Front Cover
 The song of the caged canary
 No-when and no-where
 The soldiers' burial ground
 In the hay-loft
 Daddy Jake, the runaway
 A sad reason for tears
 The bells of Ste. Anne
 Redbreast's ride
 A lost opportunity
 The little pine-tree
 A dancing lesson, one hundred years...
 An old quarrel
 A bit of color
 The frightened fisherman
 A queer pet
 A May song
 "The land of nod" on a plantat...
 The sprint-runner
 La Tour d'Auvergne
 His majesty the king
 "Cuff," the orphan bear-cub
 Dogs of noted Americans
 The Brownies' garden
 Song of sifting (words and...
 Three little astrologers
 Ten little monkeys
 The letter-box
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00213
 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: VID00213
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: oclc - 01764817
lccn - 04012675
 Related Items
Preceded by: Our young folks
Preceded by: Children's hour (Philadelphia, Penn.)
Preceded by: Little corporal
Preceded by: Schoolday magazine
Preceded by: Wide awake

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
        Front Cover 3
    The song of the caged canary
        Page 483
    No-when and no-where
        Page 484
    The soldiers' burial ground
        Page 484
    In the hay-loft
        Page 484
    Daddy Jake, the runaway
        Page 485
        Page 486
        Page 487
        Page 488
        Page 489
        Page 490
    A sad reason for tears
        Page 491
    The bells of Ste. Anne
        Page 492
        Page 493
        Page 494
        Page 495
        Page 496
        Page 497
        Page 498
        Page 499
    Redbreast's ride
        Page 500
        Page 501
    A lost opportunity
        Page 502
        Page 503
        Page 504
        Page 505
        Page 506
        Page 507
        Page 508
        Page 509
    The little pine-tree
        Page 510
    A dancing lesson, one hundred years ago (Illustration)
        Page 511
    An old quarrel
        Page 512
        Page 513
    A bit of color
        Page 514
        Page 515
        Page 516
        Page 517
        Page 518
        Page 519
        Page 520
        Page 521
        Page 522
    The frightened fisherman
        Page 523
        Page 524
    A queer pet
        Page 525
        Page 526
        Page 527
    A May song
        Page 528
    "The land of nod" on a plantation
        Page 529
        Page 530
        Page 531
    The sprint-runner
        Page 532
    La Tour d'Auvergne
        Page 533
        Page 534
        Page 535
        Page 536
    His majesty the king
        Page 537
    "Cuff," the orphan bear-cub
        Page 538
        Page 539
        Page 540
    Dogs of noted Americans
        Page 541
        Page 542
        Page 543
        Page 544
        Page 545
    The Brownies' garden
        Page 546
        Page 547
        Page 548
        Page 549
    Song of sifting (words and music)
        Page 550
        Page 551
        Page 552
        Page 553
    Three little astrologers
        Page 554
    Ten little monkeys
        Page 555
    The letter-box
        Page 556
        Page 557
        Page 558
    The riddle-box
        Page 559
        Page 560
        Unnumbered ( 82 )
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text


VOL. XVI. MAY, 1889. No. 7.



O MY happy Islands, O my happy Islands,
O my happy Islands where the south winds blow !
Lying sea-encircled, steeped in sunny silence,
O my happy Islands that I shall never know!

O my happy Islands, O my happy Islands,
O my happy Islands that lie anear the sun !
Purple seas are darkling, murmuring and sparkling;
Round my happy Islands the shining ripples run.

O my happy Islands, O my happy Islands,
O my happy Islands that I have never known,
Where the ripe seed falls down in the forest shadows,
And the strange flower blossoms that no hand hath sown !

There my mate hath waited, in a dream belated,
Lingering belated in the shadow of a palm,
In a land sun-haunted, with the voice of seas enchanted,
In my happy Islands, lost in seas of calm !

In my island mazes hang the purple hazes,
Round my island beaches runs the rippling gleam.
There 's my love belated, while I go unmated;
Warble, warble softly, lest I break her dream !
Copyright, 1889, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved.


IF it happened so that I felt inclined,
And nobody hindered me of my mind,
Shall I tell you what I would do, my dear?
I would find some lost, forgotten old Year,-
Some dull old Year, all dead and dry,
With nothing in 't to remember it by;
Some Year uncalendared, lost to fame,
That nobody lived in to give it a name,
That went unrecorded from green to sere,
And never knew that it was a Year;
And out of that Year I would take a Day,
Not tob rosy and not too gray,-
Some Day when Fate, aweary of doom,
Fell fast asleep by the side of her loom,
And left it a mere tarnished circle of sun,
Withput a chance in it to trip upon; -
And on that Day of a dateless Year,
I should not hate you, nor hold you dear,
I should go on a journey, and none should know
No one should ask, and no one should care.
I would find some ship that had lain alone,
Long becalmed in a Sea unknown,
And the ship in a lazy course should run,
To some Land that is nowhere under the sun.
I would have no wind to fret the sail,
I would have no oar when the wind should fail.
But a tide should ripple along the keel,
A slow, warm tide that she scarce could feel,
And so we should float, in nobody's sight,
Wrapt in a wavering sort of light,
That is neither sunlight, starlight, nor shade,
But just the kind that never was made.
And when we had come to that Doubtful Land,
The Land that is nowhere, you understand,
How long I should linger, or what I should do,
Or whether I ever should come back to you,
In that long Day of a dateless Year,
Why, how can I tell you all that, my dear?


THERE 'S a camp upon a hill-top
Pitched in many a gleaming line,
And above that still encampment
Droops the banner of the pine.

Never clang of lifted weapon,
Oath, nor jest, nor haughty boast,
Never song of martial measure
Breaks the stillness of the host.

But the name of every hero
Answers from the carven scroll,

In a white, eternal silence
To the calling of the Roll.

And the light rains beat reveille,
And the winds their bugles blow,-
As they keep their stern, still bivouac
'Neath the white tents of the snow.

And no sentinel doth guard them,
For they fear not any foes,
And their pass-word is the secret
Of the land that no man knows.


UP in the hay-loft kitten and I!
With a window open to the sky,
Curtained with boughs of the chestnut-trees
That toss and sway in the cool west breeze.

The dome of the sky with a cloud is lined,
And the rain comes down when it has a mind,
Pelting the leaves of the chestnut-tree :
Never the rain can touch kitten and me.

Up in the hay-loft -kitten and I!
The hay behind us is mountain high;
The beams across are dusty enough;
Darkness broods in the peak of the roof.

In pearly lines the daylight falls
Through the chinks of the boarded walls;
The air is fragrant with clover dried,
Brake and daisies and things beside.

Queer little spiders drop down from on high;
Softly we welcome them -kitten and I!
Swallows chirp in a lazy strain
Between the showers of the summer rain.

Let the rain come down from the clouded sky,
We're quiet and cosy-kitten and I !
We muse and purr and think out a rhyme,
And never know what has become of time.

People down there in the world below,
They toil and moil and get dinner and sew;
Up in the hay we lazily lie;
We have no troubles -kitten and I!

Kitten purrs and stretches and winks,
She does n't speak, but I know what she thinks:
Never a king had a throne so high,
Never a bird had a cosier nest;
There is much that is good, but we have the
Kitten, kitten and-I!
Helen Thayer Hutcheson.


IF it happened so that I felt inclined,
And nobody hindered me of my mind,
Shall I tell you what I would do, my dear?
I would find some lost, forgotten old Year,-
Some dull old Year, all dead and dry,
With nothing in 't to remember it by;
Some Year uncalendared, lost to fame,
That nobody lived in to give it a name,
That went unrecorded from green to sere,
And never knew that it was a Year;
And out of that Year I would take a Day,
Not tob rosy and not too gray,-
Some Day when Fate, aweary of doom,
Fell fast asleep by the side of her loom,
And left it a mere tarnished circle of sun,
Withput a chance in it to trip upon; -
And on that Day of a dateless Year,
I should not hate you, nor hold you dear,
I should go on a journey, and none should know
No one should ask, and no one should care.
I would find some ship that had lain alone,
Long becalmed in a Sea unknown,
And the ship in a lazy course should run,
To some Land that is nowhere under the sun.
I would have no wind to fret the sail,
I would have no oar when the wind should fail.
But a tide should ripple along the keel,
A slow, warm tide that she scarce could feel,
And so we should float, in nobody's sight,
Wrapt in a wavering sort of light,
That is neither sunlight, starlight, nor shade,
But just the kind that never was made.
And when we had come to that Doubtful Land,
The Land that is nowhere, you understand,
How long I should linger, or what I should do,
Or whether I ever should come back to you,
In that long Day of a dateless Year,
Why, how can I tell you all that, my dear?


THERE 'S a camp upon a hill-top
Pitched in many a gleaming line,
And above that still encampment
Droops the banner of the pine.

Never clang of lifted weapon,
Oath, nor jest, nor haughty boast,
Never song of martial measure
Breaks the stillness of the host.

But the name of every hero
Answers from the carven scroll,

In a white, eternal silence
To the calling of the Roll.

And the light rains beat reveille,
And the winds their bugles blow,-
As they keep their stern, still bivouac
'Neath the white tents of the snow.

And no sentinel doth guard them,
For they fear not any foes,
And their pass-word is the secret
Of the land that no man knows.


UP in the hay-loft kitten and I!
With a window open to the sky,
Curtained with boughs of the chestnut-trees
That toss and sway in the cool west breeze.

The dome of the sky with a cloud is lined,
And the rain comes down when it has a mind,
Pelting the leaves of the chestnut-tree :
Never the rain can touch kitten and me.

Up in the hay-loft -kitten and I!
The hay behind us is mountain high;
The beams across are dusty enough;
Darkness broods in the peak of the roof.

In pearly lines the daylight falls
Through the chinks of the boarded walls;
The air is fragrant with clover dried,
Brake and daisies and things beside.

Queer little spiders drop down from on high;
Softly we welcome them -kitten and I!
Swallows chirp in a lazy strain
Between the showers of the summer rain.

Let the rain come down from the clouded sky,
We're quiet and cosy-kitten and I !
We muse and purr and think out a rhyme,
And never know what has become of time.

People down there in the world below,
They toil and moil and get dinner and sew;
Up in the hay we lazily lie;
We have no troubles -kitten and I!

Kitten purrs and stretches and winks,
She does n't speak, but I know what she thinks:
Never a king had a throne so high,
Never a bird had a cosier nest;
There is much that is good, but we have the
Kitten, kitten and-I!
Helen Thayer Hutcheson.


IF it happened so that I felt inclined,
And nobody hindered me of my mind,
Shall I tell you what I would do, my dear?
I would find some lost, forgotten old Year,-
Some dull old Year, all dead and dry,
With nothing in 't to remember it by;
Some Year uncalendared, lost to fame,
That nobody lived in to give it a name,
That went unrecorded from green to sere,
And never knew that it was a Year;
And out of that Year I would take a Day,
Not tob rosy and not too gray,-
Some Day when Fate, aweary of doom,
Fell fast asleep by the side of her loom,
And left it a mere tarnished circle of sun,
Withput a chance in it to trip upon; -
And on that Day of a dateless Year,
I should not hate you, nor hold you dear,
I should go on a journey, and none should know
No one should ask, and no one should care.
I would find some ship that had lain alone,
Long becalmed in a Sea unknown,
And the ship in a lazy course should run,
To some Land that is nowhere under the sun.
I would have no wind to fret the sail,
I would have no oar when the wind should fail.
But a tide should ripple along the keel,
A slow, warm tide that she scarce could feel,
And so we should float, in nobody's sight,
Wrapt in a wavering sort of light,
That is neither sunlight, starlight, nor shade,
But just the kind that never was made.
And when we had come to that Doubtful Land,
The Land that is nowhere, you understand,
How long I should linger, or what I should do,
Or whether I ever should come back to you,
In that long Day of a dateless Year,
Why, how can I tell you all that, my dear?


THERE 'S a camp upon a hill-top
Pitched in many a gleaming line,
And above that still encampment
Droops the banner of the pine.

Never clang of lifted weapon,
Oath, nor jest, nor haughty boast,
Never song of martial measure
Breaks the stillness of the host.

But the name of every hero
Answers from the carven scroll,

In a white, eternal silence
To the calling of the Roll.

And the light rains beat reveille,
And the winds their bugles blow,-
As they keep their stern, still bivouac
'Neath the white tents of the snow.

And no sentinel doth guard them,
For they fear not any foes,
And their pass-word is the secret
Of the land that no man knows.


UP in the hay-loft kitten and I!
With a window open to the sky,
Curtained with boughs of the chestnut-trees
That toss and sway in the cool west breeze.

The dome of the sky with a cloud is lined,
And the rain comes down when it has a mind,
Pelting the leaves of the chestnut-tree :
Never the rain can touch kitten and me.

Up in the hay-loft -kitten and I!
The hay behind us is mountain high;
The beams across are dusty enough;
Darkness broods in the peak of the roof.

In pearly lines the daylight falls
Through the chinks of the boarded walls;
The air is fragrant with clover dried,
Brake and daisies and things beside.

Queer little spiders drop down from on high;
Softly we welcome them -kitten and I!
Swallows chirp in a lazy strain
Between the showers of the summer rain.

Let the rain come down from the clouded sky,
We're quiet and cosy-kitten and I !
We muse and purr and think out a rhyme,
And never know what has become of time.

People down there in the world below,
They toil and moil and get dinner and sew;
Up in the hay we lazily lie;
We have no troubles -kitten and I!

Kitten purrs and stretches and winks,
She does n't speak, but I know what she thinks:
Never a king had a throne so high,
Never a bird had a cosier nest;
There is much that is good, but we have the
Kitten, kitten and-I!
Helen Thayer Hutcheson.




LUCIEN and Lillian, cuddled together in the
bottom of their boat, were soon fast asleep. In
dreams of home their loneliness and their troubles
were all forgotten. Sometimes in the starlight,
sometimes in the dark shadows of the overhanging
trees, the boat drifted on. At last, toward morn-
ing, it was caught in an eddy and carried nearer
the bank, where the current was almost imper-
ceptible. Here the clumsy old bateau rocked and
swung, sometimes going lazily forward, and then
as lazily floating back again.
As the night faded away into the dim gray of
morning, the bushes above the boat were thrust
softly aside, and a black face looked down upon
the children. Then the black face disappeared as
suddenly as it came. After a while it appeared
again. It was not an attractive face. In the dim
light it seemed to look down on the sleeping
children with a leer that was almost hideous. It
was the face of a woman. Around her head was a
faded red handkerchief, tied in a fantastic fashion,
and as much of her dress as could be seen was
ragged, dirty, and greasy. She was not pleasant
to look upon, but the children slept on uncon-
scious of her presence.
Presently the woman came nearer. On the
lower bank a freshet had deposited a great heap
of sand, which was now dry and soft. The woman
sat down on this, hugging her knees with her
arms, and gazed at the sleeping children long and
earnestly. Then she looked up and down the
river, but nothing was to be seen for the fog that
lay on the water. She shook her head and mut-
tered :
"Hit 's pizen down yer fer dem babies. Yit
how I gwine git um out er dar?"
She caught hold of the boat, turned it around,
and, by means of the chain, drew it partially on
the sand-bank. Then she lifted Lillian from the
boat, wrapping the quilt closer about the child,
carried her up the bank, and laid her beneath the
trees where no dew had fallen. Returning, she
lifted Lucien and placed him beside his sister.
But the change aroused him. He raised himself
on his elbow and rubbed his eyes. The negro

woman, apparently by force of habit, slipped
behind a tree.
"Where am I?" Lucien exclaimed, looking
around in something of a fright. He caught sight
of the frazzled skirt of the woman's dress. Who
is there behind that tree ?" he cried.
Nobody but me, honey-nobody ner nothing'
but po' ole Crazy Sue. Don't be skeerd er me.
I ain't nigh ez bad ez I looks ter be."
It was now broad daylight, and Lucien could see
that the hideous ugliness of the woman was caused
by a burn on the side of her face and neck.
"Was n't I in a boat?"
Yes, honey; I brung you up yer fer ter keep
de fog fum pizenin' you."
I dreamed the Bad Man had me," said Lucien,
shivering at the bare recollection.
"No, honey; 't want nobody ner nothing' but
po' ole Crazy Sue. De boat down dar on de sand-
bank, an' yo' little sissy layin' dar soun' asleep.
Whar in de name er goodness wuz you-all gwine,
honey? asked Crazy Sue, coming nearer.
We were going down the river hunting for
Daddy Jake. He 's a runaway now. I reckon
we '11 find him after a while."
Is you-all Marse Doc. Gaston' chillun ?" asked
Crazy Sue, with some show of eagerness.
Why, of course we are," said Lucien.
Crazy Sue's eyes fairly danced with joy. She
clasped her hands together and exclaimed:
Lord, honey, I could shout,- I could des hol-
ler and shout; but I ain't gwine do it. You stay
right dar by yo' little sissy till I come back; I
want ter run an' make somebody feel good. Now,
don't you move, honey. Stay right dar."
With that Crazy Sue disappeared in the bushes.
Lucien kept very still. In the first place, he was
more than half frightened by the strangeness of
his surroundings, and, in the second place, he was
afraid his little sister would wake and begin to cry.
He felt like crying a little himself, for he knew he
was many miles from home, and he felt very cold
and uncomfortable. Indeed, he felt very lonely
and miserable ; but just when he was about to cry
and call Daddy Jake, he heard voices near him.
Crazy Sue came toward him in a half-trot, and be-
hind her-close behind her-was Daddy Jake,


his face wreathed in smiles and his eyes swimming
in tears. Lucien saw him and rushed toward him,
-and the old man stooped and hugged the boy to
his black bosom.
"Why, honey," he exclaimed, whar de name
er goodness you come f'um? Bless you ef my

They made so much fuss that they woke Lillian,
and when she saw Daddy Jake she gave one little
cry and leaped in his arms. This made Crazy Sue
dance again, and she would have kept it up for a
long time, but Randall suggested to Daddy Jake
that the boat ought to be hauled ashore and hid-


eyes wuz sore de sight un you would make um well.
How you know whar yo' Daddy Jake is? "
Me and sister started out to hunt you," said
Lucien, whimpering a little, now that he had noth-
ing to whimper for, and I think you are mighty
mean to run off and leave us-all at home."
"Now you talking honey," said Daddy Jake,
laughing in his old fashion. "I boun' I'm de
means' ole nigger in de Nunited State. Yit, ef
I 'd 'a' know'd you wuz gwine ter foller me up so
close, I 'd 'a' fotch you wid me, dat I would !
An' dar's little Missy," he exclaimed, leaning over
the little girl, an' she 's a-sleepin' des ez natchul
ez ef she wuz in her bed at home. What I tell you-
all ? he went on, turning to a group of negroes
that had followed him,--Randall, Cupid, Isaiah,
and others,-" What I tell you-all? Ain't I done
bin' an' gone an' tole you dat deze chillun wuz de
out-doin'est chillun on de top-side er de roun'
worl' ? "
The negroes runaways all laughed and
looked pleased, and Crazy Sue fairly danced.

den in the bushes. Crazy Sue stayed with the chil-
dren, while the negro men went after the boat.
They hauled it up the bank by the chain, and then
they lifted and carried it several hundred yards
away from the river, and hid it in the thick bushes
and grass.
"Now," said Daddy Jake, when they had re-
turned to where they left the children, "we got
ter git away f'um yer. Dey ain't no tellin' w'at
gwine ter happen. Ef deze yer chillun kin slip up
on us dis away w'at kin a grown man do ? "
The old man intended this as a joke, but the
others took him at his word, and were moving off.
" Wait! he exclaimed. "De chillun bleeze ter
go whar I go. Sue, you pick up little Missy dar,
an' I '11 play hoss fer dish yer chap."
Crazy Sue lifted Lillian in her arms, Daddy Jake
stooped so that Lucien could climb up on his back,
and then all took up their march for the middle
of Hudson's canebrake. Randall brought up the
rear in order, as he said, to "stop up de holes."
It was a narrow, slippery, and winding path in




which the negroes trod -a path that a white man
would have found difficult to follow. It seemed
to lead in all directions; but, finally, it stopped on a
knoll high and dry above the surrounding swamp.
A fire was burning brightly, and the smell of fry-
ing meat was in the air. On this knoll the run-
away negroes had made their camp, and for safety
they could not have selected a better place.
It was not long before Crazy Sue had warmed
some breakfast for the children. The negroes had
brought the food they found in the boat, and Crazy
Sue put some of the biscuits in a tin bucket, hung
the bucket on a stick, and held it over the fire.
Then she gave them some bacon that had been
broiled on a stone, and altogether they made a
hearty breakfast.
During the morning most of the negro men
stayed in the canebrake, some nodding and some
patching their clothes, which were already full of
patches. But after dinner, a feast of broiled fish,
roasted sweet-potatoes, and ash-cake, they all
went away, leaving Crazy Sue to take care of the

Nothin', honey; I wuz des a-settin' yer a-study-
in' an' a-studyin'. Lots er times I gits took dat
What are you studying about?" said Lucien.
"'Bout folks. I wuz des a-studyin' 'bout folks,
an' 'bout how come I whar I is, w'en I oughter be
somers else. W'en I set down dis a-way, I gits dat
terrified in de min' dat I can't stay on de groun'
sca'cely. Look like I want ter rise up in de ele-
ments an' fly."
"What made you run away?" Lucien asked
with some curiosity.
Well, you know, honey," said Crazy Sue, after
a pause, my master ain't nigh ez good ter his
niggers ez yo' pa is ter his'n. 'T ain't dat my mars-
ter is any mo' strick, but look like hit fret 'im ef
he see one er his niggers setting' down anywhere.
Well, one time, long time ago, I had two babies,
an' dey wuz twins, an' dey wuz des 'bout ez likely
little niggers ez you ever did see. De w'ite folks
had me at de house doin' de washin' so I could be
where I kin nurse de babies. One time I wuz

~~-~2. --ff


- A

_- setting' in my house nursin' un um, an'
S.4 -- $ while I setting' dar I went fast ter sleep.
S How long I sot dar 'sleep, de Lord only
POOR OLD SUE TELLS HER STORY. knows, but w'en I woked up, master wuz
stan'in' in de do', watching' me. He ain't
children. After the men had all gone, the woman say nothing yit I knowed dat man wuz mad. He des
sat with her head covered with her arms. She sat turn on his heel an' walk away. I let you know I
thus for a long time. After a while Lucien went put dem babies down an' hustled out er dat house
to her and put his hand on her shoulder. mighty quick.
What 's the matter?" he asked. Well, sir, dat night de foreman come 'roun'



an' tole me dat I mus' go ter de field' de nex'
morning Soon ez he say dat, I up an' went ter de
big house an' ax master w'at I gwine do wid de
babies ef I went ter de field He stood an' look at
me, he did, an' den he writ a note out er his
pocket-book an' tol' me ter han' it ter de overseer.
Dat w'at I done dat ve'y night, an' de overseer, he
took an' read de note, an' den he up an' say dat
I mus' go wid de hoe han's, way over ter de two-
mile place.
I went, kaze I bleeze ter go; yit all day long,
whiles I wuz hoein' I kin year dem babies cryin'.
Look like sometimes dey wuz right at me, an' den
ag'in look like dey wuz way off yander. I kep' on
a-goin' an' I kep' on a-hoein', an' de babies kep'
on a-famishin'. Dey des fade away, an' bimeby
dey died, bofe un um on de same day. On dat
day I had a fit an' fell in de fier, an' dat how come
I burnt up so.
Look like," said the woman, marking on the
ground with her bony forefinger -" look like I kin
year dem babies cryin' yit, an' dat de reason folks
call me Crazy Sue, kaze I kin year um cryin' an'
yuther folks can't. I'm mighty glad dey can't,
too, kaze it 'ud break der heart."
Why did n't you come and tell Papa about
it? said Lucien, indignantly.
"Ah, Lord, honey!" exclaimed Crazy Sue,
yo' pa is a mighty good man, an' a mighty good
doctor, but he ain't got no medicine w'at could 'a'
kyored me an' my masterr"
In a little while Daddy Jake put in an appear-
ance, and the children soon forgot Crazy Sue's
troubles, and began to think about going home.
Daddy Jake," said Lucien, when are you
going to take us back home ? "
I want to go right now," said Lillian.
Daddy Jake scratched his head and thought the
matter over.
." Dey ain't no use talking, said he, "I got ter
carry you back an' set you down in sight er de
house, but how I gwine do it an' not git kotched?
Dat w'at troublin' me."
"Why, Papa ain't mad," said Lucien. I
heard him tell that mean old overseer he had a
great mind to take his buggy whip to him for hit-
ting you."
Ain't dat man dead? exclaimed Daddy Jake
in amazement.
"No, he ain't," said Lucien. "Papa drove
him off the place."
Well, I be blest! said the old man with a
chuckle. "W'at kinder head you reckon dat w'ite
man got?- Honey," he went on, growing serious
again, is you sholy sho dat man ain't dead ? "
"Didn't I see him after you went away?
Did n't I hear Papa tell him to go away? Did n't

I hear Papa tell Mamma he wished you had broken
his neck? Did n't I hear Papa tell Mamma that
you were a fool for running away ?" Lucien flung
these questions at Daddy Jake with an emphasis
that left nothing to be desired.
Well," said Daddy Jake, dat mus' be so, an'
dat bein' de case, we '11 des start in de morning' an'
git home ter supper. We'll go over yander ter
Marse Meredy Ingram's an' borry his carriage an'
go home in style. I boun' you, dey '11 all be glad
to see us."
Daddy Jake was happy once more. A great
burden had been taken from his mind. The other
negroes when they came in toward night seemed to
be happy, too, because the old man could go back
home; and there was not one but would have
swapped places with him. Randall was the last
to come, and he brought a big fat chicken.
I wuz coming' 'long cross de woods des now,"
he said, winking his eye and shaking his head at
Daddy Jake, "an', bless gracious, dis chicken flew'd
right in my han'. I say ter myse'f, I did, Ole
lady, you mus' know we got company at our house,'
an' den I clamped down on 'er, an' yer she is.
Now, 'bout dark, I '11 take 'er up yander an' make
Marse Ingram's cook fry'er brown fer deze chillun,
an' I'll make 'er gimme some milk."
Crazy Sue took the chicken, which had already
been killed, wet its feathers thoroughly, rolled it
around in the hot embers, and then proceeded to
pick and clean it.
Randall's programme was carried out to the let-
ter. Mr. Meredith Ingram's cook fried the chicken
for him and put in some hot biscuit for good meas-
ure, and the milker gave him some fresh milk,
which she said would not be missed.
The children had a good supper, and they would
have gone to sleep directly afterward, but the
thought of going home with Daddy Jake kept
them awake. Randall managed to tell Daddy
Jake, out of hearing of the children, that Dr. Gas-
ton and some of his negroes had been seen at
Ross's mill that morning.
"Well," said Daddy Jake, "I bleeze ter beat
master home. Efhe go back dar widout de chil-
lun, mymistiss '11 drap right dead on de flo'." This
was his only comment.
Around the fire the negroes laughed and joked,
and told their adventures. Lillian felt comfortable
and happy, and as for Lucien, he felt himself a
hero. He had found Daddy Jake, and now he
was going to carry him back home.
Once when there was a lull in the talk, Lillian
asked why the frogs made so much fuss.
I speck it's kaze dey er mad wid Mr. Rabbit,"
said Crazy Sue. Dey er trying' der best ter drive
'im outen de swamp."




"What are they mad with the Rabbit for?"
asked Lucien, thinking there might be a story in
the explanation.
Hit 's one er dem ole-time fusses," said Crazy
Sue. Hit 's most too ole ter talk about."
"Don't you know what the fuss was about?"
asked Lucien.

"Well," said Crazy Sue, "one time Mr. Rabbit
an' Mr. Coon live close ter one anudder in de
same neighborhoods. How dey does now, I ain't
a-tellin' you; but in dem times dey want no hard
feeling's 'twix' um. Dey des went 'long like two
ole cronies. Mr. Rabbit, he wuz a fisherman, and
Mr. Coon, he wuz a fisherman- "
"And put 'em in pens," said Lillian, remem-
bering an old rhyme she had heard.
"No, honey, dey ain't no Willium-Come-Trim-
bletoe in dis. Mr. Rabbit an' Mr. Coon wuz bofe
fishermans, but Mr. Rabbit, he kotch fish, an' Mr.
Coon, he fished fer frogs. Mr. Rabbit, he had
mighty good luck, an' Mr. Coon, he had mighty
bad luck. Mr. Rabbit, he got fat an' slick, an'
Mr. Coon, he got po' an' sick.
Hit went on dis a-way tell one day Mr. Coon
meet Mr. Rabbit in de big road. Dey shook han's
dey did, an' den Mr. Coon, he 'low:
'Brer Rabbit, whar you git sech a fine chance
er fish ?'
"Mr. Rabbit laugh an' say: 'I kotch um outen
de river, Brer Coon. All I got ter do is ter bait
my hook,' sezee.
"Den Mr. Coon shake his head an' 'low: 'Den
how come I ain't kin ketch no frogs? '
Mr. Rabbit sat down in de road an' scratched
fer fleas, an' den he 'low: Hit 's kaze you done
make um all mad, Brer Coon. One time in de
dark er de moon, you slipped down ter de branch
an' kotch de ole King Frog; an' ever sence dat
time, whenever you er passing' by, you kin year um
sing out, fus' one an' den anudder--Yer he come !
Darhe goes! Hit 'im in de eye; hit 'im in de eye /
Mfash 'im an' smash 'im; mash 'im an' smash 'im!
Yasser, dat w'at dey say. I year um constant,
Brer Coon, and dat des w'at dey say.'
"Den Mr. Coon up an' say: 'Ef dat de way
dey gwine on, how de name er goodness kin I
ketch um, Brer Rabbit? I bleeze ter have sum-
p'n ter eat fer me an' my fambly connection.'
Mr. Rabbit sorter grin in de corner er his
mouf, an' den he say: 'Well, Brer Coon, bein' ez
you bin so sociable 'long wid me, an' ain't never
showed yo' toofies w'en I pull yo' tail, I'll des
whirl in an' he'p you out.'
"Mr. Coon, he say: Thanky, thanky-do, Brer
Mr. Rabbit hung his fish on a tree lim', an'

say: 'Now, Brer Coon, you bleeze ter do des like
I tell you.'
"Mr. Coon 'lowed dat he would ef de Lord
spared 'im.
"Den Mr. Rabbit say: 'Now, Brer Coon, you
des rack down yander, an' git on de big san'-bar
'twix' de river and de branch. W'en you git dar
you mus' stagger like you sick, an' den you mus'
whirl roun' an' roun' an' drap down like you dead.
Atter you drap dovn, you mus' sorter jerk yo' legs
once er twice, an' den you mus' lay right still. Ef
fly light on yo' nose, let 'im stay dar. Don't move;
don't wink yo' eye; don't switch yo' tail. Des lay
right dar, an' 't won't be long 'fo' you year fum me.
Yit don't you move till I give de word.'
"Mr. Coon, he paced off, he did, an' done des
like Mr. Rabbit tol 'im. He staggered 'roun' on de
san'-bank, an' den he dropped down dead. Atter
so long a time, Mr. Rabbit come lopin' 'long, an'
soon 's he git dar, he squall out, 'Coon dead '
Dis rousted de frogs, an' dey stuck dey heads up
fer ter see w'at all de rippit wuz 'bout. One great
big green un up an' holler, W'at de matter W'at
de matter? He talk like he got a bad col'.
Mr. Rabbit 'low: 'Coon dead '
"Frog say : Don't believe it! Don't believe it!
"'N'er frog say: Yes, he is! Yes, he is! Little
bit er one say : No, he ain't! No, he ain't!
"Dey kep' on 'sputin' an' 'sputin', tell bimeby
hit look like all de frogs in de neighborhoods wuz
dar. Mr. Rabbit look like he ain't a-yearin' ner
a-keerin' w'at dey do er say. He sot dar in de
san' like he gwine in mournin' fer Mr. Coon. De
Frogs kep' gittin' closer an' closer. Mr. Coon,
he ain't move. W'en a fly 'd git on 'im, Mr.
Rabbit, he'd bresh 'im off.
"Bimeby he 'low: 'Ef you want ter git 'im
outen de way, now's yo' time, Cousin Frogs. Des
whirl in an' bury him deep in de san'.'
Big ole Frog say: How we gwine ter do it?
How we gwine ter do it?
Mr. Rabbit 'low : Dig de san' out fum under
'im an' let 'im down in de hole.'
"Den de Frogs dey went ter work sho nuff.
Dey mus' 'a' bin a hunderd un um, an' dey make
dat san' fly, mon. Mr. Coon, he ain't move. De
Frogs, dey dig an' scratch in de san' tell atter
while dey had a right smart hole, an' Mr. Coon
wuz down in dar.
"Bimeby big Frog holler: Dis deep nuf? Dis
deep nuff?
Mr. Rabbit 'low: Kin you jump out?'
"Big Frog say: Yes, Ikin! Yes, 1 kin!
Mr. Rabbit say: 'Den 't ain't deep nuff.'
Den de Frogs dey dig an' dey dig, tell, bimeby,
big Frog say: Dis deep nmff? Dis deep nuff?
Mr. Rabbit 'low: Kin you jump out? '



" Big Frog say: Ides kin! Ides kin !
" Mr. Rabbit say : Dig it deeper.'

lt A
.. r -
'I ,,

De Frogs keep on digging' tell, bimeby, big.
,ii 1 -z' !

Mr. Rabbit 'low : Kin you jump out?'
Big Frog say: No, Ican't! No, Ican't!. Come
he'f me! Come hef me !
Mr Rabbit bust out laughing and holler out:
"De Frogs keep on diggin' tell, bimeby, big
Frog holler out: Dis deefi nftY? Dis deej nieff?
Mr. Rabbit 'low: 'Kin you jump out?'
Big Frog say: No,lcant't/ No, Jcan't! Conie
help me Conie he'p fe m
Mr Rabbit bust out laughing and holler out:
GIT YO' MEAT!' an' Mr.

than a mile from th
oak-trees. As they

e river, and was in a grove of
vere making their way through
a plum orchard, not far
from the house, Crazy

Sue stopped.
S"Brer Jake," she said,
"dis is all de fur I 'm
,, gwine. I 'm 'mos' too
S- close ter dat house now.
' ';f,"~'" You take dis baby an'
let dat little man walk.
S... 'T ain't many steps ter
-- whar you gwine." Crazy
Sue wrung Daddy Jake's
hand, stooped and kissed
the children, and with a
g -.-.-=--_. _- "Godbless you all !" dis-
-. '-r -__, -" appeared in the bushes,
Sand none of the three
ever saw her again.
AD! Mr. Meredith Ingram
was standing out in his
front yard, enjoying a pipe before breakfast. He
was talking to himself and laughing when Daddy
Jake and the children approached.
Howdy, Mars' Meredy," said the old negro,
taking off his hat and bowing as politely as he
could with the child in his arms. Mr. Ingram

Coon riz." .

Lucienand Lillianlaughed '
heartily at this queer story, ." '
especially the curious imita- .
tion of frogs both big and '
little that Crazy Sue gave. '
Lucien wanted her to tell ,..
more stories, but Daddy / -'7 -
Jake said it was bedtime; '
and the children were soon ---4'
sound asleep. ..
The next morning Daddy .- -
Jake had them up betimes.
Crazy Sue took Lillian in her
arms, and Daddy Jake took
Lucien on his back. As they
had gone into the cane- .j.
brake, so they came out.
Randall and some of the
other negroes wanted to -
carry Lillian, but Crazy Sue "DEN DE FROGS DEY WENT TER WORK SHO NUFF.
would n't listen to them.
She had brought the little girl in, she said, and looked at him through his spectacles and over
she was going to carry her out. Daddy Jake, fol- them.
lowed by Crazy Sue, went in the direction of Mr. Ain't that Gaston's Jake? he asked, after he
Meredith Ingram's house. It was on a hill, more had examined the group.



"Yasser," said Daddy Jake, "an' deze is my
master's little chillun."
Mr. Ingram took his pipe out of his mouth.
Why, what in the world !-Why, what under
the sun Well, if this does n't beat why, what
in the nation "- Mr. Ingram failed to find words
to express his surprise.
Daddy Jake, however, made haste to tell Mr.
Ingram that the little ones had drifted down the
river in a boat, that he had found them, and wished
to get them home just as quickly as he could.
"My master bin huntin' fer um, suh," said the
old negro, and I want ter beat him home, kaze
ef he go dar widout deze chillun my mistiss '11 be a
dead 'oman-she cert'n'y will, suh."
"Well, well, well !" exclaimed Mr. Ingram.
" If this don't beat-why, of course, I '11 send
them home., I '11 go with 'em myself. Of course
I will. Well, if this does n't George hitch up
the carriage. Fetch out Ben Bolt and Rob Roy,
and go and get your breakfast. Jake, you go
and help him, and I '11 take these chaps in the
house and warm 'em up. Come on, little ones.
We'll have something to eat and then we '11 go
right home to Pappy and Mammy." They went
in, Mr. Ingram muttering to himself, Well, if
this does n't beat--"
After breakfast Mr. Ingram, the children, Daddy
Jake, and George, the driver, were up and away,
as the fox-hunters say. Daddy Jake sat on the
driver's seat with George, and urged on the horses.
They traveled rapidly, and it is well they did, for
when they came in sight of the Gaston place,

Daddy Jake saw his master entering the avenue
that led to the house. The old negro put his


hands to his mouth and called so loudly that
the horses jumped. Dr. Gaston heard him and
stopped, and in a minute more had his children
in his arms, and that night there was a happy
family in the Gaston house. But nobody was any
happier than Daddy Jake.




THERE sat a silly little lass
Upon a bed of posies,
Her tears bedewed the summer grass
And twinkled on the roses.
" Now, why is all this grief?" I said,
And all this doleful crying ? "
The maiden sadly shook her head,
And answered, softly sighing.
" All yesterday I wept," said she,
" And then this morning I cotild see
'T was quite without a reason;
So now I mourn the stupid way
In which I spent that lovely day -
The fairest of the season !
O dear O dear 0 dear O dear
The fairest of the season "

So there she sat, the silly lass,
And nothing could content her;
The roses and the summer grass
No grain of comfort lent her;
Nor any word that I could say
Would ease her doleful crying.
" I can but weep for yesterday,"
She answered, sadly sighing:
" 'T was all so foolish that I see -
And that is not the worst," said she:
'T is not my greatest sorrow;
I can not eat I can not sleep-
And all the day I weep, and weep -
For fear I '11 weep to-morrow !
0 dear 0 dear 0 dear 0 dear -
I fear I '11 weep to-morrow! "






THAT Saturday dawn, while Alvine and Mother
Ursule were trudging toward Ste. Anne, Bruno
Charland and the Algonquin walked the same
road, but in an opposite direction. Where Fran-
gois found the boy, and where they bivouacked
together, the Indian did not afterward tell. Bruno
trod the cool road with sprightly feet, putting the
Indian's moccasins to unwonted effort to keep in
line with him. A glistering white hat of rough
straw caricatured Frangois's copper face. He
looked as if somebody had set the hat on him in
derision. But Bruno's black poll was bare, and
roughened with bits of dry leaves among which he
had slept.
There was a sweet odor in the air like that which
comes from the gummy buds of the balm-tree, and
every bird was awake up the mountain.
Bruno carried his accordion under one arm, and
carefully, without jarring their delicate structure,
half a dozen Indian pipes. They were very per-
fect, short-stemmed ones, and to keep them from
turning black with decay from the warmth of his
fingers he had stuck the stems in wet river-sand
which he carried in a hollow piece of bark. The
Indian pipe must be the rarest and most beautiful
of sudden growths. It springs in a night, on high
land, near beech shade. It is a flower without
petals, a perfect bowl bent over on a leafless stem,
mother-of-pearl in color, exquisitely clear.
As these companions stalked along, silent or
speaking short occasional sentences, even Fran-
cois had no suspicion that between them and the
rising sun a figure was toiling after them on patient
moccasined feet, stopping to rest by shrines, but
for the most part keeping in sight.
The Algonquin intended to spend half a day on
the ten miles which lay between that part of the
road and the bridge over Montmorenci river. To
this end he induced Bruno to sit down by one of
the running springs and eat a long breakfast with
him. Frangois had provisions in a leather bag
which he carried behind his shoulders. He felt it
necessary only to keep the boy in sight, and Bruno
was willingly going toward the Montmorenci.

I am going to finish running my slide there,"
he informed Frangois.
"That no slide," said Frangois. "That falls.
Logs go jam -every way-knock all to pieces."
I have to finish my slide," insisted Bruno
I show you where that slide is, one these days.
That slide in Ottawa. Hundred-two hundred
mile-maybe more. When I go back see my old
mother I show you that slide."
Bruno heard him inattentively.
Falls, Montmorenci," repeated Frangois.
"Did you ever go lumbering?" inquired Bruno,
fixing the Indian with his eye.
"No," said Frangois, disparagingly, "I hunt.
Lumber-that work for Frenchman."
"You don't know how to drive logs," observed
the boy. Up above the gorge in Montmorenci
river I have three logs fastened ready for a slide.
The trees are bad up there. I dragged them so
far it made my knees tremble. So I left them
there, to run the slide with, another day."
"No slide at all," asserted Frangois, vainly
repeating his uneasy gutturals.
Petit-Pere had seen this haunting Indian the
day before, and he rose early to gather his child in
from such a danger. Walking the mountain with a
wallet of good bread and cream and black pudding,
he saw--the only moving objects, in vapor upon
the road below-Bruno's bare head and the Algon-
quin's straw hat, leaving home behind them; and
he came down and set himself upon their track.
Where the road was level he made good progress,
and the descents were easy, but every hill he climbed
took toll of the little father's breath, so that he had
by and by to sit and pant.
He saw Bruno and Bruno's leader go up a
branching mountain road to the huge brick church
set there. They were gone long'before he reached
the spot, for Bruno's restless feet were hard to re-
strain. Petit-Phre did not know that, however, so
he climbed to the church and remained two or
three hours before the altar, crying and saying his
prayers, so tired and disheartened was the little
Before noon he was following them again, some-
what cheered by prayers and black pudding. Thus
the day grew, and miles stretched out behind him.


He heard a castanet patter of hoofs on the road,
as a calf galloped past him, followed by a gentle
old hors6 drawing a buckboard. The buckboard
had a hood-cover, under which sat a woman and
boy, the latter driving. Their slim and pliant
vehicle vibrated under the weight of chests and
household movables. So anxious were these peo-

'. .1'


cow during some rods of his journey. She rolled
her piteous eyes at him as she lowed.
Yes, yes," he said to her with perfect sympa-
thy; I know how you feel. A young one of
mine is running away from me, too."
It was a little after noon by the sun when
Frangois saw the toll-house of the Montmorenci

:, .1 ... *1^ *. :, ."-


pie about their calf they failed to notice the aged bridge. Bruno and he were passing one of those
Frenchman as they passed him. For the calf, at earthen caverns made for preserving fruit and
intervals as it ran, turned back with a reproachful milk, and the door stood open, showing a dusty,
countenance and lowed to its mother who trotted dark interior. Francois's quick eye could detect
behind the vehicle, as afraid to pass it as the calf no inmate at home in the house to which it be-
was. Thus separated, they moved on calling to longed, so he stopped and said to Bruno:
each other. "No hurry. Hot day. Go in hole and sleep."
Petit-Pere's moccasin shoes kept pace with the Bruno regarded the plan with disfavor.


I am not a fox nor a bear," said he.
Fine hole," urged Frangois.
I am going to the Montmorenci," said Bruno.
"Sun too hot on Indian pipes," suggested
Frangois. Turn black. Die."
Bruno examined the treasure he carried in his
Old father not like black Indian pipes," added
I wish my father had them," said the boy.
I have carried them so far for him."
Save in shade. Take in hole," persisted the
I will take them in," decided Bruno. But
you stay outside. I don't want you in this place
with me. You might step on my pipes. I 'll set
them down in the coolness and play 'Roule ma
bou-le.' "
Accordingly he ventured into the cave, and
Frangois promptly clapped the door shut and held
it by the latch. He expected to hear the boy
shout and remonstrate in that thick and musty
darkness, and braced himself to maintain the
door, grinning as an Indian grins. But Bruno
was silent for the space of a dozen breaths, when
his laugh made jollity in the tight hole; and di-
rectly his accordion began, though its scope was
smothered and pent.
A calf careered past, followed by a buckboard
whose occupants stared suspiciously at Frangois.
A cow followed trotting, and shaking her head
because of grievances, and last came a little old
man, sweating into the red kerchief which bound
his forehead, and he did not pass by, but stood
still listening to Bruno's muffled music.
Frangois was an ugly Algonquin to look at.
From his arm-pits he towered above Petit-Pere,
as that small father took hold of the latch and
struggled with him.
What matter? "remonstrated Frangois, think-
ing it might be the owner of the cave who attacked
him. Got nothing but boy in there. Boy not
do any harm."
It is my Narcisse "
"No,' said Frangois, this another boy. Man
hire me to catch this boy."
Give him up to me," said Petit-Pare, ceasing
to wrench at the latch, and opening his wallet of
French dainties. I will give you all of this black
pudding if you will let my son out."
"No," grinned Frangois.
"Father," said the muffled voice of Bruno
within, where he listened with silenced accordion,
I have some Indian pipes for you."
"Hear my pretty dear "
Petit-P&re pressed his face to the door and called,
"Narcisse, art thou hurt ? "

No, father, I came in to keep the pipes from
the sun."
"Will you come out?"
When I have finished my tune," said Bruno.
Will he let thee out?"
Without troubling himself about that, Bruno
burst into a shout of singing, and his accordion
throbbed on.
The French grandfather, during this perform-
ance, negotiated. He pleaded with the grinning
Algonquin, offering in turn every item of clothing
on his person for the ransom of this son. He offered
the undigged potatoes on the slanting hill at home,
and his son Elzear's cherished pigs. So winningly
did he beg, and so loud did Bruno carelessly roar in
the cave, that Frangois thought it advisable to yield
before the sun had tilted as much as he wished it to
tilt; and Bruno came out with the Indian pipes
sticking in sand. His two sisters were among the
objects erased from his mind. The tenderness which
he had felt for them now set toward this stranger
who persistently adopted him; and, half ashamed,
he made his offering to the delighted creature.
"0 Narcisse, my boy cried Petit-Pere, "you
then thought of me even while your face was turned
from me But will you come home? The Algon-
quins and Hurons, what can they teach my chil-
dren? This Indian hath been hired to lead thee
off again to the woods. Was I not a good father ?
Did I ever say to any of you, The house is crowded,
and the ground will yield only potatoes and peas
enough for me and Elzear and Ursule?' No. Some
fathers do so, but I never could."
"But you did," asserted Bruno, struggling with
his memory.
No, Narcisse ; no, Narcisse "
The boy regarded the weeping old countenance
with a wistful softening and relaxing of all his own
facial muscles.
It is nothing, father," he soothed. "Be con-
tent, be content."
I am desolated of my children! "
Be content, father. I will go home with thee.
I will go home with thee as soon as I have run my
"Wilt thou, then,- wilt thou ? "
Come on with us, father, and see me go down
my slide."
Petit-Pere, holding the bark tray of Indian pipes
in his hands, sparkled through his tears.
"No slide to run," muttered Francois.
The Algonquin hung back with unhurried steps,
but the two others walked on chattering, ahead of
As they approached the Montmorenci, he exam-
ined the road beyond it with anxious eyes. Mon-
sieur Lavoie did not appear.



Keeping uneasy watch over Bruno, he induced
the old man and the young one to sit down. The
roar of the falls and war of water along the de-
scending bed visibly affected Bruno. He turned
his car to the sound; his eye brightly measured
its sweep.
The Montmorenci, though scarcely fifty feet
wide, whirls through a crooked gorge and down
an inclined plane-a torrent before it takes its
plunge of two hundred and fifty feet from the face
of the precipice. A clear brown stream, ready to
sparkle-anxious, every atom, to contribute to
that eternal spectacle in which water seems spirit-
ualized and glorified.
The sun was so pleasant that Bruno stretched
himself on the grass, his accordion dropping from
relaxed fingers and lying where ants could travel
over it. The watchful Algonquin saw Petit-P&re
nod over his Indian pipes. A number of empty
cabs stood before the toll-house waiting for tour-
ists who had gone down to see the falls.

When Monsieur Lavoie left Quebec with his
daughter and Marcelline Charland, he rode in the
largest of his vehicles-a roomy landau, which
could be opened. But while they threaded narrow
descending streets-better fitted to two-wheelers
or horseback riders-it came into his mind that
another vehicle and another assistant might be
necessary for the comfortable taking of a boy more
or less unsettled in wits.
Turn away from here and go back to Buade
street," he said to his coachman. There is some-
thing more to be done."
But a flock of sheep were ahead, trotting on
stones, their fleeces packed from wall to wall. A
brutal drayman drove into the flock and over a
lamb. Aurele screamed.
It would give me delight to take the carriage-
whip to that fellow," said the poet, hotly.
Papa, I am so glad you could see him."
"But every privilege has its reverse side," said
her father. Two or three days ago I could not
have been so outraged through my eyes."
While drayman and shepherd threatened and
shouted at each other, the sheep with their dust
passed an outlet through which the landau could
turn up the ascent to a street frequented by cab-
men. Then the poet engaged a sturdy French
driver to follow with his empty cab to the falls.

Frangois went to the door of the toll-house to
ask what time it was, and heard with relief that it
was quite two o'clock. Just as he turned away he
saw Monsieur Lavoie's carriages coming toward
the bridge, but he also saw the aged Frenchman
standing up alone, with lifted arms, shouting.

The coming party halted; they had seen Bruno
Charland run over the road and leap up a bank.
Perhaps the boy, dozing, was stirred by his re-
peated dream. At any rate, Frangois saw it was
a fatal mistake to have left him an instant. He
was already around the gorge of the Montmorenci
and probably launching his wind-fallen timber for
a slide.
The resources of an Indian-bold, agile, and
intensely muscular when he chooses to exert his
strength-were put to instant test. Frangois did
all that any man could have done.
The poet leaped from his seat and ran to help,
but all was done before he reached the spot.
Bruno came down the foaming gorge,-not
floating as he had fancied he would float, shouting
" Roule ma bou-le," bowing under the bridge, and
pausing an instant to view a world at his feet be-
fore taking that sublime plunge;- he was coming
down the descending rock-bed turned over and
over, spun in a whirlpool, and shot like an arrow
down the flume, already a helpless and lifeless
object. The three logs he had fastened together
for this voyage darted ahead of him toward the
falls, struck against rock and turned obliquely in
their course, giving Francois the only instant's ad-
vantage he could have. Francois, holding with
an Indian's grip to a rough point which he had
tried to loosen and knew to be safe, leaned out with
stretched arm and caught the tumbling figure as
it came to that acute angle made by logs and
bank. He teetered in his struggle. The screams
in Monsieur Lavoie's carriage, the roar of the falls,
the boiling of water up the gorge,- all buzzed in
his ears like bees. He thought Bruno had him,
and they should go over the falls together. But
he had Bruno, and, not knowing how he did so,
drew the boy out of that rushing force and dragged
him up the bank. Before he had done this the
logs shot on and went over like passing blots in
the descending sheen of satin, shivering to splin-
ters on the rocks below, but hiding their fragments
in everlasting mist.
Bruno's accordion was left sprawling in the grass,
where one of the toll-man's children afterward
found it beside the Indian pipes Petit-Pere dropped
when he jumped up to restrain the boy. Some of
them were trampled to a smear; others looked
shattered like porcelain.



THE cabmen at the toll-house came running to
help Monsieur Lavoie and the Indian.
Aurhle resolutely held Marcelline against her own
person, covering the child's face. Marcelline stood



still, trembling and crying in her silent way; she
made no louder outcry when the poet was obliged
to tell her that Bruno was lifeless, but still rained
tears and shook under Aurele's arms.
Put him in my carriage," said Monsieur Lavoie
as the bearers brought forward their load.
He got in himself and turned the cushions so
Bruno could lie lengthwise of the vehicle.
Yes, put him in a wagon," repeated the child-
ish grandfather," following. "For he is wetter
than his little father ever got, hunting him down,
the rogue."
The poet placed his daughter and Marcelline in
the cab he -had brought with him from Quebec.
He stood beside it in the irresolution which stupe-
fies people after a shock.
"Where shall we go ?" he inquired.
Shall we not take him home with us, Papa,"
whispered Aurele.
"My Aurdle, it is this little girl I ask. She
should determine."
I don't know," wept Marcelline. Monsieur,
he ought to go to Alvine. Alvine would know
what to do."
She is somewhere along the Beaupr6 road? "
"Yes, monsieur."
"Very well. We will then move toward Beau-
pre. I do not myself know what to do -since
nothing can be done."
It was Petit-Pdre at his elbow reaching after the
young lady and her crying companion in the cab.
Two more besides Olivier and Narcisse! said
Petit-Pere, his hands quivering with eagerness.
"Four of my children have I now together."
"Who is he, Papa?" inquired Aurele in Eng-
I don't know," Monsieur Lavoie replied in the
same language.
But Flavie is crying," lamented the grand-
father,-" my little Flavie that was scalded and
never grew well after it."
Marcelline sobbed at him over Aurele's hand-
kerchief, Monsieur, I was burned."
"Little Flavie," urged Petit-Pere, pushing be-
tween the wheels and using gestures and winning
grimaces to fortify what he said, "the boy is well
drenched, but listen to me. This is an old trick
of his. He has been to see the world. He is very
clever and can run slides through rapids for the
amusement of it. He has told me all these things,
so do not cry. For we will dry him and give him
a dose of my daughter Ursule's medicine, and to-
morrow he will be as well as ever."
The three gazed at this animated aged face, so
jubilant over calamity. Afternoon sunshine glit-
tered on the waiting carriages. Monsieur Lavoie's
coachman, having covered Bruno with a robe,

sat immovable on his box. Tourists and people
at the toll-house were making inquiries of the
What is your name, father? kindly inquired
the poet, feeling comforted by the innocent pres-
What is thy name, Olivier! he responded in
sweet derision. "Oh, you rogues. You went away
with red faces, and you came back with faces red.
My Olivier, and my Marie, and my Flavie."
"Do you know him at all?" murmured Aurele
to Marcelline.
No, mademoiselle. I never saw him before.
And he claims even my brother."
Let us now go home," said the grandfather-
an aged cherub in red kerchief and gray tasseled
cap to the poet, whose fire-shorn face, changed
to a caricature of itself by peeling cuticle and lash-
less eyelids, yet responded with the complete sym-
pathy of a poet.
How far is it home, little father? "
"All of two leagues, Olivier, my son. I have
the ache of two leagues in my limbs, for I fol-
lowed Narcisse all the way."
Is my sister there ?" demanded Marcelline.
"Yes, yes, yes, Flavie. She hath been home
a week."
It must be Alvine, mademoiselle. How does
she look, monsieur ?"
"Do ye all forget each other? "
Monsieur, is it a girl taller than I am? "
"Much taller, my Flavie. Thou art the only
one that was scalded and checked in growing."
Bare places were left on the seats of the landau
at each side of the cushions. The poet helped
Petit-Pere to one of these, and sat down facing
him. Francois came to the carriage-step and re-
ceived his pay.
This has been an unfortunate appointment,
Frangois," said Monsieur Lavoie.
"Yes, monsieur. He bound to run that slide."
I think you did all you could. If any one is to
blame, it is myself."
Ought to tied boy," said Francois. "Bad job."
Do you say he intended to run these falls be-
fore you brought him here ? "
Yes, monsieur. Had him raft made ready.
Bound to make his slide some time."
"I wish I had held to Beauport church and not
changed the place to Montmorenci bridge."
That boy like the wind," pronounced Fran-
gois, in some excitement. Wish I kept him in
hole. But old French father came begged him
"Do you know him, Frangois ? "
The Algonquin glanced at Petit-Pere sitting
contentedly in a corner of the back seat of the





carriage, as inattentive to their talk as a sleepy
infant would have been.
"No, monsieur. "He from up Beaupr6 road
hunting him stray family."
"Very well, Frangois."
The Algonquin turned to his own course, and
this procession of two vehicles began to wind the
curves of the Beaupr6 road. It was a familiarway
to the poet. He had seen the far blue mountains
in many moods. But this drive which he began
in great sadness seemed afterward the most beau-
tiful one of all. People in cal6ches and cabs, on
buckboards and hay-carts, passed, all with inquir-
VOL. XVI.-32.


ing glances at the carriage turned into a litter.
But the burden it carried lost all tragedy to the
mind of the poet, as they proceeded on their way.
Petit-Pere, worn out with his long tramp, put his
arm across the boy and fell asleep; both of them
blameless children, one bound a little deeper in
slumber than the other, but cared for quite as well.
All this seemed a natural-even a wholesome-
sequence to Bruno's beginnings in the world. A
robin dropped one instant to stand on his covered
shoulder, turning its serious head before it flew, as
if trying to remember when robins had alighted
on sleeping children before. Pain had probably



spared Bruno -companion of woods and moun-
tains and water in its various forms.
The voice of the Quebec cabman was the only
voice heard from either vehicle as the wheels
ground softly on and on. Habit made him urge
his steady horse with explosive notes, Haut-tu,
Marsdon, Marsdon *
Marcelline, watching for her sister's face at every
window and gate, saw none familiar.
Late in the afternoon they passed Pelletier's
cottage without knowing it was their destination.
The smithy was shut. The blacksmith, in great
anxiety at his grandfather's long absence, had
taken Gervas and gone to seek him.

As this walking company parted to give the slow
carriages the right of way--" There is the little
father !" exclaimed Madame Pelletier, recognizing
first a gray tassel and then his whole sleeping
Si,-so cried Pelletier. Monsieur," with
his hand to his cap, "has he been hurt--that
you have the kindness to bring my grandfather
in your carriage ? "
Monsieur Lavoie's reply to Pelletier was over-
come by younger voices. Marcelline stumbled out
of the cab to her sister. Their talk, their stormy
sorrow together, and the clamor of sympathy
which rose around them- none of these disturb-


IN TH-IL-,- P_


Petit-Pere had settled down against the cushions,
absorbed in rest.
Thus they drew nearer and nearer to the village
of Beaupr6 itself. They could see the populous
center, the church towers, and two fresh pilgrim-
boats side by side making ready to pour their loads
out on the dock.
People were also coming from Beaupr6 in such
numbers as to fill the road: Mother Ursule and
her husband Pelletier, who had gone quite to Ste.
Anne in his vain search; Gervas behind, his head
crowding against one of the twelve Pelletier children
from Quebec; and Alvine, wearing like the others
a pilgrimage medal pinned to her dress.

ances waked Petit-P&re. He slept through the
first shock which began for these two girls the
common lesson of sorrow. He slept while the
Pelletier children from Quebec, his relatives whom
he had never seen, stood on each side of the lan-
dau, open-mouthed, dark-eyed, starred with pil-
grim medals, a stupid young troop; excepting
Hermenegilde the eldest, who checked their whis-
pers and kept the imps from climbing the carriage
steps. He slept while his son Elzear and his
daughter Ursule made low-spoken arrangements
with the poet. He slept while Hermenegilde led
her flock ahead, and the carriages were turned
back toward Pelletier's house.

* Perhaps a corruption of "Marchons."



By that time the dock was black with landing
pilgrims. Up the long causeway from the river
they started, singing, banners nodding at intervals
along the line.
Now the bells of Ste. Anne burst out in welcome
and response.
Petit-Pere sat up in his seat. He was wide-
awake, tingling with excess of consciousness, like
a child when its night sleep ends. He saw the
Pelletier children of Quebec walking ahead, the
others on each side and behind him. A smile, so
broad that it became a grin of delight, expanded
his visage. Yet, with caution the forefinger of his
right hand counted the fingers of his left three
times and two fingers more, his eyes tallying the
person each finger represented.
Let me out! said Petit-Pare, combing his scarf
to a streamer on the top step in reckless haste, and
unconscious that Monsieur Lavoie pushed him
from the moving wheels.
His children were all together, marching home !
Two of them were crying; but our children must
fret sometimes. Sorrow and joy run so close
together. His watching, and his winter-tears--
they were done with.
"Cling, clang, boom! Cling, boom, boom!
Cling, clang rejoiced the bells of Ste. Anne.
Now I have all my children again! cried the
French grandfather, taking off his cap and shak-
ing it as he walked backward like a drum-major
at the head of the troop, his eyes wild with joy.
"Ring, bells, ring! They have all come back!
I have them all gathered together once more!"
"Cling, clang! Boom, boom! Cling, boom!
Cling, clang!" rejoiced the bells of Ste. Anne.

THE body of Bruno Charland was placed in the
sloping cemetery of Ste. Anne's old chapel, not far
from the grotto where pilgrims kneel and say
prayers. The poet Lavoie marked his bed with
a marble cross, small and slender, yet conspicuous
among the black wooden and slate crosses which
have leaned there from the east wind a quarter of
a century. There was one French boy less among
the swarming surplus who leave old hives and
crowded garden-sized farms along the rivers.
His father wept over him in the Chaudiere valley
when the tardy news came to his knowledge, in a
letter tenderly written by Aur6le Lavoie for Alvine
and Marcelline. But he had been obliged to send
the boy out as Abraham sent Ishmael, the customs
of his people and the scantiness of his stony farm
operating like a decree from which there is no
appeal. Jules remained to comfort his old age.

And his other children, from whom he heard at
long intervals, were moderately prospering in
northern Illinois and western Ontario, in Michi-
gan and Maine and Quebec.
That traveled Frenchman called the "Wan-
derer" was the influence that directed Bruno's
unpaid lumber wages to the hands of his sisters;
and they devoted every penny to religious purposes
for Bruno's sake.
Alvine and Marcelline, living the contented and
unambitious lives of their people, see each other
every day: two dusky, growing, French girls chat-
tering rapidly in that language, and having always
much to say of Mademoiselle Aur&le. For Mar-
celline lives in the family of the poet Lavoie, a
fixture like Philominie, sometimes assistant nurse,
sometimes assistant maid, and at all times an
affectionate and willingly helpful inmate of the
lavish house.
In July of each year, these girls will go to Beau-
pr6, leaving by the pilgrim-boat which departs
from Quebec dock at six every morning during
the season, and returning by the Beaupr6 road.
Perhaps-and perhaps not--they may find
Petit-Pare sitting in the long gallery behind the
geranium pots of his daughter Ursule. He does
not wander on the hills any more, nor trouble him-
self with any care. If it is a bright day he basks,
and if there is a rainy drizzle, sheltered by his
Norman eaves he can hear the birds sing in the.
rain. The salt breath of the river comes to him,
and the bells of Ste. Anne send their sound waves.
from the east. He can watch laborers at work on
the new railroad which is being built out of the
marsh land below Beaupr6 road, to bring tourists.
by the thousand in a brief rush from Quebec.
My daughter Ursule," he says every fine morn-
ing, I will go au fort-- the great fort, Quebec -
to see my children to-morrow." But he has never
in his life been to Quebec.
That will be a long journey for thee, my Petit-
Pere," says Mother Ursule, while she knits.
And, therefore, I will rest to-day. Since Oli-
vier keeps an eye over the young ones, and my
roving Narcisse stays with him off the hills, I am
not desolated to know where they are. It is not,
after all, possible to keep our children always
around our knees."
No, no, no," says his daughter.
"My children came home," muses the grand-
father, shining with satisfaction. But they would
go again. They need me no longer to knit for
them. They are well. I have rest now from seek-
ing them. But to-morrow I must go to Quebec to
see my children," repeats Petit-Pere, white hairs
slipping from his red kerchief as he turns his head
to gaze at one of the fairest landscapes in the world.

/ / ./ i AID Mr. Redbreast to his love,
/1 / "Do come and take a ride!
/ / I have the prettiest little nag
/ In all the country-side.

S I'11 sit in front and hold the whip,
SAnd you shall sit behind."
"Perrup peree," Miss Robin said,
Which means, You're very kind."

"Good-bye, Mamma! good-bye, Papa!
If I'm not back to tea,
vDon't be alarmed, I'll be quite safe
A In Redbreast's care," said she.
And so in gallant Redbreast's care
To Farmer White's she flew,
/ Where on the stable-roof there pranced
A charger full in view.

Then Redbreast took his seat in front,
u9F ^Miss Robin perched behind,
"Perrup peree," Miss Robin said,
I'm sure you 're very kind."

The swallows skimmed about their heads,
The oriole and jay
Sailed singing round the happy pair,
How fast we go said they.

S"A last spring's nest," fond Redbreast trilled,
I 've taken for this year.
The slight repairing that it needs
Won't make the rent too dear.

7y ^Sf "A shaving here, some horse-hair there,
SAnd now and then a twig,
Together with a little mud,
Will make it neat and trig.

2 ," It's half-way up a cedar-tree;
SNo pussy lives near by.
SA cherry-orchard 's close at hand.
Can you make cherry-pie ?

And, best of all, this pretty nag
Is just across the way.
I need a little housekeeper.
Miss Robin don't say nay "


You should have seen bold Redbreast then, and how he cocked his head,
And how his manly bosom swelled beneath his waistcoat red.

You should have heard Miss Robin then. Peree perrup," said she,
"Peree perro," which means, With joy I 'll share your cedar-tree "

But when some sunny weeks were past, you would have seen, indeed,
Four chubby little robins perched upon the prancing steed.

Near by were Redbreast Ma and Pa,- Mamma with anxious mind.
" Cling tight, my little dears," she warned, "and don't fall off behind.

"I 've always heard from Dr. Wren, and he is wondrous wise,
There 's nothing better for the young than horseback exercise."

Piped up the little Robins then, upon the prancing steed,
"We quite agree with Dr. Wren, he's very wise indeed "



. -. --

MY BIOGRAPHER, if I should ever have any,
would say in his first chapter: From boyhood
he evinced an aptitude for the Natural Sciences.
He was seldom without a magnifying-glass in his
pocket, and put it to most excellent use in familiar-
izing himself with those exquisite details of Mother
Nature's handiwork which are sure to escape the
mere casual observer." And in a later part of the
same future rival to "Boswell's Johnson" will
probably be seen these words: In later life we see
the traits of his boyhood deepened and broadened.
The magnifying-glass of his school-boy days has
become the large and costly binocular microscope
surrounded by all the apparatus which the cunning
workers in metals know so well how to produce in
limitless profusion for the ruin of the scientific
If such statements should be made, they will
be based upon facts.
There are, however, other facts which no biog-
rapher will dare to tell, and which, therefore, I
must write for myself. The following experience
is one of them. Whether to my credit or to my
discredit, I shall tell the plain story and leave it,
with all its improbability, to your fair judgment.
Already knowing my taste for the use of the
microscope, you can understand the following letter
without further introduction:
"AMAGANSETT, L. I., Aug. 5-
"DEAR PHILIP: I suppose the thermometers in the
city are the only scientific instruments now studied with


any interest. Being cool enough here to be reasonably
unselfish, I am willing to divert your mind from the
thermometer to the microscope.
"I inclose what seems to my prosaic mind a pebble.
It was picked up on the beach and playfully thrown by
me at our 'Professor.' He, of course accidentally,
caught it. After an examination, he declared that it dif-
fered from anything he had ever seen: that it was neither
animal, vegetable, nor mineral. In short, he knows that he
does n't know what it is, and therefore says (speaking in
true scientific vein) -'Although of indeterminate nature,
certain fusiform bosses, in conjunction with a general
spheroidal tendency, seem strong a prior indications of
aerolitic flight through our own atmosphere, or other
gaseous medium of similar density'! I make no com-
ments. So bring out your microscope and let us know
what it is. If you should come and join us you would
find little but sand and salt-water; but then there is
plenty of each. Sincerely yours,

He inclosed a small rounded object wrapped in
tissue-paper. It was light blue in color and a trifle
smaller than a hazel-nut. The surface seemed, as
the Professor hinted, to have been somewhat
melted. It certainly had claims to be considered
a curiosity.
That evening, after dinner, I took out my mi-
croscope, and after carefully cleaning the pebble,
I examined the surface under a strong condenser,
but thereby simply magnified the irregularities.
'"I shall have to cut it in two," I said to myself.
It was very hard, and I succeeded only after some
effort. I cut it through a little away from the
center, and so divided it almost into halves. Ex-


amining the flat surfaces, I found a small dark
spot in the center of one of them.
"I thought so! I exclaimed triumphantly; I
will now cut off a section and shall undoubtedly
find a petrified insect- perhaps of an extinct spe-
cies "
I sawed away the rounded side and, when I
could see that the dark spot was nearer the sur-
face, polished the section down with oil and emery-
paper until I had obtained a thin disk with a dark
spot in the middle.

--- c---- --,
;-~=~-~5----~--~L~-;- -- ~-
-~i-- ---

It was now ready for the microscope. The focus
was carefully found by slowly turning the fine-
adjustment screw. The spot gradually defined

itself and seemed about to assume the appearance
of an insect-when, just at the point where I had
expected it to be plainly visible, it suddenly dis-
appeared, leaving a hole in the disk through which
the light streamed! I was perplexed and gazed
stupidly. The light seemed suddenly to flicker
and then was shut off altogether.
I inspected the instrument carefully, but all
seemed to be in perfect order.
I picked up the disk. There certainly was a
hole through it.


Perhaps there is something in the tube," I said,
and unscrewed the eye-piece. Just as the eye-piece
came loose something jumped from the tube,
knocking the glass from my fingers.
I thought it was a moth or bug-but how did it
come there ?
"Well, that 's very strange," said I, aloud.
"Most extraordinary," a voice replied; a very
small voice, but the words were clearly audible. I
looked around the room.
Don't trouble yourself to search. I am not
afraid. I 'm right here on the table! "
I faced the table again and discovered that what I


had supposed to be a bug was, apparently, a man;
and a very commonplace, quiet, and gentlemanly
man, not at all remarkable, except for the fact that
he was only about three inches tall. When I saw
him he was straightening out his odd little hat,
which had in some way become slightly crushed.

This seemed to mo
a smile, It is a stran
styled a lisus nature
plain, as I was about
yourself; and you c
mous prodigious !

i, --,

L .A


- 4

My eyes at times deceive me somewhat, as my
microscope work has made them sensitive. So I
stooped to take a closer view of my visitor.
He appeared to be startled, and cried:
"Keep off! Do you mean to eat me? Beware!
Giant though you be, I can defend myself! "
Eat you I answered, laughing. I am not
a cannibal, even on a very small scale And I
have just dined. It was but curiosity. What in
the world are you ? "
"Curiosity, indeed he replied. "What in
the world are you ? and he mimicked my tone to
I saw that he stood upon his dignity, and thought
it best to humor him.
"You must pardon me," I began, "if my sur-
prise on seeing a gentleman of your small presence
caused me for the moment to forget the respect
due to a stranger. But you yourself will not deny
that the sight of such a mere atomy a lusus na-
ture, if I may be allowed the expression -would
tend to excite curiosity rather than to remind one
of the demands of courtesy."

llify him, for he replied, with
ge sensation to hear one's self
but I can not in justice com-
to apply the same term to
certainly are colossally enor-
I trust, however, that I have
controlled my curiosity, and
have accorded you such
treatment as is due a gen-
tleman-even on the very
largest scale "
He paused and gazed upon
me with undisguised amaze-
"How did you get here? "
I asked, after a moment's
I should be delighted to
know," he answered, with
evident sincerity. It may
be I can tell you, when you
are good enough to begin by
letting me know where I am."
"Nothing easier," I said.
This is my room."
A valuable piece of infor-
mation," he said, with some
sarcasm, "and the apart-
ment appears to be comfort-
able and rather well arranged
with exceptions. I see you
cling to antiquated styles."
Indeed! I was not aware

of it."
"Why," he said, seeing I did not understand,
" you light the room with coal-gas, as the ancients
did. You still use the mechanical clock instead of
the vocable chronophotometer; your furniture is,
I see, of wood, instead of coherent alcyite, while-
but I do not object to the effect-it is delightfully
archaic in tone "
I really don't follow you," I replied, somewhat
piqued, but you might remember that, archaic or
not, this room is my own, and your criticism upon
it is as gratuitous as your presence in it "
I admit that this was not precisely courteous,
but his manner was very supercilious and pro-
voked me.
"Why did you bring me here? I am sure I
did n't request it," he angrily retorted.
My atomic friend," I said, impressively, "who
or what you are, I neither know nor care. But
kindly bear in mind this fact: I did not bring you
here. I don't ask you to stay here,- whenever
you wish to go, I can bear your departure without
a pang. Nevertheless, so long as you remain I
shall expect you to behave in a gentlemanly man-




ner! Here I thumped upon the table, and he
fell over. He recovered nimbly and, drawing
himself up to his full three inches, replied with the
greatest dignity :
My colossal acquaintance, there is one fact
you must kindly bear in your mind: Who or what
you are is of little or no importance to me. How
I came here, I know no more than yourself. Suffice
it to say, I did n't come of my own accord; and,
from my experience so far,"-here he paused and
glanced scornfully about him,-" I have no desire
to prolong my stay. But while I do stay I shall
insist upon all proper courtesy and all due re-
spect "
His dignity was so absurdly out of keeping with
his size that I could not refrain from a burst of
laughter, and I became better-natured at once.
Well," I replied, when I had recovered my
composure, now that we have come to an under-
standing, tell me quietly, in a friendly way, as one
gentleman to another, something about yourself.
If you will allow me the question, where do you
live? Were you born a dwarf, or-- "
"Born a dwarf! he broke in angrily, "born
a dwarf! You great, coarse, overgrown giant-
what do you mean, sir? "
What do I mean?" It was too absurd.
"You ridiculous diamond-edition of humanity,
what do you suppose I mean? I have always
heard that dwarfs were sensitive; but, really, when
one is only about half the size of a respectable
jack-knife "
And I," he broke in again, "have always
heard that giants were invariably thick-witted and
rude; but I did suppose that any human being,
even if he were as tall as the tallest trees and had
a voice like a clap of thunder (which is far from
agreeable to your hearers, by the way), might be
sensible enough to--"
So you think," said'I, interrupting him, "that
I am as large as the tallest trees ? "
Certainly," he said, with perfect seriousness.
I thought it worth while to convince him of his
error, and therefore invited him to step to the
window, against which the table stood. He did
so, and, upon looking out, threw up his arms in
sheer amazement.
It is a land of giants he said, slowly and in
an awe-struck tone.
"Ah I remarked quietly, pleasedwith my little
object-lesson, you now see how much smaller you
are than ordinary men."
Ordinary men," he repeated very slowly and
with an absent expression. What then can he
think me ? "
He stood in silence, with his hands clasped be-
hind him, and appeared to be deep in thought.

When he spoke again it was with an entire change
of manner.
Am I to understand you, sir, that all the men,
women, and children known to you are proportion-
ately as large as yourself, and that everything is
on the same gigantic scale ? "
"'It is exactly so," I replied seriously.
"And may I ask you to believe that I have
never seen anything or anybody except upon the
smaller scale which you can see exemplified in
me ? Did you never see any one of my size before,
nor hear of us ?"
Never! except in fairy stories," I said frankly,
for now he seemed to be really a very sensible little
"This is not a question of fairy tales, nor of
joking!" he said, with great solemnity. "We
are in the very midst of some great mystery. I
must belong to a different race of beings--for I
never heard, read, or dreamed of such enormous
people. Where I live, all are like myself! "
This seemed incredible, but finally I asked, "And
where do you live? "
"I live," he answered, in the twenty-first
range of precinct forty, Telmer Municipal, Waver,
Forolaria; and by profession I am an Official Ar-
You are very exact," I said, with mock admira-
"And where do you live?" he inquired.
"This is my home," I said; "the Alfresco,
Madison street, New York City."
"Thank you," said he, with sarcastic gratitude.
"I am as wise as before! "
"You know as much of my residence as I of
yours I answered sharply.
"You can not be ignorant of Telmer ? he asked,
raising his eyebrows in surprise at my ignorance.
You surely know New York City?" I rejoined,
in the same manner. "The largest city in the
United States "
"United States," he repeated, "and what are
those who united them?"
"Perhaps a history would give you the clearest
information," I suggested.
I think it might, if I had the time," he replied
soberly, as he drew from his pocket what I supposed
to be a watch; but it was too small to be clearly
distinguishable. He pressed it in his hand, and I
heard a sound or voice clearly enunciating: "Thir-
ty-four degrees after the eighteenth." Before I
could say a word he resumed, "It is too late to-
night; perhaps you will save my time by telling me
the substance of it ? "
"Flattered, I 'm sure." I felt as if I was
again in school; but after a moment's reflection
I cleared my throat and began:


"The Kingdom of England- "
The what ?" he asked, with a puzzled look.
"The Kingdom of England-where the Eng-
lish live--"
What are the English? "
Oh, come," said I, laughing, you are talking
English! We are both talking English "
Well, well," he said; I was thinking a while
ago how it could be that you were able to speak
good Forolarian," and he burst out laughing.
Then suddenly ceasing he went on, But if we
begin on the mysteries we shall never get to the
invited states. Pray go on."
These English, you see, colonized a portion of
America "
"A portion of America--that is the name of
a place ? "
Oh, what is the use I broke off angrily. If
I define every word I use, I shall never reach a
conclusion. If you would like to pursue the sub-
ject further, my library is at your service."
Thank you," he replied, with dignity; "per-
haps I could glean some information from thal
source." I made no reply.
Presently, seeing that he wandered about the
table in rather an aimless way, I asked, Can I be
of service ? "
If you could suggest some method of reaching
the floor- "
I offered him the ruler. He seated himself cau-
tiously upon it, and I lowered him gently to the
Quite a walk to the book-case was his next
observation. I had n't thought of it, but proffered
my services once more.


"A matter of indifference to me, sir," he re-
plied, with a mite of a bow.
"Equally one to me," I replied, with a bow in
return. I was resolved that he should do some
thinking for himself.
"Let us say the lowest, then"; and he glanced
at the upper shelves, perhaps calculating the possi-
ble result of a misstep.
I left him on the lowest shelf, returning to the
table to put away the microscope. A slight cough
drew my attention to the book-case.
I admire the bindings," said the little fellow,
as he paced to and fro along the shelf.
I am gratified by your approval," was my
indifferent reply.
Particularly this one," he went on. Let me
see," he leaned far backward, and with much diffi-
culty read the title: "'The Works of Sha-kes-
peare.' I should like to read them."
"Very well," I answered politely.
"Much obliged," said he fiercely. "Please lend
me an electric derrick "
Pardon my stupidity -let me take it down for
you." I stepped to the book-case, laid the book
upon the floor, and returned to my work. A silence
then ensued, which lasted so long that I looked up
to see how he was progressing.
He was sitting on the shelf with his tiny legs
hanging despairingly over a gulf of some six inches
between himself and the floor. He was afraid to
jump and ashamed to ask help. Catching my eye,
he laughed and said:
"I am rather out of training just now, and not
fond of jumping!"
Say no more I lifted him to the floor, and

Z~ ~ ~~~ ~~~~~' ..... .-. i":..---"-
:--.~~~~ .>5.:7 ."


"Which shelf would you prefer? I asked, as turned away; but only to be recalled by a faint
respectfully as possible, for certainly it was not an ejaculation. His mishaps were truly ingenious.
ordinary question. He was caught beneath the cover of the book.



"My foot slipped," he explained with some
confusion; "but if it had n't, I believe I could
have opened the book all by myself! "
"I will not leave you, now, until everything is
in proper order," I replied;
for it occurred to me that to
have any accident happen to
him might be a very per-
plexing thing. Opening the
book, I picked him up gin-
gerly between my fingers,
first asking pardon for the
liberty, and deposited him
softly upon the first page of
"The Tempest."
Are you all right now ?
I inquired, to make sure.
"I believe so," said he, as
he began to read- running
to and fro upon the page.
However, I sat down near by
and watched him, fearing
some new difficulty. He read
with much interest, and
seemed to enjoy it thorough-
ly, except when he came to
the turning of a page. That
was a nuisance indeed, as
he had to turn up one edge,
crawl over it, and then lift
the page over.
Have n't you a smaller
edition of this fellow's writ-
ings?" he asked, somewhat
exhausted by his efforts.
"This is like reading sign-
boards !" "I
"No," I replied shortly,
but if it tires you, you can ,TA
read something else."
"But," said he, with some
enthusiasm, this is really
quite good. It 's equal to
some of Wacoth's earlier "'I ADMIRE TH
and cruder work! It shows
a talent that would well repay cultivation "
Yes, it is very fair," I replied, quietly; Shake-
speare certainly has produced some creditable
plays--at least, we think so."
I should like to have known him," went on
my undisturbed visitor. I think we would have
been congenial. Don't you think so?"
I paid no attention to this. What could I say ?
We consider him one of the best writers in the
language," I said, finally.
"I would like to hear about them," he said.
I pretended not to understand this hint: but he

waited very patiently and returned my gaze with
quiet expectation.
Now, look here," said I, calmly weighing my
words, "I have, at present, other occupations


which, I regret to say,"- this was sarcastic,-" pre-
vent me from undertaking to give you a really
thorough course in English literature. I might
be more inclined to do so if I had something to
begin on. Have you ever heard of Homer?"
Yes," he answered eagerly, "my father has a
cousin of that name Homer Woggs "
I can not believe it is the same man," said I,
soberly. He seemed much disappointed. At
all events," I went on, you can not fail to see the
folly of expecting me to explain to you all the
events which have taken place since the world



- --- ---


began. I finished school some years ago, and
have no desire to review the whole curriculum."
I turned resolutely away and left him to his own
devices. I worked quietly for a few moments,
only to be interrupted by a Whew !"
What 's the matter now ? I asked, irritably.
"I 'm tired of lugging over these pages "
Well, don't do it. Sit down. Repose."
But I'm interested in the play "



I'm not going to turn the pages for you."
Could n't you read it aloud to me? he asked,
with cool assurance.


"I could, but I won't," I replied, rudely
enough; but I was provoked at his impudence.
You are very obliging," he said, sneeringly.
I made no reply. After a pause he made a sug-
Although determined not to aid me to an oc-
cupation, perhaps you will not object to my sitting
by and seeing what you are doing ? "
I could not refuse so reasonable a request. I
raised him to the table
and gave him a paper-
Sweight to sit upon.
He quietly watched
me until I began to un-
Sscrew the glasses from
my microscope, when
,-rJ he said carelessly: I
l.y.. myself am a microscopic
.. amateur! "
S It is an interesting
subject," I replied.
"Yes. My success
with the Mincroft glass
was remarkable."
The Mincroft glass,
-I do not know it,-
a what is its nature ? I
asked, with some natural
"Why, the compos-
-c ite lens invented by
Mincroft, which enables
one to see the whole
of a large object at
once, all parts being equally magnified -but I
bore you ? He pretended to yawn.
On the contrary," I said, eagerly, "it has



been my keenest desire to invent such an instru-
ment. Pray describe it "
But it is so simple; any schoolboy can ex-
plain it to you," he said, with feigned indifference.
But how can such a marvel be accomplished ? "
I insisted, carried away by curiosity.
Do you really mean to say you never heard of
it ? he inquired in a drawling tone, designed, I
thought, to annoy me.
Never And I would give any-
thing to understand it "
He seemed amused by my eager-
ness, and, smiling indulgently, con-
tinued in the same tone, "Why, .
that is a trifle -a mere toy com-
pared to the wonderful Angertort
Tube. Now, that is what Ishould
call an invention "
What! another discovery of
which I have never heard? The
Angertort Tube, did you say ? When
were these inventions made ? "
I believe it was during the third
century, before the second great
migration, but for exactness I shall
have to refer you to the school-
books. I never was good at dates.
However, it does n't matter; these
were but the first-fruits of the re-
vival of science -when chemismic-
aton first superseded steam and /
This was too much. ."Steam
and electricity superseded ? They
are yet in their infancy with us "
Oh," he replied, laughing, "you
are far behind the times. We dis-
used both as soon as we learned to
control dynamic atomicity." '
You must be ages in advance of j ;
us. I beg you to explain some of
these marvels to me."
I have other occupations," said
he, roguishly, "and, to my great
regret, they will prevent my tutoring you in the
A B C's of science. You must think me very
obliging! and he arose, put his hands in his
trousers-pockets, and sauntered away across the
table, whistling softly to himself.
I lost my temper.
"You cantankerous little midget, you will an-
swer my questions or I'll send you back where you
came from "
He turned sharply upon me and exclaimed:
"You great hulking booby, do you expect me
to bore myself by giving lessons in primary science
to a cross-grained, disobliging fellow who will not

take the trouble to tell me who excited the states,
who Shakespeare is, or to read me even one of his
I'LL KEEP MINE. As to going back where I came
from, I would be glad to rid you of my presence in-
stantly if only I knew how."
I '11 try it, anyhow I cried, so angry that I
hardly knew'what I said. "You came out of my
microscope, and into it you shall go again!" I

/ ,

caught him up, dropped him into the tube, screwed
on the top, and was pleased to see the little black
spot reappear in the disk. Opening the window,
I threw out the disk and was amazed to see that,
instead of falling, it floated away through the mo-
tionless air like a piece of thistle-down before a
summer breeze. It soon left the area of light
coming from my window and was lost to view.
Aha I said, with deep satisfaction. Now
you can go back where you came from "
I sat down beside my table and, as my anger
cooled, began to think it all over. At first I felt
great relief to be rid of the little pest, who fretted


me by his pertinacity and piqued my self-esteem
by his air of superiority.
But gradually my temper cooled, and as I re-
covered my sane judgment I began to reflect that
ordinary civility to the little manikin might have
induced him to tell me enough to have secured
me fame and fortune, or even to have made me a

benefactor to my whole race; and I felt bitter shame
that my ill humor and foolish pride had caused
me pettishly to throw away an opportunity greater
than had ever been granted to any human being.
Still, he was so provoking and so altogether irri-
tating that I am inclined to think you yourself
would have done very much the same.

From the German.


ONCE a little Pine-tree,
In the forest ways,
Sadly sighed and murmured,
Thro' the summer days.
"I am clad in needles -
Hateful things! "- he cried;
"All the trees about me
Laugh in scornful pride.
Broad their leaves and fair to see;
Worthless needles cover me.

"Ah, could I have chosen,
Then, instead of these,
Shining leaves should crown me,
Shaming all the trees.
Broad as theirs and brighter,
Dazzling to behold;
All of gleaming silver -
Nay, of burnished gold.
Then the rest would weep and sigh;
None would be so fine as I."

Slept the little Pine-tree
When the night came down,
While the leaves he wished for
Budded on his crown.
All the forest wondered,
At the dawn, to see
What a golden fortune
Decked this little tree.
Then he sang and laughed aloud;
Glad was he and very proud.

Foolish little Pine-tree !
At the close of day,
Thro' the gloomy twilight,
Came a thief that way.
Soon the treasure vanished;
Sighed the Pine, "Alas !
Would that I had chosen
Leaves of crystal glass."
Long and bitterly he wept,
But with night again he slept.

Gladly in the dawning
Did he wake to find
That the gentle fairies
Had again been kind.
How his blazing crystals
Lit the morning air !
Never had the forest
Seen a sight so fair.
Then a driving storm did pass;
All his leaves were shattered glass.

Humbly said the Pine-tree,
I have learned 't is best
Not to wish for fortunes
Fairer than the rest.
Glad were I, and thankful,
If I might be seen,
Like the trees about me,
Clad in tender green."
Once again he slumbered, sad;
Once again his wish he had.

Broad his leaves and fragrant,
Rich were they and fine,
Till a goat at noon-day
Halted there to dine.
Then her kids came skipping
Round the fated tree;
All his leaves could scarcely
Make a meal for three.
Every tender bud was nipt,
Every branch and twig was stript.

Then the wretched Pine-tree
Cried in deep despair,
"Would I had my needles;
They were green and fair.
Never would I change them,"
Sighed the little tree;
"Just as nature gave them
They were the best for me."
So he slept, and waked, and found
All his needles safe and sound !


I,."- (I.'
7sjs /~ ~ c( i.' I

-- t&1tL ,. - .
14L I t

z,,ps r

Vd oc011





An Old Quarrel.


]\' T was one morning this
last April that a blue-
bird lit on mywindow-
sill,-a blue-bird, not a
new bird, understand,
for we are very old friends.
/ He has been a neighbor of
mine for years,- a part, at least,
of every year for a decade,- and
comes to Twig Lodge, every spring,
as regularly as possible.
"Well, friend, how are you? Welcome to
Virginia again! When did you leave the
South ? I said in greeting, but had no answer;
for a moment, indeed, was thinking him rude and
surly for a traveled bird, when he cocked his head to
one side, as if listening, and, looking down, said:
There they are! At it again They have been
quarreling in just this way, now, ever since any-
thing was anywhere. There 's a regular feud be-
tween them. Hark "
"Between who ? said I, curiously, regardless
of grammar.
Between them," replied he, impatiently.
"They are all alike. Hark! Don't you see that
snow-flake down below, and that blade of grass ?"
Where are you going ? I don't hear anything,"
said I. But he was off, and I was about to leave
the window when I was arrested by the sound of
voices, very fine and clear, and apparently at
some distance from me. I stopped and listened;
I was so taken by surprise and so interested that I
quite forgot that one should never listen to con-

versations not intended for one. I did n't remem-
ber ever to have heard I must n't listen, for fully
a week, and this was the dialogue:
SNOW-FLAKE: Well, the season is over,
thank goodness, and we shall all be off very soon.
I am so glad "
BLADE OF GRASS: The season over. Why,
what are you talking about? It has just begun."
S. F. : "That shows what you know of times
and seasons But I don't know why I should
express the least surprise, when you don't know
anything about Christmas even, nor do any of
your family. I never knew such ignorance.
We 've told you the story over and over again;
but some persons never learn anything."
B.OFG.: "Oh,yes! You've told usstories enough
and to spare. That, I am quite willing to grant.
But when it comes to the truth -that is quite
another matter. Christmas! Christmas Christ-
mas It is always Christmas with you the whole
year around, and I am perfectly sick and tired of
hearing of it, for it is really yourself that you wish
to bring into notice all the time. If you could
only hear one-half of the disagreeable things that
are said of you, you would certainly be a good deal
less openly conceited. Wherever I go it is always
the same thing. Thank Heaven, the snow is gone
at last That dirty, slushy, wretched snow How
I hate it "
S. F. : "What an abominable fib Wherever
I go I hear nothing but good of myself and my
family! 'Ah! Here's the snow at last! Now we
are all right! Now we shall have some fun! Ho!



for coasting and skating and sleighing, and larks
generally,' they say. And as for being dirty, we are
the purest, whitest, most beautiful thing in all this
white world."
B. OF G.; "The world is n't white at all. It
is green. I have told you that a thousand times
at least. I have been all over it, and I know."
S. F.: "It is white, all white, except where the
sun strikes it in the evening. I should think I
ought to know."
B. OF G.: "You ought to know many things
that you don't know, and never will, moreover.
I can tell you that there are whole countries where
nobody has ever seen or heard of you, and where
we have lived and flourished for thousands of years."
S. F. : And I can tell you that there are other
countries where not so many as one of you has
ever been seen, and where we have lived and
flourished the year round for millions of years."
B. OF G. : Oh! Pooh! Tell that to the
marines! What is the name of those countries,
pray? Where did your family come from, any-
way, I should like to know "
S. F. : "My family is of high origin-far,
far above yours, as everybody knows; for though
you are a most impudent young blade, your low
origin is a thing that you can never, never alter.
Grow as you will, you will never rise to the height
I came from, I can tell you."
B. OF G. : "Well, I would rather strive upward
than to be always falling into the mire, if that is
what you mean. You are like poor Rain-drop,
who can't keep out of the gutter to save his life,
and is always talking of having 'left heaven so re-
cently.' Earth is good enough for me; and I
flatter myself that it would n't be much of a place
for anybody, but for us."
S. F. : "Well, your conceit is something colos-
sal. It gets along perfectly, I can assure you,
without you or yours, for all you think yourself so
important. Who is it that puffs you up with
such ideas? You are green to believe
them. Where were you on the 25th
of last December, pray ? "

B. OF G. : "Where you will be on the 4th of
July next,- precisely! "
S. F.: "The dog-days! Everybody that is
anybody always would make a point of escaping
them. They are only fit, as the Turks say, for
mad dogs and Englishmen-and you."
B. OF G. : "They are too good for such as you,
S. F. : "Look here! Don't you go too far!
Just you remember that I can call on my family
and we can kill you all out, wheneverwe choose to
act in concert-freeze you right out! Yes, kill
and bury you, one and all, and tell no tales."
B. OF G.: "Oh! no! You can't, either. At
worst you could only stun us for a while. Kill us
you never can, nor conquer us, either; you have
been trying to, ever since the world was made; and
look at you, you poor miserable thing, dying by
inches, like all your family, on this 5th of April,
1889! and no nearer doing it than in the year one !
The less you talk about fighting us the better.
We can put a million billion spears in the field in
three weeks without making the least commotion,
and sustain them for months without troubling
anybody to lend us a cent. You had better be
civil, I can tell you-for you are almost alone,
and we are Legion. Besides, whenever any of you
are attacked by enemies you always run away!
You know you do. Run away now, and join the
rest of your family. It will be better for you, and
we would be ashamed to tackle you quite
ashamed, I assure you."
S. F. (bursting into tears of rage): I go, but
it is because I promised to, six months ago, and
not because of anything you have said or can do."
B. OF G. : Was it furious, perfectly furious ?
Hold on a bit, and we '11 all sing 'The Wearing
of the Green' for you. That always puts you in a
melting mood, icy as you are in general. It is so
pathetic. Hold on, I say."
S. F. (indignantly): I will not hold on. I am
going, going, gone! But I will come
again. Au revoir, monsieur, un-
/ til the 15th of November."

VOL. XVI.-33.

11~.~~~_Ll. ~P~f~C~~
~----- --




THERE was a gnarled old pear-tree of great age
and size that grew near Betty Leicester's west win-
dow. By leaning out a little she could touch the
nearest bough. Aunt Barbara and Aunt Mary said
that it was a most beautiful thing to see it in bloom
in the spring; and the family cats were fond of
climbing up and leaping across to the window-sill,
while there were usually some birds perching in it
when the coast was clear of pussies.
One day Betty was looking over from Mary Beck's
and saw that the west window and the pear-tree
branch were in plain sight; so the two girls invented
a system of signals: one white handkerchief meant
come over, and two meant no, but a single one in
answer was for yes. A yellow handkerchief on the
bough proposed a walk; and so the code went on,
and was found capable of imparting much secret
information. Sometimes the exchange of these
signals took a far longer time than it did to run
across from house to house, and at any rate in the
first fortnight Mary and Betty spent the greater
part of their waking hours together. Still the signal
service, as they proudly called it, was of great use.
One morning, when Mary had been summoned,
Betty came rushing to meet her.
Aunt Barbara is going to let me have a tea-
party. What do you think of that ? she cried.
Mary Beck looked pleased, and then a doubting
look crept over her face.
I don't know any of the boys and girls very
well except you," Betty explained, "and Aunt Bar-
bara liked the idea of having them come. Aunt
Mary thinks that she can't come down, for the ex-
citement would be too much for her, but I am
going to tease her again as soon as I have time.
It is to be a summer-house tea at six o'clock; it is
lovely in the garden then. Just as soon as I have
helped Serena a little longer, you and I will go to
invite everybody. Serena is letting me beat eggs."
It was a great astonishment that Betty should
take the serious occasion so lightly. Mary Beck
would have planned it at least a week beforehand,
and worried and worked and been in despair; but
here was Betty as gay as possible, and as for Aunt
Barbara and Serena and Letty, they were gay too.
It was entirely mysterious.

I have sent word by Jonathan to the Picknell
girls; he had an errand on that road. They looked
so old and scared in church last Sunday that I kept
thinking that they ought to have a good time. They
don't come in to the village much, do they ? "
Hardly ever, except Sundays," answered Mary
Beck. "They turn red if you only look at them,
but they are always talking together when they
go by. One of them can draw beautifully. Oh,
of course I go to school with them, but I don't
know them very well."
I hope they '11 come, don't you ? said Betty,
whisking away at the eggs. '"I don't know when
I 've ever been where I could have a little party.
I can have two or three girls to luncheon almost
any time, especially in London, but that's differ-
ent. Who else now, Becky ? Let's see if we choose
the same ones."
"Mary and Julia Picknell, and Mary and Ellen
Grant, and Lizzie French, and George Max, and
Frank Crane, and my cousin Jim Beck,- Dan's too
little. They would be eight, and you and I make
ten oh, that 's too many "
Dear me, no! said Betty lightly. I thought
of the Fosters, too-"
We don't have much to do with the Fosters,"
said Mary Beck. "I don't see why that Nelly
Foster started up and came to see you. I never
go inside her house now. Everybody despises her
father- "
"I think that Nelly is a dear-looking girl,"
insisted Betty. I like her ever so much."
"They acted so stuck-up after Mr. Foster was
put in jail," Mary went on. People pitied them
at first and were carrying about a subscription-
paper, but Mrs. Foster would n't take anything,
and said that they were going to support them-
selves. People don't like Mrs. Foster very well."
"Aunt Barbara respects her very much. She
says that few women would show the courage she
has shown. Perhaps she has n't a nice way of
speaking, but Aunt Barbara said that I must ask
Harry and Nelly, when we were talking about to-
night." Betty could not help a tone of triumph;
she and Becky had fought a little about the Fosters
before this.
"Harry is like a wild Indian," said Mary Beck;
"he goes fishing and trapping almost all the time.


He won't know what to do at a party. I believe
he makes ever so much money with his fish, and
pays bills with it." Becky relented a little now.
"Oh, dear, I have n't anything nice enough to
wear," she' added suddenly. "We never have
parties in Tideshead, except at the vestry in the
winter; and they're so poky."

COLOR. 515

"But I don't know what Harry will say," she
added doubtfully.
"Please ask him to be sure to come," urged
Betty. "I should be so disappointed, and Aunt
Barbara asked me to say that she depended upon
him, for she knows him better than she does
almost any of the young people." Nelly looked


Oh, wear anything; it's going to be hot, that's
all," said industrious Betty, in her business-like
checked apron; and it now first dawned upon
Becky's honest mind that it was not worth while
to make one's self utterly miserable about one's
The two girls went scurrying away like squirrels
presently to invite the guests. Nelly Foster looked
delighted at the thought of such a pleasure.

radiant at this, but Mary Beck was much offended.
" I go to your Aunt Barbara's oftener than any-
body," she said jealously, as they came away.
She asked me to say that, and I did," main-
tained Betty. Don't be cross, Becky, it 's going
to be such a jolly tea-party. Why, here 's Jona-
than back again already. Oh, good! the Pick-
nells are happy to come."
The rest of the guests were quickly made sure



of, and Betty and Mary went back to the house.
It made Betty a little disheartened to find that
her friend took every proposition on the wrong
side ; she seemed to think most things about a tea-
party were impossible, and that all were difficult,
and she saw lions in the way at every turn. It struck
Betty, who was used to taking social events easily,
that there was no pleasuring at all in the old
village, though people were always saying how
gay and delightful it used to be and how many
guests used to come to town in the summer.
The old Leicester garden was a lovely place on
a summer evening. Aunt Barbara had been sur-
prised when Betty insisted that she wished to have
supper there instead of in the dining-room; but
Betty had known too many out-of-door feasts in
foreign countries not to remember how charming
they were and how small any dining-room seems
in summer. And after a few minutes thought,
Aunt Barbara, too, who had been in France
long before, asked Serena and Letty to spread
the table under the large cherry-tree near the
arbor; and there it stood presently, with its white
cloth, and pink roses in two china bowls, all ready
for the sandwiches and bread and butter and straw-
berries and sponge-cake, and chocolate to drink out
of the prettiest cups in Tideshead. It was all sim-
ple and gay and charming, the little feast; and full
of grievous self-consciousness as the shyest guest
might have been when first met by Betty at the
doorstep, the fun of the party itself proved most
contagious, and all fears were forgotten. Every-
body met on common ground for once, without
any thought of self. It came with surprise to more
than one girl's mind that a party was so well worth
the trouble. It was such a pity that somebody
did not have one every week.
Aunt Barbara was very good to Harry Foster, who
seemed at first much older and soberer than the
rest; but Betty demanded his services when she
was going to pass the sandwiches again, and Letty
had gone to the house for another pot of chocolate.
I will take the bread and butter, and you may
pass these," she said. And away they went to the
rest of the company, who were scattered along the
arbor benches by twos and threes.
I saw you in your boat when I first came up the
river," Betty found time to say. I did n't know
who you were then, though I was sure you were
one of the boys whom I used to play with. ome
time when Nelly is going down, could n't you take
me too? I can row."
"Nelly would go if you would. I never thought
to ask her. I always wish there were somebody
else to see how pleasant it is "-and then a voice
interrupted to ask what Harry was catching now.
Bass," said Harry, with brightening face. I

do so well that I am sending them down to River-
port every day that the packet goes, and I wish
that I had somebody to help me. You don't know
what a rich old river it is "
"Why, if here is n't Aunt Mary !" tried Betty.
Sure enough the eager voices and the laughter had
attracted another guest. And Aunt Barbara sprang
up joyfully and called for a shawl and foot-stool
from the house; but Betty did n't wait for them,
and brought Aunt Mary to the arbor bench.
Nobody knew when the poor lady had been in her
own garden before, but here she was at last, and
had her supper with the rest. The good doctor
would have been delighted enough if he had seen
the sight.
Nothing had ever tasted so good as that out-of-
door supper. The white June moon came up, and its
bright light made the day longer; and when every-
body had eaten a last piece of sponge-cake, and
the heap of strawberries on a great round India
dish had been leveled, what should be heard but
sounds of a violin. Betty had discovered that
Seth Pond,- the clumsy, good-natured Seth of all
people! -had, as he said, ears for music," and
had taught himself to play.
So they had a country-dance on the green, girls
and boys and Aunt Barbara, who had been a
famous dancer in her youth; and those who did n't
know the steps of money-musk and the Virginia reel,
were put in the middle of the line, and had plenty of
time to learn before their turns came. Afterward
Seth played "Bonny Doon," and "Nelly was a
Lady," and "Johnny Comes Marching Home,"
and "Annie Laurie," and half a dozen other songs,
and everybody sang, but, to Betty's delight, Mary
Beck's voice led all the rest.
The moon was high in the sky when the guests
went away. It seemed like a new world to some
young folks who were there, and everybody was
surprised because everybody else looked so pretty
and was so surprisingly gay. Yet, here it was, the
same old Tideshead after all !
"Aunt Barbara," said Betty, as that aunt sat
on the side of Betty's four-post bed; "Aunt Bar-
bara, don't say good-night just yet. I must talk
about one or two things before I forget them in the
morning. Mary Picknell asked me ever so many
questions about some of the pictures in the library;
but she knows more about them than I do, and I
thought I would ask her to come some day so that
you could tell her everything. She must be an
artist. Did n't you see how she kept looking at
the pictures? And then Henry Foster knows a
lovely place down the river for a picnic, and can
borrow boats enough beside his own to take us
all there only it 's a secret yet. Harry said that
it was a beautiful point of land, with large trees,




and that there was a lane that came across the
fields from the road, so that you could be driven
down to meet us, if you disliked the boats."
"I am very fond of being on the water," said
Aunt Barbara, with great spirit. "I knew that
point, and those oak-trees, long before either of you
was born. It was very polite of Harry to think
of my coming with the young folks. Yes, we '11
think about the picnic, certainly, but you must
go to sleep now, Betty."
"Aunt Barbara must have been such a nice
girl," thinks Betty, as the door shuts. "And, if
we go, Henry must take her in his boat. It is
strange that Mary Beck should not like the Fos-
ters, just because their father was a scamp."
But the room was still and dark, and sleepiness
got the better of Betty's thoughts that night.


EVERYBODY was as kind as possible when Betty
Leicester first came to Tideshead, and best com-
pany manners prevailed toward her; but as the
girls got used to having a new friend and playmate,
some of them proved disappointing. Nothing could
shake her deep affection for honest-hearted Mary
Beck, but in some directions Mary had made up
her inexperienced and narrow mind, and would
listen to none of Betty's kindly persuasions. The
Fosters' father had done some very dishonest deeds,
and had run away from justice after defrauding
some of the most trustful of his neighbors. Mary
Beck's mother had lost some money in this way,
and old Captain Beck even more, so that the girl
had heard sharp comments and indignant blame at
home; and she shocked Miss Barbara Leicester and
Betty one morning by wondering how Henry and
Nelly Foster could have had the face to go to church
the very Sunday after their father was sent to jail.
She did not believe that they cared a bit what peo-
ple thought.
"Poor children," said Miss Leicester, with quiet
compassion, the sight of their pitiful young faces
was enough for me. When should one go to church
if not when in bitter trouble ? That boy and girl
lately look years older than the rest of you young
"It never seemed to me that they thought any
less of themselves," said Mary Beck, in a disagree-
able tone; and I would n't ask them to my party,
if I had one."
But they have worked so hard," said Betty.
"Jonathan said yesterday that Harry Foster told
him this spring, when he was working here, that
he was going to pay every cent that his father owed,
if he lived long enough. He is studying hard, too;
you know that he hoped to go to college before

F COLOR. 517
this happened. They always look as if they were
grateful for just being spoken to."
Plenty of people have made everything of them
and turned their heads," said Mary Beck, as if she
were repeating something that had been said at
home. "I think I should pity some people whose fa-
therhad behavedso, but I don't like the Fosters abit."
They are carrying a heavy load on their young
shoulders," said Miss Barbara Leicester. "You
will feel differently by and by, about them. Help
them all you can, Mary "
Mary Beck went home that morning much dis-
pleased. She did n't mean to be hard-hearted, but
it had seemed to her like proper condemnation of
wrong-doing to treat the Fosters loftily. Now that
Betty's eyes had filled with tears as she listened,
and Miss Leicester evidently thought less of her for
what had been said, Mary began to feel doubtful
about the matter. Yes, what if her father had
been like theirs-could she be shut up like a
prisoner, and behave as she expected the Fosters
to behave? By the time she reached her own
house, she was ashamed of what she had said.
Miss Leicester was at that moment telling Betty
that she was astonished at such bitter feeling in
their young neighbor. "She has never really
thought about it. I dare say she only needs a
sensible word or two to change her mind. You
children have such tremendous opinions." And
Aunt Barbara smiled.
"Once when I was staying in the Isle of Wight,"
said Betty, I belonged to such a nice out-of-door
club, Aunt Barbara."
Did you? What was it like ? "
Oh, not really like anything that I can think
of, only we had great fun together. We used to
walk miles and miles, and carry some buns or buy
them, and get milk or ginger-beer at the farms.
There are so many ruins to go to see, and old
churches, and homes of eminent persons of the time
of Elizabeth, and we would read from their works,
and it was so pleasant coming home by the foot-
paths afterward," announced Betty with satisfac-
tion. The governesses used to go, too, but we
could outrun all but one of them, the Duncans'
Miss Winter, who was as dear as could be. I had
my lessons with the Duncans for quite a while. Oh,
it was such fun !- the others would let us go on as
fast as we liked and come poking along together,
and have their own quiet pleasures." Betty was
much diverted with her recollections. "I mean to
begin an out-of-door club here, Aunt Barbara."
In my time," said Aunt Barbara, girls were
expected to know how to sew, and to learn to be
good housekeepers."
"You would join the club, would n't you?"
asked Betty, anxiously.

--- -- _____

And be run away from, like the stout govern- have no demands made upon her. There were
esses, I dare say." days when Betty had a plan for every half-hour,
There was an attempt at a serious expression, remarked Aunt Barbara indulgently.
but Miss Leicester could not help laughing a little. Suppose you come out to the garden with me
Down came Miss Mary at this moment, with Letty to pick some currants?" and Betty was quietly


behind her, carrying cushions, and Betty sprang removed from the weak nerves of Aunt Mary, who
up to help make the couch ready. plaintively said that Betty had almost too much
I wish that you would belong, too, and come life.
with us on wheels," said she, returning to the sub- Too much life! Not a bit of it," said Serena,
ject that had been interrupted. You could drive who was the grandniece's chief upholder and cham-
tothe meetings and be head-member, Aunt Mary." pion. We did need waking up, 't was fact, Miss
But Aunt Mary was tired that day, and wished to Leicester; now, wa' n't it? It seemed just like





old times, that night of the tea-party. Trouble is,
we've all got to bein' too master comfortable, and
thought we could n't step one foot out o' the
beaten rut. 'T is the misfortune o' livin' in a little
And Serena marched back to the kitchen, carry-
ing the empty glass from which Miss Mary Leices-
ter had taken some milk, as if it were the banner
of liberty.
She put it down on the clean kitchen-table.
"Too much life!" the good woman repeated
scornfully. I 'd like to see a gal that had too
much life for me. I was that kind myself, and
right up an' doin'. All these Tideshead gals be-
have as slow as the month o' December. Fussin'
about their clothes, and fussin' about 'you do this'
and 'I can't do that,' an' lettin' folks that know
something ride right by 'em. See this little Betty
now, sweet as white laylocks, I do declare. There
she goes 'long o' Miss Barbary, out into the cur-
rant bushes."
Aunt Barbara," Betty was saying a few min-
utes later, as one knelt each side of the row of
white currants, "Aunt Barbara, do you like best
being grown up or being about as old as I am? "
"Being grown up, I 'm sure, dear," replied the
aunt, after serious reflection.
"I'm so glad. I don't believe people ever have
such hard times with themselves afterward, as they
do growing up."
What is the matter now, Betty ? "
"Mary Beck, Aunt Barbara. I thought that I
liked her ever and ever so much, but I have days
when I want to shake her. It's my fault, because
I wake up and think about her and feel cross before
I even look at her, and then I can't get on all day.
Then some days I can hardly wait to get over to
see her, and we have such a good time. But you
can't change her mind about anything."
I thought that you would n't be so intimate all
summer," said Aunt Barbara, picking very fast.
You see that you expect Mary Beck to be perfect,
and the poor child is n't. You made up a Mary
Beck in your own mind, who was perfect at all
points and just the kind of a girl you would like
best to spend all your time with. Be thankful for
all you do like in her; that's the best way."
I just fell in love with a girl in the Isle of
Wight last summer," said Betty sorrowfully. We
wanted to be together all the time, and we wrote
notes and always went about together. She was
older than I; but one day she said things that
made me forget I ever liked her a bit. She wanted
to make up afterward, but I could n't/ and she
writes and writes me letters, but I never wish to
see her again. I am sorry I ever liked her."
Betty's eyes flashed, and her cheeks were very red.

I suppose it has been hard for her, too," said
Aunt Barbara; but we must like different friends
for different reasons. Just try to remember that
you can not find perfection. I used to know a great
many girls when I was growing up, and some of
them are my friends still, the few who are left. To
find one true-hearted friend is worth living through
a great many disappointments."

Two or three weeks went over before Betty ceased
to have the feeling that she was a stranger and
foreigner in Tideshead. At first she said you "
and I when she was talking with the girls, but
soon it became easier to say we." She took great
pleasure in doing whatever the rest did, from
joining a class in Sunday-school to carrying round
one of the subscription-papers to pay for some
Fourth of July fireworks, which went up in a blaze
of splendor on the evening of that glorious day.
After the garden tea-party, nothing happened, of
a social nature, for some time, although several of
the boys and girls gave fine hints that something
might be expected to happen at their own houses.
There was a cheerful running to and fro about the
Leicester house, and the large white gate next the
street was heard to creak and clack at least once
in every half-hour. Betty grew fond of the minis-
ter's daughters, who were sweet-faced girls, but
very timid and anxious about every-day life. Nelly
Foster came seldom, but she was the brightest and
merriest of all the girls when she grew a little ex-
cited, and lost the frightened look that had made
lines on her forehead much too soon. Harry was
not seen very often, but Betty wondered a great
deal about him, and fancied him hunting and fish-
ing in all sorts of dangerous places. The Picknell
girls came into the village on Sundays always, and
often once or twice in the week; but it was haying
time now, and they were very busy at the farm.
Betty liked them dearly, and so did Mary Beck,
who did not get on with the minister's daughters
at all, and had a prejudice, as we know, against
Nelly Foster. These made the little company which
seemed most closely allied, though there were three
or four other young people who made part of the
larger enterprises. Betty had proposed the out-of-
door club, and had started a tennis-court, and de-
voted much time to it, but nobody knew how to
play very well yet, except Harry Foster and Julia
Picknell, and they were the most difficult ones to
catch for an idle afternoon. George Max could play,
and one or two others could stumble through a
game and like it pretty well; but as for Mary Beck,
her shoes were too small for much agility, and she
liked to wear her clothes so tight that she was very
clumsy with a racket. Betty's light little gowns
looked prim and plain to the Tideshead girls, who



thought their colors very strange to begin with,
and had not the sense to be envious when their
wearer went by, as light-footed and graceful as they
were awkward. They could not understand the
simplicity that was natural to Betty, but everybody
liked her, and felt as much interested in her as if
she were an altogether new variety of human be-
ing. Perhaps we shall understand the situation
better if we read a letter which our heroine wrote
just then:
MY DEAR PAPA : This is from your Betty, who
had intended to take a long walk with Mary Beck this
afternoon, but is prevented by a thunder-shower. It
makes me wonder what you do when you get wet, and
who sees that you take off your wet clothes and tries not
to let you have a cold. Is n't it almost time for you to
come home now, Papa? I do miss taking care of you so
very much. You will be tired hearing about Mary Beck,
and you can't stop it, can you ? as if you laughed and then
talked about something else when we were walking to-
gether. You must remember that you said we mustbe al-
ways fighting an enemy in ourselves, and my enemy just
now is making little funs of Mary, and seeing that she
does n't know so much as she thinks she does. I like too
well to show her that she is mistaken when she tells about
things; but it makes me sorry afterward, because, in
spite of myself, I like her better than I do anybody. I
almost love her, Papa; indeed, I do, but I like to tease
her better than to help her, and she puts on airs about
the very places where I have been and things I have done.
Aunt Barbara does n't like her, and wishes I would play
with' Nelly Foster and the minister's girls, but Nelly
is like anybody grown up. I suppose it is because she
has seen trouble, as people say here; and the minister's
girls are little afraidd cats. That is what Serena says, and
is sure to make you laugh. 'Try and make 'em hop
'round,' Serena told me at the party, and I did try;
but they are n't good hoppers, and that 's all there is
to say. I sent down to Riverport and bought Seth a
book of violin airs, and he practiced until two o'clock
one morning, so that Serena and Jonathan were saying
dreadful things. Aunt Mary is about the same, and so
is Aunt Barbara, and they send their love. Papa, you
must never tell, but I hate the one and love the other.
Mary Beck is n't half so bad as I am to say that, but now
it is written down and must stay. There is one awful
piece of news. The Fosters' father has broken out of
jail and escaped, and they are offering a great reward,
and it is in all the papers. I ought to go to see Nelly,
but I dread it. I am writing this last page another day, for
yesterday the sun came out after the shower and I went
out with Aunt Barbara. She is letting Mrs. Fosterdo some
sewing for me. She says that my clothes were in ruins.
She did, indeed, and that they had been badly washed. I
hope that yours are not the same. Mrs. Foster looked
terribly frightened and pale, and asked Aunt B. to come
into the other room, and told her about Mr. Foster.
Then it was in the paper last night. Papa dear, I do
remember what you said in one of your letters about be-
ing a Tideshead girl myself for this summer, and not
standing off and finding fault. I feel more like a Tides-
head girl lately, but I wish they would n't keep saying
how slow it is and nothing going on. We might do so
many nice things, but they make such great fusses first,
instead of just going and doing them, the way you and I
do. They think of every reason why you can't do things
that you can do. The currants are all gone. You can't
have a currant pie this year. I thought those by the
fence under the cherry-tree might last until you came,
because it is shady, but they all spoiled in the rain.

Now I am going to read in 'Walton's Lives' to Aunt
Mary. She says it is a book everybody ought to know,
and that I run wild more than I ought at my age. I like
to read aloud, as you know, so good-bye, but my age is
such a trouble. If you were here we would have the
best good time. Your own child,


THAT afternoon Betty's lively young voice grew
droning and dull after a while, as she read the life
of Dr. Donne, and at last she stopped altogether.
"Aunt Mary, I can't help thinking about the
Fosters' father. Do you suppose he will come
home and frighten them some night ?"
"No, he would hardly dare to come where they
are sure to be looking for him," said Aunt Mary.
"Dear me, the thought makes me so nervous."
"When I have read to the end of this page I
will just run down to see Nelly a few minutes, if
you can spare me. I keep dreading to see her
until I am almost afraid to go."
Miss Mary sighed and said yes. Somehow she
did n't get hold of Betty's love,- only her duty.
Betty lingered in the garden and picked some
mignonette before she started, and a bright carna-
tion or two from Aunt Barbara's special plants.
The Fosters' house was farther down the street on
the same side, and Nelly's blinds were shut, but if
Betty had only known it, poor Nelly was looking
out wistfully through them, and wishing with all
her heart that her young neighbor would come in.
She dreaded the meeting, too, but there was such
a simple, frank, friendliness about Betty Leicester
that it did not hurt as if one of the other girls had
There was the sound of the gate-latch, and Nelly
went eagerly down. "Come up to my room; I.
was sitting there sewing," she said, blushing very
red, and Betty felt her own cheeks burn. How
dreadful it must be not to have such a comforting
dear father as hers! She put her arms around
Nelly's neck and kissed her, and Nelly could hardly
keep from crying; but upstairs they went to the
bedroom, where Betty had never happened to go
before. She felt suddenly, as she never had before,
how pinched and poor the Fosters must be. Nelly
was determined to be brave and took up her sewing
again. It happened to be a little waist of Betty's
own. Betty tried to talk gayly about being very
tired of reading Walton's Lives."
Harry reads 'Walton's Angler,'" said Nelly.
"That's the same man, is n't he ? It is a stupid-
looking old brown book that belonged to my
Papa reads it, too," said Betty, nodding her
head wisely. I am in such a hurry to have him
come, when I think of Harry. I am sure that he



will help him to be a naturalist or something like
that. Mr. Buckland would have just loved Harry.
I knew'him when I was a little bit of a thing. Papa
used to take me to see him in London, and all his
dreadful beasts used to frighten me,.but I feel very
differently now, of course. Harry makes me think
of Robinson Crusoe and Mayne Reid's books, and

.- I

--U -- --'Ic~f~':~~.


-' .1-=?~

two of Miss Barbara Leicester's new tea-napkins.
Betty had many things to say-about her English
life and her friends. Mary Beck never cared to hear
much about England, and it was delightful now
to have an interested listener. At last the sewing
was finished, and Nelly proposed that they should
go a little way farther, and come out to.the river


l-1 _. '. ^ *

S ,,' *. r


those boys who used to do such wild things fishing
and hunting."
"We used to think Harry never would get on
because he spent so much time in the woods, but
somehow he always learned his lessons, too," said
Nelly proudly; and now his fishing brings in so
much money that I don't know how we shall live
when winter comes. We are so anxious about
winter. Oh, Betty, it is easy to tell you, but I
can't bear to have other people even look at me";
and she burst into tears and hid her face in her
"Let us go outdoors, just down through the
garden and across into the woods a little while,"
pleaded Betty. Do, Nelly dear and presently
they were on their way. The fresh summer air and
the sunshine were much better than the close-
shaded room, with Nelly startled by every sound
about the house, and they soon lost their first feeling
of constraint as they sat under a pine-tree whipping

bank. Harry would be coming up about this time
with his fare of fish, if he had had good luck. It
would be fun to shout to him as he went by.
They pushed on together through the open pas-
ture where the sweet-fern and bayberry bushes
grew tall and thick; there was another strip of
woods between them and the river, and just this
side of it was a deserted house. It had not been
lived in for many years and was gray and crum-
bling. The fields that belonged to it had been
made part of a great sheep pasture, and two or
three sheep were standing by the half-opened door,
as if they were quite at home there in windy or
wet weather. Betty had seen the old house be-
fore and thought it was most romantic. She pro-
posed now that they should have a picnic there by
and by, and make a fire in the old fireplace, but
Nelly Foster thought there would be great danger
of burning the house down.
Suppose we go and look in.?" pleaded Betty.


".Mary Beck and I saw it not long after I came,
and she thought it was going to rain, so that we
did n't stop. I love to go into an empty old ruin
and make up stories about it and wonder who used
to live there. Don't stop to pick these blueberries;
you know they are n't half ripe," she teased Nelly ;
and so they went over to the old house, frightening
away the sheep as they crossed the doorstep boldly.
It was all in ruins, the roof was broken about the
chimney so that the sun shone through upon the
floor, and the light-red bricks were softened and
sifting down. In one corner there was a heap of
withes for mending fences, which had been pulled
about by the sheep, and there were some mud nests
of swallows high against the walls, but the birds
seemed to have already left them. This room
had been the kitchen, and behind it was a dark,
small place which must have been a bedroom
when people lived there, dismal as it looked now.
I am going to look in here and all about the
place," said Betty, cheerfully, and stepped in to
see what she could find.
Oh, come back, Nelly! she screamed, in a
great fright, the next moment; and they fled out
of the house into the warm sunshine. They had
had time to see that a man was lying on the floor
as if he were dead. Stop! as they held their
breath and heard a groan, which made them go
away in breathless haste, a terrible fear possessed
them. Betty's heart beat at last so that she could
hardly speak.
We must get somebody to come," she panted,
trying to stop Nelly. Was it somebody dead? "
But Nelly sank down as pale as ashes into the
sweet-fern bushes and looked at her strangely.
" Oh, Betty Leicester, it will kill Mother, it will
kill her! I believe it was my father; what shall
I do "
They looked fearfully at the house; the sheep
had come back and stood again near the door-way.
There was something more horrible than the two
girls had ever known in the silence of the place.
It would have been less awful if there had been a
face at the broken door or windows.
"Henry-we must try to stop Henry," said
poor pale Nelly, and they hurried toward the river
shore. They could not help looking anxiously
behind them as they passed the belt of pines, but
for some reason or other the fugitive gave no sign
of wishing to pursue. "He is afraid that some-
body will see him. I am so afraid he will come
home to-night."
He must be ill there," said Betty, but she did
not dare to say anything else. What an unendur-
able thing to be afraid and ashamed of one's own
They looked down the river with eager eyes.

Yes, there was Harry Foster's boat coming up
slowly, with the three-cornered sail spread to catch
the light breeze. Nelly gave a long sigh and sank
down on the turf and covered her face as she cried
bitterly. Betty thought, with cowardly longing,
of the quiet and safety of Aunt Mary's room and
the brown-covered volume of "Walton's Lives."
Then she summoned all her courage. These two
might never have sorer need of a friend than in
this summer afternoon.
Henry Foster's boat sailed but slowly. It was
heavily laden, and the wind was so light that from
time to time he urged it with the oars. He did not
see the two girls waiting on the bank until he was
close to them, for the sun was in his eyes and his
thoughts were busy. His father's escape from jail
was worse than any sorrow yet; nobody knew what
might come of it. Harry felt very old and careworn
for a boy of sixteen. He had determined to go to
see Miss Barbara Leicester that evening and to
talk over his troubles with her. He had been able
to save a little money, and he feared that it might
be demanded. He had already paid off part of-the
smaller debts that were owed in the village; but
he knew his father too well not to be afraid of get-
ting some menacing letters presently. If he had
only fled the country; but how could that be done
without money? His father would not work his
passage; Harry was certain enough of that. Would
it not be better to let him have the money and go
to the farthest limit to which it could carry him ?
Something made the young man shade his eyes
with his hand and look toward the shore, then he
took the oars and pulled quickly in; that was surely
his sister Nelly, and the girl who wore a grayish
gingham dress with a scarlet handkerchief at her
throat was Betty Leicester. It was just like kind-
hearted little Betty to have teased poor Nelly out
into the woods. He would carry them home in
his boat; he could rub it clean with some hand-
fuls of hemlock twigs or river grass; thenf he saw
how strangely they looked, as he pushed the boat
in and pulled it far ashore. What in the world
had happened?
Nelly tried to speak again and again, but her
voice could not make itself heard. "Oh, don't
cry any more, Nelly dear," said Betty, trembling
from head to foot, and very pale. We went into
the old house up there by the pasture, and found -
Nelly said it was your father, and we thought he
was very ill."
"I'll take you both home, then," said Harry
Foster, speaking quickly and with a hard voice.
" Get in, both of you this is the shortest way -
then I '11 come back by myself."
Oh, no, no! sobbed Nelly. He looked as
if he were dying, Harry; he was lying on the floor.



We will go, too; he could n't hurt us, could he ? "
And the three turned back into the woods. Betty's
heart almost failed her. She felt like a soldier go-
ing into battle. Oh, could she muster bravery
enough to go into that house again ? Yet she loved
her father so much that doing this for another girl's
father was a great comfort, in all her fear.
The young man hurried ahead when they came
near the house, and it was only a few minutes be-
fore he reappeared.

You must go and tell mother to come as quick
as she can; and hurry to find the doctor and tell
him; he will know what to do. Father has been
dreadfully hurt somehow. Perhaps Miss Leicester
will let Jonathan come to help us get him home."
Harry Foster's face looked old and strange; he
never would seem like a boy any more, Betty
thought, with a heart full of sympathy. She hur-
ried away with Nelly; they could not bring help
fast enough.

(To be concluded.)



" L J F ,.( IO


-A 'L-I- A



THE prettiest little "monster" that I have ever
seen was young two-headed painted tortoise (Chry-
semysficta), caught last June by Master Leighton
Foster, while hunting for Natural History speci-
mens in the marshes bordering West River, in
New Haven, Connecticut.
This pretty little pet, the shell of which was quite
normal save that it was a little broader than long,
had the usual four legs and a tail, but was fur-
nished with two perfectly formed heads and necks,
which acted independently of one another-so
independently, in fact, that the right and left heads
fought like little Trojans, whenever there was occa-
sion for jealousy or spite.
Now, the tortoise is generally thought a dull and
stupid creature, but this little fellow knew the
hand that fed him and refused to eat anything,
however tempting, from strangers. The favorite
morsel of these twin heads was a cricket or grass-
hopper. But the head lucky enough to seize it
first, found its right to sole possession stoutly con-
tested by the other. Since they were equals in age
and strength, and had fair and equal advantages
in every way, these spirited little tugs-of-war ended
only when the morsel separated. Then each, think-
ing itself the hero, gulped its portion with great
satisfaction. They seemed healthy and ate with
evident relish, and consumed equal amounts; but
often their appetites were not the same, for at feed-
ing-time the greed of one and abstinence of the
other showed they were not equally hungry. Re-
peatedly I have seen one little head turn slyly around
and snap at the bright eye of the other, plainly mis-
taking it for something to eat, and causing that
head to withdraw hastily into the shell. And thereby
there is suggested a point of continual discussion
between these two heads which I fear was never
settled amicably. For it often happened that both
heads were inclined to withdraw into their common
shell or house at the same time, which they could
do, it is true; but when both were in it was plainly
very crowded.
Now, if there is any one privilege peculiarly that
of the tortoise, it is the privilege of withdrawing at
its own sweet will into its own private shell, with-
out any considerations for outsiders. Certainly,
it would be a very lax and easy-going tortoise that
would yield its long-established right to seclusion,

and submit peaceably to the encroachment of
another; so these heads quarreled daily. Some-
times one head wished to look around, and then
the other enjoyed the luxury of the shell in peace,
but in course of time the twin was sure to withdraw,
too. Then the two heads would fidget irritably;
only for a brief moment, however, for they came
out almost at once, as indignant and angry as their
tender years would allow, and, closing their eyes,
beat their heads together and fought with all their



might, till some compromise was effected. These
werethemost amusingand absurd little scrimmages
imaginable. Just think of one itself engaged in
deadly combat with another itself; what an
absurdity !- but so it was. And neither one could
go away to leave the other and sulk and pout


about it, so they generally gave up when tired out
and wisely agreed to disagree.
When sleep overcame one head, it withdrew,
together with its two feet, into the shell. But the
companion head, wide-awake and looking about in
all directions, might simultaneously decide to be up
and doing, and then it would start off vigorously
with the two feet belonging to its side of the house ;
but its efforts were vain : it only went round and
round in a circle, the sleeping side acting as a dead-
weight. It did n't seem to mind it much, how-
ever, but continued on its journey uninterruptedly
till the sleeper awoke, whereupon the two sides
started off in unison, but with the most awkward
gait possible. For, instead of putting a fore foot
forward, like the normal tortoise, following im-
mediately with a diagonally opposite hind foot,
this little monster stepped out with its front feet at
once, so that its fore parts were left without support,
and dropped; then the hind feet stepped forward,
leaving the hind parts without support, and they
dropped in turn; and thus, bobbing up and down,
it advanced by an awkward, rocking gait.
But the sleeper, roused abruptly, was not always
disposed to start off at once with its companion,
so the other scurried around as best it could till
convinced that a circle is endless, and that it must
have recourse to other expedients than those pro-
vided by nature. Out of its necessity, surprising
as it may appear, this little monster had invented
a way of getting about. Extending its two feet, it
clutched at grass and weeds, and so dragged itself
sideways, and went when it would, or where it chose,
whether the other side slept, or, being awake,
took its ease, refusing to budge. I have seen them
walk thus, repeatedly; but it was the invention of
the right head, and the left never resorted to it so
far as I could observe. Thus it will be seen that
there was no concerted action between the right side
and the left, and yet they started together, with sur-
prising frequency, to do precisely the same things:
to eat, to swim, or to walk.
A smooth concrete walk was a favorite place for
giving this pet an occasional sun-bath. When
placed on this, or on a smooth piece of ground, it
went through some queer antics before starting.
First, the left head turned to the left, the right to
the right, after gazing vacantly about for a time,
they at length started off with a will in these two
opposite directions at once. The result is, of
course, that opposing one another as they did, they
went backward, sometimes two or three feet, before
they found how useless were their efforts to go each
his own way. But when they ascertained this, they
stopped short, and, after a moment's rest, started
off together, teetering up and down, but traveling
straight along till a stalk of grass or a weed was

encountered. This was sure to bring them to a
standstill, for one insisted upon turning to the left
of it, the other to the right, which brought them
astride the weed, where they stood, tugging away
obstinately till strength failed them.
A ledge along the concrete walk, not over three-
quarters of an inch high, easily scaled by other pet
tortoises of the same age, proved an insurmounta-
ble barrier for a long time. But, finally, the two-
headed tortoise, with its two wills and two walking
systems, learned to stand up on tiptoe by the
ledge; and, giving a sudden kick, to throw itself
over, but so violently at first that it invariably
landed on its back, a most unfortunate predica-
ment in its case, from which, unlike the normal
tortoise, it could not. extricate itself without help.
But it soon learned to clear the ledge and alight
right side up on the other side.
Every one who saw these queer maneuvers and
the intelligence displayed in the adapting of
means to ends for which it was so poorly fitted by
nature, was charmed with the little pet.
In the water of its aquarium it paddled about
slowly, sometimes diving to the bottom, at other
times resting on the surface, with one head, per-
haps, under the water, the other above; showing
that the heads breathed independently, a fact easily
verified by watching the two throats as they ex-
panded and contracted. At the same time, it was
noticed that the two heads opened their mouths and
gaped occasionally, as if to breathe more air. This
was the only sign of weakness. It may seem strange
that any two so completely one should have differed
in temperament, for they were certainly brought:
up under identically the same treatment; yet the
right head, on many occasions, was the more irrita-
ble and timid,-ready to pick a quarrel with its.
other self, or to dodge at a fly or strange animal,
while the other head seemed stolid and self-con-
fident at all times.
But I had not reached this point in its simple.
history, nor had I satisfied my desire to study all
its ways, when the little prize met with a serious
accident. Its aquarium was carefully provided
with clean, fresh water and a liberal supply of
water plants. Now, while they were renewing the
water and supplies, one day, this little curiosity
was put out on the smooth grass almost within easy
reach. Suddenly there was a rush and spring,
and before even the most watchful could interfere,
a prowling, stray cat had pounced upon the favor-
ite inmate of the aquarium. Of course it was res-
cued at once, but it was thought that the ruthless
cat had killed the pet outright. To their great
satisfaction, it seemed to be unhurt. There was;
no trace of blood, not even a scratch visible.
The right head ventured at once to peer out



cautiously, but the left was too frightened to leave
its protecting shell for fully half an hour. But
finding itself in familiar hands the pet was soon
itself again, and was restored to its aquarium.
The next morning it walked, swam, and ate as
it was wont to do, although the left head was not
hungry, and refused to eat at all, which was not
uncommon. The next day, also, the left head ate
nothing, and on the third it drooped. It was
evidently very weak and sick, yet courageous and
bound to hold out as long as possible, for, when
petted, it straightened up resolutely and tried to
make off with its companion, as it had done for so
many weeks, to the wonder and delight of all who
saw it. But in less than an hour it was dead, and
the left legs also; leaving its companion apparently
in great distress, for it was exceedingly uneasy.
Undoubtedly the living head had some intima-
tion of its approaching end and restlessly walked

("5 --

'c X

8:-.. .".e __. ,

about as if to escape. But in two hours and a
half the right head was dead also. The cat's
claw had pierced the neck of the left head. Care-
ful examination showed, close to the shell, a small
but fatal wound in the neck. But for this tragic
end, it might have lived on through the winter,
or possibly even longer.
During its short life, from the Ist of June to the
middle of September, many people from many
cities visited it, and enjoyed its queer pranks, its
quarrels for more room, its tugs-of-war for food,
its many misunderstandings of itself, its awkward
gait and wise look.
Large sums of money were offered for it, but
this rare pet had so endeared itself to its owners
that they were not tempted to part company with
it. Now that it is dead, they keep the body care-
fully preserved, and feel that its memory deserves
to be perpetuated.





THE orchard is a rosy cloud,
The oak a rosy mist,
And oh, the gold of the buttercups
The morning sun has kissed !
There are twinkling shadows on the grass
Of a myriad tiny leaves,
And a twittering loud from the busy crowd
That build beneath the eaves.
Then sing, happy children,
The bird and bee are here,
The May time is a gay time,
The blossom time o' the year.


A message comes across the fields,
Borne on the balmy air,
For all the little seeking hands
There are flowers enough and to spare.
Hark a murmuring in the hive,-
List! a carol clear and sweet,-
While feathered throats the thrilling notes
A thousand times repeat.
Then sing, happy children,
The bird and bee are here,
The May time is a gay'time,
The blossom time o' the year.


'<*e C



How many years ago was it that the Land of
Nod" appeared in ST. NICHOLAS ? My volume is
not at hand (in fact, it has been literally worn out
in the service); but, last spring, I could repeat
most of the songs by heart. You see we used the
play for our school exhibition in the little white
school-house by the cypress brake. And a great
success it was, too. Some of the thousands of
ST. NICHOLAS readers who have laughed over the
droll little operetta may like to know how it fared
far away from stages, costumes, or even a dry-
goods store.
Our plantation is on a little river six miles (and
.a swamp) from the railway. The black old mill
grinds corn, saws lumber, and gins cotton for us,
because we are a cotton plantation; and the big
white store sells all the dresses, hats, and coats for
the renters and the farmers scattered through
country across the river,-all the groceries, also,
and the medicines, stoves, meat, and farming
Whatever else we may need, we must order
through the mail-rider who comes every day to
the post-office in the store.
The Carrolls' house overlooks the devious wil-
low-shaded river; but the Planter's house (the
planter is Mrs. Carroll's partner) is farther back.
Half-a-mile away is the school-house, where all
the little white children go to school. In the
spring, the grassy ways about the school-house are
speckled with "bluets" and white "spring beau-
ties," and countless violets. In the cypress "slash,"
behind the house, tall cypress-trees show a sprink-
ling of dainty green, fine as fern-fronds, mingling
with the star-shaped foliage of the tupello gum and
the beautiful hackberry leaves all these delicate
forms are in strange contrast to the huddle of
"cypress knees" below or the hideous trunks of
the hackberry. Cow-lilies, yellow as gold, spatter
the black water, which is like a line of ink drawn
through roots and knees."
When spring comes, school closes. It is time for
the children to help "make a crop."
So it was in April that we gave The Land of
The school-teacher suggested it-not the regu-
lar school-teacher. A regular school-teacher would
have thought it far too much trouble, and, recoiling
VOL. XVI.-34. 529

before the thought of costumes, have substituted
a "dialogue"; but Ethel, who took the school
because she happened to be visiting her aunt, Mrs.
Carroll, knew little about trouble, and proposed
it hopefully.
Dora, one of that class who look before they
leap, glanced over the pages.
There appear to be many costumes required,"
she observed without enthusiasm.
"Well, but, my dear," Mrs. Carroll replied
quickly,- Mrs. Carroll has that divine quality,
hope,-"there is pretty, light-colored silesia at
the store, and we have silver-paper."
Dora's eyes ran down the dramatic fersone, as
she answered: "One, two -four royal personages.
You can't dress kings and queens in silesia."
Oh, yes, you can," said her mother, cheerfully,
"by lamplight. It will be at night."
Ethel was delighted. She offered to make the
sword and armor for the standard-bearer; but we
abandoned the standard and Mr. Planter borrowed
a spear instead, from a Wheel" society; a large,
bright, tin spear that was a comfort to us, as the
only solidly built article in our paraphernalia, and
in consequence the only thing which could be
handled with impunity.
Our first qualms about costumes soon vanished.
Mrs. Planter was captured by Mrs. Carroll, who,
though a gentle creature, sweeps discouragement
before her like dust before abroom. Dora herself
felt the contagion. Daily she went up to the school-
house to drill the young actors. And even the
humble person who writes this chronicle, and who
has no gifts in costuming, was moved to offer an
idea on decoration. She made gold and silver
lace for the high-born personages of the drama.
Gold and silver paint and common cotton lace
were all she needed. Mrs. Planter is a lady of
wide resources; but none can be named in the
same breath with Mrs. Carroll. She can copy a
picture in cloth; and beyond my praise is the
manner in which she adapted, and, as it were,
enchanted, our common hats and gowns and house-
furnishings. She made wigs of horse-hair dyed
blonde with curry powder; provided wings for the
sprites, lovely ethereal wings of tarlatan and wire
taste; shimmering, too, because sprinkled, regard-
less of expense, with diamond-dust; she turned


a red piano-cover into the royal robe; she inked
bands of cotton judiciously into a life-like simili-
tude of ermine ; she cut round pieces out of paste-
board, punched two holes in them, covered them
with tin-foil, and, behold, dazzling silver buttons!--
in fine, there was no end to her ingenuity.
Of course we had to make all the costumes.
Shoes were the first difficulty. Your pages,"
said Dora, "must wear something on their feet! "
"What do they usually have?" inquired the
humble person.
Boots," replied Ethel promptly; boots with
red tops and copper toes -or they go barefoot."
The humble person suggested our own low
shoes; but, alas the small actors' feet would not
expand to fit them.
Ethel's bold idea was that the pages should act
in stocking feet; shoes might be "simulated,"
she thought, with buckles and bows of ribbon, that
would pass -by lamplight.
But Mrs. Carroll was shocked. I should rather
make the shoes myself! cried she. I believe I
could, as well as not."
As good as her word, she cut them out of can-
ton flannel matching the hose, and slashed them
medievally with blue and pink. They were a tri-
umph. And Ethel converted the tin horn from the
store into a knightly trumpet, by ends of waving
ribbon and a flaring rim of repouss6 silver other-
wise, tin-foil. She, also, was the architect of the
helmet, built of pasteboard and tin-foil until it
glittered from afar, and (except for being a trifle
large and slipping down over the unfortunate
child's eyes) was everything that could be reason-
ably desired.
The Standard-bearer wore a coat-of-mail over a
green jerkin. Coats-of-mail are best wrought out
of sleeveless under-vests, silvered over with close-
lapping scales of tin-foil (sewed on). The effect is
Where we least expected trouble, it came. The
six little Sleepy-heads were to wear nightgowns,
but it appeared that long white nightgowns
were articles of luxury on the plantation, and not
all the children had them. Luckily, one kind little
girl owned many, and lent to her companions, so
that difficulty was conquered.
One regular costume only did we have on hand,
and this one we gave to the Dream Prince. It
was our pride,--a suit of brown velveteen, coat,
waistcoat, and small-clothes complete, trimmed
with store gold-braid,- a centennial costume, to be
sure, but why need one be particular about im-
prisoning the dramatic personce in one epoch?
Neither were we slavish in our following of the
fashion of the time. The Prince should have
worn a cocked hat; not having one, he wore a

Henry VIII. cap and a paper feather, which really
did quite as well.
Ethel had all the responsibility of the cast.
Not knowing which children could act, parts
were distributed according to good behavior and
good looks. The King of the Land of Nod was
the best boy in school, who lives with his grand-
father and does a man's work in the cotton-field;
the Dream Prince received promotion on account
of his beautiful dark eyes; Old Mother Goose
was so kind to the children; My Lady Fortune's
clean, white aprons singled her out; while both
the Queen of the Dollies and the Dream Princess
had always neatly brushed their hair; Jack o'
Dreams turned out a bright young actor, but was
appointed solely because of good temper; the
Goblins were young Arkansans of French descent,
whose black eyes and olive skins made them look
their parts; the Sand Man was helping his father
plow, and had a small part, since he could not
be at rehearsals; all the Sprites were nice little
girls who learned their lessons and kept their faces
clean; the Standard-bearer was chosen in recog-
nition of his fortitude when he fell off the tree
(which he climbed to get Ethel some mistletoe) and
sprained his ankle; he carried the noble tin spear
and wore the shining helmet; as for the Sleepy-
heads, they were chosen as being just little, chubby,
and pretty, and the Pages had good looks rather
than good behavior to thank; but then, since
fairy tales began, pages have been mischievous.
Page Edgar was (in Arkansas phrase) "chilling,"
while Page Sebastian had a chronic cold in the
head. But chills and colds are both common in the
Arkansas river bottoms. If one lives in a "balloon
frame" house, with only one thickness of wood
between winter and the family, or in a house of
hewn logs, feebly plastered with mud, he is very
likely to catch cold by spring; while we who have
never had chills, too often ascribe the malaria as
much to the Arkansas fondness for pork and strong
coffee three times a day, as to the climate.
However, be the fault where it may, it is certain
that last spring there was hardly a day at the
school-house that two or three of the scholars were
not laid out on the benches. If one were to ask
them what was the matter they would answer
quietly, as though it were quite a matter of course,
"Jes' chillin'."
They had probably walked from one to four
miles that morning, to school; they would have to
walk back again, but they never thought of not
coming. When the chill ceased they would get
up and go back to their books. "I never saw
such patient children," Ethel often said.
Rehearsals were sometimes interrupted by chills,
but more often by wash-days" or the crops.




Some days the school-room looked dismally empty,
because the girls were home at housekeeping work,
and the boys were busy on the farm.
I will not detail all our small disasters. Some-
how, we persevered, in spite of everything. The
plantation carpenter built the platform, and laid
boards across between benches, for additional
seats. The lamp chimneys were cleaned, and we
thought of cleaning even the windows, but gave it
up as being a life-work; besides, as Mrs. Carroll
truly said, they never would show at night.
In spite of the carpenter, the platform was too
small; but we drilled the Sprites to dance chiefly
up and down in the same place; and since the
wide circles of a wheelbarrow were quite out of the
question, the Sand Man and the Jack o' Dreams
carried the Sleepy-heads upon the stage.
We rigged a calico curtain with two ropes, and
(if you were careful and did not pull the wrong
rope and pulled the right one hard enough) it
worked quite as well as most unprofessional
The appointed evening came at last. There
was a great outpouring of all the families of the
renters and farmers round about.
Families came together,- father, mother, and
children, down to the patient Arkansas baby in its
red flannel gown. They arrived on foot, in wagons,
in mud-splashed buggies, on horseback and mule-
back, with saddles or without. They crowded the
school-room, and rows of black faces were flat-
tened against the window-panes outside.
Meanwhile, we were dressing the performers.
The Land of Nod was only the climax of the ex-
hibition. Speeches and readings were all to be
heard beforehand. It must be confessed that we
were in a great hubbub, only one room being avail-
able for dressing. It was the room where the chil-
dren hung their hats and coats, the boys on the
right-hand row of nails, the girls on the left. But
with screens and curtains we made two dressing-
Perhaps we should have been more speedy
"dressers if we had not needed to do so much
pinning. It was a tragic interval when the paper
of pins was lost, and everything came to a dead
halt! However, every one was dressed before the
good-natured audience had finished their talk about
the speaking.
The procession was imposing. The King of
the Land of Nod looked truly regal in our piano-
cover, his black doublet blazing with gold paper
moons and stars, and gold lace from raisin-boxes;
Ethel's laces, at his throat and wrists, and a
pair of Dora's black silk stockings darkly gleam-
ing below, Rhine-stone shoe-buckles, one of the
most elaborate pasteboard crowns ever made,

bedecked with red paper poppies, encircling his
beautiful gray horse-hair curls and a brass cur-
tain-rod scepter in his carefully washed hand. The
Pages were pretty little fellows, and if, like the
Marchioness, you "pretended" very hard, their
doublets and trunk-hose of gray silesia slashed
with pink and blue looked very like silk. The
Queen of the Dollies wore a flowered cretonne
gown richly embroidered with gold paint. Her
raiment, I believe, started in life as a lounge
cover. The Dream Princess looked charming in
an ex-window-curtain. The Sprites, or Fairies,
were visions of white tarlatan, crimped hair, pow-
der, and spangled wings. Lady Fortune wore a
Greek dress. Snowy folds of cheese-cloth draped
her with classic grace. Gold fillets bound her
dark hair; and no one who did not know it would
ever suspect that the blue Grecian pattern adorn-
ing the hem of her gown was made of paper. She
had a wheel-of-fortune fine enough to make a paid
supernumerary jealous. Altogether, she was an
object of pride.
The Jack o' Dreams was in a clown's dress of
red and yellow. We sent to town for his bells.
He capered about the stage with as much aban-
don as if space had no limits, instead of there being
barely room to spin round.
As the curtain rose majestically, with only two
hitches, to the strains of the mice-eaten organ,
and the procession filed on the stage, there was
a loud murmur of applause. The overworked
mothers, who had risen before daylight to get
scrubbing and cooking out of the way and the
family into their Sunday best and everybody safely
packed on the mules, and the old man" per-
suaded to come and see Bud and Sis in their
"pretty clothes," all smiled at each other with a
sense of pleasurable excitement.
The King's grandfather sat in front. It was to
be the King's last year in school, which seemed
a great pity to us all, but the grandfather needed
him and did n't 'low he needed no more larnin',
onyhow." We were surprised to see the old man.
There he sat, however, his gnarled old face aglow in
spite of himself over the King's magnificence.
"Fine 's a circus, ain't it? Dora overheard him
mutter to the mother of the Standard-bearer.
Dora was at the organ, while Mrs. Planter was
stage-manager, Ethel was prompter, the humble
person had the task of keeping the Sleepy-heads
in good humor, and Mrs. Carroll sat in her good
clothes among the audience.
Occasionally her artist's anxiety sent in (by one
of the children) such messages as: Tie the small-
clothes on, don't pin them. I know there is a pin
sticking into the Jack o' Dreams "You must
rub off the powder a little, it shows from the front! "


" Melancthon Bates can't come, his sister says he 's
chilling; you '11 have to get another Sleepy-head.
I 'll find somebody." "You must fin on the
shoes -Page Edgar has lost one of his, already."
And so forth.
We fared prosperously until we began to carry
the Sleepy-heads upon the stage. This was
done by the Jack o' Dreams and the Sand Man.
Three Sleepy-heads were laid carefully in the
wrong position, while the audience laughed and
cheered; then the Jack o' Dreams was observed
to hold back, clutching at his garments-those
fatal pins !
Come on I whispered Mrs. Planter from the
right wing.
Go on! whispered Ethel from the left.
I don't guess he can," apologized the Sand
Man, in an audible aside.
Have Miss Ethel pin you up, then," said Mrs.
Planter. Make haste "
Oh, hitch 'em up, Bud, an' go on called an
impatient listener on the front seats.
Jack wisely followed this advice, and so got
within easy reach of Mrs. Planter's arm, being in-
stantly captured and pinned into shape again.
I think I 've pinned through his very skin,"
was Mrs. Planter's calm remark; "but he's a
plucky boy, and he won't mind."
He did not mind. He jumped, and leaped, and
grimaced, to the delight of the audience; he was
the dramatic success of the evening. But nothing
could be prettier than the Sprites' singing and
dancing, unless it was the little Sleepy-heads'
sweet little, high voices, and the way they sat up

so drowsily when they were awaked. That is, all
the girls sat up, but all the little boys lay still,
fast asleep in reality as well as in play.
In vain did the Sprites sing: Wake wake!
the charm we break! In vain did Mrs. Planter
and Ethel and the humble person call in loud
whispers which every one else in the house but
the sleepers could hear: "Johnny! Freddy!
Bertie! Wake up'" They were in much better
company than the King of the Land of Nod or the
Queen of the Dollies, and not even the loud ap-
plause of the kindly audience could bring them
So their fathers and mothers quietly bundled
them home to their own little beds.
Then Mr. Planter made a speech,- wise, and
kind, and funny,- which pleased everybody; the
school prizes were announced, and there were so
many of them that everybody grew more pleased,
except the babies, who felt that it was high time
to go home, and said so quite plainly and loudly,
if not in so many words. By this time the moon
was up, and the muddy places and fords could
be seen, and the exhibition was ended.
Many were the compliments paid Ethel, with
that natural courtesy that belongs to the very
humblest Southerners; but none pleased her so
much as the few words the King of the Land of
Nod's grandfather spoke to her in passing, Wal,
Miss, that was a mighty good show. I believe in
boys larnin' to speak. I reckon I kin make out
without my boy fur a spell nex' year, an' let him
come to school. He keeps all my cotton ac-
counts now,-that boy! "



" LEARNING? Where's the use of learning?"
Johnny cried, his lesson spurning.
" As for me, I 'd rather run !"
So from morn to set of sun,
Johnny's legs were never still;
He could distance Bob and Bill,
Jim and Tom, and Dick and Peter.
Not a youth in town was fleeter.

Grammar, Algebra, and History
Glimmered in a hazy mystery,
School terms softly sped away,
While he practiced day by day,-
Week by week, and through vacation.
Then his friends, in desperation,
Vowed the boy was not for knowledge;
So they sent him off to college.




THERE goes your Uncle Harry," exclaimed a
chorus of voices, as I passed the school play-
ground; "he has just come home from Europe,
and so he ought to be able to tell us all about
soldiers and drilling."
Yes, Uncle Harry," said my nephew Tom, who
made himself spokesman for the crowd of boys,
" we want to drill like real soldiers,--' shoulder
arms 'march and all that."
'"I never was much of a soldier, my boys. I
was wounded in one of the battles of our civil war,
and so my military career was cut short, but I can
tell you a story my grandfather once told me, of
a noble soldier whose example of humility and
bravery you would do well to follow."
The boys forgot their play in a moment and
crowded around me, eager for my story:
"It was on a lovely evening, my grandfather
used to say, that he was at the little town of Carhaix
in the west of France. A company of stalwart grena-
diers was assembled on the parade-ground of the
village, and the rays of the setting sun gilded their
polished arms. The long roll of the drum ceased,
and the roll-call began. Name after name was
called, and was echoed by its owner.
"' La Tour d'Auvergne.'
"No voice responded to that proud name.
There was a short silence, and then an old gray-
headed color-sergeant, raising his cap as if in
salute, stepped forth from the ranks and solemnly
Dead on the field of honor.'

"When the company had been dismissed, my
grandfather sought the veteran and asked if he
could tell him the story of La Tour d'Auvergne.
'La Tour d'Auvergne? Yes, sir,' he replied,
'I can tell you all about him. He was born here
in Carhaix, in 1743, and I can show you his grave
in yonder little church-yard. His parents are
buried there, too,' and, as they walked slowly to
the church-yard, the old man told the story of
the valorous soldier of France, to honor whose
memory was his daily duty.

From boyhood, La Tour d'Auvergne longed
to be a soldier. He was among the earliest to volun-
teer when the French revolution began; after the
peace of Basle, he fell into the hands of the Eng-
lish, and for a year was a prisoner in England.
His name was one of the first enrolled on the glo-
rious list of the grenadiers of France, when Napo-
leon's bugle-notes sounded. He seldom took part
in a battle without distinguishing himself by some
heroic action, for which honors were pressed upon
him. La Tour d'Auvergne gratefully but firmly
refused all honors, declaring his unworthiness of
them. He accepted only one favor from his be-
loved Napoleon. The Senate had offered La Tour
d'Auvergne a seat in the legislative body, which he
declined, saying, "Where shall I serve the Republic
to greater purpose than in the army? He then
rejoined his company of grenadiers, which had be-
come famous under his leadership, with the army
of the Rhine, and there he received a letter from

the Minister of War informing him that Napoleon within two hours' march of the place where he then
had created him "First Grenadier of the Republic" was; thought and action were simultaneous with
and had awarded him "a sword of honor." He La Tour d'Auvergne, and before the enemy had



refused the title, but accepted the sword, which, commenced the ascent of the mountain, he had
however, he was never willing to carry into battle, reached the fort. To his dismay he found it de-

When La Tour d'Auvergne was about forty years
of age, an event occurred which increased his rep-
utation as a soldier who knew not fear. He was
sent on important business, so the story goes, to
a region far distant from the main body of the
army, and he thought it prudent to examine his
situation in the event of a surprise from the enemy.
While thus engaged, intelligence reached him of
the proximity of a regiment of Austrians pushing
on to besiege a fort which commanded a narrow
pass, the possession of which by the enemy would
be very disastrous to the French troops. The
pass was ten miles away, and the Austrians were

serted !
Thirty excellent muskets and a large supply
of ammunition had been left behind by the fugi-
tives. The lookout in his haste had even left his
telescope on the watch-tower; and by the aid of
this, La Tour d'Auvergne spied the enemy still
far distant. A few hours' detention of the enemy
would be invaluable to Napoleon. The pass was
steep and narrow. The Austrians could enter it
only in double file, and while they were ascending
the pass in this order the fire of even a single
musket from the fort would be exceedingly
effective. These thoughts flashed like lightning

./ "I

,''. II'.
- ill j1i~?,.


i88g.] LA TOUR D

through D'Auvergne's mind, and he descended
from the watch-tower with the resolve to attempt
the defense of the pass, though alone against a
Being exhausted, he first took a hasty luncheon;
then, barricading the main entrance with all the
lumber in the fort, he loaded every gun and placed
the ammunition conveniently near. It was dark
before his preparations were completed, and there
was nothing left for.him to do but calmly to await
the approach of the Austrians. About midnight
he heard the tramp of many feet. In an instant
his hand grasped a musket, and when the footfalls
came so near that he felt certain the Austrians had
entered the pass, he discharged the contents of
two guns into the darkness to let them know they




were expected. The shots brought no return fire
from the enemy, and from the quick, short com-
mands of the officers, he decided that the ranks
of the invaders were thrown into confusion by his
ruse. He heard nothing more of them that night.
At sunrise the next morning the Austrian com-

but so raid and accurate was La Tour d'Au-
vergne's fire, that fifteen men fell in the pass, and
the whole body retreated to the foot of the defile.
A third assault resulted in further loss to the Aus-
trians, and again they withdrew. By sunset they
had lost forty-five men, and at dark the Austrian


mander summoned the garrison to surrender. La
Tour d'Auvergne received the flag of truce.
Report to your commander," he said, in reply
to the messenger, "that the garrison will defend
the pass to the last extremity."
The Austrians hesitated no longer, but at once
hauled a gun into the pass, and opened fire on
the fort. The only situation available for the piece
was directly in front of the tower, within easy
musket-range. As soon as the gun was placed in
position, La Tour d'Auvergne poured so destruc-
tive a fire upon the gunners that the enemy were
compelled to withdraw after the second discharge,
with a loss of five men.
The Austrians were brave men, and a second
time boldly followed their leaders up the defile


commander sent a second demand for surrender.
To La Tour d'Auvergne it seemed as if that one
day in the tower would never end. Soul and body
had almost failed. But what were pain and fatigue
to him if he could but accomplish his aim? A

leaving a broad space for the retiring garrison from
the fort. All was so quiet within the walls of the
fort, and the huge door remained so obstinately
closed, that the Austrians were becoming impa-
tient; but at last the heavy door swung slowly

- I -


hours would, o,
he knew, give
ample time for
the execution of the
important maneuver
which the commander of the
French army had planned. These precious
hours, and- more, he would gain if he could
hold out against the Austrians until the next
day; so after much apparent hesitation he agreed
to deliver over the fort at sunrise the following
morning on condition that the garrison was al-
lowed to march out with its arms, and to retire
unmolested to the French army. These terms
were gladly accepted.
At sunrise the next morning the Austrian troops
were drawn up in line on either side of the pass,

open, and La Tour d'Auvergne appeared, and,
staggering under his load of thirty muskets, slowly
passed down between the lines of troops. Not a
soul followed him from the fort.




ss89.1 LA TOUR D

Surprised and indignant at this apparent con-
tempt from the conquered foe, the Austrian colonel
turned to the grenadier and demanded why the
garrison did not appear.
"I am the garrison, Colonel," said La Tour
What! exclaimed the Colonel, "do you mean
to tell me that you have held that tower single-
handed against my whole regiment? "
"I have had that honor, Colonel."
"What possessed you to make such an at-
tempt, grenadier ? "
The honor of France was at stake."
With undisguised admiration the Colonel gazed
at the hero for some time in silence, then raising
his hat he exclaimed:
Grenadier, I salute you. You have proved
yourself the bravest of the brave."
Under a flag of truce, La Tour d'Auvergne re-
turned with the honors of a conqueror to his army,
the trophies of his valor borne before him.
The Austrian colonel sent a dispatch, written
with his own hand, to the French commander,
giving a full account of La Tour d'Auvergne's
heroic exploit.




THAT baby 's a puzzle to me,
With his queer little snubity nose ";
His clothes are put on, I can see,
As thickly as leaves on a rose;
They don't seem to fit
The least little bit,
Yet he has such an air of repose !

They turn him around, upside down,
And dandle him high in the air;
He 's the loveliest baby in town,
The sweetest, in fact, anywhere.
They say "Baby 's King,"
And then shake the poor thing;
It 's a wonder to me how they dare.

Of what earthly use to be king
When all of your subjects are mad,
And imagine a wild Highland fling
Can alone make your majesty glad-
Or fancy a poke
In the chin is a joke
Your highness delights in when sad ?

Oh yes, you 're a puzzle to me,
You solemn-eyed, infantile king;
A bishop might climb up a tree
And you would n't say anything,
Though he sat on a bough
And whistled till now,
" The Flowers that Bloom in the Spring."

And yet you will smile at a wink,
Or chuckle aloud at a sneeze,
Though your life is made up, I should think,
Of things more amusing than these;
As when, half the night long,
Your Mamma sings a song
But allows you to sound the high Cs.

Perhaps in the far Baby-land,
The joking is finer than here.
Perhaps we can't quite understand
The pre-mundane funny idea.
Perhaps if we knew
What most amused you,
We 'd feel very foolish and queer.


Napoleon would have conferred high rank on
La Tour d'Auvergne for his acts of patriotism and
bravery, but he steadily refused all honors. The
title of "First Grenadier of France," however, be-
stowed on him by special order of the Emperor,
was accepted by friends and foes alike.
La Tour d'Auvergne fell at the battle of Ober-
hausen, near Neuberg, in Bavaria, June 27, I8oo.
The honors he so resolutely refused while living
were bestowed upon him tenfold after death. A
shaft bearing the record of his heroic deeds was
erected on the spot where he fell; in his native
village a monument was consecrated to his memory;
and the simple, touching, memorial ceremony,
which was witnessed at the roll-call of his regi-
ment, was instituted, and it was kept up for nearly
fifteen years.

"Now, boys," said I, when I had finished the
story which my grandfather had told me, "you
have heard one of the many brave exploits of this
French grenadier. Your books will tell you others
as interesting, and convince you that La Tour
d'Auvergne was indeed a soldier worth telling




THERE were four of us in the party, and we had
built our sylvan camp upon the shore of Tupper's
Lake in the Adirondacks. Three of us were en-
joying a brief vacation from the turmoil of busi-
ness in New York City. The fourth, Richard
Dryver, familiarly known as Dick," was a skillful
woodsman, learned in all the lore of forest, lake,
and mountain. He was born in a log-cabin, and
spent his early boyhood amid the woods and waters
of the great northern wilderness. He afterward

lived with an uncle in one of the thriving villages
of Central New York, where he learned the car-
penter's trade, and ultimately became a partner in
the business. But the love of forest life remained
strong within him, and so it was that for several
successive seasons we had regarded ourselves as
fortunate to have him with us in the Adiron-
dacks; not as hired guide, but as friend and com-
It was a summer evening. We sat in camp, while


the sun threw a bright gleam across the lake and
then sank behind the forest-clad mountain, leaving
the western sky all aglow. We were talking over
the events of the day, one of which was the dis-
covery of the tracks of a full-grown bear, and sev-
eral broken twigs among the branches of a wild
black cherry tree, which showed that Bruin had
been feeding upon the cherries. Dick, however,
had pronounced the tracks to be a cold trail,"
which meant that several days must have elapsed
since the bear's visit. And then, after a pause, in
which he seemed to be recalling some incident
almost forgotten, he added: "Bears are not as
plenty as they were when I caught Cuff."
Who was Cuff?" we asked.
Oh, he was a black bear that I captured when
he was a baby, and brought up by hand. It
happened in this way: I was going through the
woods with my dog one afternoon just about this
time of year. I heard the dog barking a little way
ahead, and suspected by the racket he was making
that he had stirred up a bear. The dog was a
little fellow, half bull-terrier, active and plucky.
It did n't take many minutes to reach the spot
where he was barking, and, sure enough, there
was an old bear with a cub. The path led along
the foot of a rather steep slope. The old bear was
up on the top of the bank down which the cub
had tumbled and rolled, and the dog attacked him
just as I came in sight. The old bear sat up there
with her fore paws hanging over the edge of the
bank, and her great red mouth wide open, growl-
ing and snarling. I wondered why she did n't
come down and take care of her cub. But I did n't
stop to ask her. I raised my rifle, took aim, and
fired, and the ball finished her at once. I climbed
up the bank, and then saw why the old bear had
stayed there. She had another cub with her. As
I started along the edge of the bank toward them
the little cub ran. The brush was rather thick,
but I managed to keep up with the cub. When
I was close upon him the little brute scrambled up a
young spruce-tree. The branches were so thick
that I could not get through them to follow the
cub until I had cut some away with the hatchet I
always carry in my belt. Then I shinned up,
caught him by the scruff of the neck, and brought
him down. The little savage squirmed and squealed,
but I held him with his back toward me uritil I
could peel some strips of basswood bark and tie
his legs. The other cub was so badly bitten by
the dog that I killed him, out of mercy. Then I
skinned the old bear and started for home with the
hide and the cub."
How far had you to go?" asked one of the
It was about thirty miles home, but I left the


bear-skin with a friend who had a shanty about ten
miles from where I killed the old bear and caught
the cub. I got home the next day, and put the
cub into an empty pig-pen, roofed over so that he
could n't climb out. We fed him milk and such
food as we ate ourselves. My boy Charlie and the
cub soon became great friends. Charlie would get
into the pen with him at first, but in a little while
the cub was so tame we let him out a good part of
the time, only shutting him into his pen at night.
He learned everything. But the greatest fun the
boy had with the cub was to stand him up in a
chair, so as to bring him on a level, and then have
a sparring bout. After a little, the boy had to fight
in earnest to hold his own, for at intervals the cub
would give him a cuff that set him spinning. That's
the way the cub got his name."
How long did you keep the cub ?" we asked.
"About a year. The summer after I caught
him, he had grown to be quite a young bear, and
was as tame as a kitten. He and the boy were
steady chums, going all over the place together,
and indulging in all sorts of tricks. The cub devel-
oped an uncommon talent for getting into scrapes.
One Sunday, while I was off in the woods, the folks

all went to meeting. They first shut up Cuff in
his pen, but they forgot to fasten it. The door
slid up and down, and the cub managed to get his
paw and then his nose under it, and raised it so that
he got out. The day was warm, and the folks had
left one of the kitchen windows open. Cuff climbed


in, and then the mischief began. The cellar-door hard, that I bought a collar and chain and fastened
was unfastened, and he went down to see what he Cuff to a stake in the orchard. We built him a com-
could find. First he climbed up to a swing-shelf fortable little house to sleep in, and he was fed regu-
larly; but he seemed
lonesome and unhappy
during the hours when
Charlie was at school.
S- Just as soon as school
was out, Charlie would
-- make straight for the
orchard, hoping to have
a great frolic with Cuff.
But one afternoon, when
.- he went there Cuff
-was gone! The ring
of the chain had worn
his leather collar so
thin that he had broken
it by pulling. Charlie
followed the trail across
a meadow and into a


where the milk was kept, and managed to tip a pan
of it all over himself. Then he went sniffing round
till he found a barrel of molasses. You know a
bear has a great fondness for sweet things, and he
licked around the head of the barrel, and mumbled
away at the spigot until it came open, and the
molasses flowed in a full stream. Cuff drank in
the flowing sweetness until he could hold no more.
Then he lay down and rolled in it. Soon after
he began to feel unhappy, and he started up the
stairs with molasses dripping from his shaggy
hide at every step. It was n't long before the
folks came home from meeting. The first thing
they noticed was the open cellar-door, and the
track of molasses leading from it through the
hall to the girls' room. The girls hurried to their
room, and there on the clean white bedspread
was Cuff, lying on his back, with a big swarm
of flies buzzing around him. Maria-one of
my daughters ran out and picked up a broom
and vigorously belabored poor Cuff over his head
and ears. He tumbled from the bed and ran
out of the house. They got him into his pen,
shut and fastened the door, and kept him there
till I came home."
What did you-do with him? "
Oh, Mother and the girls were so indignant
over the damage he had done that they wanted me
to shoot him or sell him. But Charlie begged so

piece of woods beyond;
there he lost it. The
next morning I went
there, but the cub had
probably traveled all
night, and I gave up
the search."
"Was that the last of him ? "
"Not quite. For the next year I was up in the




old place-for a few weeks.
Early one morning as I -- .
awoke, there stood a .___ -
young bear a little way 'i -
from the open side of my 1-
little bough house. I
jumped up mighty quick, .
but, just as I reached for
my gun, the bear sat
straight tup and held out
his paws just as Cuff used -
to when he was sparring i
with Charlie. I called out -
'Cuff!' and he came
straight up to me, acting -
as if glad to see his old
master again. I patted ..
his head and talked to _
him. Then he followed -
me down to the lake and 'k
sat watching me while I .. ...
fished. I gave him part of _R
the fish andhe went away. "THERE ON THE CLEAN WHITE BEDSPREAD WAS CUFF."
I stayed there several days after that, andhe came last morning, I gave him a good breakfast, and
every morning for his breakfast and a little frolic, while he was eating it, leaving him there, I packed
I would have tried to get him home with me, only up my traps and started, and never heard or saw
the wife and girls had never forgiven him. So the anything more of the little fellow."




TURK was an army dog, who knew the mean-
ing of drum-taps and bugle-calls as well as any
His military education was acquired in a garri-
son, where he lived for nearly four years, and
where, being an intelligent, observant animal, he
learned many details of martial law and disci-
pline, and, soldier-like, always wished to see them
Visitors to Governor's Island in 1880, and for

three years thereafter, will recall the huge, silent
mastiff that escorted them from the wharf to the
parade-ground; for Turk seemed to consider him-
self a standing Committee of Reception.
He was, however, very undemonstrative, and
quite indifferent to the word or smile of any one
save General Hancock, and the Superintendent of
the Island, William Kirchelt. But his devotion to
these two made up for any lack of interest toward
Turk was born in the spring of 1878, and was
of pure, English mastiff breed, his progenitors
having been imported by the Hon. John Jay,



formerly minister to Austria. When about two
years of age, he was sent for a time to General
Hancock by General W. F. Smith, who had owned
the dog from puppyhood, and to whom he was
returned after General Hancock's death.
While at Governor's Island, Turk was greatly.
admired and petted; for, though reserved, he was
very amiable, and never began a quarrel. But if
a dog, visiting the Island, attempted any domi-
neering, Turk soon showed the canine stranger
that he was the dog of the garrison, and could
easily whip ill-mannered intruders.
His attitude toward animals smaller than himself
was one of gentle indifference. Little dogs might
take liberties with him that larger ones dared not
attempt. If the little fellows became too familiar
or troublesome, he would gently pick one up with
his teeth and shake it, not enough to hurt it but
just enough to frighten it into running away when
William Kirchelt had the entire charge of him,
and Turk always accompanied him when he made
his rounds as Superintendent of the Island. At
such times the dog would notice no one they met

except the commandant; but at the first glimpse
of General Hancock, Turk would wag his tail vigor-
ously, bark, and in other ways express his delight.
When the General wished to see William, he
usually advised the orderly sent in quest of him,
to look for Turk, as wherever the dog was, there
William would.be ; and the General used to call the
dog a "tell-tale," for when William slipped over to
New York without leave, everybody would know it
through Turk, who would lie on the wharf during
William's absence, gazing intently out over the
water, toward the city.
He very much disliked to have the General or
William leave the Island, and if they went in a
rowboat he would swim after them, and insist upon
being taken in. Once he nearly lost his life by
following a steamboat which was conveying the
General and William to the city on their way to
take part in the Yorktown celebration in 1881.
At first, every one who witnessed the scene
thought that the dog would soon give up the
attempt; but on and on he swam, until a boat had
to put out from the Island to drive him back. He
was nearly exhausted when he landed, and but for



this interference of the people on shore would
have kept on so long as he could swim.
When his master and keeper returned from
Yorktown, and were nearing the Island, General
Hancock exclaimed:
Look, William There is Turk watching for
us! Won't he be glad to see us "
In a garrison, after what is termed the "Retreat"
is sounded, no one is allowed to pass in or out
without the pass-word. William's quarters were
on the line of the sentinel's beat. Turk never
seemed to notice any passer-by particularly, until
Retreat, but after that he would permit no one to
pass except the sentry.
One cold, rainy night, the sentinel on duty car-
ried his rifle at secure arms," his overcoat cape
nearly covering it. As he passed Turk the dog
made a charge upon him. The soldier, frightened
and perplexed at this sudden and unexpected hos-
tility, remained motionless.
William heard the noise,
and, going to the door, took
in the situation at once.
"Put your gun on your
shoulder and walk on," he f
called out. When the sentry i
did so, Turk immediately lay
down, looking very foolish,
and plainly showing that he
realized his mistake and was
mortified by it.
After General Hancock
died,William Kirchelt's com-
pany was ordered to Califor-
nia, and General Smith took
the dog again. For three
summers, Turk was at Bar
Harbor, where he made him-
self indispensable, not only
as a watch-dog but as a pro-
tection to the ladies of the
family in their long walks ,.--.
and rambles. They never .- '
were afraid of tramps when
Turk was with them.
At home, strangers, espe-
cially doubtful-looking ones,
were escorted about the premises with stately
watchfulness, never being interfered with unless
they meddled with something, when he instantly
would show disapprobation. A slight hint from
the huge dog was all that was ever required to
keep even the most unscrupulous within the strict
line of honesty.
He was left nearly alone one summer, and upon
General Smith's return had disappeared. No trace
of him has ever been discovered.


ALL boys who love the water, and especially
those who think that they would like to be sailors,
will be interested in "Bruce," once the favorite
dog of Admiral David D. Porter, of our Navy.
Dogs have been favorites with the Admiral all
his life, and within the last twenty years, or since
making Washington his headquarters, he has
owned no less than twenty-two!
But Bruce, early in his career, earned the high-
est place in his master's regard by one of those
feats of sagacity which seem to prove that animals
sometimes reason, and that, too, often more wisely
than their recognized mental superiors.
Admiral Porter had a little grandson, who lived
near a deep and rapid water-course about twenty-
five feet wide. The stream was crossed by a nar-
row plank. One day, the little fellow-who was

8 1'



but three years of age--attempted the perilous
crossing alone. There was no one near to warn
him of danger or prevent him but the dog. Realiz-
ing the child's peril, Bruce ran to him, and, catch-
ing hold of his dress, tried to pull him back. The
youngster was determined to have his own way,
and vigorously resented the dog's interference by
beating poor Bruce in the face, with a big stick
he carried, until the dog was forced by pain to
relinquish his hold.


The faithful animal then jumped into the water,
and swam. slowly across the stream, below the
plank, evidently with the intention of saving the
child, should he happen to fall in.
When they were both safely across, and Bruce
had shaken the water from his shaggy coat, he
artfully induced the little fellow to get on his back
for a ride, a treat he knew the youngster much
enjoyed and for which he was always ready.
The moment the dog felt the child's arms around
his neck, and the little feet digging into his sides,
he trotted back across the plank, and homeward,
never stopping until his young charge was safely
beyond any temptation of repeating his dangerous
Bruce was a famous watch-dog, and guarded the
Admiral's premises in Washington more effect-
ively than any night-watchman, for it would have
taken more courage to confront him than to encoun-
ter any average watchman.
He weighed one hundred
and seventy-five pounds,
and was very large around
the body. His hair was
long, shaggy, and of a dark
drab color, except upon his
neck, breast, andfeet,where
it was pure white; and
he was noted among those
who knew him for his
gentle, expressive eyes.
Poor Bruce met his death
in rather an ignominious
way. Despite his bravery
and sagacity, he possessed
a weakness that in the end '
cost him his life. He would '/ I
overeat! We can best try /I
to excuse him for this by
the supposition that living
in Washington, a city so- .
given to feasting and good -
living, had its effect on a
dog prone to observation
and emulation.
One day he gained ac- -
cess to a tub which, from a
dog's standpoint, contained
something so exceedingly
good, that he ate the entire
contents. Perhaps some
other dog stood by, hoping to share the meal,
or awaiting a possible surplus-a state of affairs
that always serves to lend added relish to a
canine feast. A rush of blood to the head, fol-
lowing close upon this foolish overindulgence, un-
fortunately proved fatal.


ROGER is a large Irish setter, of wide and
varied information, and great dignity of character.
He has a handsome set of fringes to his paws, a
fine, glossy coat, and eyes that ask many questions,
and make many requests. It is nearly impossible
for his mistress to refuse him anything, so that he
was in danger of being quite spoiled, or rather he
would have been, if less sensible.
Once, when he lay stretched out on a soft rug
before the library fire, the Rev. J. G. Wood, who
understands dog-life as well as anybody in the
world, asked Miss Jewett, reproachfully, whether
Roger ever had to do anything he did n't like;
and for some time afterward she doubted whether
she had given proper attention to the dog's moral
education !
Roger spends his winters in Boston, where luckily


he has a very large garden on the shore of the
Charles River, in which to run about. But he much
prefers a long walk, and always follows his mistress
very carefully and politely.
When they go into the business or manufactur-
ing part of the city, it is sometimes touching to see



sad faces light up as he goes by with tail wagging,
and to notice how many tired hands reach out to
pat him. At such times, Miss Jewett will often
forget her errand in stopping to talk with others
about him.
But any account of the dog would be incom-
plete without a word about his best friend, Patrick
Lynch. All Roger's truest .loyalty and affection
show themselves at the sound of Patrick's step,
for it means- all outdoors, and the market, and
long scurries about town, and splashes in the frog-
All day Roger is expecting some sort of surprise
or pleasure from this most congenial of friends;
but every evening he condescends to spend quietly
with the rest of the family, and comes tick-toeing
along the hall floor and upstairs to the library, as
if he were well aware that his presence confers
a pleasure. Alas! he sometimes meets bonnets
outward bound, and this is a cause of much
disappointment when he finds, as often happens,
that he must stay at home.
But if he be invited to come, what barking and
whining in many keys! What dashing along the
snowy streets !--what treeing of unlucky pussies,

and scattering of wayfarers terrified by his size and
apparent fierceness.
But the best place to see this dog is by the sea-
shore in the summer, where he runs about with
his beautiful red coat shining like copper in the
sunshine. He is then always begging somebody
for a walk, or barking even at the top of an in-
offensive ledge for the sake of being occupied in
some way. Mrs. James T. Fields is at such times
his best friend, for she oftenest invites him to walk
along the beach and chase sandpipers. Strange to
say, his interest in this pursuit never fails, though
the sandpipers always fly seaward, and so disappoint
their eager hunter.
We who have thus been introduced to Roger and
become, as it were, almost intimate with him, will
regret that he must some day grow old and sedate.
Yet in that respect we shall always have the advan-
tage of his closest friends, for with us he will have
perpetual youth. In our thoughts he ever will be
scurrying through the streets of Boston, stopping
only to receive with majestic complaisance the pet-
ting of strange hands; or at the sea-shore, exercis-
ing his scale of dog-notes, or scattering the timid
sandpipers-a joke of which he seems never to tire.


VOL. XVI.-35.



ONE night, as spring began to show
In buds above and blades below,
The Brownies reached a garden square
That seemed in need of proper care.
Said one, Neglected ground like this

Must argue some one most remiss,
'Or beds and paths would here be found
Instead of rubbish scattered 'round.
Old staves, and boots, and woolen strings,
With bottles, bones, and wire springs,


Are quite unsightly things to see
Where tender plants should sprouting be.
The crows are cawing on the limb,
The swallows o'er the meadows skim;
I heard the robin's merry note
This evening through the valley float,
While bluebirds flew around in quest
Of hollow stumps fit for.a nest.
This work must be progressing soon,
If blossoms are to smile in June."
A second said, Let all give heed:
On me depend to find the seed.
And neither village shop I '11 raid,
Nor city store of larger trade;
For, thanks to my foreseeing mind,
To merchants' goods we 're not confined.
Last autumn, when the leaves grew sere
And birds sought regions less severe,
One night through gardens fair I sped,
And gathered seeds from every bed;
Then placed them in a hollow tree,
Where still they rest. So trust to me
To bring supplies, while you prepare
The mellow garden-soil with care.'"
Another cried, While some one goes
To find the shovels, rakes, and hoes,
That in the sheds are stowed away,
We '11 use this plow as best we may.
Our arms, united at the chain,
Will not be exercised in vain,
But, as though colts were in the trace,

aa dance around the
I know how deep
the point should
SAnd how the sods
S to overthrow.
So not a patch
of ground the size
Of this old cap, when flat it lies,
But shall attentive care receive,
And be improved before we leave."

Then some to guide the plow began,
Others the walks and beds to plan.
And soon they gazed with anxious eyes
For those who ran for seed-supplies.
But, when they came, one had his say,
And thus explained the long delay:
" A woodchuck in the tree had made
His bed just where the seeds were laid.
We wasted half an hour at least
In striving to dislodge the beast;
Until at length he turned around,

Then, quick as thought, without a sound,
And ere he had his bearings got,
The rogue was half across the lot."

Then seed was sown in various styles,
In circles, squares, and single files;


--. _. -..,
^ "- /' :

While here and there, in central parts,
They fashioned diamonds, stars, and hearts,
Some using rake, some plying hoe,
Some making holes where seed should go;
While some laid garden tools aside

And to the soil their hands applied.
To stakes and racks more were assigned,
That climbing vines support might find.
Cried one, Here, side by side, will stand
The fairest flowers in the land,-


The stately hollyhock will tower
O'er many a sweet and modest flower.
Here, royal plants, all weighted down
With purple robe or golden crown,
Away their pomp and pride will fling
And to their nearest neighbor cling.
The thrifty bees for miles around

Ere long will seek this
plot of ground,
And be surprised to
find each morn
New blossoms do each
bed adorn.
And in their own pe-
culiar screed
Will bless the hands
that sowed the
But morning broke (as,, ,t ,-
break it will
Though one 's awake or sleeping still),
And then the seeds on every side
The hurried Brownies scattered wide.
Along the road and through the lane
They pattered on the ground like rain,

-~- --

Where Brownies, as away they flew,
Both right and left full handfuls threw,
And children often halted there
To pick the blossoms, sweet and fair,

That sprung like daisies 6rom the mead
Where fleeing Brownies flung the seed.

A M,"?

~- ~c7>

. r'^


ol V5 xU~)ViW

o n3

0 QD

~U C



I. Jin gle, jin gle, Tam-bour-ine, Rub and thump the bells be tween,

0 cresc. f

Here's a mu sic on- ly seen, Here's the sieve a shak ing,-

cresc...... ...... ..... ... ...... f

Laught er is the on ly peal, As we shed the gold en meal,

4 ----- i-----__ --

poco rit. et dim.


,a tempo.

Or the cream y flour we deal, Read y for the bak ing.


poco 1it. et dim.

Rattle-tattle, Castanet,
All the clatter that we get
Comes through such a noiseless net
That the elves must listen,
While we magic circles make,
With a rhythmic rock and shake,
Dreaming of a birthday cake,
Fit to make eyes glisten.

Tint-ta, tin-ta, Mandolin,
Ring the scalloped baking-tin,
Bring the doughty rolling-pin,
Whirl away the "Dover !
Now we've piled it mountains high,
Here's for bread and buns and pie,
Here's the wheat, the corn, the rye,-
So, the sifting's over.



SAID little brown Bee to big brown Bee:
" Oh hurry here and see, and see,
The loveliest rose -the loveliest rose
That in the garden grows, grows, grows.
Hum-um-um hum-um-um,"
Said little brown Bee to big brown Bee.

Said little brown Bee to big brown Bee:
" Much honey must be here, and we
Should beg a portion while we may,
For soon more bees will come this way.
Hum-um-um hum-um-um,"
Said little brown Bee to big brown Bee.

Said big brown Bee to little brown Bee:
" The rose is not for me, for me,
Though she is lovelier by far
Than many other flowers are.
Hum-um-um hum-um-um,"
Said big brown Bee to little brown Bee.

Said big brown Bee to little brown Bee:
SNo honey-cup has she, has she,
But many cups, all brimming over,
Has yonder little purple clover,
And that 's the flower for me, for me.
Hum-um-um hum-um-um,"
Said big brown Bee to little brown Bee.

I p^ i-

f<^ -I-I 1=-P--4 ^ = I- i XS- -- =

,, i ~LY

a tempo.

I -"----------- m-



WALK in, Lady May, and many welcomes to your
sweet ladyship Lady May, allow me to present
my children of ST. NICHOLAS !
Ah your ladyship has had the pleasure of meet-
ing them before ? Then all is well.
And now, your ladyship, my friend Lucy E. Til-
ley shall tell you and the children a true story:
THE buds in the tree's heart safely were folded away,
Awaiting in dreamy quiet the coming of May,

When one little bud roused gently and pondered
It 's dark, and no one would see me," it said with a

If I before all the others could bloom first in May,
And so be the only blossom, if but for a day,

How the world would welcome my coming,-the first
little flower,-
'T will surely be worth the trouble, if but for an hour."

Close to the light it crept softly, and waited till Spring,
With her magic fingers, the door wide open should fling.

Spring came, the bud slipped out softly and opened
its eyes
To catch the first loving welcome; but saw with

That swift through the open doorway, lo, others had
For thousands of little white blossoms had thought to
be "First."

SOME time ago, a little Illinois girl named Rose,
sent so strange a story of bird sagacity to this Pul-
pit, that the Little School-ma'am kindly wrote to
the lady mentioned by Rose to inquire if the little
girl had been rightly informed. In due time the

reply came, verifying the story in every particular,
save that the lady thought it was a Phcebe bird,
but could not be sure."
So you shall hear it now, word for word:

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Having noticed many
curious stories of animals and birds in your columns, I
will now write and tell you what a little Phoebe bird did.
It built its nest on a ledge over the door of a house in
this neighborhood. When the little birds were still quite
small, the lady of the house was standing on the porch,
and seeing one of them fall to the ground, she picked it
up and put it back into the nest. A few days later she
saw one of the little birds fall again; but this time it fell
only about ten or eleven inches, where it stopped and
hung in the air. The lady climbed up to the nest, and
found that every one of the baby birds had a horse-hair
tied around its leg and then fastened to the nest. Was
this the mother bird's way of keeping them safe at home
while she was gone?
I enjoy reading the ST. NICHOLAS very much, espe-
cially the Pulpit" and "Letter-box."
Your interested reader, ROSE R.


DEAR FRIEND JACK: I have lately been reading of
an incident which, with your permission, I 'd like to
send to your crowd of hearers, many of whom, I dare
say, are amateur photographers who practice with their
own cameras and delight themselves and their friends
with many a startling picture.
Well, sixty-four years ago, in 1825, M. Dumas, the
French writer, was lecturing in the Theater of Sorbonne
on chemistry. At the close of his lecture, a lady came
up to him, and said: M. Dumas, as a man of science, I
have a question of no small moment to me to ask you.
I am the wife of Daguerre, the painter. For some time
he has let the idea seize upon him that he can fix the
image of the camera. Do you think it possible? He
is always at the thought; he can't sleep at night for it.
I am afraid he is out of his mind. Do you, as a man
of science, think it can ever be done, or is he mad? "
In the present state of knowledge," said Dumas, "it
can not be done; but I can not say it will always remain
impossible, nor set the man down as mad who seeks to
do it."
Twelve years afterward, Daguerre worked out his
idea, and soon became known far and wide as the dis-
coverer of the daguerreotype process. To-day he stands
alone as the father of modern photography.
Yours truly, JOEL S- .

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT : I would like to tell you
about some tribes of South American Indians, of whom,
until very lately, nothing, or almost nothing, has been
known. These tribes live on the Xingu and Araguaya
rivers, parts of which have only lately been explored, and
consequently the discovery of these tribes is quite recent.
The discovery was made by some German travelers, one
of whom, Carl von Steinen, has written in German a very
interesting book about it all. I wish you could see, as I
have seen, the feather dresses and ornaments, arrows, and
carved gourds of these strange Indians. Some of the tribes
had never, of course, seen white men till these travelers
came, and they were at first afraid and ran off into the
woods, gaining confidence little by little. Unfortunately,



1889.] JACK-IN-TH

on one occasion, a gun accidentally went off, and the tribe,
a few of whom were peering out, were never seen by
their white friends again. These tribes seem to have no
form of worship, not even hideous little images as some
of the Amazonian Indians have. But they must have
their superstitions, as one tribe (the tribes are small)
believe that their souls change into araras (birds of
brilliant plumage) and the souls of black men into uru-
bus, a sort of scavenger bird, black as a crow.
Some tribes were quite polite, offering the travelers
food, i. e., game and farina, but if they did not begin to eat
very quickly the Indians would grab it all up themselves.
The funeral rites of one of the tribes are quite strange.
The men (the women are not allowed to assist) take the
body to the woods and remove all the flesh. The bones
are carefully put into a basket, and the skull is decorated
with feathers and placed under a canopy of leaves. The
leader," medicine man," I suppose, gesticulates and wails
before this skull, then begins a dance in which all join.
Finally, with sharp pieces of stones all cut their arms, one
by one, letting the blood drop on the skull. The sharp
stones are afterward wrapped in leaves and given to the
relatives of the deceased. The skull and bones are buried
with solemn rites. When a member of this tribe dies
everything belonging to him is burnt,- though little it
must be,- sometimes to the disgust of certain near sur-
vivors. The men of one tribe have annual dances, in
which the .dresses represent fish, birds, and animals.
They are kept in a hut devoted to the purpose. No
woman is allowed to touch the dresses or to enter the
hut; she would die, so is the belief, on the very moment.
Yours very truly,


DEAR JACK: Do bananas, when growing upon the
tree, turn up or down ?
In the stores, from the way the bunches are hung up,
they look as if they grew down; but I have looked it up
in several books, and all, with one exception, have pic-
tures with the fruit turned up. Among the books were
two encyclopedias and one physical geography. I never
saw but one bunch of bananas growing, and that bunch
turned down.
Now, I do not know whether the pictures are wrong,
or the bunch I saw was an unusual one. My sister says
she does not think any one who undertook to furnish
illustrations for an important book would make such a
mistake. Your devoted admirer,

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Do you answer ques-
tions? If not, please ask some one to answer this one.
Prof. Starr told us, in February, about the Rose in a
Queer Place," and it must be very pretty, but I want to
know how they keep the tanks from bursting when mak-
ing the blocks of ice. I can not understand it.
Yours inquiringly, RUTH HERTZELL.
Who knows? There is no such thing as non-
bustible ice, I believe. The boys in the Red
Schoolhouse will have to think this matter over.
Meantime Prof. Starr will be asked to reply to
Ruth next month.





THREE little Astrologers who dwelt on a hill,
Where each lived at ease, ate and drank to his fill,
Were awakened one morn by a cry of distress
Which made them all start and most hurriedly

B. -",

A i:

Three little heads start, in a sudden surprise,
To a bare branch above turning three pairs of eyes;
'here sits, with an air more pompous than craven,
Their slumber's disturber-a wicked old raven.

' I

Soon wrapped in their hoods, down the hill,
through the snow,
They run to the rescue, all in a row,
And each one declared he'd not been so excited
Since the old black cat's tail from the candle ignited.



But hunt as they will and dig deep as they may,
They're about to relinquish the search in dismay,
When, once more!- that sad cry they'd heard
from their beds,
Seemed to come from a tree right over their heads !

r'. .I

." i .. _

Then those three little men, in their three little rages,
Said words more becoming to teamsters than sages,
Till fat little John, a firm friend to the platter,
By catching the bird changed the face of the matter.


While the snow falls without and the day coldly ends,
Roundapie rich and savory are gathered ourfriends;
And they smile as they think, in their warm, cosy
How the tables are turned on that plague of a raven.

la- h,




THERE was a little boy
Whom his mother did employ
In doing all the errands she could trump
And she sent his feet so nimble
After scissors, spool, or thimble,
Till the neighbors always called him

Now this Johnny,-little boy
Whom his mother did employ,
Saying, "Johnny-jump-up dear, and fetch
the tarts, please "
Or, "Run, Johnny, to the spring,
And a pail of water bring,"
Don't you see he grew to be his mother's
Heart's-ease ?


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am sure you will be glad to
hear how much good some of your plays are doing in
the world.
Not long ago at the National Theater in this city sev-
eral of these plays were performed by children and the
proceeds given to charity. It was a bright afternoon,
and the theater was filled. The audience included many
well-known people, and in the boxes were some mem-
bers of the Cabinet and foreign diplomats, including the
Chinese minister,-who must have found the perform-
ance very different from those at home.
The curtain rose and showed Mistress Mary sprink-
ling her flower-beds, which immediately sent forth bril-
liant living flowers, who followed after the sweet little
There was much curiosity to see Bobby Shaftoe,"
for that character was played by the son of Mrs. Burnett,
the boy whose loving ways suggested the pure-hearted
" Little Lord Fauntleroy "; and Mrs. Burnett herself had
helped to drill the little fellow to play the difficult part.
Bobby Shaftoe courted one of the little village maid-
ens, and looked so pretty in his long flaxen curls and
wine-colored satin suit that she seemed very hard-hearted
when she refused him. And, indeed, she herself re-
pented it in the very next verse, after he had departed in
despair. The little girl sang this part with a sweetness,
clearness, and precision of voice which delighted the au-
dience; and all sympathized with her grief expressed in
the spinning-wheel song, and with her joy over his most
unexpected (?) return in a sailor-suit even prettier than
the wine-colored satin. The two little lovers sang a
joyful duet, the peasants thronged in to congratulate, and
all ended in a merry dance.
I have heard that the operetta Bobby Shaftoe," alone,
has been the means of earning more than $1o,ooo for
charity, and has been played at least olice in each month
since its publication in ST. NICHOLAS for January, 1877.
Another ST. NICHOLAS favorite, Mother Goose and
her Family," came next, and the characters in this play
also were represented by children of some of our most
distinguished legislators and statesmen.
I was fortunate enough to attend some of the rehears-
als, and was surprised to see the spirit and power Mrs.
Burnett threw into the preparation of the play and the
respectful love and tenderness shown her by her son.
Another play, The Enchanted Princess, or Triumph
of Ether," ended the performance. It was a decided
success, delighting the large audience, and raising a
large sum of money for excellent purposes.
G. B. B.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to describe to your
readers something I made at home.
Take a piece of wood six and a half inches long and
two inches wide, and cut five little slits at each end; then
take a piece of wood one and three-quarter inches long
and half an inch high. Buy two pieces of rubber ; take
one end of one piece of the rubber, pull it into one of the
slits, and when you see that you have enough to stretch
from one of the slits to the other, then cut it and fasten
the other end in the opposite slit. Make and adjust four

more of these pieces, and then take the small piece of
wood and put it in under the strings, and you have your
harp, or guitar, or whatever you choose to call it. It
can be tuned by making each string tighter or looser.
Yours truly, M. M. R-.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl eleven years
old. I have never written to you before, though my
mamma has taken you for my brothers and sisters be-
fore I was born, and ever since I was old enough to read
I have looked forward eagerly to your arrival. I am
frequently sick, and can not run and play very much.
I have been very sick for the last three weeks, but I am
getting better fast now. I have a very pretty little bird
who sings a great deal. I play with paper dolls all the
time. I got a ring on Christmas when I was sick in
bed; I lost the stone out of it; I felt very bad about it,
but Mamma found it again.
Your devoted reader, HELEN L- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I read you all the time. I am
almost seven years old. I go to a German school and
wear a leather apron, and carry my books in a knapsack
on my back, like all the German boys. I can write and
read German better than I can English. I was very
much interested in the story of The Golden Casque,"
because I have been to Scheveningen and have seen the
peasant girls with their dog-carts. I liked the story
about the Christmas play. We had a Christmas-tree of
our own, and went to a German Christmas-tree, and we
had two at school.
Your little friend, ALLEN M--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wish to tell you how much
we all like you; we have you bound and unbound. All
the grown-up folks in our family read you and think you
are the best magazine for children. You must hear
about our little dog named Rover," .a brown and white
spaniel. I throw him a ball, and he catches it in his
mouth and throws it back. He had a cut foot once, and
when we would say, Rover has a sore foot," he would
hold it up; but when it got well and we would say that, he
would forget which foot it was, and would hold up the
wrong one. I had a pony; lie died in the fall; so I got
a bicycle for Christmas. Hoping you will always come
to our house, I remain,
Your little friend, ED. M. T--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: This is the first time I have
written to you, but I must write to you now, to tell you
how much I like your stories, especially Little Lord
Fauntleroy and Juan and Juanita." My little brother
is delighted with the Brownies," and is always look-
ing forward to the next number.


I have been living in Switzerland for three years, and
am now in Clifton.
The Swiss mountains are lovely, and I went to the top
of a great many. My sister went out once with a friend
and a guide. They came to a big precipice, so their
guide had to tie them round their waists with a rope,
and they were let slowly down the edge of the precipice
from where they could continue.
I hope you will put these few lines in your Letter-
box." I remain,
Your great friend and admirer, S. N-- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never seen a letter from
the Cceur d'Alenes in your book, but I hope to see
this there. We live in a mining-camp, in Idaho, named
Murray. It is built in a gulch. The mountain on one
side is eight hundred and fourteen feet high; on the
other it slopes back, in benches. Quite high up is the
water-tank: it supplies the town with water. We have
two hose-carts. My friend Jim Hemmons is Chief.
I have one brother older, and a sister younger, than
I, named Vaughn and Mabel. I am ten years old.
Last year Aunt Annie sent us ST. NICHOLAS. She
sends it this year again. Is it not a fine Christmas
present ? I want to take it till I 'm a man.
Last summer Dr. Littlefield brought in a little bear
three weeks old; they fed it bread and milk, and we had
fun with it; but it died in a few weeks-a big box fell
on it.
The chief products of this country are huckleberries,
mines, and bears !
We have Little Lord Fauntleroy," and think it a fine
I go to school, and Sunday-school. I remain,
Your friend, CHASE K- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am thirteen years old, and
live in New York. Ever since I can remember Mamma
has taken the ST. NICHOLAS for me. I showed the Feb-
ruary number to Papa to-day, as in the article on the
" White Pasha it says that Stanley served in our navy
during the war, on board the U. S. iron-clad Ticon-
Now, Papa was an officer in our navy, and on board
the Ticonderoga from the time she was built until the
war ended; and although Papa has often told me stories
about the war, he never told me anything about Stanley,
which he would be likely to do, if they had served to-
gether in the same ship, because the whole world is
now interested in everything pertaining to the famous
explorer of the Dark Continenl.
When I showed your White Pasha to Papa he said
it was a mistake about Henry M. Stanley being pro-
moted to Acting Ensign on board the Ticonderoga,
as no officer of that name was appointed in our navy
during the war; but it is possible that Stanley may have
served as one of the sailors. He did not then do any-
thing to attract attention to his name or to show any
promise of the wonderful part he was to play in our cen-
tury's history.
While lying at the Philadelphia navy-yard, in the fall
of 1865, the Ticonderoga received orders to join Admiral
Porter's squadron at Hampton Roads, which was get-
ting ready to attack Fort Fisher. As the war had then
been going on for four years, it was very difficult to get
seamen for the navy, even more so than to get soldiers
for the army.
The Ticonderoga, when she received her orders to go
to sea, had only a few able-bodied seamen on board,-
probably not more than one-tenth of her complement,-
but as, a few days before, a draft of about two hundred

landsmen had been sent to the ship the captain decided
to put to sea, for he was afraid he would miss the attack
on Fort Fisher by waiting for more seamen.
The landsmen who had just been received on board
were almost all Confederate prisoners who, being tired
of our Northern prisons, took the oath of allegiance to
the United States Government and enlisted in our navy,
on the condition that they should not be sent ashore to
serve in any of the land attacks against the Confederates,
because, in case of recapture by their former comrades,
they might suffer the unpleasant fate of being shot as
The Ticonderoga had a pleasant passage from Phila-
delphia to within sight of the Capes of the Chesapeake.
In half an hour she would have been safely moored in
Hampton Roads with the rest of the squadron when a
furious snow-storm came on, and she was driven out to
sea for three days in one of the worst storms that have
ever been known on our coast, with a ship full of sea-sick
landsmen. They were so sick that they could not even
hoist the ashes out of the fire-room to keep the ship from
sinking. Only by the heroic efforts and gallantry of the
officerswas the ship finally brought safely through the
storm in which the Rd Galantuomo," one of the finest
frigates in the Italian navy, foundered with all on board.
It was in this detachment of Confederate landsmen
that Stanley must have served, if he served at all, on the
Ticonderoga during our war, so Papa tells me.
My father's initials are W. W. M., and you can find
all about the Ticonderoga's officers in the United States
Navy Registers for 1864 and 1865, of which we have in
our library all the copies bound.
I did not mean to make this letter so long, but I must
tell you that I think Sally's Valentine too cute for any-
thing. Your fervent admirer,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Mamma took you two years
before I was born, and I have read you, or had you
read to me, ever since I was old enough to understand
anything, so I love you very much. I remember when
Mamma first read me "Behind the White Brick," I
thought I had never read a nicer fairy story.
I have all the bound volumes since 1875 in my room.
I went to the theater for the first time a few weeks
ago, to see my favorite story, Little Lord Fauntleroy,"
acted. It was perfectly lovely. I saw little Elsie Leslie,
and I think she is wonderfully sweet and acts beautifully.
I have five photographs ofher and five of Tommy Russell.
I think Mrs. Burnett writes such lovely stories.
I have no brothers and sisters, but I have a few very
.pretty pets, one of which is a beautiful, intelligent Japa-
nese pug, named Jap.
He has very bright eyes, beautiful soft white and black
fur, and a long feathery tail that always curves upward.
He is so funny. Every time the bell rings for break-
fast, if I am a little bit late, he goes tearing to the head
of the stairs andbarks, and then comes back and puts
his paws on my lap, cocks his head on one side, and
looks at me with his bright impertinent eyes.
If I take no notice, he begins barking and pulling my
dress with his sharp little white teeth. When I come, he
goes down stairs very slowly, turning his head at each
step to see if I am following. When we get safely in
at the dining-room door he is perfectly happy. He stands
up on his hind legs and looks so coaxingly that we have
to give him something.
I also have a large Irish setter, Bruno," and as we
live right near Gramercy Park I can take him there
sometimes for a run. I have two canary birds, one of
which is blind. He is very tame, and will sit on my fin-
ger and sing. Your constant reader,


FOR the benefit of our young readers who have a liking
for mathematics we reprint from a recent number of
"The Universal Tinker," the following item concerning
Here is something to scratch your head over. A very
curious number is 142,857, which, multiplied by I, 2, 3,
4, 5, or 6, gives the same figures in the same order, be-
ginning at a different point, but if multiplied by 7 gives
all nines:
142,857 multiplied by I equals 142,857
142,857 multiplied by 2 equals 285,714
142,857 multiplied by 3 equals 428,571
142,857 multiplied by 4 equals 571,428
142,857 multiplied by 5 equals 714,285
142,857 multiplied by 6 equals 857,142
142,857 multiplied by 7 equals 999,999
Multiply 142,857 by 8 and you have 1,142,856. Then
add the first figure to the last, and you have 142,857, the
original number, with figures exactly the same as at the

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought you might like to
know of an interesting and very pretty experiment to
try in the spring. Break off some twigs from apple-
trees, or from any other tree that has pretty blossoms,
and put them in water. You do not have to wait more
than two or three days in the case of apple buds, before
you begin to see signs of their opening. I have apple
buds that I cut a little over two weeks ago, and I can
already begin to see the pink of the blossoms. Horse-
chestnut branches are interesting, for the leaves have a
kind of woolly substance on them when they first come
out. Warm water forces them out faster, I think. I
have lilac branches that are out enough to see the flower-

Ever your friend,


WE thank the young friends whose names here follow
for pleasant letters which we have received from them:
Jessie C. Knight, Vivian, Frances Marion, H. F.,
Lucy P. W., Alice B. C., Hattie B. Thompson, Carl F.
Hayden, Mary A. Lincoln, May Lyle, Frances Gibbon,
A. D., Caroline E. Condit, Olive C. K. Bell, Norton,
Fannie, and Edith T., Harold S. P., Amy W., May E.
W., Maude J., Mabel B.,May M., Emily M. W., Maud
S. M., Amanda and Bertha, Ethel C., Julia E. R. M.,
Howard B., Walter G. K., Alice E. A., Lyman H. G.,
Arthur Williams, Mary, Catherine Cook, Alice P. W.,
Helen T., L. M. Gaskill, H. Ellis, Annie R. L., Amy
E. D., Helen Parker, K. R., May S., Hope C., Dorothy
R., Helen Blumenthal, Mary D. Sampson, Lida Schem,
William S. B., Arthur E. Fairchild, Nannie La V., Alice
Brayton, Charlotte E. B., H. A. S., L. B. V., Alice Y.,
Robbie M., Mamie C., Herman Holt, Jr., Harry O., Fay
F., L. M. H., Frank T., Bessie D., Josie and Anna, A.
Hooley, Harry Emerson, M. I. H., Arthur T. P., Dora,
Alice, Charlie, Carrie K. T., R. Larcombe, E. K. S.,
Ruth M. M., Robert Bond, C. H. Ferran, Elsie B. M.,
Gertrude M. J., Ella S. M., Emma M. M., H. P. H.,
Charles H. L., Gundred S., Dora K. and Emily D.,
Bertha C. H., Nellie, Ruth Tuttle, Marshall Miller, Glenn
M., Phillip C., Henry K. M., MacC. S., Sara G., Eliza-
beth T., Penmy," Rollo II.," Ida G. S. E., Ivy C. S.,
Madge H., Robin H. W., L. A., Ellen W., Joel W., W.
F. Morgan, Ross Proctor, Clara E. McM., J. W. Fer-
guson, Lawrence L., Jennie L. M., Grace S. O., Eleanor
K. B., W. H., Lizzie S., Edith N., Helen R., A. C.
Derby, Margaret R., Elizabeth E. B., Jennie S., May
I. C., Charles C. Whitehead, Annie R. R., Annie P. F.,
Worthington H., Marguerite, Florie Cox, Alice M. G.,
Mamie G., Thos. McK., Charles G. M., M. M., Carrie
C. F., R. and M. H., Emma I. G., Agnes J. A.

Lilian Bonnell, of Shanghai, China, sends a list of
eighty-one characters found in the King's Move puzzle,
printed in ST. NICHOLAS for January. The list arrived
too late to be acknowledged in an earlier number.



QUARTERED CIRCLES. From i to 4, lane; 5 to 8, gear; 9 to 12, HIDDEN WORD-SQUARE. I. Elate. 2. Loves. 3. Avert. 4.
lyre; 13 to 16, anon; i to 5, long; 5 to 9, gull; 9 to 13, Lima; I3 Terse. 5. Ester.- CHARADE. Surprise.
to i, Abel; 2 to 6, abode; 6 to to, entry; 1o to 14, yearn; 14 to 2, A CRoss PUZZLE. From I to 2, Lenten Season; from 3 to 4,
Norma; 3 to 7, Nevada; 7 to s, abider; II to 15, Rialto; 15 to 3, Easter Sunday. Cross-words: I. lee. 2. era. 3. garnished. 4.
Oberon; 4 to 8, elector; 8 to 12, reserve; 12 to 16, eastern; 16 to agitation. 5. Eve. 6. nor. 7. sis. 8. eau. 9. awn. o1. sad.
4, naivete. 1i. probate. 12. journey-work.
PECULIAR ACROSTIC. Centrals, wrong. Cross-words: x. sa-w-as. PI. The wild and windy March once more
2. fa-r-ap. 3. tw-o-ne. 4. ma-n-ap. 5. fi-g-un. Has shut his gates of sleet,
RIDDLE. Nothing. And given us back the April time,
WORD-SQUARE. i. Verse. 2. Emily. 3. Rigor. 4. Slope. 5. So fickle and so sweet.
Eyres. -Now blighting with our fears, our hopes,
ZIGZAG. Washington's First Inauguration. Cross-words: i. Now kindling hopes with fears:
Wade. 2. mAlt. 3. vaSt. 4. dasH. 5. crib. 6. eNvy. 7. Now softly weeping through her smiles,
Gasp. 8. aTom. 9. drOp. 1o. braN. ix. hoSt. 12. aFar. Now smiling through her tears.
13. Iris. 14. iRon. 15. maSk. 16. lasT. 17. slIm. i8. ENid. RHOMBOID. Across: x. Doer. 2. Coif. 3. Slit. 4. Lard. 5.
i9. Avon. o2. bUlk. 21. saGe. 22. PerU. 23. paRk. 24. Tead. 6. Nief 7. Slap. 8. Fief. 9. Laic. to. Leod.
dAte. 25. Tody. 26. mink. 27. loOn. 28. wreN. CROSS-WORD ENIGMA. Spring-time.
ANAGRAMS. Hawthorne. i. Hermetically, 2. Absolutism. 3. ILLUSTRATED CENTRAL ACROSTIC. Centrals, Ister. Cross-
Wardenship. 4. Thermometers. 5. Humanitarians. 6. Opinion- words: i. IndIans. 2. thiStle. 3. jesTers. 4. pagEant. 5.
ativeness. Revocableness. 8. Numeration. 9. Establishment. parRots.
To OUR PUZZLERS: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the i5th of each month, and
should be addressed to ST. NICHOLAS Riddle-box," care of THE CENTURY CO., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City.
ANSWERS TO ALL THE PUZZLES IN THE FEBRUARY NUMBER were received, before February g1th, from Maude E. Palmer-May
L. Gerrish- Louise Ingham Adams -Aunt Kate, Mamma, and Jamie-A. L. W. L.- William H. Beers -Jo and I-" May and 79 "-
I F. Gerrish and E. A. Daniell-" Mohawk Valley."
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE FEBRUARY NUMBER were received, before February i3th, from Edwin Murray, i-Margaret G.
Cassels, i-Mary Prince, I -"Training Dept.," Madeline D., i-Lawrence Hills, I Agnes J. Arrott, i-L. and S. Egert, I-
Miriam V. Cooke, i- Myrat, i -"Uncle Tom," -J. B. Swann, 9--" Meanteddy," I -"Queen Vie," I- Clover, i Ada E.
Fischer, I -M. S. A., i-"Alicia," i- Fay B. Miner, Katie Van Zandt, 9-Antoine Schmidt, 2- Jennie, Mina, and Isabel, so-
L. Lavanda Stout, i-L. C. H., i-"Miss Ouri," 5-Carrie Holzman, i-Elaine, i-Effie K. Talboys, 6-Alice Wilcox, 2-Lalor
Burtsell, i-Susie Deangelis, i-Sidney Sommerfeld, i-" Frolic and Mirth," i-Astley A., i-Clara O., 8-M. L. Robinson, 2-
Maxie and Jackspar, xi Lillie Waite, Edith Allen, 8 Nettle Carstens, I Papa and Bessie, i Thomas I. Bergen, i No Name,
Fulton, Ill., 4-Irma Boskowitz, i-L. D. Lawrie, i-Roxy's Chum, 3-"Shyler," 9-Emmaand Clara, i-Edith Norton, i-Annie
W. Jones, 3-Blanche and Fred, I -Madcap, Lillian A. Thorpe, --" Nodge, 5-Paul Reese, i3-Anna G. Pierce, I-Nellie
L. Fifield, I- Papa and Elsie, 2- A. W. B., 6-E. E. Whitford, 3 -" Infantry," 13-John and Bessie, 2-" Ivy Green," 3-Bella
Myers, r -Roxana H. Vivian, 9-"Peggy," H. H. Trancine, 2-"Ramona," 3- Hattie Gage, 12 Ida C. Thallon, x Nellie
L. Howes, i -"Nig and Mig," i--Annie, Susie, and Amey, 5-Mabel H. Chase, x Ems, 7--Mattie E. Beale, 1o-"Wil-
loughby," 12-Judy, 9-A. Rutgers Livingston, 2-" M. M. Barstow and Co.," ix-Florence L., 9-"Tom, Dick, and Harrie," 13-
P. and M. T., 8- Freddie Sutro, 2-L. H. F. and Mistie," c -Paschal R. Smith, I -H. P. H. and M. R. H., 2-"Pheer," 5.




MOVE some of the books in the pile to the right, and others to the
left, and the name of a popular story, first printed in ST. NICHOLAS,
may be formed in a perpendicular line. In other words, by taking
a letter from each title, not far from the center, the name of another
story may be formed.


THE letters in each of the following sentences may be transposed
so as to spell the name of a fruit.
i. Song era. 2. One law term. 3. In a center. 4. Mop, eager
ant. 5. 'T is a crop. 6. Plain peep. 7. Rich seer. 8. A speech.
9. Ere brass writ. to. Brier scaner. "ALPHA ZETA."


I. I. A feminine name. 2. A feminine name. 3. Unshaken
courage. 4. An iron block upon which metals are hammered.
5. Parts of the body.
II. i. A scriptural name. 2. Spry. 3. Taunts. 4. Vigilant.
5. Musical terms.
III. A feminine name. 2. The pope's triple crown. 3. Detests.
4. To build. 5. Continues.
IV. i. A masculine name. 2. A feminine name. 3. To incline.
4. Understanding. 5. To enlist in.
V. i. In the latter age of Rome, a god of festive joy and nirth.
2. Oxygen in a condensed form. 3. A character in Shakespeare's
play of "A Winter's Tale." 4. Not set. 5. Places on a seat.
o. A. CO.

My primals name a holiday; my finals, a poem or song heard on
this day.
CROSS-WORDS: I. Stripped of feathers. 2. To mount and enter
by means of ladders. 3. Inclined to anger. 4. The name of a town
in Sardinia, on a river of the same name. 5. The answer of a de-
fendant in matter of fact to a plaintiff's surrejoinder. 6. A repetition
of words at the beginning of sentences. 7. A kind of velveteen. 8. A
mountain peak of the Bolivian Andes. 9. Sacred musical composi-
tion. to. The act of swimming. I. A musical term meaning
"pathetic." 12. One of the small planets whose orbits are situated
between those of Mars and Jupiter. 13. A companion.


EXAMPLE: An insect in a poem. Answer, C-ant-o.
i. A fish in an old-fashioned bonnet. 2. A dog's name in a wise
saying. 3. Rocks in promises. 4. An Autumn flowerin a horse's
foot. 5. A game in a coach. 6. A river in distress. 7. One of the
United States in given up. 8. Something singular in a sea-fowl.
9. A bitter herb in a liquid food. io. A grain in market values. Ii.
An animal in a distribution of prizes. 12. Belonging to us in the
banker's exchange in Paris. B.


.--, \ ,

DIVIDE each of the eleven letter-circles in such a way that the
letters, in.the order in which they now stand, will form a word.
When these words are ranged one below the other, in the order in
which they are numbered, the diagonals, beginning at the upper
left-hand corner, will spell a certain day in May; the diagonals, be-
ginning at the upper right-hand corner, will spell what the slaves
were, at the close of the civil war. "ANN 0. TATOR."


I. IN sailor. 2. A sailor. 3. Implied. 4. Concise in style. 5. A
small water-course. 6. Covered with pieces of baked clay. 7. To
resign. F. S. F.

I. SKILLFUL in using the hand. 2. The surname of an English spy.
3. Dating from one's birth. 4. A sweet crystalline substance ob-
tained from certain vegetable products. 5. A tract or region of the
earth. 6. Disposition. 7. A word which rhymes with the last
word described. 8. One who spends his time in inaction. 9. Scan-
dinavian legends handed down among the Norsemen and kindred
people. to. A Roman emperor. II. An empress of Constantinople.
12. To vary in some degree. 13. Out of the ordinary course. 14.
The surname of a President of the United States. 15. A French

savant who introduced tobacco into France. 16. An evil spirit.
17. A lighted coal, smoldering amid ashes. 18. A foreign coin
which is worth less than one dollar. 19. That at which one aims.
2o. A fixed point of time, from which succeeding years are num-
bered. a2. A running knot, which binds the closer the more it is
All of the words described contain the same number of letters.
When these are rightly guessed, and placed one below the other in
the order here given, the initial letters will spell the name of an au-
thor who was born on the second day of April, 1805.

Mvfirst we all do every day,
In some or other fashion;
My next the first step on the way
That leads to heights Parnassian.
My third the smallest thing created:
My whole with deadly danger freighted. K. N. F.

I AM composed of eighty letters, and am a quotation from one of
George Eliot's works.
My 44-io-63-26 is one of the United States. My 40-76-22-4-51-
55 is a country of Europe. My 46-73-14-60-35-70-48 is a quack
medicine. My 42-65-32-24-1-80 is somnolent. My 29-56-9 is a
creeping vine. My 19-59-17-67 is a mouthful. My 20-28-69-61 is
to discern. My 43-15-50-11 is unfailing. My 53-27-8-38 is an old
unused ship. My 21-25-6-13-75 is to search blindly for. My 62-
2-77-71-79 is a joint of the arm. My 58-37-33-47 is a fleet. My
30-66-41-12-34 was considered in early history the northernmost
part of the habitable world. My r6-72-3-68-5-78-52-18 isa small
dagger. My 74-57-23-54-31-45 is a tropical fruit; my 64-39-36-
49-7 is also a tropical fruit. LOU. C. LEE."

HoUT slupe fo yjo, sewho broth stabe melt
Rof siedadi flide, rof slimsbongo prays !
Ot cande fo flea dan nogs dribs chemi
Tes lal teh ropes fo file ot hyrem.
Grin in the yam !


I. IN cambric. 2. To decay. 3. The projecting angle in forti-
fication. 4. A small quantity: 5. Implied. 6. A hard shell inclos-
ing a kernel. 7. In cambric. "ANTHONY GUPTIL."


I. UPPER SQUARE: I. A crustacepus.fish. 2. To revolve. 3.
A wood used for perfumes. 4. Puffed.
II. LEFT-HAND SQUARE: I. A point like that on a fish-hook.
2. A plant that yields indigo. 3. To stir up. 4. Kindled.
III. CENTRAL SQUARE: i. Inflated. 2. Good will. 3. Always.
4. A verb.
IV. RIGHT-HAND SQUARE: I. To Stiffen. 2. Black. 3. A way.
4. Concludes.
V. LOWER SQUARE: I. A verb. 2. Uniform. 3. To sever. 4.
Ceases. M. A. R. AND H. A. R.


I. SuNCOPATE alamentation, and leave to establish. 2. Syncopate
a thin turf, and leave an American author. 3. Syncopate a feminine
name, and leave a sticky substance. 4. Syncopate a duet, and leave
to perform. 5. Syncopate to reside, and leave a metallic vein.
6. Syncopate to praise, and leave a boy. 7. Syncopate a conceited
fellow, and leave an animal. 8. Syncopate an ache, and leave a use-
ful little article. 9. Syncopate dull, and leave firm. xo. Syncopate
a Scottish lord, and leave a substance used in cooking. Io. Syn-
copate an animal, and leave to ponder. 12. Syncopate a sharp spear,
and leave a delicate fabric.
The syncopated letters will spell the name of an imposing cere-
mony. RAMONA.



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