Front Cover
 Coursing with greyhounds in southern...
 A Pueblo rabbit-hunt
 The child and the pyramid
 The poet of the hempstead...
 Blue-eyed Mary
 Dorothy Dot's Thanksgiving...
 A story of a horse
 Intercollegiate foot-ball...
 Ann Lizy's patchwork
 The prince and the brewer's...
 The cricket
 A scientific experiment
 A scientific experiment
 Sir rat
 A race for life
 Jokers of the menagerie
 Why corn pops
 Winter apples
 Kittie's best friend
 A race with a wooden shoe
 Over the wall
 The little gnome
 The month before Christmas
 The letter-box
 The Agassiz association: 1888-...
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00220
 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: VID00220
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
    Coursing with greyhounds in southern California
        Page 3
        Page 4
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
        Page 8
    A Pueblo rabbit-hunt
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
        Page 12
        Page 13
    The child and the pyramid
        Page 14
        Page 15
    The poet of the hempstead centennial
        Page 16
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
    Blue-eyed Mary
        Page 21
    Dorothy Dot's Thanksgiving party
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
        Page 26
    A story of a horse
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
    Intercollegiate foot-ball in America
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
    Ann Lizy's patchwork
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
    The prince and the brewer's son
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
        Page 56
    The cricket
        Page 57
    A scientific experiment
        Page 58
        Page 59
    A scientific experiment
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
    Sir rat
        Page 65
        Page 66
        Page 67
    A race for life
        Page 68
        Page 69
        Page 70
    Jokers of the menagerie
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
    Why corn pops
        Page 74
        Page 75
    Winter apples
        Page 76
    Kittie's best friend
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
    A race with a wooden shoe
        Page 80
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
    Over the wall
        Page 86
    The little gnome
        Page 87
        Page 88
    The month before Christmas
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
    The letter-box
        Page 92
        Page 93
    The Agassiz association: 1888-89
        Page 94
    The riddle-box
        Page 95
        Page 96
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text





\ S I write, a hound,
.. faithful and true, is
looking up into my
S face, her long slen-
der muzzle resting
,-on my arm, her
_.' eyes beaming with
intelligence. Her
S. name is Mouse,"
and she is a grey-
hound known to
many readers of
a. the San Gabriel
Valley, in South-
READY FOR A HUNT. em California. She
is blinking, puffing out her lips, whining, in
fact, laughing and talking after her fashion;
and probably this is what she is trying to say:
" I am a greyhound. I can outrun any hare in
Pasadena, and when I was younger and not so
heavy I could jump up behind my master on
the horse when the grass and flowers were tall,
and so look around for a jack-rabbit."
Mouse does not mention that the horse de-
cidedly objected to her sharp claws, sometimes
bucking to throw her off, and thus has often made

No. I.


it very uncomfortable for her master. She has
just taken her head from my arm, offended per-
haps at this breach of confidence, so I must
continue the story without further comment
from her.
Mouse is but one of a number of dogs that
constitute the pack of the Valley Hunt Club of
Pasadena, Southern California. Most are grey-
hounds, but there are a few of the fine stag-
hounds that the famous Landseer loved to paint.
Some are mouse-colored, like Mouse herself;
others a tawny hue; others again mouse and
white. And in the field together they present a
fine appearance-long, slender forms, delicate
limbs, powerful muscles, rat-like tails, deep chests,
pointed muzzles, and feet like springy cushions.
They are quaintly described in the old lines:
Headed like a snake,
Necked like a drake,
Backed like a beam,
Sided like a bream,
Tailed like a rat,
And footed like a cat."
When preparing for an outing, Mouse and
Dinah (the latter being her baby, though taller
than the mother) well know what is to come.
When riding-crop, gloves, saddle, and bridle

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



appear, they become intensely excited, and in-
sist upon holding my gloves or the crop, and,
when I mount, leap up against the horse with
every expression of delight. As we ride out of
the orange grove, it is a wild and delicious
morning, such as one can find, in February,
only in Southern California. Hills, fields, and
meadows are green, roses are on every side, or-
anges glisten on their dark-green trees, the air
is rich with floral odors and filled with the song
of birds. Snow is gleaming on the big peaks
of the Sierra Madres: it is winter there, over
the tops of the orange trees, but summer down
here in the valley. No wonder the dogs are
delighted and the horses need the curb. Ladies
and gentlemen appear, coming out of side streets
and bound for the "meet," followed by coaches
with merry riders, all headed for the mesa at
the foot of the Sierra Madre range. Now the
silvery notes of a horn are borne melodiously
on the wind, and out from the shadow of the
eucalyptus grove comes the pack of hounds
from San Marino, one of the beautiful homes
in the San Gabriel; a few moments later the


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hunt is together on a lofty hill overlooking the
surrounding country. Young folks are patting
and admiring the dogs; and noble fellows these
dogs are. Among them are some great tawny
leonine creatures, brought from Australia, where
they hunted the kangaroo; others are mouse-

colored, and one is jet-black. Each a bunch of
springs and nerves, a noble group they make:
Dinah, Silk, Raymon, Mouse, Fleet, Eclipse, and
many more.
The hunt is made up of nearly one hundred
ladies and gentlemen, lovers of riding and dogs.
Thirty or more are on horseback, with invited
guests from all over the county, and the remain-
der in coaches and carriages, who follow the
hunt in this way and at noon meet the riders
at breakfast in some shaded nook. The horn
sounds gleefully. The great, high-pointed Mex-
ican saddles, which the gentlemen use, are looked
after. Horses champ their musical bits, eager
to be off, and finally, at the word, the cavalcade
winds slowly down the hill, spreading out over
the mesa--a gently rising tract, the slope of
the mountains, planted with grape, orange, and
olive, with intervening spaces of very low brush.
Two miles or less away, rise the Sierra Madres
like a huge stone wall, with peaks from four thou-
sand to eleven thousand feet high; and along
their base the hunt proceeds. A few feet in ad-
vance, mounted on a fiery bronco, is the master
of the hounds with his
silver horn. The dogs
... separate and move slow-
.ly ahead, wading now
through banks of golden
'_ 'poppies, wild heliotrope,
S.... "'""" and brown-backed violets.
Greyhounds do not hunt
Sby scent, as foxhounds
do, but by sight alone;
,.' so, every now and then
they stop to look about,
,." all the while keeping a
keen eye ahead.
Suddenly there is a
Shout, and horses and
dogs are away. From
under the very nose of
Mouse a curious appari-
tion springs up-a fluffy
object of grayish tints. It is the jack-rabbit!
For an instant he stands astonished, wondering
what it is all about, then dashes away like a
rocket and is followed by the field. Nearly all
the dogs see him; while those that do not, fol-
low the others. The horses seem to understand


the shout and in a moment are off in a wild
race over the mesa, beating down the flowers
and throwing clods of earth behind them.
The "Jack," true to his instincts, makes for
the low brush in a washout. He seems a streak
of light disappearing and reappearing here and
there. The dogs are doing their best, working

like machines. Watch
their wonderful running!
Even at the terrific pace,
with ditches, and holes
dug by gophers, badgers,
or owls to look out for,
the action of the beauti-
ful dogs attracts our at-
tention. They sweep on
like the wind- a kaleido-
scopic effect of grays and
yellows, passing and re-
passing. Now Silk leads,
then in turn the blue dog
is ahead. See! Mouse
is in the air. Losing
sight of the game, she
leaps bodily three feet
upward over the brush,
looks quickly around,
catches sight of the flee-
ing form, and is away
again. The speed is mar-
velous! No race-horse

great run. Hunters give out; one or two dogs
are fagged; but over the green fields and down
toward the city goes the main body of the hunt.
The little fellow on the pony has become dis-
couraged. The pony is breathing hard and his
brave rider's yellow locks have evidently been
in contact with the pin-clover.

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But courage! what is this? A shout from
below, and he sees the Jack, with ears flat,- a
signal of distress,- coming up the slope; the
dogs have turned him again. Off the young rider
goes over the field, side by side with hare and
hounds. Soon a big mouse-colored dog darts
ahead, overtakes the hare, and kills him in-
stantly. Often the dog inserts its long nose
beneath the hare, and tosses him into the air. A
moment later, the entire field is about the catch,
and the long ears and diminutive brush of this
farmers' pest decorate the hat of the first lady in
at the finish.
Panting dogs and horses and flushed riders are
grouped about; owners making excuses for pet
dogs, and all agreeing that the hare was a most
extraordinary old fellow, wily and conceited.
He must have girdled many peach and cherry
trees in his time, and no one mourns his fate.

can keep up with a thoroughbred racing grey-
hound, yet the field is doing bravely. One little
boy, though far behind, follows pluckily, his
short-legged pony struggling sturdily through a
plowed field.
The hare has dashed across the washout and
up a large vineyard, around and down a well-
known road. How they go! Four, six, ten
horses all bunched, and running like the wind-
a wild, melodious jangle of hoofs, spurs, and bit-
chains. Up go the dogs suddenly. "Jump!"
cries the Master of the Hounds warningly,
turning in his saddle. The hare has stopped
abruptly at the edge of a dry ditch and turned at
a sharp angle. Some of the dogs go over and
sweep around in great curves, while others break
off on both sides and are soon following the
game over the back track. A noble chase it is !
Everything favors the hare, and he is making a


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Now the run is discussed, and its good points
dilated upon; favorite horses are petted, and
young men with suspicious grass stains on
their coats and trousers are ridiculed. Now
one may see a thirsty dog drinking from a can-
teen which one of the huntsmen has unslung,
while other dogs await their turn; others again
are lying on the cool grass, panting like steam-
engines, yet very proud of their work. Half an
hour or more is given for rest, then dogs, horses,
and riders are ready for another run, and per-
haps two miles of delightful country is gone
over before another hare is seen. This time he
runs for the mountains, and after carrying the
hunt a mile or more up the slope, dashes into
the big cation and is away, while the disap-
pointed dogs and riders join the coaches and
carriages at the hunt breakfast, spread on the
slope among the wild flowers; and here, looking
down on the lovely valley and the Pacific Ocean
thirty miles away, the day's sport ends.
Such is real "hare and hounds" in Southern
California--an inspiriting sport, as the natural
instincts of the greyhounds are given full play,
and the hare has every advantage, and can only
be caught if faithfully followed by riding at a
pace which, for speed and excitement, is never
equaled, I venture to say, in the Eastern States.
The greyhound is becoming a popular dog in
America, and coursing clubs are being formed
throughout the country, dogs being imported at
great expense. In certain regions of Califor-
nia the hare exists in myriads, and the ranchers
keep the greyhounds to run them off, so it is nat-
ural that Californians should believe that they
have some of the fastest dogs in the country.
How fast can they run? A good greyhound
has been known to run four miles in twelve
minutes. "Silk" has caught a hare within one
hundred and fifty feet of the start, and as for
" Mouse," now fat and heavy, I have run the
fastest horse I could find against her, and she
was always just ahead, looking back as if to
say, "Why don't you come?" The pace of
the dogs is illustrated by the fact that two of
them when running in a vineyard came into col-
lision; light and slender as the animals were,
one dog's neck was broken and the other hound
was seriously injured.
Coursing is by no means a new sport. Not

only is it an old English custom, but even in
the ancient carvings of Thebes we find the
greyhound. Among the ancients, chasing the
hare with these dogs was considered a noble
sport, for the greyhound has an aristocratic
mien, and is the type of refinement and cul-
ture among dogs. True coursing differs ma-
terially from the methods of the hunt described,

i .,'Ii L

sport by Thomas, Duke of Norfolk, in the time

simply for gain. It was first organized as a

of Elizabeth, and the old rules are to some ex-
tent followed in England to-day. In these, the
various efforts of the dogs in turning the hare
count, and numbers of dogs contest, one with
another, to a finish. In America, coursing clubs
rarely, if ever, run the dogs in narrow inclosures,
as it is thought unsportsmanlike not to give the
hare every advantage. Certainly, such is the
spirit of the sport in Southern California.
'The hare runs as fast as the dogs, but as he
lacks their endurance he takes them up slopes
and over rough country, displaying great cun-
ning. One hare, which I have chased a number
of times, invariably ran in a wide circle, finally
leading the dogs among the rocks and escaping
leading the dogs among the rocks and escaping


in a thick grove. This little animal is indebted
to me for much exercise, and I have no doubt
he enjoyed the running. The hare being smaller
and lighter can turn more quickly, and the best
dog is the one that can most adroitly meet these
quick changes of direction. The pack is rushing
along when the hare suddenly turns at a right
angle; poor dogs overrun and take a wide turn,
and before they can recover, the hare is far away.
Still, a good dog will lose but little. Once my
dog had almost caught a hare, when the cun-
ning animal darted to a tree and began to run
around it in a circle, while I stopped and looked
on. Mouse could not make the turns so quickly,
and apparently soon became dizzy, for, as the
hare ran off, she came to me very much embar-
rassed at my laughter. Another time I saw a
Jack turn suddenly, dodge Mouse's snap at
him, and dart between her legs and away.
Master M'Grath, the famous dog of Lord
Lurgan, was for many years the fastest dog in
the world, but in making comparisons it should
be remembered that the English hare is not so
swift a runner as our Western "jack-rabbit,"
or hare.
The greyhound, running by sight alone, shows
remarkable intelligence in following the game,
leaping into the air, as we have seen, looking
sharply about, and using its intelligence in a mar-
velous way. When a hare is caught, he is killed

- '

instantly and tossed into the air, the other dogs
recognizing the winner's rights and rarely mak-
ing an attempt to touch the game after the death.
Besides being shapely and beautiful, the grey-
hound has both courage and affection. It will
run down a deer or wolf as quickly as a hare,
and is ferocious in its anger with a large foe.
My dogs are remarkably affectionate and in-
telligent, extremely sensitive to kindness or
rebuke. The moment the house is opened in
the morning, Mouse, if not forbidden, rushes
upstairs, pushes open my door, and greets me
as if we had been separated for months. Then
she will dart into my dressing-room and reappear
with a shoe, or a leggin, if she can find it, and
present it to me, wagging her tail and saying
plainly, "Come, it 's time to be up; a fine day
for a run! "
No charge of cruelty can be brought against
coursing where the animal is faithfully followed.
In shooting rabbits and hares they will often
escape badly wounded, but death by the hounds
is instantaneous.
The death of the hare is not considered an
important feature, the pleasure being derived
from watching the movements of the dogs, their
magnificent bursts of speed, the turns and stops,
their strategy in a hundred ways, and especially
from the enjoyment of riding over the finest
winter country in the world.

. .. ,-'





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IT is curious how much more we hear of the
marvelous customs and strange peoples of other
lands than of those still to be found in our own
great nation. Almost every schoolboy, for in-
stance, knows of the Australian boomerang-
throwers; but very few people in the East are
aware that within the limits of the United States,
in the portion longest inhabited by Caucasians,
we have a race of ten thousand aborigines who
are practically boomerang-throwers. It is true
that they do not achieve the wonderful parabolas
and curves of the Australians; and, for that
matter, we are learning that many of the astound-
ing tales told of the Australian winged club are
mere fiction. It is true, however, that while the
Bushmen can not so throw the boomerang that
it will kill an animal and then return to the
thrower, they can make it return from a sportive
throw in the air; and that they can impart to
it, even in a murderous flight, gyrations which
seem quite as remarkable as did the curving of a
base-ball when that "art" was first discovered.
The Pueblo Indians, who are our American
boomerang-throwers, attempt no such subtleties.
Their clubs are of boomerang shape, and can not
be excelled in deadly accuracy and force by the
Australian weapon; but they are thrown only
to kill, and then to lie by the victim till picked
up. Even without the return-ball" feature, the

Pueblo club-throwing is the most wonderful ex-
hibition of marksmanship and skill within my
experience and that includes all kinds of hunt-
ing for all kinds of game on this continent. Under
the circumstances in which these clubs are used,
rifles, never so skillfully handled, could not be
more effective.
The Pueblos are a peculiar people. Quiet,
friendly, intelligent, industrious farmers, they
dwell in quaint villages of neat and comfortable
adobes, which are a never-failing wonder to the
intelligent traveler in New Mexico. Their primi-
tive weapons, of course, gave place long ago to
modern fire-arms. All have good rifles and six-
shooters, usually of the best American makes,
and are expert in the use of them. But there is
one branch of the chase for which the guns are
left at home and that is the rabbit-drive. The
outfit of each of the throng of hunters out for
a rabbit-hunt consists merely of three elbow-
crooked clubs.
When that forgotten hero, Alvar Nufiez Cabeza
de Vaca, beside whose privations and wander-
ings those of all other explorers seem petty,
first set foot in the interior of the country now
called the United States, more than three and a
half centuries ago, he found the Pueblos already
using their boomerangs. Returning to Spain
after his unparalleled journey of nine years on


-i-- .
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foot through an unknown world, Vaca wrote in
his journal, about 1539:
"These Indians were armed with clubs which
they threw with astonishing precision, and killed
with them more hares than they could consume.
There were hares in great abundance. When
one was seen, the Indians would surround and
attack him with their clubs, driving him from
one to another till he was killed."
Two varieties of rabbits are still wonderfully
abundant in New Mexico. Many are shot in the
winter by the Pueblos, casually, but rabbit hunt-
ing in earnest is confined to the warm months,
generally beginning in May.
I had lived a long time in the pueblo of Isleta
before the twelve hundred Indians who are "my
friends and fellow-citizens decided upon a rab-
bit-drive. We had had dances,- strange in sig-
nificance as in performance,- superb-foot-races
and horse-races and other diversions on the
holidays of the saints; but no hunting. One
day, however, I saw a boy digging a root which
he whittled into significant shape; and later in
the afternoon wrinkled Lorenzo, my next-door
neighbor, left his burro and his ponderous irri-
gating-hoe outside the door, and stepped into
my little adobe room with an air of unusual im-
portance. He seated himself slowly, reached for
my tobacco and a corn-husk, and rolled a ciga-
rette with great deliberation; but all the time
I could see that he was swelling with important
Que hay, compare ". I asked at last, pass-
ing him a match.
"Good news! Perhaps, to-morrow we hunt
rabbits. There are many on the llano toward
the Hill of the Wind. This evening you will
know, if you hear the tombe and the crier."
Sure enough, just before the sun went down
behind the sacred crater, the muffled "form!
pormn" of the big drum floated across the plaza
to me; and soon the Isleta Daily Herald, as I
might call him,-a tall, deep-chested Pueblo
with a thunderous voice,- was circulating the
news. He stalked solemnly through the un-
certain streets, his great voice rolling out now
and then in sonorous syllables which might
have been distinguished at half a mile. A
convenient newspaper, truly, for a population
which does not read! The governor ordered,

he said, a great hunt to-morrow. After mass,
all those who were to hunt must meet at the
top of the malpais mesa,t west of the gardens.
And Francisco Duran had been chosen Capitan
of the hunt.
At o1 o'clock next morning Juan Rey brought
me the very laziest horse in the world. Old
Lorenzo was already astride his pinto burro, with
three clubs lashed behind the dumpy saddle, and
in his hand the customary short stick wherewith
to guide Flojo by whacks on both sides of the
neck for burros are not trained to bridles.
Wepoked across the level river-bottom, wound
through the beautiful gardens and orchards,
splashed across the roily irrigating-ditches, and
at last, after a short, sharp tug," stood upon the
top of the mesa, which with its black lava cliffs
hems the valley on the west. We were early,
but the arrival of a boy with a spade--to be
used in evicting such rabbits as might seek their
burrows-enabled us to beguile the hot hour of
waiting by digging and eating an aromatic root.
Presently the hunters came swarming over
the huge yellow sand-hill to the south, and
rode toward us in a shifting patch of color the
units of which danced, revolved, and mingled
and fell apart like the gay flakes of a kaleido-
scope. There were a hundred and fifty of
them, from white-headed men of ninety to
supple boys of twelve. Their white, flapping
calzoncillos,t red print shirts, maroon leggins
and moccasins, with the various hues of their
animals, made a pretty picture against the
somber background. Most of them rode their
small but tireless ponies- descended, as are
all the "native" horses of the plains, from the
matchless Arab steeds brought from Spain by the
Conquistadores. A few were perched upon solemn
burros; and a dozen ambitious young men were
afoot. Only three besides myself carried fire-
arms. Just as the crowd neared us, a big jack-
rabbit leaped up from his nap behind a tiny sage-
bush, and came loping away toward the cliff.
The clubs had not yet been unlashed from the
saddles, but handsome Pablo's six-shooter rang
out, and the "American kangaroo," whirling
half a dozen somersaults from his own inertia,
lay motionless.
Five minutes later, we were all huddled to-
gether on the edge of the cliff, facing to the brown
f the bad land. t Trousers.

* What is it, friend ?

t The mesa ol


rolling uplands westward. In front was the with-
ered capitan, consulting with the other old men.
Then a few grandsires dismounted and squatted
upon the ground; the captain called out a brief
command in Tegua, and off we went loping in
two files, making a huge V, whose sides grew
longer and farther apart as the old men at the
angle grew smaller and smaller behind us. At
every hundred yards or so, the rear man of each
file dropped out of the procession and sat wait-
ing, his horse's head facing the interior of the V.
When we had ridden a mile and a half, the
foremost men of the opposite file were nearly as
far from us. We could barely see them against
the side of a long swell. Then a faint shrill call
from the captain floated across to us, and we
began to bend our arm of the V inward, the
others doing the same, till at last the ends of
the two arms met, and instead of a V we had
an irregular O, two miles in its longest diameter,
and marked out on the plain by the dot-like
Now sharp eyes could detect that the oval
was beginning to shrink inward from the other
end. The old men were walking toward us;
and one after another the sentinels left their posts
and began to move forward and inward. Sharp
and shrill their "Hi!-i-i!" ran along the con-
tracting circle. Some of the hunters were still
mounted, some led their horses by the lariat, and
some turned them loose to follow at will. Sud-
denly there was a babel of shouts away down
the line. We who were waiting patiently on our
little rise at the head of the surround," saw a
sudden scurrying at a point in the circle a quar-
ter of a mile away. The excitement ran along
the line toward us as waves run along a rope
when an end is shaken. One after another we
saw sentinels dashing forward, with uplifted arms.
Alli viene! called Lorenzo to me, leaping
from Flojo and running forward with two clubs
grasped in his left hand, and one brandished
aloft in the right. The third man to the left
doubled himself like a jack-knife with the effort
which sent his club ssh-shsh-ing through the air;
but the long-eared fugitive had seen him, and
floundered twenty feet aside in the nick of time.
Old Lorenzo's arm had been feinting back
and forth as he ran; and now, on a sudden, the
curved missile sprang out through the air, rose,

settled again, and went skimming along within
a yard of the ground a real "daisy-cutter," as
a ball-player would have called it. The dis-
tance was full fifty yards, and the rabbit was
going faster than any dog on earth, save the
fleetest greyhound, could run. It would have
been an extraordinary shot with a rifle. I was
opening my mouth to say, "Too far, com-
padre!"-but before the three words could
tumble from my tongue, there was a little thud,
a shrill squeal from out a flurry of dust, and
seventy-year old Lorenzo was bounding for-
ward like a boy, only to return, a moment
later, with a big jack, which he proudly lashed
behind his saddle. The club had hit the rab-
bit in the side, and had torn him nearly in two.
In a few minutes the first round was over, with
a net result of only three rabbits, and we were
all huddled together again in a little council of
war. Then the white-headed chief stepped out
in front; and those who had hats removed them,
and all listened reverently while his still resonant
voice rose in an earnest prayer to the god of the
chase to send us more rabbits! The old men
took from secret recesses the quaint little hunt-
ing-fetich- a stone image of the coyote, most
successful of hunters -and did it reverence.
"Hai-ko!" shouted the captain at last, and
off went the divergent lines again, over the ridge
and down the gentle ten-mile slope toward the
foot of the Hill of the Wind. At the head of the
loping horses of each file ran the boys, tireless
and agile as young deer; and they kept their
place during the seven hours of the hunt. The
old men sat as usual in a row, while the long
human line ran out on either side, tying a senti-
nel knot in itself at every few rods. The ground
was now more favorable. The sage and cha-
farro were taller and more abundant, and where
the shelter was so good there were sure to be
rabbits. There is a peculiar fascination in watch-
ing those long arms as they reach out for the
"surrounds." When I have a good horse I al-
ways seek an elevation whence to take in the
whole inspiring scene, and then gallop back to
the cordon in time to be "in at the death"; but
to-day I had to be content if I could keep Bayo
in the procession at all. But even from the level
it was a gallant sight,-that long array of far-
off centaurs skirting the plain, unmistakably

*There he comes !


Indian in every motion, the free rise and fall of
the bronco lope, distinguishable even when the
figures had dwindled to wee specks on the hori-
zon; and before and beside me swart faces and
stalwart forms, sweeping on in the whirlwind of
our hoof-beats.
The second "surround" was much larger than
the first, the sentinels having been placed at
greater intervals. Just as the ends of the three-
mile circle came together, a gauntjack sprang from
the earth at our very feet, and dashed through
the line before the hunters could even grasp
their clubs. Ambrosio, a young Apollo in bronze,
wheeled his big gray like a flash, and dashed in
pursuit so quickly, indeed, that I had to throw
my gun in the air to avoid giving him a dose of
shot intended for the rabbit; whereupon the
waggish old ex-governor, Vicente, called out to
me: Cuidado This is not to hunt Cristianos,
but rabbits "
Ambrosio's mount was one of the fleetest in
the pueblo, victor in many a hard-fought gallo
race; and now he went thundering down the
plain, devouring distance with mighty leaps, and
plainly glorying in the mad race as much as did
his rider. Ambrosio sat like a carven statue, save
that the club poised in his right hand waved to
and fro tentatively, and his long jet hair streamed
back upon the wind. Todillo had found a foe-
man worthy of his hoofs. Grandly as his sinewy
legs launched him across the llano, away ahead
gleamed that strange animate streak of gray-on-
white, whose wonderful pats seemed never to
touch the ground. And when the thunderous
pursuer was gaining, and I could see -for I
was chasing not the rabbit but the sight- that
Ambrosio drew back his arm, there came a mar-
velous flash to the left, and there was the jack,
flying at right angles to his course of an instant
before, and now broadside toward us; I say
"flying," for so it seemed. The eye could
scarcely be convinced that that astounding ap-
parition sailing along above the dwarfed brush
was really a quadruped, forced to gather mo-
mentum from mother earth like the rest of us.
It appeared rather some great hawk, skimming
close to the ground in chase of its scurrying
prey. Try as I would, my eyes refused to real-
ize that that motion was not flight but a series
of incredible bounds.

There is none of this fascinating illusion about
the ordinary run of the jack-rabbit; and yet,
following one in the snow, when he had no more
pressing pursuer than myself on foot, I have
measured a jump of twenty-two feet! What one
can do when pressed to his utmost, I have never
been able to decide definitely; but it is much
more than that.
Had Todillo been unused to the sport, the
race would have ended then and there; but he
knew rabbits as well as did his master. If he
could not match -and no other animal ever
did match the supreme grace and agility with
which his provoking little rival had doubled on
the course, the tremendous convulsion of strength
with which he swerved and followed was hardly
less admirable. It seemed as if the effort must
have broken him in twain.
Again the tall pursuer was gaining on the
pursued. Fifty feet forty-eight forty-five -
and Ambrosio rose high in his stirrups, his long
arm flashed through the air, and a dark streak
shot out so swiftly that for an instant the horse
seemed to have stopped, so easily it outsped
him. And in the same motion, at the same
gallop, Ambrosio was swooping low from his
saddle, so that from our side we could see only
his left arm and leg; and in another instant was
in his seat again, swinging the rabbit triumph-
antly overhead!
We galloped back to the surround," which
was slowly closing in, and now not a quarter of
a mile across. The inclosed brush seemed alive
with rabbits. At least a dozen were dashing
hither and yon, seeking an avenue of escape.
One old fellow in the center sat up on his
haunches, with ears erect, to take in the whole
situation. But his coolness cost him dear. Cui-
dadol" came a yell from across the circle; and
we sprang aside just before Bautisto's rifle
flashed, and the too prudent rabbit fell, the
ball passing through his head and singing shrilly
by us.
Now the rabbits began to grow desperate,
and to try to break through the line at all haz-
ards. As soon as one was seen bearing down on
the line, the twenty or thirty nearest men made
a wild rally toward him. Sometimes he would
double away, and sometimes try to dodge be-
tween their very legs. Then what a din of yells

* Be careful.



went up! How the clubs went whizzing like
giant hail! Surely in that frantic jam of mad-
men something besides the rabbit will be killed!
One of those clubs would brain a man as surely
as it would crack an egg-shell. But no! The
huddle breaks, the yells die out, and the "mad-
men" are running back to their places, while
one happy boy is tying a long gray something
behind his saddle. No one is even limping.
Not a shin has been cracked-much less a
head. In all my long acquaintance with the
Pueblos, I have never known of such a thing as
one getting hurt even in the most furious m1l6e
of the rabbit-drive. Strangest of all, there is
never any dispute about the game. They always
know which one of that rain of clubs did the
work though how they know, is beyond my
Yonder is another rush. The first club thrown
breaks the jack's leg; and realizing his desperate
situation, the poor creature dives into the base-
ment door of his tiny brother, the cotton-tail-
for the jack never burrows, and never trusts him-
self in a hole save at the last extremity. Our
root-digger rushes forward, sticks his spade in
the hole to mark it, and resumes his clubs. When
the surround is over, he will come back to
dig eight or ten feet for his sure victim.
So the afternoon wears on. Each surround"

takes a little over half an hour, and each now
nets the hunters from ten to twenty rabbits-
mostly jacks, with now and then a fuzzy cotton-
tail. Once in a while a jack succeeds in slipping
through the line, and is off like the wind. But
after him are from one to twenty hunters; and
when they come back, ten minutes or half an
hour later, with foaming horses, it is strange,
indeed, if the fugitive is not dangling at the
back of one of them.
On the slope of the crater we strike a
"bunch" of quail- the beautiful quail of the
Southwest, with their slate-colored coats and
dainty, fan-like crests-and not one escapes.
I have seen the unerring club bring one down
even from a flock on the wing!
The "surrounds" are now making eastward,
and each one brings us nearer home. It has
been a good day's work thirty-five miles of
hard riding, and fourteen surrounds "; and on
the cantle of every saddle bumps a big mass of
gray fur.
The evening shadows grow deeper in the
canions of the far-off sandias, chasing the last
ruddy glow up and up the scarred cliffs. And
in the soft New Mexican twilight our long
cavalcade goes ringing down the hard Rio
Puerco road toward our quaint, green-rimmed
village beside the fierce river of the North."




~7j-, _V
TH -YRP 11-


MANY centuries ago,- as many as there are
days in the month,- the great King sat beside
the river Nile in Egypt, and watched the labor
of a myriad slaves, building the mighty pile of
his pyramid. And on his strong brown knee,
playing with a coral rattle with golden bells, sat
a little child, whom the great King loved be-
cause of its beauty and gentleness.
What is that which they build there with so
many big stones ? the child asked.
"It is my tomb," answered the King.
"What is a tomb ?" asked the child again.
"When I have lived my life and am dead,"
said the King, and my spirit has gone to meet
Osiris, and be judged by him,- when that time
comes, the embalmers will take my royal body,
and cunningly embalm it, so that it can not perish,
nor decay come near it. Then they will wrap it
in many wrappings of fine linen steeped in per-
fumes, and seal it up in an emblazoned mummy-
case, and they will bear it, in gorgeous procession,
to yonder tomb. In the midst of the tomb there
is a secret chamber, hidden from discovery by
many a wise device; and in the chamber a
sarcophagus, carven from a single stone."
"Will they put your bodyin the sarcophagus?"
asked the child.
"Aye, they will lay it there," replied the King.
"What will they do then ? the child asked.
"Then," said the King, "they will seal up the
tomb, and the door of the secret chamber will
they close with a strong curtain of stone; and
they will block up the passage leading to the
chamber, and conceal the entrance to the pas-
sage, so that no man can find it. That will
they do."

But why will they do all this ? asked the
"Have I not already told you ?" said the
King. It is done, that my body may not perish,
but endure forever."
"Forever! said the child. "How long is
that ?"
"Nay, that is an idle question," replied the
King, smiling. "Who can tell how long? The
High Priest is a wise man, but even he knows
not. But see how strongly the pyramid is built,
its sides lean together and uphold each other;
its foundations are in the rock, it can not fall
to ruins; when all other works of man have
vanished from the earth, my pyramid and my
tomb shall stand."
But how long will it stand ? asked the child.
"Will it stand a thousand years ? "
A thousand years!" cried the King; "Aye!
and more than a thousand "
"Will it stand three thousand years ?" said
the child.
It will stand three thousand years," the King
answered proudly.
"Will it stand ten thousand years ?"
"Ten thousand years ?" repeated the King,
thoughtfully. "That would be a weary time!
Yet, I think it will last ten thousand years."
But after he had said it, the great King sighed,
and leaned his head upon his hand.
Still the child would not be satisfied. Will
it last a hundred thousand years ? it asked.
Thenthe King bent hisbrows in anger. "Ques-
tion me no more! he said. What does a child
know of time ? You add centuries to centuries
with a breath, and think, because a hundred


thousand years are quickly said, that they will
pass as quickly. A hundred thousand years ago -
so the High Priest says-this mighty earth, with
its seas and lands and mountains, its trees and
beasts and men,- all these were but as a vapor
of the air, and as a sleeping man's dream of what
may come to pass on the morrow. A hundred
thousand years hence,- who dare look forward
so far? To you, that are a foolish child, years
are but a sound, and a fancy; but to men, who
have lived, and striven, and hoped, and sorrowed,
and suffered, years are harder than adamant,
stronger than brass, heavier than gold, fatal as
death. A hundred thousand years! Child, the
face of Osiris himself shall be darkened before
they be passed "
Having thus spoken, the King arose and gave
the child to its nurse, for his spirit was troubled.
And the child also was troubled and wept; not
at the King's words, for it understood them not;
but because he had set his foot on the coral
rattle with golden bells, and had crushed it to
The nurse took the child and carried it to the
barge on the river Nile; and the boatmen took
their oars to row across the river. But it hap-
pened that, in the middle of the river, the child
slipped from the nurse's arms and fell into the
river; and the current caught it, and it was
drowned. It seemed to the child that it fell
asleep; but immediately it was awake again;
and opening its eyes, behold! it was in a world
glorious with life and beauty, and sweet with
music and happiness and love.
Yes, this is Heaven," said the child to itself;
and with that it sprang up and went to seek its
little sister, who had gone to Heaven a little
while before.
Soon the child found its sister, where she lay
sleeping under the shadow of a plane-tree. So,
remembering that she had been most fond of a

certain blue flower, with a golden heart and a
slender stalk, the child gathered a handful of
these flowers and placed them beside her, where
she would see them when she awoke.
Then the perfume of the flowers aroused the
sleeping sister and she opened her eyes; and
when she saw the flowers, and her brother
beside her, she gave a cry of joy; and they
kissed each other.
An angel came up to them, and smiled upon
them, and said, "Come with me, and look upon
the place of the pyramid of the great King."
They went with him, putting their hands in his.
And he brought them to an opening in Heaven,
below which lay the earth and the place of the
pyramid, and said, Look "
They looked through the opening, and saw
the river Nile, and the bank beside the river,
where the pyramid of the King was built. But
the pyramid was no longer there. There was
only a level tract of sand, and a lizard lying
dead upon it.
"Where is the pyramid ? asked the child.
"It has perished," replied the angel.
"How can it have perished so soon ? asked
the child. I was there in the morning, and
sat on the King's knee, and saw the men build-
ing. And the King said it would last ten thou-
sand years."
And if he did," said the angel, are not the
ten thousand years past, and a hundred thousand
years added unto them ?"
While I have been gathering these flowers ?"
cried the child. "Then, what are years ? "
Years are pain," replied the angel, but love
is eternity."
The child looked in the angel's face. "I
know you now," he said; "you are the King."
But the angel folded the two children in his
arms; and there were tears on his face, even in

- .'_ -.-- -_ _= _- -: :-
. . . --== "-_ -
-- _- ._ - --
- -- -2 ) '
.; _-- -- -- ,,--%r-' ( 1'




O VER the stable there
.i was a small room which
was intended for a
coachman. But as Mr.
Craig could not afford
to keep a coachman,
i -Henry, his son, took
S.- -possession of the room
and fitted it up for a
study. He papered the
walls from the floor to the ceiling with pictures
from the illustrated weeklies, and sat by the hour
staring at them, making out the most astonishing
stories. He knew ofno more delightful occupation
than puzzling out the connection between scenes
and subjects which, by pure accident, had been
put side by side, and tracing a coherent story, sug-
gested by the pictures. Thus, for instance, there
was a wood-cut entitled, "Shine, sir ?" represent-
ing a boot-black hailing a customer. Henry, for
the sake of convenience, named him Tom Pratt,
and began to wonder what were the later events
of his career. Presently he discovered a figure
in which he recognized a resemblance to Tom
Pratt. It was in a picture entitled, "A Scene
in the Police Court "- evidently the gentleman
whose boots Tom had blacked had accused him
of picking his pocket. Tom bravely affirmed his
innocence; but the Judge, taking the gentleman's
word in preference to Tom's, sentenced him to
three months on the Island. In the right-hand
upper corer of the wall was a picture of an
arrest, and Henry had no difficulty in convin-.
cing himself that now, at last, the real thief had
been found; and after his confession to the In-
spector, Tom is released. A large full-page cut
representing a "Monmouth Park Handicap
Race gave the desired clue to the next chapter.
For there Henry found again his friend Tom
and Mr. Jenks, the gentleman who had falsely

accused him. Mr. Jenks, stung by his conscience,
offered to educate Tom, in order to compensate
him for the wrong he had done him. Scene
fourth, which is entitled, Cleared for Action,"
represents the moment before the command is
given to fire, on board a man-of-war. There
Henry hails with joy the adventurous Tom, who
has now become a naval cadet and is about to
distinguish himself in battle. The fifth chapter,
which is taken from the London Graphic," ex-
hibits Tom in the act of being presented in a
gorgeous uniform to the Czar of Russia. He is
now an officer, and naturally has changed very
much. You would find it hard to recognize in
this handsome young fellow, with a mustache
and shoulder-straps of gold braid, the ragged
boot-black of Mulberry Street.
But Henry, somehow, never fails to recognize
him. He sits hour after hour, following him with
breathless interest, from adventure to adventure,
until finally "A Decoration Day Parade" be-
comes the culmination of Tom's career. For, to
Henry's fancy, it represents a parade in his hero's
honor, when, covered with glory and noble scars,
he returns to his native country and is met by
themayor and aldermen of the city, with speeches
and brass bands and military pomp.
It was this kind of story Henry loved to com-
pose; and the same pictures often furnished him
with incidents for the most different plots. The
"Scene in the Police Court played an impor-
tant part in the careers of no end of heroes, and
there was not a ragged and disreputable scamp
in the whole shabby crowd whose life Henry did
not puzzle out, even to its minutest details. He
had a warm and charitable heart, and kindly
helped them out of all their difficulties. There
was not one of them who would not have been
a gainer if he could have stepped out of his
own wretched, vicious life into the happy and
prosperous lot which Henry provided for him.
In Hempstead, a little New England village


where Henry Craig lived, nothing of any conse-
quence ever happened; at least so it seemed to
Henry. It had once been a flourishing town,
and some of the men most distinguished in our
colonial and revolutionary history had hailed
from it. But now most of the people were poor,

and the town had shrunk to
less than half its former size.
All the young people seemed
to think that Hempstead
was a good place to be born
in; but they always liked
it best after they had gone
away. The country about
the town was largely set-
tled with Irish and Scotch
peasants, who managed to
make a living out of the
farms upon which their
Yankee predecessors had
barely staved off starvation.
Henry's father, after having
struggled vainly to make
both ends meet, had in dis-
gust sold his homestead of
one hundred and eighty
acres for about one-half
of what the buildings alone
were worth; and now the
Irishman who had bought
the farm was not only sup-
porting a large and cheer-
fully ragged family upon it,
but was laying up money.
And the secret of this Mr.
Craig soon discovered. The
Hibernian let his children
go half naked in summer;
he bought no books, read
no newspapers, employed

which would enable them to rise in life, and it
was with a heavy heart that he finally bade fare-
well to this cherished dream. Frank, the eldest,
who, in the father's judgment, was the cleverest of
the three, was sent to a neighboring town, where
he obtained a position as clerk in a dry-goods

I- .
~ ;~ i'. ;. .. ....

*' ",,'-I \' '\ ,


no servants; and altogether he had reduced his
needs below the level of even humble living
according to the American standard.
Mr. Craig had many a time regretted that he
had parted with his ancestral acres. For the
grocery business which he was conducting in
town turned out to be in no wise so profitable
as he had expected, and it was, moreover, con-
fining, detrimental to his health. He had been
ambitious to provide his sons with an education

store. Anthony, who also was a promising lad,
helped Mr. Craig in his own business, and Henry,
the youngest, had for a while superintended a
news-stand, on which he had managed to lose
three or four dollars every month. Naturally
his father came to distrust his business ability,
when Henry repeated this experiment for six
months in succession. And when, finally, the news-
stand was abolished, Henry found rich compen-
sation for his loss, in the stock of illustrated


papers which were left on his hands and the
amusement which they afforded him. No end
of jibes he had to endure in consequence of his
disastrous business venture, but he bore them
all with patience. He or i .l.,llj became recon-
ciled to the thought that he would never make
much of a success in business; but, somehow, it
gave him no great uneasiness. A trifle shy he
was in his intercourse with other boys and a little
over-sensitive. That which interested him above
all things he dared not confide to any one; for
he knew that it would afford a fine subject for
ridicule. Secretly he stole up to his study"
every afternoon and regaled himself with the
imaginary events which befell his imaginary

WHEN Henry was fourteen years old, his
father concluded that it was time for him to learn
a trade whereby he might make his living. But
all the trades which he proposed seemed equally
uninviting to the boy. He had lived so long in
a wonderland of his own, that all the careers
which actual life presented to a boy in his posi-
tion seemed poor and paltry by comparison. A
choice he had to make, however,-there was no
help for it,--and he chose the trade of a printer,
chiefly because it was in some way associated with
the illustrated papers from which he had derived
so much happiness. Perhaps an opportunity
would be afforded him to continue his excursions
into wonderland. Every newspaper had an ex-
change list, and perhaps he might contrive to
see the exchanges now and then, in the absence of
the editor. At all events, a printer Henry Craig
resolved to be, though in the dim future he saw
himself crowned with fame and honor, received
with brass bands, and speaking from platforms
to vast crowds of people. That he was to be
something great--he had no idea what- was
a foregone conclusion, and that his apprentice-
ship as a printer was to be merely the lowest rung
in the ladder of fame which he meant to mount,
seemed also quite probable. It was this vision
of future glory which made him endure the long
and tedious apprenticeship in the office of the
" Hempstead Bugle," where he set type day after
day and night after night, until his finger-tips
were numb and his back ached. However,

Mr. Martin, the editor, was a good-natured man,
who willingly lent him books and occasionally
spoke an encouraging word to him. But when
Henry, emboldened by this kindness, offered
one of his poems for the paper, the editor quite
changed his tune.
"Look here, young man," he said, "you are
getting too smart. Your business, as I under-
stand it, is to set type, not to furnish copy."
"This stuff here," he continued scornfully,
after having read the poem, "is the veriest drivel.
And then you rhyme room with fume If you
don't know better than that, you had better let
rhyming alone and stick to type-setting."
Henry felt terribly humiliated by this repri-
mand, and tried to accept Mr. Martin's ad-
vice to let rhyming alone." But somehow he
found that a more difficult task than he had
thought it. The rhymes would come into his
head, however much he might try to banish
them; and though he did not flatter himself
that they were poetry, he did take pleasure in
them, and vaguely imagine that perhaps they
might point the way for him to the glory of
which he dreamed.
It happened during the third year of Henry's
apprenticeship, when he was seventeen years old,
that great preparations were made for the cele-
bration of the second centennial of the settlement
of Hempstead. A prize of one hundred dollars
was offered for the best poem on the occasion,
and the competition was thrown open to all
"poets who were natives of Hempstead, or de-
scended from Hempstead families." The wor-
thy selectmen who placed this restriction upon
the competition had probably no very clear idea
of what they were doing. It seemed desirable
to them to encourage home talent, and they
considered themselves excessively liberal in ad-
mitting the compositions of non-resident poets
"descended from Hempstead families."
When Henry Craig saw this alluring announce-
ment in the "Bugle,"-he had, in fact, himself set
it up, but the full meaning of it had not dawned
upon him until now,- his heart was fired with
a wild ambition. What if he wrote the poem and
won the one hundred dollars ? It was not so much
the money which he cared for,- though that, to
be sure, was an additional inducement,- as the
triumph over Mr. Martin who had sneered at


his poetic aspirations. It was not once, but many
times, since he presented that unfortunate poem,
that the editor had addressed him as 'the mute,
inglorious Milton,'" the village Shakspere," etc.,
and asked him sarcastically how his muse was
thriving. Now Henry's opportunity had come to
prove that his talent was genuine, and he meant
to make the best of it. Eagerly he began to delve
into the history of the settlement and the early
days of the town; and much interesting material
did he unearth. He stood at his case, setting
type automatically, but scarcely knowing what
he was doing. Sonorous lines hummed in his
brain, and surreptitiously he jotted them down
upon pieces of paper. It was on such an occa-
sion that he was responsible for a misprint which
caused no end of amusement in the town. In
an excerpt from a letter recording the travels
of a local statesman whose pretensions were all
out of proportion to his merit, he printed, On
April 6th, at 2 P. Mr., the Senator reached the
summit of the Asinine," instead of the summit
of the Apennines."
He barely escaped discharge in consequence
of this blunder, and he surely would not have
escaped if Mr. Martin had known he had been
composing poetry during his working hours.


HENRY finished his Hempstead Centennial
Ode in good time and sent it to the judges signed
with the nom deplumne," Bunker Hill." Four weeks
of feverish anxiety followed, during which he
found it difficult to apply himself to his work.
He had moments of the wildest exhilaration,
when he sang to himself and scarcely could keep
from dancing; and there were hours of unrest
and depression during which he seemed to him-
self a presumptuous fool who would be sure,
sooner or later, to be covered with ridicule.
Probably some of the greatest men of New
England were trying for that one hundred dol-
lars; and what chance would a half-educated
boy have in competing with them? When
he thought of Longfellow and Whittier and
Lowell, and the idea of his presuming to have
his callow rhymes compared with their mature
and noble verse, his ears burned uncomfortably.
But then, of course, he did not know that they

were among the competitors. He ardently
hoped that they had in this instance resisted
the temptation of the hundred dollars.
The fateful evening arrived at last. The select-
men, the judges, and as many of the citizens as
could crowd in, were assembled in the large town-
hall. It was understood that a number of unsus-
pected poets who, from regard for the public weal,
had practiced their art in secret, were sitting with
palpitating hearts in that audience, distracted by
hope and fear. There was a rumor, too, that some
literary celebrity had sent in an ode, but that
his claim to descent from a Hempstead family
would not bear examination. Some one who
professed to know declared, too, that his ode
would have had no chance anyway, as it did
not mention a single Hempstead family by name.
And, as every one knew, the intention was not
only to celebrate the founders of the town, but
also to reflect some little glory upon their de-
scendants of to-day, who had spent their lives
wearing holes in their honorable names.
Henry had been on hand early; but, from
modesty, had taken a seat in the middle aisle,
not far from the door. The five judges three
clergymen, a doctor, and a lawyer came march-
ing up the aisle, two by two, with the odd lawyer
bringing up the rear. Henry gazed into their
faces with earnest scrutiny, but could discover
nothing which warranted him in entertaining
any hope. They looked absolutely non-commit-
tal. Very likely they had given the prize, without
knowing it, to Longfellow or Lowell; for with
the fictitious names there was no possibility of
knowing whom they had favored.
Henry gave himself up to despair. He felt
so unutterably small and foolish. It was well
nobody knew that he had tried for the prize.
The eldest clergyman came forward and invoked
the Divine blessing upon the assembly.
Then a glee club, from a neighboring college,
mounted the platform and sang a patriotic song,
which was enthusiastically encored. The eight
collegians, who in the meanwhile had descended
into the audience, were obliged to reassemble,
and sang now:
"Said the bull-frog to the owl,
Oh, what 'll you have to drink ? "
which aroused even greater enthusiasm. When
at last quiet was restored, the chairman of the



committee, a Baptist minister, came forward
and made an endless speech concerning the
significance of the occasion, the difficulties with
which the committee had to contend, etc. He
possessed, in an eminent degree, the art of say-
ing in twenty words what might be said in two;

necks, others tossed about uneasily in their seats
and tried to look unconcerned.
I hold in my hand," began the chairman,
"an- an envelope."
Nobody had been prepared for so startling an
announcement. A few snickered; some laughed


and when he had finished Henry was so ex-
hausted that it seemed a matter of slight con-
sequence to him who had won the prize. His
interest revived quickly, however, when the
speaker turned to the legal member of the com-
mittee and received from him a sealed envelope.
Excited expectation was expressed in every
countenance. Some rose up and craned their

outright. Henry heaved a deep sigh, merely to
give vent to his agitation.
"This envelope," the chairman continued,
impressively, "contains the name of the success-
ful competitor-the author of the ode which
will be read at the centennial celebration- a
week hence. The committee does not as yet
know his, or her, real name. The name -the


alias, if I may so express myself-- which he has
used is -'Bunker Hill.'"
The name exploded in Henry's ears like the
report of a gun. The walls whirled about him.
The audience swam in a luminous mist. The
floor billowed under his feet. He clung on to
the bench in front of him with all his might, so
as to make sure that he was yet on the solid
"The gentleman-the lady-or I should
say the poet signing himself Bunker Hill,'"
the minister went on, after having broken the
seal of the envelope, is is that is to say-"
he hemmed and hawed as if he had difficulty
in pronouncing the name, "is a gentleman -
named Henry Craig."
A strange hush fell upon the audience. Some
people thought there must be a mistake. Henry
Craig -nobody in the town knew any promi-
nent person of that name. Very likely it must
be a stranger. Nobody thought of the seven-
teen-year-old boy who was setting type in the
"Bugle" office.
If Mr. Henry Craig is present in this audi-
ence," the reverend gentleman proceeded, "will
he kindly step up on this platform and receive
his reward? "
Then, far back in the hall, a tall and slender
lad rose with a face pale with excitement. He
ran his hand nervously through his hair, pulled
himself together, and walked up the aisle. All
the people turned about to look at him. When
he had passed half a dozen benches, he felt a
pair of eyes keenly riveted upon him. He looked
up and met Mr. Martin's wondering gaze. Sur-
prise, pleasure, and also a shadow of doubt were

written all over the editor's features. But when
he had convinced himself that there was, indeed,
no mistake, up he sprang, waved his hat and
cried, Three cheers for Henry Craig!"
And the audience rose as one man and shouted
"Hurrah!" so that the windows of the old town-
hall rattled and the walls shook.
Henry never knew how he reached that plat-
form, received the hundred-dollar bill in an
envelope, and made his way back to his seat.
His heart was thumping away like a trip-hammer,
his blood was throbbing in his temples, and there
was a mist in his eyes which made all things dim.
He remembered that the people were thronging
about him, congratulating him, pressing his
hands, and a matronly lady kissed him and said:
" What a pity, my boy, that your mother did not
live to see this day."


THIS was the beginning, but it was by no means
the end, of Henry Craig's career. In fact, his ca-
reer is yet at its meridian, and his thousands of
readers hope he has yet many years of honor-
able usefulness before him.
When he had read his ode at the Hempstead
Centennial, a number of the wealthier citizens
became convinced that a boy who could write
so fine a poem at seventeen would, if he was
properly educated, in time become an honor
to his native town and State. They therefore
clubbed together, sent Henry to school, and
later to Harvard College. He has now won a
fair fame, and is one of the most promising of the
younger poets and novelists of the United States.



SINGLE-EYED to child and sunbeam,
In her little grass-green gown,
Prim and sweet and fair as ever,
Blue-eyed Mary 's come to town.

Yes, you may, child, go to see her,
You can stay and play an hour;
But be sweet and good and gentle;
Blue-eyed Mary is a flower.

Z. Tf ____vr
-T '-I

EL; .A '. N\. TROTTER.

u I | the -
I L.uheI.s on l hi -
line. How the
wild things tossed and flickered in the light
breeze! Dorothy had to laugh at the tangle
they made of themselves, as she went busily on
with her work. And a pretty picture was she
with her golden curls shining in the early morn-
ing sunbeams, and her serene, bright face.
"Dorothy Dot, I 'm awful lonesome cried
a voice hidden, half-smothered, in the empty
clothes-basket; and a small boy clambered out
of the basket and peeped between the sheets
blowing in the wind.
"Come to breakfast then, good little man,"
cried Dorothy, whisking up the basket as she
started on a run to the cottage, followed closely
by her little brother, Billy.
Mr. Protheroe, the father of these children,
had charge of the light-house on Crab Island.
He was a faithful, true man, respected by all who
knew him. As for his wife, sweet woman, serenely
happy in her isolated home, she seldom visited
the mainland. To-day, however, repairs needed
in the bell-buoy, had taken Mr. Protheroe to the
town on the coast, and his wife had accompanied
him, to make some purchases of warm clothing
for the children.
Dorothy had risen to see her parents off at
four o'clock; and it was now only six, and here
was Billy lonesome already for his mother. But

i!iLe ilht-hearted girl knew it was in her power
.:,I ke.-:p him happy, so she began to sing a merry
:.-.n. she set the bread and milk on the table.
llihe mall white cottage was built within the
shadow of the light-house. More than once, dur-
ing some unusually fierce storm, the family had
been obliged to take refuge in the stronger build-
ing, fearing that the cottage might be swept away.
Behind the light-house, on the southern side of
the island, was a strip of herbage, green enough
to satisfy old Molly," the complacent cow,
tethered to a post in the center. On either side
rocks stretched away to the sea. The straggling
shape of the island broke the force of the waves
ere they reached the beach on the mainland, so
that it was seldom difficult to navigate the waters
of the bay.
The breakfast was evidently much enjoyed, for
peals of laughter rippled on the breeze. When
it was over and the work in the cottage done,
Dorothy called Billy and went out into the sun-
What a lovely day Certainly Indian Summer
at last. The light fall of snow of a week before
had disappeared, and the sun was warm.
Oh, how happy she felt in this gay sunshine !
No wonder that her voice rang out in merry
snatches of song. Suddenly some of the bright-
ness faded from her face and a thoughtful look
stole there with somewhat of a shadow. Yes,
there was one hitherto unrealized dream of bliss
in Dorothy's heart. She did so want to have a
" Thanksgiving Party." Mother told such lovely


stories of parties at the old homestead in Ver-
mont, that, had a fairy godmother appeared to
Dorothy to ask what gift she most desired in
the world, the answer would have come at once,
" Oh, how I should like a Thanksgiving party,
with real live people, lots and lots of children,
and games and stories by the firelight! She
had lived all the fifteen years of her life on the
lonely island.
Dorothy Dot! see how low the tide is. The
'Old Crab is out of water."
Now the Old Crab was a dangerous rock,
only bare at exceptionally low tides, and it was
bare that day. There he lay with the one claw
upraised, the clutch of which had often proved
disastrous to vessels before the Government had
placed near it a bell-buoy, to ring unceasing
notes of warning at the ebb and flow of the tide.
Let us go down to the buoy and look for
sea-mosses," cried Dorothy, as she realized that
the great rock was out of water.
The two children climbed actively over the
rocks. Soon they stood upon the Old Crab's "
back, and even danced up and down on his
massive head.
"It is a dangerous rock! cried Dorothy,
seriously, as she looked over the jagged edge.
Then, climbing up the claw to the broken bell-
buoy, she continued, "But all the pilots know
of the Crab.' Surely they will avoid it even
though the buoy is broken."
They can't see it in the dark," cried practical
Billy, as he floated a stranded star-fish in a pool
in the rocks.
But there will be moonlight to-night; they
can see the rock quite well. Still I do wish the
bell would swing." Then she was hidden behind
the huge claw, and Billy knew she was reach-
ing to the buoy for the sea-mosses which clung
to its sides. Presently she touched the bell and
made it ring. How loud its voice sounded in
the stillness!
Dorothy clambered back to her brother's side,
and, setting the bucket in the pool, began to
show him the mosses she had gathered.
It's Thanksgiving to-morrow," said Billy, ir-
relevantly. Are n't we going to have chicken-
pie, Dorothy Dot ? "
Of course we are," assented she; "and we '11
pretend we have a party,- shall we, Billy?"

Billy was of a social turn of mind, so he
nodded. I want a boy to play with," he said.
Neither of the children went often to the main-
land, and of course few visitors ever came to the
rocky island.
When dinner-time came, the children ran
back to the cottage, and Dorothy hastened to
set the table.
But, by the time the meal was finished, the
dazzling blue of the sea had changed to gray.
" White horses rode the riotous waves, leaping
in on the Crab's back, and over the claw, break-
ing into foam that was blown over the green by
the wild wind. Overhead, dense cloud-banks
rose from the horizon to the zenith, and obscured
the sun; then, drifting on, they were swept wind-
ward until the sky was covered. Sea-gulls, beat-
ing against the stiff breeze, flew inland, making
dismal outcry as they hovered over the light-
house, or sought shelter among the rocky ledges
I don't like this," said Dorothy Dot, as she
went to the door and glanced anxiously round.
Then, as no warning note rang from the bell-
buoy, she scanned the seas for a sail.
Oh, I hope no ship will come along to-
night," she exclaimed.
"Dorothy, how can Mother get home?"
"Oh," she replied, serenely, Father will bring
her safely. You know the bay will not be rough,
as the ocean is."
It grew cold as the warm sun of Indian Sum-
mer was hidden by the clouds. Dorothy went
into the cottage, and an hour flew fast as she
began to mount the sea-mosses. Still she was
conscious all the time of the rising wind and sea.
At length she threw a shawl over her head and
went out. Billy watched her fighting the wind
as she ran up to the steps of the light-house.
Then he saw her look anxiously out to sea3 and
he was sure something was wrong when she
came running back to the cottage.
Billy, darling Billy, will you stay here?" she
Billy jumped from his chair, suspiciously.
Not without you, Dorothy Dot. I should
be lonesome. I 'm going with you, Dorothy
And together they ran down to the one
small sand-beach.


"Oh, Dorothy Dot!" and "Oh, Billy!" ex-
claimed the brother and sister, shocked at the
sight before them.
For the huge claw of the stony monster had
once more done deadly work! The leaping waves
had hid the danger, and the deep seas surround-
ing the Crab had deceived the pilot, now the
warning voice of the bell was mute. A ship
riding on a rising wave had struck, and, with

"And a baby! There's a baby in her arms,"
cried Billy. And there 's a boy just my size
there, too."
The boats one after another were lowered and
broken to pieces by the jagged rocks. Dorothy
looked around almost frantic, wondering what
she could do to help them. Her father would
have rowed out to the wreck, but- could she, all
alone ? She saw Billy's eager eye glance toward

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- I_


her rudder gorie, was helplessly beating shore-
ward among the jagged rocks.
11 Oh, if Father was only here," cried Dorothy,
in despair. 11 They are going to launch the boats,
and ~the current there will carry them on the
rocks as soon as they reach the water. Oh!i oh!i "
Not only were Dorothy's fears verified by the
loss of the boat launched, but at this moment
the ship, plunging wildly, struck again on the
claw, and was jammed between the head and
neck of the monster Crab, and for a moment
was still.
11 Now's the time," shouted Doroth~y, waving
her arms wildly to attract the attention of the
crew, Oh, I see a woman on board!i "

the boat, high on the beach. With his help she
could push it down to the water's edge, and per-
haps Father would soon be home, and th~en--
By this time her thoughts had become actions.
Billy was helping her with the boat.
11 I 'm going with you, Dorothy Dot," said be.
The boat was now ready to be launched. The
children stood on the beach, however, waiting to
see what they could possibly do to help the peo-
ple in the wrecked ship. Dorothy knew quite
well that she dared not venture near the currents
which swept round the Old Crab.
just then a sailor appeared on th~e bulwarks.
He had a rope tied round his waist, and it was
evident that he meant to swim ashore. The chil-


dren watched him breathlessly for a moment, and
then they looked at one another as the same
thought flashed through their minds. For it
was quite plain, now, what they must do, and
Dorothy pushed at the boat with all her strength
as the man's head came above the waves after
his plunge from the ship. He was a magnificent
swimmer, she could see, but it was a long dis-
tance to the shore, and the water was very cold at
this season. If only she could reach him before
he became exhausted, fighting with the waves!
Billy came splashing into the shallow water,
but his sister was too quick for him; she pushed
off, leaving the little fellow dancing with rage on
the beach.
For Billy will be safe, if I don't get back,"
Dorothy was saying to herself as she rowed
toward the sailor. Father would wish me to
do this, I know, as he can not come himself."
She had seen her father risk his life in the per-
formance of his duty too often to doubt that he
would have her also do so. She was not afraid.
True, she had never taken the boat out alone,
in such a sea as this, but then she knew every
rock on the reef-knew, too, where she would
escape the roughest part of the tide, and how
best to meet the breakers that unceasingly beat
against this rock-bound coast. Besides this, she
was as much at home in a boat as ashore, and
her father had trained her to row a steady stroke.
Her chief difficulty lay in the fact that she could
barely see, over the tossing, swirling waves,
whether she was steering straight toward the
sailor, who made his way on by diving through
some of the breakers, and thus was frequently
lost to view. Her boat was less manageable,
too, than it would have been with some one
astern to keep the balance true. But if she did
not see the sailor, he was quick to see her, as he
came up on a wave, and the people on board
the ship cheered as he struck out more vigor-
ously than ever in the direction of the boat.
Dorothy in the boat and the sailor in the water
together held the lives of the crew in their hands.
But at the present moment all the girl's anxiety
was merged in the fear that the man's strength
would give out before she reached him; and he
was only afraid that she, a mere child, would lose
command of the boat as it came further out into
the heavier breakers.

The people clinging to the wreck, who in-
cluded the captain's wife and children, in addi-
tion to the crew, watched the boat as it tossed
up and down, with agonized expectation. Could
it live in such a sea?
Dorothy gave a cry of joy as she saw two brown
hands suddenly clutch the stern of the boat; and
as it rose on the next wave the sailor managed
to climb in. He was very much exhausted, for
the water was bitterly cold, and had not the
boat been opportunely driven near to him, he
must soon have given up all hope of reaching
shore alive.
Dorothy steered for the little sand-beach,
where poor Billy was still rushing up and down
in excitement. The waves helped her now,
though in extremely rough fashion. Presently
the sailor, recovering his breath, took one oar,
and in a short time the boat was beached.
"God bless you, little girl!" cried the man,
as he ran up to the rocks with his rope, which he
pulled tight and fastened securely. Upon it
another sailor crossed, hand over hand, bearing
a slighter rope which was fastened to a basket
on the wreck. In this basket two of the captain's
children were securely tied, and by means of a
block and tackle were carried over on the large
rope in safety.
Would there still be time to save the mother
and baby ? The sailors looked doubtfully at the
huge waves, which reared their mighty crests
high above the claw, and broke over it upon
the deck of the vessel. If those waves should
lift the ship from the rock and set her adrift
again, all on board must be lost.
Dorothy thought she would never forget
those anxious minutes while the woman was
being brought off in the basket. It seemed as
if the waves, jealous of losing their prey, strove
fiercely to outleap one another as they surged
and foamed angrily round the basket.
"Oh, she must be drowned, after all," cried
Dorothy. Can't we do anything better than
this ?"
The men did not answer. Their steady, strong
arms held the rope and they were drawing the
basket nearer and nearer.
A few more minutes of suspense, then a cheer
rose from the wreck; the sailors ashore had hold
of the basket. Dorothy unclasped her hands to


receive a tiny baby muffled up in wraps. She
sat down on the beach to peep at it.
It is alive! she cried, joyfully. "Oh, I was
afraid it would be drowned."
"And the mother 's alive too, but wet to the
skin. I 'd take 'em in to the fire, if I was you,"
said the sailor.
But the captain's wife, regardless of her wet
garments, would not leave the beach until she
could see her husband safe at her side.
The crew did not wait to be carried in the
basket; they clambered along on the rope, and
at last only the captain was left on the wreck.
He seemed to be hunting for something on
the decks, but finally appeared on the bulwarks
with a bundle tied upon his breast.
The delay almost cost him his life, for when
he was half-way across, the rope parted, as a
huge billow, lifting the wreck, set it adrift among
the rocks, at the will of the waves. The sailors
manned the boat, and pulled toward their cap-
tain with a will. As he was a strong swimmer, he
managed to keep up until they arrived to help
him. His poor wife watched and prayed by
turns, almost beside herself with anxiety.
When at length he stood safely at her side, he
opened the bundle on his breast. Out flew the
ship's cat, more than indignant at the soaking
to which she had been subjected, and ungrate-
fully scratched her kind friend as she wildly
sprang out of his arms, and rushed away with
tail held high in air.
As Dorothy led the way to the cottage, she
explained that the absence of her father was
the reason she had taken the boat out alone.
It was growing dark. The captain pointed to
the light-house.
"Give us the keys, daughter. We '11 take
care of the lamp for him."
Oh, Father will be back," she replied, tran-
quilly. He has had to go a long way round
to avoid the currents, or he would have been
here long ago."
The captain and sailors glanced sadly at one
another; they feared the little maid's father

would never be able to reach the island alive,
in so terrible a sea.
But five minutes later Mr. and Mrs. Proth-
eroe came in. Dorothy never knew the deadly
peril in which her parents had been during that
half hour.
Little need to tell of the cordial welcome
they gave their unexpected guests, or of their
joy when they found their brave Dorothy had
done her duty so well. When her father put
his hand on her head, and said, You did well,
my Dot. God bless you! she felt happy and,
gay as a lark, she went singing about her work.
All the praises and thanks of the guests seemed
worth nothing in comparison with such rare
words from her reticent father. Billy too was
in a gay mood; he was busy interviewing the
captain's little boy, but his powers of expression
were a little modified, as he had screamed him-
self as hoarse as a heron in the afternoon.
The gale increased in fury during the night,
and raged throughout Thanksgiving Day. No
one could get to the mainland, so Dorothy's
desire'for a real live party was amply fulfilled.
After dinner the old folks played games with the
children, and the captain played Billy's mouth-
organ so musically that the sailors danced in
their very best manner. Once or twice Dorothy
pinched herself to make sure all this was really
happening: that it was not a dream, nor one
of mother's lovely stories of the olden days at
the homestead.
But no! The solemn voice of the Storm Spirit
rang from the ocean. The winds howled; the
waves broke into cataracts of foam over the
" Old Crab's hideous claw, and roared sullenly
amid the rocky clefts in the gullies.
Yet, indoors there was the true Thanksgiving
spirit of cheer. Dorothy Dot, as night drew on,
sat at her father's feet, the flames from the drift-
wood fire flashing on her golden curls, her rosy
cheeks glowing with excitement. And as the
sailors began to spin their wonderful yarns, she
gave a sigh of perfect contentment.
Happy "Dorothy Dot!"



I WAS acting-quartermaster of a command
composed of two companies, which garrisoned
a log fort near Prescott, Arizona, during the
years 1864 and 1865. The fort was an inclosure
of some three hundred feet square, built of thick
pine-logs set up vertically in the ground, with
regular block-house bastions, of the colonial
period, at diagonal corners; and it had huge
gates of hewn timber that swung ponderously
on triple iron hinges. The fort stood on a
slight elevation overlooking the post corral, a
structure built of the same material and in the
same general manner as the fort, but inclosing
a much larger space. In this corral were gath-
ered nightly the horses of the cavalry troop, the
horses and mules of the quartermaster, and the
three hundred head of cattle and one thousand
sheep of the commissary.
The presence of these animals grazing through
the days on the hill-sides and plains about our
reservation was a special and alluring tempta-
tion to the marauding Apaches and Navajos,
and frequent chases and skirmishes were neces-
sary in order to protect our stock.
The garrison consisted of one company of
regular infantry and one troop of New Mexican
volunteer cavalry. The men composing the
troop were, with a few exceptions, Mexicans,
speaking the Spanish language, and using tactics
translated into that tongue.
The troop had arrived in January, after a long
and fatiguing march of seven hundred miles,
and two days after their arrival their captain
had turned over to me sixteen worn-oat, broken-
down, sick, and generally decrepit horses. Ac-
cording to custom in such cases, I receipted for
them, and in due time ordered them sold at pub-
lic auction to the highest bidder.
On the morning of the day appointed for the

sale to take place, the fifer of the infantry com-
pany, a neat Irish soldier, known among his
comrades as Joe Cain, who acted as my attend-
ant and a general guardian of my belongings,
paused in the doorway, and, raising his right
hand to his cap-visor, asked if he could spake
t' the Liftinent ?" As I nodded, he asked:
"Would the Liftinent like to buy fine horse ?"
No, Cain. I have no use for two horses,
and I can not afford the expense of another."
But you can buy this one for little or noth-
ing, sor."
"How much ?"
If the Liftinent will let me have five dollars,
I '11 buy him the bist horse in the post."
The best horse in the post for five dollars !
What kind of nonsense are you talking, Cain ? "
and I turned to some papers on my table which
demanded my signature. But Cain lingered in
the doorway at a respectful "attention," and
when I signed the last paper his hand went up
again to his visor and remained there until I said:
"Well, what more have you to say ? "
"If the Liftinent will buy the horse I spake of,
he will niver repint of his bargain. I 've known
the baste for tin years, sor,-from the time I
joined as a music b'y at Fort Craig, sor."
He must be an exceedingly old horse, then,"
I said.
"Nobody knows his age, sor; he 's a vit-
eran; but he 's a fine horse, all the same, sor."
"But I do not need another horse for my
duties, Cain, as I told you just now; and I
should have to buy his hay and grain, and that
is an expense I do not care to be put to, with no
prospect of a profitable return."
"There nade be no expinse, sor. There is a
sorplus of forage in the corral, and the forage-
master '11 let me have all I 'm wantin' if the Lif-
tinent will jist give him the last bit of a hint."
More to please a valued and trustworthy at-
tendant than with any hope of securing a good


horse, I gave Cain the desired five dollars. I
learned, in further conversation, that the won-
derful steed he proposed to buy for me was one
of the lot to be sold at auction.
I did not attend the sale of the sixteen horses.
I simply noticed that the Government money
account had increased seventy-five dollars by
the auction, showing plainly enough that the
value of the whole number was a little less
than five dollars each. A whole month had
passed, and I had entirely forgotten that I had
given Cain the five dollars for the purchase of
a horse, when one day, as I again sat writing
in my room, I heard the rapid clatter of hoofs
approaching, and presently noticed that a horse
had stopped outside. I stepped to the door
and found Joe Cain awaiting my arrival, hold-
ing by the halter-strap a fine, large bay horse,
in good flesh, smooth as satin, and bright-eyed
as a colt. "Will the Liftinent plaze to come out
and inspict his horse ? said Cain; and then he
led him about on exhibition. I was pleased to
find that the horse, while in no wise remarkable,
showed many good points. In fact, the animal
was a great surprise to me. I sat down on a
log which had been rejected in the building of
the fort, and looked long at the metamorphosed
creature before I spoke.
So that is the horse you bought for five dol-
lars, is it, Cain? I began.
Four dollars and forty cints, sor. I bought
the halter with the sixty cints that was lift, sor."
But I don't see how such a horse could be
had for that money. And this is really one of
those miserable hacks we sold at auction ?"
"Not a bit else, sor," said the delighted
Cain, his face in a glow from the pleasure lhe
was deriving from my wonderment and evident
approval of the result of his venture.
"Has he a name ? I asked.
"' Two-Bits,' sor."
"'Two-Bits'- twenty-five cents I- how did
he get that name, Cain ? "
"He won it at Fort Craig, sor, in a race in
In answer to further questions and after some
irrelevant talk, Cain, having tied the horse to a
tree, walked slowly backward and forward be-
fore me, and proceeded to give the history of
the horse so far as he knew it, and his reasons

for asking me to make the purchase. When he
went into the corral one day, he said, he saw
one of the stable-men kicking and beating an
old steed to make him rise to his feet. The
animal made repeated efforts to stand, but each
time fell back through weakness. Cain ap-
proached, and, by certain saddle-marks and a
peculiar star in the forehead, recognized an old
acquaintance. He even insisted that the old
horse knew him. From some knowledge of
horses, picked up in a stable during a wander-
ing life before he enlisted, the soldier perceived,
after a careful examination, that the horse was
not permanently disabled, but simply suffering
from ill-treatment and neglect. He began his
care of the beast at once, and as soon as the
auction was ordered, he determined to ask me
to buy him.
The first knowledge Cain had of Two-Bits,
was that the horse belonged to the Mounted
Rifles and was with them at Fort Craig in New
Mexico, in 1859. On Fourth of July of that
year, the officers of the fort and the civilians of
the neighboring ranches got up a horse-race by
way of celebrating the day. The races were
to be, one for American horses, over an eight-
hundred-yards straightaway course, and one for
broncos, over a course of three hundred yards.
On the day before the race, the first sergeant of
the Rifles waited upon a lieutenant of the regi-
ment and requested him to enter a "company
horse,"- one which had been assigned as a
mount to one of their number. The request
was granted. All the horses were to be ridden
by soldiers.
At two o'clock on the afternoon of the Fourth
the horses were assembled at the course to the
west of the fort, Two-Bits being present and
mounted by the boy-fifer, Joe Cain, of the infan-
try. The officers walked around the company
horse" with considerable curiosity, commenting
on his appearance, and wondering how, if he
possessed any merits, he had escaped their no-
tice up to this time. Captain Tilford seemed to
express the general sentiment of the officers, at
the conclusion of the inspection, when he said,
"I would not give two bits for that horse's
chance of winning the prize."
The race came off, and the carefully groomed
and gayly caparisoned horses of the officers and


civilians, and the plainly equipped favorite of
the soldiers burst down the track in line, to ar-
rive scattered and blown at the goal, with the
despised "company horse" some three lengths
ahead. And from that day the victor was
known as Two-Bits."
With the breaking out of the Civil War all
mounted regiments were made cavalry. This
wiped out of existence the two dragoon regi-
ments and the rifle regiment, the latter being re-
christened the Third Cavalry, and ordered from
New Mexico to the East, for service in the field.
Their horses were left behind, being turned over
to the New Mexico volunteer cavalry. Two-
Bits was assigned to the troop which was then
a part of the garrison of Fort Whipple. In the
march from the valley of the Rio Grande to the
valley of the Rio Colorado he had succumbed
to Mexican neglect and abuse, and fallen a vic-
tim to hard usage. And so, by a mere chance,
the meeting took place between the veteran
steed and his former jockey of the Fort Craig
race. Cain had recognized his old friend of five
years before, and knowing that he would not be
allowed to own a horse, he did the next best
thing,-made me his owner, which gave him the
care of the animal, and frequent opportunities
to take him out for an airing.
From this time on, I had many long rides on
Two-Bits, in the weary and tiresome pursuit of
the Indians, who never neglected to take advan-
tage of the unprotected state of the Territory.
I became very much attached to the horse and
even took pains to win a place in his affections,
often being much surprised at his wonderful in-
telligence and almost human discernment. He
would never desert his rider in a place of dan-
ger, no matter what the temptation. Three or
four times when taking him out for exercise,
Cain had dismounted for some purpose and
Two-Bits had immediately kicked up his heels
like a colt and trotted back to his stall in the
corral.* But once at a good distance from the
post or train, or in a situation of'danger, and
he would stay by his rider when free to go.
This statement may appear doubtful to many,
but every man who was stationed at Fort Whip-
ple during the time Two-Bits occupied a stall
there, believed more than I have stated. Two
instances, which I will relate, so impressed me

that I can have but one opinion of this noble
old horse. Once, when I had ridden down the
valley of the Rio Verde, some thirty miles from
the fort, on a solitary fishing excursion, I strolled
along its banks for several hours, standing by
pools and handling a rod, while a carbine rested
in my left elbow and two revolvers hung at my
waist. I looked over my shoulders for Indians
more frequently than the fish favored me with
bites. Suddenly, Two-Bits, who had been graz-
ing close by, unpicketed, came trotting down to
me in considerable excitement. Without stop-
ping to inquire the cause I dropped fishing-tackle
and basket, mounted and rode to an eminence,
from which I saw, on the opposite side of the
stream, half a mile away, a party of mounted
Apaches who had not been visible from my
fishing-place because of a fringe of willows. As
soon as they discovered me they whooped and
gave chase; but the long legs of Two-Bits made
nothing of running away from them, and I was
soon far beyond their reach.
The second incident occurred when I was
returning from a visit of inspection to a hay-
camp ten miles from the post. I was riding at
a walk along a level road, which was skirted on
my left by thick sage-brush. My left foot was
out of the stirrup. A sudden shot from cover
cut my coat-collar and caused the horse to jump
suddenly to the right. Having no support
on my left, and being taken off my guard, I top-
pled from the saddle and fell to the ground, but
fortunately landed on my feet and facing the
ambuscade, so I quickly covered the spot'with
my rifle. Two-Bits did not stir after I fell, and
I walked backwards around to his right side,
and mounted in reverse of custom, still covering
the possible enemy, and rode away, first slowly
and then at a run, until beyond rifle-range. Then
I saw three Apaches rise from the brush.
Again, when Lieutenant R- and myself,
with ten men, had been four days in pursuit of
a band of Indians that had run off the stock
from a neighboring ranch, we found one of our
men unable to sit in his saddle from wounds.
We removed the saddle from his horse and
bound him at length along the back, and did
our best to make him as comfortable as pos-
sible. He rode along quietly for some time, and
then asked to be put on Two-Bits. Afterthis,

* To show that he was no respecter of persons, I must admit that he twice did the same thing for me.


the horse was a greater favorite than ever with
the men. Not one of our party could have
been made to believe that Two-Bits did not
understand the necessity of treading gently with
his sensitive burden; and I must admit that
when our road lay down some bowlder-strewn
declivity, the horse seemed careful to select the
places for his feet, and certainly was tediously
slow. I confess I am of the opinion of the
men; I believe the horse fully understood the
condition of his charge, and the necessity of
going slowly and gently in rough places. The
man reached the post hospital in safety and re-
covered; and from the day of his recovery Two-
Bits had another devoted friend and guardian.

As the Fourth of July, 1865, approached, in
the dearth of other material and the abundance
of horses, the citizens of Prescott determined
to offer a series of horse and pony races as attrac-
tions, and there was at once considerable excite-
ment in horse circles in consequence. Officers
of the garrison caught the excitement and vied
with the ranchmen and miners, and began look-
ing over their favorites with a view to capturing
the various bridles, saddles, etc., offered as prizes.
One race was to be for American horses only,
this name being used to distinguish the cavalry
horses and those brought from the East, from
the mustangs, Texas ponies, and broncos. The
gait for all horses was to be a run, under the
saddle, over distances ranging from five hundred
to eight hundred yards, according to whether
the contestants belonged to one or the other
of the classes mentioned,-the longer distance
being for the American horses.
A few days after the conditions of the race
were published, Cain proposed that I should
enter Two-Bits for the eight-hundred-yards race,
assuring me that if I would do so I was sure to
win the prize. But I pooh-poohed the sug-
gestion at once, and even ridiculed Cain for his
folly in imagining for a moment that Two-Bits
could compete with such steeds as were already
entered. I soon found that I had plunged the
ambitious fifer into the depths of despair. For
several days he moped about his duties in a

silent and dejected manner, until his evident
misery aroused my compassion. So one morn-
ing after he had completed the housework of
my quarters, I asked him to remain a few mo-
ments, and then referred to the subject, which I
knew had full possession of his thoughts, with
the question:
"You do not suppose, Cain, that so old a
horse as Two-Bits would stand any chance in
this race ? "
He would, jist, sor!" he answered with em-
"But he is very old, Cain. He must be
twenty, at the very least."
"Yis, sor, and he grows faster as he grows
older, sor."
Evidently there was no use in arguing against
Two-Bits, with a person so prejudiced as Cain;
but I continued:
"Your love for your old favorite, Cain, mis-
leads you as to his capabilities. I know him to
be easy and free under the saddle, and the best
horse I ever rode, but it is not reasonable to
expect him, at his age, to beat young horses,
after all the ill-treatment he has undergone."
"I wish the Liftinent would jist give me the
trial of him, that's all. There 's not a baste in
these parts can bate him "
But you are not reasonable about this, Cain.
Because Two-Bits won a race five years ago,
it does not follow that he can do so now. There
is that fine black of King Woolsey's-what pos-
sible chance is there that any horse in Arizona
can take the lead of him ? "
That's jist it, sor. The consate of that man
Woolsey nades a rebuke, sor. Two-Bits can
give him one, asy. I know the horse, sor. If
the Liftinent will pardon an would soldier for mak-
in' so bould as to sit up an opinion against his,
I beg lave to remoind him that I have rode the
winning horse at miny a race in the would coun-
try and in this; and while I 'm free to admit
that Two-Bits does not aquel the racin'-stock
o' the quality and gintry, he is far beyant any-
thing this side o' the weather "
"Well, Cain, leave me now to consider the
matter, and call again in an hour."
Left alone, I was not long in coming to the
conclusion that the soldier should be indulged
in his wish to enter Two-Bits for the race. Ac-


cordingly, when the fifer returned for my de-
cision, I said:
I am going to allow you to run him, Cain.
I look upon the horse as your discovery. He
has cost me literally nothing."
Thank you, sor, and you '11 win the prize,"
said Cain.
S "No ; I don't care for the prize. I will pay
the entrance fee, and if you win the race the prize
shall be your own."
S When I recalled the many evidences I had
had of Two-Bits' speed in pursuit of Indians, and
in retreats when the Indian in turn was pursuer,
and my life had depended upon his gait and his
Endurance, I could not but hope he would win.
On the day of the race I sat, by no means a
calm and disinterested spectator, on a bench
near the goal. After the race of ponies, mus-
tangs, and broncos, came the principal race--
that of American horses. I will spare the
reader details of the race further than to say
that, to the surprise of everybody but Joe Cain, it
ended as at Fort Craig. Two-Bits came in with
dilated nostrils and blazing eyes, amid the thun-
dering cheers of the soldiers, fully two lengths
ahead. Cain led him back to the fort, escorted
the whole distance by admiring blue-coats. At
the stables, Cain sat on an inverted grain-meas-
ure and told over for the hundredth time the
way the horse received the name Two-Bits, and
how he had discovered the old horse, friend-
less and broken down, in the Whipple corral,
and having built him up to his present beau-
tiful proportions, had once more ridden him to
I have related the foregoing incidents in an
attempt to interest the reader in the personality
of my horse. He is the hero of the story-
the men are only accessories. The incident to
which all this is a preface must have a chapter
by itself.


IN the fall of the year 1865, the Indian
troubles became so serious that only with the
greatest difficulty could we maintain our com-
munications with the outer world. Every little
while an express-rider would fail to make his

appearance when due, and an expedition sent
in search of him often found his body in the
road, in some rugged defile or thick chaparral,
stripped, scalped, and disfigured, the contents
of the express-pouch scattered for yards around,
all letters broken open, and the illustrated papers
torn into shreds, while the newspapers were sim-
ply thrown aside. The peril became so great
in time that single riders could not be hired for
the service, and at last only cavalrymen in par-
ties of five were sent on this dangerous duty.
Even numbers was not always a protection, as
I once found when, sent to look for a missing
express, I discovered all the men dead together.
On the 2oth of October a dispatch was re-
ceived with accompanying instructions that it
should be forwarded without delay to Santa F6.
Accordingly, I advertised for an express-rider,
offering the highest pay allowed for the service.
The route on the northeast was not considered
to be so dangerous as those lying to the east,
south, or west. Still there was no response to
my offer, and I began to consider the expediency
of asking for a detail from the cavalry, when a
proposition came from an unexpected quarter.
The man whom I have before mentioned as
having been wounded during an Indian expe-
dition and brought to the fort on the back of
Two-Bits, came into my office, and offered to
carry the dispatch, provided I would let him
ride Two-Bits.
This man's name was Porter. He was a
Londonderry Irishman by birth and was now
sergeant in the infantry company. Years after-
wards we learned that he was of gentle descent,
and a graduate of Edinburgh University. He
was a handsome, soldierly fellow, of refined
features, gentlemanly bearing, good height, and
undoubted courage. He entered my office, as
1 before stated, and said he would take the
mail to Fort Wingate if I would lend him
But Two-Bits is my private property, Ser-
geant, and is not subject to such service," I
I know that, sir; but he has many qualities
which fit him for it."
Not more than half a dozen other horses in
the corral, Sergeant."
No horse has just his qualities, sir. He is


especially fitted for dangerous service such
as this. He is fleet, he will not whinny nor
do anything to attract attention in an Indian
country. He will not desert his rider if turned
loose, and he will not be stampeded if his rider
sleeps while he grazes."
You seem to have studied his character
"Yes, sir, I know Two-Bits very well; but
not better than yourself, or most of the men of
the garrison. He is a remarkable horse. He is
well drilled and he is very intelligent. He always
seems to understand what is expected of him."
"But really, Sergeant, I do not like to let
him go on such a trip. I fear I should never
see him again. The trip would be a tremendous
strain upon the old horse."
He shall have the tenderest care, sir. I
will treat him as he deserves."
"I have no doubt of that, Sergeant. He
would be treated well by all of our men. In
fact, he is always made a pet of by every one.
I will think of it. Call again later."
After Sergeant Porter went out, I walked over
to the quarters of the commanding officer and
told him of the proposition. He at once fell in
with the plan and advised me to let the horse
go. He said the horse could not be in better
hands, and that doubtless he would go through
safely, without fatigue, and return to me in a few
weeks. He said he would convene a board of
officers to appraise the horse, so that if he should
be lost I could put in a claim for reimbursement.
I agreed, and next day the board sat and ap-
praised the value of my five-dollar horse at
nearly $200 in gold.
On the morning of the 25th of October, Ser-
geant Porter, mounted on Two-Bits, rode out of
Fort Whipple, amid the hearty good wishes and
handshakes of men and officers. He carried
a mail pouch weighing twenty pounds, an over-
coat and three blankets, a carbine and two re-
volvers, and six days' rations.
The adventures of horse and rider, after we
saw them disappear behind the" red rocks," five
miles below the fort, were related to me in 1867,
at Fort Sumner, New Mexico, by Porter, who
had in the mean time been appointed a lieuten-
ant in the army. I had not seen him since he
started on his journey.

For three days the ride was without incident
worth relating. On the fourth he did not leave
his stopping-place until one o'clock in the after-
noon. At two o'clock he found himself on the
crest of a range of hills overlooking a plain
which extended right and left almost to the
horizon, and in front at least twenty miles, to
the broken and hilly country beyond. It was as
level as the surface of a lake. From the edge
of the plain stretched the narrow thread of the
Military road, straight across to the foot-hills
beyond. The road down the declivity to the
plain being rough and stony, the sergeant dis-
mounted and followed his horse, allowing him
to pick his way and take his own gait. When
he arrived at the foot of the range, he noticed
that there lay between him and the plain, and
parallel to its edge, a long low ridge. He halted
in the ravine formed by the ridge and the foot-
hills to tighten girth and straps and readjust his
luggage before taking the road over the plain.
While engaged in this operation, Porter noticed
that, at the point where he stood, the road
divided into two; these passed over the ridge
a hundred yards apart, descended on the other
side, and met again in one road about a mile
out on the plain. The reason for this division
was that the left-hand road had become badly
gullied in one of the rare and violent rainfalls
peculiar to that region, and the wagoners had
made a new one to avoid its roughness.
Finishing the adjustment of the saddle and its
attached parcels, the sergeant still postponed re-
mounting, and followed his horse slowly up the
ridge, leaving the choice of roads to the animal,
it being a matter of indifference to a horseman
whether the road was gullied or not. Two-Bits
took the left-hand road, and moved leisurely up
the slope, raising his head high as he approached
the crest to look beyond it. Suddenly he stopped
and stood perfectly rigid, his ears set forward
and his eyes fixed upon some object, evidently
in alarm. Porter crept carefully forward and
looked beyond the ridge. Behind a mass of
granite bowlders which skirted the left of the
other road, four Indian ponies could be seen
picketed. Evidently their riders were among
the rocks watching for the express-rider they
had seen descending from the range. They
naturally supposed that he would pass along the


usually traveled road. Nothing but the acci-
dent that Two-Bits took the old road prevented
the sergeant from falling into the ambuscade
and ending his life there. From the old road
the ponies were plainly visible in a nook among
the bowlders; from the newer road they could
not have been seen.
The sergeant backed Two-Bits sufficiently to
put him out of sight of the Indians. When all
was ready, Porter patted the old horse affection-
ately on the neck and said, Now, old fellow,

he could reload without a second's delay, and,
aiming carefully, fired, killing the pony instantly.
He reloaded, and as an Indian sprang from
cover to see where the shot came from, he caught
the second bullet and fell across the dead pony.
Not another Indian showed himself until Porter
was well out upon the plain; then he heard
the shrill staccato of the Navajo war-whoop,
and glancing backward over his shoulder saw
three Indians pursuing at the top of their ponies'
speed. Two-Bits threw himself into the task


everything depends upon your legs." Porter
always maintained that Two-Bits understood
the coming struggle as fully as he did himself.
When all was completed, Porter mounted and
rode slowly over the ridge and slowly down the
opposite slope. He was anxious that the Indians
should not discover him until he should be well
beyond the gullies in the road. These he passed
safely, and, as he rose to the level ground beyond,
he noticed that one of the mustangs in the bowl-
ders was holding his head high, watching his
movements. It occurred to the sergeant that
to kill a pony would be equal to killing an In-
dian. He took a cartridge in his palm, so that

of running away from the mustangs with all the
elasticity and grace that had distinguished him
on the racecourse, and had always led to vic-
tory. He settled down to a long and steady
pace which promised soon to leave his pursuers
far behind. The soldier was beginning to con-
gratulate himself upon his wisdom in insisting
upon having Two-Bits for his service. With every
spring the old horse seemed to be fast widen-
ing the distance between the Indians and their
intended victim; and this continued for about
half a dozen miles, when Porter reluctantly ob-
served that no further change in his favor was
evident. In fact, it soon became evident that


the Navajos were slowly and surely closing up
on him.
This was not at all strange. Two-Bits was an
American horse, accustomed in garrison and
camp to his twelve pounds of grain daily; a
kind of horse that will invariably run down in
flesh on a grazing diet. The mustangs lived en-
tirely upon grass and grew fat and kept in good
condition even when subjected to the roughest
usage. Two-Bits was heavily loaded and had
tasted no grain for four days; the mustangs were
lightly mounted and filled with their accustomed
forage. Two-Bits was old and the mustangs were
young. The odds were decidedly against the
veteran war-horse; but he kept on with his long
powerful gallop, while the Indian ponies came
on with a short, quick, tireless clatter which
never changed its cadence and threatened to
overtake the sergeant before he could gain the
shelter of the hills, still many miles away.
The flight and pursuit over the plain had to
be confined closely to the road. Outside of the
track the vegetation would seriously wound and
disable an animal attempting to go through its
spiked obstructions.
At last an arrow flew between Porter's shoul-
der and ear. Turning in his saddle, he fired,
breaking the leading Navajo's arm and causing
him to fall into the road, while his riderless pony
stopped by the wayside and began at once to
graze. As the sergeant dropped his carbine by
his right side to place a new cartridge in the
breech, an arrow struck his right hand, his fingers
relaxed, and the precious weapon dropped into
the road. He could not stop to recover it,-it
would be useless with a badly wounded hand,-
so he plunged wearily on, looking at the broken
fingers and flowing blood, with his first serious
misgivings. His chances of getting out of this
scrape alive seemed desperate indeed. With his
skill as a marksman, he had all along thought
that he should soon pick off all his enemies; but
with no carbine and a useless right hand the
chances were much against him.
Resolving, like a brave man, to die game,
Porter hastily bound his handkerchief about his
wounded hand, and drew a revolver in his left.
Turning, he fired shot after shot, but without
effect except to keep'the two Indians hanging
over the sides of their horses, until, conceiving

a contempt for his inaccurate aim, they sat up-
right, and sent arrow after arrow toward him.
The distance was still too great for these primi-
tive missiles to be fully effective, but two pierced
his shoulders, and the shafts of three could be
seen switching up and down in the quarters of
Two-Bits as he galloped wearily on. A lucky
shot caused one of the Indians to rein up sud-
denly, dismount, and sit down by the roadside.
The last Navajo kept on, however, with all the
eagerness with which he began the chase ap-
parently unabated, and soon he wounded Por-
ter again, and this time along the ribs. In very
desperation, the sergeant then suddenly turned
his horse to the right-about, bore down quickly
upon the Indian pony, and before his rider had
time to recover from his surprise at the unex-
pected attack he sent his last remaining shot
crashing into the brain of the mustang. The
little horse swerved out of the track and fell
headlong into a cactus, and before the Indian
could extricate himself Two-Bits and his rider
had wheeled and were out of arrow-range.
The pursuit was at an end, and it would no
doubt be pleasant to the reader of this story of
a horse if I could say that the sergeant and
Two-Bits were now safe. But they were very
far from safe. When well beyond any chance
of pursuit from the last and ponyless Navajo,
Porter slid painfully from his saddle to examine
into his own and his horse's injuries. No arrows
were left in his own body, but he was badly
lacerated and had bled profusely, until he was
scarcely able to stand. The horse had received
seven wounds, and three arrows were still stick-
ing in his flesh. These were not deeply in, and
were easily removed; but a long cut along the
ribs, from hind to fore quarters, had torn the
skin badly and still bled profusely. Porter
bound up his own wounds with fair success,
but he could do nothing for the horse. Neither
could he relieve Two-Bits by walking. The
horse refused a ration of hard bread offered
him, and there remained nothing to be done
but for the sergeant to drag himself painfully
into the saddle and resume his journey. Re-
mounting was not accomplished without great
difficulty, and only by the aid of a date-tree
which forked, conveniently, two feet from the
ground. Speed was now out of the question,



and the horse simply limped along at a feeble
walk. The excitement of the chase was over,
and the nerves of both man and beast had lost
their tension.
When the pursuit ended, Porter found him-
self near the border of the plain from which the



horse in a desert country without water might
unfit him for further effort, and without a horse
there was no hope for the man to pass over the
long remaining distance to Wingate. It was this
very hopelessness which caused the soldier to
press on into the increasing darkness, putting

.- z -^


road led up into a rugged and hilly country, off a halt which he felt must be final. Still
and it was already growing toward twilight, creeping slowly along, he at last surmounted
The miles stretched wearily out, and there a height overlooking a narrow valley, and on
seemed no better prospect than to dismount the other side saw a bright fire burning, which
and try to find rest, even though rest for the occasionally disappeared and reappeared as if






r:' :-i
I. i



persons were passing before it. The hopes ot
the soldier were at once revived at the prospect
of reaching friends and assistance, but the hopes
were as quickly depressed by the fear that the
fire might be that of an enemy,- probably a
party of Navajos, for this was their country.
But even a foe might prove to be a friend to
one in his plight, so he pressed on.
Two-Bits was so weak that he hardly more
than moved, and hours elapsed before the valley
was crossed and he brought his rider near the
fire. He was ascending the hillside on which the
fire was burning when the rattle of halter-chains
over feed-boxes-a sound familiar to a soldier's
ears came plainly through the evening air,
and Porter knew that he was near a Govern-
ment train. With the welcome sound he grew
faint and fell from the saddle to the ground
senseless. Two-Bits kept on into camp, ap-
proached the camp-fire, looked into the faces of
the guard which sat about its cheerful blaze,
turned, as if to retrace his steps, staggered, fell,
and died.

The unexpected appearance of a horse, sad-
dled and bridled, a mail-bag strapped on his
back, his saddle covered with blood, his body
wounded in half a dozen places, his sudden fall
and death, started the whole camp into activity.
The military escort was soon under arms, horses
and mules were quickly saddled, and lanterns
were soon hurrying down the road. The search-
ers had not far to go before they came upon the
sergeant, lying apparently lifeless. He was taken
into camp, tenderly cared for, and next day taken
to Fort Wingate, the place for which the train
was bound.
Was Two-Bits left to be food for the coyotes ?
No. Sergeant Porter told his story, and the
command being of the company stationed at
Fort Craig at the time of the first race men-
tioned in these columns, it was not difficult to
find a few sympathetic old soldiers who yielded
to the earnest request of the wounded express-
rider and buried his equine friend and comrade
deeply, and heaped a mound of stones over his



THE rules governing American foot-ball are
an outgrowth or development of the English
Rugby foot-ball game, the very name of which
at once recalls to every reader the well-beloved
"Tom Brown."
The credit of introducing these rules among
our colleges belongs entirely to Harvard, who
had learned them from the Canadians and were
at the outset won by the superior opportunities
offered by the new game for strategy and gen-
eralship as well as for clever individual playing.
After Harvard had played for a year or two with
our northern neighbors, Yale was persuaded to
adopt these English rules, and in 1876 the first
match between two American college teams un-

der the Rugby Union rules was played. Since
that time the code has undergone many changes,
the greater number being made necessary by the
absolute lack of any existing foot-ball lore or
tradition on American soil. The English game
was one of traditions. "What has been done
can be done; what has not been done must be
illegal," answered any question which was not
fully foreseen in their laws of the game.
For the first few years, our college players
spent their time at conventions in adding rules
to settle vexed problems continually arising, to
which the English rules offered no solution. In
this way the rules rapidly multiplied until the
number was quite double that of the original


code. Then followed the process of excision,
and many of the old English rules which had
become useless were dropped. During the last
few years the foot-ball law-makers have changed
but two or three rules a year. The method of
making alterations has also been perfected.
In order to avoid the petty dissensions inci-
dent to contests so recent that the wounds of
defeat were yet tender, an Advisory Committee
of graduates has been appointed and all altera-
tion of rules is in their hands. They meet once
a year to propose any changes that appear to
them necessary. They submit such propositions
to the Intercollegiate Association for discussion
and approval. Provided this Association ap-
prove of them, they are then, by the Secretary
of the Advisory Committee, incorporated in the
rules for the following season. In case the Asso-
ciation take exception to any, they are returned
to the Advisory Board, and if they then receive
the votes of four out of the five members, they
become laws in spite of the disapproval of the
Association. This has never yet occurred, nor
has there been anything to mar the harmony
existing between the two bodies.
No change, then, is possible unless suggested
by a body of men, not immediate participants
in the sport, who have had the benefits of past
experience. This most excellent state of affairs
was the result of suggestions emanating from
an informal conference held some years ago in
New York, at which were present members of
the Faculties of Harvard, Princeton, and Yale.
These gentlemen were at that time carefully
watching the growth of the sport, and were pre-
pared to kill or encourage it according to
its deserts. Their suggestions have rendered
most substantial aid to the game, and made
its law-making the most conservative and thor-
oughly well considered of all rules governing
college contests.
How does the English game differ from the
American ? is a very common question, and in
answering it one should first state that there are
two games in England,- one "the Rugby"
and the other the Association." These dif-
fer radically, the Association being more like
the old-fashioned sport that existed in this
country previous to the introduction of the
Rugby. In the Association game the players

can not run with the ball in their hands or
arms, but move it rapidly along the ground
with their feet-" dribble the ball," as their
expression has it. Of course, then, a com-
parison between our game and the Associ-
ation is out of the question. To the Rugby
Union, however, our game still bears a striking
resemblance, the vital point of difference being
the outlet to the "scrimmage" or "down." In
the English game, when the ball is held and put
down for what they call a scrimmagee," both
sides gather about in a mass, and each endeav-
ors by kicking the ball to drive it in the direc-
tion of the opponents' goal. Naturally, there is
a deal of pushing and hacking and some clever
work with the feet, but the exact exit of the ball
from the scrummage can not be predicted or
anticipated. When it does roll out, the man
who is nearest endeavors to get it and make a
run or a kick. The American scrimmage, while
coming directly from the English play, bears
now no similarity to it. Instead of an indis-
criminate kicking struggle we have the snap-
back and quarter-back play. The snap-back
rolls the ball back with his foot; the quarter
seizes it and passes it to any man for whom the
ball is destined in the plan of the play. In other
respects, with the exception of greater liberties
in assisting a runner, it would not be a very
difficult task to harmonize our game with the
While the game has in the last ten years grown
rapidly in popular favor, it would not be fair to
suppose that all of the ten or fifteen thousand
spectators who gather to witness one of the great
matches have clearly defined ideas of the rules
which govern the contest. Many of the tech-
nical terms they hear used are also Greek to
them, and it would undoubtedly add to their
enjoyment of the game to give a few clues to
chief plays of interest.
While awaiting the advent of the players,
one looks down on the field and sees a rect-
angular space a little over a hundred yards
long and a trifle more than fifty yards wide,
striped transversely with white lines, which give
it the aspect of a huge gridiron. These lines
are five yards apart, and their only purpose is to
assist the referee in judging distances. There is
a rule which says that in three attempts a side


must advance the ball five, or take it back twenty
yards under penalty of surrendering it to the
opponents. The field is therefore marked out
with these five-yard lines, by means of which
the referee can readily tell the distance made at
each attempt. The gallows-like arrangements at
the ends of the field are the goal posts, and in
order to score a goal the ball must be kicked
over a cross-bar extending between the posts by
any kind of a kick except a "punt." That is,
it must be by a "drop kick," which is made by
letting the ball fall from the hand and kicking
it as it rises from the ground; by a "place
kick," which is from a position of rest on the
ground; or finally even from a rolling kick. A
"punt" is a kick made by dropping the ball
from the hand and kicking it before it strikes
the ground, and such a kick can under no cir-
cumstances score a goal. Scoring is only pos-
sible at the ends of the field, and all the work
one sees performed in the middle of the ground
is only the struggle to get the ball to the goal.
There are two ways in which points may be
made: By kicking the ball, as above described,
over the goal, and by touching it down behind
the goal line. A "safety is made when a side
are so sorely pressed that they carry the ball
behind their own goal line, and not when it is
kicked there by the enemy. In the latter case,
it is called a "touchback," and does not score

" down." Such a play entitles his side to a try-
at-goal," and if they succeed in kicking the ball
over the bar, then the goal only scores and not
the touchdown; but if they miss the try, they
are still entitled to the credit of the touchdown.
A goal can also be made without the interven-
tion of a touchdown; that is, it may be kicked
direct from the field, either from a drop kick or
a place kick, or even when it is rolling or bound-
ing along the ground. This latter, however, is
very unusual. In the scoring, the value of a field
kick goal is only five, of a goal kicked from
a touchdown, six; if the touchdown does not
result in a goal it counts four, and a safety by
the opponents counts the other side two.
When the game begins, the ball is placed in
the center of the field and put in play, or kicked
off, as it is termed, by the side which has lost
the choice of goal. From that time forward,
during forty-five minutes of actual play, the two
sides struggle to make goals and touchdowns
against each other. Of the rules governing their
attempts to carry the ball to the enemies' quarters,
the most important are those of off side and on
side. In a general way it may be said that "off
side means between the ball and the oppo-
nents' goal, while "on side means between the
ball and one's own goal. A player is barred
from taking part in the play or handling the
ball, when in the former predicament. When a


either for or against the side making it. A
"touchdown is made when a player carries the
ball across his opponents' goal line and there has
it down, i. e., either cries down or puts it on
the ground; or if he secures the ball after it has
crossed his opponents' goal line and then has it

ball has been kicked by a player, all those of
his side who are ahead of him, that is, between
him and his opponents' goal, are off side, and
even though the ball go over their heads they
are still off side until the ball has been touched
by an opponent, or until the man who kicked it


has run up ahead of them. Either of these two
events puts them on side again. Any player who
is on side may run with or kick the ball, and his
opponents may tackle him whenever he has the
ball in his arms. It is fair for them to tackle
him in any way except below the knees. They
must not, however, throttle or choke him, nor
can players use the closed fist. The runner may
push his opponents off with his open hand or
arm, in any way he pleases, and ability to do this
well goes far toward making a successful runner.
When a player having the ball is tackled and
fairly held so that his advance is checked, and
he can not pass the ball, the player tackling
him cries out Held i The runner must say
Down," and the ball is then put on the ground
for a scrimmage. Any player of the side which
had possession of the ball can then put it in play.
Usually the "snap-back," as he is called, does
this work. He places the ball on the ground,
and then with his foot (or hand) rolls the ball
back, or kicks it forward or to one side, generally
for a player of his own side to seize. When the
ball is rolled or snapped back, the man who first
receives it is called the quarter-back, and he
can not run forward with it. When, however,
it is kicked sideways or ahead, any one except
the snap-back and the opposing player opposite
him can run with it.
"Free kicks" are those where the opponents
are restrained by rule from interfering with the ball
or player until the kick is made. At the com-
Smencement of the game, the side which has lost
the choice of goals has a free kick from the cen-
ter of the field; and when a goal has been scored
the side which has lost it has a free kick from the
same location. Any player who fairly catches
the ball on the fly from an opponent's kick, has a
free kick, provided he makes a mark with his heel
on the spot of the catch. A side which has made
a touchdown has a free kick at the goal, and a
side which has made a safety or a touchback
has a free kick from any spot behind the twenty-
five-yard line. This line is the fifth white line
from their goal, and upon that mark the oppo-
Snents may line up.
A violation of any rule is called a foul, and
the other side has the privilege of putting the
ball down where the foul was made. Certain
fouls are punished by additional penalties. A

player is immediately disqualified for striking
with the closed fist or unnecessary roughness. A
side loses twenty-five yards, or the opponents
may have a free kick, as a penalty for throttling,
tripping up, or tackling below the knees. For
off-side play a side loses five yards. A player
may pass or throw the ball in any direction ex-
cept toward his opponents' goal. When the ball
goes out of bounds at the side, it is "put in" at
the spot where it crossed the line by a player of
the side first securing the ball. He bounds or
throws the ball in; or he may, if he prefers, walk
out with it any distance not greater than fifteen
paces, and put it down for a scrimmage.

Of the two individuals one sees on the field in
citizen's dress, one is the umpire and the other the
referee. These two gentlemen are selected to see
that the rules are observed and to settle any ques-
tions arising during the progress of the game.
It is the duty of the umpire to decide all points
directly connected with the players' conduct,
while the referee decides questions of the posi-
tion or progress of the ball. The original rules
provided that the captains of the two sides
should settle all disputes; but this, at the very
outset, was so manifestly out of the question that
a provision was made for a referee. Then, as
the captains had their hands full in commanding
their teams, two judges were appointed, and it
was the duty of these judges to make all claims
for their respective sides. These judges soon be-
came so importunate with their innumerable
claims as to harass the referee beyond all en-
durance. The next step, therefore, was to do
away with the judges and leave the referee sole


master of the field. Even then the referee found
so much that it was impossible for him to watch,
that it was decided to appoint a second man,
called an umpire, to assist him. This umpire
assumed the responsibility of seeing that the
players committed no fouls, thus leaving the
referee's undivided attention to be devoted to
following the course of the ball.
This has proved so wonderfully successful
that the base-ball legislators are seriously con-
sidering the question of adopting a similar system
of dividing the work between two umpires.

gradual development from the English Rugby,
are peculiarly interesting, showing as they do
the inventive faculty of our college players.
The way in which the quarter-back play was
suggested and perfected illustrates this very
strongly. Our players began exactly as the Eng-
lishmen, by putting the ball on the ground, clos-
ing around it, and then kicking until it rolled
out somewhere. In the first season of this style
of scrimmage play, they made the discovery that
far from being an advantage to kick the ball
through, it often resulted in a great disadvan-


There are two general divisions of players,
the "rushers" or "forwards," so called because
they constitute the front rank of the foot-ball
army; and the backs, called the quarter-back,
the half-backs or halves, and the full-back or
goal-tend. The quarter has been already de-
scribed. The halves, of whom there are two,
play several yards behind the rushers, and do
the kicking or artillery work. The goal-tend is
really only a third half-back, his work being
almost the same as that of the halves.
The changes the game has undergone in its

tage, for it gave the opponents a chance to se-
cure the ball and make a run. The players,
therefore, would station a man a short distance
behind the scrimmage, and the rushers in front
would manage to so cleverly assist the kicking
of the opponents as to let the ball come through
directly to this player, who had then an excellent
opportunity to run around the mass of men be-
fore they realized that the ball had escaped.
Soon an adventurous spirit discovered that he
could so place his foot upon the ball that by
pressing suddenly downwards and backwards



with his toe he would drag or snap the ball to
the man behind him. At first, naturally, the
snap-back was not sufficiently proficient to be
always sure in his aim, but it did not take long
to make the play a very accurate one, and in the
games to-day it is unusual for the snap-back to
fail in properly sending the ball to his quarter.
Originally the quarter was wont to run with or
kick the ball, but now as a rule he passes it to
one of the halves or to a rusher who has come
behind him, instead of making the run himself.
The quarter then directs the course of the play,
so that scientific planning is possible; whereas
in the old method the element of chance was
far greater than that of skill.
One frequently hears old players speak of
the block game and its attendant evils. This
was a system of play by which an inferior team
was enabled to escape defeat by keeping con-
tinual possession of the ball, while actually
making but a pretense of play. So great did
the evil become, that in 1882 a rule was made,
which has already been mentioned, to the effect
that a side must make an advance of five
yards or retreat ten* in three scrimmages. The
penalty for not doing this is the loss of the ball
to the opponents. A kick is considered equiva-
lent to an advance, even though the same side
should, by some error of the opponents, regain
the ball when it comes down. The natural
working of this rule, as spectators of the game
will readily see, is to cause a side to make one
or two attempts to advance by the running style
of play, and then, if they have not made the
necessary five yards, to pass the ball back to a
half for a kick. The wisdom of this play is evi-
dent. If they find they must lose the ball, they
wish it to fall to their opponents as far down the
field as possible, and so they send it by a long
kick as near the enemies' goal as they can.
One other rule, besides this one, has had a de-
velopment worthy of particular attention. It is
the one regarding the value of the points scored.
At first, goals only were scored. Then touch-
downs were brought in, and a match was decided
by a majority of these, while a goal received a
certain equivalent value in touchdowns. Then
the scoring of safeties was introduced; but only
in this way, that in case no other point was
scored a side making four less safeties than their
VOL. XVII.-6. This was altered rec

opponents should win the match. A goal kicked
from a touchdown had always been considered
of greater value than a field-kick goal, but it
was not until the scoring had reached the point
of counting safeties, that it was decided to give
numerical values to the various points in order
that matches might be more surely and satisfac-
torily decided. From this eventually came the
method of scoring as mentioned earlier in this
A few diagrams illustrative of the general
position of the players when executing various
maneuvers will assist the reader in obtaining an
insight into the plays. As there are no hard
and fast rules for these positions they are de-
pendent upon the judgment of each individual
captain; nevertheless the following diagrams
indicate in a general way the formations most
The first diagram shows the measurements
of the field as well as the general position of two
teams just previous to the kick-off, or opening
of the game. While the front rank are all called
forwards or rushers, distinctive names are given
to the individual positions. These also are noted
on this first diagram.
The forwards of the side which has the kick,
"line up" even with the ball, while their oppo-
nents take up their positions ten yards away.
They are not permitted to approach nearer
until the ball is touched with the foot. For-
merly, when it was the practice at kick-off to
send the ball as far down the field as possible,
the opponents were wont to drop two forwards,
near the ends of the line, back a few feet; thus
providing for a short kick. The quarter took his
place in a straight line back from the ball some
sixty or seventy feet, while the two halves and
the back stood sufficiently distant to be sure of
catching a long kick. The positions of the side
kicking the ball were not so scattered. All their
forwards and the quarter stood even with the
ball, ready to dash down the field; while the
halves and back stood only a short distance be-
hind them, because as soon as the ball was sent
down the field they would be in proper places
to receive a return kick from the opponents.
The kick-off of the present day is more apt to
be a "dribble," or a touching the ball with the
foot and then passing or running with it. The
gently to twenty yards.


result of this is that the opponents mass more the man who is to play the ball. Diagram 2
compactly, the halves and quarter not playing illustrates the position at the moment of the kick-
far down the field and the rushers at the ends off. The kicker touches the ball with his foot,
not dropping back. The side having the kick, picks it up and hands it to the runner who is

330 FEET

I I I '
, I i I I
3 I I I I

3N1 HOnOl
13N 3 0oH
SNHnO ao HOflOl

S --

keeping in mind, of course, the particular play
they intend to make, assume positions that shall
the most readily deceive their opponents, if
possible, and yet most favor the success of their
For instance, an opening play quite common
last year was the "wedge" or "V." In dia-
grams 2 and 3 are shown the positions in this
play. As the players "line out" they assume as
nearly as possible the regular formation, in order

o 0
I 0 0 0 0
that their opponents may not at once become
too certain of their intention. As soon, how-
ever, as play has been called, one sees the rushers
closing up to the center and the player who is
to make the running, dropping in close behind

coming just behind him. The forwards at once
dash forward, making a V-shaped mass of men
just within the angle of which trots along the
runner. Diagram 3 shows them at this point.
But this wedge no sooner meets the opposing
line, than the formation becomes more or less
unsteady, exactly in proportion to the strength
and skill of the opponents. Against untrained
players the wedge moves without great difficulty,
often making twenty or thirty yards before it
is broken. Skillful opponents will tear it apart
much more speedily.
Now comes the most scientific part of the
play; namely, the outlet for the runner and
ball. There are two ways of successfully mak-
ing this outlet. One is to have a running half-
back moving along outside the wedge, taking
care to be a little behind the runner so that
the ball may be passed to him without com-
mitting the foul of passing it ahead. When
the wedge begins to go to pieces, the ball is
dexterously thrown out to him and he has an
excellent opportunity for a run, because the
opposing rushers are so involved in breaking the


wedge that they can not get after him quickly.
Diagram 4 illustrates this. The second, and by
far the most successful when well played, is for
two of the forwards in the wedge to suddenly
separate and in their separation to push their
opponents aside with their bodies, so that a



0o o
0 0

pathway is opened for the runner, so he can
dart out with the ball. Diagram 5 shows this.
The wedge formation is a good play from
any free kick, because the opponents are so re-
strained by being obliged to keep behind a certain
spot, that time is given for the wedge to form and
acquire some headway before they can meet it.
The formation of the side which has the ball
in a scrimmage, next occupies our attention.
As stated before in this article, it is customary
for them to make two attempts to advance the


ball by a run before resorting to a kick. There
is some slight difference in the ways they form
for these two styles of play. Diagram 6 shows
the formation just previous to the run. The
forwards are lined out, blocking their respective
opponents, while the halves and backs generally
bunch somewhat in order to deceive the oppo-
nents as to which man is to receive the ball, as
well as to assist him, when he starts, by blocking
off the first tacklers.
Diagram 7 shows the line of a half-back's run
through the rushers. A and B endeavor, as he
comes, to separate (by the use of their bodies, for
they can not use their hands or arms to assist
their runner) the two rushers in front of them,
that the runner may get through between them.

Diagram 8 shows still another phase of the
running-game, where a rusher runs around be-
hind the quarter, taking the ball from him on
the run and making for an opening on the other
side, or even on the very end.
Diagram 9 shows the formation when, having

SI f I I I



made two attempts and not having advanced
the ball five nor lost twenty yards, the side pre-
fers to take a kick rather than risk a third fail-
ure, which would give the ball to the opponents
on the spot of the next "down." The forma-
tion is very like that for the run, except that
the distance between the forward line and the
halves is somewhat increased and the three men
are strung out rather more.
Let us now consider the formation of the op-
posing side during these plays. There is but
___L_ -- I-I I


0 0

one formation for the opponents in facing the
running-game, and that is according to diagram
io. Of course they alter this whenever they
have the good fortune to discover where the
run is to be made, but this is seldom so evident
as to make much of an alteration in formation
safe. Their forwards line up, and their quarter
goes into the rush-line wherever he finds the
best opening. Their halves stand fairly close
up behind and their back only a little distance
further toward the goal. The formation, after the
two attempts to run have failed, is, however, quite
different in respect to the half-backs and backs.
They at once run rapidly back until they are all
three at a considerable distance from the for-
wards. The back stands as far as he thinks



it possible for the opposing half to kick, under
the most favorable circumstances, while the two
halves stand perhaps forty or fifty feet in advance,
ready to take the ball from a shorter kick. Dia-
gram 1 illustrates this.
In a "fair" or putting the ball in from the





touch (see diagram 12), the same general forma-
tion prevails as in the ordinary scrimmage, for it
is really nothing more than a scrimmage on the
side of the field instead of in the middle. It counts
the same as an ordinary "down" in respect to the
necessity of advancing five yards; that is, if a side
has made one attempt, from a down, to advance
and has carried the ball out of bounds, and
then makes another unsuccessful attempt to
advance but is obliged to have the ball down

again, without accomplishing the five-yard gain,
it must on the next attempt make the distance
or surrender the ball.
After a touchdown has been made, if a try-
at-goal is attempted by a place-kick,the forma-
tion is somewhat similar to a kick-off. (See
diagram 13.) The man who is to place the
ball lies flat on his stomach with the ball in his
hands, taking care that until the kicker is ready
it does not touch the ground, as that permits
the opponents to charge. The forwards line
up even with the ball, ready to run down
when it is kicked, in order that they may have
a chance of getting it, in case he misses the goal.
The other half and the back stand a few feet
behind the kicker. The position of the opponents
in this play is necessarily limited, for they are
obliged to stand behind their goal until the ball
is kicked. The same diagram .(13) shows the
position they assume. Their rushers undertake
to run forward and stop the ball, while their
halves and back are ready, in case it misses, to
make a touchback.
These diagrams cover the most important
plays of the game and give one an insight into the
general manipulation of players during match.



ANN LIZY was invited to spend the afternoon
and take tea with her friend Jane Baxter, and
she was ready to set forth about one o'clock.
That was the fashionable hour for children and
their elders to start when they were invited out
to spend the afternoon.
Ann Lizy had on her best muslin delaine
dress, her best embroidered pantalets, her black
silk apron, and her flat straw hat with long blue
ribbon streamers. She stood in the south room
-the sitting-room--before her grandmother,
who was putting some squares of patchwork,
with needle, thread, and scissors, into a green
silk bag embroidered with roses in bead-work.

"There, Ann Lizy," said her grandmother,
"you may take my bag if you are real careful
of it, and won't lose it. When you get to Jane's
you lay it on the table, and don't have it round
when you 're playing' outdoors."
Yes, ma'am," said Ann Lizy. She was look-
ing with radiant, admiring eyes at the bag its
cluster of cunningly wrought pink roses upon
the glossy green field of silk. Still there was a
serious droop to her mouth; she knew there
was a bitter to this sweet.
Now," said her grandmother, I 've put
four squares of patchwork in the bag; they 're
all cut and basted nice, and you must sew 'em



all, over and over, before you play any. Sew 'em
real fine and even, or you '11 have to pick the
stitches out when you get home."
Ann Lizy's radiant eyes faded; she hung her
head. She calculated swiftly that she could not
finish the patchwork before four o'clock, and
that would leave her only an hour and a half to
eat supper and play with Jane, for she would
have to come home at half-past five. Can't
I take two, and do the other two to-morrow,
Grandma ?" said she.
Her grandmother straightened herself disap-
provingly. She was a tall, wiry old woman with
strong handsome features showing through her
wrinkles. She had been so energetic all her life,
and done so much work, that her estimation of
it was worn, like scales. Four squares of patch-
work sewed with very fine even stitches had, to
her, no weight at all; it did not seem like work.
"Well, if a great girl like you can't sew four
squares of patchwork in an afternoon, I would n't
tell of it, Ann Lizy," said she. I don't know
what you 'd say if you had to work the way I
did at your age. If you can't have time enough
to play and do a little thing like that, you 'd
better stay at home. I ain't goin' to have you
idle a whole afternoon, if I know it. Time 's
worth too much to be wasted that way."
I 'd sew the others to-morrow," pleaded
Ann Lizy faintly.
"Oh, you would n't do it half so easy to-
morrow; you 've got to pick the currants for the
jell' to-morrow. Besides, that does n't make any
difference. To-day's work is to-day's work,
and it has n't anything to do with to-morrow's.
It's no excuse for idlin' one day, because you do
work the next. You take that patchwork, and
sit right down and sew it as soon as you get
there-don't put it off-and sew it nice too, or
you can stay at home-just which you like."
Ann Lizy sighed, but reached out her hand
for the bag. Now be careful and not lose it,"
said her grandmother, and be a good girl."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Don't run too hard, nor go to climbin'
walls, and get your best dress torn."
"No, ma'am."
"And only one piece of cake at tea-time."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And start for home at half-past five."

Yes, ma'am."
Little Ann Lizy Jennings, as she went down
the walk between the rows of pinks, had a be-
wildered feeling that she had been to Jane
Baxter's to tea, and was home again.
Her parents were dead, and she lived with
her Grandmother Jennings, who made her child-
hood comfortable and happy, except that at
times she seemed taken off her childish feet by
the energy and strong mind of the old woman,
and so swung a little way through the world in
her wake. But Ann Lizy received no harm
by it.
Ann Lizy went down the road with the bead
bag on her arm. She toed out primly, for she
had on her best shoes. A little girl, whom she
knew, stood at a gate in every-day clothes, and
Ann Lizy bowed to her in the way she had seen
the parson's wife bow, when out making calls in
her best black silk and worked lace veil. The
parson's wife was young and pretty, and Ann
Lizy admired her. It was quite a long walk to
Jane Baxter's, but it was a beautiful afternoon,
and the road was pleasant, although there were
not many houses. There were green fields and
flowering bushes at the sides, and, some of the
way, elm-trees arching over it. Ann Lizy would
have been very happy had it not been for the
patchwork. She had already pieced one patch-
work quilt, and her grandmother displayed it to
people with pride, saying, "Ann Lizy pieced that
before she was eight years old."
Ann Lizy had not as much ambition as her
grandmother, now she was engaged upon her
second quilt, and it looked to her like a checked
and besprigged calico mountain. She kept
dwelling upon those four squares, over and over,
until she felt as if each side were as long as the
Green Mountains. She calculated again and
again how little time she would have to play
with Jane--only about an hour, for she must
allow a half-hour for tea. She was not a swift
sewer when she sewed fine and even stitches,
and she knew she could not finish those squares
before four o'clock. One hour!-and she and
Jane wanted to play dolls, and make wreaths
out of oak-leaves, and go down in the lane after
thimble-berries, and in the garden for goose-
berries-there would be no time for anything!
Ann Lizy's delicate little face under the straw


flat grew more and more sulky and distressed,
her forehead wrinkled, and her mouth pouted.
She forgot to swing her muslin delaine skirts
gracefully, and flounced along hitting the dusty
meadow-sweet bushes.
Ann Lizy was about half-way to Jane Baxter's
house, in a lonely part of the road, when she
opened her bead bag and drew out her pocket-
handkerchief- her grandmother had tucked that
in with the patchwork- and wiped her eyes.
When she replaced the handkerchief, she put it
under the patchwork, and did not draw up the
bag again, but went on, swinging it violently by
one string.
When Ann Lizy reached Jane Baxter's gate,
she gave a quick, scared glance at the bag. It
looked very flat and limp. She did not open
it, and she said nothing about it to Jane. They
went out to play in the garden. There were so
many hollyhocks there that it seemed like a real
flower-grove, and the gooseberries were ripe.
Shortly after Ann Lizy entered Jane Baxter's
house, a white horse and a chaise passed down
the road in the direction from which she had
just come. There were three persons in the
chaise a gentleman, lady, and little girl. The
lady wore a green silk pelerine, and a green
bonnet with pink strings, and the gentleman a
blue coat and bell hat. The little girl had pretty
long, light curls, and wore a white dress and
blue sash. She sat on a little footstool down in
front of the seat. They were the parson's wife's
sister, her husband, and her little girl, and had
been to visit at the parsonage. The gentleman
drove the white horse down the road, and the
little girl looked sharply and happily at every-
thing by the way. All at once she gave a little
cry-" Oh, Father, what 's that in the road ?"
She saw Ann Lizy's patchwork, all four squares
nicely pinned together, lying beside the meadow-
sweet bushes. Her father stopped the horse, got
out, and picked up the patchwork.
Why," said the parson's wife's sister, "some
little girl has lost her patchwork; look, Sally !"
She '11 be sorry, won't she ? said the little
girl whose name was Sally.
The gentleman got back into the chaise, and
the three rode off with the patchwork. There
seemed to be nothing else to do; there were no
houses near and no people of whom to inquire.

Besides, four squares of calico patchwork were
not especially valuable.
If we don't find out who lost it, I '11 put it
into my quilt," said Sally. She studied the pat-
terns of the calico very happily, as they rode
along; she thought them prettier than anything
she had. One had pink roses on a green ground,
and she thought that especially charming.
Meantime, while Sally and her father and
mother rode away in the chaise with the patch-
work, to Whitefield, ten miles distant, where their
house was, Ann Lizy and Jane played as fast
as they could. It was four o'clock before they
went into the house. Ann Lizy opened her bag,
which she had laid on the parlor-table with the
"Young Lady's Annuals" and Mrs. Hemans'
Poems." "I s'pose I must sew my patchwork,"
said she, in a miserable guilty little voice. Then
she exclaimed. It was strange that, well as she
knew there was no patchwork there, the actual
discovery of nothing at all gave her a shock.
What 's the matter ? asked Jane.
I 've lost my patchwork," said Ann Lizy.
Jane called her mother, and they condoled
with Ann Lizy. Ann Lizy sat in one of Mrs.
Baxter's rush-bottomed chairs and began to cry.
Where did you lose it ? Mrs. Baxter asked.
" Don't cry, Ann Lizy, maybe we can find it."
I s'pose I--lost it coming, sobbed Ann Lizy.
"Well, I '11 tell you what 't is," said Mrs.
Baxter; you and Jane had better run up the
road a piece, and likely as not you '11 find it;
and I '11 have tea all ready when you come home.
Don't feel so bad, child, you '11 find it, right
where you dropped it."
But Ann Lizy and Jane, searching carefully
along the road, did not find the patchwork where
it had been dropped. Maybe it 's blown
away," suggested Jane, although there was
hardly wind enough that afternoon to stir a
feather. And the two little girls climbed over
the stone walls, and searched in the fields, but
they did not find the patchwork. Then another
mishap befell Ann Lizy. She tore a three-cor-
nered place in her best muslin delaine, getting
over the wall. When she saw that she felt as
if she were in a dreadful dream. Oh, what will
Grandma say! she wailed.
Maybe she won't scold," said Jane, consol-



Yes, she will. Oh dear! "
The two little girls went dolefully home to tea.
There were hot biscuits, and honey, and tarts,
and short gingerbread, and custards, but Ann
Lizy did not feel hungry. Mrs. Baxter tried to
comfort her; she really saw not much to mourn
over, except the rent in the best dress, as four
squares of patchwork could easily be replaced;
she did not see the true inwardness of the case.
At half-past five, Ann Lizy, miserable and
tear-stained, the three-cornered rent in her best
dress pinned up, started for home, and then -
her grandmother's beautiful bead bag was not to
be found. Ann Lizy and Jane both remembered
that it had been carried when they set out to
find the patchwork. Ann Lizy had meditated
bringing the patchwork home in it.
"Aunt Cynthy made that bag for Grandma,"
said Ann Lizy in a tone of dull despair; this was
beyond tears.
"Well, Jane shall go with you, and help find
it," said Mrs. Baxter, and I '11 leave the tea-
dishes and go too. Don't feel so bad, Ann
Lizy, I know I can find it."
But Mrs. Baxter, and Jane, and Ann Lizy,
all searching, could not find the bead bag. My
best handkerchief was in it," said Ann Lizy.
It seemed to her as if all her best things were
gone. She and Mrs. Baxter and Jane made a
doleful little group in the road. The frogs were
peeping, and the cows were coming home.
Mrs. Baxter asked the boy who drove the cows
if he had seen a green bead bag, or four squares
of patchwork; he stared and shook his head.
Ann Lizy looked like a wilted meadow reed,
the blue streamers on her hat drooped dejectedly,
her best shoes were all dusty, and the three-
cornered rent was the feature of her best muslin
delaine dress that one saw first. Then her little
delicate face was all tear-stains and downward
curves. She stood there in the road as if she
had not courage to stir.
Now, Ann Lizy," said Mrs. Baxter, "you'd
better run right home and not worry. I don't
believe your Grandma 'll scold you, when you
tell her just how 't was."
Ann Lizy shook her head. Yes, she will."
"Well, she '11 be worrying about you if you
ain't home before long, and I guess you'd better
go," said Mrs. Baxter.

Ann Lizy said not another word; she began
to move dejectedly toward home. Jane and
her mother called many kindly words after her,
but she did not heed them. She kept straight
on, walking slowly until she was home. Her
grandmother stood in the doorway watching for
her. She had a blue-yarn stocking in her hands,
and she was knitting fast as she watched.
"Ann Lizy, where have you been, late as
this ?" she called out as Ann Lizy came up the
walk. It 's arter six o'clock."
Ann Lizy continued to drag herself slowly
forward, but she made no reply.
"Why don't you speak? "
Ann Lizy crooked her arm around her face
and began to cry. Her grandmother reached
down, took her by the shoulder, and led her
into the house. "What on airth is the matter,
child ?" said she; "have you fell down ?"
No, ma'am."
"What does ail you then ?-Ann Lizy Jen-
nings, how come that great three-cornered tear
in your best dress ? "
Ann Lizy sobbed.
"Answer me."
"I tore it gittin' over- the wall."
"What were you getting' over walls for in your
best dress ? I 'd like to know what you s'pose
you '11 have to wear to meeting' now. Did n't I
tell you not to get over walls in your best dress ?
- Ann Lizy Jennings, where is my bead bag "
I-lost it."
"Lost my bead bag ?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"How did you lose it, eh ?"
"I lost it when -I was looking' for my
Did you lose your patchwork? "
"Yes, ma'am."
"When? "
"When I was-goin' over to-Jane's."
Lost it out of the bag ? "
Ann Lizy nodded, sobbing.
Then you went to look for it and lost the bag.
Lost your best pocket-handkerchief too ? "
Yes, ma'am."
Old Mrs. Jennings stood looking at Ann Lizy.
"All that patchwork, cut out and basted jest
as nice as could be, your best pocket-handker-
chief, and my bead bag lost, and your meeting'


dress tore," said she; "well, you 've done about
enough for one day. Take off your things and
go upstairs to bed. You can't go over to Jane
Baxter's again for one spell, and every mite of
the patchwork that goes into the quilt you've
got to cut by a thread, and baste yourself, and
to-morrow you 've got to hunt for that patch-
work and that bag till you find 'em, if it takes
you all day. Go right along."
Ann Lizy took off her hat, and climbed meekly
upstairs, and went to bed. She did not say her
prayers; she lay there and wept. It was about
half-past eight, the air coming through the open
window was loud with frogs, and katydids, and
whippoorwills, and the twilight was very deep,
when Ann Lizy arose and crept downstairs.
She could barely see her way.
There was a candle lighted in the south room,
and her grandmother sat there knitting. Ann
Lizy, a piteous little figure in her white night-
gown, stood in the door.
"Well, what is it? her grandmother said, in
a severe voice that had a kindly inflection in it.
"Grandma -"
"What is it ? "
"I lost my patchwork on purpose. I did n't
want to sew it."
Lost your patchwork on purpose! "
"Yes- ma'am," sobbed Ann Lizy.
Let it drop out of the bag on purpose ?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well, you did a dreadful wicked thing then.
Go right back to bed."
Ann Lizy went back to bed and to sleep. Re-
morse no longer gnawed keenly enough at her
clear childish conscience to keep her awake,
now her sin was confessed. She said her pray-
ers and went to sleep. Although the next
morning the reckoning came, the very worst
punishment was over for her. Her grand-
mother held the judicious use of the rod to be
a part of her duty toward her beloved little or-
phan granddaughter, so she switched Ann Lizy
with a little rod of birch and sent her forth full
of salutary tinglings to search for the bead bag
and the patchwork. All the next week Ann
Lizy searched the fields and road for the miss-
ing articles, when she was not cutting calico
patchwork by a thread and sewing over and
over. It seemed to her that life was made up

of those two occupations, but at the end of a
week the search, so far as the bead bag was
concerned, came to an end.
On Saturday afternoon the parson's wife
called on old Mrs. Jennings. The sweet, gen-
tle young lady in her black silk dress, her pink
cheeks, and smooth waves of golden hair
gleaming through her worked lace veil entered
the north room, which was the parlor, and sat
down in the rocking-chair. Ann Lizy and her
grandmother sat opposite, and they both noticed
at the same moment that the parson's wife held
in her hand-t-he bead bag!
Ann Lizy gave a little involuntary "oh "; her
grandmother shook her head fiercely at her,
and the parson's wife noticed nothing. She
went on talking about the pinks out in the yard,
in her lovely low voice.
As soon as she could, old Mrs. Jennings
excused herself and beckoned Ann Lizy to fol-
low her out of the room. Then, while she was
arranging a square of pound-cake and a little
glass of elderberry wine on a tray, she charged
Ann Lizy to say nothing about the bead bag to
the parson's wife. Mind you act as if you
did n't see it," said she; don't sit there looking'
at it that way."
But it 's your bead bag, Grandma," said
Ann Lizy in a bewildered way.
"Don't you say anything," admonished her
grandmother. Now carry this tray in, and be
careful you don't spill the elderberry wine."
Poor Ann Lizy tried her best not to look at
the bead bag, while the parson's wife ate pound-
cake, sipped the elderberry wine, and conversed
in her sweet, gracious way; but it did seem
finally to her as if it were the bead bag instead
of the parson's wife that was making the call.
She kept wondering if the parson's wife would
not say, "Mrs. Jennings, is this your bead
bag ? but she did not. She made the call and
took leave, and the bead bag was never men-
tioned. It was odd, too, that it was not; for
the parson's wife, who had found the bead bag,
had taken it with her on her round of calls that
afternoon, partly to show it and find out, if she
could, who had lost it. But here, it was driven
out of her mind by the pound-cake and elder-
berry wine, or else she did not think it likely
that an old lady like Mrs. Jennings could have


owned the bag. Younger ladies than she
usually carried them. However it was, she
went away with the bag.
"Why did n't she ask if it was yours ? in-
quired Ann Lizy, indignant in spite of her ad-
miration for the parson's wife.
Hush," said her grandmother. You mind
you don't say a word out about this, Ann Lizy.
I ain't never carried it, and she did n't suspect."
Now, the bead bag was found after this un-
satisfactory fashion; but Ann Lizy never went
down the road without looking for the patch-
work. She never dreamed how little Sally Put-
nam, the minister's wife's niece, was in the
mean time sewing these four squares over and
over, getting them ready to go into her quilt.
It was a month later before she found it out,
and it was strange that she discovered it at all.
It so happened that, one afternoon in the
last of August, old Mrs. Jennings dressed her-
self in her best black bombazine, her best bonnet
and mantilla and mitts, and also dressed Ann
Lizy in her best muslin delaine, exquisitely
mended, and set out to make a call on the par-
son's wife. When they arrived they found a
chaise and white horse out in the parsonage yard,
and the parson's wife's sister and family there
on a visit. An old lady, Mrs. White, a friend
of Mrs. Jennings's, was also making a call.
Little Ann Lizy and Sally Putnam were in-
troduced to each other, and Ann Lizy looked
admiringly at Sally's long curls and low-necked
dress, which had gold catches in the sleeves.
They sat and smiled shyly at each other.
"Show Ann Lizy your patchwork, Sally,"
the parson's wife said presently. Sally has
got almost enough patchwork for a quilt, and
she has brought it over to show me," she added.
Ann Lizy colored to her little slender neck;
patchwork was nowadays a sore subject with
her, but she looked on as Sally, proud and
smiling, displayed her patchwork.
Suddenly she gave a little cry. There was
one of her squares! The calico with roses on
a green ground was in Sally's patchwork.
Her grandmother shook her head energetic-
ally at her, but old Mrs. White had on her
spectacles, and she, too, had spied the square.
"Why, Miss Jennings," she cried, "that 's
jest like that dress you had so long ago!"

"Let me see," said Sally's mother quickly.
"Why, yes; that is the very square you found,
Sally. That is one; there were four of them,
all cut and basted. Why, this little girl did n't
lose them, did she ? "
Then it all came out. The parson's wife was
quick-witted, and she thought of the bead bag.
Old Mrs. Jennings was polite, and said it did
not matter; but when she and Ann Lizy went
home, they had the bead bag, with the patch-
work and the best pocket-handkerchief in it.
It had been urged that little Sally Putnam
should keep the patchwork, since she had
sewed it, but her mother was not willing.
No," said she, "this poor little girl lost it,
and Sally must n't keep it; it would n't be right."
Suddenly Ann Lizy straightened herself. Her
cheeks were blazing red, but her black eyes
were brave.
"I lost that patchwork on purpose," said
she. "I did n't want to sew it. Then I lost
the bag while I was looking' for it."
There was silence for a minute.
You are a good girl to tell of it," said Sally's *
mother, finally.
Ann Lizy's grandmother shook her head
meaningly at Mrs. Putnam.
I don't know about that," said she. Own-
in'-up takes away some of the sin, but it don't
But when she and Ann Lizy were on their
homeward road, she kept glancing down at her
granddaughter's small face. It struck her that
it was not so plump and rosy as it had been.
"I think you 've had quite a lesson by this
time about that patchwork," she remarked.
Yes, ma'am," said Ann Lizy.
They walked a little farther. The golden-
rod and the asters were in blossom now, and
the road was bordered with waving fringes of
blue and gold. They came in sight of Jane
Baxter's house.
You may stop in Jane Baxter's, if you want
to," said old Mrs. Jennings, "and ask her
mother if she can come over and spend the
day with you to-morrow. And tell her I say
she 'd better not bring her sewing, and she 'd
better not wear her best dress, for you and
she ain't goin' to sew any, and mebbe you '11
like to go berryin', and play outdoors."

jJII. 'I.1!


"r ~
1' `-
-rJ4.r ":
I- ~.
--~-u;t -i

~ --- ,.,,



SBEAUTIFUL old place called
S Hinchingbrooke, situated near
the ancient town of Hunting-
don, was in a flutter of ex-
citement one bright sunny
morning two hundred and
eighty-six years ago, in the year 1603.
King James I. of England, with a large retinue
of the nobles of his court, was to visit the more
distant possessions of his kingdom; and in order
to break the journey from London to the north,
a very long and trying one in those days, he had
announced his royal will and pleasure that a
halt should be made over night at Hinching-
brooke, a favorite resting-place for the sovereigns
of that time when making a "royal progress,"
as their journeys were generally called.
With the King was to come the little Prince
Charles, a delicate boy four years old, and this
fact had given old Sir Henry Cromwell, the
Golden Knight," who was the owner of Hinch-
ingbrooke, more anxiety than anything else con-
nected with the royal visit.

His Majesty can ride and hunt, and amuse
himself with the noble game of chess, or with
the sprightly conversation of the fair dames who
will be only too proud to entertain him; but
how we are to amuse a baby prince, is more
than I can imagine."
To every one he met the good knight would
repeat this dismal exclamation; but at last a
happy thought came to his mind, and summon-
ing a lad, he hastily penned a few lines, and
bade the page carry them to his son, Robert the
brewer, in the town of Huntingdon.
"Be off with you," the knight cried cheerily
to the page, and let not the weeds grow be-
tween the stones of the old wall before you are
back again with grandson Oliver." Oliver was
a little boy not much older than the prince him-
As the page quickly sped away upon his er-
rand, a well-satisfied expression came over the
countenance of the doughty knight, and he
rubbed his hands contentedly together while
he mused to himself aloud.

SThe illustrations of Hinchingbrooke House, and of the old Gateway, are drawn, by permission,from photographs
by A. Maddison, Esq., Huntingdon, England.


"Not so badly devised, by my troth. The
lads may take kindly to one another, and if
Oliver makes a friend of the little Charles-who
knows?-a king's son is not half a bad friend
for a young fellow to have."
Flags were flying from the towers and battle-
ments of Hinchingbrooke, while the royal stand-
ard of England floated proudly above the gray
old buildings which formerly had been a nunnery;
and in the spot where holy women once had
prayed, soldiers in gay uniforms now laughed
and joked, while richly dressed courtiers and
numberless attendants crowded the court-yards
and corridors, and horses in rich trappings filled
the stables. Every part of the establishment

d~- ~t, .
-" -i -r
Jt ~ ,*~ 2

the grand old trees, where perhaps the warmth
of the golden sunshine might bring a more gen-
erous color into the pallid face.
In striking contrast to the delicate prince was
the lad Oliver. Strong and sturdy, with bright
red cheeks and a round fat face healthily browned
by fresh country air, he came gravely and slowly
through the old arched gateway, not in the least
intimidated by the glittering uniforms and gay
attire of all these grand people, and quietly ad-
vanced to the spot where the King stood, hold-
ing the hand of the little Charles.
Sir Henry, the Golden Knight," with a deep
reverence to his sovereign, presented his grand-
son Oliver. The baby prince took off his velvet

K .( .AI' ; -


0i a '

showed signs of unusual life and excitement, all
being anxious that the King should be pleased,
and that the pale little prince, who looked so
fragile and delicate, should play happily under

hat with its long white plume, and bowed gra-
ciously to the boy who looked so strong and
healthy, yet who was so curiously grave. Oliver
could not bow in a courtly way as Charles


did, but only went awkwardly forward, when his
grandfather, placing a hand upon his shoulder,
tried to make him bend his short, fat legs before
youthful royalty.
The King with one hand patted the closely

J'11 ,

cropped head of the knight's grandson, while
the other rested on the golden curls of the baby
Charles, his heir, and with a cheery smile he
bade the boys go play together, and told them
to be friendly one with another.
Holding out his tiny hand to the silent, sturdy
Oliver, the little prince clasped the other's strong,
brown fingers in childish confidence, and the
two passed out under the gray stone gateway
with its carved figures of ancient Britons sup-
porting the arch. Out they went into the lovely
park beyond, where the sunshine danced merrily
in and out among the branches of the trees,

playing hide-and-seek with the quivering leaves,
and the grass was spread out like a soft green
carpet, upon which the children could play as
merrily as the birds above them sang.
The attendants talked among themselves, cast-
ing glances every now and then toward the
daintily clad little prince, whose curls were shin-
ing like gold in the sunshine, and whose pale
cheeks flushed with pleasure as the other boy
told of the rabbits which sometimes ran across
the park, and promised that, if the little visitor
would keep very still, some of these rabbits would
surely come, and then they could jump at them,
frighten them, and chase them across the grass.
Young princes are not taught to be patient,
and Charles soon tired of waiting quietly for the
rabbits. He proposed that Oliver should be
harnessed with some fine silk reins and driven
with a silver-mounted whip which was among
the toys the prince's attendants had brought
from London.
But Oliver was unwilling to be harnessed and
flatly refused to be whipped. Unused to opposi-
tion, the prince grew petulant and, at last, in a
teasing way, half struck young Oliver across the
shoulders with the lash of the new whip.
Oliver's brown face grew crimson, and doub-
ling his fist in a threatening manner, he turned
upon the royal child saying angrily:
"You shall never drive me, nor whip me with
your stupid little whip! I will not allow it!"
And then, before the prince could answer, the
angry boy struck him full in the face with his
clenched fist. A moment later the attendants,
startled by loud cries, came running up, and were
horrified to see the blood streaming from the
prince's nose over his pretty lace collar and
velvet frock.
Oliver was sent home to Huntingdon in dis-
grace, and all the pleasant visions of good Sir
Henry faded away, for surely now his grandson
could never make a friend of Charles Stuart.
And yet, many great things had been pre-
dicted for the boy. When he was an infant
asleep in his cradle, one summer day at Hinch-
ingbrooke, a pet monkey had crept into the
room, and, carefully lifting up the baby from his
bed, had carried him to the roof of the house.
All the household were terrified, and quickly
brought beds and mattresses, that the child might

fall unharmed should the monkey drop him. The
sagacious animal, however, brought the little
fellow safe back again. But had he dropped the
baby over the stone battlements upon the rough
ground below, the fate of King Charles might
have been a very different one.
The wise men of the day professed to believe
that this extraordinary adventure with the monkey
was a sign that the child would do great things;
and when, some years later, Oliver insisted
that in a dream he had seen a tall man who
came to his bedside, and, opening the curtains


S.. I; 2

of his bed, told him he should one day be the
greatest person in the kingdom, these wise men
were more than ever convinced that a great
future was in store for the remarkable boy. His
father told him that it was wicked, as well as
foolish, to make such an assertion, for it was dis-
loyal to the King to even hint that a greater
than he could exist in the land; but Oliver still
persisted in saying that the vision was true, add-
ing that the tall figure had not said that he
should be King, but only the greatest person
in the kingdom." So vexed was his father with


"4 .,T'i.- ,^v ^ ^ 1 ^ ' .. ,,. ', 2 < *

.l-^ ?^:",?." .- ,:7
'I:, ., -,:.




him about this silly tale, that he told Dr. Beard,
the Master of the free grammar-school which
Oliver attended in Huntingdon, to punish him
well, and see whether flogging would not drive
these foolish ideas out of his head. Even after
floggings, however, the boy continued at times
to repeat the story to his uncle Steward, although
his uncle also told him that it was little less
than traitorous to relate the prophecy.
While Oliver was at this grammar-school, ac-
cording to ancient custom a play was acted by
the pupils. The one chosen was an old comedy
called Lingua," and no part in it would satisfy
Oliver Cromwell save that of "Tactus," who
had to enact a scene in which a crown and
other regalia are discovered. This scene seemed
peculiarly to fascinate him.
During this period, when Oliver's mind was
thus dwelling upon mimic crowns, the boy whom
he had once struck that hasty blow under the
shady trees at Hinchingbrooke, had become heir
to a real crown, by the death of his elder brother
Prince Henry.
Having now grown from a sickly child to be
a high-spirited, handsome youth, with his friend
the Duke of Buckingham he had traveled to
Spain in search of adventure, and also in order
to see the young Spanish princess whom the
King, his father, wished him to marry. On their
way the two young men stopped in Paris. There,
at a masked ball, they saw the lovely Henrietta
Maria, sister of the French king; and after this
there was no possibility that the Spanish Infanta
should become Queen of England, for Prince
Charles could not forget the fair face of the
French beauty; and in course of time Henrietta
Maria became his wife.
All this time the boy Oliver, also grown to
man's estate, lived on in the quiet town of Hunt-
ingdon, near the beautiful park where he had
played with the baby prince, and where he had
refused so stoutly to be the child's horse, and to
be driven with the silken reins and the whip with
the silver bells.
The good old grandfather, the Golden
Knight" Sir Henry Cromwell, was dead and
buried, long since, and could no more rebuke
his grandson for his hasty, unyielding temper.
There had been another royal visit to Hinch-
ingbrooke, with great feastings and ceremonials;

but it was Oliver Cromwell (not the boy Oliver,
but a son of the doughty knight, Sir Henry)
who now reigned over the lordly house and
lands, and this time the King had come without
the prince, and the two boys who once fought
under the shade of the branching oaks were pur-
suing each his own life, little dreaming how those
lives should influence one another.
It was while the King was at Hinchingbrooke,
upon his second visit, that Oliver Cromwell's
father, the brewer Robert, lay grievously sick,
" somewhat indifferent to royal progresses," and
in 1617 he died, leaving his son-then about
eighteen -as head of the little household at
Huntingdon. Not long after, Oliver also, as
well as Prince Charles, brought home a smiling
young wife, and as the years passed on baby
children played under the trees where he and
the little prince had played -but let us hope
there were neither doubled fists nor bleeding
While Charles's life was a gay and stirring one,
Oliver's was grave and quiet, and Oliver himself
grew more and more solemn and silent, and
finally he and other serious-thinking men decided
that the King was a tyrant; the country, he
thought, would be better without him, and he
joined these other discontented ones who thought
the same, and who determined to make war
against Charles, and the too merry, careless life
which they thought he was leading.
Sometime before, while yet a boy, Oliver had
fallen into the river Ouse, which runs sleepily
by the old town of Huntingdon; and the curate
of a church near by, in the village of Conning-
ton, who was walking on the river-bank at the
time, pulled him out of the water, and saved
his life. Afterward, when Cromwell marched
through this town at the head of his troops,
going to fight Charles Stuart, he saw and rec-
ognized the curate who had been his rescuer,
and asked, smilingly:
"Do you not remember me? "
"Yes," answered the loyal curate; "but I
wish I had put you in the river rather than have
seen you in arms against the King "
Cromwell thought it right to overturn the
throne, and he did so. Whether his acts were all
inspired by a desire to carry out the will of a
Supreme Being, as he asserted them to be, is to


this day a disputed point of history and will
probably remain so until the end of time.
In 1627, beautiful Hinchingbrooke passed out
of the hands of the Cromwells, and became the
home of the noble family of Montague; and,
some four years later, Oliver Cromwell left
Huntingdon and went to live at St. Ives, where

dream, and the vision of the tall man beside his
bed who promised that he should become the
"greatest man in the kingdom "; and ambition
may have tempted him along the bold path he
had chosen. Perhaps he thought that he was
really doing right in thus trying to make away
with the authority of the King who can tell ?

- I

-I, __:

.1 ii
'' '' "




can still be seen the bridge across the Ouse about It is always difficult to understand men's motives.
which was written the quaint old puzzle: Certain it is that the royal cause went from bad
"As I was going to St. Ives, to worse; the army of Charles was defeated and
I met a man with seven wives; repulsed on every side, and the army of the
Every wife had seven sacks; Parliament, to which Cromwell belonged, was
Every sack had seven cats; triumphant everywhere.
Every cat had seven kits. Poor King Charles! He was no longer gay
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives,
Kits, cats, sacks, and wives' and happy, but sad and very miserable. His
How many were there going to St. Ives ? "
Queen secretly left England, and in a foreign
During many weary years the struggle went country sold the beautiful crown-jewels which
on between King Charles and his Parliament- had been worn at so many splendid fetes and
Oliver Cromwell joining with the latter, and be- entertainments, in order to obtain money for her
coming one of the principal opponents of his husband's soldiers. But it was all of no use; the
sovereign. Perhaps he thought of his boyhood's Parliament, with Oliver Cromwell at the head





-- -;,
,: ,,,
.-c --


of its armies, finally conquered, and at last the
King himself fell into the hands of his enemies
and was held a prisoner. And now Cromwell
determined that Charles Stuart, with whom he
had once played as a little boy, should die.
Before his death Charles was allowed to see
his children,- the two at least who were in
England at the time,- the Princess Elizabeth
and the little Duke of Gloucester. After sending
a message by his daughter to his wife, Henrietta
Maria, whom he could never see again, the King
took his little son upon his knee and said gravely
to him: My dear heart, they will soon cut off
thy father's head. Mark it, my child, they will
cut off thy father's head, and perhaps make
thee a king. But, mark what I say, thou must
not be a king so long as thy brothers Charles
and James live; therefore, I charge thee, do not
be made a king by them." The brave child
replied, I will be torn in pieces first! Then
the unhappy father gave the two his blessing and
said good-bye. Even the stern soldier Oliver was
touched by the grief of the wretched King and
of the poor little prince and princess, who knew
that they should never again sit upon their father's
knee, or hear his voice, or see his face. After this
came a dark and dreadful day when the King
was led out from the palace of Whitehall to die
upon a scaffold.

History has made the rest of the story familiar;
and very likely many of you have read the war-
rant ordering the execution of the King, and have
seen among the first of the signatures to it, the
name of the King's former playmate, the son of
the brewer of Huntingdon.
As Oliver Cromwell signed his name in firm,
clear characters to that cruel document, did he
recall the sunshiny day at lovely Hinching-
brooke, and the pale little prince who had held
out his baby hand in such friendly fashion, and
laughed so gleefully when the sturdy, brown-
faced boy, with whom his father had bid him
"be friends," told of the rabbits that sometimes
scampered over the grass under the spreading
trees ? Or did he remember the angry words
he had spoken when the little child in turn had
told of his silken reins, and his whip with silver
bells ? And the blow he had dealt which made
the blood flow and drew forth a cry of pain?
Then the cry had been soon hushed, but on that
gloomy January day, in 1648, the King's head
lay severed from his body, and Charles Stuart
was silent for ever.
The brewer's son continued his career until his
dream came true; for the day came when he could
write his name as "Lord Protector of the Com-
monwealth of England, Scotland, and Ireland."
He was the greatest person in the kingdom."

-. 4

S ".

a- -----s<< r ^ -'^



DAINTY Allis, here's a cricket,
Trim and nimble, brave and bold,
Caught a-chirping in a thicket,
When the year was growing old.

He's a patient little hummer,
Though he only knows one song;
He's been practicing all summer,
And he never sings it wrong.

He was piping under hedges
After all the birds had flown,
Trilling loud from stony ledges,
Making merry, all alone.

If the bearded grasses wavered
Underneath the lightest foot,
His sharp murmur sudden quavered
Into silence at the root.

Now the cricket comes to bring you
Cheery thoughts in time of frost;
And a summer song he '11 sing you
When the summer sunshine's lost.

You '11 be listening till you're guessing
Pleasant meanings in the sound,
May the cricket's good-night blessing
Bring the happy dreams around!

Many and many a year hereafter
You will hear the same blithe tune,
For though you should outlive laughter,
Crickets still will chirp in June.

If some future summer passes
Homesick, in a foreign land,
There '11 be speech among the grasses,
That your heart will understand.

As you listen in the wild-wood
To that merry monotone,
It will bring you back your childhood
When you are a woman grown.

VoL. XVII.-8.



HILE the other
boys in Bloom-
boro' were saving
up their pennies to
buy whistles and
pop-guns and cara-
mels, or base-ball
bats and bicycles,
according to their
H-at T various ages and
tastes or to the seasons, Tom Pickemell was
always saving up to buy tools. Sometimes they
were of one kind, sometimes of another. He
had bought even farming tools, although he
had the lowest possible opinion of farming.
His grandfather seemed to think that farming
was the chief end of man; he was determined
that Tom should be a farmer whether he liked
or not; but he believed in good old-fashioned
ways, and refused to buy any "new-fangled"
machinery. Tom argued and argued, but his
grandfather would not listen. He was scornful of
all Tom's great undertakings in the mechanical
line, and even Grandma, who usually had some
sympathy with a boy, laughed until she cried at
his idea of inventing a machine which should
"instantly separate milk into its component
parts." No tedious waiting for cream to rise,
no slow and back-aching churning process.
(Tom had reason to feel deeply on this point.)
Almost in the twinkling of an eye the milk, as
it came from the cow, was to be changed into
butter and buttermilk. Cynthy, the hired girl,
said it was "flyin' in the face of Proverdunce
to talk like that," and was sure that a boy who
did n't believe in churnin' would "surely turn
out an infiddle."
Tom knew that the great creameries had im-
proved upon the old-fashioned churs, but their
improvements were only child's play compared
to what he meant to do. He kept on thinking
over his plans, and experimenting as far as he

could, in spite of every one's jeers, although he
became so exasperated sometimes, when people
would n't understand him, that he would lie
down on his face in the pine grove, and dig his
fingers into the soil, and kick. But that was
when he was younger. He was fourteen now,
and had discovered that it was better to fight
manfully against obstacles than to kick the
empty air. He had also begun to learn that he
did n't know so much as he thought he did;
and this was a very hopeful sign for Tom, for it
is n't taught in the grammar-school books, and
seems to be a neglected branch even at the
He had begun to understand, also, why he
was "a trial," as Grandma and Cynthy said.
He could n't see but that a boy had a right to
take things to pieces, if he put them together
again; but sometimes, quite unexpectedly, they
failed to go together as they were before. This
(as in the case of the alarm-clock, and Grandma's
long-cherished music-box) was annoying, Tom
candidly acknowledged. He felt so unhappy
about those failures, that he forbore to remind
them, when they scolded him, that he had
made Grandma's worn-out egg-beater better
than when it was new, and repaired Cynthy's
long-broken accordion, so that now she could
enjoy herself, playing and singing "Hark, from
the Tombs," on rainy Sunday evenings.
It was a discouraging world, in Tom's opinion,
but he was, nevertheless, still determined to in-
vent, some day, The Instantaneous Butter-maker.
Many, many times, in imagination, he had gone
over all the details of a wonderful success with
that invention, even to Grandpa's noble and
candid, confession (generally accompanied by
tears) that he had misunderstood and wronged
Tom; but the details were becoming modified as
he grew older; he had begun to strongly doubt
whether any such thing could ever be expected
of Grandpa. There had been a schoolmaster at


Bloomboro' for one winter, who held the con-
soling belief that a boy might not be altogether
a dunce although he was so "mixed up" in
geography as to declare that Constantinople
was the capital of Indiana, and was unable to
regard English grammar as anything but a hope-
less conundrum. Out of school he taught Tom
geometry, and was astonished at his quickness.
He even confided to Grandpa that he should
not be surprised if Tom turned out a genius.
But this had anything but the desired effect
upon Grandpa; for to his mind a genius was an
out-at-elbows fellow who played on the fiddle,
and eventually came to the poor-house. Grand-
ma's idea was even worse: she said that if
Tom's father had lived he would know how to
bring Tom up so that he would n't turn out a
genius, but she was afraid they should n't;-
she thought it all came of his mother being
a Brown.
But Grandma was too kind and sympathetic to
be hardupon a boy, as Grandpa was. She laughed
at him, and sometimes sighed dreadfully,-that
was almost the hardest thing for Tom to bear,-
and occasionally confided privately to Grandpa
that she "was n't going to believe but that
Tom would turn out as well as any boy, he was
so kind-hearted and affectionate; and as for
smartness, what other boy could make a fox-
trap out of his own head? Sly Grandma knew
that Grandpa valued that fox-trap because it was
useful on the farm, and so she kept it in remem-
brance. Tom had no sympathizers among the
boys. He liked Jo Whipple best of any, but
Jo was a famous scholar; he could recite whole
pages of history without missing a word; in dates
you could seldom catch him tripping; he could
see sense in grammar, and he was going to study
Greek with the minister. And Tom shrewdly
suspected that Jo secretly thought him a fool.
Jed Appleby was the only boy in Bloomboro'
who had any interest in Tom's favorite pursuits,
and Tom had painful doubts of his honesty and
thought Jed meant to steal his inventions. So it
happened that when Tom wished for that sym-
pathy which is a necessity to most of us he was
forced to seek it from Caddy Jane.
Caddy Jane was his cousin, and she was an
orphan, too, and was being brought up by
Grandpa and Grandma. It was Tom's opinion

that that process was less hard upon a girl
than upon a boy-and perhaps he was right;
nevertheless, Caddy Jane had her private
griefs. Grandma dressed her as little girls were
dressed when she was young, and the other girls
jeered at her pantalettes. Then, too, Grandma
did n't approve of banged hair; she said Na-
ture had given Caddy Jane "a beautiful high
forehead," and she was n't going to have it
spoiled; so she parted Caddy's hair in the middle
and strained it back as tightly as possible into
the tightest of little braids at the back. Tom
wondered, sometimes, with a sense of the hol-
lowness of life, if it were not that straining back
of her hair which gave Caddy Jane's eyes the
round, wide-open look which he took for won-
der and admiration, when he showed her his
machinery or told her his plans. It was cer-
tainly quite doubtful whether Caddy Jane under-
stood, at all. Tom, in his heart, suspected her of
being a very stupid little thing, but she had this
agreeable way of looking with round-eyed, open-
mouthed wonder at one's productions, and
would listen silently and with apparent interest
to the longest outpouring of one's interests and
plans; and if this is not sympathy it is certainly
not a bad substitute for it. And if Caddy Jane
was a little stupid, well,- it would be uncom-
fortable not to be able to feel superior to a girl,
Tom thought; and if she had been quick at her
lessons he knew he should not have liked her half
so much. Caddy Jane not only found geography
hard, but she was struggling with skepticism as
well. She did not believe that the earth was
round, because, if it were, why did not the China-
men fall off? Once when Grandpa had taken
her with him to market, at Newtown, she had
slipped, all by herself, into a Chinaman's laun-
dry and asked him if he could walk head down-
ward, like a fly, and the Chinaman had positively
disclaimed any such ability. This (to Caddy
Jane's mind the only possible solution of the
mystery) having failed, she felt that there was
nothing for a rational mind to do but to resign
itself to a bold and dreadful doubt of the Geog-
raphy. This seemed so reckless, and her trouble
was so great, that she confided in Tom; although
she was, as her grandmother said, "a dreadful
close-mouthed little thing." The doubt grew
still more painful when she discovered, through


Tom's jests and evasions, that he knew no more
about it than she. He said he could n't stop to
explain it, and a girl need n't bother herself
about such things, but she might ask Jo Whip-
pie. Jo Whipple!-who made most unpleasant
faces at her through a hole in the fence, and
whooped dismally in the dusk while she ran
across the field to carry the Scammons' milk!
Caddy Jane felt that it would be quite impossi-
ble to ask him, and, moreover, she did n't believe
that he knew any more than Tom, and said so,
which was very gratifying to Tom. When one
is conscious of being generally regarded as a
dunce, it is agreeable to have even a silly little
thing like Caddy Jane believe in one. So Caddy
Jane was a real consolation to Tom, and there
was no drawback to the pleasure of their meet-
ings, except the fact that Caddy Jane's boots
were almost always squeaky (Grandma believed
in good, stout, economical ones), and Tom's en-
terprises were so strongly disapproved of that
he was obliged to carry them on in the privacy
of the old granary, which had been abandoned
to rats and mice and weather.
It made a great stir at the farm when, one day,
a letter came from Cousin David Creighton, ask-
ing if his wife and daughter might spend the sum-
mer there. He was going to Europe, and his
wife wanted to be where she could have perfect
rest from excitement and gayety, and he wanted
Dulcie ("that is the little girl, I suppose,"
Grandma said, adjusting her glasses for the
twentieth time in her excitement as she read the
letter, "though of all the names I ever heard
of-! ") he wanted Dulcie to have cows' milk and
country fare generally, and to get acquainted
with Bloomboro', where he had been a boy.
Cousin David Creighton had been a very
poor boy in Bloomboro'. He had been father-
less and motherless and homeless, sheltered here
and there, where any one would have him, and
"bound out" to the miller; he had picked ber-
ries to pay for his winter shoes, and known the
physical and mental trials of outgrown jackets
and trousers. And then, suddenly, he had taken
his fortunes into his own hands, and slipped away
from Bloomboro'; and scarcely any one cared to
inquire where he had gone, and for years no one
knew. The miller's wife had a theory that he
had died of overeating, for she never knew a

boy to have such an appetite. When his name
began to appear often in the New York papers
that found their way to Bloomboro', the old men
would look at one another and wonder if it
could be the one. The doubt was ended when
a commercial traveler, who knew all about David
Creighton, appeared at the Bloomboro' hotel.
It was their David, and, according to the com-
mercial traveler, he could buy a gold mine every
morning before breakfast, if he cared to, and
carried two or three of the great railroads in his
pocket. Grandpa said he 'most wished he had
given David a dollar when he went away. He
had thought of it, when he saw him tying up his
bundle, but he was only a kind of second cousin,
and he had been afraid, too, that he would n't
make a good use of it. And Grandma said
David's story was like a made-up one in a pic-
ture-paper, and it seemed kind o' light-minded
to listen to it." But the Bloomboro' boys
listened, and the heart of many a one burned
within him.
David's wife was a fine city lady; the com-
mercial traveler had heard wonderful reports of
her diamonds and her turnouts. Grandma was
afraid she would put on airs, and not be satisfied
with anything; but Grandpa said he did n't "see
how they could refuse, bein' 't was relations "-
besides, crops had been poor for two years and
the bank-account was running low. Grandpa
thought much about that.
So the letter was sent, saying that David's wife
and daughter might come; and Caddy Jane
scarcely slept a wink three nights, for thinking
and wondering about Dulcie, who was just nine,
as she was; but Tom did n't trouble himself
in the least about the expected guests, having
weightier matters on his mind.
He had been at work for months, in his spare
time, on a miniature threshing-machine of his
own invention. Grandpa was so discouragingly
old-fashioned as to believe in a boy and a flail
as a threshing-machine. In Tom's opinion the
horse-power threshing-machines, which some of
the Bloomboro' farmers boasted, were not much
better. His machinery was somewhat compli-
cated, and he had not yet quite decided whether
the motive power should be steam or electricity,
though he had leanings toward the latter. He
had kept many midnight vigils in the old gran-


ary, with no company except now and then a
bright-eyed, inquisitive mouse, and he thought
in about a week or two he should finish the
machine to his satisfaction. It was dishearten-
ing to find that Caddy Jane had transferred her
interest almost entirely to the expected guests.
And Jo Whipple was continually urging him to
go fishing. A boy who thought great thoughts
must think them alone, Tom reflected, bitterly.
Cousin David Creighton came to Bloomboro'
with his wife and daughter. They brought a
French maid, their pug-dog, and a great amount
of luggage; but, nevertheless, Caddy Jane and
even Grandma herself were somewhat disap-
pointed at the appearance of the party, for they
did n't look in the least as if they came out of a
fairy-book, as Caddy Jane expected, or even a
picture-paper, they were so plainly dressed; and
Grandma felt sure they had on their best clothes,
because no one in Bloomboro' would think of
wearing anything else on a journey. And
Grandma thought Dulcie such a queer, "out-
landish-looking" little girl, with her hair down
to her eyes, and her dresses down to her shoes
and far too short-waisted. Grandma hoped she
could have the Bloomboro' dressmaker "fix her
up a little before the minister's wife called.
Although they were both nine, Dulcie and
Caddy Jane looked askance at each other. It
was only when, the day after the arrival, Dulcie
needed sympathy in a great trouble that the ice
was broken between them, and they immediately
became great friends. Dulcie's dearest doll,
Jacquetta, had been carelessly packed, and a
heavy box pressing upon her had maimed and
disfigured her for life.
Caddy Jane went flying through the wood-
shed that afternoon, with Jacquetta under her
arm, to meet Tom. "0 Tom, you never saw
anything like her! Such a beauty! and she feels
orfley! She cried and cried, and -you don't
think you could mend her, do you, Tom? And
anyway I want you to hear her talk; that was n't
broken, and it 's almost enough to frighten you,
and oh! Tom, what is the matter ? "
Caddy Jane's tone suddenly changed, for she
discovered, as Tom came nearer, that his face
was pale and his eyes so dark that they looked
unlike Tom's soft, blue ones, and his teeth were
set tightly together; altogether he looked almost

as if he were not Tom at all, as Caddy Jane
said to herself. She had never seen him look so
but once before, and that was when Samp' Peters
set his fierce dog upon Tom's white kitten, and
the kitten's back was broken.
Do tell me what it is, Tom? said Caddy
Tom set his teeth more tightly together, and
then, suddenly, it came over him that it would
be a relief to tell Caddy Jane. It always was,-
perhaps because she was such a foolish little
thing; she never gave any advice. Tom did n't
like advice when he felt miserable.
"They were going over the farm, Grandpa
and Cousin David Creighton," began Tom, in a
strained, high-keyed voice, which he tried very
hard to keep calm and steady. Cousin David
wanted to see the places that he remembered.
I did n't think they would go into the old gran-
ary, it's such a tumble-down old place, but they
did, and Grandpa rummaged around. He saw
some of my tools -I 've got careless since no-
body ever goes there-and that made him sus-
pect. I was away down on the edge of the
swamp when I saw them in there; you 'd bet-
ter believe I ran! When I got to the door
Grandpa had my model in his hand. I screamed
out. I don't know what I said, but I tried to
tell him what it was. I thought if I could make
him understand that it would do more in five
minutes than two men in a week!-but it was
of no use; he had that smile on his face that
just maddens a fellow. He threw my model
down on the floor and set his foot on it."
Oh, Tom!" Caddy Jane stepped upon some
wood to make her tall enough, and put her arm
around Tom's neck. Tom shook her off, after a
moment; he thought the fellows would call him
"a softy if they should see her. But Caddy
Jane knew that he was not displeased, for he
went on to say, not without a little choking in
his throat:
"And that is n't the worst, Caddy Jane."
"0 Tom, what could be worse? cried Caddy
That man Cousin David Creighton -
acted as if he meant to be kind; he picked up
the pieces and looked them over; he stayed after
Grandpa had gone out; and he asked me about
the machine. And he said I had made a mis-


take. I did n't believe him at first, but he showed
it to me. Caddy, it would n't have gone, any-
way !"
"But you could have made it right, Tom!
You can make it over and make it go cried
Caddy Jane, with intense conviction.
He said I did n't know enough: that I was
too ambitious; that I must learn things first.
And it's true! That's the very worst of it! I
don't believe I shall ever make anything that
will go. I may as well dig potatoes all my life,
as Grandpa wishes me to."
Oh, Tom, you will make things that will go!
I know you will," cried Caddy Jane. "You
would n't think such wonderful things unless
you could do them. Things will go wrong just
at first. I thought I should never learn to heel
and toe off, and now you can't tell my stockings
from Grandma's. And you are so smart," she
added quickly, feeling it presumptuous to com-
pare herself, in any way, to Tom. "And oh,
Tom, there are so many troubles! Dulcie has
cried and cried. Just look here! Her beauti-
ful nose all flattened, her eye dropped out, her
cheek crushed in, and her dear arm broken off!"
Caddy Jane held up the melancholy wreck
of a golden-haired wax doll.
Pooh! girls' rubbish," growled Tom, think-
ing that Caddy Jane was going to be much less
satisfactory, now that this new girl had come.
But listen, Tom! "
"Pa-pa! Mi Mam-ma! said the golden-haired
doll, not in a faint voice, as one might expect
from her condition, but quite distinctly.
Tom fairly jumped; talking dolls were quite
unknown to Bloomboro'. Then he seized the
doll eagerly from Caddy Jane's hands, and
squeezed it again and again.
"I wonder how they do it! I wonder what
the machinery is like he exclaimed. "She 's
all smashed up, anyway. That girl would n't
mind if I should take her to pieces, would
she ?"
Tom had quite forgotten his troubles for the
moment; his face was all aglow.
"Oh, Tonm" Caddy Jane's accent was full of
horror. I don't know what she would say. She
says she thinks just as much as ever of her.
And she feels orfley because, she says, she has
neglected her lately for a colored doll that was

given her in Boston. She 's only made of kid,
and she 's got raveled yarn for wool, and bead
eyes, and she 's not so very much better-looking
than my old Dinah; but she never saw a col-
ored doll before, and she thinks she is perfectly
fascinating; that's what she says,' perfectly fas-
cinating'; and her name is Nancy Ray, and
she says if she could only talk, like Jacquetta-"
Tom was gazing at Jacquetta with speculative
and longing eyes.
You might leave her here. I will mend her
arm some time," he said, with an assumption of
Oh, I could n't do that. You might take her
to pieces of course you would n't mean to,"
but you might without thinking and perhaps
she would n't go together again! said Caddy
Jane, with a vivid recollection of some of Tom's
"You 'd better take her away just as quick
as you can. She might get a scratch-such a
handsome new doll! sneered Tom.
Caddy hesitated. She could never bear to
have Tom cross, and he was looking dejected
I might ask Dulcie if she would like to have
you mend her arm," she said.
"Well, go along, and don't keep talking about
it. It is n't worth while," said Tom, crossly.
Caddy Jane was back in a minute.
"She says she does n't care. They're mak-
ing a new red dress for Nancy Ray, Dulcie
and the French woman are, and I think Dulcie
is almost forgetting about Jacquetta."
Leave old Jacket here, then," said Tom,
quite restored to good-nature. "And, I say,
Caddy Jane, you might get up a little picnic for
that girl. It would be nice to go down to
Plunkett's pond and stay all day."
Caddy Jane caught readily at the idea. She
said she would go, this very minute, and. see
what Grandma thought about it. She looked
back wistfully at Jacquetta. Although she was
nine, Caddy Jane still had the feelings of a
mother toward dolls, and she strongly suspected
that Jacquetta was about to be sacrificed to
Tom's spirit of investigation. And there was
the dreadful doubt whether she would go to-
gether again! But Caddy Jane struggled against
her feelings, for Tom's sake-poor Tom, whose


precious model had been crushed under Grand-
pa's heel!
Tom, the moment he was alone, thrust Jac-
quetta under his jacket, as far as she would go,
and set out for the old granary. A half-hour
before, he had said to himself that he could never
bear to enter that place again; but now he pushed
aside the ruins of his model with only a dull
pang of remembrance, so absorbing was his
curiosity about this wonderful new machinery.
He mended the arm first. It seemed a great
waste of time; but that girl might take it into her
head to want the doll suddenly, and she might
make a fuss and cry. She was evidently not a girl
like Caddy Jane, whom a fellow could put in her
proper place. It is to be feared that.the mend-
ing of that arm did small credit to Tom's me-
chanical skill; it certainly was a very hurried
performance. And when it was done he care-
fully locked the granary door, and proceeded to
discover what made Jacquetta say "Papa" and
" Mamma."
He worked for a long time, and sometimes his
forehead was puckered up into a very hard frown,
and several times he uttered a little exclamation
of satisfaction. Once he longed so much for
Caddy Jane that he was tempted to go in search
of her. He had made a discovery which he
wished so much to tell to some one.
He had taken the machinery all apart, and he
could put it together again; he would have
liked to have Grandma and every one know
that; but it did seem a great pity to fasten it up
again in that old ruin of a doll.
Suddenly so bright an idea struck Tom that
he threw his cap up among the cobwebby beams
of the granary. I '11 go and stir Caddy Jane
up about that picnic. I '11 make her have it
to-morrow. I can't wait," he said to himself.
" Nobody could blame a fellow for trying such
a scientific experiment as that." He quite sur-
prised Grandma by his zeal in making prepara-
tions for the picnic, as he was not at all in the
habit of being attentive to guests, and had shown
a strong inclination to run away from "that
girl." When the morning of the picnic came,
Grandma thought he seemed more like himself,
for he steadfastly refused to go.
"That boy is up to something; 't is n't any
use to tell me! Cynthy sagely remarked, as

Tom prowled restlessly about the house, evi-
dently in search of something.
At length, in a secluded corner of the piazza,
he seemed to find what he sought and ran off
with it to the old granary; and nothing more
was seen of him for that day.
The picnic party returned late, and although
it was plain to Caddy Jane's experienced eye
that Tom had something on his mind, he did not
confide in her. She observed that he continu-
ally cast anxious glances at a certain corner of
the piazza; and when Grandma had sent him
out to find a stray chicken which was peeping
disconsolately in the tall grass, she went to see
what there could be in that corner. But she
found nothing except Nancy Ray, sitting in the
carriage which had been poor Jacquetta's, just
as her mistress had left her. She did not think
it possible that Tom could have any interest in
Nancy Ray; it was. not long ago that he had
terribly wounded her feelings by letting all the
sawdust run out of her first doll, in an investi-
gating spirit, and since then he had shown only
scorn of dolls. She would have liked to ask him
about Jacquetta, but he gave her no opportunity.
Early the next morning Dulcie went across
the field with Caddy Jane, on an errand to Mrs.
Scammon. As they passed the old granary,
Dulcie caught sight of a bit of striped ribbon
fluttering from the top of a tall thistle near the
door. "It is Jacquetta's belt! she exclaimed.
"I should know it anywhere. Oh, my poor,
dear Jacquetta! I wonder if he has mended
her arm. This is the little house where you
said he works, is n't it ? Let us go in and see
if we can find her."
Caddy Jane objected, but Dulcie had already
pushed open the door. And it was quite use-
less, as Caddy Jane had found already, to object
to anything that Dulcie wished to do. She
opened drawers and peered into boxes and
barrels, while Caddy Jane, filled with anxious
forebodings, begged her to come away; and
at last, at the same time, they both caught sight
of some golden locks, a waxen cheek, a col-
lapsed, dismembered body! These fragments
lay on a table, in a heap of rubbish partially
covered with shavings.
"Oh, oh, that cruel, wicked boy! he has broken
her all to pieces! And she was the very dearest


doll I ever had! And you said he would mend
her Oh, how could I trust you! Oh, my poor,
dear Jacquetta! "
Dulcie's grief waxed louder upon reflection.
She heaped reproaches upon Caddy Jane. She
ran toward the house, in spite of all Caddy's
entreaties, crying with grief and rage. Caddy
saw, with a sinking heart, that Grandpa and
Dulcie's father were standing together upon the
piazza. Grandpa would be very angry. Tom's
passion for taking things to pieces was the one
thing with which he had no patience. And he
had especially enjoined upon both Tom and
Caddy to be very polite and attentive to the
guests. Oh, what would happen to Tom?
There he was now, coming around the cor-
ner of the house, just in time to see the doll's
mangled remains in Dulcie's hands, and to hear
her woful complaint, poured out with tears and
sobs. Grandpa's face was like a thunder-cloud,
and when he asked Tom, in a dreadful voice,
what he had to say for himself, Tom would not
answer a word. He was in one of his sullen
moods, and, indeed, it was not of much use to
try to answer Grandpa when he was in that
state of mind. And Dulcie's father looked as if
he were very sorry-for his little girl, of course,
Caddy Jane thought.
"And I never knew a doll that could talk
before, and he 's broken it right out of her!"
sobbed Dulcie.
And then a sudden inspiration seized Caddy
Jane; she had them sometimes, though she was
such a foolish little thing.
She flew along the piazza and seized Nancy
Ray out of the carriage, pressed her to her
bosom, and uttered a cry of joy. She thrust
her into Dulcie's arms, while Dulcie ceased her
sobs in astonishment.
Papa! Mamma! said Nancy Ray.
"Oh, oh, she can talk cried Dulcie, becom-
ing a rainbow. "What does it mean? She was

the nicest doll I ever had, before,"-(Oh, false
and fickle Dulcie!) "and now she 's perfect! Oh,
did you do it? (to Tom, who tried to look in-
different.) It 's too bad that I called you an
orfle boy when you are such a nice one, and
can do such wonderful things. And Jacquetta
was only a broken old thing."
Tom was beginning to talk to Dulcie's father;
Grandpa had walked away, with something like
an amused look upon his face. Tom was ex-
cited and talked eagerly. It was a comfort to
explain that machinery to some one who seemed
to understand and be interested. And there
was one little point where he thought an im-
provement might be made-it might be less
complicated. He hesitated before saying this,
because he thought Cousin David might find
some mistake again, or perhaps laugh at him.
But he did n't; he seemed to consider the
matter seriously, and asked a great many ques-
tions, and at last said that he should n't wonder
if Tom were right, and if Tom would work up
his idea so that it could be seen he might pos-
sibly secure a patent for it! He thought those
talking dolls were not made in this country, but
he would see what could be done with it abroad;
sometimes a little thing like that amounted to a
great deal. And, anyway, he had become so
convinced of Tom's mechanical ability, that he
was going to ask Grandpa's consent to Tom's
going to New York in the fall, where he would
give the boy a technical education.
Tom was so overcome that he only colored,
and gasped, and looked at Caddy Jane. And
Caddy Jane, being only a foolish little girl,
cried. But I think Cousin David felt that he
was receiving gratitude enough.
I never expected anybody would believe
in me till I 'd made an Instantaneous Butter-
maker or an improved phonograph, or some-
thing great," said Tom; "and to think it 's
come about through a silly old doll!"



Persons of the Drama.


SCENE: The barn. A basket in one corner.
MASTER TOMMY (looking out of the basket).
How very big the world is, after all!
Compared to it our basket seems quite small.
We never dreamed, dear Fluffy, till our eyes
Were opened, that the world was such a size.
I 'd like at once to see it all. Let 's go
And take a stroll around it.
FLUFFY. No! No! No !
Mamma expressly told us not to stray
Outside the basket while she was away.
Something might happen if we disobeyed.
Oh, you don't dare, of course,- you are afraid!


Suppose oh,

dear! suppose we meet a


Suppose we do, dear Fluffy, what of that ?
Will protect you with my strong right paw.
The sight of me would fill a Rat with awe.
FLUFFY. Would it ?
ToniM. Of course it would. I 'd rather
like to see
The Rat who 'd dare to trifle once with me.
I do not think he 'd live to try it twice!
You are so brave! It really would be nice
To see the world--
TOMMY. It will be grand. Here goes!
There, take my paw, and jump. So, mind
your toes !

Now we are off. Tread softly, Sister dear,
If we 're not careful all the world may hear.

FLUFFY startingng. 6.0'f
Oh, dear, what was
that noise? I wish we ''
'd stayed-

TOMMY (trembling).
Be brave, dear Sister,- see, I 'm n'-n'-not
Whatever happens, do not make a row!



- l-

(Enter SIR RAT.)
SIR RAT. Aha! what 's this?
TOMMY. Help! Murder! Mi-ow-ow!
Tommy, be calm! Dear Mr. Rat, good-day.
SIR RAT (jlllepizn up and down).
Enough! enough! I did not come to play!
Dear Mr. Rat, how beautifully you dance.
SIR RAT. You flatter me.
FLUFFY (aside). It is my only chance.
Run, Tommy! run! and bring dear Father-cat,
While I remain and flatter Mr. Rat.
(Exit TOMMY in haste.)
It's very plain you learned that step in France.
I wish, dear Rat, you 'd teach me how to dance.
I do not often dancing lessons give;
But since you have n't very long to live,
And you are so polite, this once I '11 try.
FLUFFY. Thanks! thanks, dear Rat,-one
dance before I die.

SIR RAT. Be done with folly, Kitten! Now at last
Your time has come. Reflect upon your past
It won't take long my past life to unfold!
In sooth, Sir Rat, I'm only nine days old.


i: ,
-- ~..._ L~-~
---, ~F

SIR RAT. Peace, Kitten! Hold thy peace!-
thy time is past. (Springs upon her.)
FLUFFY. Miow Miow !
(Enter MR. and MRS. CAT and TOMMY.)

(Polka Music.
Sir. Rat dances
and Fluzfy ap-

FLUFFY. Bravo !
Sir Rat, I
never saw
Such perfect
Won't you
dance once
more ?




di -~--


MR. CAT. Aha! Sir Rat, at last
I have thee; and this barn will soon, I trow,
Be rid of such a Ruffian Rat as thou!

(They, fight. Sir Rat falls.)

MR. CAT (sheathing his claws).
'T is well I hastened; had I not, I fear
We soon had seen the last of Fluffy dear!

Oh, dear, to think what might have been her

I -

FLUFFY (aside).
I learned that polka step, at any rate.
But luncheon's waiting. Come into the house.
Your father
caught to-
day a fine
And, children, ,
when I tell
you not to stray
From home, in future do not disobey!

r ,

' __$ :" ..'.





OMETHING must have
happened. Father ought
iRS to have reached home two
S hours ago."
Tom Ely's face wore a
troubled look as he glanced
uneasily toward the door.
He was sitting by a blazing fire in the rough room
of a lumberman's log shanty upon the shore of
one of the large Adirondack lakes. Beside the
rough fireplace, at the head of a pile of skins
and coarse, woolen blankets, stood Tom's gun,
his Christmas present from his father. On the
other side, with the polished steels glistening
in the firelight, hung his skates, for this active
lad of fifteen was the champion skater of the
Saranac region. There was hardly anything
which Tom could not do on ice. He could go
forward or backward, wheeling and circling
with all the ease of a swallow in mid-air. So
swiftly could he skim along the ice that his
father used laughingly to boast that-"while
any other skater was going one rod, Tom could
easily skate around him twice."
The lumbering-camp had broken up that very
day. After weeks of hard work, the great trees
had been cut down and the logs dragged to the
water's edge, waiting for the yearly spring rise
in the rivers to float them to the mills. There
was nothing more to be done until the breaking
up of the ice. Most of the men had gone di-
rectly to their homes in the settlements. Ten or
twelve of them, however, had spoken of stay-
ing for a day or two at a shanty on the second
lake below, with the hope of securing some
deer, and Tom's father concluded to stay be-
hind at the main camp for a few days, thinking
that if he should set his traps he might succeed
in getting a few skins to make warm tippets and
muffs for Tom's mother and little sister.
Soon after dinner, leaving Tom to cook the
supper and gather some firewood, the father

shouldered his rifle and started out for a tramp.
By sunset, Tom had piled up the wood in one
corner of the cabin, and then he set to work to
prepare supper. He placed the big tin plates
and cups on the rough, pine table, and, taking
down a ham which was hanging from the ceiling,
cut off a few slices and put them in the frying-
pan, and very soon an appetizing hot meal was
smoking on the hearth; but still his father did
not come.
Tom was a little homesick, sitting there all
alone. He thought of his snug home in the set-
tlement, and fancied just how his mother and
little sister looked as they stood in the door-
way watching him and his father setting out for
the lumbering-camp. Even now, his mother's
parting words rang in his ears-"Tom, my boy,
take good care of your Father." What if any-
thing had happened to his father!
Tom started to his feet and, running to the
door, opened it and stepped out in the bright
moonlight. It was a clear, cold night, and the full
moon was just rising above the dark line of forest.
He stood listening for a moment, and was turn-
ing to enter the cabin, when he heard a footstep.
He raised a whistle to his lips and sounded a
shrill, piercing note. It was the camp signal,
and after a brief pause came the answering
whistle. But it sounded strangely faint and
quavering. Tom wondered at this, and won-
dered still more as he heard a halting, uncer-
tain step on the frozen ground-a step utterly
unlike his father's long, steady stride.
The next moment a tall figure tottered down
the bank behind the shanty, and, by the light of
the moon, Tom saw his father's pale, haggard
face. Don't be frightened," said the wounded
man in a hoarse whisper as the boy darted up
the bank and sav. he scorched and blood-stained
jacket-sleeve and the strong arm hanging limp
and helpless. My foot slipped the rifle was
loaded and went off- the ball shattered my


.arm and lodged in my side I thought I never
.should get home."
Tom managed to lead his father into the
cabin, where he sank down on the pile of skins
in a sort of stupor. After rubbing the cold hand,
and forcing a few spoonfuls of hot coffee be-
tween the white lips, Tom had the satisfaction
of seeing the sufferer open his eyes and look up
with an attempt at a smile.
It's pretty hard for you, Tom," he groaned.
I feel better now. The loss of blood made me
,dizzy. What are you going to do ? "

But if the men should n't be there ? "
"Then I '11 keep on to the settlement."
No-no-no!" came in quick, short gasps;
"there 's another danger- wolves."
Tom looked up with a sudden thrill of fear.
" Have you seen them, Father? "
Yes, Tom,--only a little way from here,--in
some snow in a hollow there were tracks. Being
an old guide I could n't mistake 'em. The
winter has been long and sharp, and hunger has
made them bold. It is many years since they
have been seen around here."

i i
''l .,,,, __ __,_, _,- ,


Going for help," replied Tom promptly. He
rose, put on a thick, woolen jacket and took up
his fur cap.
The father shook his head. No, no;-it
won't do, my son."
But I must, Father! Don't look so worried.
It 's only a step to the river; then down the
stream, over the pond, and along the river again
- then whiz! across the big lake to the shanty
where the men are That 's all."

Tom's cheeks blanched. He knew well that
it was no play to face a hungry wolf, or per-
haps a pack of them, in that grim, lonely
wilderness. He hesitated, and then came the
remembrance of his mother's charge, "Tom,
take good care of your Father." His mind
was made up.
"I can't take my gun," he said aloud, "for it
would only be in the way, but the knife will
be just the thing." He twisted a thick scarf


around his waist, and fastened the long-bladed
hunting-knife securely in his belt.
Tom, you must not go," moaned his father.
"I can't let you risk your life to save mine!"
I must go, Father, if there were forty wolves
in my way." The boy knelt down by his father's
side and stroked the cold hand. It 's dreadful
to leave you,"- here he nearly broke down, but
managed to choke back the rising sobs,-" still,
it's the only way. You might die without help,
and what could I say to Mother! Keep up
your courage, Father. I 've fixed the fire so that
it will last, and here 's the coffee right by your
elbow. I '11 be back soon." Here the boy
breathed the prayer, "God help me!"
In a moment more, Tom had fastened the door
with a stout staple and was kneeling by the lake,
buckling on his skates. As he glided from the
shores he cast a hurried glance around. Both
his eyes and ears were strained to the utmost.
How black the shadows were along the shores!
How sharp was the click, click," of the skates,
as they carried him on with the steady motion
of a machine! The river was soon reached,
and the half-mile over its frozen surface was
easily made, as were the two miles across the
little pond. When he followed again the frozen
course of the river he skated backward, as his
face was benumbed from going against the wind.
He stopped several times for breathing-spells, so
that he felt quite rested as he swept out of the
river to the smooth, level floor of the great lake,
at the lower end of which was the hunters' cabin.
For two miles down the lake, Tom skated quite
slowly, as he was keeping his strength for the
final dash. With body erect, head thrown back,
and arms crossed on his chest, he glided in
long, easy curves now to the right, now to the
left. As he reached the shelter of a little island
he paused for a short rest. Then he buckled on
his skates more firmly, but just as he was taking
a long breath in order to start again, a prolonged
mournful howl broke the stillness of the night
air. It was the sound which he had been
dreading and expecting! His first impulse was
to save himself by climbing one of the large trees
near by. Then he thought of his mother's part-
ing charge. "That would be looking out for
myself, and she told me to take care of Father,"
he murmured. He hastily pulled off his jacket,

felt for his knife, and tightened the scarf around
his waist. "You '11 have exercise enough to
keep you warm, Tom Ely," he muttered between
his set teeth; and then he shot forward like an
arrow from the bow. How the ice rang under
the quick, fierce strokes of the skates! How
swiftly the shores glided by!
The boy paused a moment to look over his
shoulder. On the ice near the shore was a small,
black speck, growing rapidly larger. The wind
had swept the last light fall of snow from the
center of the lake into windows on both
sides, and there it had frozen, making a rough
surface on which the wolf found a sure footing.
Tom increased his speed, but that long, tireless
gallop, never for an instant faltering nor loitering,
was gaining rapidly on him. Already the lean,
shaggy brute was within a few yards, and the
boy heard an angry snarl as the creature made
a fierce spring at him. Quick as thought, Tom
wheeled suddenly to the right, and the wolf
rolled over and over on the ice, while the skater
sped on, gaining several rods by this trick.
In a moment, however, the furious beast was
up again, and a second desperate race began,
and a second time Tom escaped the sharp, white
teeth. By this time the boy's heart was beating
like a trip-hammer. His breath came in quick,
short gasps, and he was conscious of a queer
feeling of weakness about the knees. His heart
sank within him as he looked back and saw his
enemy again on his track. "I can't keep it up
much longer," he thought. "A little twig or
roughness on the ice-and it is all over with me."
He raised his white, despairing face toward the
heavens with a swift, short prayer. Just then he
caught a glimpse of a low point of land at the
left. Tom's blood tingled at the sight! Below
were the hunters' cabin and the stout lumber-
men! What if the men had gone on to the
settlement! "- and the boyish voice broke into
a sob.
A few strokes of the skates brought him to the
point, with the wolf close at his heels. Tom
raised his whistle to his lips and blew a piercing
blast. In another moment he had dodged the
wolf again, and as he swept round the point
he saw the open door of the cabin and the
blazing fire within. He heard a dozen answer-
ing whistles, the hoarse baying of dogs, the sharp



crack of a rifle. He mustered strength to tell
his story, and then a faintness came over him and
he tottered into the arms of a strong lumberman.
The next that he knew, he was lying on a
pile of skins by a bright fire, with several strong
men bending over him. One of the hunters
was saying, I 'd give a good deal to own a boy
like that. Talk of heroes- why that fifteen-
year-old chap is the biggest hero of 'em all."
Tom looked up; he said only, "Father ? "

Four of the men have gone to the settlement
for a doctor, half a dozen more, with old Hodge
amongst 'em (and he's as good as a doctor any
time), are on the way to your father, and as soon
as you are able, we '11 take you up with us."
"And the wolf? Tom sank back shuddering.
His hide is over yonder in the corner; one
of the men says that he is going to dress the
skin for you. It will be the proudest trophy
of your life, I reckon."



IN one of the cages of the zoological gardens
at Central Park, there is a miscellaneous and
rather incongruous collection of birds, made up,
as it would seem, of the odds and ends of the
feathered portion of the menagerie; for it in-
cludes such dissimilar birds as the wood-duck,
the egret, the sickle-bill, a chicken with no bill
at all, a crow without any tail, a dilapidated ad-
jutant-bird, a roseate spoonbill (which spends
the greater part of its time in standing on one
of its spindling legs), a curassow, and several
other equally ill-assorted fellows.
Except a sulky heron, which seemingly passes
its gloomy life in nourishing a passionate hatred
for the tailless crow, these chance companions
associate very amicably together, bearing each
other's whims and fancies with philosophy and
good temper. And it must need a large supply
of both those virtues to get along in so mixed
a company; for each bird follows the bent of
his natural habits without regard to any other
Some of the results of this condition of affairs
are more amusing to the spectator than to the
actors; as, when the sickle-bill becomes pos-
sessed by the idea that something of great value
to him is hidden under the hen without a bill,

and that he must relieve his curiosity by remov-
ing the hen. Accordingly he thrusts his long
bill under that patient bird and lifts her uncere-
moniously out of the comfortable dust-hole she
has made for herself.
Many of the pranks played in that cage are,
however, so imbued with an air of conscious
humor and enjoyment that it is hard to believe
that they are not meditated jokes. The crow,
for example, is always a funny bird; but this
particular crow has the manner of a bird that
knows itself to be funny and even seems to con-
sider the loss of its tail a very laughable thing.
Not that it has any appearance of laughing.
Far from it. Like a professional joker of the
first order, it is solemnity itself. So, too, is the
adjutant-bird, which combines with the crow to
make fun for the cage. And when this incon-
gruous pair are in a mischievous mood there is
certain to be fun.
One day, when the crow was hopping about
the cage in its misguided way,--misguided for
lack of a tail,- it noticed the pair of pretty little
wood-ducks contentedly eating some scraps of
meat. The adjutant-bird stood in seeming slum-
ber, a picture of solemn ugliness. The crow
skipped by the adjutant once or twice, with a



knowing cock of the head, as if inviting that
solemn bird to some fun; but the adjutant only
opened one of its eyes in a way inexpressibly
sly and then shut the eye again and took no
further notice of its fellow mischief-maker. For
a moment the crow looked doubtfully at its big
friend, well knowing the adjutant's wily ways,
and then with a series of sidling hops made up
to the wood-ducks, cocked its head leeringly at
them, snatched a piece of meat and scurried



off. The crow buried that piece and came back
for more and yet more, until there was no more
to be had. Then the crow returned to his
buried treasures and unearthed and re-buried
them very gleefully. But now it was the turn
of the adjutant. It slowly stretched itself and
then stalked to where the crow was making his
rounds of inspection. As the crow would bury
a piece of meat, the adjutant would dig it up
and leave it exposed; thus undoing the work of
the crow as often as the latter would perform it.
And so they continued around and around the
cage, the one burying and the other unearthing,
and all with such droll solemnity that the spec-
tators about the cage were kept in roars of

laughter. The hilarity they caused seemed to
spur on both birds, as applause inspires actors,
and the feathered comedians continued their
drollery for round after round.
Of course there is always fun in the monkey
cage, but probably the sense of humor is not
more developed in the monkey than in many
other animals. The elephant, for example, can
enjoy a joke as much as any animal. Mr. Mer-
edith Nugent, the artist, tells of one of these

giant jokers noticed by him in the zoological
gardens in Paris, while he was sketching there.
This elephant had made friends with the hippo-
potamus and was permitted to visit the latter,
and it was in the inclosure for the hippopota-
mus that he developed a fondness for practical
joking, which seemed to give him peculiar
He would reach over the big tank when the
hippopotamus was lolling in the water, sud-
denly catch one of the little ears of the latter
with the finger of his trunk and give it so mis-
chievous a tweak that the huge river-horse would
roar out and angrily open his huge mouth. Then
the hippopotamus would be upon his guard and


sink out of sight, to come up again further away.
But, for all his seeming annoyance, he apparently
liked the fun himself; for, when he had come up
to the surface quite too far away for the elephant
to reach him, he would sink and try again to re-
appear just out of reach of the waving trunk.
The elephant evinced his enjoyment of the sport
by swaying to and fro in the manner of his kind,
and occasionally, too, he would open his mouth
in a comical resemblance to a laugh,- though
it must be said that the resemblance is purely
accidental, for though the elephant may laugh
he does not do it in that way.
Another joke enjoyed by this elephant was to
stand over some particularly choice morsel meant
for the hippopotamus, and thus prevent him from
eating it -to tease him, in fact. So great was
the elephant's enjoyment of this feat that he
would not only sway to express his pleasure, but
would make a rumbling sound which, with the
elephant, is more than anything else indicative
of delight. And the vexation of the hippopot-
amus was as evident as the enjoyment of the
elephant. The hippopotamus knew he was power-
less to coerce his friend, and so he would go away
and sulk until it was the pleasure of the elephant
to move from the coveted food. Occasionally,
however, the elephant would pretend to leave
it, and then return just in time to cheat the
It was an Indian elephant that betrayed a
taste for fun in this instance; but in the same
menagerie there is another case known, in which
an African elephant showed a similar disposition.
Only, in this instance, the elephant caught a
tartar and was temporarily cured of his jocular
attentions. The African elephant had formed a
friendship for a zebra; and, though the zebra
was shy for some time, it yielded at last to the
advances of its gigantic friend and permitted his
caresses without giving way to paroxysms of
fear. By and by the elephant became embold-
ened and grew a little rough, pulling the sensi-

tive zebra's legs and tail and ears. One day the
zebra wearied of its ponderous friend's teasing
and incontinently caught one of the elephant's
great, flapping ears between its teeth and bit so
hard and pulled so sturdily, that the elephant
was fain to sue for mercy in a series of shrill
trumpetings. Thereafter the big elephant was
respectful as well as affectionate to the zebra.
It ought to be said in the elephant's behalf,
that he is not always so fond of joking at the
expense of his friends. It is a singular fact that
a friend or pet seems to be a necessity to a cap-
tive elephant. Inmost cases that friends selected
from among the smaller of the animals about it.
Frequently the friend is a dog belonging to the
keeper, and in many well-known instances a
helpless, little human baby has been selected as
the object of the elephant's affection. When
the elephant's chosen friend is clearly help-
less, the great beast has never been known to
tease or injure it, even in fun. Its tenderness
with a baby is one of the most pleasing sights
Mr. Nugent tells also of a practical joke which
he saw perpetrated by a tiger in the London
Zoo, although it was really unintentional on the
part of the tiger and rather grim in its results.
In the cage next the tiger's, and hidden from his
view by a board partition, was a tamandua, or
ant-bear, a singular-looking creature that lives
in its native country upon ants, capturing
myriads of these little insects by means of an
abnormally long tongue, coated with a sticky
substance to which the ants adhere. This tongue
the captive ant-bear often thrust out and moved
about in an inquisitive way. In an evil hour it
discovered a hole in the partition separating it
from the tiger. The tiger was lazily stretched
at length, one day, when this long tongue came
into his cage. His first manifestation of dis-
pleasure was an ugly snarl, his next a quick
blow with its claw-armed paw. The ant-bear
never repeated its experiment.

VOL. XVII.--o.


WHEN the trees
are bare and Nature
has drawn her fleecy snow-curtain over the spec-
tacle of green field and flower-sprinkled hillside,
we may naturally give a thought to the slumber-
ing vitality under that soft white drapery. The
tenderest hearts will feel almost pity for the
thousands of seeds and roots doomed to an icy
bed during a long winter; yet those same hearts
will thrill with unalloyed delight at the snap-
ping, crackling, frantic mass of popping corn,-
a live seed, every one,- although at each pop
a grain is forced into grotesque and unnatural
blossoming. The ear of corn has perhaps suf-
fered a harder fate by being garnered and housed
only to be roasted alive. But, notwithstanding
there is life in each seed, just as certainly as
there is in a hen's egg, we may be sure that the
sacrifice of its tiny vital existence is absolutely
painless; and the more spiritual of us may reach
a higher plane of satisfaction by accepting its
pure white expansions, after the fatal heat, as
metaphorical angels' wings.
While we sit around the cozy hearth with red-
dened cheeks, after the bombardment in our pop-
per has ceased and the munching has begun, let
us listen to a short story about this transformation
which, in a twinkling, changes the yellow, stony
little kernel into a tender, white, delicious morsel,
monstrous and ragged. What is the power and
process of this fantastic jugglery ? Like all
white magic, it is simple when understood; and
knowing the secret, we may find intellectual
pleasure also in what is so fascinating to the eye
and so grateful to the palate.

Under favorable circumstances one may oc-
casionally see, while popping corn, little puffs
of white vapor issuing from the popper. One
might reasonably presume this to be steam or
water-vapor; but, in order to make sure of it, I
popped half-a-dozen grains in a small beaker,
the mouth of which was stopped loosely with a
cork, holding the beaker over a gas flame. The
result was the generation of so much steam that
it hissed out around the cork and gave my fin-
gers a lively sensation of heat. This seemed
almost conclusive on that point, but it occurred
to me to weigh the corn before and after pop-
ping, and this led to the discovery that more
than ten per cent. of the weight of the corn is
lost in the process, and this loss is doubtless the
water which escapes. So that our popperful of
corn--a bulk between fifty and one hundred
times as great as it was originally-really weighs
less than when we started! But this only half
explains what takes place when the grain ex-
plodes. It is not quite plain why the expanding
steam should puff the corn out into a crisp white
mass instead of blowing it to atoms, and the real
inwardness of the matter will be apparent only
by comparing the structure of the seed as Nature
has finished it with its structure after it is popped.
To do this, we must cut a very thin slice, thinner
than this paper, through the middle of the grain
of corn, and magnify it very highly. Figure I
shows a very small part of such a slice as it ap-
peared under my microscope. If the whole
grain could be seen enlarged to the same extent,
it would stand higher than one's head and look
like an immense bowlder. Now the whole grain


is made up of little sacs, or bags, which botanists
call cells," and the figure represents a group
of these cells from the center of a grain of rice-
corn as they appear in a slice, much in the
same way as we see the sacs in a thin slice
of lemon, only in the corn they are, of course,

far too small to be seen by the naked eye.
The heavier lines show the boundaries of the
cells. Each cell, of which there are thousands
in the entire grain, is packed tightly with little
granules of starch. These are shown in the fig-
ure completely filling up the cells, and it is to
this compact arrangement of starch-granules that
the corn owes its hardness. Much the greater
part of the grain consists of these cells crowded
full of starch, although the remainder is really
the most important, vital part: that is, the em-
bryo, which under proper conditions initiates
the growth of the seed; the starch being merely
a little store of food upon which the young shoot
feeds until it is established and able to take care
of itself. And, by the way, the cereals which
are so extensively used as food are, like the corn,
largely composed of this same substance, starch.
Understanding now what there is in the kernel
of corn, let us look at a thin slice of the same
corn after it is popped, and see if we can make
out what has become of the cells and the starch.
Figure 2 shows such a slice, magnified to the
same extent as the first, as well as it can be
represented by a diagram, for its delicacy and
transparency can not be readily represented on
paper. Here we have apparently a similar
structure of cells; but compare their size with the
other slice. They are smaller than the original
cells and much larger than the starch-granules,
so it is reasonable to conclude that these ap-
parent cells are the starch-granules themselves

swelled up by the steam. This is the fact; so
they are not cells at all in the botanical sense.
Simple chemical tests prove that they are starch.
But the granules are no longer solid; they have
been blown up into vesicles, or balloons, and the
steam in forcing its escape not only ruptures
many of the vesicles, but splits and tears its
way all through the mass, making rifts and chan-
nels leading to the air. Most of them are too
minute, however, to be seen with the naked eye.
The figure shows one of these rifts, and the ragged
edges of the ruptured vesicles can be seen. On
the right side, part of the broken cell-wall is in-

dicated. Only the starchy part pops; the em-
bryo, of which I have spoken, simply shrinks
and turns brown.
We may yet speculate on the details of the
process. In what condition is the interior of the
grain just before it explodes ? The common ex-
perience of the kitchen and laundry will help us
here. In making up the mixture for stiffening
clothes, the laundress puts starch into water and
boils it, and we all know that in this process the
starch loses its powdery character and becomes
blended with the water into a pasty, translucent
mass. The effect upon the individual starch-
granule is a softening and considerable increase
of its bulk and, finally, its rupture and diffusion
through the water. While we can not see the
inside of the grain at the critical moment when
it has all but burst, we may, in view of what we
now know, probably surmise the truth. Is it not
very likely that, as the grain gets hotter and
hotter, the moisture present in the cells, or in
the starch-granules themselves, softens them first,
and then, when the heat becomes too great to
permit its remaining in the fluid state, it suddenly
turns to steam, and the now plastic starch ex-


pands in every direction forming the little vesicles This is the conclusion to which I have been
shown in the figure, losing at the same time, of brought, and I think of the wonderful physics
course, the moisture and thus becoming firm of popped corn with great satisfaction whenever
and brittle again ? I shake my popper over the glowing coals.



WHAT cheer is there that is half so good,
In the snowy waste of a winter night,
As a dancing fire of hickory wood,
And an easy-chair in its mellow light,
And a pearmain apple, ruddy and sleek,
Or a jenneting with a freckled cheek?

A russet apple is fair to view,
With a tawny tint like an autumn leaf,
The warmth of a ripened corn-field's hue,
Or golden hint of a harvest sheaf;
And the wholesome breath of the finished year
Is held in a winesap's blooming sphere.

They bring you a thought of the orchard trees,
In blossomy April and leafy June,
And the sleepy droning of bumble-bees,
In the lazy light of the afternoon,
And tangled clover and bobolinks,
Tiger-lilies and garden pinks.

If you 've somewhere left, with its gables wide,
A farm-house set in an orchard old,
You '11 see it all in the winter-tide
At sight of a pippin's green-and-gold,
Or a pearmain apple, ruddy and sleek,
Or a jenneting with a freckled cheek.



S ,.. A\MMA! Mamma!"cried
'I/. i, 1 uiie Perry, running
', i into the house early
'i one afternoon and
throwing down her
i "I j school-books, "the
S,/ new people are mov-
Sing in next door."
,J So I see, Kittie,"
f' said Mrs. Perry.
"And, Mamma, there 's a little girl there just
about as big as me. I just saw her going in.
I 'm awfully glad! I 'm 'most crazy for some
one to play with since the Cooks went away.
May Kingsley 's the only other girl on the
block, and we're having a tiff now. I 'm going
right in to see that girl and find out what her
name is."
"Kittie said her mother, catching her just
in time as she was flying out of the room, you
must not go. The little girl's mother would n't
like it. I 'm sure I should n't have wished the
neighbors' children to come in here the day we
moved. We had confusion enough without
But, Mamma, I must, for I need some one
to play with, and May Kingsley and I are angry
at each other and I can't speak to her for a
I 'm afraid you will not be able to do that,
Kittie," said Mamma, laughing.
I 'm afraid not," said Kittie, with a sigh.
"I '11 tell you how it was. I wanted to play
jackstones, and May wanted to play paper dolls,
and -" Mamma was trying to write a letter,
but Kittie's tongue kept on pitilessly for ten
minutes. Then she paused to take breath.
Well, that's the reason I can't speak to her
for a week, Mamma, and I must have some one
to play with. So, Mamma, why can't I go in
and see the girl next door ? "
"I 've told you why, Kittie. And now you

must not talk to me any more until I 've finished
this letter."
But Kittie kept on talking as she stood by
the window, for to talk to herself was better
than nothing. "There 's a sled; that 's a girl's
sled, and I don't see any other, so I suppose it 's
the girl's. There are a doll's carriage and two
dolls' trunks. Why does n't the man turn them
so I can see better ? There! Why, there 's a
name on the end! C-a- oh, I see, Carrie; no,
Clara,-Clara L. Parsons. That's a pretty
name. Oh, dear I wish to-morrow 'd come."
To-morrow did come,-that is, the next day
did (some people say "to-morrow does n't"),-
but it rained, and Kittie could n't go out in the
afternoon. Thursday, however, when she came
home from school, her new little neighbor was
sitting on the piazza with one of the trunks open
before her, and a beautiful doll on her lap.
Kittie glanced at her, and the little girl looked
so friendly that Kittie nodded. Her neighbor
nodded in reply. Kittie went up the steps.
Would n't you like me to come and play with
you ? she asked.
The little girl looked as if she would, but did
not make any reply.
She 's shy," said Kittie to herself. How
funny." Then aloud, "I '11 get my doll; only
it is n't nice as yours. Shall I ? The girl
Kittie ran into her own home, and up to the
play-room, where she snatched up her best doll,
rejecting the second best as not grand enough
to associate with Clara L. Parsons and her
"Mamma," she called out, "I 'm going to
play with the girl next door."
Did she ask you, Kittie ? said Mrs. Perry,
coming into the hall.
Yes, Mamma; at least, I asked if I should
come, and she said yes. She would have asked
me, I know, but she seems shy!"


"Well, you can go for a few minutes. Don't
stay long." Kittie rushed off.
The little girl was sitting with her back turned,
and did not move until Kittie came all the way
up the steps; but then she gave a pleased look
of welcome.
Here 's my doll," said Kittie, sitting down.
It is n't as nice as yours, is it ? Clara nodded.
Kittie thought her a very polite girl, for Bella
was only two-thirds the size of Clara's doll.
Her name 's Bella," she announced. What
is your doll's name ? I suppose Clara Parsons
is your name, is n't it? I see Parsons there on
your door-plate. Oh, may I look at the things
in your trunk ? What a lovely party-dress! Did
you make it? No, I guess you did n't, 'cause I
see part of it 's made on the machine, and I
don't suppose you can sew on the machine.
Mamma won't let me touch ours. I made
that blue dress, though,- almost all myself.
What darling dolls' handkerchiefs, and oh, what
lovely little visiting-cards! Stella Parsons';
is that her name ? Stella rhymes with Bella,
does n't it? they ought to be friends; let 's
introduce them."
She held Bella up toward Stella, and Clara
held up Stella and made her shake hands with
her visitor and then kiss her.
Now they 're acquainted," said Kittie. "Let
us pretend they have taken a great fancy to each
other, as I have to you. I wish you 'd be my
best friend, for I have n't one now. Fanny
Cook used to be, but she 's moved away; she
lived in that yellow house across the way; and
May Kingsley is n't; we get mad at each other;
and she talks so much; if you tell her a secret,
everybody is sure to know it. Oh, my name 's
Kittie Perry; I did n't tell you, did I ? My
brother's name 's Frank, and my sister's name
is Amy, but they 're both big, nearly grown up,
so I don't have any one home to play with. That
lady at the second-story window is your mother,
I suppose ? That 's my mother in a blue dress
- on our stoop just now. That lady in brown
that went in with her is Mrs. Fraim. She 's
deaf and dumb. Did you ever know anybody
who was ? It 's so funny to see them talk. I
can say a few words. See. This means man;
this means woman; this means dinner; this
means a bouquet of flowers."

Kittie made the motions as she spoke, and
Clara, smiling brightly and looking pleased,
made them too, but much more deftly and
gracefully than Kittie.
And this means a baby with long clothes,"
continued Kittie. Clara shook her head, and
made a motion a little different.
"Oh, yes, that is it," said Kittie. "How
quick you learn! I '11 teach you some more
some day; then, if you ever meet a deaf person,
you can talk to them. But it must be dreadful,
must n't it ?-to be deaf and dumb, and not to
be able to talk. Why, I 'd die /" (I almost be-
lieve Kittie would.) And their language -
why I could n't talk as much in a minute as in
a week in our way--no, no, I mean in a week
as in a minute. Oh, what are you doing? "
Clara had taken Bella and removed her dress.
She then picked up the dress that Kittie had
admired, and holding it against Stella showed
that it was too small; then buttoning it on Bella
she laid the doll back in Kittie's lap and looked
up with a smile.
Do you mean to give it to me ? cried Kit-
tie, delighted. Oh, you darling! It 's aw-
fully pretty. Kiss the lady, Bella, my child.
Now I ought to do something for Stella. Let
me see,--when she has the measles, you send for
me, 'cause I 've had experience. She '11 be sure
to get them; they 're very relevant this spring.
Oh, dear, there 's Mamma calling me. Wait
here, and I '11 be back soon."
Mrs. Perry had called Kittie to go upstairs
and try on her new dress, and this occupied
nearly half an hour. When she returned to the
piazza next door, Clara had gone and so had
Stella and her trunk. Only Bella remained,
sitting on the doorstep in the party-dress which
had been presented to her, and holding in her
lap a piece of paper on which was written, in a
round, childish, but neat and legible hand: "I
can't wait any longer for you. I 'm going out
with Mamma. Come again to-morrow."
Kittie came late to the tea-table that evening,
and did not notice at first that everybody was
very much amused at something.
Kittie," said Frank, did you get acquainted
with the girl next door ? "
"Yes; she 's awfully nice; her name 's Clara
Parsons. What made you call me in, that time,



Mamma? She said she could n't play much
longer, she had to go out with her mother; and
when I came back she was gone."
Did you have much conversation with her?"
asked Papa.
"Yes, Papa; I think I was there half an
It was more than an hour," said Amy.
"I saw you. But I think you did all the
talking yourself."
Kittie was indignant at this accusation, al-
though it was not a new one. "It would n't be
very polite to go and see a person and never
say a word, would it ? she said.
"You '11 never be so impolite, certainly," said
And she gave me the prettiest dress for
Bella. It was one that was in her doll's trunk,
but it was too small for her doll. I '11 show it
to you after tea."
Now, Kittie," said Mamma, "try to remem-
ber the exact words she said about the dress, or
about anything else you talked of."
"The exact words," repeated Kittie, slowly.
She looked thoughtful, then perplexed. "It 's
queer, but somehow I forget the exact words."
"Well, Kittie, we don't blame you. Mrs.
Fraim was here this afternoon, and she was
speaking about the family next door, the Par-
sons. She knows them very well; and this little
girl her name is Clara is deaf and dumb.
She can't speak a word."
Kittie dropped the biscuit she was eating, and
the blankness which overspread her face was
too much for the gravity of the family. They all
So, Kittie," said Papa, you must have had


all the talk to yourself, and, if I know you, you
must have enjoyed it exceedingly!"
Kittie still looked so dazed that Mamma came
to her assistance.
"What did she say about going out with her
mother ? "
Why-she wrote that; but that was because
I was away."
"And what did she say when she gave you
the doll's dress ? "
"She put it on Bella and handed it to me.
Maybe she did n't say anything."
"And did she tell you her name was Clara
Parsons ? "
Yes why well, I asked her and she said
yes;-no, I believe she nodded. She nodded
quite often. But if she can't hear how could
she tell when to nod ? "
Kittie asked this triumphantly.
Mrs. Fraim says she is a bright little thing,
and often can tell what people are saying by
watching their lips; and then perhaps she thought
it was polite to agree with you even when she
did n't understand."
Now perhaps you 'll believe how much you
talk," said Frank. I promise you ten cents if
you keep quiet all the rest of tea-time, because
I know you can't."
"Yes, I can," said Kittie; "but I 'm not
going to."

The other day, when I was calling on Mrs.
Perry, I asked, How is the little girl next door
whom I heard about, Kittie? "
She 's lovely," said Kittie. I 'm going
to have her for my best friend; I don't care
who laughs. I can tell all my secrets to her."



S TELL of a shoe and a boy;
'of a bicycle and the river
ir",, ]- Rhine,- of the Rhine that
'"I/''' creeps through a town
\ where years ago the mayor
and corporation, all for
i" 'I- love of the children and the
fear of a chance false note,
banished all the hand-or-
I' gans and the hurdy-gurdies
Si' beyond the city walls. And
Syet there is music still in the
streets of the old town,-
that same familiar, inces-
sant, ringing melody rising
forever from all the pave-
ments of Northern Eu-
rope,- the music of the wooden shoes. It was
Gretchen who played on them as she galloped
across the court-yard before sunrise; it was the
butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker
who played on them as they clattered so early
along the gabled streets of the city; it was
surely the fish-wives and the flower-girls and
the milk-maids and blue-bloused Dienstlminner
who pounded them on the pavements of the
market-place and sent up a symphony of
clickity-clicks and laughter; but better than all
the rest, it was a thousand children, on a glori-
ous afternoon, who rushed out of school-a
common Volksc/ule-and made earth and air
and sky ring with the music of their wooden
The rain was over, the sun was bursting forth
in floods of strange yellow light, and torrents of
water rushed madly along the gutters. Verily,
was there ever a river so mighty and delightful
to boys as this swollen street-tide after the
storm ? How they go plunging to the depths
of it! And how these hundreds of lads, with
knapsacks on their backs, yelled with glee when
they saw it. It was the work of a second to
strip off the stockings and cram them into pock-

ets along with the strings and the marbles,-the
work of a second to do this, and, with a wooden
shoe in either hand, rush to the flooded street
and cry, "Who '11 have a race? "
"Ich !--Ac/-ja /-Ich auch /-Ic/h-Ic/ 1"
rang through the streets like the cries of the hot
crusaders. Every boy and a hundred girls ac-
cepted the challenge. And so, on either side
the way, they ranged themselves, and into the
rushing gutters launched their wooden shoes!
It was a sight for St. Nicholas! Never since
the carnivals of Venice or the day of the great
Armada had there floated a fleet so wonderful
as this Hundreds and hundreds of shoes,-
large ones, small ones, broad ones, and narrow
ones, black and red and yellow and gray, some
bright with the trappings of leather and brass,
some hastily rigged with a pencil for mainmast
and paper for a sail, but all of them buoyant and
whizzing and careering along like the bouncing
galleys of the olden time. The street rocked
with excitement, and the excitement rose to
battle-cries when, as in all great races, the
shoes began to show individual qualities and
fall into classes the great craft scudding
ahead and the smaller ones forging along in
one mad mob behind.
The course lay through the gutters of a long
narrow street, unbroken by cross-ways for an
eighth of a mile, when the rain-river suddenly
ended by turning abruptly and diving into a
sewer. This seemed to be generally known by
the children, for they took good care to follow
the shoes to the corner and snatch them up in
time to save them from a very yawning and
horrible abyss.
The race of the big boats had finished; the
owners had rushed back to the start again, and
now down the foaming torrent came bobbing
and bumping away the fleet of younger craft.
Little mattered it to the children-the question
of center-board sloops and cutters! It was
simply a fleet of chubby little smacks with


pointed noses and fluted decks, and gay leather,
and brazen nails around the gunwales. On
came the yachts, on flew the children. A hun-
dred feet, and the race is over.

"Juch!" screamed the boys, "Oswald wins!
Now grab thy shoe or thou 'It lose it!"
It was the acme of genuine excitement. There
followed a wild scramble for the shoes. Oswald


h -j( .*" .' .. ".-4-"-> f-. .- w ..--.ar '&, '4 U

-- ,-_- _- ...- It-
-~~- > ---- -- .-' '

I '. ? i _.- -"
4..-- i~"T


"See the little red-trimmed shoe," yelled a
boy with eyes like saucers! See!--it 's
mine! "
"And see the black one with a sail!" cried a
girl, joyfully. That 's mine! "
The race was clearly between the two. Fifty
feet-thirty feet-twenty feet-ten !-and the
red-trimmed one was far ahead !

the winner, frantic with joy, sprang forward to
catch his own, when alas alas he tripped and
fell; and alas! and ten times alas! away shot
the shoe, turned the fatal corner, and swish!-
disappeared through the great black hole of the
sewer! Poor Oswald and his fellows stood dazed.
Never in his whole nine years of life had Os-
wald known a calamity such as this.


It 's gone! It 's lost! Ach! It 's lost he and with the confused and liberal prompting of
cried, wringing his hands while the tears rained the excited throng, he quickly told the story.
down his cheeks. Seth listened perplexed, till suddenly, all like
And there was no help for it. What mattered a flash, came a thought to his bright little mind.
it to Oswald even if some tender-hearted boys Hurrah! he cried almost aloud. And then,



did offer him their marbles ? What mattered it
even if a sweet little maiden did try to console
him and wipe the tears from his eyes with the
corer of her checkered apron ? Nay, the whole
world was nothing, compared to that shoe. It
was lost; and if he had to go home without it,
he knew that he might as well have been lost
himself. His grief was desperate, and still he
stood weeping and still the children vainly
offered sympathy, when round the corer ap-
peared Seth Hardy on his bicycle. It was about
the only one in the whole town where Seth was
attending school, and there was not a boy or
a girl to whom the magic wheel and its rider
were not well known.
': See the Amerieaner cried the crowd, as
Seth came whirling along.
He spied the troop of children, noticed Os-
wald in tears, and stopped to learn the cause.
Ach mein Herr, it's gone -lost! "
What is gone ? "
My shoe, my shoe And between the sobs,

with right forefinger in the palm of his left hand,
-just as Herr Dr. N. of the school always
did,- he reasoned it out so quickly that the Ger-
man boys stood dumb with wonder. "Also!"
he continued, half in German, gutter to sewer
-sewer to-it must turn into Schumann
Strasse, run along Wilhelm Strasse, and then,
bang into the Rhine "
And before a lad of them could say Jack
Robinson in German, off flew Seth on his
bicycle toward the river. Scores and scores of
children rushed panting and shouting after him,
while little Oswald Keller, with a lone shoe
under his arm, dashed the tears away, and,
though hardly realizing what it all meant, sped
like a deer two rods ahead of them all. A whirl
to the left, a spin of a block, a whirl to the right,
and Seth had reached the Rhine. The rains
of many days had swollen it to the danger point
and the water was still rising. Another foot
and, instead of the sewers rushing into the Rhine,
the Rhine would be rushing into the sewers.



Jumping from his wheel, Seth ran to the bank,
peered up and down and caught the spot where,
whirling in muddy commotion, the sewer met
the river. Thither he flew,--the crowd with
him,-when, just as he had snatched an oar for
stopping the fugitive the moment it appeared,
a hundred throats yelled in a tremble of excite-
ment, "Ach! The shoe! The shoe!" And
lo! out from the black hole and far into the
stream shot the wooden shoe. Seth had not
been quick enough, and now it was beyond his
reach. He saw it whirl and whirl, and dally in
an eddy; and then, to his dismay and the grief
of them all, saw it slowly enter the main current
and speed away to the north.
Stay here," cried Seth excitedly to Oswald
and the rest. Stay here-I '11 soon be back,"
and jumping on the bicycle again, he laid his
head close to the very handle and vanished
down the road that wound along the river.
'T is a race with the Rhine," he thought,
"and it's a poor wheel that can't win it! And
away he went, till after a stretch of two miles he
came to the bend and the village of L-.
The banks were lined with boats and the men
were busy bailing out and scouring.
"It 's a shoe!" screamed Seth, as he came
flying among them. It 's a shoe! It 's coming
yonder-this side the middle of the river-and
I'11 give five marks to any man that picks it up!"
How many men leaped into their boats, and
how many boats shot into the Rhine, or what
the wives, and the people, and the kind old vil-
lage priest, and the burly fat mayor all thought
will never be known; but the women stood
wringing their hands, and the priest said some-
thing solemn in Latin, and the mayor took out
his note-book as if, indeed, a man were drown-
ing. But Seth saw nothing except the boats.

He saw them scatter, and it seemed to him as if
they stretched away for miles. He saw them
stemming the current and darting back and
forth like fish; and then of a sudden he heard a
cry and saw the boats all pulling for the shoe.
He saw ah joy of earth it was the shoe !
and the boatmen coming reverently forward and
mumbling, and bowing, and stammering, and
placing at last in his hands the precious little
red-bound runaway.
The mayor stared, the priest stared, the women
stared. And the body ? they gasped. "Where
is the body? "
Seth was too excited to explain. He flung
the five marks to the man, jumped to his wheel
again, and, while the people chattered and shook
their heads, he vanished, it seemed to them, into
the very skies above.
And so he came speedily to where the chil-
dren waited, and amid the shouts of bravo.' and
blessings he restored the shoe to little Oswald;
and then with the happy owner he went to the
humble home and, telling the tale to the mother
Gretchen, begged the shoes away for the price
of a new and a better pair.
And it came to pass after many, many months,
when Seth had left school and had returned to
his home in America, that everybody would ask
about a funny little shoe that stood with the
cups, and the vases, and the beautiful bric-a-
brac in the nooks of a fine old library. It was
the same wonderful shoe of which you have
just been reading. I am sure it is the shoe, for
here it is before my very eyes, with the same
pointed toe, and the same fluted upper and
the same gay leather and shiny brass nails that
it had on the day when it sailed in the streets
and under the ground and raced with a bicycle
down the swollen Rhine.

" 7






A WELCOME to us all, my hearers We all have
been parted for a time, and now that November
brings us together again in her crisp, sudden way,
we may as well proceed to business as if nothing
had happened.
The birds, as you know, bring many pleasant let-
ters to your Jack from friends all over the world,
but seldom has so pleasant a letter been dropped
on this pulpit as this which you now shall hear:
DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Are you aware that you
have an Italian cousin, who lives at Mentone, and is
called II Capuccino? (the little friar.) There is a clois-
ter near by, where some Capuchin friars dwell, and look
out at the gay world from beneath their brown hoods.
But this cousin seem to be a hermit as well as a friar, for
he lives out-of-doors, all by himself. When he preaches
it certainly is in the Italian language. But he is not so
fortunate as to possess a department of his own in a
charming magazine; and therefore it is probable he
knows much more than he ever tells. His name is
Brother Arum Arisarum; and he has intrusted to me a
little rhymed letter of greeting to his American cousin.
E. C.
I am a little friar.
Beneath a wild-rose brier
I tell my beads of dew.
My cousin, I admire
Your preaching, and desire
To write some words to you.
All in my pulpit green,
Quite like yourself, I 'm seen
When little people go
Playing their games between
The lemon boughs that lean
From slopes of Monaco.
'Tis strange they never task
My skill, nor questions ask
Such as to you they bring.
My cowl might be mask
Of zany, or a cask
Empty of everything

They leave me here alone,
A hermit by a stone,
The shadowy woods within;
I think they have not known
A friend to every one
Is the poor Capuchin.

Now if you should intend
Some words to me to send,
The birds, flying south, will bear 'em;
How gladly will I bend
My hood to hear Your friend,
Fria Armn Arisarum.
I thank you very much, Cousin Arisarum, for this
fair greeting, and commend to you these thousands
of good children who, like myself, have become
true friends of yours through your gentle message.
No longer shall you feel alone, "a hermit by a
stone," for crowds and crowds of listening children
will be near you, "the shadowy woodswithin," ready
to catch the nod of your little brown hood.

DEAR JACK: In one of your pleasant talks I
learned how Mexican birds store acorns for winter
use. Here is an extract from a newspaper, in which
it seems to me the birds show even more intelli-
gence than their Mexican cousins. Do any of your
California readers know it to be true ? Avis.

In California the woodpecker stores acorns away
although he never eats them. He bores several holes
differing slightly in size, at the fall of the year, invariably
in a pine tree. Then he finds an acorn, which he adjusts
to one of the holes prepared for its reception. But he
does not eat the acorn, for, as a rule, he is not a vegeta-
rian. His object in storing away the acorns exhibits
foresight and a knowledge of results more akin to reason
than to instinct. The succeeding winter the acorn re-
mains intact, but, becoming saturated, is predisposed to
decay, when it is attacked by maggots, which seem to
delight in this special food. It is then that the wood-
pecker reaps the harvest his wisdom has provided, at a
time when, the ground being covered with snow, he
would experience a difficulty otherwise in obtaining suit-
able or palatable food.

HAVE any of my hearers ever seen a live frigate-
bird ? It is said that this bird is the swiftest flyer
known. Read about him, my friends, and tell your
Jack how he obtained this nautical name. Give,
too, his highest record of speed according to good

CERTAIN boys hereabout have asked your Jack
about a proposed bicycle road,- or, rather, path-
from New York to Connecticut, for which they have
been anxiously waiting; but this pulpit could give
them no information on the subject. Practical
bicyclers generally skim by so rapidly that it is
not worth while to ask questions of them; and
beginners usually are too much occupied, in pick-
ing themselves up and getting on again, to take
much interest in very long roads -so tidings of



this new project have been hard to obtain. Here
comes a letter from Troy, however, which throws
either light or darkness upon it, according to the
way one takes it.
DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I am a boy and a bicycle,
and therefore I hailed with delight a paragraph which I
saw in the Portland Transcript, a good paper which
sometimes is sent to us by a down-east relative. This
is it:
Mr. A. G. Fisher, of New Haven, Conn., proposes
to build a cinder path from New York to New Haven
for the benefit of bicycle riders. It is to be three feet
in width and laid at the side of the present road; to be
built, however, only where the existing roads are not
good. The path will be about seventy miles in length,
and the average cost of building is estimated at $75 per
mile, or a total of $5250. A little over ten per cent. of
the amount has already been subscribed. The various
bicycle clubs are expected to assist the enterprise."
Now, I'd like to know how this proposed road is get-
ting on, and, instead of bothering Mr. A. G. Fisher, of
New Haven, with the question, I think I '11 ask the wide-
awake crowd around your pulpit if they can tell me any-
thing about the project. Is it alive or not? and if it 's
alive, how is it? Your young friend, T. G. H- .

WHO among my hearers can tell the origin of
the words TINKER and ALMANAC? And why is
an inn-keeper often called a LANDLORD?

DEAR JACK : I have read lately that the oldest rose-
bush in the world, of which there is authentic record,
grows in a church-yard, and against the old church at
Hildesheim, Germany. The main stem is thicker than
a man's body, but it has required over eight hundred
years to attain this remarkable size.
Have any of your "chicks ever seen this huge rose-
bush in bloom ?

Yours respectfully,



A FRIEND, to whom many thanks are due, has
sent you all the way from Nebraska a photograph
of a dozen or more of the finest pumpkins that
ever gladdened human hearts on Thanksgiving day.
There is no need of your Jack giving you any agri-
cultural rhetoric on this occasion. The pumpkins
speak for themselves. One of them (probably
the fine specimen in the lower left-hand corner)
measured, I am told, exactly eight feet in circum-
ference; that is, it would take a string eight feet
long to go around it. Well, well! Thousands of
you might have been supplied with pies, this
month, from this one Nebraska field alone !
Before turning to another subject, let us thank
the cheery-looking Nebraskan, in the corner, for
giving us an opportunity to compare the relative
sizes of vegetable and man.


,. "',. "*ik




I LIKE to sit beside a wall
Among the grasses green,
And think, if over I should peep,
What things might there be seen.

Perhaps I 'd see bold Robin Hood,
With arrows, bow, and brand ;
He 'd fix his outlawed eyes on me
And shake a threatening hand.

Then, in some terror, I decide
That it can not be he;

But that some nymph from Fairyland
Is waiting there for me.

And then I think that-oh! perhaps-
The world has quite turned over,
And China and Japan have come
This side the sky's blue cover.

At that, I can not stand it more,
But over have to look,
And see-the dear old every-day
Green meadow, and the brook!

-" '; F

: !TL. -



r i ; "' : ,

,* ,. .

( Nonsense Verse.)

ONCE there lived a little gnome,
Who had made his little home
Right down in the middle of the earth, earth, earth.
He was full of fun and frolic,
But his wife was melancholic,
And he never could divert her into mirth, mirth, mirth.

He had tried her with a monkey,
And a parrot and a donkey,
And a pig that squealed whene'er he pulled its tail, tail, tail.
But though he laughed himself
Into fits, the jolly elf,
Still his wifey's melancholy did not fail, fail, fail.

I will hie me," said the gnome,
From my worthy earthy home,
I will go among the dwellings of the men, men, men.
Something funny there must be, that will make her say He! he!
I will find it, and will bring it her again, 'gain, 'gain."
--.' -.,r - t- T_-- = .-. _- _

ONCE there lived a little gnome,
Who had made his little home
Right down in the middle of the earth, earth, earth.
He was full of fun and frolic,
But his wife was melancholic,
And he never could divert her into mirth, mirth, mirth.

He had tried her with a monkey,
And a parrot and a donkey,
And a pig that squealed whenever he pulled its tail, tail, tail.
But though he laughed himself
Into fits, the jolly elf,
Still his wifey's melancholy did not fail, fail, fail.

I will hie me," said the gnome,
From my worthy earthy home,
I will go among the dwellings of the men, men, men.
Some//iilg funny there must be, that will make her say 'He i he !
I will find it, and will bring it her again, 'gain, 'gain."


So he traveled here
and there,
And he saw the Blink-
ing Bear,
And the Pattypol
whose eyes are
in his tail, tail,

He saw the Chingo Chee,
And a lovely sight was he,
With a ringlet, and a ribbon
on his nose, nose, nose.


And he saw the Linking
Who was playing the



.. ." .' ;,



And the Octopus a-waltzing
with the whale, whale,

And the Cantilunar Dog,
Who was throwing cotton
flannel at his foes,
foes, foes.


I r


All these the little gnome
Transported to his home,
And set them down before his weeping wife, wife, wife.
But she only cried and cried,
And she sobbywobbed and sighed,
Till she really was in danger of her life, life, life.

Then the gnome was in despair,
And he tore his purple hair,
And he sat him down in sorrow on a stone, stone, stone.
"I, too," he said, "will cry,
Till I tumble down and die,
For I 've had enough of laughing all alone, 'lone, 'lone."

His tears they flowed away
Like a rivulet at play,
With a bubble, gubble, rubble, o'er the ground, ground, ground.
But when this his wifey saw,
She loudly cried, Haw haw !
Here, at last, is something funny you have found, found, found."

She laughed, Ho ho he! he!"
And she chuckled loud with glee,
And she wiped away her little husband's tears, tears, tears.
And since then, through wind and weather,
They have said He he!" together,
For several hundred thousand merry years, years, years.



A RICH man once said to me, I have heard
people say that if they had enough money they
could easily select Christmas gifts. Now, for
the last two hours, I have been trying to find
something to suit my son-in-law. Finally, in de-
spair, I have bought him a fifty-dollar bootjack
that you could n't hire me to keep in the house."
A fifty-dollar bootjack! What a confused
jumble my mind was for the next few minutes.
Bootjacks, indeed! I was thinking of a book-
store I had visited that morning of the many
beautiful books, artistically printed and richly
bound, which those fifty dollars would have
purchased. Did not the son-in-law care for

books? I fancy that he did. But the busy
man who purchased that wonderful bootjack
doubtless had given no thought to the matter
of his Christmas gifts until nearly the 25th of
December, that consummate flower of the
whole year, and then he must needs buy one
of the first things he saw, provided only that it
did not cost too much or too little.
With the bootjack incident still in my mind,
I shall suggest various gifts, just by way of be-
nevolently preventing my fellow-creatures from
receiving absurd or useless presents. Those who
are wealthy can usually find lovely and artistic
gifts at Tiffany's or stores of similar rank. My


suggestions are for those lucky individuals with
whom money is not so plentiful as to make the
wish for a thing and its possession synonymous.
The most puzzling task at Christmas is to
select presents for fathers and brothers. Two
years ago, a certain young woman (this by way
of reminiscence) failed to find anything she
thought suitable for her brother. But after much
perplexity a coffee cup and saucer, daintily
decorated, was selected, and it was gratefully
used at about three hundred and sixty breakfasts
during the following year. The next year a cut-
glass salt-cellar and pepper-box were given. Be-
sides these and similar articles, one might try
canvas or linen slipper-cases, made to hang
against the wall, inkstands and other articles
for desks, silver match-boxes, razors (for which
the traditional penny should be exacted), shaving-
glasses, cases of shaving-paper, or, that always
welcome friend, a silk muffler. A case for
carrying collars and cuffs when traveling, is a
useful present for many. The outside may be
of any material available, and the lining should
be of silk; but a stiff interlining of buckram
should be inserted. In short, make it like a
music-roll, but not so wide, and fasten it with a
fancy leather strap and buckle. Decorate the
outside with some pretty device,-the initials
or monogram of the prospective owner.
I shall make no further suggestions of articles
especially suitable for the sterner sex, but among
the presents which will do equally well for either
father or mother, brother or sister, may be
mentioned umbrellas; umbrella-cases; chairs of
more or less elaborate workmanship, from the
pretty wicker or rattan chair to those which are
profusely carved or richly upholstered; opera-
glasses, gloves, handkerchiefs and handkerchief-
cases, gold pencils, fountain pens, card-cases,
napkin-rings, and books.
A little rule of mine in buying books may not
come amiss. It is this: When a person's means
will permit only a small library, never buy any
book that will not bear reading more than once.
Still, most of what is called "current literature"
may be bought for a low price, the chances
being that its flimsy binding will outwear its
This is what Charles Lamb says about the
binding of books: "To be strong-backed and

neat-bound is the desideratum of a volume.
Magnificence comes after. This, when it can be
afforded, is not to be lavished upon all kinds of
books indiscriminately. I would not dress a set of
magazines, for instance, in full suit. The dishabille
or half-binding (with Russia backs ever) is our
costume. A Shakspere or a Milton (unless the
first editions), it were mere foppery to trick out
in gay apparel. The possession of them confers
no distinction. The exterior of them (the things
themselves being so common), strange to say,
raises no sweet emotions, no tickling sense of
property in the owner. Thomson's 'Seasons,'
again, looks best (I maintain it) a little torn and
In regard to reading good books, Ruskin says:
Do you know, if you read this, you cannot
read that-that what you lose to-day you can-
not gain to-morrow ? Will you go and gossip
with your housemaid, or your stable-boy, when
you may talk with queens and kings; or flatter
yourself that it is with any worthy consciousness
of your own claims to respect that you jostle
with the common crowd for entr'e here, and
audience there, when all the while this eternal
court is open to you, with its society wide as
the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen,
and the mighty, of every place and time?
Into that you may enter always in that you
may take fellowship and rank according to
your wish; from that, once entered into it, you
can never be outcast but by your own fault; by
your aristocracy of companionship there, your
own inherent aristocracy will be assuredly
tested, and the motives with which you strive
to take high place in the society of the living,
measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that
are in them, by the place you desire to take in
this company of the dead.
"'The place you desire,' and the place you
fit yourself for, I must also say; because, ob-
serve, this court of the past differs from all living
aristocracy in this:-it is open to labor and
to merit, but to nothing else. No wealth will
bribe, no name overawe, no artifice deceive, the
guardian of those Elysian gates. In the deep
sense, no vile or vulgar person ever enters
A small bookcase need not be expensive to
be pretty, and a small revolving bookcase, made


especially for holding books of reference, is a
delight to a reader.
Many of the large publishing houses keep on
sale pictures of authors. Twenty-five cents will
buy the portrait of almost any well-known au-
thor. These are usually wood-engravings and
excellent of their kind, well printed on good
paper, in size about ten by twelve inches. For
the same picture on India paper (which, of
course, is more durable and admits of a finer
impression) one dollar may be asked, and the
extra money will be well spent. A neatly framed
portrait of the favorite author of a friend will
make a charming gift at but small cost.
Other pictures -photographs of famous pic-
tures, for instance may be bought at a low
figure and framed. But pictures are like books:
there is an infinite variety to choose from, and
the price for either can be made high enough to
suit the most lavish giver.
Many make it a practice to subscribe to some
favorite magazine or paper, as a Christmas gift;
and those who wish to confer an ever new
pleasure may well bear this in mind. With so
many capital publications, devoted to all imag-
inable tastes and pursuits, a choice will not be
difficult. Children, especially, enjoy receiving
their own papers and magazines, and a present
of this kind can, by a payment far from large,
be guaranteed to last one year- a surety which
can never be furnished with any toy, no matter
how expensive or durable.
Very young girls have a weakness for ribbons,
sashes, perfumery, bangles, and fancy pins, and
one can do worse than to moderately indulge
these innocent vanities.
Family servants should share the Christmas
joy; and appropriate gifts, such as print or neat
woolen dresses, aprons, or a pocketbook with
perhaps a coin or bill in it, will never come amiss.
The mothers the housekeepers are the
easiest to cater for at this season of puzzled
shoppers. There are hundreds of dainty arti-
cles which the true home-maker will welcome.
Anything to beautify the home can hardly fail

to please;- silver, china, articles of cut-glass, or
choice napery for the table, a Japanese umbrella-
stand, a work-basket prettily fitted up and with
perhaps a silver or gold thimble in its own little
pocket, a linen scarf for the sideboard embroid-
ered or finished with "drawn work," a shop-
ping-bag, or embroidered scarfs of the pretty
China silks now so much used in decoration.
Other gifts might be vinaigrettes, silver glove-
buttoners, crocheted slippers, dainty aprons,
ivory brushes and combs, stationery, pocket-
books, card-cases or address-books. In pre-
senting any of the latter gifts it will show an
added thoughtfulness on the part of the giver
to have the name, or at least the initials, of the
recipient printed in gilt letters on the article, if
it be of leather. The added cost for this work
is very trifling. In the same way the value of a
box of stationery is much enhanced if the giver
has had the address of the recipient stamped
upon the upper right-hand corner of the paper.
A little time and thoughtful work may produce
very delightful results. A lady of my acquaint-
ance was greatly pleased with a certain beautiful
story which appeared in a well-known weekly
paper. It was not possible to obtain the story in
any other form, so her niece bought two copies
of the paper containing it, as it was printed on
both sides of the page. After cutting the story
out neatly in columns and pasting these into one
long strip, the whole piece was measured and
then carefully pasted in even double columns
upon sheets of heavy paper of a size which left
a broad margin. Then the margins were deco-
rated with delicate sprays of flowers painted in
sepia, and the name of the story in fancy letters
appeared on the thicker sheet of paper which
served as a cover. Round holes were made with
an instrument which is manufactured for that
purpose, and all the sheets, eleven in number,
were tied together with a ribbon. On the last
page a copy of a famous painting of the Ma-
donna, prominently mentioned in the story, was
mounted. The result was a really lovely little
gift-book, sure to please her who received it.



OUR readers will be interested in comparing the two descriptions of rabbit-hunting published in this
number: Coursing with Greyhounds in Southern California" and a "Pueblo
Rabbit-hunt." Between the civilized "coursing" and the savage
"drive" the contrast is certainly striking.


I HAVE the honor, this morning, to be,
One of a committee, that numbers but three,
To ask you a question concerning the fate
Of one who wrote for your pages of late.
'T is Jack-in-the-Pulpit," whose loss we bewail,
The parson who told us full many a tale,
Instructive and funny his sermons to all.
Now tell your Dear Reader," has Jack had a fall ?
Has he misused the funds that others have earned?
Has he taught us a lesson that he has n't learned ?
Has he jilted the School-ma'am," that lamb of his fold,
Or doctrines advanced that some thought too bold ?
If you know where he is, you had best make it known,
Or suspicion will rest on old St. Nick alone.
When last Jack was seen with your authors renowned,
He seemed hale and hearty -in every way sound.
Now do solve the mystery that hangs over Jack,
And if it is possible please have him back.
ive le St. Nicholas, in whom I delight.
Your ardent admirer, ETHEL P. WRIGHT.

This cheery correspondent, and all Jack's other
friends, will see that he is again in his pulpit this
month. Like other preachers, he must have a
vacation now and then.
And, by the way, Jack-in-the-Pulpit requests
us to convey his thanks to Mollie U. F., Nag-
rom, J. H. Darrell, May Waring, Dannie G.,
Mildred D. G., and Paul Gage, for the good let-
ters they sent him in reply to Aimee Lequeux D.'s
question given in the May ST. NICHOLAS. The
letters were cordially enjoyed, but were received
too late to be acknowledged with the other letters
on the banana question.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I do not remember to have
ever seen a letter from Athens in your "Letter-box," so
I thought that some of your readers might like to know
something about it. The people are very dark, and it is
rare to find any fair ones. I was only nine years old
when I left America, and now I am fourteen. Greek is
very difficult, and a person not knowing the language
might often think the people quarreling, they talk so very
loud and use so many gestures. Greek girls do not, as
a rule, go to school, but they have private teachers and
governesses. Almost all the children speak several lan-
guages, and you often find a little child five or six years
old who can speak Greek, English, German, and French.

Perhaps some of the readers of the ST. NICHOLAS may
be surprised to know that the King, Queen and Prin-
cesses go about the town just like other people-some-
times in a carriage, or on horseback, and often walk about
the streets unattended. But when there is any special
ceremony, there is a gilt coach, with grooms in blue
and silver liveries, and magnificent horses. But perhaps
every one is not so much interested in royalty as I am, so
I will talk of something else. There are a great many
ruins here, the most beautiful being the Acropolis. But
I must not attempt to describe them. Besides the ruins,
there are very beautiful houses (really palaces) and mag-
nificent streets. The pavement on the principal streets
must be about thirty feet wide on each side, and the road
still wider. I must say, before I stop writing, that, of all
the stories I have yet read in the ST. NICHOLAS, Little
Lord Fauntleroy" and "Juan and Juanita" are my
favorites. I have a little sister who enjoys the pictures
very much.
Now, good-bye, dear ST. NICHOLAS, from your inter-
ested reader, MABEL M- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have taken your magazine
for nearly a year, and are very fond of it. We visited
Europe about a year ago, and stayed there for six months.
We were led to take your magazine by hearing such
favorable comments passed upon it while we were in
Athens, Greece. We visited various places of interest,
among which were Geneva, Paris, London, Liverpool,
Rome, and numerous other cities. While in Geneva we
had quite a singular adventure. We were out driving,
one sultry afternoon, when our carriage was stopped,
and two fierce-looking men approached us, compelling
us to give up all our valuables. Of course we were
obliged to comply with their wishes, but very reluctantly.
Hoping to see this letter published in your next number,
Your admiring readers, MAY AND FLORA.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I saw in your August number
an article about Flower Ladies." I have often played
it, only rather more elaborately. Perhaps you would
like to know my way.
I used to take a bud or seed-vessel, leaving about two
inches of stalk. A daisy bud or a very green poppy-
seed is the best, using the bud or seed-vessel as a head,
and slipping the stalk through the petal of a morning-
glory flower. We did not always use morning-glory
flowers, but sometimes nasturtium blossoms with enough
of the little tube cut off to allow the stalk to pass through,
so making a girl doll with a full skirt.


A still gayer dress was one I made by taking the petals
of a poppy and fastening them around the waist of the
doll with grass or thread, and then putting on the leaves
of a different-colored poppy arranged as a cape.
Hats were made by taking the blossom of a sweet-pea
and opening the lower petals wide enough to insert the
head, and running a pin or stiff piece of grass through
from the calyx, which is left on, into the head. A sim-
pler way of making hats is to take a blossom of the butter-
and-eggs (Antirrhinum) and open the mouth wide enough
to inclose the head. We used to call them "riding-hats."
Faces can be made by pressing the point of a pin into
the seed. I have never seen this done except with a
Hoping that my ST. NICHOLAS girl friends who are
interested in the "Flower Ladies" will improve and
enlarge on my pattern-book, I remain, sincerely yours,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Although I have taken you for
nearly five years, I have never written to you before, and
I hope this letter will have the honor of being printed in
the Letter-box," for the reason that it is from a Johns-
town flood sufferer," if for no other.
Our family was (with the exception of myself, I being
two miles from town visiting) in the thickest part of the
flood. They were on the roof of the house when it floated
from its foundation and directly opposite the school-
house, which was a block away from us before the flood.
They then climbed over houses, debris, etc., and got
in the school-house. This was about five o'clock in the
evening of that disastrous day. They did not get out until
six o'clock the next evening. During all that time they
did not have a bite to eat. I had my ST. NICHOLAS all
bound, but the books went with our house in the flood. I
have not seen but one copy of ST. NICHOLAS since May
31, 1889, and do not expect to see one of my own for a
great while.
Your interested non-reader, ALICE L. S- .
P. S.-Not one of my relatives was lost in the flood,
but many friends were. We are going back to Johns-
town in the fall.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I enjoy having my Papa read
to my sisters and my brothers and myself the stories in
I will tell you funny story. At our house, whenever
we are naughty, we have another name.
We don't belong to our family at all, but to the Hop-
scotch family. My big sister is Peggerty, the next one
Betsy, or Elizabeth Jane, and my big brother is Jede-
dial, and my little brothers Obediah and Abimeleck, and
my sister, that 's only a little older than I, whose letter
you printed in your September ST. NICHOLAS, is Malinda,
and Papa and Mamma, if they were ever naughty, would
be Ahasuerius and Semarimus, and my name is M elvina.
If we are naughty, my Papa says," Peggerty, Elizabeth
Jane, Jedediah, Malinda, Melvina, Obediah, and Abime-
leck, go right to your rooms and stay there until I send
for you "
I tell you we do not, any of us, like to be called a
member of the Hopscotch family!
NORA McD-, seven years old.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I promised to write to you
some time ago, but have never done so. I am an army
girl, and am constantly moving about. I love to travel.


The last time I wrote to you, I was in Virginia. I in-
tended to write and tell you about New Orleans, when
I lived there. The trip down South was a very pleasant
one to us. We went down in the latter part of October,
just when the cotton is being picked. It is very interest-
ing to see the negroes picking; they hold a large basket
on their heads, with one hand, and with the other they
pick the cotton. When one hand is quite full they reach
up and put the contents in the basket. The prettiest
sight that I saw in my three-days' journey south, was
the Florida moss which hangs from the trees; this moss
is of a dull, dusty gray; when picked it will sometimes
turn black.
I have stood on the battle-ground at New Orleans,
and have also been on top of Jackson Monument. This
monument is built of white stone, and is not complete;
some of the stones on top are loose and liable to fall
at any moment. When in the South I used to amuse
myself by watching the little lizards running up and
down the trees. They are very peculiar; when running
up the bark of a tree, they turn dark, but as soon as
they touch the green leaves they are green.
The prettiest cemetery that I ever saw is the Chal-
mette National Cemetery; in June (the month of roses)
it is a bower of flowers. Flowers of every kind and
description grow in profusion. Among the flowers are
banana-palms and orange trees; the latter, when in
bloom, scent the whole cemetery.
Just before you get to the cemetery is an old, old
powder-house, that was built before the war; it is so
old that it is nearly tumbling over.
Attached to Jackson barracks is a large magnolia
grove, where the magnolias blossom and fade. They
perfume the whole barracks.
I have taken you for three years and could not do
without you. Every month, when it draws near the
time for your arrival, the mail is carefully watched.
I was born in the West, but I love the South. This
is the first time I have been North. I remain, your
devoted reader and admirer, M. T. S.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you about a
"Martha Washington Fancy Dress Party" which I
attended on the Centennial Day.
It was given by a friend of mine, and I wore a gown
my great-grandmother wore on the day of Washington's
Inauguration. It was made of a dark red, of an ordinary
material, and a part of it was lined with bed-ticking.
The boys took different characters in American history,
as the girls did, and looked very old-fashioned in their
white wigs, smallclothes, shoe-buckles, and military coats.
We danced the minuet and other old dances, and the
ice-cream was served up in two different forms,- one
the head of Martha, and the other of George Washington.
I enjoy your magazine so very much, and can hardly
wait for it to come every month. Your loving friend
and admirer, AIDA ST. CLAIR D- .

WE acknowledge, with thanks, the receipt of pleasant
letters from the young friends whose names follow:
Lilian M.,E. P., Eleanor M., Alice F. Mitchell, Joseph-
ine Sherwood, S. Howard Armstrong, M. C. S., Hen-
riette de R., Julia Babcock, Carrie and Fannie Bennet,
Hazel M. Muncey, Kittie K. Nyce, Reba I. and Fannie,
James H., Maria D. Malone, Millie K. and Rose L.,
E. Janney, Elizabeth D., Kate Guthrie, Lisa D. Blood-
good, Margaret S., Cora M. S., Ortie C. Dake, Martha
Frederick, Ethel P. Wright, Kate Krutz, Elsie R.,Charles
T. H., "Lizzie," Martha T. Mann, Sara M. Scribner,
Lilian, Mabel, Maude, and Cecile, Violet C., Ruth Owen


To ST. NICHOLAS, the Agassiz Association (which was
begun in this magazine) owes a new debt of gratitude.
Within two months after our annual report appeared in
ST. NICHOLAS last November, responsive letters were
received from more than three hundred persons, and
more than one hundred new branch societies, or Chap-
ters, were organized. I wish the number might be
doubled now!
Among the most interesting of our new Chapters are
two which have taken root-where do you think?-in
Russia! One of them is at Shargovod, in Podolsk, the
other at Savinstzy, in Poltava, and if you will take the
trouble to glance at your atlas you will see that these are
not border towns, but far interior.
Two societies have been established in England
(Burton and Wolverhampton), and one in Nova Scotia.
The readers of ST. NICHOLAS are probably aware that
we have divided all the branches of the Association into
ten groups, called "centuries," for convenience in report-
ing. Reports are expected from the Chapters of the first
century in January of each year; from the second century
in February, and so on, omitting the months of August
and September. Perhaps I can give no better impres-
sion of the progress of our work than by taking a short
glance at the letters which came in for the month July.
They are certainly very encouraging and gratifying.
Iowa Chapters are always "up to the mark." Here is Clarks-
ville, 612, started only last March, that has already more than
doubled its membership, has meetings every Saturday, holds written
examinations once a month in botany, and adds to the usual pro-
gramme of its meetings, music, readings, and recitations. Miss
Bertha Penrose is the president, and Miss Grace Cameron the
We turn the telescope to Louisiana. Within half a year the Henry
H. Straight Memorial Clapter, New Orleans, C, No. 614, has in-
creased its membership from eight to twenty-four. Three hundred
per cent. is very good Three of these members are adult, and they
direct the work of the children, each one being encouraged to follow
his special inclination. Among other things talked over and studied
have been the crayfish, dragon-fly, various moths and butterflies,
and sea-fish. Common trees have also been discussed, and speci-
mens of the wood, blossom, flower, and fruit mounted on cardboard.
One meeting was given up entirely to the chicken. Its senses,
"clothes," bones (in a mounted skeleton), history and origin, breeds
and care, eggs and incubators, were some of the topics, varied by two
humorous recitations. After all this the society actually partook of a
chicken-pie (which is certainly a practical illustration of "applied
science i) and the meeting adjourned after each person present had
while blindfolded drawn a picture of a chicken. Each one paid five
cents for the privilege of drawing, and the one who made the best
picture received the whole collection of drawings as a "chicken
album." So they had much fun and made some money. Miss
Eliza A. Cheyney, the earnest secretary, adds, We are very glad in-
deed to belong to the Agassiz Association. Any one who doubts
the value of nature studies for children should watch, as I have for six
months, its awakening and quickening power."
Before passing to the next Chapter, we must add parenthetically
that Miss Cheyney has just organized a strong Chapter of more than
twenty members in Hampton Institute, General Armstrong's In-
dian School.
It is surprising how Chapters in the largest cities thrive equally
with those which are supposed to be in nature's more favored haunt,
the country. Chapter 630, New York City, Q, retains its full mem-
bership, and has been steadily adding to its collections.
And now we must take a very long step,-to Redlatnds, Cali-
fortia. Prince Krapotkine, the distinguished Russian, calls frequent
attention to the Agassiz Association, in his speeches on "What
Geography Ought to Be" ; and shows that, by such a system of cor-
respondence and exchange as we have, we get more true knowledge
of distant lands than is possible in any other way. The truth of this
remark is illustrated by our regular reports every month.
In Redlands, Cal., then, Chajpter639 began its existence at the sug-
gestion and under the guidance of Professor J. G. Scott, so long the
distinguished head of the Westfield, Mass., Normal School. Pro-
fessor Scott has recently died, but, wherever he has been, there will
remain inspiring memories of his earnest life. Says the secretary of
Chapter 639, Professor Scott spent most of the winter with us, and

no one could be with him without becoming interested in natural his-
tory. We were constantly inspired." She adds, We were also fort-
unate in having another Massachusetts teacher with us last winter,
Professor T. E. N. Eaton, of Worcester. He conducted a botany
class attended by some fifty members." The secretary of this Chap-
ter, at the end of her very interesting report, requests that it be not
published. We did not notice the request until the foregoing extract
was written, and while we do not publish the report, we are unwill-
nig to suppress the merited tributes to Professors Scott and Eaton.
One of our most active Chapters is 652, East Orange, N. J., C,
under the efficient management of Mary D. Hussey, M. D. Just
entering on its third year with five new members, it reports the
interest greater than ever. It is so large that its work is done in
sections, of which there are four. The geological section has finished
the first grade of Professor Guttenberg's Agassiz Association course
and has begun a study of local minerals. The botanical section has
been occupied with excursions and work upon the local flora, and
on Arbor Day interested the children of a public school in tree-
planting. Fifty small trees, which had been raised from seedlings,
were presented to the children by the Chapter, and the children
planted them at their own homes with their own hands. The ento-
mological section reported on wasps, honey-bees, bumble-bees, and
silk-worms, presenting specimens of each. It was all original work.
During the remainder of the season the ornithological section took
charge of the meetings, and the following birds were studied from
specimens lent from a private collection: English sparrows, chip-
ping, song, and tree sparrows, snow-birds, hawks, owls, blackbirds,
orioles, robins, wrens, and fly-catchers. Members of this Chapter
attended each meeting of the Agassiz Hill and Dale Club, and the
New Jersey State Assembly of the Agassiz Association. Agassiz's
birthday, May 28, was celebrated in a grove by reading sketches
of his life and scientific work, and Lowell's poem, followed by
refreshments and an exhibition of specimens. A most encouraging
record of a year's work.
Mr. H. B. Hastings reports that Chapter 663, of Chlelsea, IMass.,
has a microscope fund of thirty-six dollars deposited in bank.
We must give an extract from the excellent report of Chapter 694,
of Plainfield, N. J., C. The three secretaries, Mary E. Tracy,
Margaret L. Tracy, and Lilian Erskine, write, in part, as follows:
"Our Chapter has eleven active and five honorary members. This
year botanical and geological sections have been formed in addition
to the one in entomology. We have held thirty-nine meetings besides
making ten excursions into the country, have sent a delegate to both
sessions of the New Jersey Assembly, and at least one member has
attended three meetings of the Hill and Dale Club.
The botanical section of our chapter as organized in the fall and
consists of eight active members. We have held nine regular meet-
ings. During the first part of the year we studied ferns. In the
winter months we took up the lives of Linnaeus, the Jnssieu family,
and other well-known botanists of that time. Our work this spring
has been mostly in connection with the study of botany in school.
We have analyzed one hundred and five plants, fifty plants having
been mounted by each member."
We bring this hasty review of the Seventh Century" to a close
by quoting part of an encouraging report from Mt. Pleasant, Iowa:
" The number of meetings held during the year is forty-five. We
have made quite a number of excursions and some very interesting
discoveries. One of our members, a gentleman from Colorado at-
tending the University, brought us some beautiful specimens of gold
and silver ore."
A noticeable feature of the year's work has been the
rapid extension of the Association among the higher
institutions of learning. We have Chapters in connec-
tion with Johns Hopkins University, Columbia College,
the College of the City of New York, Rutgers, Wellesley,
Wittenburg, Akron, Olivet, and others, to say nothing of
numerous Chapters in normal schools.
At the same time, there are just as many Chapers of the
little ones as ever, and many "family Chapters," where
old and young study and work together. Once more, it
gives me great pleasure to invite all, of whatever age, to
unite with us, either by organizing local Chapters, or as
individual members. To any one who will send his
address will be sent a circular, containing concise direc-
tions for joining the Association there is no charge for
the enrollment of Chapters and with the circular will
be sent a wood-engraving of Professor Agassiz.
Pittsfield, Mass.



ILLUSTRATED PUZZLE. Sir Christopher Wren. I. Spike.
2. Acorn. 3. Chair. 4. Sieve. 5. Otter. 6. Ships.
7. Mower. 8. Rower. 9. Negro.
ACROSTIC RIDDLE. I. Lark. 2. Army. 3. Riches.
4. Kite.
The sere leaf, flitting on the blast;
The hips and haws in every hedge,
Bespeak October 's come! At last
We stand on Winter's crumbling edge.
A HOLLOW SQUARE. From I to 2, spatter; 3 to 4,
plea; 5 to 6, alcoran; 7 to 8, tong; 9 to Io, ternate;
II to 12, eats; 13 to 14, rangest.
CONCEALED HALF SQUARE. I. Diamond. 2. Imbibe.
3. Abate. 4. Mite. 5. Obe. 6. Ne. 7. D.
CONNECTED WORD-SQUARES. Upper square: I. Plan.
2. Line. 3. Anna. 4. Neat. Lower square: I. Than.
2. Hare. 3. Aril. 4. Nell. From I to 3, pintail.

DIAMOND. I.P. 2. Lea. 3. Worms. 4. Lovable.
5. Peragrate. 6. Ambreic. 7. Slain. 8. Etc. 9. E.
PRIMAL ACROSTIC. Harvest Home. Cross-words:
I. Hydra. 2. Arion. 3. Remus. 4. Vesta. 5. Epeus.
6. Siren. 7. Titan. 8. Hylas. 9. Orion. to. Medea.
II. Erato.
BURIED CITIES. Initials, Cleveland. I. Canton.
2. Lille. 3. Exeter. 4. Venice. 5. Ems. 6. Lima.
7. Amiens. 8. Nice. 9. Damascus.
Shorter and shorter now the twilight clips
The days, as through the sunset gate they crowd,
And Summer from her golden collar slips
And strays through stubble-fields, and moans aloud,
Save when by fits the warmer air deceives,
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies on pillows of the faded leaves,
And tries the old tunes over for an hour.

To ouR PUZZLERS: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th
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 AUGUST NUMBER were received, before August ISth, from Louise
Ingham Adams-Josephine Sherwood--Paul Reese-Maxie and Jackspar- Maude E. Palmer -ClaraB. Orwig--
Pearl F. Stevens-J. B. Swann--Ida C. Thallon-Blanche and Fred--Mamma and Jamie--"The Wise
Five "- Mary L. Gerrish Odie Oliphant.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE AUGUST NUMBER were received, before August 15th, from Marion Hughes, I -
"The Family," I -Gertrude and Cora McCabe, I- Pearl B., I- Ida A., I-Monica, 2-Donald C. Barnes, I-
Mabel, Alice, and Savage, I--Emmons L. Peck, I--Bebbie and Matilda, 2--A. E. H. Meyer, 2-L. R.
M., I-Pauline M. H., Elsie E., and Catherine E. H., 1-" May and '79," 9-Annie Louise Clay, I-Clara
and Emma, I Wm. N. Seaver, 5 May and Lil, I Lester and Gertrude, I -" Bungalowites," 2- Mary E.
Colston, 3 F. P. Whitmore, I L. L. W. and Two Cousins, I M. H. Perrin, I Lisa D. Bloodgood, 2-
H. M. C., 4- Effie K. Talboys, 6- A. P. C., S. W., E. M. M. and A. W. Ashhurst, 5 Bella Myers, I--G.
H. Purdy, 2- Margaret Alice, I- Ida and Mamma, 2- May Martin, I Margy P. and Emilie D., 4-" Karl
the Great," 9-John W. Frothingham, Jr., 2 -" Kendrick Family," I Percy V. Rance, I Skipper, 2 Helen
D., 9-" Bears," 2 "Jo and I," Io- Nellie L. Howes, 8--Joslyn Z. and Julian C. Smith, 6-"A Family
Affair," 9- Kate Guthrie, 5- Nora Maynard, 4--Fanny H., 8--Adrienne Offley Forrester, 5- J. M. Wright,
I Pussy and Kitty, 2 -" Frizzlewig," 4-E. F. M., 3 -Charles Beaufort, B. F. R., 7 Dora, I.

ACROSS: I. The government of the Turkish empire.
2. Injuries. 3. Pastimes. 4. Fairies. 5. Purport.
DOWNWARD: I. In rope. 2. An exclamation. 3. A
fragment. 4. A snare. 5. An ant. 6. Withered. 7. In-
iquity. 8. In like manner. 9. In rope.

Sit eth emit
Hewn eht miche
Fo eht senasos horlac bnda si ginring tou.
Kysom stribgnesh slifl eht ari,
Rof eht glith swind weeryhever
Seneers Iful fo wolfrey bresem wings batou.
Three si stenswese hatt sopperess,
Sa a retden riptang seslebs ;
Threes a fontseed wogl fo yabteu,
Sa hewn Leov si rethawing Duyt;
Theer rea delisome talt mese
Gawvine stap dan trufeu toni neo rafi ramed.

ALL of the words described contain the same number
of letters. When these have been rightly guessed and

placed one below the other, in the order here given, the
primals will spell degrades; the row next to them will
spell to superintend; the finals will spell the side oppo-
site to the weather side; and the row next to them will
spell charges.
CROSS-WORDS: I. Pertaining to the back. 2. To mani-
fest. 3. To threaten. 4. A name anciently given to the
underworld. 5. A cityin Italy, near Perugia. 6. Wanted.
7. Having the surface set with bristles. F. S. F.

I. Gives medicine to. 2. The weight of twelve grains.
3. Substantial. 4. A feminine name. 5. A covered
vehicle for carrying a single person.


MY first is the most of the whole;
Indeed, than the whole it 's no less.
My second, no matter how large,
Can never be all, you '11 confess.
By adding a few to the whole
A compound is made that is healthy;
Indeed, your food should be this,
Whether you 're poor or you're wealthy.



I AM composed of forty-eight letters, and form two
lines from a poem by Tennyson.
My 36-13-18-7-32-42 is a poem consisting of four-
teen lines. My 11-27-40-17-4 is a story. My 45-21-
48-19 is an excuse. My 1-23-38-29-9-20-44 is the
national flower of a certain country. My 14-25-5-46-
30 is a kind of grain extensively cultivated. My 35-41
is a preposition. My 2-15-26-33-24-16 is a young cow.
My 6-43-8-37 are small, globular masses of lead. My
3-47-22-31-34-10-28-12-39 is enslaves. F. A. w.


I L,,

of s- '. Wh ,. i

-_r 1*7 7 -

-*-;gh /unti m i
,\ '

EACH of the six small pictures may be described by a
word of seven letters. When these words are rightly
guessed and placed one below the other, in the order
here given, the third perpendicular row will spell the
surname of an American poet who was born in Novem-
ber, 1797.
FROM night until morning, from morning till night,
My dress varies not, 't is the purest of white;
But how shall I add what must injure my song,--
That I 'm plump as a dumpling, not round but oblong.
Moreover, my station I take on the head
Of a creature large, strong, and a true quadruped;
But so gentle and quiet that children may dare
To mount on his back and sit fearlessly there.
I said that my form was not sylph-like nor slender,
No matter for that, since my feelings are tender;
But a caution I have for the young and the gay,
Shun my company ever, by break of the day,
Or the roses of health that now bloom on your face
Will ere long to the hue of the lily give place.
And now if there 's one who my name has not guessed,
I '11 venture 't is that one who loves me the best.
C. L. M.
VWHEN the words represented by stars in the following
sentences have been rightly guessed and placed one below
the other, the diagonals, from the upper left-hand corner

to the lower right-hand corner, will spell the name of the
English poet from whose great work the following quo-
tations are taken:
I. "Then comes the father of the ** forth,
Wrapt in black glooms."
2. "" in his palace of cerulean ice,
Here Winter holds his unrejoicing court."
3. Along the woods, along the *' fens,
Sighs the sad genius of the coming storm."
4. The lively drinks thy purest rays,
Collected light, compact."
5. He saw her charming, but he saw not half
The charms her downcast ** ~ concealed."
6. How dead the vegetable lies "
7. "And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his * blasts."
EXAMPLE: Separate a rural worker, and make a vege-
table and an insect. Answer, peas-ant.
I. Separate a kind of pie or tart, and make to revolve
and above. 2. Separate a mercenary, and make wages and
a kind of fish. 3. Separate a preservative against injury,
and make a preposition meaning "against," and to love.
4. Separate a nocturnal bird, and make darkness and a
bird resembling a falcon. 5. Separate a piece of timber
in a ship, and make navigates and onward. 6. Separate
an assistant to a churchwarden, and make margins and a
human being. 7. Separate an unexpected piece of good
fortune, and make idols and conclusion. 8. Separate to
write between, and make to bury and a writer. 9. Sep-
arate pertaining to the evening, and make the evening
star and part of a fork. o1. Separate to threaten, and
make a mischievous sprite and the close. II. Separate
remarkable, and make a word that expresses denial and
proficient. 12. Separate to please, and make happy and
a cave.
When the above words are rightly guessed and placed
one below the other, the initials of the first row of words
will spell a day of rejoicing, and the initials of the second
row, a place many people visit in November.

MY primals form a surname of Juno at Rome, and my
finals a name for Rhea.
CROSS-WORDS (of equal length): I. A large artery in
the neck. 2. An Italian poet. 3. A web-footed marine
bird. 4. Reported. 5. Capacity. 6. A lintel over a
door. 7. To fall against. 8. A kind of cloth, originally
brought from China. 9. A musical term meaning rather
slow. F. s. M.
By taking one word from each of the following prov-
erbs, a quotation from Macbeth, suitable to the season,
may be found:
I. Bitter pills may have blessed effects.
2. A good key is necessary to enter into Paradise.
3. Some have more trouble in the digestion of meat
than in getting the meat itself.
4. Better wait on the cook than the doctor.
5. Praise the sea but keep on land.
6. Temperance, employment, a cheerful spirit, and a
good appetite are the great preservers of health.
7. Little and often fills the purse.
8. Sickness is felt, but health not at all.
9. Lookers-on see more than players.
10. Hear both sides before you decide on your verdict.


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