conquered difficulty. A
letter lying before me now reveals much of the
sweetness of the child's nature, and I am glad to
be allowed to include it in these pages just as she
penned it.
-- : The ST. NICHOLAS, the Little Brownies, and
Hans all came Monday afternoon," she writes, after
receiving some books, "and they are just lovely and
I thank you very very much. I showed them all to
Dearest she thought they were lovely. I am going to
commence my letter to the SANT NICHOLAS. I do not
have much time I take a long nap in the afternoon and
that takes a little time pleas remember me to all of
my new friends dose Mr. write poetry or storys I
think he looks as if he might he makes me think of a
very very dear friend that I love very much he is the
most trustable friend I have I write to him very oftion
and he never allows the bad spelling in my letters to
interfere with his love for me and I hope it will not in-
terfere with yours and that you will always love your
little friend, ELSIE LESLIE LYDE.

Watching her the other day at her diary it was
not possible to avoid the comparison I have before
suggested, between this careful, although joyous
and gentle, little creature of our own day and the
Pet Marjorie of long ago who wrote in her journal:
"Isabella is teaching me to make simme cowlings,
notes of interrogation, periods, commoes, etc., as
this is Sunday I will meditate upon senciable and
religious subjects. Ist, I should be very thankful
I am not a bigger "
Life so far has gone smoothly, gently, tenderly
for Elsie Lyde and yet and yet i As I watch
her little flitting figure, her sweet, innocent face, as
I hear her say over and again, "I am such a


happy little girl! I cannot quite repress a dread
of the shadows which must come into her life, the
chance of some hard awakening from this exquisite
faith in all things human and friendly, and Words-
worth's lines seem to fit her singularly well:
Oh, blessed vision, happy child!

I thought of thee with many fears,
Of what might be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when pain might be thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
And grief, uneasy lover ne'er at rest,
But when she sat within the touch of thee-
O, too industrious folly!
O, vain and causeless melancholy !
Nature will either end thee quite
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flock."
"1Ilong to be an author," the child says eagerly,
liftingher eyes from something she is writing. "Oh,
I wish I could write "
Who knows? Such a nature as hers has many
possibilities. The future of this ardent, happy little
life rests mercifully in other than the hands
that give Elsie the-world's applause. Who can
foretell the developments of the active, clever little
brain- of thb almost pathetic instincts toward
what is i..:- ;ril high, generous and unworldly?
May tI..-.e of heart and soul, as well as mind,
be such thl,. ir the days to come, her mother, like
Cedric's in the play, may thank God that the world
is better because her little child was born.
Lucy C. Lillie.




IN gold the symbol shineth fair,
Graven on the books of Prayer ;
From the great Cathedral's spire
It flashes back the sunset fire,
And gleameth white through cypress
Where the holy dead are laid.
That sacred sign in days of yore
Full many an holy oath it bore;
Full many a night, in cloistered cell,
On kneeling monk its shadow fell,
And on it many a martyred saint
Rained dying kisses slow and faint.
'T was blazoned red on knightly shield,
'T was deeper dyed upon the field,
'T was rudely carved above the slain
Who perished on the Moslem plain.
Its holy dews lie undefiled
Upon the forehead of the child.
On kingly breasts the jewel glows,
The dearest meed that valor knows.
Beauty to the sacred sign
Gives her bosom for a shrine;
Noble lord and haughty dame
Proud to wear the sign of shame.
Glorious triumph of the cross !
Joyful grief and blessed loss !
The symbol of a Saviour's pain,
The scepter of the Saviour's reign,
Enwreathed with flowers this Easter Morn,
Till we forget the Crown of Thorn !


[In the Country in April.]

THOUGH the south wind roves about
In the woods all warm and wet,
And the sun shines on my doubt,
I remember winter yet;
1 'm too tired to go out,
You go for us both, my Pet!

There 's one growing in the wood
With a message of spring hope;
Go and find it! a pink bud
Growing on a southern slope.

All the winds of May would miss it,
If you plucked it for my sake;
Stoop down softly, dear, and kiss it,
Like a babe you would not wake !
Kiss it! you '11 bring home, I think,
On your lips the May-flower's pink.

If a wee white violet,
In the edge of some gray thicket,
Smiles a timid smile, my Pet,
Smile again, but do not pick it;
Pass on then and after-while,
When you bring me such a smile,
Timid, wistful, guileless, tender,
I shall know who was the sender.

If you find a starry bluet,
Brave with looking at the sky,
With a mad March wind to woo it,
And a rock to shelter by,
Just nod blithely, boldly to it,
As you 're passing by the place,
Just nod frank as if you knew it,
It will laugh up in your face!

Follow where the little rills
Run down singing from the hills;
In their glistening footprints follow
Down into the wooded hollow.
In some silent, sheltered place,
If you find a shadowy grace,
Like the ghost of last year's flower,
Come to haunt an April hour,
With its starry, spirit face,
Leave the wind-flower's fragile gem
Trembling on its slender stem,
Pause and look and leave it gleaming;
Pass by softly, not too near it,
I shall know by your still seeming
You have seen a Blossom's spirit.

Go, dear, search in every thing
For the hidden news of spring !
Come back wondering and wise,
Happy secrets in your eyes,
And a whisper in your mouth
Like the low wind of the south.
Come whatever news you bring,
You 're my Spirit of the Spring!





WHEN Monsieur Lavoie sent FranCois the Al-
gonquin to the town of Agnes with a telegram for
his wife,- to quiet anxiety which printed accounts
of the fire might cause her,--and also a message
to Marcelline Charland's mistress saying the child
was disabled from returning to her directly, he
gave his messenger so large a bank-note for all
his services that Francois felt lifted to affluence.
There are Algonquins settled, civilized, and even
refined, comparing favorably with men of European
descent. But though Frangois said his prayers, he
could scarcely be called a civilized Christian In-
dian. He was merely tamed, his savage nature
being held in check by modern usages. Some-
times he went to Caughnawaga, on the opposite
bank of the St. Lawrence, above Montreal, where
his hereditary enemies, the Iroquois,--finally re-
deemed from heathenism by the heroic work of
missionaries,- were withering away in filth and
laziness. Whether or no Frangois approved this
result of civilizing Indians, he still ran half wild
himself during such time as he was not journeying
homeward to be re-garbed by Sally. And noth-
ing made him happier than lying on his back a
whole'day in the woods, with Canadian money in
his pocket. and the need of doing any work far
removed from him.
He was a hanger-on at the camp, free to dismiss
himself. So, after receiving the poet's fee, the
last service he felt inclined to render was rowing
the boat to Agnes for guests who would row it
Monsieur Lavoie took this chance of starting
home,--the second day after the fire. The Eng-
lish campers, always as unwilling to lose from their
party as they were hospitable in adding to it, stood
on the lake's brim, from eldest to youngest, deny-
ing that this French invasion had caused them any
trouble, and repeating good-byes as far as their
voices could stretch over the water.
It was late in the afternoon, and shadows were
already traveling toward the center of the lake.
The burnt shore, thick studded with high shafts

of ebony, was a somber-looking region. As far as
the eye could travel, that forest stood charred and
dead. And what had become of all the living
creatures that had played under branches or lived
in burrows ?
This time the girls sat in the stern of the boat,
to balance it, for the pull to Agnes was a long one.
Frangois swayed himself at the oars betwixt them
and Monsieur Lavoie his dark, red face and
rapid eyes fronting them. Frangois's hair, coarse
as a horse's mane, hung in uneven lengths below
his neck and was bare of any covering. As the
fancy took him, when he had means to gratify it,
he bought hats of various kinds, which fell into
speedy ruin and were dropped in the woods. He
had been wearing a soft, black felt, but left it in
camp- a heritage the English mother would be-
hold with disgust, and order carried away as far as
possible on the end of a stick. Francois intended
to adorn his aquiline redness with a new helmet
of white straw. Except that he wore low mocca-
sins, he was dressed much like a common Cana-
dian, for Sally took pride in arraying her son.
Three people as badly burned as the three whom
Frangois rowed were using heroic treatment in
undertaking a journey; this their English host
had told them as he carried Marcelline to the boat.
But Monsieur Lavoie wished to be in his home -
"Where Philomenie can nurse us," Aurele now
explained to her adopted girl. "Philomenie al-
ways stays and takes care of the house when the
family are away. She was mamma's nurse, and
is always our best, dearest comfort. She is an
Acadian; her people were moved from their land
by the English-oh, many, many years ago.
Dear Philom6nie will make us the loveliest souffles,
and such pancakes with jelly as you never tasted
in your life. She tells us stories her mother used
to tell her, and which her grandmother said were
told around the fireplaces in Acadia. Yes, and
she tells us of the feux-follets,* -blue, and white,
and red,-which have often been seen on the
island of Orleans and elsewhere, dancing before
people and frightening them after night; espe-
cially when people are going on good errands, for
Philom6nie told us these feux-follets were dread-
fully wicked spirits."



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them while the reverend father rode. When a
man went on such an errand, if he met a feu-
follet he could make the holy sign, and ask it on
which day of the week next Christmas would come;
and that would drive a feu-follet off, to puzzle and
ask questions. So the uncle of my grandmother
rode along, sure of what he would do if a light
wavered in front. But presently he heard some-
thing following him, and he looked back, and
there came a loup-garou at full speed, its eyes as
red as fire The uncle of my grandmother never
stopped lashing his horse until he fell into the
priest's door. But when they started back the
priest was ready for it. He made the uncle of my
grandmother get up behind him and ride. And
they both repeated prayers all the way to the sick
person's house as fast as prayers could be said, and
that loup-garou screamed at them like a man in
pain, though it could come no nearer than the end
of the horse's tail streaming out behind. So when
they reached the house, the priest laid his book on
the door-step, and the loup-garou ran to an island
of rocks in the frozen Chaudiere, and howled for
more than two hours."
How delicious are stories of loups-garous!"
said Aurele with enthusiasm.
"Now, Francois," said Monsieur Lavoie, laugh-
ing, can you not surpass that by a story of your
grandmother's? "
But Frangois was silent.
The Algonquins have nothing more to say;
their stories are dead. Is it so ? "
Francois made a noise in his throat.
Then I will tell a tale," said Monsieur Lavoie;
" one that will show how much nearer the Hurons
lived to heaven than these tongueless Algonquins.
There was a Huron Indian who had a favorite son,
and the son died. So the father with some friends
set out to the land of souls to bring back his boy's
Frangois twitched on his bench and shrugged.
"That Algonquin story," he grumbled. Hu-
ron never had any story like that."
Perhaps you know it," said Monsieur Lavoie.
Always knew it," said Francois.
How do the Algonquins tell it?"
Oh, that but an old story," said Francois, dis-
paraging it as soon as he had rescued it from the
It is very easy for you to claim a story while I
tell it," said Monsieur, Lavoie. "But did you
really ever hear this one ? "
Goaded by these and other words Frangois
stopped rowing, and half turned on his bench, let-
ting the boat run with the momentum he had given
it. He repeated this old tradition of his tribe in a

few sentences, as if it were jerked from him against
his will, while he slouched down on the oars.
Algonquin Indian, he had son died. Took
him some friends. Started to land of souls fetch
back that boy's soul. All had to do was wade
shallow lake to land of souls. Waded days and
days. Sleep nights on pole platforms; platforms
stick up above water. Come to land of souls, Pap-
kootparout run out shake his war-club at Algon-
quins. Papkootparout change his mind. (He
keeper of land of souls.) Challenge Algonquins
play ball. They beat Papkootparout; get stakes;
get corn, tobacco, fruit. That how all Indians get
corn, tobacco, fruit: Algonquins bring them from
land of souls. Algonquin father beg for his son's
soul. Papkootparout give it to him ; shape like a
nut. Father squeeze it in his hands; make it go in-
to little --very little -leather bag. Papkootparout
say put it in dead boy he be alive again. Algon-
quins go home, have big dance, have feast. Father,
he want to dance; feel good, feel happy. Give
leather bag to squaw to hold while he dance.
Squaw peep in bag; want to see what soul look
like. Soul get out of bag when squaw open it;
off go soul back to Papkootparout, never come to
Algonquin country any more."
And having finished the recital, Frangois dropped
the oars in water and shot his boat along.
Perhaps it was the Algonquin tribe instead of
the Huron, who lived so near the land of souls,"
said Monsieur Lavoie.
A pleasant coolness crept across the lake with
the ground shadows. Aur&le put out one of her
bandaged hands to trail in Megantic, but thought
better of it before her wrappings were wet.
"Papa," she said, it would be a lovely thing-
would it not ?- to have a sorcerer raise a fog around
us to cover us from sight on the way home, if there
were now any sorcerers left like the one on the
island of Orleans, that Philominie told us about.
It is matter of history," said Aurele seriously to
the uninstructed young servant from a changeless
valley whom she was making her own dependent.
The fog, the fog, my Aurele, not the sorcerer,"
warned her father.
"It is Philomenie I quoted as historian, papa,"
laughed Aurele. But listen to me, Marcelline
Charland. Papa, do not distract this child while
I am teaching her. You have often been in the
church of Notre Dame des Victoires in Lower
Town? "
Oh, yes, mademoiselle, it is many times. And
my sister also comes downstairs from Upper Town
to that church."
At first that ancient church was named Notre
Dame de Victoire, to celebrate the English Phipps's

Nouvelle Relation de la Gasp6sie." Cited in Parkman's "Jesuits in North America."
VOL. XVI.-27.




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went LO l a. bouiI ndy-hlr-ne Lu a k hi, -i.
_Dr. Dionne's History of the Church of Notre Dame des Victoires." t Edward Farrer.
-22"" ,.. n,'., ,-.te,,,! .:l.?. i ,,: is M ,- ,,-i B tu o c,,' b ,:. i-,,r, ev i



You do not think he was in the burning
woods ? exclaimed Aurele.
No, mademoiselle. He was not there. The
men told me he was not there. I asked them be-
fore the train came back. He was lumbering in
the west province. That is where a jam of logs in
the river hurt him."
Frangois was listening.
Marcelline had no knowledge of geography.
The "west province" was to her a dim and fabu-
lous stretch of country, remotely including Winni-
peg, and perhaps Vancouver's Island.
"Was he hurt ? said Aurele tenderly. Where
did this happen ? "
"At Ottawa, mademoiselle."
He drowned," observed Frangois, with con-
What are you saying, Frangois ?" called Mon-
sieur Lavoie.
Boy drowned at Ottawa in log-jam."
Not drowned," pleaded Marcelline.
How do you know anything about it, Fran-
cois ? inquired Aurele.
I there. I dive for him in river. Other men
dive. Not bring up anything."
You are perhaps talking of two different boys,"
said Monsieur Lavoie.
My brother's name is Bruno Charland."
Didn't hear name," said Frangois.
"How long ago was your boy caught in the
jam, Francois ?"
Six, seven week, monsieur."
It was Bruno who was hurt that long ago,"
said Marcelline.
"And has any one seen him since? inquired
"Yes, mademoiselle. Many people have seen
him since. Raftsmen, and people in the Beau-
pre road, where my sister has gone to search for
He drowned," repeated Frangois, in guttural
But if he was hurt, how could he run about?"
demanded Aurele of the sister.
Marcelline explained Bruno's misfortune as well
as she understood it herself. She could not out-
line to her own mind the wholesome boy tracking
aimlessly from spot to spot, with portions of his
memory blank.
It was after sunset when they ran alongside the
dock at Agnes a blackened remnant of what had
been that raw-plank town, contrasting its deep
charcoals with the limpid blueness of the lake.
The train was made' up at the station,-which
served as temporary end of the road,-but some
time remained before it would leave.
A boatman at the wharf carried Marcelline

F STE. ANNE. 419

through the desolate cross-street of Agnes. The
people were beginning to build their plank dwell-
ings again. Some were tabernacled in tents or
sheds, as trivial as the shingle playhouses children
would make for themselves; and one woman had
set up her household goods under a solitary tree
left green, with sheets for her walls.
Frangois, at the poet's bidding, guided the party
to the train, and stood bare-headed and lazy to
receive another fee from. this opulent Frenchman.
Regret may have stirred in the Algonquin's breast
at parting from a hand so liberal; he was as eager
as an Indian allows himself to be to hear the new
proposal Monsieur Lavoie made to him.
Frangois, this boy whom you tried to pull out
of the Ottawa River- I have been thinking it might
be a good plan to set you to find him. Would you
know him again ? "
Yes, monsieur. Saw him on slide. Black
French fellow. Sings loud. Hear him above
Are you going in the direction of Quebec?"
"Yes, monsieur."
The Indian waited with his side glance on the
gentleman's muffled face.
Very well. Suppose you look along the Beau-
pre road for that boy, and bring him to me if you
find him. My daughter has taken up the matter
and feels an interest in these French children. I
shall have to help find the boy and do something
for him."
Monsieur, where shall I bring him? "
The poet felt for a card to tear off his address
for the Algonquin, but second thought restrained
him. His house was easily expansive to all sorts
of retainers, but a roving and decidedly dirty Algon-
quin was no desirable addition to the list.
Bring him to the church at Beauport. I often
drive that way. Wait. You need not bring him
so far, indeed. If you can find the boy, have him
on the bridge over Montmorenci River at two
o'clock on Saturday afternoon of this week. I will
drive on the Beaupr6 road that day."
Frangois uttered an assenting guttural, and
turning his back stalked directly away.



IT was Saturday before Madame Pelletier would
allow Alvine Charland to go on to Beaupre. The
girl's ankle was much hurtby her race after Bruno.
She could not follow the little father in his climb-
ings, but she watched him going up the hills
every day with the vain hope that he might bring
her brother back. The little father himself took


great pains to slip away from Alvine after the un-
fortunate stampede which she caused.
He would begin by whispering his daughter
Ursule to set the little daughter a long task. Then
he would creep around the house and dodge from
bush to bush up the ravine. At the top of the
hill he would creep along on hands and knees until
some rock or tree concealed his standing figure
from the house. Alvine at a window traced his
progress wistfully.
At Saturday dawn, Petit-Pere was already away
on the hills. He had risen when the first birds
stirred in their nests, while Pelletier's two cows -
glad gypsy cows who wandered the mountain road
and drank from the mountain streams- lay asleep
at the gate awaiting their morning milking. Some
anxiety took him out so early. Mother Pelletier
with relief missed considerable bread and cream
and some black pudding she had intended to take
to Beaupr6.
For it would be well she should make a pilgrim-
age while Alvine was going, she told her husband;
the more pilgrimages one made to good Ste. Anne's
shrine the better. And had they not planned for
the little father, Pelletier would have gone him-
We do not take Petit-Pere to Beaupr6," Ma-
dame Pelletier explained to Alvine. His heart
is not set on going. And when he was there he
hunted the children like a wild man from crowd to
crowd, shouting their names at strangers. It ex-
cites him. He has his pretty ways. We never
cross our little father. You see, my child, I cut
his breeches short at the knee, because in his youth
breeches were worn short and he yet demands
them so. But if he frets not to go to Ste. Anne's we
do not put it in his mind. It is not necessary for
Petit-Pere to make the good pilgrimage."
After their early breakfast the blacksmith kindly
offered Gervas and the dog-wagon to Alvine, but
his wife objected to this conveyance.
"Did you not make a lazy pilgrimage behind
Gervas once, yourself," she exclaimed, "and had
you not to tell me when you came home what a
scandalous fight there was between Gervas and a
pension-keeper's dog in front of the sacred foun-
tain itself !"
Yes, yes; and Gervas whipped the other dog,"
said Pelletier.
He '11 whip no dogs for me on my pilgrimage,"
responded Mother Pelletier.
But the child Alvine may have a word to say,"
suggested her husband. "It was Gervas that
disabled her; he ought to carry her to the shrine.
And, mademoiselle, he never fights when hitched
to his wagon. Then my Gervas doth stick out his
tongue and trot. It is when he walks free around

the streets and his feelings swell that he is obliged
to let them out on mangy curs such as trouble fine
dogs like Gervas."
But Alvine gratefully declined being drawn in
the chariot of Gervas.
"For I am able to make my pilgrimage on foot,
monsieur, and if it hurts me, sacrifice is good,"
she said.
They went slowly, however, and did not approach
Beaupre until about nine. At intervals on their
way the bells of Ste. Anne could be heard in joyful
clamor, and Ste. Anne's two great towers were seen
from the first high spot in the road.
Mother Pelletier carried four large bowls of cream
to sell at a pension, each bowl so tied in cotton cloth
that it could be hung on the end of a stick. Mother
Pelletier walked swiftly, grasping the two sticks in
the middle, being careful not to let her balanced
bowls slide either way. It was so nice a feat to
keep this perfect balance, up hill and down, that
she never trusted any companion with her precious
flowered bowls and cream, which left a sour trail in
the air, when she went to Ste. Anne.
The village was still the Beauprd road, with
houses strung thickly each side of it and others
set upon the hillside having long ladders of steps
bedded in the ground for ascent to them.
The Frenchman has a love of outdoors almost
equal to the Indian's. His eaves curve widely that
he may sit under their shelter at dusk. All day
the French-Canadian house stands exposed through
and through to sunshine and flies; yet its rafters
always glitter with pearly whitewash or are clean
enough to have been newly cut out of white-wood,
and the broad-boarded floors seem too fair for the
tread of any dusty foot.
It is a humid country along the base of the
Laurentines, and little dust rises from the flint-
smooth Beaupre road even when pilgrimages are
All day I think of Bruno," said Alvine, as she
shifted the basket of luncheon, which she had un-
dertaken to carry, to the other hand, "and of what
I told you, madame, about the Montmorenci."
But he will never do that," soothed Mother
Ursule, puffing along with her balanced freight.
His mind flies from fancy to fancy. But, pray
for him, my child, and he will be as he was before
this misfortune."
Madame, if I could get him into my hands and
lead him safely back to Quebec, it would be a load
off my heart."
These great government palaces, where they
put the unsettled people -I do not like such
things myself," declared Mother Ursule. The
woods and hills, and the river are better to cure
him than an iron gate. Did Simard's wife tell thee



1889.] THE BELLS OF STE. ANNE. 421

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Alvine stood waiting on the gallery behind the
unfailing blaze of geranium pots. In front of her
was the narrow street paved with planks and bor-

tem pt hm,_r., r" -' ,,:F. .i"-, -:I.. .: 0, i,,1- kh.'-
terra.:,Ad t i:.i -il ,
I n i:- l'. -, i t,] ,: -. : *t .: : -,- 1.: _: : .: rr,-r L1
steel l ..: ,.l t.:.,k : ,: ,:. i i : ; i.... :-!., ,.|
ln aic _: i.,n l:,'-,, L i_ i p ,_l, ,:, r r,-'l i> _-i l:,j
the shrill voice of the mistress. The last of the
early pilgrims were getting their breakfast. French
sentences, drawn out to a long, musical cadence at
the end, were accompanied by the low mumble of
devout persons who walked about the floors read-
ing in books of devotion. Every room in the
pension, upstairs and down, except stall-like sleep-

dors of Quebec, the two towers, with their clock
and sets of bels and chimes, the figure of the
woman set aloft, and all that massive stone struc-
ture, were but a repetition of what she had been

taught to respect. There were two fountains play-
ing in the flagged space in front, and at the right
hand a row of sheds, sheltering tables and benches,
offered a dining-place to the multitude of pilgrims
who brought their own food.
At the left, across Beaupr6 road, and a few

ing closets, was used as a dining-room, each con- steps up the mountain, stood that old chapel of
training a long oilcloth-covered table and two Ste. Anne, which had its corner-stone laid in the
wooden benches, seventeenth century.j Farther up, and toward
Some boys in a cart came along the street with the east, Alvine could see a convent among
bowls of wild, tiny hill-strawberries for sale, and a trees.
woman on the gallery, which indicated the second Just as Mother Ursule, spent by her walk, and
story of her house, reached down and took a bowl Alvine, on halting ankle, ascended wide stone
from the tips of a boy's fingers. steps to enter, a sound of chanting came from the
Madame Pelletier's business being finished, she river.
lifted the basket off Alvine's arm, and they fol- See you," said Madame Pelletier, indicating
lowed a finger-board marked "Chemin de Peleri- a causeway which stretched three-quarters of a
nages,"* to the square in front of Ste. Anne's huge mile across the marsh strip to the river at low
church, tide. Two steamers were discharging their loads.
To Alvine, who was used to the ancient splen- The causeway was already black with figures, fill-
Pilgrim's Road.
tThe first settlers built a church which was washed away by floods and ice. Another was finished in 1660, the Vicomte D'Ar-
genson laying the first stone in z657.
The site of the old chapel is marked by a chapel built with the old materials. It is roughly finished within, containing only a few
stained seats and a bare-looking altar, and a quaint image of Ste. Anne, apparently of the time of Louis XIV.
A handsome new church was dedicated in 1876. To it were removed the old altar and pulpit, both of the seventeenth century,
and the relics and original ornaments of the old church. Among these are an altar-piece by Le Brun, the gift of the Marquis de
Tracy; a silver reliquary and a painting by Le Frangois, both the gift of Mons. de Laval; a chasuble worked by Anne of Austria,
and a bone of the finger of Ste. Anne."-Picturesque Canada.



ing its width solidly and pressing in a procession
which seemed endless toward the town. Here
and there were white banners.

"Cling, clang-boom, boom Cling, clang,
boom! -Cling, clang!"
Around the angle of the street came the pil-
grims, still pouring from the
steamers, a mile of people filling
the street: men, women, children,
their voices like many waters, the
bells rejoicing with boom and
clamor in constant reply.
Alvine turned away her face and
sobbed, because as deep answering
to deep, the secret places of. her
religious nature responded to that
vast cry of human prayer.
r' It was a sight not of this country
W. -,, nor of this age. It was medieval.
A stranger looking on would ex-
pect to see some knight in mail
.i ride down to the church door, and
S-Peter the Hermit stand forth and
lift his sackcloth-covered arms to
exhort the multitude.
.. Yet many of the pilgrims carried
common black valises.
There were sick people among
.i;: them who hoped to get good from
prayers in the church: cripples
on canes and crutches, the blind,
the consumptive, the deformed.
A man on a litter was borne in the
They paused on the opposite
side of the square to chant, and
again at the church door. The
bells pealed and the chorus rose:
"Daignon, Ste. Anne,
A nous si bonjour,
De vos enfans
Agr'ez glamour "

Dag-non, Ste. Atone, A nous si bon -jour.

De os on-fans Ag -r'z r n-our.

Si Suddenly the great church was
filled, its rows of pillars swarmed
6 o h around, even the chapels along its
sides receiving an overflow.
4.. The.altar blazed with lights.
An image of the good Ste. Anne,
ONE OF THE PYRAMIDS OF CRUTCHES. (SEE PAGE 425-) thatkindlywoman who is calledthe
friend of seamen and sufferers and
As voices swelled high in chorus, suddenly in the all distressed persons, stood in the aisle on a white
towers overhead those great bells burst into wel- pedestal hung around with gold hearts. She held
come which seemed to shake the ground: a child on one arm and a branch of lilies in her


II : ,


other hand, her sweet and elderly face being set in son star hanging in the air so fine was the wire
faded hair. A lamp holding a flame like a crim- which suspended it- trembled near her.
other~~~~~~~~~ '.--, he ', n leryfc en e in .o ---. "agn ntear-s iewstew
faded hir. A lmD h ,li ,, ' "' ieaci- whc upne t-te~e erhr



Close by the church doors stood that old rude
pulpit made for the earlier chapel; and right and
left towered structures like many wheels of de-
creasing sizes placed over each other on one tall
hub. These structures were full of crutches and
canes left by people who thought their prayers had
brought them benefit.
Alvine had no time to look up and around at
ex-voto tablets, reliquaries in shrines, and the
thousand objects collected in such a place. The
choir chanted; the people were at their brief devo-
tions; they were flowing out with their valises to
the eating stalls and again the bells burst forth,
another load of pilgrims were landing, and the
chant came up from the river. So the pageant
went on all day the whole of French Canada
throbbing through that street as through a great
artery, singing as they came, singing as they de-
parted. Friends from remote corners of the two
provinces met each other. Cabs stood in a line by
the square or jostled in their rush to the dock.
Boys bought cakes and leaned against the stalls to
eat them, and pensions were filled to their doors.

Alvine followed Mother Ursule to the old chapel
up the hill, wherein the altar was like a gilt sar-
cophagus, and thin blue paint covered the rough
seats; where Ste. Anne looked down from smoky
marine pictures daubed before American inde-
pendence was declared. And she followed to a
grotto in the bleak, slanting church-yard to pray
before a reminder of the crucifixion. All the pre-
scribed rounds of devotion were followed.
About three o'clock, having their precious bot-
tles of water and oil in their hands and pilgrimage
badges on their breasts, the young pilgrim and the
older one sat down to a second luncheon, in the
eating sheds.
Some dark-skinned children were ranged around
the table next to them, eating like locusts from a
huge black valise, the eldest of their number dis-
tributing the victuals. She was a pretty girl of
fifteen, wearing cherry ribbons in her dress.
There they are," exclaimed Mother Pelletier
with conviction, rising from her bench. And she
was right. "They" were the Pelletier children
from Quebec.

(To be concluded.)



I AM only a bit of amber
That dazzles the baby's eyes;
But the light in my innermost chamber
Is the light of the pristine skies.

For ages ago, and ages,
When, far in the upper air,
Vast firs, like old archimages,
Shed incense everywhere,

And, all in the wide gray weather
Which wrapped the whole round world,
Solemnly waved together
As the thick warm vapors curled,

In the sunshine's sudden bursting
I oozed from a topmost bough,
And I drank that splendor thirsting,-
There is no such sunshine now !

And the wings that came round me flashing,-
None like them are fluttering here,-

I caught in my heavy plashing
And sealed in my shining sphere.

Oh, life that was wild and glorious
When the elements wrought for man,
And wave over fire victorious
Shaped the earth to her ancient plan I

Then the tides, in the great world-changes,
Rose in their mighty turn,
Rolled over the fir-tree's ranges,
And the plume of the giant fern.

And ages had past, and ages,
When the winds scooped the deep sea-floor,
And the seas in their storm-blown rages
Tossed me to light once more.

And now, half a jest, it may be,
Half a charm, you hang in your mirth
Round the throat of the newborn baby
The oldest thing on earth !





You may be sure there was trouble on the Gas-
ton place when night came and the children did
not return. They were missed at dinner-time; but
it frequently happened that they went off with some
of the plantation wagons, or with some of the field-
hands, and so nothing was thought of their absence
at noon; but when night fell and all the negroes
had returned from their work, and there was still
no sign of the children, there was consternation in
the big house and trouble all over the plantation.
The field-hands, returned from their work, dis-
cussed the matter at the doors of their cabins and
manifested considerable anxiety.

At first the house-servants were sent scurrying
about the place hunting for the truants. Then
other negroes were pressed into service, until,
finally, every negro on the place was engaged in
the search, and torches could be seen bobbing up
and down in all parts of the plantation. The
negroes called and called, filling the air with their
musical halloos, but there was no reply save from
the startled birds, or from the dogs, who seemed
to take it for granted that everybody was engaged
in a grand 'possum hunt and added the strength
of their own voices to the general clamor.
While all this was going on, Mrs. Gaston was
pacing up and down the long veranda wringing
her hands in an agony of grief. There was but


one thought in -her mind- the river, the RIVER !
Her husband in the midst of his own grief tried to
console her, but he could not. He had almost as
much as he could do to control himself, and there
was in his own mind the RIVER !
The search on the plantation and in its vicinity
went on until nearly nine o'clock. About that time
Big Sam, one of the plough-hands, who was also
a famous fisherman, came running to the house
with a frightened face.
Marster," he exclaimed, "de boat gone-she
done gone "
"Oh, I knew it!" exclaimed Mrs. Gaston--
"the river, the river "
Well! said Dr. Gaston, the boat must be
found. Blow the horn."
Big Sam seized the dinner-horn and blew a blast
that startled the echoes for miles around. The
negroes understood this to be a signal to return,
and most of them thought that the children had
been found, so they came back laughing and sing-
ing and went to the big house to see the children.
Wh'abouts you fine um, master ? asked the
They have n't been found, Jim," said Dr.
Gaston. "Big Sam says that the boat is gone
from the landing, and that boat must be found
Marster," said a negro, coming forward out of
the group, I seed a boat gwine down stream dis
morning I wuz way up on de hill-"
"And you did n't come and tell me?" asked
Dr. Gaston in a severe tone.
Well, suh, I hollered at um, an' dey ain't make
no answer, an' den it look like ter me 't wuz dem
two Ransome boys. Hit mos' drap out'n my min'.
An' den you know, suh, our chillun ain't never had
no doin's like dat gittin' in de boat by dey own-
alone se'f an' sailin' off dat a-way."
Well," said Dr. Gaston, the boat must be
found. The children are in it. Where can we
get another boat ? "
I got one, suh," said Big Sam.
"Me, too, masterr" said another negro.
Then get them both, and be quick about it!"
"Ah-yi, suh," was the response, and in a mo-
ment the group was scattered, and Big Sam could
be heard giving orders in a loud and an energetic
tone of voice. For once he was in his element.
He could be foreman on the Oconee if he could n't
in the cotton-patch. He knew every nook and
cranny of the river for miles up and down; he
had his fish-baskets sunk in many places, and the
overhanging limbs of many a tree bore the marks
of the lines of his set-hooks. So for once he ap-
pointed himself foreman, and took charge of affairs.
He and Sandy Bill (so called owing to the peculiar

color of his hair) soon had their boats at the land-
ing. The other negroes were assembled there,
and the most of them had torches.
Marster," said Big Sam, you git in my boat,
an' let little Willyum come fer ter hol' de torch.
Jesse, you git in dar wid Sandy Bill. Fling a arm-
ful er light'ood in bofe boats, boys, kaze we got
ter have a light, and dey ain't no tellin' how fur
we gwine."
The fat pine was thrown in, everything made
ready, and then the boats started. With one
sweep of his broad paddle, Big Sam sent his boat
into the middle of the stream, and, managed
by his strong and willing arms, the clumsy old
bateau became a thing of life. Sandy Bill was
not far behind him.
The negroes used only one paddle in rowing,
and each sat in the stern of his boat, using the
rough but effective oar first on one side and then
the other.
From a window, Mrs. Gaston watched the boats
as they went speeding down the river. By her
side was Charity, the cook.
Is n't it terrible she exclaimed, as the boats
passed out of sight. Oh, what shall I do ?"
"'T would be mighty bad, Mist'iss, ef dem
chillun wuz los'; but dey ain't no mo' los' dan I is,

an' I 'm a-standin' right yer in de corner by dish
yer cheer."
"Not lost! Why, of course they are lost. Oh,
my darling little children! "
"No 'm, dey ain't no mo' los' dan you is. Dey
tuck dat boat dis morning an' dey went atter ole
man Jake dat 's whar dey er gone. Dey ain't
gone nowhar else. Dey er in dat boat right now;



dey may be asleep, but dey er in dar. Ain't I year
um talking' yistiddy wid my own years? Ain't I
year dat ar Marse Lucien boy 'low ter he sister dat
he gwine go fetch ole man Jake back? Ain't I
miss a whole can full er biscuits ? Ain't I miss two
er dem pies w'at I lef' out dar in de kitchen ? Ain't
I miss a great big hunk er light-bread ? An' who
gwine dast ter take um less'n it 's dem ar chillun ?
Dey don't fool me, mon. I 'm one er de oldest rats
in de barn I is dat "
Charity's tone was emphatic and energetic. She
was so confident that her theory was the right one
that she succeeded in quieting her mistress some-
An' mo' 'n dat," she went on, seeing the effect
of her remarks, "dem chillun 'll come home yer
all safe an' soun'. Ef Marster an' dem niggers don't
fetch um back, dey 'll come deyse'f; an' old man
Jake '11 come wid um. You min' w'at I tell you.
You go an' go ter bed, honey, an' don't pester
yo'se'f 'bout dem chillun. I'll set up yer in de
corner an' nod, an' keep my eyes on w'at's gwine
on outside."
But Mrs. Gaston refused to go to bed. She
went to the window, and away down the river she
could see the red light of the torches projected
against the fog. It seemed as if it were standing
still, and the mother's heart sank within her at the
thought. Perhaps they had found the boat-
empty This and a thousand other cruel sugges-
tions racked her brain.
But the boats were not standing still; they were
moving down the river as rapidly as four of the
stoutest arms to be found in the county could drive
them. The pine torches lit up both banks per-
fectly. The negroes rowed in silence a mile or
more, when Big Sam said:
Marster, kin we sing some? "
Does it seem to be much of a singing matter,
Sam ?" Dr. Gaston asked, grimly.
"No, suh, it don't; but singin' he'ps 'long
might'ly w'en you working mo' speshually ef you er
doin' de kind er work whar you kin sorter hit a lick
wid de chune- kinder keeping' time, like."
Dr. Gaston said nothing, and Big Sam went on:
"'Sides dat, master, we-all useter sing ter dem
chillun, an' dey knows our holler so well dat I
boun' you ef dey wuz ter year us singin' an' gwine
on, dey id holler back."
"Well," said Dr. Gaston, struck by the sugges-
tion, "sing."
Bill," said Big Sam to the negro in the other
boat, watch out for me; I 'm gwine away."
You '11 year fum me w'en you git whar you
gwine," Sandy Bill replied.
With that Big Sam struck up asong. His voice
was clear and strong, and he sang with a will.

Oh, Miss Malindy, you er lots too sweet for me;
I cannot come to see you
Ontil my time is free -
Oh, den I 'II come ter see you,
An' take you on my knee.
Oh, Miss Malindy, now don't you go away;
I cannot come to see you
Ontil some yuther day-
Oh, den I '11 come ter see you -
Oh, den I '11 come ter stay.
Oh, Miss Malindy, you is my only one;
I cannot come ter see you
Ontil de day is done -
Oh, den I '11 come ter see you,
And we '11 have a little fun.
Oh, Miss Malindy, my heart belongs ter you;
I cannot come ter see you
Ontil my work is thoo'.
Oh, den I '11 come ter see you,
I '11 come in my canoe.

The words of the song, foolish and trivial as they
are, do not give the faintest idea of the melody to
which it was sung. The other negroes joined in,
and the tremulous tenor of little Willyum was es-
pecially effective. The deep dark woods on either
side seemed to catch up and echo back the plain-
tive strain. To a spectator on the bank, the scene
must have been an uncanny one -the song with
its heart-breaking melody, the glistening arms
and faces of the two gigantic blacks, the flaring
torches, flinging their reflections on the swirling
waters, the great gulfs of darkness beyond--all
these must have been very impressive. But these
things did not occur to those in the boats, least of
all to Dr. Gaston. In the minds of all there was
but one thought the children.
The negroes rowed on, keeping time to their
songs. Their arms appeared to be as tireless as
machinery that has the impulse of steam. Finally
Big Sam's boat grounded.
"Hol' on dar, Bill! "he shouted. "Watch
out! He took the torch from the little negro
and held it over his head, and then behind him,
peering into the darkness beyond. Then he
"De Lord he'p my soul! he exclaimed; "I
done clean fergit 'bout Moccasin Shoals! Back
yo' boat, Bill." Suiting the action to the word,
he backed his own, and they were soon away from
the shoals.
Now, den," he said to Bill, git yo' boat in
line wid mine, an' hol' yo' paddle in yo' lap."
Then the boats, caught by the current, moved
toward the shoals, and one after the other touched
a rock, turned completely around, and went safely
down the rapids, just as the children's boat had
done in the forenoon. Once over the shoals, Big
Sam and Sandy Bill resumed their oars and their
songs, and sent the boats along at a rapid rate.
A man, sitting on the river bank, heard them



coming, and put out his torch by covering it with
sand. He crouched behind the bushes and watched
them go by. After they had passed, he straight-
ened himself, and remarked:
Well, I'llbe switched! Then he relighted his
torch, and went on with his fishing. It was the
same man that Lucien and Lillian had seen.
The boats went on and on. With brief intervals
the negroes rowed all night long, but Dr. Gaston
found no trace of his children. In sheer despera-
tion, however, he kept on. The sun rose, and the
negroes were still rowing. At nine o'clock in the
morning the boats entered Ross's mill-pond. This
Dr. Gaston knew was the end of his journey. If
the boat had drifted into this pond, and been

carried over the dam, the children were either
drowned or crushed on the rocks below. If their
boat had not entered the pond, then they had
been rescued the day before by some one living
near the river.
It was with a heavy heart that Dr. Gaston
landed. And yet there were no signs of a tragedy
anywhere near. John Cosby, the miller, fat and
hearty, stood in the door of the mill, his arms
akimbo, and watched the boats curiously. His
children were playing near. A file of geese was
marching down to the water, and a flock of pigeons

was sailing overhead, taking their morning exer-
cise. Everything seemed to be peaceful and
serene. As he passed the dam on his way to the
mill, Dr. Gaston saw that there was a heavy head
of water, but possibly not enough to carry a large
bateau over; still the children were gone !
The puzzled look on the miller's face disappeared
as Dr. Gaston approached.
Well, the gracious goodness he exclaimed.
"Why, howdy, Doc.-howdy! Why, I 'm right
down glad to see you. Whichever an' whichaway
did you come ? "
My little children are lost," said Dr. Gaston,
shaking the miller's hand. The jolly smile on
John Cosby's face disappeared as suddenly as if it
had been wiped out with a sponge.
"Well, now, that's too bad-
too bad," he exclaimed, looking at
his own rosy-cheeked little ones
standing near.
"They were in a bateau," said
__ Dr. Gaston, and I thought maybe
they might have drifted down here
and over the mill-dam."
The miller's jolly smile appeared
again. "Oh, no, Doc.-no, no!
Whichever an' whichaway they went,
they never went over that dam. In
time of a freshet, the thing might be
did; but not now. Oh, no Ef it
lies betwixt goin' over that dam an'
ebein' safe, them babies is jest as safe
an' soun' as mine is."
I think," said Dr. Gaston, that
they started out to hunt Jake, my
carriage-driver, who has run away."
i : run away !" exclaimed Mr. Cosby, grow-
i :, red in the face. "Why, the impident
[-,.,Ill! Hit ain't bin three days sence the ole
r :.l az here. He come an' 'lowed that some
. ..,ir ,vagons was a-campin' out about two mile
from here, an' he got a bushel of meal, an' said
that if you did n't pay me the money down I could
take it out in physic. The impident ole scoundull!
An' he was jest as 'umble-come-tumble as you
please-a-bowin' an' a-scrapin', an' a-howdydoin'."
But the old miller's indignation cooled some-
what when Dr. Gaston briefly told him of the in-
cident which caused the old negro to run away.
Hit sorter sticks in my gizzard," he remarked,
" when I hear tell of a nigger hitting' a white man;
but I don't blame Jake much."
': And now," said Dr. Gaston, I want to ask
your advice. You are a level-headed man, and I
want to know what you think. The children got
in the boat, and came down the river. There is
no doubt in my mind that they started on a wild-




goose chase after Jake; but they are not on the
river now, nor is the boat on the river. How do
you account for that ? "
Well, Doc., if you want my naked beliefs
about it, I '11 give 'em to you, fa'r an' squar'. It's
my beliefs that them youngsters have run up agin
old Jake somewhar up the river, an' that they are
jest as safe an' soun' as you is. Them 's my
But what has become of the boat ? "
"Well, I'll tell you. Old Jake is jest as cun-
ning as any other nigger. He took an' took the
youngsters out, an' arterwards he drawed the boat
out on dry land. He rightly thought there would
be pursuit, an' he did n't mean to be ketched."
Then what would you advise me to do?"
asked Dr. Gaston.
The old man scratched his head.
"Well, Doc., I 'm a-talkin' in the dark, but it's
my beliefs them youngsters '11 be at home before
you can get there to save your life. Jake may not
be there, but if he's found the boy an' gal, he'll
carry em safe home. Now you mind what I tell
Dr. Gaston's anxiety was too great to permit him
to put much confidence in the old miller's predic-
tion. What he said seemed reasonable enough,
but a thousand terrible doubts had possession of
the father's mind. He hardly dared go home
without the children. He paced up and down
before the mill, a most miserable man. He knew
not where to go or what to do.
Mr. Cosby, the miller, watched him awhile and
shook his head. "If Doc. don't find them young-
sters," he said to himself, "he'll go plum dee-
stracted." But he said aloud :
"Well, Doc., you an' the niggers must have a
breathing-spell. We '11 go up to the house an' see
efwe can't find something' to eat in the cubberd,
an' arterwards, in the time you are restin', we '11
talk about finding' the youngsters. If there's any
needcessity, I'll go with you. My son John can
run the mill e'en about as good as I can. We 'l1 go
up yan to 'Squire Ross's an' git a horse or two, an'
we'll scour the country on both sides of the river.
But you 've got to have a snack of something' to
eat, an' you've got to take a rest. Human natur'
can't stand the strain."
Torn as he was by grief and anxiety, Dr. Gaston
knew this was good advice. He gratefully ac-
cepted John Cosby's invitation to breakfast, as well
as his offer to aid in the search for the lost chil-
dren. After Dr. Gaston had eaten, he sat on the
miller's porch and tried to collect his thoughts so
as to be able to form some plan of search. While
the two men were talking, they heard Big Sam
burst out laughing. He laughed so loud and

heartily that Mr. Cosby grew angry, and went into
the back yard to see what the fun was about. In
his heart the miller thought the negroes were
laughing at the food his wife had set before them,
and he was properly indignant.
"Well, well," said he, "what's this I hear?
Two high-fed niggers a-laughin' because their mas-
ter's little ones are lost and gone And has it
come to this? A purty pass, a mighty purty pass !"
Both the negroes grew very serious at this.
Mars' John, we-all was des projickin' wid one
an'er. You know how niggers is w'en dey git
nuff ter eat. Dey feel so good dey 'bleege ter
Mr. Cosby sighed, and turned away. "Well,"
said he, I hope niggers 's got souls, but I know
right p'int-blank that they ain't got no hearts."
Now, what was Big Sam laughing at?
He was laughing because he had found out
where Lucien and Lillian were. How did he find
out? In the simplest manner imaginable. Sandy
Bill and Big Sam were sitting in Mr. Cosby's back
yard eating their breakfast, while little Willyum
was eating his in the kitchen. It was the first time
the two older negroes' had had an opportunity of
talking together since they started from home the
day before.
Sam," said Sandy Bill, did you see whar de
chillun landed w'en we come 'long des. a'ter sun-
up dis morning' ? "
"Dat I did n't," said Sam, wiping his mouth
with the back of his hand-" dat I did n't, an' ef
I had I 'd a hollered out ter masterr"
"Dat w'at I wuz feared un," said Sandy Bill.
"Feared er what ? asked Big Sam.
"Feared you 'd holler at master ef you seed
whar dey landed. Dat how come I ter run foul
er yo' boat."
"Look yer, nigger man, you ain't done gone
'stracted, is you? "
"Shoo, chile! don't talk ter me 'bout gwine
'stracted. I got ez much sense ez Ole Zip Coon."
"Den whyn't you tell master? Ain't you done
see how he troubled in he min' ? "
I done see dat, en it make me feel bad; but t'er
folks got trouble, too, lots wuss'n masterr"
Is dey los' der chillun? "
"Yes-Lord! dey done los' eve'ybody. But
master ain't los' no chillun yit."
Den wat we doin' way down yer ? asked Big
Sam in an angry tone.
"Le'me tell you," said Sandy Bill, laying his
hand on Big Sam's shoulder; "le'me- tell you.
Right cross dar fum whar I run foul er yo' boat is
de biggest cane-brake in all creation."
"I know 'im," said Big Sam. "Dey calls 'im
Hudson's cane-brake."





"Now you talking, said Sandy Bill. "Well,
ef you go dar you '11 fin' right in de middle er dat
cane-brake' a heap er niggers.dat you got 'quaint-
ance wid--Randall Spivey, an' Crazy Sue, an'
Cupid Mitchell, an' Isaiah Little-dey er all dar;
an' ole man Jake, he dar too."

ter attracted the attention of Dr. Gaston and Mr.
Now, den," said Sandy Bill, after the miller
had rebuked them and returned to the other side
of the house, now, den, ef I 'd'a' showed master
whar dem chillun landed, en tole 'im whar dey

Look yer, nigger," Sam exclaimed, "how you wuz, he'd 'a' gone 'cross dar, en seed dem niggers,
know ? an' by dis time nex' week ole Bill Locke's nigger-
I sent 'im dar. He come by me in de fiel' an' dogs would 'a' done run um all in jail. You know
tole me he done kilt de overseer, an' I up an' tell how master is. He think kaze he treat his niggers
'im, I did, 'Make fer Hudson's cane-brake,' an' right dat eve'ybody else treat der'n des dat a-way.
dar 's right whar he went." But don't you worry 'bout dem chillun."
It was at this point that Big Sam's hearty laugh- Was it possible for Sandy Bill to be mistaken ?
(To be concluded.)

'' *I I I iIir.
','," ,,H, ,, i' '"" l-,,: -, r h-_I, .],. _: : I,,: .,-d
Tacl ;aitur ;alc, thalt zcmciid Lt lold
My life in wonder-robes complete,
Wrapped in romance from head to feet.

She waved her wand; rare folk she knew
One after one came gliding through
The raftered attic's vista dim:-
What pencil could their portraits limn, "P.
Their motley grouping?- Knights in mail,
And rescued ladies, lily-pale, -
Fairy and giant, dwarf and sprite, -,
Walked in procession down the night.

Little Bo-Peep; Red Riding Hood;
The Babes that wandered in the wood;

\li-i- I" l .- l !i .,. n:. .
A rid l.l ,-r I. iii ri 'i ,.r ],:*. *.:':-,- j 't l !1 ',
\\'h,.:r-t. "|;.:,-lu[ I,,l .1 .eii.-.,: [ !.t',
\X', it-, _l '. i -. ,,i i h _.i-.-n -_- w l:,.' : |:.'l .
S' -I I h l n r O I.tp h[ ii. l'i h, : > : -' .1 _=
.-'\ o ,i;i !'.;:n _-, [ !i.Lit ..i n l _-. l [ !i '., ,,; ,-'i i ,: :,
(- l't .1,1 '., i .,., 't r l.i L, It' I ". I -!,.: ,:] :l':'- [" .
-;' tT p l|:" l :i. i .. .' : |.'
T .,1- : 4 1 n -_-. I:- ,:., ;, '" ... : --



Pild Humpt.-Dumipt-. hobblin- -ft.r

.1 i i .. .. '

Ti. .- t di :I k (111!jl- dI rh -
hl- Iii LP .I I L I II .

x A-I
.1- ~-




I .

I walked by unknown shores and streams,
,', II

i,- ''' ,^
' :' "" "^-

I walked by unknown shores and streams,

Where trees could talk, and magic lights
Dropped splendor from the Arabian Nights.-
She made the far-off seem so near!
My golden-haired enchantress dear!

And more she stirred my fledgling wings,
And led my flight to loftier things
Than fairy-fancies ever shaped:
From earth together we escaped,
From earth together we escaped,

VOL. XVI.-28.



And rniiat t the grlnce. and 1npard tho c-nTg
-LI~ ~~~] i- 1tiI(r

I- h.i. ii hii'-, I )I 1 2 .
I 191 It 1'III~ I 119 1I1:i '''' l ii '!. -
1.1i Ii i.i .1

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ii,* 9. l*

Fiw:' '''- -dir bu -- 'Jr-i kin i .1-I-

I In' ( 1 II I- IcrichaiIri

--i -! 1-i- I,
Flo di S ,_ I-d 1!--. %3
k- d iii. i:I 1 .4 .

TO S I -I i Sf1
-M N m-'=* 1t


` J"
t .-.

*^- V


L -'j- -,- :. -

WHAT do you suppose he ca be at?"

WHAT do you suppose he ca be at "
The little bird hopped and hopped
Around the spot where the artist sat
At his work, and never stopped.
Straight to the easel at last he flew;
Perched on the top without more ado,
With his quizzical little head on one side,
He asked (though of fright he nearly died),
What are you trying to do? "

SI am trying," the artist politely said,
To catch your lineaments, sir."-
Catc 't was enough; the little bird fled,
Fast as he could, with a whiz and a whir,
Far up to the highest blue.
And his little laugh floated down as he flew,
For he cried in derision, Ha, ha catch me!"
But, nevertheless, he was caught, you see; -
Here he is, on this page, for you.
But, nevertheless,-h- J_ s caught, you s;

*.'- . v _;__- ..* ^.. -- .. : i -



IN these days of wonderful cannon,-dynamite,
Gatling and machine guns,--we are likely to forget
the contrivances used by the soldiers of ancient
times for throwing projectiles great distances, or
for battering down walls; or if we think of the
matter at all, it is with considerable scorn when

we compare them, as we must do, with the great
and powerful guns of modern times. Neverthe-
less, the machines used by the ancients for warlike
purposes were very powerful, quite ingenious, and
to some extent even wonderful. Let us consider
them for a moment before turning to the great
guns of the present time.
In its widest and truest sense, the word Artillery
is used to designate every engine of war for use on
the field of battle in throwing projectiles or bat-
tering down walls. The first and earliest mention
of them in history is found in the Bible, where, in
II. Chronicles, chapter xxvi., verse 15, it is re-
corded that Uzziah, King of Judah, made engines
to be put on towers and to discharge stones. The
simplest engines used were battering-rams, for
destroying the walls of towns and cities. These
battering-rams were so called from the habit of
the ram to butt with its head, which mode of at-
tack was imitated by the engine of war. The
technical name for a battering-ram was Belier,
and the rams were of three general classes. The
first were quite rude, and consisted only of a large
strong beam with its front end, or head, covered
with iron. A number of soldiers carried this beam
on their shoulders toward a wall, and when they
rushed forward, the iron head of the beam would
strike with great force against the masonry. But
of course the beam could not be very large, or it
would be too heavy to carry; so the second class
came into use. A long beam was fixed securely
several feet from the ground on two or more sup-

ports, and from this beam was loosely suspended
a much larger and heavier one with an iron head.
This machine was placed close against the wall,
and the suspended beam, being drawn back and
then released, would swing forward with great
force. The third class cost the most, and was, of
course, more powerful than the others. In this,
the beam was mounted on a number of little
wheels, which traveled in grooved tracks laid for
them, leading up to the wall. It can readily be
seen that in this class the beam could be made
of any size or weight, and that when pushed by
a large number of strong soldiers, the enormous
machine would travel with great velocity and
strike the wall with terrible force. But the de-
fenders on the top of the wall could easily throw
down darts and arrows to kill the soldiers, and
great rocks or bowlders to crush the rams. So
the besiegers and the ram were protected by a
strong roof and walls which were fastened to the
axles of the little wheels and thus always covered
the ram and the soldiers, since the cover traveled
with the machine, and indeed was part of it.
As to the power of these engines of war, history
has preserved for us several very interesting ex-
amples. The Emperor Vespasian, during the
siege of Jerusalem, built a ram having a brass
head as large as ten men. It was armed with
T.A iLTT. horns, each
the size of a
while the
weight of
the beam
was 150,000
/ !pounds,thiat
is, seventy-
five tons, or
about three
times the
height ofan
I ,ordinary lo-
comotive. It
took three
pairs of
mules to draw it, and fifteen hundred men to
operate it. Now, the momentum or moving power


of a body is measured by the product of its
weight and its velocity. Therefore if this ram,
when worked against a wall of stone, was moved
at the rate of two feet a second (a moderate es-
timate), its force on striking the wall would
be 300,000 pounds, which would be exactly the
same as the force exerted by a weight of 300,000
pounds in falling from a height of one foot. That
is, it would exert greater power than any gun or
cannon invented up to the year 1860. These bat-
tering-rams were probably as effective in knocking
down a wall or staving in the side of a ship as the
best modern cannon, but for making a breach, the
guns are far superior. Such was the solidity and
thickness of the walls of Jerusalem that, Josephus
tells us, it took all of one night for this battering-
ram to dislodge four stones !
Vitruvius has left us the description of a ram
weighing 480,000 pounds; but probably the most
celebrated of all the ancient moving-tower rams
was that constructed by Demetrius Poliorcetes at
the siege of Rhodes. The base of the tower was
seventy-five feet square. The ram itself was an
assembly of large square beams resting on wheels
in size proportioned to the weight of the structure,
and all riveted together with iron. The felloes of
the wheels were three feet thick and strengthened
with iron plates. From each of the four angles of
the tower a large pillar of wood was carried
up to a height of 150 feet, and these pillars
were inclined toward one another. The tower had
three stories, communicating by two staircases
each. Three sides of the machine were plated
with iron to protect them against fire. In front of
each story there were loop-holes, screened by
leather curtains, to keep out darts, arrows, etc.
Each story was provided with machines for throw-
ing large stones and darts; and in the lower story
was the ram itself, thirty fathoms long, and fash-
ioned at the end into an iron beak, or prow. The
entire machine was moved forward by 3500 soldiers.
But it can easily be understood that among so
many men some must be more or less exposed to
the enemy's darts and arrows; and so, to drive the
enemy from the walls and open places, to break
the roofs of his houses, and otherwise annoy him,
machines were necessary for throwing missiles,
from small darts up to huge bowlders. All these
were included under the general name, Tormenta;
and the catapult may be said to have been the
Gatling gun, and the Ballista, the siege cannon of
the ancients; while the Onager, the Scorpion, the
Trebuchet, the Mangonel, and others variously
named, all were varieties of one or another of
these classes. They received special names be-
cause it was fancied they possessed some charac-
teristic of the animal after which they were named.

Thus, the Onager is the wild ass of the desert,
which kicks up showers of small stones with its
hind feet when pursued; and the machine called
the Onager flung showers of small stones by a sort
of kicking action. The Scorpion flung showers
of poisoned darts. All varieties of the Catapult
flung showers of small stones, darts, arrows, jave-
lins, etc., while all varieties of the Ballista flung
but one large stone, or large dart, at a time or
single discharge. But the motive power was the
same in all, and was obtained either from weights
or from springs, made of cords of hide or sinews,
stretched or drawn back by levers. The power
thus produced was sometimes very great. Weights
as great as 1200 pounds could be thrown a distance
of 800 yards. Think of that,- a power great enough
to throw a big horse a distance of over half a mile!
It is surprising, is it not ?
These machines were carried about with the
armies ; but often the largest were built before the
besieged walls; and when the army moved away
these were taken apart and transported in pieces.
Besides throwing great stones, the ballista was
often used to hurl fire-pots and red-hot iron balls
over the walls into the city, to set fire to it. The
fire-pots were filled with resin and the wonderful
composition known as Greek fire. This latter was
made of naphtha, pitch, and sulphur; and, once
lighted, it could not be put out, even by water. It
was used against fleets; and the whole surface of
a harbor was sometimes covered with the blazing
mixture, so that vessels could escape it only by
sailing away.
Notwithstanding the great force with which the
ballista and catapult threw projectiles, there was
wonderful accuracy in their aim. Josephus tells
us that he himself saw the head of a man taken
off and carried more than six hundred yards by a
large stone thrown from a ballista. Again, it is told
that during the siege of Palmyra, the Emperor
Aurelian, on visiting the outer trenches of his
army, was exposed to a storm of fierce invective
and bitter sarcasm from the garrison assembled
on the walls. One of the enemy was particularly
exasperating. A soldier in charge of a catapult
offered to rid the emperor of the foul-mouthed
fellow. The emperor consented, the catapult was
discharged, and a huge arrow going swift and
straight to the mark, hit the man in the breast
and passed through his body, killing him instantly.

Now let us pass at once over two thousand
years, and consider the wonderful artillery of mod-
ern times.
So great and marvelous are the powers and the
effects of gunpowder and the huge cannon of
to-day, that it seems hard to decide which wonder


I should first describe. Let us commence with
" machine-guns," as they are termed. These are
guns which, by means of mechanism or machinery,

erick the Great of Prussia could load and fire six
times a minute. As there are one thousand men in
a regiment, it will be seen that six of these guns,
requiring only five men each- thirty, all told -
to operate them, could do as much firing as one
thousand men, one hundred years ago. Indeed,
the amount of work accomplished is much greater,
since the Gatling gun throws its leaden bullets a
thousand yards, and kills at that distance, while
the old flint-lock of the Prussians was useless for
any range greater than two hundred yards.
The Nordenfeldt and Gardner guns are ma-
chine-guns in which the barrels are horizontal and

rapidly discharge a great many bullets. The
best, as well as the earliest, machine-guns,
are American inventions. The Gatling gun
is the invention of Dr. Gatling, a citizen of
Hartford, Conn., where also the manufactory
is situated. It consists of a number of rifle-
barrels -generally ten- arrangedaround a
central shaft. At the rear of the barrels
is a casing of metal containing the breech mechan-
ism. One man holds a case containing cartridges
over an aperture of the casing, and they drop in
and fit themselves in the barrels. Another turns
a crank which revolves and thereby operates
the mechanism inside, so that as each barrel
comes underneath, it is discharged, and the
empty cartridge-shell thrown out. When the man
turns the crank twice around he has discharged
all the barrels; and as he can turn the crank, if
he be adroit, two or three times a second, it is pos-
sible to discharge as many as one thousand shots a
minute. Of course no gun can be fired so rap-

in one plane, instead of mounted together in cylin-
drical form as in the Gatling. But the most won-
derful gun of all is the Maxim gun. This is
actually a weapon that loads and shoots by itself.
Think of how astonished the ancients would have
been if suddenly confronted with one of these
machines, a half-mile away from them, striking
down their men with imperceptible missiles!
It is well known by every boy that when he
fires a gun or pistol it gives a backward jump.
This is called the "recoil," or, as the boys term
it, the "kick"; and it is this force that is made
use of in the Maxim gun. The gun consists,




idly very long, for the barrels would get too hot, and
all the parts become so fouled with soot and gas as
to jam together. Only a century ago, it was thought
wonderful that a regiment in the army of Fred-


unlike the rest, of but a single barrel
bre--:1. 1IC' 1_.1-hI:l -' .-\ l.:.r 2 t.p I
cai r i ,_1ed a : [-A_ tl r H[ |J ...- I. t .l ..
r'el' j;'-.:1 a ::-in r cli. :l to .r .11 1 1 r :l JK

and a

...i 31


cartridge is thus fired. The recoil strikes a pin,
which puts another cartridge in position, fires
it and casts out the old shell, and the next recoil
is utilized in the same way. This is repeated until
all the cartridges are gone. It is possible to fire
as many as 666 cartridges, only the first having to
be fired by hand; the gun automatically discharges
all the rest.
The famous Mitrailleuse, used by the French in

--_- -- ---

..... ..

._ .
,,,, -- L:_ -- : '

-2 ,-'' -'= : -= :2 __.' __;

the Franco-Prussianr war, fired eighty-five car-
rnil .: i t .. i .. I.ut they all went nearly to the
-.i n.. i .., n.-I i.:i.: discharged, it required some
tii,- 1 .. .ii. l. un. The new machine-guns
have a motion from side
to side, so that their fire
'-I sweeps over a wide stretch
-: of ground and is practically
I I,;i1 K1 continuous. Going a step
S ,. further, we have what are
S '' called revolving cannon,
-Li' as the famous Hotchkiss-
another American inven-
tion. These are cannon
S ] similar to hige revolvers,
S and throw shells from a
5 half-pound up to thirty-two
'- pounds in weight, and dis-
r7 charge five to twelve shots
_- a minute.
All cannon are divided
into these general classes:
Ist. Field-guns, or cannon
which are light and can
be carried about by an
army wherever it goes. These rarely throw shells
of over eighteen pounds in weight. 2d. Siege-
guns, which are too large to be moved rapidly,
but still may be carried from place to place in
special wagons, cars, or boats constructed for
them, and used in laying siege to places. These
throw shot or shell from eighteen up to two hun-
dred pounds in weight. 3d. Sea-coast guns, or
permanent guns. These are too large to be






moved about, and are mounted
on special carriages in sea-coast
or other large forts. They throw
projectiles of from Ioo pounds up
to 3300 pounds, and require the
aid of steam and electricity in
loading and firing.
As an example of field-guns, a
new gun which has just been made -
for the United States army is per-
haps the finest in the world. It
is made of steel, and weighs less
than eight hundred pounds. It is -
mounted on a steel carriage and -
throws a thirteen-pound shell, re- ../
quiring a charge of three and one-
quarter pounds of powder. It
will throw this shell, which is a
little more than three inches in "
diameter, over seven thousand
yards-that is, about four miles -
with terrific power and wonder-- -*"
ful accuracy. '/, .''
As yet, in the United States,
we have no siege or sea-coast
guns which will compare favor-
ably with the huge monsters found :
in European countries. There are .
a few in the navy, and it will not ,
be long before we shall have in
the army many guns which will be
quite as good as anything of the
kind abroad, and perhaps even
I said that these huge guns re-
quire steam and electricity to operate them. Let us
see. Some of these enormous steel shells weigh 3300
pounds about equal to the weight of three horses.
They are six feet high, and as large around as a man.
The gun which fires them is called a 138-ton gun,
because it weighs 138 tons. It requires one thou-
sand pounds of powder to load the gun once. Now,
think what a terrific weight 138 tons -276,000

pounds-is to move about. Yet, to aim the gun,
it must be moved about. And as it takes some
time to load it, all the gunners would be picked
off by sharp-shooters if they were not protected.
So the gun has to be moved down behind a safe
wall or rampart while it is loaded, and then raised
up again to be fired. Only steam
can do this. Again, such a weight -'




-r t, + c--,[., ....-

-.--- c- .. -- -


as 3300 pounds of steel and 1ooo pounds of powder
can be lifted and inserted in the gun only by the
help of steam. The noise of the discharge and the
danger of exploding Iooo pounds of powder are so
great that it is not safe for a man to fire one of
these huge guns close by, as he could fire a small
one. So electricity is brought into play, and the
powder ignited by means of the electric spark.
Now, let us measure the power of these huge
machines. A foot-ton is the force with which one
ton raised one foot, and then let fall, would strike the
ground; or the force with which one pound raised
two thousand feet from the ground would exert in
falling that distance. Now, the force, or energy,
exerted by a projectile from one of these huge guns
is more than 57,000 foot-tons at a distance of Ioo1
yards from the gun. Very few of us can under-
stand what a tremendous power this is; but if we
were to take the Obelisk in Central Park, and
carry it bodily to the very top of the spire on
Trinity Church, and then let it fall, it would strike
Broadway with far less force; still it would be
sufficient to crush any building on which it should

happen to fall. These great guns, if they could
be given the proper elevation on board ship,- that
is, if the construction of war-ships allowed the
muzzle of the gun to be pointed upward suffi-
ciently,- could throw their shells from far outside
of Coney Island into the heart of New York City,
to crush whatever the missile might strike. Yet
this distance is over twelve miles. If one such
projectile could retain the velocity with which it
leaves the gun,-2000 feet a second,-it would
reach the moon, 270,000 miles distant, in eight
days. Yet, wonderful as are these guns, the limit
of their power is not yet reached; and in a few
years more, the present weapons will appear small
beside the new ones to be constructed. Before
long there will be guns to fire shells charged with
dynamite or other high explosives, so that nothing
can withstand the bursting shells.
These guns will add to the horrors of war, but
some philosophers are of the opinion that it is only
by making war so frightful that human beings can-
not endure its terrors, that the Millennium will be
brought about.







I SUPPOSE there is hardly a little boy or girl
throughout our land who has not heard the name
of Frederick the Great.
He was born in Berlin more than one hundred
and fifty years ago, but, although he lived in a
palace and was the son of a king, there are few
people in the world more miserably unhappy than
he was for the first twenty-five years of his life.
From boyhood, he had the great misfortune to
be hated, instead of loved, by his father, who was
cruel, despotic, and violent (if not of unsound mind),
and so this poor young Frederick was a witness of
many strange scenes within the palace walls.
In the middle of his dinner, plates were some-
times hurled at his head; occasionally he was even
kicked and dragged round the room by the hair,
and once the old king, finding his son practicing
upon the flute, in a rage snatched the instrument
away and snapped it in two across the astonished
boy's shoulders !
I have not time to tell you all the cruel things
this unnatural father did to his son, but, at last,
matters became so unpleasant at home that the
young prince resolved to run away.
Being overtaken, however, he was thrust into
prison; and, more cruel than all, he was compelled
to watch from a window in the prison the execu-
tion of the kind young friend who helped him to
make his escape !

At the age of twenty-eight, the old king having
died, Frederick himself became King of Prussia.
Up to this time he had never been allowed to have
anything to do with the government of his country,
but had occupied himself in studying the language
and literature of France and in writing books.
Now his pen was laid aside for the sword, and
he busied himself in building up the power of his
kingdom. All his energies were given to this end.
He was so industrious that he worked twenty
hours out of the twenty-four. He was so frugal
-as far as he himself was concerned -that he
wore the same old snuffy yellow waistcoat year
after year, and when he died he was actually buried
in his valet's shirt, because he did not possess a
presentable one of his own!
But, although he left no rich garments behind
him, he left something better, I think,- a name.
He had become Frederick the Great 1
He had increased his armies, his territories, and
the number of his subjects. He had built magnifi-
cent palaces, in which members of the royal family
of Prussia are living at the present day.
He had encouraged the arts and sciences, had
approved freedom rather than tyranny among his
people, and had permitted no persecution on ac-
count of religion.
Our own Washington aroused his heartiest ad-
miration. In proof of this, he sent a Prussian sword


of honor to Mount Vernon, with the inscription,
" From the oldest General to the Greatest."
It was this famous king, then, whose life was once
saved by the devotion of a little boy whom the
king befriended, and this is how it happened.
One winter, when the Prussian troops were sta-
tioned in Dresden, during the Seven Years' War,
the king made it his habit to walk out every morn-
ing on the terrace along the river bank.
He was pacing back and forth one day, according
to his usual custom, when a wretched-looking little
boy stopped before him. The child was a ragged
little fellow, and held in his arms a box almost as
big as himself.
"Oh, sir, wouldn't you like to see my mario-
nettes?" asked the boy in his simple fashion.


"Antonio, sir," was the answer. I am a Sav-
oyard. The marionettes are from Savoy, too. We
go through the world together, and when we have
earned enough money to live on, we are going home
again, and then I hope that I can learn to play on
the flute!"
Are you so anxious, then, to become a musi-
cian? asked the king, more and more drawn to
the child.
Such a look of longing came over the little up-
turned face, that it was pitiful to see it.
I always practice on my willow whistle," said
Antonio ; "but that's not like a real instrument,
you know. A real flute costs too much for me,"
he added, with a sigh.
Perhaps the king remembered how much pleas-

~~~~ '"
/* I~ ,,I
I,.' I'
-' ,I I** ''S" r.'' 2, I U

-- 4 '' k
"~' ?J


The king, smiling, asked if they were in that box.
Yes, and they can perform very well. They
can dance; shall I show them to you, sir ?" eagerly
repeated the boy.
The king, gently shook his head. He had no
wish to see the marionettes, but the little boy inter-
ested him, and the king asked his name.

ure he himself had found in his flute when a boy.
At all events, he said:
Well, Antonio, if you are industrious and will
prove that you really wish to learn, you shall be
taught by a thoroughly good teacher, and by and
by you shall have a flute of your own to keep.
How will that do ?"


You may imagine how happy the little Savoyard
was at that. Seizing the king's hand in his small
brown paws he kissed it again and again, and
then an appointment was made for him to come
to the palace the next day, in order that the whole
matter might be arranged.
The next morning Antonio walked into the
courtyard of the palace with pride and happiness
in his heart.
He was taken in charge by the Court Cafelmeis-
ter, who had been given orders to see whether the
child really possessed any musical talent.
His report was most favorable, and from that
day Antonio had his heart's desire.
He studied well, and made such progress that
soon he was allowed to play daily before the king.
All this kindness aroused the deepest gratitude
within the boy's heart. He almost worshiped the
king, and longed to give proof of his devotion.
Strangely enough an opportunity came in a
very short time.
One evening Antonio noticed an unusual amount
of whispering among the servants of the palace,
who seemed to be holding a consultation.
Feeling sure that something must be wrong, he
took care to rise early the next morning, and to
hide himself in a dark corner of the kitchen, where
he could see without being seen.
He had a long time to wait, but at last he saw
one of the cooks coming by with a folded paper in
his hand. At first he thought it a letter; but it
was very curious that when the man opened it a
fine white powder came sifting out, and fell straight
into a pot of chocolate that
happened to be standing .s
on the table, read., L.. ..
be carried in t.:. _'
King Frederick -" .
Out came the
little Savoyard '
from his dark '

corner, and in a state of the greatest excitement
rushed off to the king's apartment.
Oh, sir !" he gasped, forgetting his manners
and the respect due the presence of the king. "Oh,
sir, do mind what I say refuse the chocolate this
morning. It will kill you -they have put poison
in it-- I saw them -I saw them "
Then, as calmly as he could, Antonio told his story
to the king, and as he ended breakfast came in.
At almost the same moment came a general to
hold a council with his majesty. The king greeted
him with tranquillity. No one would have known
he had just learned of a plot against his life.
Presently the servant poured out a cup of choco-
late and offered it to the king.
Frederick eyed him so sharply that the man
trembled and grew pale.
"What ails you?" asked his master in a quiet
voice. "Are you ill?"
"No, your majesty but I I---"
Possibly if you drink a cup of this warm choco-
late it may do you good," cried the king.
The servant threw himself at the king's feet.
Mercy, your majesty; mercy he cried.
Wretched man! answered the king. This
cup is poisoned!- "
The man protested that the powder would only
have made his majesty unconscious, that it would
have done no real harm. For answer, the king
gave the chocolate to a dog. The poor brute had
scarcely taken it, when it began to suffer, and soon
was dead. The servant then confessed.
The king's charity to the helpless Savoyard
had made for himself a friend
whose shrewdness and de-

s ft 61 t Mtt winWnet

Nlumet faicftn?




Two little girls, Amelia and Nettie, and their
brother Chris, lived with their parents in a small
brown house under the shadow of a mountain.
They had few playthings, for this was a quarter
of a century ago, and in New England. They
had never even dreamed of a rocking-horse, a
velocipede, nor a wax-doll,-and had never seen a
Christmas-tree !
Their playthings were wooden blocks-which
served as pupils when they "kept school"-and

such trifles as country children can find in the
woods and pastures or about the farm.
"Father, the Indian meal is 'most gone," said
their mother, one day.
Well," replied their father, "I '11 shell some
out to-day, and sled it in to mill to-morrow."
In so quiet a home, corn-shelling was diversion
for the children, and, besides, there was always a
big pile of corn-cobs, material for building cob-
houses on the floor; or, still better, the two girls


could make corn-cob dolls. The dolls had neither
arms nor legs, it is true; but imagination easily
supplied these.
While one sister ran.for the box of calico-scraps,
the other found her work-box and also picked from
the hearth some nice sharp bits of charcoal to draw
the dolls' faces.
"Don't get in your father's way said the
mother. So the little ones settled down in the
corner beyond the tall clock.
Their mother brought a wash-tub and set beside
it an old chair without a back. Upon the chair
she put an old barn-shovel, its edge projecting over
the tub. Then the dry corn was carried in.
A cushion was put over the shovel on the chair,
and upon this their father sat, scraping the kernels
of corn from the cobs by drawing them firmly over
the edge of the shovel.
The corn rattled merrily into the tub, and the
discarded cobs soon formed a large pile. The
children crept from their corner and picked up the
cobs. The little girls made dolls, while their brother
preferred to build cob-houses.
Make me an Injun doll, 'Melia, won't you ?"
said Chris. I 'm going to build a fort, and I
must have an Injun to put on guard."
Well, go out in the chicken-house and bring
me in some feathers and I will," said Amelia.
Nettie, you go, please," suggested Chris.
Nettie was generally the one who went. It was
the penalty she paid for being always good-natured
and willing.
She brought back a fine bunch of feathers; short
white feathers from the old setting-hen's nest, gray
and speckled plumes from the Cochin's perch, and
splendid, long, black and green feathers with blue
and gold flashes of light in them, that old "King
Cole," the rooster, had distributed about the
A large cob was selected for the Indian sachem.
The knob at the end of the cob was painted by
Amelia in her fiercest style, for the savage's face.
The tallest feathers were fastened for a head-dress
at the top-knot, and a piece of rabbit-skin, dressed
with the fur on, was swathed around the figure for
a blanket. When all was done Chris was highly
pleased with this representation of an Indian
Nettie had been busy dressing a large family of
cob-dolls in baggy dresses of various hues of calico,
made of straight pieces of cloth sewed with a single
seam, and one drawing-thread to designate the neck,
and another the waist-line. Amelia, the artist, fin-
ished them by supplying the charcoal features and
sewing a bright flannel turban about the top in
lieu of hair.
In the meantime the cob-pile was growing to

great dimensions, and the corn kernels rattled and
showered into the tub.
Now, let'smake a party doll,' said Amelia,
" and dress her in our tissue-paper."
A few sheets of colored tissue-paper that had been
given them by an aunt were among their choicest
treasures. The making of a dress from their finest
blue tissue, and a cloak and scarf of the pink, kept
the little girls busy tilllate in the afternoon. They
were aroused from the pleasing work, at last, by
the opening of the kitchen door, and by Chris's
Oh, here's Eben "
The corn-scraping stopped for a minute, the
mother laid aside her knitting to offer the caller a
chair, and the children all jumped up with delight
and ran toward an odd-looking man who entered
the room, and, swinging a laden bag from his
shoulders, set it upon the floor.
He was a man between fifty and sixty years of
age, tall, but prematurely bent forward by much
stooping, and climbing, and carrying of burdens
among the- mountains. When he took off his
coon-skin cap a shock of thick, curly gray hair
stood up straight all over his head. His clothes
were clean, but patched and re-patched to the last
degree, and his trousers were tucked into a pair of
stout, home-made boots that came to his knees.
He had a long, thin face, the expression of which
would have been very solemn but for a good-nat-
ured twinkle of the eyes. This man lived alone
in a house that he had built upon the mountain,
and, for reasons that will soon appear, the children
thought him the most entertaining and delightful
person of their acquaintance.
He took the chair that Mrs. Jones offered him,
and answered her civil inquiries as to his health,
explaining that he had been to the village to buy
a supply of sugar and flour. Then suddenly turn-
ing to the children, who were waiting to be no-
ticed, he exclaimed:
How do you do, my little man,
And lassies, how are you?
I 'e made some maple-sugar cakes,
And brought you down a few."
He produced a package from his frock pocket as
he spoke, and gave it to the delighted children,
who eagerly divided the blocks of sugar it con-
tained and began to nibble them. This advance
encouraged Chris to climb up on the visitor's knee
and ask:
"Have you found anything more out in the
woods, Eben? "
Without a moment's hesitation Eben went on:
I hunting went the other day,
Among a ledge of rocks;
I pulled a pile of brush away,
And found a wounded fox."




"Oh, did you find a fox, Eben,-a real, live
fox? And did it run away? "

The critter could n't run, you see,
Because its feet were lame;
I bagged and took it home with me,
And mean to make it tame,"

Eben answered, without relaxing a muscle of his
solemn face.
"What else did you find in the woods?"
quizzed Chris.

I found a rabbit in a trap,
And thought I 'd better kill it.
'T was fat and nice for rabbit soup;
I cooked it in my skillet."

"Have you a lot of tame things at your house
now ?" asked Amelia, with open-eyed admiration
of Eben's wonderful powers.

I have a pair of pussy-cats,-
One little and one big,-
A fox, a coon, a nest of rats,
A woodchuck, and a pig,"

was the instant reply.
I wish you would take me home with you,
Eben, and let me see them," said Chris.

The mud is quite too deep just now,
It's deeper than your foot;
The mountain is a perfect slough -
I'll prove it by my boot,"

said Eben, pointing to the dried mud on his boots,
which reached half-way up his boot-leg.
Come, children, you must n't bother Eben any
more now," said Mrs. Jones. I 'm going to get
him some supper."
The corn-shelling was finished by this time, and
while their mother cleared up the kitchen, Eben
helped their father transfer the shelled corn from
the tub to a large meal-bag. He held the bag while
Mr. Jones dipped the corn into it with a wooden
measure. By the time this was done, and the tub
and baskets carried away, Mrs. Jones had the table
laid for supper. During the meal, Eben talked to
the elder people with great sense and becoming
gravity, taking no further notice of the children,
and making no rhymes at the table.
But while their mother was clearing away the
supper dishes the children again took possession of
Eben, and coaxed him over to the corner of the
kitchen, where they had carefully laid away the
cob dolls behind the clock.

"This is our Cob family," whispered timid
Nettie, leaning her little flaxen head against the
old man's rough coat, and we 'd like you to
name them all."
Eben looked tenderly at the gentle child; then
the twinkle came back to his eyes again as he
picked up the nearest doll-a staring cob effigy in
yellow turban and brown calico.

This dame with her head in a yellow knob,
Her mouth is a streak, her nose is a daub,
I will name her Madame Mehitabel Cob,"

he pronounced.
This one next," said Nettie eagerly, holding
up the "party doll."

Beautiful damsel, haughty and vain,
With a paper cloak and a ball-room train,
I name you Amanda-Eldora-Jane,"

quickly repeated the rhymer.
"Now, name these two," begged Amelia, se-
lecting two small dolls in blue-checked jackets.

These two little cobs, not bigger than pins
(From the shape of their faces they must be twins),
Their names shall be Samson and Solomon Binns,"

the impromptu poet rattled off.
"Name my Indian doll! cried Chris.

Tacoma-Tecumseh, Tribe-of-the-Pyes,
Sachem of midgets and king of the flies,

said the old man, rising and shouldering his sack
of flour.
Oh, don't go! don't go yet! cried all the
children in chorus. You have n't named half
of the Cob family."

But, my dear little folk, I can't name any more,
Don't you see the moon shine on the kitchen floor?
And I should have been home two good hours before,"

responded Eben, opening the kitchen door.
Children, you must n't bother Eben so, I tell
you," said Mother Jones, and it's time for you
all to go to bed."
The three children stood in the doorway and
watched their delightful visitor toiling up the
mountain path with the sack over his shoulders
till a turn of the road hid him from view. Then
their mother called them in to go to bed, and in
half an hour the little brown house was perfectly
still and the kitchen was deserted of all except the
Cob family, who lay staring up speechlessly in the
moonlight on the clean pine floor.





SEVENTY-FIVE years ago, a little brother and
sister had a play-house in a cupboard. It was a
sheet-closet; and on the upper shelves were piled
great rolls of home-spun linen, with bunches of
lavender between their smooth folds to make them
smell sweet. The two lower shelves belonged to
the children, and there, for a while, their toys and
boxes were neatly arranged side by side, and
pictures were tacked up on the walls.
Boys are not so careful and orderly in their ways
as little girls, and by and by the brother began to
store all kinds of queer things in the play-house:
bits of stick fit for whittling ; an old dog-collar for
which he had traded his jack-knife; pieces of string
and fishing-line; a rusty key; and many other odds
and ends, such as little boys love to gather together
in their comings and goings.
It worried the little girl to have all these things
littered about on their neat shelves; and the
mother, as she sat in her cushioned rocking-chair,

with her basket of sewing at the nursery window,
saw it all, and felt sorry for the little daughter.
So, one day after the children had started for
school with their books tucked under their arms,
and two red apples and some gingerbread in their
baskets, she put on her bonnet and shawl, and
went down the street to the carpenter's. She de-
scribed to the carpenter exactly what she wanted,
and he said:
Yes, yes; yes, ma'am. A slanting roof, and
six windows; yes, ma'am. And a wooden stand-
ard; yes, ma'am. I will have it done for you
next week."
And next week the carpenter's boy brought
something to the house on a wheelbarrow, while
the children were away at school.
It was a play-house: a large play-house, a play-
house with two chimneys and real glass windows.
It was two stories high, and almost more than the
boy could wheel.



The mother had it carried up to her room and
put behind the high-post bed, where it was hidden
by the white valance.
All that morning she was busy tacking and
snipping and pasting and cutting; and all the
while the children were at school, thinking of
nothing at all but their lessons.
It was Saturday and a half-holiday, and about
noon the children came home.
Upstairs they clattered and burst into the nur-
sery, and then stood quite still in the doorway and
The nursery was very quiet, with the chairs and
tables in their places, and two squares of yellow
sunlight on the carpet, but there, in the middle of
the floor, stood a wonderful little house, painted to
look just as if it were built of bricks, with chimneys,
and glass windows, a slanting black roof, and a
white door. It was the little house that the carpen-
ter's boy had wheeled home on the wheelbarrow;
but now it was furnished, and had black and yellow
silk curtains at the windows, carpets on the floors,
and one of Ann's own dolls was looking through
the little square panes, for it was her home.
There was a key in a keyhole above the first-


story windows of the doll-house. The children
turned it, and the whole front of the house swung
open, windows and all. Then they could see just
what was inside.
VOL. XVI.-29.


There was an upstairs and a downstairs. Up-
stairs there was a mantelpiece and fireplace, a
round black tin stove, and a high-post bed with
curtains and a valance. There was a clock stand-
ing on a chest of drawers under the looking-glass.
There were pictures about the room, and a cosy
stuffed chair stood by the bed for Grandmamma
Doll to rest in when she came upstairs out of
Downstairs there was another fireplace, a round
center-table decorated with pictures, and a sofa.
And there was Grandmamma Doll herself, sitting
in the green rocking-chair. There was a folding
table that was just the thing for dollies to sit around
while they drank a social cup of tea.
While the little boy and girl were looking at the
play-house their mother came in, and stood smiling
on them from the doorway without their seeing her.
That is the story of the real doll-house.
Yes, of a real doll-house,-a dear old-fash-
ioned doll-house.
As one opens the front of it a faint, delightful
odor of long ago breathes forth, like the ancient
fragrance that haunts the boxes and piece-bags of
kind old ladies.

-- _--~- - ::- -- ~

j L
~-. .-


As one looks in the looking-glasses one thinks
of all the little girls whose chubby faces have been
reflected there,-Ann, in her short-waisted, long-
skirted dresses ; little nieces of hers, in pantalettes



and pig-tails. And now others, with crisp white
aprons and bangs, peer in with eager curiosity at
the old-time doll-house.


What fun they have had with it! How many
times, on stormy days, when the rain beat on the
nursery windows, and swept in whitening gusts
over the wet trees on the lawn, the front of the
dollies' house has swung back, and little folks have
played happily with it for whole mornings at a
time! How often they have pretended a dolly
was ill, and have laid her in the fresh, white-sheeted
feather-bed under the chintz curtains; and then,
while the nurse warmed up her food on the tin
stove, Grandmamma Doll has had her green rock-
ing-chair brought upstairs, and sat at the bedside
and rocked and rocked, while the other dolls went

about very softly, and the nurse kept the baby
quiet below.
Not long ago there was a fair in a certain city
to raise a fund' for a hospital. There, in a room
specially set apart for them, were dolls by dozens
and dozens, all standing in rows and dressed in
their best; for the one that was the finest of all was
to receive a prize. And there, too, among all the
fine dolls and in the midst of the noise and glare
of light, stood the dim old doll-house.
The key had been turned in the lock and the
front had been swung back.




There was the round tin stove, the high-post
bed, and clock; there was the folding table, and
the sofa, and there were the silk-covered chairs.

e .


A crowd of faces peered in,- old and young;
people pointed and smiled; it was a noisy crowd,
and the yellow-faced dolls, in their old-fashioned


dresses, sitting in the quiet rooms, looked out
strangely with their black wooden eyes, through
the odor of long ago.
My face, too, peered in upon that old, Quaker
doll-family. I too wondered and pointed with
the rest, and then I thought how other children,
old and young, might perhaps care to look through
my eyes into those faded rooms. So.I drew pict-
ures of it all, and afterward I made portraits of the
dear jointed and rag dolls, and here they are.



Long, long ago, she ambled to town, her flaxen curls bobbed up and down,
Her best blue ribbons fluttered gay, and she had some calling-cards of her own -
Long, long ago, the people cried, There rides the sweet little Arabella,
She goes for to make a wedding-call, to-day, on the Prince and Cinderella !"





THE Department of State ranks first among the
Executive Departments. It was established by act
of Congress approved July 27, 1789 (the fourth
measure to go upon the Federal statute-books), as
" The Department of Foreign Affairs"; and the
functions of its principal officer, styled "The Sec-
retary for the Department of Foreign Affairs," as
briefly defined by the act, related exclusively to
matters of an international character. He was
empowered to "perform and execute such duties
as shall from time to time be enjoined on or in-
trusted to him by the President of the United
States, agreeable to the Constitution, relative to
correspondences, commissions or instructions to or
with public ministers or consuls, from the United
States, or to negotiations with public ministers from
foreign states or princes, or to memorials or other
applications from foreign public ministers or other
foreigners, or to such other matters respecting for-
eign affairs as the President of the United States
shall assign to the said department"; he was
charged with the custody and care of the records,
books, and papers in the office of a somewhat
similar functionary under the Confederation;
and was required to conduct the business of the
said department in such manner as the President
of the United States shall from time to time order
or instruct." By the act of September 15, 1789,
the name of the Department was changed to The
Department of State," the title of its principal of-
ficer was shortened to The Secretary of State,"
and additional duties were assigned to him of a
nature wholly distinct from those previously im-
posed. He was charged with the custody and

publication of the laws; the great seal of the
United States was committed to his care; and he
was required to make out and record all civil com-
missions to officers of the United States appointed
by the President, and to affix the great seal to such
commissions.f Subsequent legislation, while en-
joining upon the Department further and specific
duties, has been directed chiefly toward the exten-
sion and efficiency of its foreign service, Indeed,
it has no domestic ramifications at all. Beyond
two dispatch agents, one at San Francisco and the
other at New York, the entire home force of the
Department is confined to the City of Washing-
ton. This home force, counting every officer and
employee, from the Secretary down to the messen-
gers and laborers, numbers barely fourscore men,
as compared with about thirteen hundred agents
engaged in consular and diplomatic work abroad.
Hastily noting the main features of the depart-
mental organization and work, we may first observe,
as chief aids to the Secretary, an assistant secretary
(who becomes acting-Head in the absence of his
superior), a second assistant secretary, and a third
assistant secretary. The specific work allotted to
each of these officers is left to the judgment of the
Secretary, who, by law of Congress, is authorized
to prescribe their duties, as well as the duties of
the solicitor, the clerks of bureaus, and all the other
employees in the Department.$ Under the present
arrangement of office business, the assistant sec-
retaries have the immediate supervision of the
consular and diplomatic correspondence of the
Department and of the miscellaneous correspond-
ence relating thereto (this supervision being par-
titioned among them according to countries), and
they also have charge of the preparation of such
special correspondence as may, on occasion, be
intrusted to them by the Secretary.

The full title of this functionary was "Secretary to the United States of America for the Department of Foreign Affairs." He was an
officer of the Old Congress, and held his office during its pleasure; he was permitted to attend its sessions at all times, and it was made
his positive duty to reside wherever Congress (or a Committee of the States) should sit, and to attend upon it when summoned or ordered
by the President of Congress.
tThe great seal of the United States should not be confounded with the seal of the Department of State, or with that of any other
Department. Each Executive Department has its own distinctive seal for the authentication of its official instruments and acts; and cer-
tain bureaus and officers also have separate seals. The great seal is attached to commissions, proclamations, pardons, and similar execu-
tive instruments, and only by express provision of law or upon the special warrant of the President authorizing the State Department to
so attach it.
$ In assigning such duties, however, he can not override or modify special and positive duties imposed upon certain officers by the
provisions of other laws. The solicitor of the Department, for instance, is an officer detailed from the Department of Justice, and the
Secretary of State is not at liberty to prescribe for him duties inconsistent with his duties as an officer of the Department of Justice.


The entire correspondence of the Department is
classified as "diplomatic," "consular," and "mis-
cellaneous." By diplomatic correspondence is
meant correspondence with foreign governments,
which is conducted through ministers and other
diplomatic officers; consular correspondence em-
braces communications to or from our consular
officers; and under the head of miscellaneous cor-
respondence are included communications between
the Department and all other persons, whether
members of Congress, heads of Executive Depart-
ments, State Governors, or private citizens. And
it may be convenient to state here certain other
distinctions, arbitrary in their way but carefully
heeded by officials versed in matters of foreign
intercourse. A written communication from a
foreign diplomatic officer to the Department of
State, or from the Department to the diplomatic
representative of a foreign government (and,
similarly, as to communications between an Ameri-
can diplomatic officer abroad and the foreign
government to which he is accredited), is styled a
"note"; a communication to the Department from
one of its own diplomatic or consular agents, what-
ever its nature, is a dispatch" ; and a communi-
cation from the Department to one of its diplomatic
or consular agents, if only an interrogation, is never-
theless positive instruction." These distinctions
admit of no qualification; they are absolute.
Passing by the chief clerk with the simple com-
ment that he has general supervision of the clerks
and employees and of the business of the Depart-
ment, we come to the various bureaus. These
bureaus, each in command of a chief, are six in
number- the Diplomatic Bureau, the Consular
Bureau, the Bureau of Indexes and Archives, the
Bureau of Accounts, the Bureau of Rolls and
Library, and the Bureau of Statistics.
The Diplomatic Bureau has charge of the diplo-
matic correspondence and the miscellaneous cor-
respondence pertaining to it. Its work is distributed
among three divisions, known as Division A, Divi-
sion B, and Division C, each presided over by a high
grade (fourth-class) clerk,* or "head of division."
As showing the diversified nature of this corre-
spondence and the extent of our diplomatic service,
the distribution by countries may be stated. Divi-
sion A attends to correspondence with, or relating
to, Austria-Hungary, Belgium, Denmark, France,
Germany, Great Britain, Greece, the Netherlands,
Roumania, Servia, and Switzerland. Division B
attends to correspondence with, or relating to, the
Argentine Republic, Bolivia, Brazil, Chili, the
United States of Colombia, Ecuador, Hayti, Italy,

Paraguay, Peru, Portugal, Russia, Santo Domingo,
Spain, Sweden and Norway, Uruguay, and Vene-
zuela. Division C attends to correspondence with,
or relating to, the Barbary States, Central America,
China, Egypt, Fiji Islands, Hawaiian Islands,
Japan, Liberia, Madagascar, Mexico, Muscat,
Navigator Islands, Persia, Siam, Society Islands,
Turkey, and other countries not assigned.
The Consular Bureau has charge of correspond-
ence with consulates and miscellaneous correspond-
ence in that line; and its work is distributed among
four divisions, A, B, C, and D, though not follow-
ing exactly the divisions of the Diplomatic Bureau.
The work of Division A relates to the consulates
within the dominion of Great Britain; that of
Division D, to consulates in Germany; and the
numerous consulates in other countries are appor-
tioned between Divisions B and C.
The Bureau of Indexes and Archives opens the
mails, prepares and registers, daily, full abstracts
of all correspondence to and from the Department,
and indexes such correspondence; has the custody
of the archives; attends to the arrangement of the
papers to accompany the messages and reports to
Congress; and answers calls of the Department
officials for correspondence. The mail addressed
to the Department, after having been opened,
registered, and indexed in separate volumes as
diplomatic, consular, or miscellaneous, is sent to
the chief clerk, who forwards to the bureaus mat-
ters of routine, and to the assistant secretaries cor-
respondence of special interest, the assistants in turn
submitting to the Secretary such matters as they
may deem of greater moment. The assistant secre-
taries indorse brief directions as to action in each
case before them, and the correspondence is then
transmitted to the appropriate bureaus for the prep-
aration of the necessary "instructions," "notes,"
or whatever may be required, in accordance with
such directions. These answers and other cor-
respondence prepared in the bureaus are read over
by the respective chiefs, and sent through the
chief clerk to the assistant secretaries in charge of
the particular subjects. Consular instructions are
signed by the assistant secretary (to whom, also,
all consular dispatches are formally addressed),
and the second and third assistants are charged
with the signing of certain other mail. The Secre-
tary signs all notes, all instructions to ministers,
and letters to members of Congress, governors,
and other persons of distinction, as well as letters
to private individuals touching matters of dignity
or consequence. These communications, when
signed, go into the Bureau of Indexes and Archives,

The clerks in the departmental service of the Government are graded according to compensation received. A fourth-class clerk
receives a salary of $r8oo a year; a third-class, $1600; a second-class, $1400; and a first-class, $1200. Clerks below the first class are
graded as of the "$ooo1000 class," etc.


where they are properly indexed in another set of
separate registers, as diplomatic, consular, or mis-
.cellaneous correspondence "from" the Depart-
ment, and press-copied in duplicate. To this
bureau, as the final repository, come all the com-
munications received by the Department, after
having been answered or attended to by the other
bureaus; and within its volumes are recorded
copies of all outgoing correspondence. These
archives, as may be imagined, containing letters
bearing the autograph signatures of potentates,
premiers, and lesser grandees of foreign states
during a period of a hundred years, are of excep-
tional interest to the lover of curiosities and to the
student of secret history.
The business of the Bureau of Accounts relates
to the custody and disbursement of appropriations
under the direction of the Department and to "in-
demnity" funds and bonds. These indemnity
funds are moneys lodged in the Department, or
passing through its hands, as compensation for
losses resulting from violations of international
The Bureau of Rolls and Library has the cus-
tody of the rolls,* treaties, proclamations, and
similar records; attends to the promulgation of
the laws; and has the care of the Revolutionary
archives and the archives of international commis-
sions. Here, therefore, repose the originals of all
Congressional enactments and treaties, and, among
other historic documents, the Declaration of Inde-
pendence, the Articles of Confederation, and the
Constitution itself. Formerly, the Secretary of
State was charged with the duty of publishing the
laws and kindred matters of public importance,
through the agency of the newspapers; this gen-
eral requirement, however, is no longer in force,
and publication through the press is now ordered
only as to a few announcements of a special nature.
When an act or resolution of Congress is ap-
proved by the President, the approval is recorded
in the Executive Office, and the parchment is sent
over to the State Department by special messen-
ger. A measure that has become law without the
President's signature, by his failure to act within
ten days after its presentation to him, is likewise
transmitted from the White House, accompanied
by a note from the President's private secretary
reciting that fact. A measure that has been re-
turned to Congress by the President and become
law by passage over his veto, is forwarded to the
State Department by the President of the Senate
or Speaker of the House, according to the body in

which the parchment was last approved. When
received at the State Department the roll is stamped
by the chief clerk, and then taken to the Bureau
of Rolls and Library, where a copy is immediately
prepared for the Public Printer.
The laws are published in various forms. They
are first published separately in sheet form, as
"slip laws," as soon as possible after being re-
ceived by the bureau, and numbered in the order
of their receipt. When so published, the slip laws
are given to the editor of the laws (a competent
person selected from the legal profession by the
Secretary of State and privately employed for that
purpose), who notes marginal references to pre-
vious legislation, arranges the acts and resolutions
by chapters," and prepares a suitable index; and
under his editorial care, at the end of the session
of Congress, they appear again in pamphlet form,
as "session laws." Lastly, at the close of a Con-
gress, the laws of each session are gathered by the
editor into a single volume and bound, as Stat-
utes-at-Large." The numerous readings given to
the printed "proof," and the careful comparison
with the text of the originals, effectually guard
against discrepancies. The manner in which the
Department performs its duty is thoroughly credit-
able; the manner in which Congress dismisses its
own work is, in many instances, absolutely disgrace-
ful. Some of the rolls received at the Department
are disfigured by erasures, interlineations, and
blots, by errors in orthography, capitalization,
and punctuation, and by hieroglyphic mangling,
that suggest the "master-pieces" of schoolboy
art. These and more serious imperfections, once
placed upon the parchment roll, are law. How-
ever glaring the blunder, however mischievous the
distortion or omission, the State Department is
powerless to add a correcting dot or stroke. Mis-
takes made by Congressional enrolling clerks have
undone legislation accomplished by Congress after
hours of debate. An item of half a million dol-
lars for public purposes was bodily left out in the
enrollment of a recent appropriation act; and the
substitution of a comma for a hyphen in transcrib-
ing a tariff-measure some years ago caused a loss
to the Government of thousands of dollars before
the error was detected and further loss arrested by
the passage of another act. These are but speci-
men cases. It is humiliating to think that a
sleepy or incompetent clerk should be able to frus-
trate the legislative will of a nation, and startling
to reflect on the opportunities for fraud by delib-
erate tampering with the public rolls. Blemishes

Another term for "laws," the acts and resolutions of Congress being recorded (or enrolled) on parchment after passage by both
Houses and before presentation to the President.
t Any person desiring a copy of the session laws or statutes-at-large is entitled to obtain the same upon application to the Depart-
ment of State and paying the cost of paper, press-work, etc., with ten per cent. added.




enough are engrafted upon our statute-books by the
legislators themselves, in the shape of careless or un-
wise enactments; surely, if we can not always have
clear statesmanship, we should have at least clear
penmanship in the parchment record of our laws.
The blame, like the remedy, rests with Congress.
The Bureau of Statistics, also engaged in editorial
work, attends to the preparation and publication
of reports from our diplomatic and consular agents,
in regard to foreign industries and commerce.
These valuable statistics, issued to the public
from time to time in the form of bulletins and
pamphlets, make up an annual volume known as
"Commercial Relations."
Besides these bureaus, there is the solicitor
(detailed from the Department of Justice) who at-
tends to the examination of all questions of law

submitted by the Secretary or assistant secretaries,
and of all claims. The office of pardons and com-
missions guards the great seal, and attends to the
preparation and issue of commissions and to the
preparation of pardons and correspondence upon
that subject. Mention should also be made of a
stenographer, who discharges the confidential
duties of private secretary to the Secretary; a
translator, whose work is implied from his title;
and a passport clerk, who attends to the issue and
record of passports. *
These details have been given, at the risk of
wearying the reader, to illustrate, generally, the
meaning of departmental "organization," and the
methodical course of bureau work. The less prosy
features of administration, bearing upon interna-
tional affairs, will be described hereafter.

A passport certifies the bearer to be a citizen of the United States, and is a voucher of nationality with which Americans abroad
should always be armed. It is obtainable by any native-born or naturalized citizen, upon complying with certain requirements as to appli-
cation and proof of citizenship and paying the established fee of one dollar. Blank forms of application may be had of the passport clerk.
A special form of passport is used for a member of Congress or government official, certifying to his public station, etc. Professional
titles are not inserted in passports for private citizens.
(To be continued.)



CARL was a jolly little fellow,
With eyes of blue and curls of yellow,
And rosy cheeks, and just the chin .
To hold a pretty dimple in.\ '
He found himself alone one day, ''
And wondered what 't was best to play .
While his mamma remained away.. .
Pencil and paper soon he saw, / .
And seized them both. Said he, "I'll draw
An ogre like the one so grum
Poor Jack heard growling Fee-fo-fum.'
First, here 's his forehead full of bumps, f
And then his nose with three big humps, .
And then two ears of enormouss size, --
And then two dreadful staring eyes,
And then a mouth from ear to ear, "-
With long, sharp teeth-like tusks." But here 1- ,
The artist, with eyes opened wide 1 -
In fright, gazed on his work and cried,
Mamma, Mamma come, ome, lease, do, '
I 'm very lonely without you; jl
And oh! Mamma, I 'm so afraid '
Of this old ogre that I 've made.".'



Ci_ r *H

S' '| THE day was one of
l.I '1 the best days in June,
'' ;.with warm sunshine and
1 1 a cool breeze from the
S' ,iV:' l .east, for when Betty
S1 1111 I Leicester stepped from
i'' l' a hot car to the station
platform in Riverport
'the air had a delicious
sea-flavor. She won-
i deredforamomentwhat
S this flavor was like, and
_____ then thought of a salt
oyster. She was hungry
and tired, the journey had been longer than she
expected, and, as she made her way slowly through
the crowded station and was pushed about by
people who were hurrying out of or into the train,
she felt unusually disturbed and lonely. Betty
had traveled far and wide for a girl of fifteen, but
she had seldom been alone, and was used to
taking care of other people. Papa himself was
very apt to forget important minor details, and
she had learned out of her loving young heart to
remember them, and was not without high ambi-
tions to make their journeys as comfortable as pos-
sible. Still, she and her father were almost always
together, and Betty wondered if it had not after
all been foolish to make a certain decision which
involved not seeing him again until a great many
weeks had gone by.
The cars moved away and the young traveler
went to the ticket-office to ask about the Tides-
head train. The ticket-agent looked at her with a
Train 's gone half an hour ago he said, as
if he were telling Betty some good news. '' There'll
be another one at eight o'clock to-morrow morn-
ing, and the express goes, same as to-day, at half-
past one. I suppose you want to go to Tideshead
town; this road only goes to the junction and then

there's a stage, you know." He looked at Betty
doubtfullyand as if he expected an instant decision
on her part as to what she meant to do next.
I knew that there was a stage," she answered,
feeling a little alarmed, but hoping that she did
not show it. The time-table said there was a
train to meet this- "
Oh, that train is an express now and doesn't
stop. Everything's got to be sacrificed to speed."
The ticket-agent had turned his back and was
looking over some papers and grumbling to him-
self, so that Betty could no longer hear what he
was pleased to say. As she left the window an
elderly man, whose face was very familiar, was
standing in the doorway.
Well, ma'am, you an' I 'pear to have got left.
Tideshead, you said, if I rightly understood?"
"Perhaps there is somebody who would drive us
there," said Betty. She never had been called
ma'am before, and it was most surprising. It
is n't a great many miles, is it? "
No, no said the new acquaintance. I was
in considerable of a hurry to get home, but 't is n't
so bad as you think. We can go right up on the
packet, up river, you know; get there by supper-
time; the wind 's hauling round into the east a
little. 1 understood you to speak about getting to
Tideshead? "
"Yes," said Betty, gratefully.
Got a trunk, I expect. Well, I'11 go out and
look round for Asa Chick and his han'cart, and
we'll make for the wharf as quick as we can. You
may step this way."
Betty stepped gladly, and Asa Chick and the
hand-cart soon led the way riverward through the
pleasant old-fashioned streets of Riverport. Her
new friend pointed out one or two landmarks as
they hurried along, for, strange to say, although
a sea-captain, he was not sure whether the tide
turned at half-past two or at half-past three. When
they came to the river-side, however, the packet-


boat was still made fast to the pier, and nothing
showed signs of her immediate departure.
"It is always a good thing to be in time," said
the captain, who found himself much too warm
and nearly out of breath.
Now, we've got a good hour to wait. Like to
go right aboard, my dear ? "
Betty paid Asa Chick, and then turned to see the
packet. It was a queer, heavy-looking craft, with
a short, thick mast and high, pointed lateen-sail,
half unfurled and dropping in heavy pocket-like
loops. There was a dark low cabin and a long
deck; a very old man and a fat, yellow dog seemed
to be the whole ship's company. The old man
was smoking a pipe and took no notice of anything,
but the dog rose slowly to his feet and came wag-
ging his tail and looking up at the new passenger.
I do' know but I '11 coast round up into the town
a little," said the captain. 'T ain't no use ask-
ing old Mr. Plunkett there any questions, he 's
deef as a ha'dick."
Will my trunk be safe ?" asked Betty; to which
the captain answered that he would put it right
aboard for her. It was not a very heavy trunk,
but the captain managed it beautifully, and put
Betty's hand-bag and shawl into the dark cabin.
Old Plunkett nodded as he saw this done, and the
captain said again that Betty might feel perfectly
safe about everything; but, for all that, she refused
to take a walk in order to see what was going on in
the town, as she was kindly invited to do. She went
a short distance by herself, however, and came first
to a bakery, where she bought some buns, not so
good as the English ones, but still very good buns
indeed, and two apples, which the bake-house
woman told her had grown in her own garden.
You could see the tree out of the back window, by
which the bake-house woman had left her sewing,
and they were, indeed, well-kept and delicious ap-
ples for that late season of the year. Betty lingered
for some minutes in the pleasant shop. She was
very hungry, and the buns were all the better for
that. She looked through a door and saw the oven,
but the baking was all done for the day. The
baker himself was out in his cart; he had just gone
up to Tideshead. Here was another way in which
one might have gone to Tideshead by land; it
would have been good fun to go on the baker's
cart and stop in the farm-house yards and see
everybody; but on the whole there was more
adventure in going by water. Papa had always
told Betty that the river was beautiful. She did
not remember much about it herself, but this would
be a fine way of getting a first look at so large a
part of the great stream.
It was slack water now, and the wharf seemed
high, and the landing-stage altogether too steep

and slippery. When Betty reached the packet's
deck, old Mr. Plunkett was sound asleep, but while
she was eating her buns, the dog came most good-
naturedly and stood before her cocking his head
sideways, and putting on a most engaging expres-
sion, so that they lunched together, and Betty
left off nearly as hungry as she began. The old
dog knew an apple when he saw it, and was dis-
appointed after the last one was brought out from
Betty's pocket, and lay down at her feet and went
to sleep again. Betty got into the shade of the
wharf and sat there looking down at the floun-
ders and sculpins in the clear water, and at the
dripping green sea-weeds on the piles of the wharf.
She was almost startled when a heavy wagon was
driven on the planks above, and a man shouted
suddenly to the horses. Presently some barrels
of flour were rolled down and put on deck twelve
of them in all-by a man and boy who gave her,
the young stranger, a careful glance every time
they turned to go back. Then a mowing-machine
arrived, and was carefully put on board with a
great deal of bustle and loud talking. There was
somebody on deck, now, whom Betty believed to be
the packet's skipper, and after a while the old cap-
tain returned. He seated himself by Mr. Plun-
kett and shook hands with him warmly, and asked
him for the news; but there did not seem to be
"I 've been up to see my wife's cousin Jake
Hallet's folks," he explained, and I thought sure
I'd get left," and old Plunkett nodded soberly.
They did not sail for at least half an hour after
this, and Betty sat discreetly on the low cabin roof
next the wharf all the time. When they were out
in the stream at last she could get a pretty view of
the town. There was some shipping farther down
the shore, and some tall steeples and beautiful
trees and quaintly built warehouses; it was very
pleasant, looking back at it from the water.
A little past the middle of the afternoon they
moved steadily up the river. The men all sat
together in a group at the stern, and appeared
to find a great deal to talk about. Old Mr. Plun-
kett may have thought that Betty looked lonely,
for, after he waked up for the second time, he
came over to where she sat, and nodded to her; so
Betty nodded back, and then the old man reached
for her umbrella, which was very pretty, with a
round piece of agate in the handle, and looked at
it and rubbed it with his thumb, and gave it back
to her. "Present to ye?" he asked, and Betty
nodded assent. Then old Plunkett went away
again, but she felt a sense of his kind companion-
ship. She wondered whom she must pay for her
passage and how much it would be, but it was no
use to ask so deaf a fellow-passenger. He had



put on a great pair of spectacles and was walk-
ing round her trunk, apparently much puzzled by
the battered labels of foreign hotels and railway
Betty thought that she had seldom seen half

"I 'm going to Miss Leicester's. Don't you
remember me? Are n't you Mary Beck's grand-
father ? I 'm Betty Leicester."
Toe be sure, toe be sure," said the old gentle-
man, much pleased. I wonder that I had not

E /n /n-- E dr,-
/ / -" t' i !',

r .e Shekept
father could see it, too. As they went up from
the town the shores grew greener and greener,
and there were some belated apple-trees still in
bloom, and the farm-houses were so old and
stood so pleasantly toward the southern sunshine
that they looked as if they might have grown
of themselves like the apple-trees and willows
and elms. There were great white clouds in
the blue sky; the air was delicious. Betty could
make out at last that old Plunkett was the skip-
per's father, that Captain Beck was an old ship-
master and a former acquaintance of her own, and
that the flour and some heavy boxes belonged to
one storekeeping passenger with a long sandy
beard, and the mowing-machine to the other, who
was called Jim Foss, and that he was a farmer.
He was a great joker and kept making everybody
laugh. Old Mr. Plunkett laughed too, now that
he was wide awake, but it was only through sym-
pathy; he seemed to be a very kind old man.
One by one all the men came and looked at the
trunk labels, and they all asked whether Betty
had n't been considerable of a traveler, or some
question very much like it. At last the captain
came with Captain Beck to collect the passage
money, which proved to be thirty-seven cents.
Where did you say you was goin' to stop in
Tideshead ? asked Captain Beck.

He 's been a great traveler since then, has n'the? "
to which Betty responded heartily, again feeling as
At ,-' rl -I i I- C l'l l'l' .i "I. ." *III.t 1 0 11. -_ i .

if she were among friends. The storekeeper offered
t!, 1t i'n, l m ,lh ,1 i. 1 -,:,: t* i f I,,,,k i,
N. %i. I h h ,dii_: h.-il n h od Ill iL -,51rc ; ,: ,,: ,..
to keep him from running off to sea with me.
He 's been a great traveler since then, has n'the ?"
to which Betty responded heartily, again feeling as
if she were among friends. The storekeeper offered
to take her trunk right up the hill in his wagon,
when they got to the Tideshead landing, and on
the whole it was delightful that the trains had been
changed just in time for her to take this pleasant

BETTY had seen strange countries since her last
visit to Tideshead. Then she was only a child,
but now she was so tall that strangers treated her
as if she were already a young lady. At fifteen
one does not always know just where to find one's
self. A year before it was hard to leave childish
things alone, but there soon came a time when
they seemed to have left Betty, while one by one
the graver interests of life were pushing themselves
forward. It was reasonable enough that she should
be taking care of herself; and her father had gone
on such a rough journey in the far north that there
was no question of her i..1i,. -i.;- him as usual. It
had been decided upon suddenly; Mr. Leicester
and Betty had been comfortably settled at Lynton
in Devonshire for the summer, with a comfortable
prospect of some charming excursions and a good
bit of work on Papa's new scientific book. Betty
was used to sudden changes of their plans, but it
was a hard trial when he had .come back from




London one day, filled with enthusiasm about the
Alaska business.
The only thing against it, is that I don't know
what to do with you, Betty dear," said Papa,
with a most wistful but affectionate glance. Per-
haps you would like to go to Switzerland with the
Duncans ? You know that they were very anxious
that I should lend you for a while."
"I will think about it," said Betty, trying to
smile, but she could not talk any more just then.
She didn't believe that the hardships of this new
journey were too great; it was Papa who minded
dust and hated the care of railway rugs and car-
tickets, not she. But she gave him a kiss and
hurried out through the garden and went as fast
as she could along the lonely long cliff-walk above
the sea, to think the sad matter over.
That evening Betty came down to dinner with a
serene face. She looked more like a young lady
than she ever had before. "I have quite decided
what I should like to do," she said. "Please let
me go home with you and stay in Tideshead with
Aunt Barbara and Aunt Mary. They speak about
seeing us in their letters, and I should be nearer
where you are going." Betty's brave voice failed
her for a moment just there.
"Why, Betty, what a wise little woman you
are !" said Mr. Leicester, looking very much
pleased. That's exactly right. I was thinking
about the dear souls as I came from town, and
promised myself that I would run down for a few
days before I go north. That is, if you say I may
go!" and he looked seriously at Betty.
Yes," answered Betty slowly; yes, I am sure
you may, Papa dear, if you will be very, very care-
ful." They had a beloved old custom of Papa's
asking his girl's leave to do anything that was par-
ticularly important. In Betty's baby-days she had
reproved him for going out one morning, Who
said you might go, Master Papa?" demanded the
little thing severely; and it had been a dear bit of
fun to remember the old story from time to time
ever since. Betty's mother had died before she
could remember; the two who were left were most
dependent upon each other.
You will see how Betty came to have care-tak-
ing ways and how she had learned to think more
than most girls about what it was best to do. You
will understand how lonely she felt in this day or
two when the story begins. Mr. Leicester was too
much hurried after all when he reached America,
and could not go down to Tideshead for a few
days' visit, as they had both hoped and promised.
And here, at last, was Betty going up the long
village street with Captain Beck for company.
She had not seen Tideshead for six years, but it
looked exactly the same. There was the great,

square, white house, with the poplars and lilac
bushes. There were Aunt Barbara and Aunt
Mary sitting in the wide hall doorway as if they
had never left their high-backed chairs since she
saw them last.
Who is this coming up the walk? said Aunt
Barbara, rising and turning toward her placid
younger sister in sudden excitement. "It can't
be -why, yes, it is Betty, after all! and she hur-
rfed down the steps.
Grown out of all reason, of course! she said
sharply, as she kissed the surprising grandniece,
and then held her at arms-length to look at her
again most fondly. "Where did you find her,
Captain Beck? We sent over to the train; in fact
I went myself with Jonathan, but we were dis-
appointed. Your father always telegraphs two or
three times before he really gets here, Betty;
but you have not brought him, after all."
We had to come up river by the packet," said
Captain Beck; "the young lady's had quite a
voyage; her sea-chest '11 be here directly."

-~ -


The captain left Betty's traveling-bag on the
great stone doorstep, and turned to go away, but
Betty thanked him prettily for his kindness, and
said that she had spent a delightful afternoon.
She was now warmly kissed and hugged by Aunt
Mary, who looked much younger than Aunt Bar-
bara, and she saw two heads appear at the end of
the long hall.
"There are Serena and Letty; you must run



and speak to them. They have been looking for-
ward to seeing you," suggested Aunt Barbara,
who seemed to see everything at once, but when
Betty went that way nobody was to be found until
she came to the kitchen, where Serena and Letty
were or pretended to be much surprised at her
arrival. They were now bustling about to get
Betty some supper, and she frankly confessed that
she was very hungry, which seemed to vastly please
the good women.
"What in the world shall we do with her?"
worried Aunt Mary, while Betty was gone. I had
no idea she would seem so well grown. She used
to be small for her age, you know, Sister."
"Do ? do?" answered Miss Barbara Leicester
sternly. If she can't take care of herself by this
time, she never will know how. Tom Leicester
should have let her stay here altogether, instead of
roaming about the world with him, or else have
settled himself down in respectable fashion. I
can't get on with teasing children at my age.
I 'm sure I 'm glad she 's well grown. She must n't
expect us to turn out of our ways," grumbled Aunt
Barbara, who had the kindest heart in the world,
and was listening every minute for Betty's foot-
It was very pleasant to be safe in the old house
at last. The young guest did not feel any sense
of strangeness. She used to be afraid of Aunt
Barbara when she was a child, but she was not a
bit afraid now; and Aunt Mary, who seemed a very
lovely person then, was now a little bit tiresome,-or
else Betty herself was tired and did not find it easy
to listen.
After supper-and it was such a too-good supper,
with pound-cakes, and peach jam, and crisp short-
cakes, and four tall silver candlesticks, and Betty
being asked to her great astonishment if she would
take tea and meekly preferring some milk instead-
they came back to the doorway. The moon had
come up, and the wide lawn in front of the house
(which the ladies always called the yard) was al-
most as light as day. The syringa bushes were in
full bloom and fragrance, and other sweet odors
filled the air beside. There were two irreverent
little dogs playing and chasing each other on the
wide front walk and bustling among the box
borders. Betty could hear the voices of people
who drove by, or walked along the sidewalk, but
Tideshead village was almost as still as the fields
outside the town. She had answered all the ques-
tions that the aunts kindly asked her for conver-
sation's sake and she tried to think of ways of
seeming interested in return.
Can I climb the cherry-tree this summer, Aunt
Barbara ? she asked once. Don't you remem-
ber the day that there was a meeting of ladies here,

and little Mary Beck and I got some of the com-
pany's bonnets and shawls off the best bed and
dressed up in them and climbed up in the trees ?"
"You looked like two fat black crows," laughed
Aunt Barbara, though she had been very angry at
the time. All the fringes of those thin best shawls
were catching and snapping as you came down.
Oh, dear me, I could n't think what the old ladies
would say. None of your mischief now, Miss
Betty! and she held up a warning forefinger.
"Mary Beck is coming to see you to-morrow;
you will find some pleasant girls here."
Tideshead has always been celebrated for its
cultivated society, you know, dear," added Aunt
Just now a sad feeling of loneliness again began
to assail Betty. The summer might be very long
in passing, and anything might happen to Papa.
She put her hand into her pocket to have the com-
fort of feeling a crumpled note, a very dear short
note, which Papa had written her only the day be-
fore, when he had suddenly decided to go out to
Cambridge and not come back to the hotel, for
They talked a little longer, Betty and the grand-
aunts, until sensible Aunt Barbara said, Now run
upstairs to bed, my dear; I am sure that you must
be tired," and Betty, who usually begged to stay
up as long as the grown folks, was glad for. once
to be sent away like a small child. Aunt Barbara
marched up the stairway and led the way to the
very best bedroom of all. It was an astonishing
tribute of respect to Betty, the young guest, and
she admired such large-minded hospitality; but
after all she had expected a comfortable snug little
room next Aunt Mary's, where she had always slept
years ago. Aunt Barbara assured her that this
one was much cooler and pleasanter, and now she
must remember what a young lady she had grown
to be. "But you may change to some other room
if you like, my dear child," said the old lady kindly.
" I would n't unpack to-night, but just go to bed
and get rested. I have my breakfast at half-past
seven, but your Aunt Mary does n't come down. I
hope that you will be ready as early as that, for I
like company," and then, after seeing that every-
thing was in order and comfortable, she kissed Betty
twice most kindly and told her that she was thank-
ful to have her come to them, and went away down-
It was a solemn, big, best bedroom, with dark In-
dia-silk curtains to the bed and windows, and dull
coverings on the furniture. This all looked as if
there were pretty figures and touches of gay color
by daylight, but even by the light of the two can-
dles on the dressing-table it seemed a dim and dis-
mal place that night. Betty was not a bit afraid;




she only felt lonely. She was but fifteen years
old and she did not know how to get on by herself
after all. But Betty was no coward. She had been
taught to show energy and to make light of diffi-
culties. What could she do ? Why, unpack a little,
and then go to bed and go to sleep; that would be
the best thing.
She knelt down before her trunk and had an
affectionate feeling toward it as she turned the key
and saw her familiar properties inside. She took
out her pictures of her father and mother and Mrs.
Duncan, and shook out a crumpled dress or two
and left them to lie on the old couch until morn-
ing. Deep down in the sea-chest, as Captain Beck
had called it, she felt the soft folds of a gay piece
of silk made like a little shawl, which Papa had
pleased himself with buying for her one day at
Liberty's shop in London. Mrs. Duncan had
laughed when she saw it, and told Betty not to dare
to wear it for at least ten years; but the color of it
was marvelous in the shadowy old room. Betty
threw the shining red thing over the back of a great
easy-chair and it seemed to light the whole place.
She could not help feeling more cheerful for the
sight of that gay bit of color. Then a great wish
filled her heart, dear little Betty; perhaps she
could really bring some new pleasure to Tideshead
that summer. The old aunties' lives looked very
gray and dull to her young eyes; it was a dull place,
perhaps, for Betty, who had lived a long time where
the brightest and busiest people were. The last
thing she thought of before she fell asleep was the
little silk shawl. She had often heard artistic peo-
ple say a bit of color" ; now she had a new idea,
but a dim one, of what a bit of color might be ex-
pectedto do. Good-night, Betty. Good-night, dear
Betty, in your best bedroom, sound asleep all the
summer night and dreaming of those you love !


HOWEVER old and responsible Betty Leicester
felt overnight, she seemed to return to early child-
hood in spite of herself next day. She must see
the old house again and chatter with Aunt Bar-
bara about the things and people she remembered
best. She looked all about the garden, and spent
an hour in the kitchen talking to Serena and Letty
while they worked there, and then she went out to
see Jonathan and a new acquaintance called Seth
Pond, an awkward young man who took occa-
sion to tell Betty that he had come from way up
country where there was plenty greener 'n he was.
There were a great many interesting things to see
and hear in Jonathan's and Seth's domains, and
Betty found the remains of one of her own old
play-houses in the shed-chamber, and was touched

to the heart when she found that it had never been
cleared away. She had known so many places
and so many people that it was almost startling to
find Tideshead looking and behaving exactly the
same, while she had changed so much. The garden
was a most lovely place, with its long, vine-covered
summer-house, and just now all the roses were
in bloom. Here was that cherry-tree into which
she and Mary Beck had climbed, decked in the
proper black shawls and bonnets and black lace
veils. But where could dear Becky be all the
morning? They had been famous cronies in that
last visit, when they were nine years old. Betty
hurried into the house to find her hat and tell
Aunt Barbara where she was going.
Aunt Barbara took the matter into serious con-
sideration. "Why, Mary will come to call this
afternoon, I don't doubt, my dear, and perhaps
you had better wait until after dinner. They dine
earlier than we."
Betty turned away disappointed. She wished
that she had thought to find Mary just after break-
fast in their friendly old fashion, but it was too late
now. She would sit down at the old secretary in
the library and begin a letter to Papa.
"Dear Papa," she wrote, "Here I am at Tides-
head, and I feel just as I used when I was a little girl,
but people treat me, even Mary Beck, as if I were
grown up, and it is a little lonely just at first.
Everything looks just the same, and Serena made
me some hearts and rounds for supper; was n't
she kind to remember? And they put on the old
silver mug that you used to have, for me to drink
out of. And I like Aunt Barbara best of the two
aunts, after all, which is sure to make you laugh,
though Aunt Mary is very kind and seems ill, so
that I mean to be as nice to her as I possibly can.
They seemed to think that you were going off just
as far as you possibly could without going to a star,
and it made me miss you more than ever. Jona-
than talked about politics, whether I listened or
not, and did n't like it when I said that you be-
lieved in tariff reform. He really scolded and said
the country would go to the dogs, and I was sorry
that I knew so little about politics. People expect
you to know so many new things with every inch
you grow. Dear Papa, I wish that I were with you.
Remember not to smoke too often, even if you
wish to very much; and please, dear Papa, think
very often that I am your only dear child,
"P. S.-I miss you more because they are all
so much older than we are, Papa dear. Perhaps
you will tell me about the tariff reform for a lesson-
letter when you can't think of anything else to
write about. I have not seen Mary Beck yet, nor
any of the girls I used to know. Mary always



came right over, before. I must tell you next time
the most important thing,- I had to come up river
on the packet I wished and wished for you.
Dinner-time was very pleasant, and Aunt Mary,
who first appeared then, was most kind and cheer-
ful; but both the ladies took naps, after dinner was
over and they had read their letters, so Betty went
to her own room, meaning to carefully put away
her belongings, but Letty had done this before-
hand, and the large room looked very comfortable
and orderly. Aunt Barbara had smiled when an-
other protest was timidly offered about the best
bedroom, and told Betty that it was pleasant to
have her just across the hall. I am well used
to my housekeeping cares," added Aunt Barbara,
with a funny look across the table at her young
niece; and Betty thought, again, how much she
liked this grand-aunt.
The house was very quiet and she did not know
exactly what to do, so she looked more carefully
than before about the guest-chamber.
There were some quaint-looking silhouettes on
the walls of the room, and in a deep oval frame a
fine sort of ornament which seemed to be made
of beautiful grasses and leaves, all covered with
glistening crystals. The dust had crept in a little
at one side. Betty remembered it well, and always
thought it very interesting. Then there were two
old engravings of Angelica Kauffmann and Mme.
Le Brun. Nothing pleased her so much, however,
as Papa's bright little shawl. It looked gayer than
ever, and Letty had folded it and left it on the old
Just then there came a timid rap or two with
the old knocker on the hall-door. It was early for
visitors, and the aunts were both in their rooms.
Betty went out to see what could be done about so
exciting a thing, and met quick-footed Letty, who
had been close at hand in the dining-room.
"'T is Miss Mary Beck come to call upon you,
Miss Betty," said Letty with an air of high fes-
tivity, and Betty went quickly downstairs. She
was brimful of gladness to see Mary Beck, and
went straight toward her in the shaded parlor to
kiss her and tell her so.
Mary Beck was sitting on the edge of a chair,
and was dressed as if she were going to church,
with a pair of tight shiny best gloves on and shiny
new boots, which hurt her feet, if Betty had only
known it. She wore a hat that looked too small for
her head, and had a queer, long, waving bird-of-
paradise feather in it, and a dress that was much
too old for her, and of a cold, smooth, gray color,
trimmed with a shade of satin that neither matched
it nor made a contrast. She had grown to be even
taller than Betty, and she looked uncomfortable,

and as if she had been forced to come. That was
a silly, limp shake of the hand with which she
returned Betty's warm grasp. Oh, dear, it was
evidently a dreadful thing to go to make a call! It
had been an anxious, discouraged getting-ready,
and Betty thought once of the short, red-cheeked,
friendly little Becky whom she used to know, and
was grieved to the heart. But she bravely pulled a
chair close to the guest and sat down. She could
not get over the old feeling of affection.
"I thought you would be over here long ago.
I ought to have gone to see you. Why, you 're
more grown up than I am; is n't it hard for us ? "
said Betty, feeling afraid that one or the other of
them might cry, they were both blushing so deeply
and the occasion was so solemn.
Oh, do let 's play in the shed-chamber all day
to-morrow "
And then they both laughed as hard as they
could, and there was the dear old Mary Beck after
all, and a tough bit of ice was forever broken.
Betty threw open the parlor blinds, regardless of
Serena's feelings about flies, and the two friends
spent a delightful hour together. The call ended
in Mary's being urged to go home to take off her
best gown and put on an every-day one, and away
they went afterward for a long walk.
"What are the girls doing ?" asked Betty, as if
she considered herself a member already of this
branch of the great secret society of girls.
Oh, nothing; we hardly ever do anything,"
answered Mary Beck, with a surprised and uneasy
glance. "It is so slow in Tideshead, everybody
"I suppose it is slow anywhere if we don't do
anything about it," laughed Betty, so good-nat-
uredly that Mary laughed too. I like to play
out-of-doors just as well as ever I did, don't you ?"
Mary Beck gave a somewhat doubtful answer.
She had dreaded this ceremonious call. She could
not quite understand why Betty Leicester, who had
traveled abroad and done so many things and had,
as people say, such unusual advantages, should
seem the same as ever, and only wear that plain,
comfortable-looking little gingham dress.
"When my other big trunk comes there are
some presents I brought over for you," confessed
Betty shyly. "I have had to keep one of them a
long time because Papa has always been saying
every year that we were sure to come to Tideshead,
and then we have n't after all."
"He has been here two or three times," said
Mary. I saw him go by and I wanted to run out
and ask him about you, but I was afraid to-"
"Afraid of Papa? What a funny thing! You
never would be if you really knew him," exclaimed
Betty with delighted assurance. She laughed



s889.] A BIT OF COLOR. 463

heartily and stopped to lean against a stone wall, liked to call this our tree," she said shyly, looking
and gave Mary Beck a little push which was meant up into the great oak branches. "It seems so
to express a great deal of affection and amusement, strange to be here with you, at last, after all the
Then she forgot everything in looking at the beau- times I have thought about it -"

"- '" .~w.y,.. "S' .- -
:-ir :A L. . J :. --
'.,<.. *.: . : .


tiful view across the farms and the river and toward
the great hills and mountains beyond.
"I knew you would think it was pretty here,"
said Mary. "I have always thought that when
you came back I would bring you here first. I

Betty was touched by this bit of real sentiment.
She was thankful from that moment that she was
going to spend most of the summer in Tideshead.
Here was the best of good things,-a real friend,
who had been waiting for her all the time.

(To be continued.)

~i I;
'? r

[From the Russian of Count Tols~o.]


"' HE winter night shuts swiftly down. Within his little humble room
L Martin, the good old shoemaker, sits musing in the gathering gloom.
-, His tiny lamp from off its hook he takes, and lights its friendly beam,
Reaches for his beloved book and reads it by the flickering gleam.

Long pores he o'er the sacred page. At last he lifts his shaggy head.
If unto me the Master came, how should I welcome Him ? he said;
I Should I be like the Pharisee, with selfish thoughts filled to the brim,
,J Or like the sorrowing sinner,--she who weeping ministered to Him?"

He laid his head upon his arms, and while he thought, upon him crept
Slumber so gentle and so soft he did not realize he slept.
S" Martin I he heard a low voice call. He started, looked toward the door:
'- No one was there. He dozed again. Martin he heard it call once more.

'- Martin, to-morrow I will come. Look out upon the street for me."
He rose, and slowly rubbed his eyes, and gazed about him drowsily.
-' i I dreamed," he said, and went to rest. Waking betimes with morning light,
He wondered, "Were they but a dream, the words I. seemed to hear last
night? "

Then, working by his window low, he watched the passers to and fro.
SPoor Stephen, feeble, bent and old, was shoveling away the snow;
Martin at last laughed at himself for watching all so eagerly.
What fool am I! What look I for? Think I the Master's face to see

" I must be going daft, indeed He turned him to his work once more,
And stitched awhile, but presently found he was watching as before.
Old Stephen leaned against the wall, weary and out of breath was he.
" Come in, friend," Martin cried, come, rest, and warm yourself, and have some tea."

SMay Christ reward you Stephen said, rejoicing in the welcome heat;
" I was so tired Sit," Martin begged, be comforted and drink and eat."
But even while his grateful guest refreshed his chilled and toil-worn frame
Did Martin's eyes still strive to scan each passing form that went and came.

" Are you expecting somebody ?" old Stephen asked. And Martin told,
Though half ashamed, his last night's dream. Truly, I am not quite so bold
As to expect a thing like that," he said, "yet, somehow, still I look! "
With that from off its shelf he took his worn and precious Holy Book.

" Yesterday I was reading here, how among simple folk He walked
Of old, and taught them. Do you know about it ? No?" So then he talked


With joy to Stephen. "Jesus said, The kind, the generous, the poor,
Blessed are they, the humble souls, to be exalted evermore.'"

With tears of gladness in his eyes poor Stephen rose and went his way,
His soul and body comforted; and quietly passed on the day,
Till Martin from his window saw a woman shivering in the cold,
Trying to shield her little babe with her thin garment worn and old.

He called her in and fed her, too, and while she ate he did his best
To make the tiny baby smile, that she might have a little rest;
" Now may Christ bless you, sir she cried, when warmed and cheered she would have gone;
He took his old cloak from the wall. "'T will keep the cold out. Put it on."

She wept. Christ led you to look out and pity wretched me," said she:
Martin replied, Indeed He did and told his story earnestly,
How the low voice said, I will come," and he had watched the livelong day.
" All things are possible," she said, and then she, also, went her way.

Once more he sat him down to work, and on the passers-by to look,
Till the night fell, and then again he lit his lamp and took his book.
Another happy hour was spent, when all at once he seemed to hear
A rustling sound behind his chair; he listened, without thought of fear.

He peered about. Did something move in yonder corner dim and dark?
Was that a voice that spoke his name? Did you not know me, Martin? Hark!
Who spoke? cried Martin. "It is I," replied the Voice, and Stephen stepped
Forth from the dusk and smiled at him, and Martin's heart within him leapt!

Then like a cloud was Stephen gone, and once again did Martin hear
That heavenly Voice. And this is I," sounded in tones divinely clear.
From out the darkness softly came the woman with the little child,
Gazing at him with gentle eyes, and, as she vanished, sweetly smiled.

Then Martin thrilled with solemn joy. Upon the sacred page read he:
" Hungry was I, ye gave me meat; thirsty, and ye gave drink to me;
A stranger I, ye took me in, and as unto the lowliest one
Of these my brethren, even the least, ye did it, unto Me 't was done."

And Martin understood at last it was no vision born of sleep,
And all his soul in prayer and praise filled with a rapture still and deep.
He had not been deceived, it was no fancy of the twilight dim,
But glorious truth! The Master came, and he had ministered to Him.

VOL. XVI.-30.

Dedicated to Elsie Leslie Lyde.

Ive come to see you to day, Sweet-heart, With


noth-ing at all to bring,.. For I gave you my heart for a Val en -

tine, When you were a ti ny thing, When you were a ti y thing.

You won-der I dare to come to- day? Can't you gues, 0 Sweet-heart mine? To the

one I love I have come to get, Not to bring a Val en tine! To the
i ..------_-

R tcrd.. .... .. ...... ..... tempo.

one I love I have come to get, Not to bring a Val en- tine!

4 iz--- = &





THE next morning after their scrape with Tuffy
and Brindle, both Bunnyboy and Browny were
able to be up and dressed, but did not feel so
active as usual.
Browny's wrists and ankles were chafed and
swollen where the cords had held him bound on
the goat's back, and Bunnyboy was somewhat stiff
and sore from lying so long fettered on the ground.
There had been some talk in the family, before
the bunnies came down to breakfast, about what
should be done with those good-for-nothing bear
cubs," as the Deacon called them.
Just what ought to be done was a hard question
to decide; but at last Cousin Jack said he would
take the matter in hand, and try a little home-
missionary work on the bear family.
He thought there might be some better way
found for Tuffy and Brindle to use their strong,
healthy bodies and active minds, than in idle mis-
chief and cruel sports.
The Deacon said he was welcome to the task, but,
as for himself, he felt more like a bad-tempered
heathen, than a missionary, every time he thought
of their shameful treatment of poor Browny.
That afternoon Cousin Jack asked Bunnyboy to
go with him to the north village, and call on Tuffy's
mother, who was a widow.
When they were ready to start, Mother Bunny
gave Bunnyboy a well-filled basket, saying to
Cousin Jack that she never liked to have any one
go missionarying among the poor and needy, quite
Cousin Jack said he was always glad to carry
more food than tracts to such folks, and off they
started to find the Widow Bear.
They found her in a wretched place, not much
better than a hovel, and looking very tired and
Two shabby little cubs were playing in the door-
yard, and another was crying in Mother Bear's
arms, when she came to the door to let them in.
She thought Cousin Jack was a minister, or a
bill-collector, and began to dust a chair for him
with her apron, and to tell him her troubles at the
same time.

Cousin Jack gave her the basket of good things
from Mother Bunny, but said nothing about the
circus affair, because he thought the poor Mother
Bear had enough to worry her, already.
When he asked her why Tuffy and Brindle did
not get some work to do, to help her, she told him
that since their father died she had been too poor
to buy them clothes fit to wear to school, and they
had grown so wild and lawless that no one would
give them work.
She said they were both over in the pasture by
the brook, playing, and were probably in some new
mischief by this time.
"Well, well," said Cousin Jack, "don't be
discouraged; perhaps they may live to be a com-
fort to you yet; at any rate, we will hunt them up,
and see if there is not something besides mischief
in them, and I '11 try to get some work for Tuffy
to do."
Widow Bear thanked him, and bidding her
" Good afternoon," they set out for the pasture.
On the way Bunnyboy was quiet and thought-
ful, for he had never seen such poverty and misery
After thinking about it for a while, he said he
felt sorry for the Mother Bear, and wondered if
Tuffy's father had been a good man.
Cousin Jack said he did not know; very good
folks were sometimes very poor; but the saddest
part of these hard lives was, that so many good
mothers and innocent little children were made to
suffer for the faults of others, and that bad habits
were too often the real cause.
When they came to the brook, they saw Tuffy
and his companions on the top of a hill in the
pasture, racing about and having a roaring good
Tuffy had been showing them how to play
"Wild West."
He had a long rope, with a noose on one end,
and the other end tied around his waist, for he was
playing that he was both horse and rider, and
having great fun lassoing the others, and hauling
them about like wild horses or cattle.
Just as Cousin Jack and Bunnyboy reached the
foot of the hill, Tuffy had grown so vain of his
strength and skill, that he boastfully said he was
going to lasso one of the young steers browsing
near by.

Copyright, 1888, by John H. Jewett. All rights reserved.


They saw him creep carefully forward, and then,
giving the coil a few steady whirls in the air, he
sent the noose flying over the steer's head.
The loop fell loosely over the creature's neck,
and as the crowd set up a shout the steer started
on a run.
One foot went through the open noose, the rope
tightened over and under the steer's shoulders, and
away he went, with Tuffy tugging manfully at the
other end of the rope.
The more they shouted the faster the steer ran,
'Tuffy following as fast as his legs could carry him,
until the frightened creature plunged down the hill
at full speed.
Half-way down Tuffy tripped and fell headlong,
and, hitched by the rope he had so carelessly left
tied around his own body, he was dragged down
the grassy slope, unable to rise, or get a footing.
On dashed the steer, across the broad but
shallow brook, dragging Tuffy after him through
the mud and water, until the cub was landed on
the farther shore.
Here Tuffy's weight against the bank stopped
the steer, and held him fast; but he still tugged,
until Cousin Jack came to the rescue and cut the
rope with his knife.
After Tuffy was upon his feet again, and had
rubbed some of the mud from his face and eyes,
he looked sheepishly about him, while the rest
laughed and jeered at the drenched and drab-
bled cub.
Cousin Jack asked him if he was hurt, and told
him he would better wring out his wet jacket, and
sit down on a log in the sun, before he went home
to change his clothes.
When Tuffy said he was all right, but had
no other clothes to put on, Cousin Jack
asked him why he did not go to
work and earn some.
Tuffy replied that ......-
he could not get
any work -...
to do. -


* 1"l-

S. *' Then
-.. ..- ., said Cousin
'-' '- Jack, kindly,
"That is just what
I have come to talk with you about, for I have been
to see your poor, patient, hard-working mother,
and I can hardly believe that a strong, healthy fel-

low, as you are, is really willing to be a trouble to
her instead of a help."
Tuffy said gruffly, How can I help it when no
one will give me a chance? "
"Then I would try to make a chance," said
Cousin Jack, "and begin by helping her take care
of the children."
Tuffy," said he, "if you 're really in earnest, I
will find you some decent clothes and work to do."
Tuffy was puzzled, for he had thought Cousin
Jack had come over to settle with him for abusing
the bunnies; but as Cousin Jack spoke so kindly
and earnestly, he managed to say, Try me and
SThen Cousin Jack advised him to wash himself,
go to bed early, and let his clothes dry; and in
the morning, if he would come over to Deacon
Bunny's, he should have a better suit.
When Tuffy and the others had gone, and
the Bunnys were on their way home, Bunnyboy
said that perhaps Tuffy was not so bad a fellow
after all.
Cousin Jack said he was glad to hear Bunnyboy
say this; for it was a good plan, once in a while, to
stop and think how much a good home and proper
training had to do with making some folks better
or more fortunate than others, and with giving a
fair start in life.



WHEN Tuffy came home his mother asked him
what had happened to make him so wet.
He told her he had
been fooling with a steer
and got a ducking, but
S that he did n't care, for
.-. he was going to bed, and
his clothes would be dry
''. before he needed to wear
rhem again.
He said he was going over to
Runwild Terrace in the morning,
to see if Lame Jack Bunny meant
what he had said about giving him a new
suit of clothes, and finding him a place where
he might have steady work.
Mother Bear told him the Bunny family were
very kind to take an interest in him, and she hoped
he would try to do his best.
Tuffy replied he should take more stock in them,
when he had seen the clothes, for he had heard
folks talk well before.
Then he went to bed, and his poor mother sat
up half the night cleaning and patching the ragged


.-1. --


garments, that they might look as tidy as possible
for the visit.
At about ten o'clock the next day he started,
wondering how the trip would turn out, and how
it would seem to be dressed a little more like other


to run the factories in the north village.

The stream curved sharply to the left, above the
dam, and the swift current swept over the falls in
a torrent, to the rocky rapids below.

On the way to Deacon Buny's,n Tuffy reached the river, a crowd washed to
cross a bridge over a river across which a dam had
been built so that the water might be used for power
to run the factories in the north village.
The stream curved sharply to the left, above the
dam, and the swift current swept over the falls in
a torrent, to the rocky rapids below.
When Tufty reached the river, a crowd was
gathered on the bank and they were all watch-
ing something on the stream above the dam.

He ran to see what was the matter, and saw a
small skiff, or rowboat, drifting down the stream.
In the boat were old Grandmother Coon, and
Totsy, her little grandchild.
He could hear their piteous cries for help, as
the boat drifted nearer
and nearer to the dam.
Their only chance of
being saved, was that the
S boat might drift close to
a snag which stood out
in the middle of the
stream, where a tall pine
.l -- tree had lodged during a
recent freshet.
", A few feet of the bare
S"' top rose above the surface
S of the water, with the:
':' .', roots held fast below.
Fortunately the current
*,I set that way, and, as the-
S boat drew near, Grand-
S.. j mother Coon caught hold
of the snag and stopped
the boat in the swiftest
part of the current.
The boat swayed and
tossed about, but she
clung with all her strength and held it fast.
There was no other boat at hand, and the excited
crowd on the shore seemed helpless to aid her.
Some one said that if he could swim, he would
go and help her hold the boat.
Tuffy heard the remark, and without pausing a
second, ran up the shore to the bend, stripped off
his jacket, and plunged into the stream.
He could swim like a duck, and by the help of the
current, was soon in line with the boat; but then



-, .l

.--~- =j ;- -







hle was clear-headed enough to know he must
strike the snag, for his weight would upset the
boat, or break her loose, if he tried to climb in.
As he drew near, a few steady strokes brought
his breast against the snag, and he grasped the
gunwale of the boat with both hands, just as
Grandmother Coon, overcome with the strain and
excitement, let go her hold and fell back into the
bottom of the boat.
When the crowd on the shore saw Tuffy with
his body braced against the snag, and his strong
arms on either side holding the boat against the
current, they gave a shout, and called to him:
Stick and hang, Tuffy! Don't let go "
And stick and hang he did, until he thought his
arms would be pulled from his body, while the
frantic folks on the shore rushed about making a
great fuss, but doing nothing of real use.
At last a long rope was found, and some one
who had kept calm and had his wits about him,
told them to tie one end of the rope to a plank and
follow him.
Taking the plank up stream, to the bend where
Tuffy had jumped in, they threw it far out into
the river.
By giving the rope plenty of slack, the plank,
caught by the current, was carried well out toward
the other side.
They watched it drifting down toward the boat,
and when they saw that the plank would go out-

side the snag and carry the rope within Tuffy's
reach, they called to him to keep cool, and hang
on until by pulling on the rope they could bring
it to the surface.
Every minute seemed an hour to Tuffy, whose
hands and arms were stiffened and cramped with
the grip and strain, and he found it no easy matter
to seize the rope without losing his hold on the
When they had hauled in on the rope, and
drawn the plank close to the boat, Tuffy managed
to get the rope between his legs.
By holding on with all his might with his right
hand, he shifted the left to the same side of the
snag, and then taking a fresh grip on the gunwale,
he told them to haul away !
In a few minutes the boat was drawn to the
shore and safely landed with its living load.
Grandmother and Totsy Coon were tenderly
cared for, and Tuffy, who was chilled and tired
out by his long struggle, was taken to a house near
by, given a good rubbing, and a change of dry
Every one praised him for his brave act and his
pluck in holding to the boat so long.
They all said he was a hero, and had saved two
lives by risking his own, and more than one made
the remark:
"Who would have thought that vagabond of a
Tuffy Bear was such a brave, generous fellow "



I '


It made Tuffy feel strange to hear himself praised,
and he wondered if he was really the same Tuffy the
villagers had called a "good-for-nothing cub," ever
since he could remember!
When Grandmother Coon was asked how they
happened to be in the boat, without oars or pad-
dle, she said that Totsy had run away and climbed
into the boat, and when she stepped in after the
little one, the boat, which was not fastened, tipped
up with the added weight, and floated off into deep


..)" ,, -. i, '., __.',- ..
#, Yt -- -. i- _
... ___ _-_

I~f ; .. :- -- .... ', i <- -- .
--" -L- - -


After the excitement was over, Tuffy went on
his way to Runwild Terrace, in his borrowed
clothes, and found Cousin Jack waiting for him.
Some one had carried the news of the accident
and the rescue to the Terrace, and here Tuffy was
given a hearty welcome, and praised on all sides.
Cousin Jack told him he had made a splendid
beginning, and he was glad an occasion had offered
for him to prove his mettle and to show that he
could use, as well as abuse, his brains and strength.
The Bunnys kept him to dinner, and made up a
bundle of comfortable clothing for Brindle and the
other children.
After dinner Cousin Jack told Tuffy that the
Terrace folks had made up a purse of money for
him, and that one of the store-keepers had offered
to give him a full new suit.
When they went to look for work Cousin Jack
advised him to learn a trade, and found a machin-
ist who would give him a place in a shop and pay
small wages for the first year.
Tuffy agreed to begin work the next day, and
went home very proud and happy.
The neighbors had been there before him with
the story, and some, who were both able and will-
ing, had sent in plenty of food and clothing for
the family, when it was known how poor and needy
they were.

Tuffy's mother told him it was the proudest day
of her life, and said she always knew he would
prove a credit to the family, for his father was a
brave man, and had been a soldier in the war, be-
fore Tuffy was born.
Tuffy went to his work the next morning bright
and early, and for a few weeks he liked the change.
After a while the days seemed long, and the
Sunday a long way apart.
One day when Cousin Jack dropped in to see
him, Tuffy grumbled a little, and said he was tired
of being shut up in a shop all day, when the other
fellows he knew were having fun, chestnutting,
and going to base-ball games.
Cousin Jack said that there was where the pluck
came in: he must keep his grip on his work, just
as he did on the boat, the day he saved two lives.
Tuffy replied that folks seemed to have forgot-
ten all about his being a hero, as they had called
him then, and that they treated him just as if he
was the same old Tuffy after all.
Well, well said Cousin Jack, that is the
way of the world, and you must not mind it.
You did a noble and plucky thing that day in
the river, but you are doing a harder and a nobler
task now, by working to help your mother sup-
port the family, and send
your brothers and sisters --
to school."
Cousin Jack talked with IBus P ESS
him hopefully about his APPLY T oaIE
work, and told him there
were a great many real,
every-day heroes who
never had a chance to
earn the title by a single
great act of courage or
endurance, but they were
heroes just the same.
Stick to your work,
Tuffy," said he, "and
don't weaken because the
current is strong against
you, and one of these
days, perhaps, you will be -
a great inventor, or the ;
owner of a shop like this,
yourself." AN "EVERY-DAY HERO."
This made Tuffy feel better, and when he went
home that night he told his mother she need not
worry any more about his giving up learning a
trade, as he had threatened to do. "For," said
Tuffy, I am going to stick to my work and try
to be one of Jack Bunny's Every-Day Heroes "



J A'.C'-' 'I' N ,' -' ,' 1 I .



HERE comes April- smilingly skipping and
tearfully tripping, as is her wont -and so like a
bright, laughing, and sometimes naughty child
that we all enjoy watching her and wondering
what she '11 do next.
And, how odd here comes fluttering down on
my pulpit a pretty song for you by your friend
Emilie Poulsson, that fairly sings itself. It 's an
honest song, too, for it tells a true story. I knew
a snow-flake once -just for a moment -who, on
an April day,, came in that very same manner upon
just such a pretty group standing demurely in the
Now for the poem :
"Such decoration! What can it be?
Sunshine, and blue sky, and snow like me ?
Think I must flutter down there and see "

So said a snow-flake one April day,
Peering to earth from his cloud-bank gray.-
Then, turning somersaults all the way,

Down he went, floating and whirling round,
Till, by-and-by, when he reached the ground,
What do you think little snow-flake found?

Yellow as sunshine, and white as snow,
Blue as if sky bits had fallen low,
There stood the crocuses, all aglow!


Now for the kites! Who can beat this account
which the dear Little School-ma'am read aloud
from The Universal Tinker" to the children of
the Red School-house?
"A large kite, perhaps the largest ever made,
was floated not long ago near Rochester, New
York. The surface contained near two hundred

and fifty square feet. The frame was made of
strips of wood two inches wide and a half an inch
thick. It was covered with stout manilla paper.
For a string there was used a coil of three-eighths-
inch rope, nearly a mile long. The kite rose
grandly. A team of horses were required to haul
it down."

DEAR JACK: Please ask the dear Little School-ma'am
whether it be right to say Chinese, or Chinamen ?
The other day a friend told me that her sister was
"much better, owing to 1., ; ..- 1. I.1 a China doctor "!
If a Chinaman, why not : .. doctor? If a China-
man, why not a Portugal man? etc., etc.,
Very sincerely yours, CORA E. R.

Would you like to hear something about the quick-
sands of the Missouri River (or Big Muddy," as it is
sometimes called)? A few weeks ago a friend and
myself were strolling on Prospect Hill, when I proposed
that we go down on the sand-bar and walk toward home
that way. We found a place where we could get across
to the sand-bar, as it is separated from the shore by a
sort of elongated pond a few feet wide.- We fooled along
on the sand-bar, all the time getting farther down, till
we thought we might better start for home in earnest.
We had been picking our way where it was dry, and
now there was no water where e wished to cross, but
it was very muddy, and as we did not wish to get any
muddier than was necessary, and did not propose to go
back up around the bend where we came across, I pro-
posed thatwe get some driftwood that was on the sand-
bar, and test it to see if it would sink. If it did not, we
could go across in that way. But my reckless compan-
ion started to skip across; at the first step he went in
nearly to his knees. With an exclamation, he gave another
jump, this time sinking to his middle. I thought by
another lunge he might make the dry ground, which was
not far, but he was really fast for the present. He turned
pale, and asked me to help him. I knew it would be
folly for me to jump in after him, so I started back the
way we had come (as it was the only way I could get
help) on a dead run; at the same time a dozen stories
flashed through my mind about the Missouri quicksands.
I was nearly as scared as he was, and ran until I was
ready to drop. To obstruct my progress were damp
places, where I would start to sink and have to go back
and try another place where it was drier. Finally, in
looking back, I noticed that he did n't seem to sink any
more, so I slackened up a little and kept my breath for
a final plunge; as I was turning the bend, I saw him
scramble out nearly covered with slimy mud. 1 finally
got across to the path under the hill, where I ran over
stones innumerable; at last I thought I must be nearly
there, I whistled, and he answered me by a peculiar call,
and I found him at a little house under the hill, clean-
ing the worst of it off; the dark aided us, so he got
home without ot. ',.:i.: any particular attention.
My father I. 11 I II prevented a fatal result was
a ledge of rock that projected out from the bank, as my
friend says that when he stopped sinking he struck some
hard substance; if he had gone down a few feet fur-
ther out, where the ledge did n't extend, he would have
gone under in less time than it takes to tell it, for I was
comparatively powerless to aid him.
Since then a man got out of the road a little way




(the road goes across the sand-bar now to the ferry)
and went up almost to his shoulders in the quicksand,
when he was helped out by some men.
Later yet, a hack went a little off from the road,
and the passengers had to scramble out as best they
could, while the horses were nearly imprisoned before
they could be got out, which was a hard job.
The hack itself sunk about half its height into the
sand, and there it stayed (and I don't knowbutit is there
now) for a long while as a landmark; somebody labeled
it Republican Party during the election, but it now
proves it was the other party.
The Government have flags upon the sand-bar not
very far from the road, signifying "Danger."
Hoping I have not tired you by too long a letter,
I remain your interested reader,

M. B. DICKMAN has been egg-hunting, in books,
and has found such a noble specimen for you, that
you shall have the account of it just as it is sent
to this pulpit:
How would any of you ST. NICHOLAS readers
like an egg as big as a water-melon served for
breakfast on Easter morning? You might have
seen just such an egg if you had lived in Mada-
gascar hundreds of years ago, when the Aepyornis
Why, you could have given an egg breakfast
to seventy persons, and, at the rate of two of our
domestic hen's eggs to each person, would have


-. ,.- ',. .'i
-i I- ,'

] l .* 1 ',, '1

^ ^
i ^ t ,< .= '.

S-"-- -
"__. '4" !
:--A -:, *:

had plenty. Just think of taking the contents of
one hundred and forty of our hen's eggs and put-
ting them into one egg-shell!
Fancy hunting for eggs as big as footballs !-
eggs which sometimes measured over three feet
the longest way around, two feet six inches around
the middle, and held eight quarts of meat, and had
a shell at least half an inch thick! What an arm-
ful one would make !
The bird that laid this enormous egg is known
as the Aefyornis maximus, and it was the largest
bird ever known to exist. It was a first cousin of
the ostrich, although a much larger bird, towering
above the tallest giraffe. Like the ostrich, it was
practically wingless, but was a swift runner. It has
been estimated that if the ostrich can travel at the
rate of twenty-six miles an hour, the Aepyornis
could have traveled at least thirty miles,- or a mile
every two minutes.
From the circumstances under which the first
egg was found, it was hoped the bird might still be
living, but only the incomplete skeleton of it and
fragments of other eggs were ever discovered. There
is but one complete egg of this giant bird to be
seen in the civilized world at present, and it is
cracked in several places. It is in the possession
of the French Government, and is kept in the Jar-
din des Plantes in Paris.
Several casts and fragments of the shells are to
be seen in London in the South Kensington Muse-
um of Natural History.


4. M



I -.



, '"


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl, twelve years
old, living in Wyoming Territory. I live on a ranch
twenty miles from Laramie City. Our ranch is among
the Rockies, which makes it very nice for us in sum-
mer, as there are many beautiful flowers on the sides
of the mountains.
We have a governess who teaches us, and on long
winter evenings reads us the stories in your nice book.
I go horseback riding, and have a pony of my own,
named Custer."
I have two brothers and one sister, all younger than
myself. I have taken you since June.
I am your constant reader, ANNA B. H-- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : In your February number you
have an article entitled A Rose in a Queer Place," by
Prof. F. Starr. I can tell you a story about Mr. and
Mrs. Cleveland's portraits in a queer place."
During the latter part of last February, as you remem-
ber, the President and his wife went to Florida.
Of course, the people of Jacksonville made quite a stir
over such distinguished guests and, among other things,
they were shown through the Sub-tropical Exposition.
The ice manufacturers of that city had frozen two
blocks of ice the same size, one containing Mrs. Cleve-
land's picture encircled in a wreath of natural pansies,
which I believe are her favorite flowers; and the other
Mr. Cleveland's, with a wreath of pansies and roses.
On seeing this pretty though bold style of framing a
picture, Mrs. Cleveland remarked, This is rather a cold
reception," and the gentleman who was showing the
Presidential party around replied, "Yes, but we are
going to thaw."
I visited the Exposition the following day and saw these
cakes of ice, and although they had thawed somewhat,
the photographs and flowers could still be seen through
the ice. Your admirer, PAULINE McD- .

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have wished to tell you,
dear ST. NICHOLAS, for a long time, how dear you are
to me. I have not missed a single number since the first
number was issued. When you first came out, I was too
young to read, but I enjoyed seeing the pictures andhear-
ing the I. h-hliful fairy stories which seemed to me en-
chanting in those days. And it seems somehow as if your
own growth had kept pace with mine, and that even now
you are not too young for me. I hope that it may be
so for a long time to come.
Your loving friend, J. H--.

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : I have written to you
before, but as my letter was not printed I thought I
would write again. I am living on a farm, fourteen
miles out of Moorhead, Minn.
For pets, I have a pony, two dogs, a cow, and a bird.

Our farm is right on the banks of a river called the Buf-
falo. I like farm life in the summer much more than in
the winter, for it is almost too cold to enjoy yourself out-
of-doors; but when I have to stay in the house, I always
have one good companion, and that is the ST. NICHOLAS.
I am very fond of reading, and look forward to your
coming every month with pleasure.
Last winter I lived in Moorhead, but this spring we
came out on the farm, and I like it much better than
when I lived in Moorhead. It is lovely up here, in the
summer, with all the green trees, and the river flowing
near by.

I remain your friend,


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: This is my first letter to you.
I am one of your most interested readers, and of all the
magazines and papers that we take, I like you best. I
have especially enjoyed the serials.
I live in what we think is the best part of the Golden
State. Our county (Fresno County) is the banner
raisin-county of the State.
I carry papers both morning and evening, earning
eighteen dollars a month. I am the oldest of eight
brothers, and am thirteen years old. We all enjoy your
magazine very much.
I will not write any more, so wishing you a pros-
perous year,
I remain yours truly, TRACY R. K--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I like you very much. My
cousin, whom I have never seen, has been sending you
to me.
I live with my grandpa, who works at the Phosphate
mines, S. C. We live here in the winter, but we live
in Summerville in the summer, because it is not healthy
here. We were in Summerville when the earthquake
of 1886 came, and I was buried under the plastering. I
was seven years old then. I enjoyed the camping-out
very much, because I did not have to go to school
nor learn any lessons. Grandpa has given me a gun
this winter, and I have killed about twenty birds and
hope to get a partridge soon. I must close now.
Your little friend, JULIUS NOBLE DU B- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never written a letter
to you, and so I hope this will be published.
I have four brothers, and we have all taken you since
your magazine was first started. I am never tired of
reading the back numbers, and always find something
new in them.
I think there was never such a perfectly lovely story
as Little Lord Fauntleroy."
I have not seen the play yet, but hope to soon. I
have seen little Elsie Leslie a great many times, for she
used to live in Elizabeth.
I like Mrs. Burnett's stories very much indeed, and


I wish that she would write another serial, longer than
her latest two.
It is such a pleasure to have dear ST. NICHOLAS to
read, that I do not know what I should do without it.
Your loving reader, MAY G. M- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : I am a reader of your maga-
zine, and Mamma used to buy it for me before I could
read for myself.
We spent last winter in Santa Barbara, Cal., and last
September my papa, mamma, sister, and myself drove
from there to San Francisco, on the coast road, in a two-
seated carriage and four horses, with camping-out out-
fit. We had two dogs, one a Gordon setter; and as we
saw much small game, and I had a 22-rifle and Papa a
shot-gun, we found the dogs very useful.
I shot a wild goose, on the marsh, near San Francisco
bay, all by myself. As we were camping-out, and Mamma
could n't cook it, I gave it to an old miner, who was glad
to get it, and I was very proud of having shot it.
We saw some beautiful scenery and crossed some high
mountains, the "coast range" being made up of several
small ranges, in one of which (the Gabilan) is the peak
called "Fr6mont's Peak," where he fled with his sol-
diers, when the Spanish Governor-General of California
ordered him out of the country, when we were. fighting
with Mexico; and it was here the Stars and Stripes first
floated to the view of the hostile Mexicans. It is near
San Juan, a quaint little town full of old adobe houses
and a mission of the same name, San Juan Bautist"."
We had some funny adventures, and some that were
not so funny.
We came back to San Jos6, which is a prosperous city
about fifty miles south of the city of San Francisco, and
I am going to school. Papa says he will drive to Mount
Hamilton," to visit the Lick Observatory during my
Christmas vacation, and next summer we expect to go to
the Yosemite.
I forgot to say I was born in West Twelfth street,
New York City, and lived there all my life, and hope
to go back when we have seen more of this wonderful
Pacific coast.
One of your young admirers, GEORGE F. V- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wrote to you two months
ago asking for a foreign correspondent, and since my
letter was printed in the December number I have had
no less than sixty answers to it. If you will kindly in-
sert these few lines in your columns, I should in this way
be able to thank all the young ladies who have written
such pleasant letters to me, and to tell them how sorry I
am that it is impossible to correspond with sixty people
all at once. I should like to say, also, that since Rosas
was driven out of Buenos Ayres, in 1852, the government
has been modeled upon that of the United States,-but
their president is elected every six years.
Wishing you and all your readers a prosperous and
happy new year, I remain yours truly,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am sixteen, and attend the
High School just across the street.
The school term is almost ended, for which I am most
The other day I read of a high school where the boys
and girls both drilled daily with guns. I can not remem-
ber where it was, but would like to know more about it

if, by chance, some of your readers live in the same city
and recognize the school. I don't think there can be
more than one of the kind in the United States.
During this last summer I made a boat from a descrip-
tion I read. It was my first attempt at carpentering, and
I was quite elated at my success, for it did n't leak. I
painted it white inside and blue outside, with a gold
stripe, and named it "A. Dodger." I wish girls could
take carpenter lessons.
Your reader, LONDA L. S- .

LONDA will find a description of a system of military
drill for girls in an article entitled "A Girls' Military
Company," in ST. NICHOLAS for January, 1888.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I live in Pittsburgh, and last
summer, as soon as school was closed, Istartedfor Muncy,
with all my camping equipment. Muncy is a little town
about three hundred miles from here, and was named
after the Muncy tribe of Indians. The Susquehanna
river flows about a mile from the town. I got my old
chum, Robert Grange, to go with me; and we went down
the river about two miles to a place called Turkey Run.
There we pitched our tent, and put the camp in order;
then we rigged our lines to catch some fish; we tended
the lines faithfully all day, and the result was we were
very successful by nightfall. I have seen very many fish,
but the finest I ever saw were taken out of the Susque-
hanna. It's a delightful place for swimming: ten feet from
the shore it's over twenty feet deep. We caught one im-
mense snapping-turtle, and for our Sunday dinner we had
turtle soup. About the fourth day we were there, a large
crane alighted on the bogs not one hundred yards away,
but, as luck would have it, I had lost the firing-pin out of
my gun, and with sorrow saw the bird fly away. We had
a great many visitors at camp, and we lived in style. In
two weeks we had a great deal of fun, and then started
for home.
One thing I forgot to mention: that one night there
was such a storm, and it rained so hard, that I thought
the tent would surely go over; and the dog we had with
us was very much scared. Affectionately,
H. S. R-

WE thank the young friends whose names here follow
for pleasant letters received from them: Susie W., Carl
Wells, Leo J. F., Henry H. Lee, Louise and Lucy,
Anna H., Arthur M. Jenkins, Dolores and Audrey, M.
J. W., F. R., Elsie Blake, T. E. R., Charlie H., Claire
D., Rose M. W., Philip Allen, Florence Scofield, L. G.
N., Adele Clawson, F. Lindsey Curtis, Daisy Davidson,
Sophie and Erwin G., Lawrence Hills, Helen L. S.,
E. W. Bailey, Edwin L. Robinson, Kate Alexander,
Emma L. Campbell, Cleveland Smith, Jex, M. E. K.,
Lilian St. Claire, Henry S. Ely, A. L. T., R. C. Will-
iamson, Hattie Hopkins, Kiette M. Elderd, Mabel Gif-
fin, Rebie M. J., Hattie McL., C. P. R., Alice Ingersoll,
Mary P. Jones, Constance Adee, Maurice V. C., Brad-
ford S. S., Olive Branch, Emily Bannister, Laura F.
Moses, Ethel, A. B. L., Lilian M., A. E. S., Carolyn
R., Katherine, Harold A. Koonz, Lulu S., Jessie S.,
Jim S., Gladys S., Jack S., Tom S., Will S., Margaret
S., Jack Briggs, Madonna," S. B. Van Duser, Jr.,
Ernest C. Pittsford, Maud Metcalf, Ann E. Robb,
Bertha C., Anita M. S., Mamie Hicks, Maude M. S.,
Phyllis S. C., Sallie P., Allie Richards, Frank S. H.,
Jane and Susan, Jessie C. Knight, Florence Park, Ralph
S. B., Alice L. Bell, Winnie Nicholls.




I AM going to tell you about a little boy who had scar-
let fever, and about how he amused himself. He was
quarantined in his own room for six weeks, yet he did
not have a dull time, after all. He saw no one during
those weeks but his father and mother and the doctor.
When Arthur was first taken sick and the doctor said
that it was scarlet fever, every unnecessary article of
furniture was removed from his room. His bed seemed
very necessary, so that remained; also his bureau, wash-
stand, a table, and two chairs. The carpet was taken
away, as well as the book-case and all the books. The
closet was emptied of all the clothes, and the drawers full
of toys were stowed away in the attic.
When so many of his cherished belongings were gone
Arthur thought it was a very queer-looking room, and
the first time he sat up in bed and looked at the bare
floor he said it seemed as if he were in prison.
In a week he was able to be up and dressed, and in
a few days more he began to feel so well that he asked
what he could do to amuse himself. His playthings
were gone and his books. What could he do, sure
enough ? His mother, too, began to wonder. The doc-
tor said he must not go down-stairs, or even leave the
room, for six weeks from the beginning of his illness.
Ten days were gone. but Nwhat should be done with the
thirty-two remaining ?
Arthur's father made a happy suggestion. He pro-
posed that Arthur should have his work-bench brought
from the barn up-stairs to his room, and then, with his
tools and a supply of sticks and blocks of wood, he might

work away to his heart's content. There was a great deal
of measuring to find out whether the bench was small
enough to go through doors and up stairways, and the
next morning the question was settled. The neighbors,
if they were looking out of their windows, must have
seen a funny sight. The work-bench, six feet long, was
carried around the house, the double front doors were
thrown wide open, and the bench disappeared through
the vestibule. Up the front stairs it went, through a long
hall, and into Arthur's room,- the service-worn old
bench, never more prized than now when it had so im-
portant a part to play in the family history.
Now that Arthur was going to be a little carpenter,
how convenient it was to have a bare floor in his room !
The strips and pieces of wood of all sizes, brought from
a carpenter's shop, were piled upon the floor under the
work-table. The drawers were opened, and out came
all the tools,-the plane, the brace and bits, the draw-
knife, saw, and hammer.
Arthur's eyes fairly shone as he greeted one by one
his familiar friends. Here a difficulty arose. There
was the work-bench, there were the tools and the wood,
and there was the boy himself,-the little workman.
But what should he make first? He asked his mother.
"Suppose you try to make a chair," was her reply.
Arthur looked somewhat doubtful as he said, I never
made anything of that sort in my life."
But he worked away all one morning, and succeeded
in making a chair of simple design.
A little friend of Arthur's has drawn a picture of


the chair for you to see; and the same little girl drew
all the pictures in this story directly from the objects
The next day Arthur was in a hurry to be up and
dressed, so as to make all sorts of things which were
taking shape in his boyish mind.
Day after day Arthur worked happily on with his
tools. Sometimes his mother read to him while he
worked. He did not wish bound books taken to his
room for fear they would have to be burned when he
was well. But single numbers of the ST. NICHOLAS,
which could be replaced, and copies of other magazines
and papers found their way in and were very welcome.
About four o'clock every afternoon Arthur began to put
his room in order. He put the tools back into the table-


gry, so his mother covered over in a saucer by his bed
one cracker and, as a special treat, one marsh-mallow for
him to eat every morning. After a while these were not
enough for his early morning diversion, so his mother
suggested that he should compose a nonsense verse to
repeat to her when she came in to bid him good-morn-
ing. Here is the verse he had all ready to recite to her
the first morning:
There was an old fellow of Bute,
Who thought he could play on the flute;
When they asked, Play a tune?"
He replied, "You're too soon;
Come over this eve, and I '11 toot! "
After that he never found the time long before his

r I
trlJ;L 1
- ,-

drawers, and swept up the chips and shavings which had
gathered during the day. Then, every day or two these
were carried away and carefully burned. Each day a
new piece of toy furniture was added to the row of
dainty designs on the bureau. Arthur asked to have
them placed so that he could see them all when he first
waked in the morning. Sometimes the hour just before
it was time to light the lamp, and after the work was over
for the day, seemed rather long. So Arthur's mother
proposed that they should play Thirty-one," look-
ing out of the window. From the east window they
could look a long distance up a busy street, and all the
people who came down the right-hand side of the street
Arthur counted for his side, and his mother counted all
who came down the left side of the street on her score.
Whoever first counted thirty-one passers-by on the chosen
side of the street won the game. They played this
many times every afternoon until it grew too dark to see
the people. After the first week of his illness Arthur
did not need to have his mother sleep in the room with
him, so she would tuck him in very comfortably about
eight o'clock every night, and leave him with a stout
cane by his bedside to knock on the wall if he wished to
call her during the night, for she slept in the next room.
As he waked very early every morning, the time seemed
long until his mother could come to him and attend to
his rising and dressing himself. He was also very hun-



mother's early visit, as the verse-making, in addition to
the cracker and the marsh-mallow, furnished abundant
When four weeks had gone, Arthur's interest in mak-
ing furniture was at low ebb. Then he thought he should
like to make a boat. So his father brought him a solid
piece of wood of just the size he needed, six inches through
each way by fifteen inches long, and he began work again
with fresh enthusiasm. It took him one week to shape
and hollow the hull and put on the deck. Next came
the masts, and then all the rigging. What a busy time
it was! He worked very fast, for the day was approach-

ing when he could be released from his imprisonment,
and he hoped to finish the boat before he left his room.
And so he did, all but a few very last touches, which were
added some weeks later. The boat was named the" Al-
tama," after a beautiful yacht owned by a gentleman liv-
ingnear Boston. This gentleman had kindly given Arthur
a sail in Boston harbor the summer before, when he went
with his mother to the seashore. When the six weeks were
over Arthur went out of his room a very happy-looking
rosy boy, because his body and mind had been kept so
pleasantly occupied, and he does not think it is so very
bad, after all, to have the scarlet fever -as he had it.


OUR thanks are due to six thousand and seventy-two friends for
prompt and hearty responses in competition for the prizes offered in
the January Riddle-box.
The only unpleasant part of this competition is the remembrance
of the six thousand and fifty-one competitors, who, having tried, fail
to receive a prize. But there is a pleasant thought even here: that
the workers have found pleasure in their work, as many have
testified. All seem to have entered the contest in the spirit with
which Orlando (whom you all know is a character in "As You
Like It ") accepted the challenge of Duke Frederick's wrestler:
" I come but in, as others do, to try with him the strength of my
One disconsolate competitor quotes at the end of her list:
The miserable have no other medicine,
But only hope."
Another says, I am sure that not even 'Hunting the Snark' can
be so much fun as hunting after ', i ..... characters. "
Another, who signs herself ..... ..... I I wish you
a happy, happy New Year, and I hope you will live long to gladden
the home of every person in the world."
Another: My list may not prove to be the longest, but I have
tried to make it so. If I do not get a prize I shall have learned
something about Shakespeare, so that my time will not have been
Here are a few extracts from other letters:
If my list does not receive a prize, it will not be from laziness in
hunting after names."
I hope my list is complete enough to win the five-dollar prize.
If not, then good luck to the one who does win it."
I thank you very much for printing such an interesting puzzle.
I know more about Shakespeare now than I ever did before,-more
about the names of his characters, I mean."
It was a very tempting time for you to print a prize puzzle,
when Christmas had emptied our purses."
Having very much enjoyed the search, I shall not, therefore,
envy the person who proves to have been more painstaking and
thorough than myself."
I have worked at the puzzle for five days. My January num-
ber is a rag, and Mamma says her Shakespeare has suffered! "
One mother, in sending her boy's list, writes, "Jack says that if
he gets no prize, he has had lots of fun."
One of the thoughtful ones writes, I hope you may not be over-
taxed with work in examining the answers."
Indeed, it was no easy task to examine the great number of an-
swers which came, not only from all parts of the United States and
Canada, but from Great Britain, France, and Germany. Many noti-
fications were received from postmasters saying that letters addressed
to the "ST. NICHOLAS Riddle-box" were held for lack of sufficient
:. stamps were forwarded in every instance, except when
.. iI,.: ..-.. were received after the isth of January. Supplemental
lists were not counted, for to have done so would have enormously
increased the work of examination, and would have delayed the re-
port for another month.
With perhaps twenty exceptions, all of the solutions received were
prepared with extreme neatness and care, and these merits were
thoroughly appreciated.
The list of names under the head of Honorable Mention," include
those deserving of special commendation. We would have been glad

to extend this list to include others whose names deserve a place in
it; but for lack of space it must be curtailed.
After careful examination of both the "Leopold" and "Globe"
Shakespeares both of which are considered standard editions it
was decided that only one hundred and seven names could legiti-
mately be found. All mere words, such as "forester," gaolerr,"
"lord," and "porter," were ruled out. When usage makes one
name descriptive of the character (as "Cmsar" for "Julius Cmsar "),
such abbreviations have been allowed. All repetitions were ruled out
except in the case of Mark Antony. The name Antonius is given in
the list of characters in "Julius Cmsar," and in the play he is often
alluded to as "Antony," while in "Antony and Cleopatra" this
is reversed. The name Rotherham" appeared in so many lists
spelled as "Rotheram" it was decided to admit that name, though
it could not have been spelled out if the first spelling of the word
had been insisted upon.
If any are disposed to find fault with the result i r .., :.
it can only be said that perfect fairness to all has ".:-.. ....... -r.
the result, which we believe to be just, was reached only after weeks
of painstaking labor. In this examination the editor has had the
advantage of examining and comparing the very best efforts of the
competitors, and all have been judged by the same standard.
Out of the six thousand and seventy-two answers received, only
twenty-three reached the mystic number. So, instead of the twenty-
one prizes offered, twenty-three prizes will be given. The Roll of
Honor" includes those whose lists almost reached the standard.
The one hundred and seven names are as follows: Aaron, Adam,
Adrian, Adriana, ,Egeon, JEneas, Angelo, Anne Page, Antonio, An-
tonius, Antony, Armado, Bassanio, Beatrice, Borachio, Cade, Caesar,
Caius, Cassio, Cassius, Cato, Celia, Charles, Chiron, Diana, Dion,
Dorcas, Dromio, Duncan, Egeus, Eros, Escalus, Escanes, Evans,
Fang, Ford, Froth, Goneril, Hamlet, Helen, Helena, Helenus, Hero,
Horatio, lachimo, lago, Iden, Imogen, Iras, Isabel, Isabella, Jessica,
Julia, Juliet, Laertes, Lafeu, Lartius, Lavinia, Lear, Lena [Popilius],
Leonardo, Luciana, Lucilius, Macbeth, Mardian, Maria, Mariana,
Martins, Melun, Menas, Menelaus, Mercutio, Michael, Miranda,
Mopsa, Morton, Moth, Nerissa, Oberon, Oliver, Olivia, Orleans,
Othello, Paris, Pisanio, Portia, Proteus, Regan, Richard, Richmond,
Robin, Roderigo, Romeo, Rosalind, Rosaline, Rotheram, Silius,
Silvia, Silvius, Solinus, Thaisa, Time, Timon, Titania, Titus, Troi-
lus, and Viola.
M. B. Toplitz-Aenes G. Gay-John Hawkins-R. N. Wood-
bridge-Ethel ..!...i.n, r .r. L. D. Williams--Helen T. Chicker-
ing-R. P. M.-Grace Timms-Samuel Fitton, Jr.-M. V.
Russell-Charles C. Rawn -M. N. Robinson-E. Macdougall-
Nellie Tillard- Marion F. Leavitt- E. D. Litchfield- lsabelle de
Treville -Mary E. Thomas-N. P. Samson--Alice G. Street.
R. E. Hieronymus--Mrs. T. G. Field-Lillie Kirk-Gretta
Fort-Ethel M. Rafter-Nina Alves-Colton Maynard-Jen-
nie P. Peck -Fenollosa Bros.-Helen D. Heiges-T. H. Wal-
ford-Grace J. Nash-Ollie Schreiner- Florence A. .ine-
Bertha F. Capen-Fred P. Dodge-Mary Seymour-Julia Gil-
bert-Bertie Briggs -Amy W. Field--Allan Ormsbee--Janet S.
Robinson- Horace Suydam.


Sarah M. Homans- Reginald Heath-J. E. Hardenbergh--Alice Gordon Cleather-Kate K. Welch-Howard G. Strunk-
Platt M. Conrad- C. W. Earhart -Alice A. Poore- John C. Clapp, Jr.- Maude E. Palmer -W. P. Young- Robert S. Boyns-Ger-
trude Hall-" My Wife and I "-7 ..: ,. "ebster- Christine L. Bowen-Ethel Brotherhood-Florence J. Stuart-George D.
Taylor- M. J. Averill- Elizabeth ... Ii .: -I S. Dickson- Bella Ross- May, Ray, and Lily Lefferts--Emma A. Steel- Fanny
Peirce Wm. H. Gardiner- Grace Kupfer- Eliot White Alice Maude I'Anson Rose E. Hoyt -Bertha F. Capen -Harry Meed-





Mildred C. Compton Preston Herndon Harry L. Walker--Duncan Moore Fanny Thomson Marion E. Park- Ella E. Snow
-John P. Sylvester-Louis D. Rucker, Jr.-Frankie Boyd-Mabel Dodge-Rena C. Pratt-Armytage Black-George H. and
Lilly T. Rountree-John B. Briggs, Jr.-Elise M. Underhill- Janet S. Robinson-Marie Spalding- Anna M. Hamvasy -James
E. Holmes- May Bennett-Charlotte Kilgour- Edward C. and Bradley Heald- George Hope Fannie M. Defrees- Margaret
Densmore Marion Wilson--J. F. Speed Benj. R. Metheany Carl T. Robertson Nora Maynard-- Emily Cook- Grace L.
Kip--G. E. Collins- Christina H. Garrett E. M. Coates- Christine O. Lippert Amelia E. Preston -" Infantry "- Emilie Ad-
donis Emily Newcomb Bessie Hamlin Alice M. Collbran- Robert Homans Franklin B. Lefferts Percy L. Reed Bessie
Chilton Harry Bristow Fannie Tyng- R. T. and Helen Lincoln Fred M. Worstell Annie Van Campen -" Solomon Quill "-
Helen L. Tucker Willie N. Temple Maude H. Johnson W. H. Cheney Marian E. Barron Katie Coggeshall A. Maynard -
H. J. Spanton- Mabel Goozee -Julia Homan Arthur V. Pierce -J. A. Davis Annie M. Pratt --John E. Selig Hattie M.
Squier--Joe and Clif Chamberlin--Altia R. Austin--Marion E. Hutchins-Washington L. Simmonds--Wmo. Wallace Brown-
Jas. D. Davis- Ruth B. Delano- Wm. H. Pett Julia L. Peace Clara Bosworth- Chas. R. Passehl Lottie Porter Helen
Ouston--Edith Matthews-Clarita "r- il-.i -r 'V Martin-Dora Watts-Allie E. Etienne-Lotta M. Burrows-Elsie Paddack -
Lida and Sam Whitaker- Steenie l- .. I 'V.ii .-.-. Wallace Brown Frank E. Follett-Annie S. Rettie- Alice P. Thayer-Emma
S. McMahon-Lillian Harrington-C. B. McGrew-Archer C. Sinclair-Wallie Hawks-Charlotte Kilgour Eva B. King- Ethel
Lewis-Lilian Heaton-Lewis C. Grover-Maria Louise Prevost-W. H. Cheney-Emma A. Steel-Albert H. Chester, Jr.-Alec
T. Ovenshine-Ethel Hungerford-Clara Bosworth-Edith Wiswall-Herbert L. Coffin-Tyler and Helen Lincoln-Richard E.
O'Brien-George Hope-Frank Hallowell-Carrie Draper- Emma E. Bent- Bessie Hamlin-Louie Mitchell-J. F. Speed-John
B. Briggs, Jr. -Bena Rosebrugh-Alice L. Granbery- Margaret V. Webster-Arthur Howe Carpenter- Fanny Thomson-Arthur
Cross-Ella E. Snow-Grace G. Babbit-J. E. L. Underhill- Grace Graybill-Katharine Lawton-Edna Hamilton.



worth. 3. Boston. 4. Newark. 5. Lowell. 6. Dunkirk. 7.
Cleveland. 8. Springfield. 9. New Orleans. To. Hartford. In.
Saratoga Springs. 12. Manchester. 13. Baltimore. 14. Hannibal.
15. Willimantic.
RHYMED WORD-SQUARE. I. Grasp. 2. Ratio. 3. Atone. 4.
Sines. 5. Poesy.
SINGLE ACROSTIC. Primals, Epimetheus. Cross-words: i. Ere-
bus. 2. Pollux. 3. Ithaca. 4. Medusa. 5. Epirus. 6. Thales.
7. Hellas. 8. Europa. 9. Urania. io. Sparta.
PENTAGONS. I. i. 2. 2Low. 3. Lewis. 4. Howells. 5.
Willie. 6.Slide. 7. Seer. II. i. J. 2. Par. 3. Paced. 4.
Jackson. 5. Reside. 6. Dodge. 7. Need. III. I. M. 2.
Cap. 3. Cadet. 4. Madison. 5 Pestle. 6. Tolls. 7. Nest.
IV. P. 2. Arc. 3. Aloud. 4. Proctor. 5. Cuttle. 6. Doles.
7. Rest. V. i. C. a. Can. 3. Color. 4. Calhoun. 5. Noodle.
6. Rules. 7. Nest.


2 --

A/* l

FROM I to 4, a narrow way; from 5 to 8, harness; from 9 to r2,
one of the constellations; from 13 to 16, quickly; from i to 5, dila-
tory; from 5 to 9, to defraud; from 9 to 13, a town founded by
Pizarro in 1535; from r3 to I, the victim of the first murder on
record; from 2 to 6, dwelt; from 6 to 1o, ingress; from to to 14, to
long; from 14 to 2, a famous opera; from 3 to 7, a state; from 7
to Ix, one who dwells; from ix to Is. afamousbridge in Venice; from

DIVIDED WORDS. Ash Wednesday, Season of Lent. r. Sea-
son. 2. Less-ens. 3. Couch-ant. 4. Brow-sing. 5. Came-os.
6. Mid-night. 7. Inn-ovate. 8. Rue-fully. 9. Cows-lip. n0.
End-ear. x. Lea-ned. 12. Day-ton.
COMBINATION ACROSTIC. From I to 2, Hibernia; 3 to 4, home;
5 to 6, rule. Cross-words: i. Fashion. 2. Logical. 3. Timbrel.
4. Homeric. 5. Misrule. 6. Harness. 7. Obvious. 8. Invalid.
PECULIAR ACROSTICS. I. Lucy Gray. Cross-words: i. Paling.
2. Stupor. 3. Fecula. 4. Stythy. II. Words worth. Cross-
words: I. Gewgaw. 2. Grotto. 3. Bursar. 4. Ardent. 5. Josiah.
No weather is ill
If the wind be still.
DOUBLE DIAGONALS. Diagonals, baronet and coronet. Cross-
words: i. Baalbec. 2. Balloon. 3. Bartram. 4. Bedouin. 5.
Canonry. 6. Leaflet. 7. Taboret.
NOVEL RHOMBOID. Across: I. Ratel. 2. Hades. 3. Pivot.
4. Terah. 5. Rebel.

15 to 3, the king of the fairies; from 4 to 8, one who has the right of
choice; from 8 to 12, to retain; from 12 to 16, oriental; from 16 to 4,
ingenuousness. "sMY WIFE AND i."

THE central row of letters, reading downward, will spell a word
meaning mistaken.
Example: The first three letters spell an edge; the last three,
encountered. Answer, ri-m-et.
Reading across (five letters): r. The first three letters spell
observed; the last three, a verb. 2. The first three letters spell dis-
tant; the last three, a blow. 3. The first three letters spell a num-
ber; the last three, a number. 4. The first three letters spell a
biped; the last three, a doze. 5. The first three letters spell a fruit;
the last three, a weapon. ETHEL CHAFFIN.


BEFORE time was I had a place,
I 'm vaster than created space;
Yet never was my smallest part
Revealed by telescopic art.
Great expectations flee apace
When I arrive and show my face;
While hope grows brighter day by day
If luckily, I'm in the way.
In empty brains I have a birth;
I sum up what the spendthrift's worth;
In false alarms I 'm sure to be;
When I pursue, the wicked flee."
For me contented minds have longed;
With me the covetous feel wronged:
Yet those who toil not most deserve me,-
Ay, they shall win me and preserve me. c. L M.

i. Poetry. 2. A feminine name. 3. Austerity. 4. A declivity.
5. Journeys or circuits. EURFKA."


i. To walk through any substance that yields to the feet 2. A
substance used in brewing. 3. Extensive. 4. To throw with vio-
lence. 5. A small bedstead. 6. To desire to possess. 7. A labored
respiration. 8. Anything extremely small, 9. A curtain which
falls in front of the stage of a theatre. 1o. The proper coat of the
seed of wheat. ir. One who entertains another. 12. At a distance.
13. An appearance resembling i... .:.1 14. A common and
very useful substance. 15. To.1. 1 .. A mold of the human
foot made of wood. 17. Slight. A8. A mythical lady mentioned by
Tennyson in his Idyls of the King." 19. A river always men-
tioned in connection with a certain small but famous town of Eng-
land. 20. Dimensions. 21. A man of gravity and wisdom. 22..A
country of South America. 23. A tract of ground kept untilled,
about a residence. 24. A tropical fruit. 25. A genus of passerine
birds somewhat resembling the kingfishers. 26. A quadruped of
the weasel tribe. 27. A swimming and diving bird found in the
arctic regions. 28. A small insessorial bird.
All the words described are of the same length. When these
twenty-eight words are rightly guessed, and placed one below an-
other in the order here given, the zigzags, beginning at the upper
left-hand corner, will spell an event which occurred on April thir-
tieth, one hundred years ago. "CORNELIA BLIMBER.'.


iT -": title, or mode of address;
T .11 -:.J. no recital, 't is easy to guess.
My i-Lr rd has in. it this magical charm,-
i ..,.. .. ., can win it, you rivals disarm.
My whole comes unbidden, with hurrying pace,
So closely 't is hidden, till met face to face.
M. I. R.

ONE word is concealed in each sentence.
1. There was a neat bevel at every joint. 2. Apollo, Vesta, and
Juno are noted mythological deities. 3. She was seized with a
vertigo as she was leaving the pier. 4. The painter sees many
beauties that escape other eyes. 5. Minna's cloak is lined with the
purest ermine. z. Y. x.

spear. 7. A seat of state. 8. A kind of earthen ware. 9. To be
lacking. io. To resound. i. A word of censure. 12. A prefix
meaning together, or jointly. 13. In rhomboid. c. B. D.

IN mansion, not in hut;
In open, not:in shut;
In river, rot in.lake;
In giving, not in take;
In looking, not in stare;
In frighten, not in scare;
In pulpit, not in pew;
In, oiling, not in stew;
In lumber, not in board;
In nobles, not in lord;
And my whole will appear
In the fourth month of the year.
REARRANGE the letters in each of the nine following sentences
until they form one word. When the nine long words have been
rightly guessed and placed one below the-other, in the order here
given, the.initial letters will spell .the name of a famous American
i. Claim the lyre. 2. Ma oils tubs. 3. A shrewd nip. 4. Rest
me, mother, 5. A ram is in a hunt. 6. I set Sevion on a pin.
7. Ben carves sole. 8. Rio met a nun. 9. These tin lambs.

I I J,

"V :--f-v,,;4, 4L.",lx.

AcRoss: I. A sheltered place. 2. A period of time. 3. Embel- i. -. ,l'.'1 '"
lished. 4. Violent emotion A Scriptural name which occurs in I .' "
the Book of Genesis. 6. A disjunctive conjunction. 7. A nickname'
sometimes given to a small girl. 8. The French word for water."
9. Arista. io. Melancholy. is. Relating to the proof of wills.
i2. Work done for hire by a mechanic. .
From to 2, a time of sorrow and fasting; from 3 to 4, a time of .-'
gladness. F. s. F. ,
PI. _- ,--__
ETH dwil nad dwiny charm cone rome .-
Ash huts shi tags fo slete, -=-
Da... su cabk eth parli mite, --
C .i .'. nad s stewe.
Won thingblig tiwh rou reafs, ruo hepso, .
Wno linking hospe thiw farse: ......
O I ... -ismel,

AcRoss (words of four letters): I. An agent. 2. A cap. 3. To
cut lengthwise. 4. The fat of swine. 5. An old name for a torch. EACH of the five pictures in the accompanying illustration may be
6. An old name for a fist.. 7. A blow. 8. A feudal grant. 9. Be- described by a word of seven letters. When these words are rightly
longing to the laity. ao. A nation, selected and placed one below another in the order.in which the pic-
DOWNWARD: i. In rhomboid. 2. A Turkish arrow. 3. The tures are numbered, the central letters will spell the ancient name
Greek name of Aurora. 4. A small stream. 5. A decree. 6. A fish- of the Danube.




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