Front Cover
 The yule-log's song
 May Bartlett's stepmother
 The enchanted mesa
 Tracked by a panther
 Bertha's debut
 In the tenement
 A well-filled chimney
 Today in a garden
 The fools' waltz
 Osman pasha at bucharest
 A king in Egypt
 Helen Thayer Hutcheson
 The routine of the republic
 The drop-kick
 Intercollegiate foot-ball...
 Christmas on the "Polly"
 Crowded out o' Crofield
 Pilot-boat "torching" by night
 A picnic on the stairs
 An ostrich-ranch in the United...
 A new-fashioned Christmas
 The little buttonwood man
 The Brownies in the studio
 Jack-in-the pulpit
 The letter-box
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00222
 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: VID00222
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
    The yule-log's song
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
    May Bartlett's stepmother
        Page 198
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
        Page 203
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
    The enchanted mesa
        Page 207
        Page 208
        Page 209
        Page 210
        Page 211
        Page 212
    Tracked by a panther
        Page 213
        Page 214
        Page 215
        Page 216
    Bertha's debut
        Page 217
        Page 218
        Page 219
        Page 220
    In the tenement
        Page 221
    A well-filled chimney
        Page 222
        Page 223
        Page 224
    Today in a garden
        Page 225
    The fools' waltz
        Page 226
        Page 227
    Osman pasha at bucharest
        Page 228
        Page 229
    A king in Egypt
        Page 230
    Helen Thayer Hutcheson
        Page 231
        Page 232
    The routine of the republic
        Page 233
        Page 234
        Page 235
        Page 236
    The drop-kick
        Page 237
        Page 238
        Page 239
        Page 240
    Intercollegiate foot-ball in America
        Page 241
        Page 242
        Page 243
        Page 244
        Page 245
    Christmas on the "Polly"
        Page 246
        Page 247
    Crowded out o' Crofield
        Page 248
        Page 249
        Page 250
        Page 251
        Page 252
        Page 253
        Page 254
        Page 255
    Pilot-boat "torching" by night
        Page 256
        Page 257
    A picnic on the stairs
        Page 258
        Page 259
        Page 260
    An ostrich-ranch in the United States
        Page 261
        Page 262
        Page 263
        Page 264
    A new-fashioned Christmas
        Page 265
        Page 266
    The little buttonwood man
        Page 267
        Page 268
        Page 269
        Page 270
    The Brownies in the studio
        Page 271
        Page 272
        Page 273
    Jack-in-the pulpit
        Page 274
        Page 275
    The letter-box
        Page 276
        Page 277
        Page 278
    The riddle-box
        Page 279
        Page 280
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

~I /




-I--- /-
4. .. 3


* I *



JANUARY, 1890.
Copyright, 1889, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved.


.' IGH in the mountains where we went
To have our Christmas among the snows,
The far white slopes stretched up the sky
Where the young moon sank and the great stars rose;
And with every gust of the long slow wind
The forests of fir from root to crown
Made murmuring music, and softly shook
A cloud of sifted silver down.
\ But round the hearth of the room within,
Like the cherub throng of some heavenly choir,
The children clustered, and held their breath
While their father lighted the yule-log fire.

The little flames crackled and crisped and curled,
And sweet were the cries from the happy crew,
As higher and higher the blue smoke twirled,
And then what a blaze the great log threw,

No. 3.


What a glory swept up the chimney shaft,
And vanished into the vast night-blue !
And the rafters started out of the gloom
With all their festooning apple-strings,
With the silver skin of their onion-stalks,
Their crook-necked squash, and their herby
And the gleam glanced high on the powder-
And the king's-arm flung back a startled light,

" Thank God for Christmas!" the father said,
And the mother, dropping her needles, turned,
' Thank God for Christmas, for roof, for fire!"
She answered him, and the yule-log burned.

On roared the billowy flames; the sparks
In shining showers up the darkness whirled;
And the sap on the great ends stood like beads,
And bubbled and simmered and hummed and


And the face of the clock was like the moon
Red in the mists of the August night,
While all the depth of the dusky room
Was full of the firelight's blush and bloom.

The grandame's hair like the aureole
Of any saint in a picture showed,
And a wreath of roses about her there
The frolicking children's faces glowed.

And its thin note quavered and swelled and
And tuned and twittered and rippled along.

"The worm is dying," the children cried.
Oh, hush said the grandame; you do it
And they bent to listen, all eager-eyed,-
Hush, 't is the yule-log singing his song "


And the place with a sudden warble rang,
And this is the song the yule-log sang:

"Far in forest glades I grew,
Fed on draughts of noontide dew;
Passed the spotted snake's low lair,
Passed the browsing of the bear,
Fresher branches thrust each year,
Passed the antler of the deer,
Till space and sun and solitude
Made me king of all the wood.

"Then, my lower branches laid
In a mighty depth of shade,
Glad my tops the sun described
Coursing up the great earth's side,
Knew the cloud's phantasmal forms,
Wrestled with a thousand storms,
Proudly bore victorious scars,
And measured lances with the stars!

"Twice a hundred years the snow
Her white and glimmering veils did throw
Round me; moonbeams touched my spires
With a light of frosty fires;
Knee-deep in the summer fern
Twice a hundred years return,
And into leaf my full plumes burst
Green as when they bourgeoned first.

"Spices of the sun-soaked wood
Rose about me where I stood;
Gums their richest resin cast
On every wind that wandered past;
Blossoms shed their petals sweet
In balmy drifts about my feet;
Berried fragrance filled the gloom,
And the wild grape's ambrosial bloom.

Here the bee went blundering by
Honey-drunk, the butterfly
Flittered,- ah, what songs I heard
Shrilling from the building bird!
How all little life did house
Securely in my sheltering boughs
That drew the green walls close when there
The great hawk hung in upper air!

"Still the dawn, the star-flame old,
That steeped me through and through, I
The gladness wrought in every root
While the wood-thrush blew his flute,
And music ordering all my art
With sorrow fit to break the heart
When the summer night was still
And far off mourned the whippoorwill.

Now, my wealth of centuried. hours,-
Memory of summer showers,
Bloom and song and leaf and wing,-
Upon this yule-tide hearth I fling.
All the life that filled my year
I bring back to the Giver here,
Burning gladly in His name
The hoarded sunshine of my flame! "

And the children listened, but all was still;
A core of heat was the yule-log's heart,
And into the ashes the live coals dropped
Like rubies that flash and break apart;
And the shadows skimmed up the darkening
And the wind brought a clamor of music near,
And the stars themselves bent down to hear,
While out in the valley far below
The peal of the Christmas-bells rang clear.




''. "l', :ATHY BOND was
spending the first va-
S.- '- cation of the autumn
S- w ith her dear May,"
as she had been in
the habit of calling
May since the inti-
macy that had sprung up between them.
The girls who lived at a distance from Hill-
side generally remained at the seminary through
the shorter vacations. Cathy Bond's home was
two days' journey from the school. The Macy
sisters and Susy Morris also lived at a distance,
and the four hitherto had spent their vacations
together at the seminary. Cathy's invitation
had come about in this way:
I 'm glad I don't have to spend my vaca-
tions at the seminary, as some of the girls do,"
May had happened to say one day to her father.
Mrs. Bartlett, who was present, had looked up
and remarked quickly:
"It must be very forlorn for them." And
when May had answered with emphasis, It
is forlorn," Mrs. Bartlett had surprised her by
Why don't you invite one of them to spend
the week with you ?"
"But-but," May stammered, "Papa does n't
like it."
"Papa does n't like what ? then inquired
Mr. Bartlett, waking up from his absent-mind-

edness. May explained, and related how she
had begged for this privilege of hospitality be-
fore, only to be told that it could n't be. Her
father laughed at the recital, and then astonished
her by this speech:
"Oh, well, that was last year! I could n't
have two giddy young things turned loose in
the house then; I should have been totally
neglected, if not trampled upon. Now, you
see, I 've somebody to be company for me,
while you neglect me."
Oh, Papa! do you mean, that now "
"Yes; now, if you like," nodding and smil-
ing at her.
"And I hope," said Mrs. Bartlett, smiling
also, "that you will invite that pretty, bright-
faced Cathy Bond."
Cathy Bond! The color in May's cheeks
and her embarrassed look showed Mrs. Bart-
lett that something was amiss, and she imme-
diately remarked :
Of course it makes no difference to me, my
dear, which of your friends you invite, but I re-
membered this one particularly, and I thought
her your favorite, from seeing her more with you
than the others."
Oh, yes; yes, she is," was May's rather
confused reply.
And this is the way it came about that Cathy
spent the vacation with her dear May."
After she has talked as she has, I should n't
think she 'd feel much like going there to visit,"
Joanna exclaimed indignantly to her sister Elsie.

MS fl t I

And at last something of this kind was said to
Cathy herself, who retorted that she was going
to visit May at May's invitation, and not the step-
mother. Perhaps it was this last sharp word
that sharpened Cathy's temper, and sent her on
her visit with her prejudices more alive than ever.
That pretty, bright-faced girl," Mrs. Bart-
lett had said; and Cathy was all that,-pretty
and bright-faced; but when she sat at table
that first night of her visit, Mrs. Bartlett felt a
vague sense of disappointment in her. She
had seen her only a moment or two at different
times when she had called upon May, and then
her prettiness and brightness had impressed Mrs.
Bartlett very favorably. But as she sat at table,
there was a sort of forward smartness, a too self-
possessed, grown-up-ish air in what she said and
did, to suit fastidious, well-bred people.
"Oh, dear," thought Mrs. Bartlett, "what a
pity!-and such a nice-looking girl," and then,
"perhaps this is one reason why May has such
a forbidding way with her."
And while these thoughts were passing
through Mrs. Bartlett's mind, Cathy with her
sharpened temper was pluming herself upon
her manners, and upon taking a stand against
the stepmother. I shall be polite," she had
said to herself; "but I shall not be sweet and
cordial, and I shall let them see that May has
a real, independent friend."
Mr. Bartlett who at first had begun to try
and make "the little girl," as he called her, feel
comfortable by saying pleasant, kind things to
her, soon gave up his endeavor, and as he did
so, he looked at her with one of his queer
satirical expressions. May caught the look and
grew hot, then cold. She knew perfectly what
it meant- that he was half-displeased, and half-
amused. What she did not know, was that he
was thinking just then, "What in the world led
Margaret to suggest that piece of trumpery, as
a visitor for May?" But as he ceased his en-
deavors to make "the little girl comfortable,"
another idea flashed into his mind. It would be
a saving grace to let May see, as he could make
her see, what a second-rate simpleton-for so
he judged then-this friend was. The idea
was too tempting not to be acted upon, and
suddenly addressing her with a deference he
might have shown to an older person, he drew

iRb 1iVIUi1(. 199
the girl on to display-as she supposed-her
knowledge and brilliancy. Instead, however,
of these qualities, Cathy only displayed her
foolishness and forwardness, behaving in fact in
a very second-rate manner indeed. Oh,"
thought poor May, I would n't have believed
that Cathy could go on like this. She can be
so sensible. And Papa-Papa is too bad."
She looked appealingly at him, but he did
not notice her. She then tried to stop Cathy
by asking her a question about school matters.
But Cathy would not be stopped. Still she
rattled on, perking up her little chin, and laugh-
ing, until May began to feel very much ashamed,
and to wish that something would happen, or



somebody would come to the rescue. And some-
body did come to the rescue; and this somebody
was-the stepmother.
Mrs. Bartlett had been observant of every-
thing-of her husband's "mischief," as she
termed it, of Cathy's silliness, and of May's
What possesses Edward," she thought, to
draw out that child's absurdities like this ? And
then she echoed May's thought, It is too bad
of him." But, like May, she did n't understand
his motive. Yet if she had understood, I think
she would have done the same thing. And this
she would have done the same thing. And this


is what she did. As she saw her husband, with
that look of mischief on his face, about to ad-
dress Miss Cathy again, she turned to him with a
sudden question relating to an important matter
in which he was interested. His attention once
caught, she held it, though there was an amused
sparkle in his eyes that showed he was perfectly
well aware of his wife's purpose. But the pur-
pose was served, and May drew a sigh of relief.
But Cathy was not so well pleased to be thus
robbed of what she considered such flattering

interested in a book, from which he now and
then read passages to his wife. He took not
the slightest notice of "the children," as he
would have called them. Disappointed by this
neglect, Cathy looked about her for some amuse-
ment, and as she saw the open piano in the
further corer of the large room, she whispered
to May that they might try one of their duets.
Oh, no, no, not now; we '11 try to-morrow,"
poor May whispered back. But Cathy could
not or would not understand, and saying care-


attention, and responded rather absently to
May's low-voiced attempts to talk with her;
and, after they had left the table, when May
tried to draw her into her own special sanctum
-a charming room full of books and pictures
and games Cathy said decidedly :
Oh, let 's go into the parlor; I think it's so
pleasant where there 's an open fire."
But if she fancied she was again to receive
the attention that had so flattered her, she was
mistaken. Mr. Bartlett became absorbingly

lessly, "Well, let me look at the music," led the
way to the instrument. Once there, she did not
content herself with looking; she must just try
whether she could remember this or that, she had
taken for a lesson. This or that" turned out
to be a few bars of various compositions, not of
the highest order, and played without particular
skill. May stole a glance down the room at her
father. Mr. Bartlett was fond of music, and had
some knowledge of it, and a cultivated taste. May
saw him twist his mouth into a comical smile,



and shake his head ruefully as he looked at
Come, let us play Halma'; I have a new
board," she whispered to Cathy.
But Cathy just then struck into a gay waltz,
and banged away with all her might. As she
played the last bars, Mrs. Bartlett approached.
That was one of the Strauss waltzes, was n't
it?" she asked Cathy politely; and then she
began to speak of the great Peace Jubilee in
Boston, when Johann Strauss had come all the
way from Austria to play, and to lead the great
orchestra in the colosseum that was erected for
the jubilee.
"I was about your age then," she said, look-
ing at Cathy, "and I never had had such a
perfectly lovely time as I had then." As she
went on describing that fairy-like structure,
with its glass roof, covering so many acres,
and the bands from England and Germany and
France and Austria and Ireland, that came over
to America to play their own music in celebra-
tion of the peace of the world, May leaned for-
ward, spell-bound by the description and all
it brought before her, and even Cathy forgot
herself for the time. After this, Mr. Bartlett
called out:
"Margaret, play something for us;" and
Margaret played some beautiful selections from
Schumann and Beethoven, and then, at the
last, she sang a good-night song by Robert
Franz; and with the concluding words, Good-
night, good-night," she rose, smiling, from her
seat, and as at that instant the little clock on
the mantel struck half-past nine, May knew
that it was time to go to bed, and rose also,
expecting Cathy to follow her example; but
Cathy hung back, and began to speak.
"Do you know any waltzes that you could
play for us to dance, Mrs. Bartlett?" she
asked. Before Mrs. Bartlett could reply, Mr.
Bartlett had come forward, and was saying,
"Good-night, children," and in the next mo-
ment he was asking his wife to play a Hun-
garian march for him.
May was only too glad to get away. Once
upstairs by themselves, Cathy would be herself
again, she reasoned. But there were several
things rankling in Cathy's mind, not the least
of which was that Good-night, children," and
VoL. XVII.-23.

when May, with a little skip of relief, entered
the chamber, and said cheerfully:
"I don't feel a bit sleepy; do you, Cathy? "
Cathy answered sharply:
"I? No; I could have waltzed for half
an hour."
The color flew to May's face.
But, Cathy, it is half-past nine, half an hour
later than I usually go to bed, and you told me
that nine was the seminary hour."
"Well, this is n't the seminary. I did n't
expect to visit a school," sarcastically.
May had to remember that Cathy was her
guest, and that she must be polite to her, so
she said:
"I 'm so sorry, Cathy. But-she-will play
for us to dance to-morrow, I dare say."
"'She'-oh, that's what you call her ? I 've
wondered what it was! What do you call her
when you speak to her ? "
"I I don't say anything. I wait until
she is looking at me. I-"
Cathy went off into a giggle.
"Oh, it's too funny. I must tell the girls
when I get back that you only speak of her as
'she,' and wait until she looks at you before-"
"Oh, don't, Cathy."
"Don't what? "
"Don't make fun-like that-to the girls."
"Well, I should just like to know what has
come over you, May Bartlett; but I know well
enough. She has got the upper hand of you
in your own home, that's clear."
The color in May's face deepened.
"How can you talk so foolishly, Cathy ? "
"I 'm not talking foolishly. I saw it at the
very first, when we were at the tea-table. What
did she do when your father was so nice and
pleasant to me but stop him and make him talk
to her! And then she would n't let him come
near us in the parlor, but came herself after
a while, and told us stories about that old ju-
bilee. I 've heard my mother tell about it a
hundred times."
Oh, Cathy you don't know "
May stopped. She could n't tell Cathy that
she had been saved twice: once from making

herself ridiculous, and again from being an
annoyance, by-yes-by the stepmother. And
it was the stepmother who had encouraged her


visit, who had spoken of her as pretty and
bright-faced, when Cathy had been so bitter
against her, and, worst of all, at the very time
when she had been really doing her a kind-
ness;-but what was it Cathy was saying ?
"I do know one thing, May, that you are
another girl here at home from what you are at
school. You don't seem to remember what
you 've told me about the garden-party, and
the wagon, and everything. You to tell me not
to talk to the girls! "
May began to feel very angry, and luckily very
small too; the latter feeling prevented the out-
burst of the former. How could she admonish
Cathy ? There was a silence for a few minutes,
while Cathy, with an injured look, made her
preparations for bed. By and by May said,
with an effort:
"She wanted you to come."
"She wanted me;" a little rasping laugh,
and then, "what do you mean by that ? "
May explained by relating the conversation
where Mrs. Bartlett had spoken of her so
pleasantly. The angry lines relaxed a little
in Cathy's face, and presently she said, easily:
"Well, it was never my affair, you know. I
never knew anything about her, except what you
told me, and I 'm sure I hope she will turn out
nice, for your sake."
May struggled with her temper. She felt put
in the wrong on every side. But even if she
yielded to the wild impulse within her, what
could she say ? If Cathy had encouraged her
to talk against her stepmother, she had likewise
encouraged Cathy!
There was nothing to be said then; and
nothing to be done, except to listen to Cathy
with what patience she might; but Cathy her-
self presently turned from the subject to some-
thing else, and a little later, all unkind thoughts
were lost, for the time, in slumber.


"PLAY for you to dance? Certainly I will.
But, May, how would you like to invite the
other girls who are spending their vacation at
the seminary to join a little party here on
Saturday evening? "
But there are not enough to make a party."

Mrs. Bartlett smiled.
"But I said 'join a party.' I thought I
would invite some of my friends in Boston with
their young people, if you would like it, and then
we might have enough for a dancing-party.
Would you like it?"
May looked up. There was something in
the wistful tone of this would you like it?'
that made her ashamed of her ungracious hesi-
tation; yet Cathy's sneering accusation of the
night before, "you are another girl here at
home from what you are at school," had been
rankling in her mind. She must prove herself;
she must show Cathy that she was the same,
and so instead of responding at once as she felt,
with delight at the project, she said after that
hesitation, in a cold tone:
"Yes, I should like it very well." And then
Cathy, who was standing by, sprang forward
and exclaimed:
Oh, Mrs. Bartlett, I think it would be just
lovely, and I 'm sure I shall like it above all
Again May felt herself put in the wrong and
misunderstood, and again she had to struggle
with her temper. This conversation had taken
place on the morning after Cathy's arrival,
which had been upon Friday, the beginning
of the vacation. The party proposed was for
the next Saturday.
"The only thing that troubles me is that I
haven't a light dress to wear-I've only my
garnet cashmere here at Hillside," Cathy re-
marked, when she and May were alone to-
Oh, but we are so near of a size you can
wear one of mine; I have two white wool
dresses," May answered readily.
When the dresses were produced and tried
on, Cathy found that the latest-made dress suited
her best.
"But, Cathy, don't you think it is too long?
It comes almost to the floor upon you. I am
taller, you know."
Oh, no, 't is n't a bit too long. I like it,"
Cathy replied hastily. And so the matter was
dismissed, Cathy after removing the dress
hanging it up in the closet with a pleased air.
The week sped by very quickly, and for the
most part smoothly. Cathy evidently enjoyed


herself, though she found that Mr. Bartlett was
no longer disposed to treat her as a grown-up
young lady; indeed, that he took but scant
notice of her. The long drives, however, in
the little village-wagon in the bright early days
of winter that were like autumn, the trips to Bos-
ton, to a matinee performance of Little Lord
Fauntleroy," and to visit one or two picture
galleries, filled the short days to overflowing.
On several occasions during this time, Cathy
had said things that had made May exceedingly
uncomfortable. Once, at the beginning of the
preparations for the little party, she suddenly
asked, Don't you help, when anything of this
kind is going on? "
"Help how?" May inquired, in a be-
wildered tone.
Why, with the notes of invitation for one
thing. I always do that part at home."
"No, I never thought of it. When Aunt
Mary lived with us I was too young, and she
left us only two years ago."
"Well, you do have an easy time, May, I
must say," Cathy had responded to this. May
did not care to ask Cathy for any more of her
opinions on the subject; a sense of hurt pride
was beginning to affect her-to make her draw
back within herself, and to feel that Cathy was
going too far. Once she would have told Cathy
this, would have told anybody who had spoken
to her in such a fashion; but now, the con-
sciousness that she herself had opened the way
for Cathy to be so free with her silenced her.
Yet in spite of some annoyances like this, the
week ran rapidly toward its end, and Saturday
morning came. Just after luncheon, Mrs. Bart-
lett said to the girls:
Had n't you two girls better try on your
dresses now, and see if everything is all right ?
They may need new ruching in the neck, or
some little changes. I always try on a dress
after it has n't been worn for a while, before the
last minute, as we used to say at home."
May started up readily; Cathy was not so
"But I've tried the one I'm to wear, Mrs.
Bartlett," she said.
Yes, I know-all by yourselves; but don't
you want to let me see if everything is right? If
it is n't, I can let Julie attend to it at once."

May was already upstairs, and Cathy slowly
followed her.
As Mrs. Bartlett entered the chamber, she
saw her stepdaughter standing arrayed in a very
pretty white gown, much too short in the skirt.
"There now, my dear, here is something to
be done. You have grown so tall, your skirt
must be lengthened." She busied herself for
several moments in taking measurements, and
then turned to Cathy.
Why, my dear, you both have made a mis-
take. This is as much too long for you as the
one May has on is too short for her; and she
went forward, smilingly, ready to help remedy
this "mistake." But Cathy stepped back.
"No, there is no mistake, Mrs. Bartlett. I-
my party-dress at home is as long as this. I
like it."
"But-with your hair down in a braid, it
hardly seems to suit you. The skirt is as long as
mine, I think," Mrs. Bartlett remarked quietly.
Oh, well, I shall put my hair up to-night.
I often do at home," quickly responded Cathy.
"Besides, the other dress would be short for
me, too. I 'm nearly as tall as May."
As she spoke, Cathy walked across the room
to the mirror, and as she did so the difference
in height allowed May to look easily over her
head. Mrs. Bartlett caught May's eye at that
moment, and laughed! This was very undig-
nified, no doubt, but Mrs. Bartlett was only an
older girl herself, and the whole situation had
suddenly become irresistibly ludicrous to her.
May, too, in that moment, felt her indignation
at Cathy change to merriment, and, as Cathy
wheeled about with a look of questioning, she
surprised an exchange of glances that both
mortified and offended her.
But, with the easy readiness of her greater
experience, Mrs. Bartlett instantly said:
"It was so funny, my dear, to see May in
that ridiculously short skirt overtopping you
that I had to laugh; and then turning briskly
to May, she treated the matter as of no conse-
quence by saying:
Now, May, if you will come with me to the
sewing-room, Julie will attend to your skirt."
The two girls saw little of each other after
this, until it was time to dress for the evening.
It was an early party, on account of the young



people, and May had been occupied with Julie
most of the afternoon.
When, therefore, the two met later in the
day, something of Cathy's irritation had been
overlaid by other things; but it had only been
overlaid, and May knew, by the rather artificial
manner in which Cathy tried to be cordial and
natural, that she had not forgotten. Specially
was this noticeable when May donned the gown
that Julie had altered.
Oh, does n't it look nice, though!" cried
Cathy, in a slightly strained and nervous tone.
"It does very well," was all that May could
reply; for in fact the gown did not look par-
ticularly nice, spite of Julie's efforts. The
lengthening process showed in the white sur-
face, and even the broad sash did not conceal
that the waist also had been a little outgrown.
Julie, who had been sent in by Mrs. Bartlett
to assist the girls at their toilets, turned to
Cathy at last, saying, in her French-English:
"Now, if Mees Cathy 's ready for me, I
make her ready."
Cathy still waited. Then, as if struck by a
sudden thought, she cried:
Oh, May, will you see if I can have some
of that red kalmia from the green-house instead
of the daisies ? "
May took the hint-Cathy wanted to get
rid of her. It was on the stroke of the hour
for which the guests had been bidden when they
next met.
"What can your friend be about?" Mrs.
Bartlett asked with some concern as the min-
utes sped by. May knew no more than her
stepmother. She only knew that the bunch
of kalmia had been sent up to Cathy half an
hour ago.
"Perhaps you had better run up and see if
she is waiting for you to come for her," Mrs.
Bartlett then suggested. But just as May
started, the clock struck eight, and at the same
time the door-bell rang. At that very moment
a white vision appeared on the parlor threshold.
It was a slender young lady in a white dress,
with her dark hair piled in a crown-like coil
upon the top of her head. At the neck, a
cluster of scarlet flowers began, and, widening
out in a bright mass of color, drooped in long
sprays to the waist-line. Both May and her

stepmother looked at this vision at first with
surprise. Was it a guest whose arrival they
had not heard? The white vision stepped
forward; the red mouth above the red flowers
"Why, Cathy!" cried May. Yes, it was
Cathy. In her long, white dress, with her
dusky hair gathered up, and all those scarlet
kalmias, she looked like a young lady, and a
very pretty one, it must be confessed. Cathy
was quite aware of the effect that she produced.
She saw surprised admiration in May's glance.
It was not so easy to read Mrs. Bartlett's face,
but in the smile of recognition Miss Cathy saw
no sign of disapproval.
The ring at the door-bell was that of the little
party from the seminary. When they came
into the parlor, Joanna, as the eldest of the
three, advanced first, Elsie and Susy shyly fol-
lowing. All three were dressed somewhat alike,
in different shades of dark-blue cashmere. If,
as they observed the white-robed figures before
them, they might have felt a little shade of
girlish regret and mortification that they too
were not so whitely clothed, the warm recep-
tion that they received from Mrs. Bartlett and
May went far to reassure them. None of the
party at first recognized Cathy. When they
did, Susy forgot her shyness for the moment in
her astonishment, and cried out in that little soft
odd voice of hers:
Oh, it 's Cathy in a fancy costume how
funny !"
The rest of the girls laughed- that is, all
but Cathy; and Susy, noting the vexed expres-
sion of her face, added:
I did n't mean by 'funny' that it was n't
nice, too."
The girls laughed again, Cathy joining this
time. As for Mrs. Bartlett, she thought:
"What a dear, quaint little darling it is. If
only she had been May's visitor! "
But as the other guests began to arrive, there
was little opportunity to indulge in regrets of
any kind. The guests were some- of them
strangers to May even: they were old friends
and acquaintances of Mrs. Bartlett's, with their
young sisters, or daughters, and their brothers.
"Oh, is n't it nice to have real partners!"
exclaimed Cathy, as she saw the latter enter.


Joanna, to whom she spoke, laughed, and
said she thought she was real enough whenever
she had been Cathy's partner.
"Oh, but you know what I mean-gentle-
men partners," pettishly responded Cathy; and
Joanna had responded to this:
"I call them boys."
Two violins, a harp, and a cornet, in a small
room leading out of the parlors, made music for
the dancers. All the girls entered into the
dancing with great zest, Cathy more than the
rest. When May had first recognized her, in
the long dress and piled-up hair, she had felt
such a thrill of admiration that all her old be-
lief and regard, which had been sorely shaken
within the last few days, revived. In fact,
Cathy looked so much like a splendid grown-
up young lady then, that to criticise her seemed
an impertinence; and introducing this splendid
young lady to one and another, May had a feel-
ing of pride in her, and when she saw with what
a self-possessed air these introductions were re-
ceived, she was sure that there was not one of
those Boston girls who had nicer manners.
SThe dancing was in the long wide hall, as
well as in the parlors. Cathy seemed to prefer
the hall, and May found herself in the parlor,
separated from her as the evening went on;
and now and then she would wonder whether
Cathy was having a good time. May herself was
having a delightful time. She had forgotten all
about her dress being short in the waist, and
showing where it had been let down; she had
forgotten everything that was disagreeable, in-
deed, when she suddenly became conscious that
the music was greatly accelerated in speed, and
that over and above the music there seemed
to be a good deal of noise the sound of
voices and laughter.
She was vaguely wondering what it meant,
when she heard one of the boy strangers from
town say to another, with a laugh:
"They 're rushing things out there in the
hall, are n't they? And the other answered:
"It's that seminary girl. She's set them all
a-going. I saw her speak to the musicians
just now."
That seminary girl! Who, who could they
mean? Just then the final quadrille change
was called, and the moment she was free May

dashed out into the hall. But the music, which
had ceased for a second, had struck -up again
into a wild jig tune, and there was Cathy, her
hair flying, her laugh sounding, leading off down
the polished floor, almost on a run, to the jig
tune, with one of the older boys for her partner.
Margaret, if you don't stop that little hoy-
den, I will!" May here overheard her father
say. The next instant she saw her stepmother
walk rapidly past, and in another instant the
music came to an abrupt close.
Cathy, in her mad speed, at that instant met
Mrs. Bartlett face to face as she was leaving
the music-room.
Oh, Mrs. Bartlett," she broke forth, "how
could you stop our fun ? "
"Hush, my dear," began Mrs. Bartlett; but
Cathy, wild with her fun, as she called it, inter-
rupted with a pleading and protesting-plead-
ing for "just one more swing," and protesting
generally in a foolish, flippant little manner, full
of vanity and silliness, with a notion that she
was behaving in a very young ladyish style, and
attracting the admiration of everybody about
her; when she was attracting, instead, that very
unenviable attention which expresses itself in
astonished stares and questions of: Who is that
little hoyden ? If she had turned, as she stood
there protesting, she would have seen the mas-
ter of the house approaching with an ominous
frown upon his face; but she did not turn, and
she only saw the mistress of the house shake her
head at some one, and then heard her say:
Come, Cathy, it is nearly supper time, and
I want you to go upstairs and let Julie put
your hair and dress in order." As Mrs. Bart-
lett said this, she fixed her eyes upon Cathy
with a perfectly kind, but a compelling gaze, and
the girl knew that she must obey; but there
was in her heart a blind, unreasoning fury as
she did so.
May, full of shame and disappointment,
shrank back into the shadow of the portiere
near her father, but unseen by him. It was
then she heard her stepmother say:
No, Edward, I could n't let you speak to
her. You must remember she is only a child
-a willful, spoiled child, and her head is a
little turned by her high spirits, and her pret-
tiness, and the effect she seemed to produce."


Margaret, you would find excuses for any-
"I would certainly find excuses for such a
mere child as this."
They moved away together, but May still re-
mained behind the portiere, thinking, thinking,
thinking. This was the third time her step-
mother had shielded Cathy- Cathy, who from
the start had been against her, had said hard
things, had had hard thoughts of her, had done
her best to injure her. But who had encouraged
Cathy? Again this question confronted May.
"May, is it you, my dear? "
Somebody was pushing the portiere aside.
It was her stepmother.
"Oh, it is you. Will you run up, my dear,
and see if Cathy is ready to come down. I
can't think what keeps her so long. It could n't
have taken Julie more than five minutes to put
her dress in order."
As May sped on her errand her thoughts sped
with her, tormenting her with fears and regrets.
At the door of her room she paused a moment,
with the fears increasing, for there was a confu-
sion of voices, Cathy's rising above the others.
"No; I shall not go down again!-to be
sent away like a baby! do you think "
Oh, Cathy! Cathy you must come down;
I 've been sent for you," cried May, as she
entered the room.
I shall not!"
"How silly you are, Cathy. Of course you '11
go down."
It was Joanna who spoke. As May crossed
the threshold she saw that Joanna and Susy
were both standing by the dressing-table.
There 's no of course' about it," Cathy re-
torted sharply, and you may call me silly if
you like, Joanna Macy, but I should just like
to ask you how you would feel to be treated
like a baby sent off to have your hair brushed
and your face washed, right in the middle of a
dance ?"
Hair brushed and face washed How you
do go on, Cathy! But it was n't in the middle
of a dance. The cotillon had ended, and it
was you who started that other thing-I saw
you, and I should have thought Mrs. Bartlett

would have been disgusted. It was horrid of
you -a school-girl like you, to be so forward.
I was so ashamed I did n't know what to do."
"A school-girl like me! I 'm fifteen, Joanna
"What's fifteen? We are all nothing but a
pack of school-girls, any way."
"And to be stopped like that, and sent off,
and your partner a young gentleman, stand-
ing with you!"
"Oh, that's it! A young gentleman! That
Everett boy!" and Joanna laughed scornfully.
Cathy's rage did n't cool at Joanna's speech,
and she was about to retort again, when May
broke in with. her entreaty:
Oh, do come, Cathy! I have been sent
for you."
"Yes, she sent you, I suppose," with a sneer-
ing emphasis upon the pronoun.
Cathy, you are very-very unjust. If you
did but know it, she has been very kind to you,"
cried May.
"She! She! She!" Cathy mockingly re-
peated. "That is what May calls this step-
mother of whom all at once she is so fond!" and
then, in a few sharp, stinging words, Cathy let
loose the irritation that had been accumulating
from her hurt vanity for the last few days. In
these words were reproach and accusation, which
had enough truth in them to make it very diffi-
cult for May to control herself; but with the
reproach and accusation against herself were
mixed at last such comment and criticism of
her stepmother as not only May, but the two
other girls, felt to be both unfair and imper-
"How can you, Cathy ?" burst out Joanna
indignantly. "Mrs. Bartlett has been lovely
to you to us all, I 'm sure. If you had to
sputter out that silly prejudice against step-
mothers at first, you might stop now. I should
think you 'd harmed May about enough."
"I harmed May May hated her stepmother
from the first. It was May who told me -"
Her voice suddenly ceased as she caught the
expression of horror in May's eyes,- May, who
was looking beyond her at somebody, or some-
thing,-who-what could it be ?

To be continued.)


(A Legend of New Mexico in the Fifteenth Centuiy.)


EAR ye, people of Acoma,
for I, the Governor, speak.
To-morrow, go ye down to
the fields to plow; already
it is the month of rain, and
there is little in the store-
rooms. Let all go forth,
that we build shelters of cedar and stay in the
fields. The women, also, to cook for us. Take
ye each one his burros, and food for a month.
And pray that the Sun-Father, Pa-yat-yama, give
us much corn this year."
As white-headed Kai-a-tan-ish passed delib-
erately down the front of the houses, the soft
Queres words rolling sonorously from his deep
throat, the people stopped their work to listen
to him. The ruddy sun was just resting over
the cliffs of the Black Mesa, which walled the
pretty valley on the west, and the shadows of
the houses were creeping far out along the
rocky floor of the town.
Such quaint houses as they were! Built of
gray adobe, terraced so that the three successive
stories receded like a gigantic flight of steps,
they stood in three parallel rows, each a con-
tinuous block a thousand feet long, divided by
interior walls into wee but comfortable tene-
ments. There were no doors nor windows in
the lower story, but tall ladders reached to its
roof, which formed a sort of broad piazza before
the second-story door. Women were washing
their hair with the soapy root of the palmilla on
the yard-like roofs, or coming home from the
great stone reservoir with gaily decorated lina-
jas* of rain-water perched confidently upon their
heads. Children ran races along the smooth
rock which served for a street, or cared for their
mothers' babies, slung upon their patient young
backs. The men were very busy, tying up
bundles in buckskin, putting new handles on
their stone axes and hoes, or fitting to damaged

arrows new heads shaped from pieces of quartz
or volcanic glass.
As the governor kept his measured way down
the street, repeating his proclamation at inter-
vals, a tall, powerfully-made Indian stepped from
one of the houses, descended the ladder to the
ground, and walked out toward the sunset until
he could go no farther. He stood on the edge
of a dizzy cliff. From its beetling top the old
cedars in the plain below looked like dark-green
moss. For in those days the Queres city of
Acoma stood on the Rock of Katzimo -a great
round, stone table two miles in circumference,
and with perpendicular walls a thousand feet
high. The level valley, five miles wide, was
hemmed in by cliffs, forming a gigantic box;
and in its very center rose the red Rock of
Sho-ka-ka stood looking out at the fiery sun-
set with a sad and absorbed expression. He
did not hear the patter of bare feet on the rock
behind him, nor did he turn till a small hand
nestled in his own and a boy's clear voice said:
"Ah, Tata To-morrow we go to the plant-
ing! The governor has said it. And perhaps
I may kill rabbits with the new bow thou didst
make me. When I am bigger, I will use it to
kill the wicked Apaches."
The man laid his muscular hand upon the
boy's head and drew it to his side. Still for
war and the chase!" he said, fondly. But it
is better to kill rabbits and deer than men.
Think thou of that, A-chi-te. We Queres fight
only to save our homes, not for the sake of
fighting and plunder, as do the Apaches. But
thy mother is very sick and can not go to the
fields, and it is not kind to leave her alone.
Only that I am a councilor of the city and must
give a good example in working, I would stay
with her. A hundred children will go to the
fields, but thou shalt be a man to keep the town.

* Large earthen jars.


Two other women lie sick near the estufa, and
thou shalt care for thy mother and for them."
The boy's lip quivered an instant with dis-
appointment; but Pueblo children never even
think disobedience, and he shut his teeth firmly.
Poor Nana (little mother) he said, "poor
little Mamma! Truly she can not be left alone.
And, if the Apaches come, I will roll down
such stones on them that they shall think the
Hero Brothers have come down from the Sun-
Father's house to fight for Acoma! "
"That is my brave. Now run thou home
and grind the dried meat and put it in my
pouch, that I may be ready to start early. All
else is done. If thou dost well while I am
gone, I will make thee the best bow and quiver
of arrows in all Acoma."
A-chi-te started homeward, running like a
deer. He was fifteen years old, tall for his age,
clean-limbed and deep-chested. His heavy
black hair was cut straight above his big, black
eyes, and behind fell below his shoulders. He
had the massive but clear-cut features of his
father-a face of remarkable strength and
beauty, despite the swarthy skin.
Sho-ka-ka sighed as the boy ran off. It is
in an ill time that we start for the planting. I
saw an owl in the cedars to-day, and it would
not fly when I shouted. And when I smoked
the holy smoke, I could not blow it upward at
all. Perhaps the spirits are angry with us. It
is good that we make a sacrifice to-night, to put
their anger to sleep." And he strode thought-
fully away to the great, round estufa, where the
councilors were to smoke and deliberate upon
the morrow's work.
When the Sun-Father peeped over the eastern
mesas in the morning, he looked in the eyes of
his expectant children. Motionless and statu-
esque they stood upon the house-tops, awaiting
his coming; and now they bowed reverently as
his round, red house rose above the horizon. A
solemn sacrifice had been offered the nightbefore,
and all the medicine-men deemed the omens
favorable, save old Poo-ya-tye, who shook
his head but could not tell what he feared.
Already an active young brave had rounded-
up the hundreds of burros at the foot of the
rock; and now a long procession of men,
women, and children, bearing heavy burdens

for the packs, was starting toward the southern
brink of the cliff. A deep, savage cleft, gnawed
out by the rains of centuries, afforded a dan-
gerous path for five hundred feet downward;
and then began the great Ladder Rock. A
vast stone column, once part of the mesa, but
cut off by the erosion of unnumbered ages, had
toppled over so that its top leaned against the
cliff, its base being two hundred feet out in a
young mountain of soft, white sand. Up this
almost precipitous rock a series of shallow steps
had been cut. To others, this dizzy ladder
would have seemed insurmountable; but these
sure-footed Children of the Sun thought nothing
of it. It gave the only possible access to the
mesa's top, and a well-aimed stone would roll
a climbing enemy in gory fragments to the bot-
tom. They could afford a little trouble, for the
sake of having the most impregnable city in the
world-these quiet folk who hated war, but
lived among the most desperate savage war-
riors the world has ever known-Apaches,
Comanches, Navajos, and Utes.
The seeds, the provisions, the stone hand-
mills, the stone axes and hoes, the rude plows
- each made of a young pine, with one short,
strong branch left near the butt for a share-
were packed upon the patient burros. Upon
other burros mounted the men, riding double,
and the women, each with children clinging
before and behind her. As- Sho-ka-ka rode
away, he turned to look up once more at the
Rock, and at the tiny figure outlined against the
sky. It seemed no more than a wee black ant,
but he knew it was his son, A-chi-te, and waved
his hand as he yelled back, "Sha-wa-tsosh/"
from lungs as mighty as those of Montezuma.
In half an hour the long procession had
melted into the brown bosom of the valley;
and even A-chi-te's keen eyes could distinguish
it no longer. He drew a deep breath, threw
back his square young shoulders, and walked
away to his mother's house. Alone with three
sick women, the only man in Acoma-no won-
der the boy's head was carried even straighter
than usual. Truly, this was better than going
to the planting. All the boys had gone there,
but he was trusted to guard alone the proudest
city of the Queres!
He ran up the tall ladder and entered the



house. At one side of the dark little room lay
his mother on a low bed of skins. The boy
put his warm cheek against the wasted face,
and a thin hand crept up and stroked his heavy
hair. Little one of my heart," she whispered,
"are they all gone ? "
"All gone, Nana, and I am left to guard thee
and the town. Now, await me while I make
thee a drink of atole."*
A-chi-te went over to the big lava metate,t at
the other side of the room, drew from a buck-
skin bag a handful of blue corn that had been
parched in the big beehive of an oven, and, lay-

ried a supply of gnarled cedar sticks into each
house to feed the queer little mud fire-places,-
for, at that altitude of over seven thousand feet,
it was cold even in summer,- A-chi-te turned
his attention to the duty which naturally seemed
to his boyish ambition the most important to
guard the town. He slung over his shoulder
his bow and arrows, in a case made from the
skin of mo-keil-cha, the mountain-lion. Then
he went scouring over the pueblo, gathering up
all the stones he could find, from the size of his
fist to that of his head, and carried them down
to the foot of the great cleft where the Ladder


ing the hard kernels on the sloping block, began
to scrub them to powder with a small slab of
lava, flat on one side and rounded on the other
to fit the hand. When the corn was reduced to a
fine, bluish meal, he brushed it carefully into a
little earthen bowl, and with a gourd-cup dipped
some burro's milk from a cajete.\ This he poured
slowly upon the meal, stirring with a stick, till
the bowl was full of a thin, sweet porridge.
Drink, Nana," he said, holding the bowl to
her lips, and supporting her head on his left
arm. "Then I will carry atole to Stchu-muts
and Kush-eit-ye."
When he had fed his three charges and car-

Rock began. Here he stowed them in a little
recess in the rock; and as they were not so
many as he thought desirable, he added to
them several score adobe bricks from ruined
houses. When this was done, he viewed his
battery with great satisfaction. "Now let the
Apaches come! Truly, they will find it bitter
climbing!" And, indeed, it was so. So long
as his rude ammunition should hold out, the
boy alone could hold at bay a thousand foes.
No arrow could reach to his lofty perch, nor
could the strongest climber withstand even his
lightest missile on that dizzy "ladder."
A-chi-te now brought down some skins, and

A gruel made by boiling Indian corn in water or milk. t A curved stone in the shape of an
inclined plane, used for grinding corn. t A flat bowl of clay.
VOL. XVII.- 24.


made a little bed beside his pile of stones.
There was no danger that the Apaches would
come in the daytime, and he would sleep with
his weapons by his side, so that they should not
surprise him by night. During the day he could
devote himself to the sick.
Two days went by uneventfully, and A-chi-te
was disappointed. Why did not the Apaches
come, that he might show his father how well
he could guard Acoma ? The third day dawned
cloudy, and a ragged, sullen drift hid the Peak
of Snow, away to the north. In the afternoon
the rain began to sweep down violently, a sav-
age wind dashing it against the adobes as
if to hurl them from their solid foundations.
Little rivers ran down the streets and poured
from the edges of the cliff in hissing cataracts.
A perfect torrent was running down the cleft,
and spreading out over the great Ladder Rock
in a film of foam. Luckily, A-chi-te's missiles
and bed were out of its reach.
Surely thou wilt not sleep in the Ladder
to-night," said his mother, as she listened to
the roar of the storm.
"Yes, Nana, it must be. On such a night
the Apaches are likeliest to come. I am not
salt, that the rain should melt me; and my bed
is above the running water. What would Tata
say, if he came home and found I had let the
Apaches in, for fear of getting myself wet ? "
When he had fed the sick, A-chi-te took his
bow and quiver and started for his post. It was
already growing dark, and the storm showed no
sign of abatement. It was a fearful climb down
to his little crow's-nest of a fort. The narrow
slippery path was at an average angle of over fifty
degrees, and was now choked with a seething
torrent. He had at one time to climb along
precarious ledges above the water, and at an-
other to trust himself waist-deep in that ava-
lanche of foam--keeping from being swept
down to instant death only by pressing des-
perately against the rocky walls of the gorge,
here not more than three feet apart. But at
last, trembling with exhaustion, he drew himself
up to his little niche and sank upon his drenched
bed, while the white torrent bellowed and raved
under his feet, as if maddened at the loss of its
expected prey.
Deeper and deeper grew the darkness, fiercer

and fiercer the storm. Such a rain had never
been seen before in all the country of the Hano
Oshatch. It came down in great sheets that
veered and slanted with the desperate wind,
dug up stout cedars by the roots, and pried
great rocks from their lofty perches to send
them thundering down the valley. To the
shivering boy, drenched and alone in his angle
of the giant cliff, it was a fearful night; and
older heroes than he might have been pardoned
for uneasiness. But he never thought of leav-
ing his post; and, hugging the rocky wall to
escape as far as he could the pitiless pelting
of the cold rain, he watched the long hours
"A-chi-te A-chi-te !"
Surely that could not be his mother's voice !
The gray of dawn was beginning to assert itself
on the dense blackness of the sky. The rain
and the wind were more savage than ever. She
could not be heard from the house he thought
- and yet -
"A-chi-te! A-chi-te! "
It was her voice; and in surprise and con-
sternation A-chi-te started up the cleft. It was
still dark in that narrow, lofty-walled chasm; the
torrent was deeper and wilder than before. It
was easier to go up than down in such a place;
but it was all his lithe young limbs and strong
muscles could do to bring him to the top.
There stood his mother, her soft, black hair
blown far out on the fierce wind, her great eyes
shining unnaturally in their shrunken settings.
"Sashe mut-yet-sa! The house is fallen! It
has broken my arm, and Kush-eit-ye is buried
to her head under a wall. The white shadows
have come for us! Thou must run to thy
father, and bring him home before we die!
Run, my brave, soul of my heart!"
The boy looked at her, and then down the
roaring chasm. It was far worse than when
he had descended before. And the Ladder
Rock-could he do it? He put his arm
across his mother's shoulder and drew her head
against his cheek, patting her back gently,-the
quaint embrace of his people.
Get thee into a house, Nana. I go for Tata.
Sha-wa-tsos/!" And in another moment he
had disappeared between the black jaws of the



The horror of a life-
time was in that few ',
hundred feet. Blinded
by the rain, deafened by I ,
the hoarse thunder of A,
the stream, he let him- '' ,
self down foot by foot
with desperate strength.
Once the flood swept '
his feet from underhim 4' o
and left him hanging -.
by the clutch of his
hands upon the walls.
It took two full min-
utes to bring his feet
back to the rock be-
neath. But at last he
came to where the cleft
widened and the frantic
stream spouted out and
went rolling down the
precipitous slope of the
Ladder Rock. Here
he stood a moment to
catch his breath, and I
then turning, began to L J|
back down the slippery
rock, his hands dug ..
fiercely into one foot- ''I -
notch, while his toes -'"
groped in the hissing
water for the notch be-
low. His teeth were-
set, his bronze face was .. -
a ghastly gray, his eyes
were like coals. The
wet strands of his hair !--
whipped his face like
scourges, his finger-ends
were bleeding as he
pressed them against the
sandstone. But slowly, automatically as a ma-
chine, he crept down, down, fighting the fierce
water, clinging to the tiny toe-holes. Once he
stopped. He was sure that he felt the rock
tremble, and then despised himself for the
thought. The great Ladder Rock tremble ?
Why, it was as solid as the mighty mesa!
It was half an hour before he reached the
bottom of the rock; and when he looked down-

ward, over his shoulder, he cried out aghast.
The cataract had had its way with the great
hill of fine sand on which the base of the rock
rested; and where the path had been was
now a great gully fifty feet deep. To drop
was certain death. He thought for a moment.
Ah! the pifion !* And he crawled to the side of
the rock, which was here only a gentle slope.
Sure enough there was the pfion tree still stand-

* Pine-tree (literally, the pine-nut seed or kernel).



ing, but on the very edge of the chasm. It was
fifteen feet out and ten feet below him-an
ugly jump. But he drew a long breath and
leaped out. Crashing down through the brittle
branches, bruised and torn and bleeding, he
righted himself at last and dropped to the
ground. A moment's breathing spell and he
was dashing down the long sand-hill, and then
away up the valley. The fields were eight miles
away. Would his strength last, sorely tried as
it had been ? He did not know; but he pressed
his hand against his bleeding side and ran on.
Suddenly he felt the ground quiver beneath
his feet. A strange, rushing sound filled his ears;
and, whirling about, he saw the great Ladder
Rock rear, throw its head out from the cliff,
reel there an instant in mid-air, and then go
toppling out into the plain like some wounded
Titan. As those thousands of tons of rock smote
upon the solid earth with a hideous roar, a great
cloud went up, and the valley seemed to rock to
and fro. From the face of the cliffs three miles
away, great rocks came leaping and thundering
down; and the tall piions swayed and bowed
as before a hurricane. A-chi-te was thrown
headlong by the shock, and lay stunned. The
Ladder Rock had fallen-the unprecedented
flood had undermined its sandy bed!
And the town,-his mother-! The boy
sprang to his feet and began running again,
stiffly, and with an awful pallor on his set face.
When the men of Acoma came gallop-
ing home on foaming burros, it was in deathly
silence. And even when they stood beside
that vast fallen pillar of stone, looking up at
the accursed cliff, not one could speak a word.
There was Acoma, the city in the sky, the home
of their forefathers;
but their feet would
never press its rocky
streets again. Five
hundred feet above
their heads opened
the narrow cleft;
and five hundred
feet higher, against
the sullen gray sky, *

flitted two wan figures whose frantic shrieks
scarce reached the awe-struck crowd below.
No ladder could ever be built to scale that
dizzy height. The cliff everywhere was perpen-
dicular. And so, forever exiled from the homes
that were before their eyes, robbed of their all,
heart-wrung by the sight of the doomed women
on the cliff, the simple-hearted Children of the
Sun circled long about the fatal Rock of Kat-
zimo. Council after council was held, sacrifice
after sacrifice was offered; but the merciless
cliff still frowned unpitying. It became plain
that they must build a new town to be safe from
the savage tribes which surrounded them on
every side; and on a noble mesa, three miles
to the south, they founded a new Acoma, where
it stands to-day, five hundred feet above the
plain, and safe from a similar catastrophe.
For weeks the two women haunted the brink
of their aerial prison, and daily Sho-ka-ka and
A-chi-te went to its foot with sympathizing
neighbors to weep, and to scream out words
of hopeless encouragement. Then Stchu-muts
came no more, and Nai-chat-tye was alone.
Back and forth she paced, like some caged
beast chafing at the bars; and then, throwing
up her wasted arms, sprang out to her death.

Full four hundred years have passed since
then, and the land of the Pueblos is filling with
a race of white-skinned strangers. Scientific
expeditions have exhausted the ingenuity of
civilization to scale the Rock of Katzimo and
recover its archaeological treasures, but all in
vain. The natives shun it, believing it accursed.
And to-day, as I sit on the rocky battlements of
the Acoma that now is, watching the sunset glory
creeping higher up
-. .. that wondrousisland
:rwt (of ruddy rock to the
north, an old Indian
at my side tells the
oft-repeated story of
the Enchanted Mesa.
He is the many-
/ times great- grand-
son of A-chi-te.


I -'
-'" -'-
"5~j~2~ '7zrr~rn-
- -- ~ B~~-.
- Z- ~ ..aBk~ -



THE story which I am about to relate was
told me beside the camp-fire, on the banks of
the Big Squatook, in south-eastern Quebec.
The wild regions about the Squatook lakes
are rich in fish and game. With their virgin
forests, wild streams, exquisite and varied land-
scapes, this country is a Paradise for sportsmen
and canoemen. A party of four, devotees
of gun and rod and paddle, we went one July
to this land of the Big Squatook; and round
the camp-fire one chilly evening, when a sudden
north wind had put an abrupt end to our fish-
ing, Stranion, being in a certain sense the leader
of our party, was called upon for a story of
adventure. We all were experienced woods-
men, with a large stock of stories at our com-
mand; but Stranion's experience was the widest,
and to him had fallen the strangest and most
thrilling adventures. When Stranion was not
with us, a good yarn might be elicited from
the lips of W. B., or Sam, or even myself; but
in Stranion's presence we paled our uneffectual
fires." It was on this account, perhaps, that we
were given to interrupting Stranion with occa-
sional gibes and questioning, lest he should grow
too overwhelmingly conscious of the superiority
of his gift.
When we had heaped our camp-fire to thrice
its accustomed height, and had huddled our-
selves comfortably in our blankets under the lee
of the tent, we turned our attention to Stranion,
and Stranion began:
"Boys, the air bites shrewdly. It is a nipping
and an eager air. In fact, it puts me forcibly in
mind of one of my best adventures, which befell

me that winter when I was trapping on the Little
Sou'west Miramichi."
Oh, come! Tell us a good summer story,
old man," interrupted W. B. I 'm half frozen
as it is, to-night. Tell us about some place
down in the tropics where they have to cool
their porridge with boiling water."
"Nay," replied Stranion, "my thoughts are
wintry, and even so must my story be."
He traced in the air a few meditative circles
with his pipe (which he rarely smoked, using it
rather for oratorical effect), and then resumed:
That was a hard winter of mine on the Little
Sou'west. I enjoyed it at the time, and it did
me good; but, looking back upon it now, I
wonder what induced me to undertake it. I
got the experience, and I indulged my hobby
to the full; but by spring I felt like a barbarian.
It is a fine thing, boys, as we all agree, to be an
amateur woodsman, and it brings a fellow very
close to nature; but it is much more sport in
summer than in winter, and it's better when one
has good company than when he 's no one to
talk to but a preternaturally gloomy Melicite.
"I had Noel with me that winter-a good
hunter and true, but about as companionable as
a mud-turtle. Our traps were set in two great
circuits, one on the south side of the stream, the
other on the north. The range to the north was
in my own charge, and a very big charge it
was. When I had any sort of luck, it used
to take me a day and a half to make the round,
for I had seventeen traps to tend, spread out
over a range of about twenty miles. But when
the traps were not well filled, I used to do it



without sleeping away from camp. It's not
much like play, I can tell you, tramping all day
on snow-shoes through those woods, carrying an
axe, a fowling-piece, food, ammunition, and
sometimes a pack of furs. Whenever I had to
sleep out, I would dig a big oblong hole in the
snow, build a roaring fire at one end of the hole,
bury myself in hemlock boughs at the other end,
and snooze like a dormouse till morning. I
relied implicitly on the fire to keep off any bears
or Indian Devils* that might be feeling inquisi-
tive as to whether I would be good eating.
The snow must have been fully six feet deep
that year. One morning, near the last of
February, I had set out on my round, and had
made some three miles from our shanty, when
I caught sight of a covey of partridges in the
distance, and turned out of my way to get a
shot at them. It had occurred to me that per-
chance a brace of them might make savory
morsels for my supper. After a considerable
dedour, I bagged my birds and recovered my trail
near the last trap I had visited. My tracks, as
I had left them, had been solitary enough; but
now I found they were accompanied by the
foot-prints of a large Indian Devil.
I did n't really expect to get a shot at the
beast, but I loaded both barrels with ball-car-
tridges. As I went on, however, it began to strike
me as strange that the brute should happen to
be going so far in my direction. Step for step his
foot-prints clung to mine. When I reached the
place where I had branched off in search of the
partridges, I found that the panther hadbranched
off with me. So polite a conformity of his ways
to mine could have but one significance. I was
being tracked!
The idea, when it first struck me, struck me
with too much force to be agreeable. It was a
very unusual proceeding on the part of an In-
dian Devil, displaying a most imperfect concep-
tion of the fitness of things. That I should hunt
him was proper and customary; but that he
should think of hunting me was presumptuous
and most unpleasant. I resolved that he should
be made to repent it before night.
"The traps were unusually successful* that
trip, and at last I had to stop and make a cache
of my spoils. This unusual delay seemed to mis-

lead my wily pursuer, who suddenly came out
of a thicket while I was hidden behind a tree
trunk. As he crept stealthily along on my tracks,
not fifty yards away, I was disgusted at his sleuth-
hound persistence and crafty malignity. I raised
my gun to my shoulder, and in another moment
would have rid myself of his undesired attentions,
but the animal must have caught a gleam from
the shining barrels, for he turned like a flash and
buried himself in the nearest thicket.
It was evident that he did not wish the mat-
ter forced to an immediate issue. As a conse-
quence, I decided that it ought to be settled at
once. I ran toward the thicket, but at the same
time the panther stole out on the other side and
disappeared in the woods.
Upon this I concluded that he had become
scared and given up his unhallowed purpose.
For some hours I dismissed him from my mind
and tended my traps without further apprehen-
sion. But about the middle of the afternoon, or
a little later, when I had reached the furthest
point on my circuit, I once more became im-
pressed with a sense that I was being followed.
The impression grew so strong that it weighed
upon me, and I determined to bring it to a test.
Taking some luncheon from my pocket, I sat
down behind a tree to nibble and wait. I sup-
pose I must have sat there ten minutes, hearing
nothing, seeing nothing, so that I was about to
give it up and continue my tramp, when -along
came the panther! My gun was leveled instantly,
but at that same instant the brute had disap-
peared. His eyes were sharper than mine. Ah !'
said I to myself, I shall have to keep a big fire
going to-night, or this fellow will pay me a call
when I am snoring !'"
Oh! surely not! murmured W. B., pen-
sively. The rest of us laughed, but Stranion only
waved his pipe with a gesture that commanded
silence, and went on:
About sundown I met with an unlucky acci-
dent, which dampened both my spirits and my
powder. In crossing a swift brook, at a place
where the ice was hardly thick enough to hold up
its covering of snow, I broke through and was
soaked. After fishing myself out with some dif-
ficulty, I found my gun was full of water which
had frozen as it entered. Here was a pretty

SA name sometimes given to panthers.


fix! The weapon was for the present utterly
useless. I feared that most of my cartridges
were in like condition. The prospect for the
night, when the Indian Devil should arrive upon
the scene, was not a cheerful one. I pushed on
miserably for another mile or so, and then pre-
pared to camp.
"First of all, I built such a fire as I thought
would impress upon the Indian Devil a due sense
of my importance and my mysterious powers.
At a safe distance from the fire I spread out my
cartridges to dry, in the fervent hope that the
water had not penetrated far enough to render
them useless. My gun I put where it would thaw
as quickly as possible.
"Then I cut enough fire-wood to blaze all
night. With my snow-shoes I dug a deep hollow
at one side of the fire. The fire soon melted
the snow beneath it and brought it down to the
level whereon I was to place my couch. I may
say that the ground I had selected was a gentle
slope, and the fire was below my bed, so that
the melting snows could run off freely. Over
my head I fixed a good, firm 'lean-to' of spruce
saplings, thickly thatched with boughs. Thus I
secured myself in such a way that the Indian
Devil could come at me only from the side on
which the fire was burning. Such approach, I
congratulated myself, would be little to His
Catship's taste.
By the time my shelter was completed it was
full night in the woods. My fire made a ruddy
circle about the camp, and presently I discerned
the panther, gliding in and out among the tree-
trunks on the outer edges of the circle. He
stared at me with his round green eyes, and I
returned the gaze with cold indifference. I was
busy putting my gun in order. I would not en-
courage him lest he might grow too familiar
before I was ready for his reception.
Between my gleaming walls of snow I had
worked up a temperature that was fairly tropical.
Away up overhead, among the pine-tops, a few
large stars glimmered lonesomely. How far
away seemed the world of my friends on whom
these same stars were looking down! I won-
dered how those at home would feel if they
could see me there by my solitary camp-fire,
watched relentlessly by that prowling and vin-
dictive beast.

"Presently, finding that I made no attack
upon him, the brute slipped noiselessly up to
within a dozen paces of the fire. There he
crouched down in the snow and glared upon
me. I hurled a flaming brand at him and he
sprang backward, snarling, into the gloom. But
the brand spluttered in the snow and went out,
whereupon the brute returned to his post. Then
I threw another at him; but he regarded it this
time with contempt, merely drawing aside to
give it room. When it had gone black out, he
approached, pawed it over, and sniffed in su-
premest contempt. Then he came much nearer,
so that I thought he was about to spring upon
me. I moved discreetly to the other side of the
By this time the gun was ready for action,
but not so the cartridges. They were lying
further from the fire and dangerously near my
unwelcome visitor. I perceived that I must make
a diversion at once.
Selecting a resinous stick, into which the fire
had eaten deeply, so that it held a mass of glow-
ing coals, I launched it suddenly with such care-
ful aim that it struck right between the brute's
forelegs. As it scorched there, he caught and bit
at it angrily, dropped it with a screaming snarl,
and shrank farther away. When he crouched
down, biting the snow, I followed up my advan-
tage by rushing upon him with a blazing roll of
birch-bark. He did not await my onset, but
bounded off among the trees, where I could hear
him grumbling in the darkness over his smarting
mouth. I left the bark blazing in the snow while
I went back to see to my precious cartridges.
"Before long the panther reappeared at the
limits of the lighted circle, but seemed not
quite so confident as before. Nevertheless, it was
clear that he had set his heart on making a meal
of me, and was not to be bluffed out of his design

by a few firebrands.
I discovered that all my ball-cartridges were
spoiled; but there were a few loaded with shot,
which the water had not penetrated. From these
I withdrew the shot, and substituted ball and
slugs. Then, slipping a ball-cartridge into one
barrel, slugs into the other, and three or four
extra cartridges into a handy pocket, I waited
for my opponent to recover his confidence. As
he seemed content to wait awhile, I set about



0. TT

*gt. .- ..

... -','"" , '"
.~~~~~~~~ r"'".?-. ." .

":: -'4 ` .' ,
% '., % "- ,"" "'" "',


broiling my partridges, for I was becoming clam-
orously hungry.
"So also was the panther, as it seemed.
When the odor of those partridges stole seduc-
tively to his nostrils, he once more approached
my fire, and this time with an air of stern deter-
mination quite different from his former easy
The crisis had come. I seized my gun and
knelt down behind the fire. I arranged a burn-
ing log in such a manner that I could grasp and
wield it with both hands in an emergency.
Just as the animal drew himself together for a
spring, I fired one barrel,-that containing the
ball,- and shattered his lower jaw. Mad with
pain and fury, he sprang. The contents of my
second barrel, a heavy charge of slugs, met him

full in the breast, and he fell in a heap at my
As he lay there, struggling and snarling and
tearing up the snow, I slipped in another car-
tridge; and the next moment a bullet in his brain
put an end to his miseries.
"After this performance, I ate my partridges
with a very grateful heart, and slept the sleep of
the just and the victorious. The skin of that
audacious Indian Devil lies now in my study,
where Sam is continually desecrating it with
his irreverent shoes."
A few moments after Stranion had finished
his story, the camp on the Big Squatook was
wrapped in slumber, and the loons out in the
bosom of the moonlit lake were laughing to one
another unheeded.




B l / ^, HE theater was crowded
SII, from the topmost gallery
/ ,I 2 Ato the orchestra chairs.
Out at the entrance was
the legend "Standing-room
only." Warmth and music
and perfume floated out to
the loungers in the vestibule.
I People chatted in the dim
light and commented upon
the new mural decorations, or wondered who
the people in the boxes could be. Presently the
orchestra finished the overture. The "gods"
in the gallery grew impatient and began to call
for the curtain to rise. Better-bred people
wondered what could be the matter, and read
the cast, and all the advertisements, and then
read the cast again. There were on the list names
of men and women famous in their profession;
and, indeed, every name on it except one was
known to the impatient audience. This was a
very short name half-way -down the cast, and it
stood opposite the character Richard, Duke
of York. "Joe Wade," they read,-" Master
Joe Wade," with the thought, "Now, where
did he come from ?" and then they fell to
studying the curtain and the orchestra began
the bars which served as a prelude to the open-
ing of the play.
At this time, behind the scenes everything was
in a state of systematic bustle. Each man or
woman had something to do and was at work.
The only calm figure on the busy scene was
that of Walsh, the stage-manager,-a middle-
aged man with iron-gray hair and mustache.
His face wore a serious look, heightened by the
furrows about the mouth. He sent directions
and commands flying to unseen stage-hands
in the mysterious region below the floor, or in
VOL. XVII.-25. 2

the dimly lighted space above. "Take that
'fly' out of the way!" he shouted to one;
"Hoist up the moon about two feet. Bring an
extra 'tormentor' down left' Get out of the
way, Pie! "-this last to a sharp-featured lad of
sixteen who acted as call-boy. Is everything
ready for the first act ?" Yes," came the
answer. All right! said Walsh; "clear the
stage." And there was a scurrying of feet as all
the stage-hands left the set-scene and huddled
in the wings to watch the opening action, or
went off about their other duties. One man,
watching through a peep-hole in the curtain,
saw the signal from the leader of the orchestra,
and communicated it to the curtain-man by two
sharp strokes on a gong, and sprang off the
stage as the curtain with a steady crackle
rolled itself in ponderous folds into the upper
region. Kings, queens, and lords moved about
through the mimic tragedy. Pie, the call-
boy, hurried to and fro in a state of distrac-
tion. The men would stop to talk and the
women to put the finishing touches to their
"*make-up," and they all seemed to object to
being ordered about by a boy with freckles; but
it was the business of Pie to have every one in
readiness to step upon the stage at the proper
moment. The great tragedian was in excellent
mood, and he limped and frowned through the
part of Richard the Third (for it was Shaks-
pere's tragedy of that name they were repre-
senting) in a truly blood-curdling manner.
He was as wicked and cruel as any one could
wish, and the people applauded him to the
echo. In the midst of this highly successful
act, Pie happened to go to the dressing-room
which was assigned to the two little princes
who had come there to be smothered. The
Prince of Wales was there, in an elegant velvet


suit and in a state of despair. He was the son
of an actor, and had been on the stage ever
since he could tell taffy from peanuts. Even
earlier, in fact, for he had been carried on in his
long clothes and had then caused every woman
in the theater to exclaim, How lovely! This
small gentleman was in a rage truly princely.
"That little dunce, Joe Wade, has n't turned
up," he said. "Now, what am I to do? I
can't go on and speak his lines and mine too,
and I suppose the audience won't be satisfied
with only one prince."
Pie rushed to Mr. Walsh. "Duke of York
is n't here, sir," he cried.
"Not here!" said the stage-manager, in a
tone of dismay. "Let us see,- that is Wade,
is n't it? "
"Yes, sir."
I wonder what can be the matter with him.
He rehearsed this morning letter perfect. Has
n't any word come from his mother? "
"I '11 see, sir," said Pie as he dashed off to
ascertain. The stage-manager stepped quickly
to the dressing-room of the tragedian, where, in
a brief absence from the stage, the cruel Richard
was eating a sandwich with evident relish.
The boy who rehearsed the younger prince
has n't showed up yet," said Walsh.
Oh, come now," said the malignant Gloster.
"That 's too bad. He was a bright lad, 'so
young and yet so subtle.' "
"Can't we cut the Duke of York scene ?"
suggested the stage-manager.
No, sir," retorted the other. Not a line
shall be cut out. Is n't there any one else?"
I can't think of any one else who can do
the part," said the stage-manager.
"I should think you would have an under-
study all coached ready for an emergency like
this," said the actor with considerable spirit. "To
cut that scene will be to spoil the act, and then
we '11 catch it from the critics in the morning."
Well, it 's all we can do to run a theater, let
alone a Foundlings' Home," retorted Walsh.
Pie rushed up in his usual state of breathless-
ness. "There's word come, sir, from Wade."
"Well, what is it? "
"It's his sister, sir. She says he's broke his
"Here 's a pretty mess! Walsh stamped

out to investigate. He found, standing in the
wings, a very chilly little girl, who began talking
fast, as he came up.
"You 're Mr. Walsh, are n't you? Joey's
broken his leg. He fell down the back stairs
just as he was starting to come here. He tried
to come even after that, sir, and wanted to make
Mamma think he could limp all the better on
'countofit. But't was no use. He just couldn't."
Bertha flung out her hands in her earnestness;
then clasped them again. "And he cried so
hard. He said the piece would all be spoiled.
That it was just no good at all if the princes
were n't smothered in the tower and-and what
are you going to do, sir ? "
"Do ? said Mr. Walsh. I 'm in a fix."
"I suppose not another person knows the
words to say," said Bertha; the tears dried up
in her eyes and they shone with excitement.
No," confessed Mr. Walsh, "not a soul."
"You don't think-" the little girl stopped
and trembled, with her cheeks as red as live
coals. Joey '11 just go crazy if all the people
see his name on the bill, and know it was he
that spoiled the play." She choked down a
sob. I could n't help it, sir, I really could n't.
I 've got to do something. I shall have to play
the part myself." She looked like a little general
about to storm a fort.
"Why,-have you ever played it ?"
"Lots of times,- at home with Joey."
"But would n't you be frightened at all the
people when you went on the stage?" The
stage-manager had a gleam of hope in his eye.
I don't think I should. It would be easier
than going home and telling Joey the play was
spoiled. I would n't look at them. I 'd just
act. He says to me, How fares our loving
brother?' and I say, Well, my dread Lord; so
must I call you now.' "
Bless me!-" said Walsh, half to himself.
"She knows the lines."
Oh, yes, sir. I know all the words 'way
down to 'I shall not sleep in quiet at the
Tower.' Then I mock King Richard when he
walks, so." She drew up her arms, made an
imaginary hump and limped along, scowling.
"Then I make a face at him behind his back
and tell him, 'I 'm afraid of my uncle Clar-
ence' angry ghost.'"



"Capital!" said the stage-manager. "I '11
take the risk. I 'm afraid there 's no time to
lose. Here! "-he held out his hand. She took
it, and trotted along, stumbling over the shawl
that was falling from her shoulders. He led
her to the dressing-room of one of the ladies,
to which he presently brought the Duke of
York's costume. He explained the emergency,
and the good-natured actress aided Bertha to
put on the little prince's dress. The next half-
hour passed like a dream.
Mamma and Joey did n't know I was going
to act," she explained to the actress. I 'm
afraid they '11 think something dreadful has
happened to me when they find I don't come
home, but I knew they 'd think I could n't, if
I told them. Are n't these clothes a fine fit?
We 're exactly the same size, Joey and me.
You see it was n't only that Joey could n't bear
to break his promise, but then,"-frowning a
little and looking very serious,- we could n't
afford to lose the money, either. We '11 need it
more than ever, now that Joey's leg is broken."
She sighed, and the tears welled up in her eyes.
The lady put her arm around her and drew her
"Try hard not to be frightened," said she.
" Don't think about the crowd in front, at all."
"No," broke in Bertha, "I '11 just think of
And when you stand still," said the actress,
" stand perfectly still. Don't move your hands
or feet unless you have reason to. Be sure and
look straight at the person you are talking to,
and when you speak, hold up your chin a little
so the sound will go out into the house. It will
be easier to speak in a high tone." She showed
her how, gave a few finishing touches to her
hair,-for they found it prettier than the wig,-
and almost before Bertha knew it, she was on
the stage.
In the mean time, His Royal Highness, the
Prince of Wales, had been in a sad way. "I
hate to act with a girl," he said, and kicked about
his histrionic legs. "She 's a green, too, and
probably does n't know her lines. She 's sure
to spoil my part. I had counted on making a
great hit, but she does n't know anything about
the proper 'business' of the part. These
wretched 'amachures' never do." But the

talented young man was compelled to bow his
head to fate and go on the stage at the proper
Bertha's head swam a little, and the words
the others were speaking sounded far off. She
glanced at the audience. It seemed to rise
from her feet up, up to the very ceiling. Then it
seemed to swell into one immense face with
myriad eyes all looking at her. For one terrible
moment she was tempted to cover her face with
her hands and rush from the stage. Then she
remembered Joey at home crying with pain and
disappointment, and she was recalled to her

. ,

-===--- ----------

senses by the well-remembered words: How
fares our loving brother ? She tried to- speak
as if she always had been a prince and was
quite used to talking in such high-sounding
language. She tried to hate the wicked Rich-
ard, as she had heard her mother tell Joey to
do, and to speak as fiercely and saucily as she
could to him. She pulled at his garments and
mimicked his gait, and screwed up her face in
imitation of his, and tried to speak with great
politeness to the royal prince; and in her heart
all the time whispered "Joey! Joey !" The



' r


house became quieter as she went on; the child
was so intent upon her work. She never faltered
till the last word was spoken, but when she was
safe in the wings again, she began to feel faint
and weak. The speeches on the stage were
lost in a burst of applause that swelled and
swelled until it grew quite deafening.
What is it ? she said, very much frightened,
turning to the Prince of Wales.
The stage-manager came up.

"Well, well," he said, smiling for once that
evening, I believe you '11 have to go back."
"And do it all over again?" said Bertha
aghast. She feared that she had made some
dreadful mistake.
No, no; go on and bow to the audience and
come right back again."
I '11 lead her on," said the Prince of Wales.
"No," said Walsh, "she 'd better go alone."
"Are they pleased, sir ?" asked Bertha as
the applause still continued.
"Well, what a little greenhorn!" ejaculated
the prince. The actress who had dressed her
gently pushed her on the stage again. "I 'm
just cheating," she thought to herself; "they
think it 's Joey."
Bow to them, my dear," said the great tra-

gedian in an undertone. A little girl about her
own age leaned far out of the nearest box and
smiled at her, and flung something that fell just
at Bertha's feet. It was a bunch of beautiful
pink roses. Somebody picked them up and
handed them to her. The audience applauded
more loudly than ever. The child looked so
pretty and small and shy. "These flowers are
for Joey," said Bertha's guilty little heart. She
formed a sudden resolution. She walked straight
down to the footlights,
Holding the beautiful
roses in her hand. The
people were quiet in-
stantly, wondering what
could be coming now.
She held up her chin,
as the actress had told
S her to do, and spoke
high. Please," she said,
"please, you must n't
think I 'm Joey. He 's
broken his leg and could
not come. I 'm only
aI Bertha." Then she grew
terrified at the sound of
her voice, speaking alone
in that great place to so
many people, and, bury-
ing her face in the roses,
ran from the stage in a
N tumult of alarm andtears.
When Bertha was
dressed in her own clothes again and ready to
go home, Richard the Third came to her, all
dressed in his ermine as he was, and took her
in his arms and kissed her. It was something
to remember all her life, if only Bertha had
known it. Then he hurried back to his duty,
leaving something in her hand that Bertha was
then too excited to examine, but which she held.
"I think my carriage has come," said the
actress who played the part of Lady Anne;
"I 'd better send the child home in it."
"You must play Joey's part till he is well
again," said the stage-manager. Bertha nodded.
They asked her where she lived, told the
driver, and Bertha was put in among the warm
cushions of the carriage, and whirled over the
streets toward her home. She sat quite on the



edge of the seat in her trepidation, and held
both hands close shut, one around the roses and
the other around the great man's gift. She was
afraid the driver would make a mistake in the
house, but he found the right one, and when she
was lifted out she flew up the steps like a bird.
The door was open and Mamma was standing
on the threshold, looking very pale and anxious.
Oh, Bertha, where have you been? But
the little daughter's bright face stopped her
with the sentence half spoken.
"Is Joey asleep ? whispered Bertha; and as
the mother shook her head, the little girl could
contain herself no longer. "Joey Joey! she

cried, springing into the room, I played it. I
said all your words, and they thought I was you.
But I told them I was n't. And a little girl
gave me the flowers, and Richard the Third
gave me "-she opened her hand and looked
at the contents. It was a twenty-dollar gold-
piece. It might have been a penny for all
Bertha cared. King Richard is real nice off
the stage, is n't he, Joey? Oh, Mamma! I
hope you were n't very frightened."
"Bertha," said Joey, "you 're a brick! "
"Oh, I 'm so glad you think so! she said.
Two little tears started in her eyes. "Mamma,
I 'm so tired. Won't you put me to bed? "

(Before Christmas.)


ADDY 's lost the job he had a-drivin' on the line,
An' so he 's took to carrying' a advertisin'-sign;
All 'at he 's a-makin' now is fifty cents a day,
BUYYOUR Walkin' up an' down, an' givin' little bills away.

Daddy he tells Mammy 'at it won't be long afore
'N He fin's anudder job at sumpin 'at '11 pay him more;
III Rl mm l An' Bess an' me 's a-hopin' 'at he '11 git it soon, a-cause
It's putty nearly 'bout the time to look fur Santy Klaws!

R I 'm 'mos' eight years old, an' Bess is littler 'an me,
An' Mammy 's been a-promisin' 'at we could have a tree
Big as what the Dolans had las' year on Chrisa-mus,
An' there 's seven little Dolans, an' there 's on'y two of us!

But Mammy now is worried 'bout the rent a-comin' on,
An' we don't drink no more coffee, an' the bag o' flour 's gone;
An' the coal 'at's in the closet is a-gittin' down so fast
We sif's the cinders over twict to try an' make it last.

So it don't much look as if a tree 's a-goin' to be had,
An' we 've stopped a-askin' Mammy 'cause it on'y makes her mad,
An' we both have made it up to stop a-plaguin' Daddy too
Fur centses to buy candy with, jus' like we used to do.

But we keep a-hopin' to oursel's it won't be allus so,
An' a-prayin' an' a-prayin', though we don't let Mammy know,
If there 's a job to spare, 'at Daddy '11 git it right away -
Sumpin' 'at '11 bring him more 'an fifty cents a day !

- /



A WIDE window in my little house lets in a
great many beautiful sights through the day, and
all the year it fills the room with pleasantness.
When the air is a whirling confusion of snow-
flakes, and the birches standing in the midst of
the falling snow can hardly be distinguished
from the flying whiteness, as well as when the
same fairy trees, fluttering their dainty leaves in
imperceptible breezes, quiver in the August
sunshine, there are lovely and satisfying pictures
in that favored room, whether snow-birds flit by,
or robins and song-sparrows.
In early May, the outlines of the trees grow
softer against the sky a grayish mist enfolds
each little branch and twig. The elms and
maples dream of their coming foliage not far
behind such gentle prophecy. Just at sunset,
all over the lawn the fresh young clovers fold
their little green hands, and bow their heads
above them for the quiet night- and then some-
thing interesting happens.
While the sun is still bright, but the shadows,
growing longer, stretch the gables in silhouette
across the meadow, suddenly the air is filled
with a soft flutter of wings, and a sound of twit-
tering falls from the sky. A grand procession
of swallows vibrates above us, sweeping around
in a great circle, so swiftly that our eyes can not
follow the separate flights. Where they came

from we did not notice; but a moment before
the blue sky was clear, and now, looking black
in the sunlight, these busy little visitors float,
sharply outlined, against that airy background.
Around and around they sweep, sometimes in
a solid mass of dark, fluttering wings often
scattered far apart in their invisible, circling
track, but ever around, like forest leaves blown
wildly by November gales. They keep up this
mad whirl for an hour, while the sunlight grows
less and less, and the cool dampness brings out
the sweet odor of fresh grass.
Then Millicent and I sit at the big window,
and watch for what may happen next.
Near us stands an old house with a generous
chimney in the middle, toward which, as a cen-
ter, this swinging circle gradually contracts.
The tremulous flutter above is like the fall of
raindrops; but, while we look, the wings are
frequently spread and fixed, here and there a
little bird floats smoothly around the chimney-
top, only to flutter onward again in a few
seconds still more swiftly, as the wind or the
notion takes him.
Near the end of their sunset flying, often all
the swallows reverse their direction, suddenly
doubling backward, until, with a quick order
out of chaos," the circle is re-formed with every
bird turned the other way.



Having short, stubby tails, they lack the
grace of the beautiful barn-swallows; but our
delight in these fascinating neighbors is not
strictly measured by length of tail.
Finally the circle grows almost confusingly
small; and, as we look, six-eight-ten-four-
teen drop quickly into the, capacious chimney,
while the rest keep on in their dizzy whirl more
madly than before. One or two pretend to go
in, fluttering coquettishly for an instant at the
opening, only to dash off again into the free air
with triumphant energy. A little steadying of
tiny bodies by quivering wings for the descent,
and nine more plunge in, not precisely head-
first, but still in such tumultuous and quick
succession that Millicent wonders how all can
possibly settle comfortably so soon. Then fol-
low six more; those outside still flashing through
their circle as if intoxicated with the joy of
motion. Group after group pitches in, until we
imagine that the whole chimney must be solidly
packed with them; but the numbers above still
fly on, to all appearance undiminished.
Twilight grows deeper; Millicent's brown
eyes are heavy, and she rests her head
against my shoulder as we watch; but she
wishes to wait until the last little swallow shall
be comfortably tucked into his sooty bed before
she goes to her white one.
At last the circling procession is really thin-
ning. We can see that fewer remain outside,
while the in-tumbling groups grow more fre-
Fourteen- eighteen -twenty now dive in at
once. Finally all are safely stowed away but
one, which flies around the house and barns for
several minutes more, as if searching for stray
children needing care.
The sky is almost dark now, but very soon
against the ashes of western brightness this
faithful little guardian flutters above the well-
filled chamber, then, hesitating an instant, peace-
fully drops in, and only the piping of frogs breaks
the silence of the spring evening.

Would it not be entertaining to quietly open
that chimney, as Audubon opened the old syca-
more tree in Kentucky, and see the many little
bodies hanging close together by their claws -
supported as well by their sharp tail-feathers
- upon the black walls?
In former years these swallows always occu-
pied hollow trees and other natural openings,
hanging, as now, methodically side by side. But
they choose, in these days, almost exclusively,
chimneys for their home, building their nests of
twigs cemented by saliva, and raising two broods
of young each season.
Except when it rains, this performance, which
I have described to you, goes on every night.
In rainy evenings we watch for them in vain.
Perhaps they go to bed very early in the after-
noon at all events they have no sunset pa-
rade. But night after night, when the sky is
clear, come the twittering, and the fluttering,
and the sweeping circle with its occasional re-
verse--the tumbling into the chimney in
groups; and finally the lone little sentinel
searching the quiet evening air.
And one season we counted them every
night for three weeks- two of us independ-
ently writing down the number in each group
as it went in. One of us has a mathematical
mind, while the other has not; but, nevertheless,
the two results came out within twenty of each
other every time. And how many do you think
there were? How many little bedfellows
dropped into that old chimney, while a silver-
haired couple sat alone in the quaint cottage
rooms below, listening to the birds' shrill good-
nights ?
"'Leven or seventeen," said a little girl who
had not watched them with us, but who was in-
terested in guessing.
Sixty or eighty," answered an older friend.
There were between eight hundred and
twenty, and eight hundred and forty; and
Audubon tells even more surprising tales of
the number of birds found crowded together.




The shrill wind blew about the house
And through the pines all night :
The snowflakes hiirled across the fields
And hid the fence from sight.

By dawn the drifts had blown so deep
No horse nor sleigh could go:
The dog-house and the chicken-coops
Were buried in the snow.

There was no thought of school that day;
We worked with shovels all,
And cleared a path from house to barn ;
The snow was like a wall .

I wished our house was covered up,
Like that one in the book
My Grandma showed to me one day
Beside the chimney-nook .

The story said the chimney-pot
Just showed above the snow ,
And all day long the lamps were lit
Down in the house below .


TO-DAY in the garden I heard a complaining,
And little tears dripping as if it were raining.
_-, And there sat a Lady-bug
under a leaf,
.i-.: '- With a Spider's-web handker-
chief, sobbing with grief!
I stopped all astonished and
S)'i':k.' asked her, What is it ?"
'i, And she said, Little Allie 's
gone off on a visit
For six weary weeks, and oh! how shall I
bear it!
The sunshine 's not bright without Allie to
share it."

I met an old Crow in the midst of the
He stood on one
.- leg like a sulky
black shadow,
And croaked as
h e stood there,
so solemn and
.Illl t i', i "'fI Allie is gone till
the first of
The Bumble-bee heard it, the foolish old
How Allie was ,
gone for the .
rest of the ._'
"Six weeks with- .- '
out Allie! I '
wish they
were over! -'''- .. "
He boomed ,
out his grief '"' .. t-
in the depths
of the clover.
The Wren wiped his eye with the tip of his
VOL. XVII.-26.

"I 'd rather have six weeks of hard, rainy
weather! "
The Rose in the woods told her buds to stop
"For Allie can't see them and what 's the use
There was also a Firefly, young and romantic,
When he heard she was gone, he was very
near frantic;
A-thinking of
Allie he sat up
all night,
And wept till his
tears nearly "
put out his

A Butterfly, too, withr
some gold o:, his
When he heard diat Alhi
had gone to the springs,
Was cross as a griffin for half of an hour,
And made up a face at a sweet little flower,
A dear little Lily that grew in the valley,
And told it, it was not so pretty as Allie.

Now, there was a green Grasshopper sat in
the stubble,
Sat still there and listened, with long legs bent
And when all the creatures had finished their
She set off a-hopping without ever stumbling;
She left bugs /
and birds, /
bees and, .
blossoms l. I1 'I
behindher, /;l',i,
And cried, as ll;
she van- "
ished, '1 hp tll
"I 'll hop till I find her!"


EARER and clearer than monarch and minister,
Rabble that gabble and hypocrite sinister,
Warriors and sages of far-away ages,
Are the Fools that flit through the historical
They gazed somewhat dazed
through their patches
and powder,
They wondered and blundered and ever '
laughed louder;
S While crown tumbled down, and while '
creed flew to pieces,
-- Their range was the change of their daily '..
While savage did ravage and bigotry tortured,
They rambled or gambled, or planted an orchard.
/They clicked the light heel in the strathspey and reel,
Built castles, held wassails, chased moths, and played tennis;
Broke the lance. for fair France, and went
masked in gay Venice.


SThey spent as they went, and were reckless of
-' Bade defiance to science, and scoffed at the
Had their flings at their kings, and were pert to
the proudest;
Must joke if they spoke, and themselves laughed
the loudest;

Winking and wooing, whatever was doing,
Though storms of reforms and rebellions were brewing.
Talking and mocking the age that they grew in,
They quaffed the gay draught round the red fires of ruin. -
Smiling and sneering, they flit out of hearing, -'
They bow themselves airily out of our pages;
No sound underground of their
jesting and jeering, / .;''"
The dear little Fools of '-
the far-away ages !
._ ,/
S Can marble rest heavy on all that gay bevy,
-' Who parted light-hearted, and knew no returning?
I .1. Are there ghosts full of laughter that haunt the hereafter,
S!'i; Too mocking for bliss, and too merry for burning ?
". Remember-forget them -it never will fret them,
/ 7 iWho gibed at misfortune whenever she met them;
'ri At joust and at revel cast care to the devil,
And lived all their lives on whoever
would let them.

Concede them the meed that is due the departed! ,
Slight thinker, deep drinker, lax friend, and light lover;
A tear not too tender, for they were light-hearted;
A laugh not too loud, for their laughter is over;
A prayer light as air for the dead and gone Fools,
Too light and too slight to be tyrants or tools!
Who with jest and with zest took the world as they found it;
Perhaps they did best just by dancing around it!

y ". ",.
/:' i ""- "',,\

'- .. -

V .

-4- 1d



(BS iZI a a .6 --..

....~..^ ^^.. ': -- ^---


N Servian hearths the Christmas fire
Did slowly molder and expire.
In Servian hearts there glowed a flame
No time shall quench, no tyrants tame.
Through royal Petersburg the Czar
Rode in his slow, triumphal car;
The Christmas bells rang loud and sweet
Before the Liberator's feet.
At Bucharest, where snow lay white
Beneath the friendly veil of night,
Was ushered in, with captive state,
The vanquished of the Czar and fate.
His brow was stern on Plevna's plain
The snow fell fast upon the slain,
The Prophet's standards fled to sea;
Roumania- Servia-they are free!

Roumania's daughter, unaware,
Had caught the glance of stern despair;
She smiled on him with childish grace,
The vanquished tyrant of her race;

[This poem recounts an incident at the time of the Russian victory which liberated Christian Servia and Rou-
mania from Moslem rule. Osman Pasha commanded the Turks in the defense of Plevna during the war between
Russia and Turkey. Though Plevna was taken, he had shown himself so brave and skillful as to win the admi-
ration even of his enemies. While Osman was a prisoner, and on his way through Bucharest, the capital of
Roumania, a little Roumanian girl, touched by his dejected expression, ran forward and placed a flower in the hand
of the defeated general.]

OZ-N p,3h |a
'5Z^l\ Q^ <


For comfort in this bitter hour
She laid within his hand a flower;
The captive's eyes with tears were dim,
He kissed the lips that smiled on him.

Sweet pledge of peace, and debt confessed
Between oppressor and oppressed !
An echo thrilling Moslem pride:
" Good-will to men at Christmas-tide."

The Crescent wanes the Star ascends -
The reign of force and terror ends;
And love hath overcome the sword
Upon the Birthday of the Lord.



-- . -



I THINK I lie by the lingering Nile,
I think I am one that has lain long while,
My lips sealed up in a solemn smile,
In the lazy land of the loitering Nile.
I think I lie in the Pyramid,
And the darkness weighs on the closed eyelid,
And the air is heavy where I am hid,
With the stone on stone of the Pyramid.
I think there are graven godhoods grim,
That look from the walls of my chamber dim,
And the hampered hand and the muffled limb
Lie fixed in the spell of their gazes grim.
I think I lie in a languor vast,
Numb, dumb soul in a body fast,
Waiting long as the world shall last,
Lying cast in a languor vast.
Lying muffled in fold on fold,
With the gum and the gold and the spice enrolled,
And the grain of a year that is old, old, old,
Wound around in the fine-spun fold.
The sunshine of Egypt is on my tomb;
I feel it warming the still, thick gloom,
Warming and waking an old perfume,
Through the carven honors upon my tomb.
The old sunshine of Egypt is on the stone;
And the sands lie red that the wind hath sown,
And the lean, lithe lizard at play alone
Slides like a shadow across the stone.
And I lie with the Pyramid over my head,
I am lying dead, lying long, long dead,
With my days all done, and my words all said,
And the deeds of my days written over my head.

? A*
-r=f~f ~


MANY of our readers will have noticed, in the
volume of ST. NICHOLAS for the past year, sev-
eral poems signed by a new name, that of Helen
Thayer Hutcheson. In the preceding pages
of this number, we print four more by the same
author. The sixteen poems published up to
this date reveal so remarkable a talent, and
show so unusual a range, that we desire to call
the attention of our readers (and especially, per-
haps, that of our older readers) to work, the fine-
ness of which might not receive its due appre-
ciation in the haste of ordinary reading.
These poems were written by a young girl,
whose short life was most uneventful, and
whose experiences were bounded by the small
circle of a quiet home. Verses like "A Christ-
mas Letter," "To-day in the Garden," "A
Wee World of My Own," or "Discovered"
are, perhaps, only the light singing of a happy
heart. But it is singing in perfect harmony with
the tune set by the winds and waters, and the
trill of birds. The Song of the Caged Canary"
shows a more finished art, and is rich with the
warmth of color and sweetness of sound that
fill the land sun-haunted." The Days of the
Daisies," again, fairly dances down the page, in
the airiest, gayest, most fantastical measure, so
that one has but to close one's eyes to see myri-
ads of white and gold heads nodding and sway-
ing to the pipe of the wind, and to smell the
warm earth of the June meadows. The Last
Cricket" is, with its ,playful pathos, a dainty
little bit of melody, still different in character-
istics. But of the poems in this January number
of ST. NICHOLAS, two-"A King in Egypt,"
and "The Fools'Waltz "-are so unusual and of
so high merit, that they are, doubtless, the young
poet's latest and most considered work. Full
of simplicity, truth, and imagination, showing an
increasing mastery of form and a growing sense
of the beauty and capacity of English song, these
poems justify our belief that had Helen Hutch-
eson lived she would have taken acknowledged
rank with the leading poets of the time.
Yet so unconscious of exceptional powers was

she that it seems never to have occurred to her
to print her poems; and it was only after she
had passed beyond the sound of the world's
praise, that the world knew what high praise she
had deserved. After her death the loving friends
who had kept all her manuscripts since her
earliest childhood were persuaded to allow these
poems to be printed; and to meet a natural de-
sire that something might be known of the life
of the young poet, one who dearly cherishes her
memory has kindly furnished the following brief
but sympathetic sketch.-EDITOR ST. NICHOLAS.

NEAR a pretty village of the West, on a gentle
slope overlooking a river where sparkling waters
shimmer through the foliage of over-arching
trees, stands a many-gabled cottage the
birthplace and early home of Helen Thayer.
Lovely scenery, groves full of wild birds,
gardens, domestic pets, story-books, and loving
parents formed a happy little world in which
her young spirit, like a tender bud, began a
growth that afterward blossomed into rare
sweetness and beauty.
In her early childhood, with her fairy-like
form, golden-brown curls, and delicate face
brimming with life and intelligence, she seemed
some ethereal being from a brighter realm.
Before the pleasant paths of learning opened
to her, she amused herself as an only child
may who is left much to its own resources.
She added to her play-houses whole menager-
ies of animals which she cut out of card-paper;
dressed up her kittens like little old ladies;
taught pet grasshoppers to walk a tight rope
stretched above the window sill; and rocked
her dolls to lullabies of her own composing.
She was, in truth, a little improvisatrice, and
often walked the floor chanting original stories
in verse, unheard and unnoticed, as she
A few years later, her surroundings had
changed, and she was far away from the cot-
tage where she was born. In her new home
in the environs of Washington, her young soul


continually grew in the love of the good, the
true, and the beautiful. She was always the
brave champion of the weak and oppressed;
ready to bestow her dearest possession on any
child less fortunate than herself, and tenderly
humane toward every helpless, suffering thing,
bird, beast, or insect. With an artist's hand
and a poet's soul, amid ordinary childish em-
ployments, every day brought forth some new

I ,
,,A ,

device or fancy, in picture or verse. Logical
withal, and possessing a rare gift of language,
she often amused and interested her elders
with her apt reasoning on the more serious
questions of life.
Her parents, finding the excitement of school
life injurious, decided that most of her educa-
tion must be carried on under the home roof--
especially as the national capital with its vast
library and other public institutions furnished
unusual facilities for self-culture.
Living very much in the seclusion of her
suburban home, close to the wild-wood, ram-
bling or driving over hill and dale, peering into
hidden nooks, and learning the sweet secrets

of nature, it is not strange that she found that
"Wee World" of her own, or discovered the
"pale-tinted blossoms that nobody knew, saving
the wind and the sun and the dew."
Many poems written between the ages of ten
and fifteen show that life passed happily, rich
in bright fancies, and pleasantly divided between
study and recreation.
Helen Thayer composed verses almost from
her babyhood, making them up," indeed, before
her small hands had learned how to write down
the pleasant fancies that came into the little
curly head. Even these childish verses showed
how full of sunshine was her life and how much
she lived in a land of her own fancies. But by
the time she was twelve, her poetry began to
indicate that it was the work of a true poet.
For a poet is a maker of beautiful realities in
the world of imagination, which prosaic people
would never be able to see for themselves, but
which they are glad of, and much the richer for,
when the poet has presented them.
Soon came high and pure friendships to en-
large and brighten her young world; especially
the love of one whom she delighted to call
"sister," and whose charming little family was
the source of many an inspiration. To see her
the center of that lovely group with her slight
figure, fair young face, and shining hair--her
fingers deftly weaving "daisy chains" or trac-
ing humorous sketches--her young auditors
entranced with the words that fell from her
lips was to see a picture not easily forgotten.
A young friend, pure and sweet like herself,
speaks of her as "one who lived among the
flowers of the wild-wood, one with them, in-
terpreting their beauty and sweetness into pic-
tures and language traces," she adds, of the
sojourning among us of a fair spirit passed for-
ever beyond the perishable."
She died at the early age of twenty-six. And
her sweet life brightened to its close, for the halo
of a love rare and tender, doing homage to her
womanhood, tinged all her sky with rose color,
which never darkened, but merged into the
light of Heaven, whose glory she entered on the
morning of April 29, 1886.





THE sovereign relations between empires of
the past led to the early recognition of certain
general rules of right which have come down to
the nations of to-day with the supreme force
and dignity of established public law. The
authority of every government is absolute
within its own dominions, and as far as a can-
non-shot from shore. The ocean is free to all.
Our rights at home and on the high seas rest
not upon mere international courtesy and con-
sent, but upon principles of natural reason,
sanctioned by centuries of observance. The
privileges enjoyed by the United States beyond
the seas, and accorded to its citizens sojourning
in foreign lands,- like those extended by us, in
turn, to other powers,- are such as belong to
every people under the same unwritten Law of
Nations," or as are expressly secured by written
covenants between our Government and the
governments concerned.
To the Federal Power, as remarked in the
first chapter of this series, has been confided the
exclusive care and conduct of these foreign in-
terests. In their domestic relations, and within
the limits of the Constitution, the States of the

Union may deal directly, through their execu-
tives or other officers, with one another; but
they have no standing, as independent sover-
eignties, before the nations of the earth. In
matters international, their political influence is
unknown; the authority of the Republic has
then full sway.f An American abroad flour-
ishes his passport as a citizen of the United
Following time-honored and universal fashion,
we have, located in various parts of the world,
numerous agents who, under the direction of the
Secretary of State, keep watch on foreign matters
of interest to our people-nearly all of the foreign
powers thus recognized reciprocating by send-
ing to the United States (as, also, to other coun-
tries with whom they have commercial and
political intercourse) similar representatives for
like purposes. These agents are divided into
two branches,- the diplomatic service and the
consular service,- each with distinct functions.
The diplomatic agents reside at the capitals of
nations and constitute "embassies," or "lega-
tions "; the various embassies, or legations, of
different states collected at any capital constitut-
ing the Diplomatic Corps" at that place.
They are missionaries from state to state. They
represent their respective countries as political
sovereignties, and carry to their posts their

For the sixth paper of this series (which dealt with the organization of the State Department), see ST. NICHOLAS
for April, 1889.
t "No State shall enter into any treaty, alliance, or confederation "; and, "No State shall, without the consent
of the Congress enter into any agreement or compact with another State or with a foreign power, or engage
in war, unless actually invaded, or in such imminent danger as will not admit of delays."- (Constitution, Article
I., Section X.) This distinction between State and Federal authority is illustrated in the matter of fugitives from
justice. "A person charged in any State with treason, felony, or other crime, who shall flee from justice and be
found in another State, shall, on demand of the executive authority of the State from which he fled, be delivered
up, to be removed to the State having jurisdiction of the crime."-(Constitution, Article IV., Section II.) In such a
case, the demand is made directly by the authorities of one State upon the authorities of the other. But where a
person fleeing from the vengeance of a State takes refuge in a foreign country, the State appeals to the State De-
partment of the United States, which thereupon makes demand for the surrender of the fugitive. These matters
are provided for in what are known as our extradition treaties with other nations,which vary as to the classes of
crimes for which persons may be extradited; although, in certain instances, from sentiments of international comity,
fugitives have been surrendered by foreign governments, upon our demand, in the absence of any treaty provision
covering the particular cases.
VOL. XVII.-27. 233


national credentials, or "letters of credence,"
certifying to their official character, and re-
questing that full faith and credit be given to
their words when speaking for the government
they represent. They hold direct communica-
tion with the government to which they are
accredited, and it is their office to cultivate in-
ternational friendship, to negotiate treaties, and
to adjust international disputes that may arise.
The consular officers, on the other hand, are
stationed at numerous ports and other business
centers abroad, and have no official dealings (ex-
cept in special circumstances) with the sovereign
power of the country wherein they reside. They
represent their countrymen regarded as individ-
uals and not as a political sovereignty,--looking
after commercial interests and individual rights
and leaving to the diplomatic agents of their
government all questions of state.
Under rules formally agreed upon by the
powers of Europe, at the International Con-
gresses of Vienna and Aix la Chapelle (held in the
early part of the present century), and adopted
by the Government of the United States, diplo-
matic agents are divided into four classes: (i)
ambassadors, legates, or nuncios; (2) envoys,
ministers, or other persons accredited to sov-
ereigns; (3) ministers resident; and (4) charges
d'affaires accredited to ministers for foreign
affairs. Ambassadors, legates, and nuncios
possess what is styled the "representative"
character. They are supposed to represent the
person of the prince by whom they are sent,
and as such to be entitled to hold direct per-
sonal audience with the sovereign to whom they
are accredited. Our Government neither sends
nor receives diplomats of this grade. Legates
and nuncios represent the Pope, with whom we
have no political relations, and who therefore
has no agent at Washington; and as we have
not seen fit to attach the title of ambassador to
any of the representatives sent out by us, we
have been honored with no ambassadors from
other states. In point of fact, this representa-
tive distinction is of little practical value so far
as it confers the privilege of direct approach to
the throne, for diplomatic business is transacted
nowadays through the Foreign Office of every
leading government and not through personal
audiences with the sovereign head. Still, it

humors the vanity of a diplomat to be called
ambassador; the title gives him precedence on
ceremonial occasions, and at some capitals it
gives him precedence in securing audience with
the minister for foreign affairs. The United
States, in its treatment of the Diplomatic Corps
at Washington, disregards the question of title
in matters of business. The ministers take rank
in the diplomatic body according to the order
in which they arrive at the Seat of Govern-
ment and present their credentials, and as to
interviews with the Secretary of State they
are admitted to the audience-room in the
order in which they reach the Department and
present their cards on "Diplomatic Day." A
similar rule as to audiences is recognized at St.
Petersburg, Berlin, and elsewhere, but the fact
that it is not universally observed places our
representatives occasionally at a disadvantage.
In some countries a minister of the United
States may wait for hours in the anteroom of the
Foreign Office to gain an interview on some
state matter of the liveliest importance; and at
the very last moment, when those outranking
him in title have come and gone and he is about
to take his turn, the representative of some insig-
nificant Asiatic power, who has just arrived with
no other object perhaps than to exchange a few
idle words with the minister for foreign affairs,
goes in ahead, simply because he is styled
"ambassador," and the representative of the
great American Republic may have the door of
the audience-room closed in his face for the day.
This consideration has been the strong plea of
those who urge that our diplomatic representa-
tives to the great powers should be given loftier
titles, to put them on a business equality with
other legations at the same courts.
Our diplomatic service to-day, numbering
upward of sixty men (not counting ordinary em-
ployees in the service of legations), consists of en-
voys extraordinary and ministers plenipotentiary
(a compound title), ministers resident, charges
d'affaires, secretaries of legation, and inter-
preters; with now and then an officer detailed
from the War or Navy Department and attached
to a legation as military or naval attache,
for the purpose of studying and reporting to
this Government the military movements of
foreign powers. It also includes a diplomatic


agent at Cairo, with the title of "agent and
consul-general." The position of Egypt as a
semi-independent power prevents us from estab-
lishing a legation there; but as we have diplo-
matic relations with that country to a limited
extent, we employ the term agent" for what-
ever it may be worth; it is not recognized in
European diplomacy. A representative to an
independent sovereignty should have a title
known to the rules laid down at the Congresses
of Vienna and Aix la Chapelle.
It is the privilege of every government to
decide for itself in fixing the grade of its
representatives regardless of the importance
or unimportance of the mission, but ordinary
courtesy would prevent us from sending an
ambassador to Seoul and only a charge d'affaires
to Berlin. Among the great powers com-
pliments are even. They give what they are
given in the way of chief diplomatic officers.
Small powers, while equal to the mightiest in
point of law, are not so fastidious. The head
of our legation at Berlin is an envoy extraor-
dinary and minister plenipotentiary; the chief
representative of Germany, at Washington, is
also an envoy extraordinary and minister
plenipotentiary. We send to Seoul a minister
resident and consul-general; Corea, however,
outdoes us in style by sending to Washington
a representative of the second grade.
At Berlin we have, besides an envoy extraor-
dinary and minister plenipotentiary, a secre-
tary of legation, and a second secretary of
legation; the same is true of our legations at
London, Paris, Peking, and Tokei, the last two
posts being further re-enforced by an interpreter
each. At each of the several posts of St.
Petersburg, Vienna, Madrid, Constantinople,
Buenos Ayres, Rome, Mexico, Rio de Janeiro,
Lima, Bogota, Santiago, and Caracas, we are
represented by an envoy extraordinary and min-
ister plenipotentiary and a secretary of lega-
tion; the legation at Constantinople having
also an interpreter.
The Chinese legation at Washington embraces
an envoy extraordinary and minister plenipoten-
tiary, a "first secretary," two "secretaries," an

"American secretary," two "translators and
attaches," six attachess," and two "military
attach6s,"--the minister being accredited to
Spain and to Peru as well as to the United
States. Japan is represented there by an envoy
extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary, a sec-
retary, counselor, attach, naval attach, and
Besides envoys extraordinary and ministers
plenipotentiary, and one or more secretaries
each, Spain has two civil attaches, Russia a
technical attach, Great Britain a civil attach
and a naval attach, and Germany a chancellor
and assistant chancellor. Turkey has an envoy
extraordinary and minister plenipotentiary, and a
secretary of legation; and (passing the represen-
tatives of other countries without comment)
even Corea, as above noted, sends a complete
force headed by a minister of high rank-an
envoy extraordinary and minister plenipoten-
tiary, known on the register of the State Depart-
ment as Pak Chung Yang; a "second secretary,"
now acting as charge d'affaires ad interim," Mr.
Ye Ha Yung; another "second secretary," Mr.
Ye Sang Jay; an attachh6" Mr. Kang Chin
He, and a "foreign secretary."
The consular service of the United States
numbers upward of a thousand men, classified
as agents and consuls-general, consuls-general,
vice-consuls-general, deputy consuls-general,
consuls, vice-consuls, deputy consuls, commer-
cial agents, vice-commercial agents, deputy
commercial agents, consular agents, consular
clerks, interpreters, marshals, and clerks at con-
sulates;* Consuls-general, consuls, and com-
mercial agents are full, principal, and permanent
consular officers (the title of commercial agent
being peculiar to our system), as distinguished
from deputy consuls and consular agents, who
are subordinate officers, and vice-consuls and
vice-commercial agents, who are consular offi-
cers substituted temporarily to fill the places of
consuls-general, consuls, or commercial agents
during the absence of their principals. A
consul-general is charged with the ordinary
duties of a consul within the limits of his dis-
trict, and with the supervision of the consulates

In addition to these, there are guards, prison-keepers, and minor employees. The term "consular officer,"
as used by Congress, includes "consuls-general, consuls, commercial agents, deputy consuls, vice-consuls, vice-
commercial agents, and consular agents, and none others."


and commercial agencies subordinate to him,
so far as that supervision can be exercised
by correspondence. At present, we have con-
sulates-general at Apia, Athens, Bangkok, Bel-
grade, Berlin, Berne, Bogota, Bucharest, Cairo,
Calcutta, Constantinople, Copenhagen, Frank-
fort-on-the-Main, Guatemala, Guayaquil, Hali-
fax, Havana, Honolulu, Kanagawa, La Paz,
Lisbon, London, Matamoros, Melbourne, Mex-
ico, Monrovia, Montreal, Ottawa, Panama,
Paris, Port-au-Prince, Rio de Janeiro, Rome,
Seoul, Shanghai, Saint Petersburg, Teheran, and
Vienna. But to locate all the other posts in
our consular system would be to send my read-
ers on a geographical hunt through the four
quarters of the globe. We have a consul at
Liverpool and another at Hong-Kong; consuls
at Belfast, Havre, Antwerp, Bremen, Munich,
Trieste, and Bagdad,- others at Rosario, Co-
quimbo, Helsingf6rs, Muscat, Gor6e-Dakar, Pa-
ramaribo, Tegucigalpa, and Padang. We have
commercial agents at Castelamare, Reichenberg,
and Butaritari, and also at Levuka, Boma, and
Gaboon. We have consular agents at Alexan-
dretta, Moulmein, Pago-pago, Arica, and Fiume,
at Dyrefjord and at Pugwash, at Lanzarote,
Laraiche, Terceira, Latakia, Acajutla, and Wau-
baushene, at Akyab, Mansourah, Ritzebiittel,
Hodeida, Corcubion, Bucaramanga, Bani-saf,
Saffi, Scerabaya, and Tai-wanfoo, to say noth-
ing of such places as Assioot, Bassein, Iloilo,
Llanelly, Rostoff, Majonga, Richibucto, and
Great Britain has a consul-general residing
at New York, and consuls, vice-consuls, and
other consular officers at New York, Baltimore,
New Orleans, Boston, San Francisco, Galveston,
Richmond, Eastport, Chicago, St. Paul, Eureka,
Denver, San Diego, Mobile, and other places
within the United States. And at the same or
different American ports and inland cities, we
find consular officials of varying grades, in the
service of France, Germany, Russia, Turkey,
China, and other powers, including a consul-
general of the Orange Free States stationed at

Philadelphia and a consul of the principality of
Monaco located at New York.
Without attempting to go over, by name, the
various countries with whom we exchange diplo-
matic or consular officers, it may be said, gener-
ally, that the interests of the people of the United
States, as a political sovereignty and as individ-
uals, are represented, in one way or the other, at
all the principal capitals and trade centers of the
world, and that all the principal foreign states,
civilized, half-civilized, and barbaric, are repre-
sented here. The exchange, however, is not
entirely uniform or reciprocal. We send, for
instance, no diplomatic agent to the Barbary
States; but our rights are guarded by a consul
and a vice-consul at Tangiers, and by seven con-
sular agents at seven other towns within that
region. The Barbary States, on the other hand,
are not represented in the United States; the
same is true of Madagascar, to whom we send
several consular officials, and of Egypt and Rou-
mania, to whom we send both diplomatic and
consular representatives. Bolivia, Honduras,
Liberia, Paraguay, Salvador, Santo Domingo,
Servia, Siam, and Uruguay have only consular
officials in the United States, whereas we have
both classes of representatives within those
realms. But these and other discrepancies may
be accounted for by the special political or busi-
ness relations of the countries involved. Canada,
of course, like other provinces of Great Britain,
looks to the Imperial Government for the pro-
tection of her interests here; and while our
consular service stretches through British Amer-
ica, and British India, and Australia, and through
other parts of Britain's vast dependencies and
possessions, in the negotiation of treaties or set-
tlement of international conflicts relating to any
of those lands the diplomatic authorities at
Washington and London, representing the two
high sovereign states, alone have power to act.
And so in our intercourse with other communi-
ties and dominions, save where treaty provisions
or exceptional conditions may modify the gen-
eral rule.

( To be continued.)



By W. T. BULL.

LTHOUGH numerous arti-
cles have been written on the
A il game of foot-ball, as played
at our colleges at the present
\ III time, the subject has invari-
ably been treated generally,
and no one particular feature,
important as it may be, has ever been accorded
any special attention.
The drop-kick is, of all the different features,
by far the most important and telling factor,
when employed by an experienced player; but
when attempted by a novice, it becomes at
once dangerous and demoralizing to the rest of
the players, to the rush line in particular.
The instances on record are numerous where
the drop-kick has saved the day, or, at least,
contributed largely to victory. What better
proof of the above assertion could be had than
the story of the Yale-Harvard game played in
i880 at Cambridge? The score was a tie,
neither side having been able to secure the lead,
when, at the close of the last half, just a moment
before time was called, Mr. Camp secured a goal
from the field by means of the drop-kick. Will
the Yale team of '87 ever forget the assurance
and general We-have-got-the-game-sure man-
ner of the Harvard team as they disported
themselves on the eve of the great battle ? Can
they ever recall without shuddering how the
Harvard men came on the field that day, and,
with a manner confident in the extreme, forced
the Yale team into their own territory and in
close proximity to their goal ? But how quickly
was the tide of battle changed, and this same
spirit of confidence broken, when a goal from
the field placed Yale in the lead by 5 points!
Harvard made but one rally after that, and the
effort was vain.
Other instances might be cited, as, for ex-
ample, when, in '84, Moffatt, of Princeton, kicked
a goal from nearly the center of the field, but

they would be mere repetitions, and it is inter-
esting to inquire more particularly into this most
efficient factor.
In the first place, what is a drop-kick ? The
person making the try, drops the ball and kicks
it after, or at the very instant, it strikes the
ground. Simple as it seems, few people out-
side of immediate college circles could explain
it understandingly. This unfamiliarity with so
elementary a point is surprising in view of the
fact that foot-ball has become one of the most
popular of American games.
There are various ways of making the kick,
but they vary essentially in two particulars only:
the part of the foot used in kicking, and the


I- -_ a --

position which the ball is made to assume on
striking the ground. Of these different ways,
three have been chosen as having proved emi-


nently successful in championship games, and,
as able exponents of each, might be cited,
Camp of Yale, Moffatt of Princeton, and Wat-
kinson, now deceased, who was one of Yale's
famous players.
Camp's style of kick, as illustrated in Fig. i,
taken just before the ball is dropped, was to
hold the ball in the right hand, turn his left side
toward the goal, and, with a side swing of the
right foot, plant the toe on the middle seam of
the ball directly below the lacings. This style
of kick has its advantages in that a greater
swing of the leg can be attained, thus adding
greater force; but the mere fact of his holding
the ball in one hand clearly shows, that, to be-
come accurate in this style, one would have to

devote more time and practice to this than to
the others, where the left hand aids to keep the
ball in the proper position.
Moffatt held the ball in two hands in front

of him, faced the goal, and dropped the ball
with the upper end canted toward him at an
angle, varying with the distance he intended
to cover. (Fig. 2.) This style is both sure and
quick, and differs from Watkinson's style in one
point only-the ball as held by the latter being
canted in exactly the opposite direction, and
pointed directly for the goal.
Watkinson's style, being much more familiar
to me, will be explained more in detail. The
ball is held in the fingers and thumb (both
extended) of the right hand,-as in Fig. 3,-
the left hand being placed on the upper and
left side of the ball. The ball being thus held,
the arms are extended forward and downward,
while the ball is pointed, or sighted as it were,
by the left hand. At the same time the trunk
of the body is bent slightly forward, and the
left leg is planted a little in advance of the
right, so that it sustains, to a great extent; the
weight of the body. The ball is then dropped,
and at the same instant the right leg is drawn
back, poised for one instant in the air, and then
brought with a steady swing forcibly forward,
meeting the ball at the moment it touches the
ground, the trunk of the body at the same time
being thrown back, turning on the hips, thus
adding greater force to the kick.
An example of kicking the ball with the side
of the foot is best illustrated by citing Terry of
Yale, who has a very novel way, quite his own,
that he has employed with success, when very
near the goal, about on the ten-yard line for
example. He takes a position, as in Fig. 4,
has the ball passed very low, receives it in his
hands, arms extended forward at full length,
and with a shoveling motion of the right foot,
which scrapes along the ground, he scoops up
(not kicks) the ball with the side of his foot.
A cool head, quickness in kicking the ball,
and dodging an opponent before kicking are
indispensable adjuncts to success. It is easy
to see, that for a man to stand facing eleven
opponents not twenty yards away, upon whose
faces are clearly portrayed a dogged determina-
tion either to block the ball or upset him,
must require a cool head and the power to con-
centrate all his thoughts and energies on the
ball about to be put in play. He can not do
two things at the same time. Watching the



ball and the men too, generally results in an
ignominious muff,-a most dangerous accident,
for, with only one man to back him up, prac-
tically a clear field is left for the opposing side to


score a brilliant run. The necessity of quick-
ness in kicking is aptly illustrated in the case of
a certain noted player. Probably there are few,
if any, players in the country, at the present
time, who would compare favorably with him
in a contest for accuracy and long-distance
kicking; with, however, the proviso that an
indefinite amount of time be allowed in which
to kick the ball. But, in a game, this remark-
able aptitude comes to naught; and, without
disparagement to him, his non-success in games
should be attributed not to inability or igno-
rance, but to that most unfortunate of habits
into which players fall in practice,- taking
their time about kicking the ball. Surely, if a
man accustoms himself in daily practice to take
plenty of time to direct the ball, arrange or plant
himself, and watch his opponents at the same
time, he can not expect to go into a game and
do exactly the opposite and still hope for suc-
cess. Either his kick will be blocked, or the
ball will go wide of the mark. This bad habit
of taking so much unnecessary time also dead-

ens a man's natural ability to dodge. It very
often happens that his opponents reach him
just about the time the ball does, so that it is
quite necessary, before making the try, to dodge
one or more of them. This dodging before
kicking, of course, makes the kick more uncer-
tain. Yet a reasonable amount of accuracy
may be acquired by constant practice.
A player, who tries for goals from the field,
should combine three essential qualities: good
judgment as to the right time to kick and the
distance to be covered, quickness in getting
the ball away after it has been received from
the quarter-back, and, finally, ability to dodge
an opponent before making the try. This last
point is quite necessary to success, for an oppo-
nent is pretty sure to get through, on one side
or the other, to intercept the kick. Therefore,
it is important, in practicing the drop-kick, to
have a man stand in front of the kicker, and,
as the kick is made, block it if possible. Within
the twenty-five-yard line where, in the man's
judgment, a try for goal would be the right play,
it is well to give the signal immediately after the
second down, and in two cases out of three,
unless the signal be known, the opponents will

I ''v\

be taken unawares, will not be prepared for such
a play, and consequently will not be in a posi-
tion to prevent it. Thus the kicker has a free
field, and generally can take plenty of time to



assure the proper accuracy and success of the
kick. It is much the safer way to catch the ball
in the' arms, rather than in the hands, unless
one has, by constant practice, acquired the lat-
ter method. Undoubtedly, from a scientific
standpoint, the latter is the better way, because
time is saved by it; a most important advantage,
for a ball received in the hands may be dropped
immediately, but, being caught in the arms,
must be transferred to the hands first. Begin-
ners, therefore, would do well to learn to catch
in the hands. A very common mistake made
by players, who receive the ball directly in the
hands, is to shift their hands, and the ball too,
in the endeavor to get it in the proper position
for dropping. All this shifting is unnecessary,
and wastes valuable time, so that.in two cases out
of three the outcome is that the ball is blocked.
A simple movement of the arms alone, and a
gentle turn of the ball in the right direction, as
it is dropped, is all that is required, and not an
instant of time is wasted. One great secret of
success is to drop the ball in exactly the posi-
tion in which it is held by the hands. Both
hands should be taken from the ball at the same
time, for one can easily see that if either were
taken off first the ball would be likely to tip to
one side and thus destroy the aim. The ball
should be kicked the instant it touches the
ground without waiting till it is in the air,
otherwise much of the force of the kick will be
By constant practice every man should be-
come able to use the left foot as well as the
right. Especially is ability to kick with either
foot necessary when very near the goal. Such
an attainment not only saves time by allowing the
use of the left foot for kicks on the left of the goal,
and vice versa, but it bothers the opponents.
For example, a right tackle breaks through,
and makes directly for the kicker. In this case
the use of the right foot enables a man to kick
without moving from his position, providing the
ball comes all right and in time; but in the use
of the left foot, there is a possibility of kicking

directly into the tackle. Thus a man who
could use only his left foot would be forced to
dodge the tackle first, and thus in a measure
lose the accuracy of his aim, as well as valu-
able time.
The kicker should be the man to give the
signal for the drop, and he should be careful
to give it before the team has lined-up, thus
affording each man plenty of time to think about
his special line of action, and enabling him to
act upon that line promptly. For example,
suppose the right half-back is to give the sig-
nal. In this case, the back takes a position a
little in the rear and to one side of him for the
purpose of dropping on the ball, should the pass
be a bad one, or be muffed, or the ball be kicked
into an opponent. The left half-back goes up
into the rush line, and generally takes, as the
man for him to block, an opposing half-back,
or the quarter-back; the quarter-back, after
'passing the ball, takes the first man he sees
who has no one to oppose him. Generally this
man will be one of the backs, or the quarter-
back. But these different positions should never
be taken until the ball is snapped by the center,
otherwise the opponents will surely anticipate
the play about to be attempted, and probably
spoil it.
It should not be supposed for a moment,
however, that just because the signal for a kick
has been given, a man is in duty bound to make
the try, for oftentimes a rare opportunity will
offer itself for a run around the ends. Then,
too, the ball may core badly, the opponents be
too close, or a dozen other contingencies arise,
which forbid the kick. It is the ability to judge
of all these circumstances that makes the suc-
cessful kicker, and the indifference to them the
unsuccessful one.
A man, then, who devotes his time and atten-
tion to the thorough mastery of drop-kicking,
becomes not only a sought-after player, but also
one who, more frequently than any other, has
at his very feet the opportunity of securing
victory for his side.







IF there be anything that might make a
momentary ripple upon the steady, resistless
stream of New York life it should certainly be
one of these foot-ball games. While there are
plenty of base-ball enthusiasts, they possess their
souls and their enthusiasm in patience before
they reach, and after they leave, the grounds.
But the collegian has no sense of repression,
and his enthusiasm annually stirs up the sober,
sedate dignity of Fifth Avenue from the Bruns-
wick to the Park. A few years ago the wise-
acres said: No one will come to a game on
Thanksgiving Day. New Yorkers will never
give up their annual dinner for anything under
the sun." At the latest game played on that day
fifteen thousand people postponed their annual
dinner to see the Yale-Harvard match. Perhaps
nothing will better illustrate the pitch to which
the interest has attained than to take the ride
to the grounds, first with the spectators then
with the team. Coaches have been bringing
as high as a hundred and twenty-five dollars
apiece for the day, and even at that price are
VOL. XVII.-28. 24

engaged weeks before the contest. Stages are
resorted to. The old 'bus appears in rejuven-
ated habiliments, bedecked with great streamers
of partisan colors, and freighted with the eager
sympathizers of the red or the blue. Long
before noon, tally-hos draw up before the up-
town hotels and are soon bearing jolly parties
out to the grounds, in order to make sure of
a place close to the ropes. The corridors of
the Fifth Avenue, Hoffman, and Windsor have
for twelve hours been crowded by college boys
eagerly discussing the prospects of the rival
teams. Any word from the fortunate ones who
are permitted to visit the teams is seized and
passed from mouth to mouth as eagerly as
if upon the outcome of the match hung the
fate of nations. The condition of Jones's ankle
is fraught with the utmost interest, and all the
boys heave sighs of relief at hearing that he will
be able to play.
Having talked over the state of affairs all the
evening, and until noon of the momentous day,
each boy is thoroughly primed to tell his sister


(and particularly his chum's sister) all about
every individual member of his own team, as
well as to throw in the latest gossip concerning
the opponents. He is frequently interrupted
in this conversation held on the top of the
coach, by the necessity of stopping to cheer
some house where his colors are displayed in
the windows, or to salute some passing tally-ho
from which the similarly colored ribbons dangle
and banners wave.
Arrived on the grounds, the coaches are

Having followed the spectators out, and seen
them safely and advantageously placed, let us
ride back and return with one of the teams. We
find the men (who have been confined all the
morning between four walls in order to prevent
their talking over the chances, and thus becom-
ing anxious and excited) just finishing their
luncheon. They eat but little, as, in spite of their
assumed coolness, there is no player who is not
more or less nervous over the result. Hurriedly
leaving the table, they go to their rooms and put

3, r --r' t- ", :T'J -

T I -t --. .. .

S, .

drawn up in line, and while anxiously awaiting on their uniforms. One after another they
the advent of the two teams, the appearance assemble in the Captain's room, and, if one
of each crimson or blue flag becomes an excuse might judge from the appearances of their can-
for another three times three. And how smartly vas jackets and begrimed trousers, they are
the boys execute their cheers! The Yale cry not a set of men to fear a few tumbles. Finally
is sharper and more aggressive, but the Harvard they all have appeared, the last stragglers still
boys get more force and volume into theirs, engaged in lacing up their jackets. The Cap-
The fair faces of the girls are as flushed with tain then says a few words of caution or encour-
excitement as are those of the men, and their agement to them, as he thinks best. He is evi-
hearts no less in the cheering. dently in dead earnest, and so are they, for you


might hear a pin drop as he talks in a low voice
of the necessity of each man's rendering a good
account of himself. Thoughtfully they file out of
the room, troop down the stairs, and out through
the side entrance where the coach is waiting
for them. Then the drive to the grounds,-
very different from the noisy, boisterous one
we have just taken with the admirers of these
same men. Hardly a word is spoken after
the first few moments, and one fairly feels the
atmosphere of determination settling down upon
them as they bowl along through the Park.
Every man has his own thoughts and keeps
them to himself, for they have long ago dis-
cussed their rivals, and each man has mentally
made a comparison between himself and the
man he is to face, until there is little left to
say. Now they leave the Park and rumble up
to the big north gate of the Polo Grounds. As
they crawl leisurely through the press of car-
riages, everything makes way for them, and the
people in line for tickets stare at the coach for a
glimpse of the players. They are soon in, and
jumping out at the dressing-rooms, run in and
throw off outside coats, still keeping on the
heavy sweaters. Now comes a slight uneasy
delay, as it is not yet quite time to go out on
the field lest their rivals keep them waiting there
too long in the chill air. This is in truth the
mauvais quart d'heuire of the foot-ball player,
for the men's nerves are strung to a high pitch.
Perhaps some one begins to discuss a play or the
signals, and in a few minutes the players are in
a fair way to become thoroughly mixed, when
the Captain utters a brief but expressive, Shut
up there, will you ?" and growls out something
about all knowing the signals well enough if
they '11 quit discussing them. A short silence
follows, and then they receive the word to come
out. As they approach the great black mass
of people and carriages surrounding the ground,
they feel the pleasant stimulus of the crisp fresh
air, and their hearts begin to swell within them
as they really scent the battle. Just as they
break through the crowd into the open field, a
tremendous cheer goes up from the throats of
their friends, and the eager desire seizes them
to dash in and perform some unusual deed of
skill and strength.
The Polo Grounds have fallen before the

advance of city streets. That old inclosure, the
scene of some most exciting college contests,
will never again resound with the mad cheer
of enthusiastic spectators, but there will be
handed down to boys coming after, the mem-
ory and story of some grand old games, and
there will always be a touch in common among
the old players who saw service on those


THE old-fashioned woolen jersey has given
place, in great measure, to the less comfortable
but more serviceable canvas jacket. This
change was first made by a team of Trinity
College, of Hartford. There had been a few
rumors afloat to the effect that there was a new
foot-ball garment, made of canvas, which ren-
dered it almost impossible to catch or hold the
wearer. No one at the other colleges had paid
much attention to
this report, and it
was not until the
Trinity team stepped
out of their dressing-
rooms at Hamilton
Park that the Yale -
men first saw the
new canvas jackets.
Strange enough they
appeared in those
early days, too, as
the Trinity eleven
marched out on the
field in their white
jackets laced up in
front. It gave them
quite a military air,
for the jackets were -I
cut in the bobtail '
fashion ofthe cadets.
looked contemptuously down upon the innova-
tion upon the regulation jersey, and it was not
until they had played for nearly half an hour, and
had had many Trinity players slip easily through
their fingers, that they were ready to admit that
there was some virtue in the jacket. The Trin-
ity men, bound to give the new costume a fair


trial, had brought some grease out with them,
and each jacket had been thoroughly besmeared.
They were therefore as difficult to grasp as eels,
and it was not until the Yale men had counter-
acted this by grasping great handfuls of sand
that they were able to do anything like suc-
cessful tackling. This, then, was the beginning
of the canvas jacket, and although the greas-
ing process was not continued (in fact, it was
stopped by the insertion of a rule forbidding it),
the jacket itself was a true improvement, and it
was not long before all the teams were wearing
them. The superiority of the canvas jacket over
the jersey lies in the fact that it gives much less
hold for the fingers of the tackler, and also that
it does not keep stretching until it offers an easy
grasp, as does the jersey.
The next article of the foot-baller's costume
which demanded particular attention was the
shoe. Probably, in spite of all the trials and
the great exercise of inventive faculty bestowed
upon the sole of a foot-ball man's shoe, there is
to-day no better device for all fields and all
weathers than the straight cross-leather strips
which were used in the first year of the sport.
They are shown in diagram I of the accom-
panying cut. One of the earliest plans was to
lay out these strips in various different lines
across the sole in order to present an edge, no
matter in what direction the foot was turned.
This gave rise to as many styles as there were
men on a team. The cuts show a few of these
(diagrams II, III, IV).
Rubber soles were also tried, but they proved
heavy, and when the ground was wet they did
not catch as well as the leather strips. We have
not yet seen a trial made of the felt soles which
are now used in tennis, but these probably
would not answer for kicking, as they would
not be sufficiently stiff.
The trousers also have quite a history. At
first, several of the teams wore woven knicker-
bockers made of the same material as the
jersey. These fitted them tight to the skin,
and, although they offered very little obstruction
to the freedom of a man's gait, they neither were
things of beauty nor did they prove much of a
joy to the wearers, for when a hole was once
started it spread most amazingly. Another
serious feature was that when a game was played

on frozen ground every tumble and slide left its
mark not only on the trousers, but also on the
player's skin beneath, as these trunks offered
almost no protection. The next remove from
these tights," as they were expressively called,
was to flannel knickerbockers. These prevailed
for a season, but they were not stout enough for
the rough work of the game, and many a youth
has needlessly enlisted the sympathy of the ten-
der hearts in the audience, when his comrades
gathered about him and bore him from the field,
only, however, to reappear again- such a plucky
young man !-in a few moments. Some of the
more knowing ones noticed that the trousers worn
by the young man on his second appearance were
not the same as those in which he began the
game. Corduroy was tried with no better re-
sults than flannel. The most approved cloth
now in use among the players is a sort of heavy
fustian, and even these are thickly padded at
the knees and along the sides of the thighs.
The caps ran through a series of changes from
a little skull-cap to the long-tasseled affair called
a toboggan toque. The only really serviceable
innovation was a cap with a broad visor, to be
worn by the backs and half-backs when facing
the sun. The stockings are thicker than they
used to be, but otherwise there has been no
change. The foot-ball player of to-day puts on
a suit of flannels underneath his uniform, and if
his canvas jacket is a little loose or the day cold,
he wears a jersey next the jacket on the inside.
His shoes are of stout leather with straight
strips across the soles; and, if they have become
a little stretched from constant use, an extra pair

of socks underneath the woolen ones gives his
feet a more comfortable feeling.
He is better dressed to avoid bruises than the
old-time player, but the canvas jacket is hard to
play in, and such men as the quarter-back, who
have little opportunity to make runs but much



stooping to do, still cling to the jersey. The
back also can dispense with the canvas jacket
if he finds it very irksome, but as a rule every
one but the quarter is better dressed for service
if in canvas rather than a jersey.
To come to the more
particular points of the
diet and exercise suitable
for a foot-ball player.
Long experience has (
shown that men who are -
training for this sport i
must not be brought
down too fine. They
should be undertrained
rather than overtrained. -, '"
The reason for this is /
that an overtrained man -
becomes too delicate for :s
the rough, hard work
and perceptibly loses his vigor after a few sharp
struggles. The season of the year is favorable
to good work, and it is not difficult to keep men
in shape. They should be given a hearty break-
fast of the regulation steaks, chops, stale bread;
nor will a cup of coffee hurt a man who has always
been in the habit of having it. Fruit also can be
had in the early part of the season, and it is an
excellent thing to begin the breakfast. About
ten or eleven o'clock the men should practice for
a half hour or so. The rushers should be made
to pass the ball, fall on it when it is rolling
along the ground, catch short high kicks. They
should also be put through some of their plays
by signal. The half-backs and back practice
punting and drop-kicking, not failing to do some
place-kicking as well. The quarter-back should
pass the ball for them and also do some passing
on his own account in order to increase the ra-
pidity of his throwing as well as the distance to
which he can pass the ball. The half-backs and
back should be made to take all the fly catching
they have time for, and it is best to have some
one running toward them while they are per-
forming the catch, that they may become ac-
customed to it. A very light lunch should be
served at about one o'clock. It should consist
of cold meats, toast, warm potatoes, eggs if
agreeable; in fact, no great restriction should be

placed upon the appetite of the men at any of
the meals except where certain things manifestly
disagree with certain individuals. Nothing very
hearty should be given them at noon, however.
At half-past two -or, better, at three -they

should start for the grounds and then play
against a scrub team for an hour and a half.
When they have had theii baths, and been well
rubbed down, it is about five o'clock, and in an
hour from that time they will eat more dinner
than any other set of men in training. No al-
coholic beverages are permissible except for par-
ticular cases, as, for a man who is getting too
"fine" a little ale is not out of the way and
may give him a better appetite and better night's
rest. Plenty of sleep is indispensable. One
other feature should be mentioned, which is,
that as the rule for foot-ball games is "play,
rain or shine," a team must practice in bad
weather. Notwithstanding the fact that one
would naturally predict colds for the men from
practice in the rain, experience teaches quite
the opposite. A cold is almost unheard of, and
when it does occur is always traceable directly
to some foolish exposure after the playing is
over; as, for instance, remaining in the wet
clothes. This must on no account be allowed.
If the men are put into their baths, and dressed
immediately after in warm, dry clothes, they
will never take cold.
These above points are the vital ones in the
foot-ball training and give a general view of the
course to be pursued. The smaller technicali-
ties every captain must discover for himself.

(To be continued.)

..," :-' BY GRACE T ,i'.iL.'.. -

I as tdiu good ship Polly," and i '
S she sailed the wintry sea,
For ships must sail tho' fierce the gale, llll!i'f'.'
and a precious freight had she; 'il '
'T was the captain's little daughter stood
beside her father's chair, ,
And illumed the dingy cabin with the sun- J.,!', '
shine of her hair.

l th a yo-heave-ho, and a yo-heave-ho! /- --
For skhis must sail --.Lr -
Tho' fierce the gale "--- '
And loud the tempests blow. --- -- --

And make believe the stove-pipe is a chim-
ney-just for me ?"

SDwLoud laughed the jovial captain, and "By my
faith," he cried,
If he should come we '11 let him know he has
a friend inside!"
And many a rugged sailor cast a loving glance
that night

... *. \y1,

The captain's fingers rested on the pretty,
curly head.,''
To-morrow will be Christmas-day," the i
little maiden said;
" Do you suppose that Santa Claus will findI
us on the sea,
us on the sea, "


At the stove-pipe where a lonely little
stocking fluttered white. \ il

With a yo-heave-ho, and ayo-/eave-lo/ i
For s/ips must sail ......
Tho' fierce the gale
And loud the tempests blow.

On the good ship "Polly the Christmas
sun looked down,
And on a smiling little face beneath a
golden crown.
No happier child he saw that day, on
sea or on the land,
Than the captain's little daughter with
her treasures in her hand.

For never was a stocking so filled with curious
/ There were bracelets made of pretty shells,
and rosy coral strings;
An elephant carved deftly from a bit of ivory
.. "' -'- oA fan, an alligator's tooth, and a little bag of
---- ----,- .... -- ---m usk.

Not a tar aboard the Polly" but felt the
Christmas cheer,
For the captain's little daughter was to every
-- sailor dear.
They heard a Christmas carol in the shrieking
wintry gust,
For a little child had touched them by her
simple, loving trust.

With a yo-heave-ho, and a yo-heave-ho
For ships must sail
Tho' ferce the gale
And loud the tempests blow.




I"' -~-:

4 L A



I 'M going to the city! "
He stood in the wide door of the blacksmith-
shop, with his hands in his pockets, looking
down the street, toward the rickety old bridge
over the Cocahutchie. He was a sandy-haired,
freckled-faced boy, and if he was really only
about fifteen, he was tall for his age. Across
the top of the door, over his head, stretched
a cracked and faded sign, with a horseshoe
painted on one end and a hammer on the other,
and the name "John Ogden," almost faded out,
between them.
The blacksmith-shop was a great, rusty, grimy
clutter of work-benches, vises, tools, iron in bars
and rods, and all sorts of old iron scraps and
things that looked as if they needed making over.

The forge was in the middle, on one side,
and near it was hitched a horse, pawing the
ground with a hoof that bore a new shoe. On
the anvil was a brilliant, yellow-red loop of iron,
that was not quite yet a new shoe, and it was
sending out bright sparks as a hammer fell upon
it,-" thud, thud, thud," and a clatter. Over
the anvil leaned a tall, muscular, dark-haired,
grimy man. His face wore a disturbed and
anxious look, and it was covered with charcoal
dust. There was altogether too much charcoal
along the high bridge of his Roman nose and
over his jutting eyebrows.
The boy in the door also had some charcoal
on his cheeks and forehead, but none upon his
nose. His nose was not precisely like the black-
smith's. It was high and Roman half-way
down, but just there was a little dent, and the


rest of the nose was straight. His complexion,
excepting the freckles and charcoal, was chiefly
sunburn, down to the neckband of his blue
checked shirt. He was a tough, wiry-looking
boy, and there was a kind of smiling, self-confi-
dent expression in his blue-gray eyes and around
his firm mouth.
I 'm going to the city!" he said, again, in a
low but positive voice. I '11 get there, some-
Just then a short, thick-set man came hurry-
ing past him, into the shop. He was probably
the whitest man going into that or any other
shop, and he spoke out, at once, very fast, but
with a voice that sounded as if it came through
a bag of meal.
Ogden," said he, got him shod? If you
have, I '11 take him. What do you say about
that trade ? "
"I don't want any more room than there is
here," said the blacksmith, "and I don't care
to move my shop."
"There 's nigh onto two acres, mebbe more,
all along the creek from below the mill to Dea-
con Hawkins's line, below the bridge," wheezed
the mealy, floury, dusty man, rapidly. "I '11
get two hundred for it some day, ground or no
ground. Best place for a shop."
This lot suits me," said the smith, hammer-
ing away. "'T would n't pay me to move,-not
in these times."
The miller had more to say, while he un-
hitched his horse, but he led him out without
getting any more favorable reply about the
Come and blow, Jack," said the smith, and
the boy in the door turned promptly to take the
handle of the bellows.
The little heap of charcoal and coke in the
forge brightened and sent up fiery tongues, as
the great leather lungs wheezed and sighed,
and Jack himself began to puff.
"I 've got to have a bigger man than you
are, for a blower and striker," said the smith.
" He 's coming Monday morning. It 's time
you were doing something, Jack."
Why, father," said Jack, as he ceased pulling
on the bellows, and the shoe came out of the
fire, "I 've been doing something ever since
I was twelve. Been working here since May,
VOL. XVII.-29.

and lots o' times before that. Learned the
trade, too." *
"You can make a nail, but you can't make a
shoe," said his father, as he sizzed the bit of bent
iron in the water-tub and then threw it on the
ground. Seven. That's all the shoes I '11 make
this morning, and there are seven of you at home.
Your mother can't spare Molly, but you '11 have
to do something. It is Saturday, and you can
go fishing, after dinner, if you 'd like to. There
's nothing' to ketch 'round here, either. Worst
times there ever were in Crofield."
There was gloom as well as charcoal on the
face of the blacksmith, but Jack's expression
was only respectfully serious as he walked
away, without speaking, and again stood in the
door for a moment.
I could catch something in the city. I know
I could," he said, to himself. How on earth
shall I get there ? "
The bridge, at the lower end of the sloping
side-street on which the shop stood, was long
and high. It was made to fit the road and was
a number of sizes too large for the stream of
water rippling under it. The side-street climbed
about twenty rods the other way into what was
evidently the Main street of Crofield. There
was'a tavern on one corner, and across the street
from that there was a drug store and in it was the
post-office. On the two opposite corners were
shops, and all along the Main street were all sorts
of business establishments, sandwiched in among
the dwellings.
It was not yet noon, but Crofield had a
sleepy look, as if all its work for the whole week
were done. Even the horses of the farmers'
teams, hitched in front of the stores, looked
sleepy. Jack Ogden took his longest look, this
time, at a neat, white-painted frame-house across
the way.
"Seems to me there is n't nearly so much
room in it as there used to be," he said to him-
self. "It 's just packed and crowded. I 'm
going "
He turned and walked on up toward Main
street, as if that were the best thing he could
do till dinner time. Not many minutes later,
a girl plainly but neatly dressed came slowly
along in front of the village green, away up
Main street. She was tall and slender, and her



hair and eyes were as dark as those of John
Ogden, the blacksmith. Her nose was like
his, too, except that it was finer and not so
high, and she wore very much the same
anxious, discontented look upon her face.
She was walking slowly, because she saw, com-
ing toward her, a portly lady, with hair so flaxy
that no gray would show in it. She was ele-
gantly dressed. She stopped and smiled and
looked very condescending.
Good-morning, Mary Ogden," she said.
"Good-morning, Miss Glidden," said Mary,
the anxious look in her eyes changing to a
gleam that made them seem very wide awake.
"It's a fine morning, Mary Ogden, but so
very warm. Is your mother well?"
Very well, thank you," said Mary.
"And is your aunt well,--and your father,
and all the children? I'm so glad they're well.
Elder Holloway's to be here to-morrow. Hope
you '11 all come. I shall be there myself.
You've had my class a number of times. Much
obliged to you. I '11 be there to-morrow. You
must hear the Elder. He 's to inspect the Sun-
"Your class, Miss Glidden?" began Mary;
and her face suggested that somebody was
blowing upon a kind of fire, inside her
cheeks, and that they would be very red in
a minute.
Yes; don't fail to be there to-morrow, Mary.
The choir '11 be full, of course. I shall be there
I hope you will, Miss Glidden "
The portly lady saw something up the street,
at that moment.
Oh my! What is it? Dear me! It's com-
ing! Run! We 'll all be killed! Oh my!"
She had turned quite around, while she was
speaking, and was once more looking up the
street; but the dark-haired girl had neither
flinched nor wavered. She had only sent a
curious, inquiring glance, in the direction of the
shouts and the rattle and the cloud of dust that
were coming swiftly toward them.
A runaway team," she said, quietly. No-
body 's in the wagon."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Miss Glidden; but
Mary began to move away, looking not at her
but at the runaway, and she did not hear the

rest. "Mary Ogden's too uppish.- Somebody
'11 be killed, I know they will! -She's got to be
taken down.- There they come !- Dressed too
well for a blacksmith's daughter. Does n't know
her place.-Oh dear I'm so frightened! "
Perhaps she had been wise in getting behind
the nearest tree. It was a young maple, two
inches through, lately set out, but it might have
stopped a pair of very small horses. Those in the
road were large-almost too large to.run well.
They were well-matched grays, and they came
thundering along in a way that was really fine
to behold; heads down, necks arched, nostrils
wide, reins flying, the wagon behind them bang-
ing and swerving-no wonder everybody stood
still and, except Mary Ogden, shouted, "Stop
'em! One young fellow, across the street,
stood still only until the runaways were all but
close by him. Then he darted out into the
street, not ahead of them but behind them. No
man on earth could have stopped those horses
by standing in front of them. They could
have charged through a regiment. Their
heavy, furious gallop was fast, too, and the
boy who was now following them must have
been as light of foot as a young deer.
"Hurrah! Hurrah! Go it, Jack! Catch
'em! Bully for you!" arose from a score of
people along the sidewalk, as he bounded
"It's Jack! Oh dear me! But it's just like
him! There! He 's in!" exclaimed Mary
Ogden, her dark eyes dancing proudly.
"Why, it 's that good-for-nothing brother
of Mary Ogden. He's the blacksmith's boy.
I 'm afraid he will be hurt," remarked Miss
Glidden, kindly and benevolently; but all the
rest shouted Hurrah! again.
Fierce was the strain upon the young runner,
for a moment, and then his hands were on the
back-board of the bouncing wagon. A tug, a
spring, a swerve of the wagon, and Jack Ogden
was in it, and in a second more the loosely fly-
ing reins were in his hands.
The strong arms of his father, were they twice
as strong, could not at once have pulled in those
horses, and one man on the sidewalk seemed
to be entirely correct, when he said, He 's a.
plucky little fellow, but he can't do a thing, now
he's there."



His sister was trembling all over, but she was
repeating: "He did it splendidly! He can do
Jack, in the wagon, was thinking only: I
know 'em. They 're old Hammond's team.
They '11 try to go home to the mill. They '11
smash everything, if I don't look out!"
It is something, even to a greatly frightened
horse, to feel a hand on the rein. The team in-
tended to turn out of Main street, at the corner,
and they made the turn, but they did not crash
the wagon to pieces against the corner post,
because of the desperate guiding that was done
by Jack. The wagon swung around without
upsetting. It tilted fearfully, and the nigh
wheel was in the air for a moment, until Jack's
weight helped bring it down again. There was a
short sharp scream across the street, when the
wagon swung and the wheel went up.
Down the slope toward the bridge thundered
the galloping team, and the blacksmith ran out
of his shop to see it pass.
Turn them into the creek, Jack!" he shouted,
but there was no time for any answer.
They 'd smash through the bridge," thought
Jack. "I know what I 'm about."
There were wheel-marks down from the
street, at the left of the bridge, where many a
team had descended to drink the water of the
Cocahutchie, but it required all Jack's strength
on one rein to make his runaways take that
direction. They had thought of going toward
the mill, but they knew the watering-place.
Not many rods below the bridge stood a
clump of half a dozen gigantic trees, remnants
of the old forest which had been replaced by
the streets of Crofield and the farms around it.
Jack's pull on the left rein was obeyed only too
well, and it looked, for some seconds, as if the
plunging beasts were about to wind up their
maddened dash by a wreck among those gnarled
trunks and projecting roots. Jack drew his
breath hard, and there was almost a chill at his
young heart, but he held hard and said nothing.
Forward,-one plunge more,- hard on the
right rein -
"That was close!" he said. "If we did n't
go right between the big maple and the cherry I
Now I 've got 'em! "
Splash, crash, rattle! Spattering and plung-

ing, but cooling fast, the gray team galloped
along the shallow bed of the Cocahutchie.
I wish the old swimming-hole was deeper,"
said Jack, "but the water 's very low. Whoa,
boys! Whoa, there! Almost up to the hub -
over the hub! Whoa, now!"
And the gray team ceased its plunging and
stood still in water three feet deep.
"I must n't let 'em drink too much," said
Jack; "but a little won't hurt 'em."
The horses were trembling all over, but one
after the other they put their noses into the
water, and then raised their heads to prick their
ears back and forth and look around.
"Don't bring 'em ashore till they're quiet,
Jack," called out the deep, ringing voice of his
father, from the bank.
There he stood, and other men were coming,
on the run. The tall blacksmith's black eyes
were flashing with pride over the daring feat his
son had performed.
"I dare n't tell him, though," he said to
himself. "He 's set up enough, already. He
thinks he can do 'most anything."
"Jack," wheezed a mealy voice at his side,
"that's my team-"
"I know it," said Jack. "They 're all right
now. Pretty close shave through the trees,
that was!"
I owe ye fifty dollars for a-savin' them and
the wagin," said the miller. "It 's wuth it,
and I '11 pay it; but I 've got to owe it to ye,
jest now. Times are awful hard in Crofield.
If I 'd ha' lost them hosses and that wagin-"
He stopped short, as if he could not exactly
say how disastrous it would have been for him.
There was a running fire of praise and of
questions poured at Jack, by the gathering knot
of people on the shore, and it was several min-
utes before his father spoke again.
"They 're cool, now," he said. "Turn 'em,
Jack, and walk 'em out by the bridge, and up to
the mill. Then come home to dinner."
Jack pretended not to see quite a different
kind of group gathered under the clump of tall
trees. Not a voice had come to him from that
group of lookers-on, and yet the fact that they
were there made him tingle all over.
Two large, freckle-faced, sandy-haired women
were hugging each other, and wiping their eyes;


and a very small girl was tugging at their dresses
and crying, while a pair of girls of from twelve
to fourteen, close by them, seemed very much
inclined to dance. Two small boys, who at first
belonged to the party, had quickly rolled up
their trousers and waded out as far as they
could into the Cocahutchie. Just in front of
the group, under the trees, stood Mary Ogden,
straight as an arrow, her dark eyes flashing and
her cheeks glowing while she looked silently
at the boy on the wagon in the stream, until she
saw him wheel the grays. Even then she did
not say anything, but turned and walked away.
It was as if she had so much to say that she
felt she could not say it.
Aunt Melinda Mother said one of the
girls, "Jack is n't hurt a mite. They 'd all
ha' been drowned, though, if there was water
Hush, Bessie," said one of the large women,
and the other at once echoed, "Hush, Bessie."
They were very nearly alike, these women,
and they both had long, straight noses, such as
Jack's would have been, if half-way down it
had not been Roman, like his father's.
"Mary Ann," said the first woman, we
must n't say too much to him about it. He
can only just be held in, now."
"Hush, Melinda," said Jack's mother. "I
thought I 'd seen the last of him when the
gray critters came a-powderin' down the road
past the house" -and then she wiped her eyes
again, and so did Aunt Melinda, and they both
stooped down at the same moment, saying,
"Jack 's safe, Sally," and picked up the small
girl, who was crying, and kissed her.
The gray team was surrendered to its owner
as soon as it reached the road at the foot of the
bridge, and again Jack was loudly praised by the
miller. The rest of the Ogden family seemed to
be disposed to keep away, but the tall black-
smith himself was there.
"Jack," said he, as they turned away home-
ward, "you can go fishing this afternoon, just
as I said. I was thinking of your doing some-
thing else afterward, but you 've done about
-enough for one day."
He had more to say, concerning what would
have happened to the miller's horses, and the
number of pieces the wagon would have been

knocked into, but for the manner in which the
whole team had been saved.
When they reached the house the front door
was open, but nobody was to be seen. Bob
and Jim, the two small boys, had not yet
returned from seeing the gray span taken to
the mill, and the women and girls had gone
through to the kitchen.
Jack," said his father, as they went in, old
Hammond '11 owe you that fifty dollars long
enough. He never really pays anything."
Course he does n't-not if he can help it,"
said Jack. I worked for him three months,
and you know we had to take it out in feed.
I learned the mill trade, though, and that
was something."
Just then he was suddenly embarrassed. Mrs.
Ogden had gone through the house and out at
the back door, and Aunt Melinda had followed
her, and so had the girls. Molly had suddenly
gone upstairs to her own room. Aunt Melinda
had taken everything off the kitchen stove and
put everything back again, and here now was
Mrs. Ogden back again, hugging her son.
"Jack," she said, don't you ever, ever, do
such a thing again. You might ha' been knocked
into slivers "
Molly had gone up the back stairs only to
come down the front way, and she was now a
little behind them.
Mother !" she exclaimed, as if her pent-up
admiration for her brother was exploding,
"you ought to have seen him jump in, and
you ought to have seen that wagon go around
the corner "
"Jack," broke in the half-choked voice of
Aunt Melinda from the kitchen doorway,
"come and eat something. I felt as if I knew
you were killed, sure. If you have n't earned
your dinner, nobody has."
"Why, I know how to drive," said Jack.
" I was n't afraid of 'em after I got hold of the
He seemed even in a hurry to get through his
dinner, and some minutes later he was out in the
garden, digging for bait. The rest of the family
remained at the table longer than usual, espe-
cially Bob and Jim; but, for some reason known
to herself, Mary did not say a word about her
meeting with Miss Glidden. Perhaps the miller's



gray team had run away with all her interest in
that, but she did not even tell how carefully
Miss Glidden had inquired after the family.
"There goes Jack," she said, at last, and they
all turned to look.
He did not say anything as he passed the
kitchen door, but he had his long cane fishing-
pole over his shoulder. It had a line wound
around it, ready for use. He went out of the
gate and down the road toward the bridge, and
gave only a glance across at the shop.
I did n't get many worms," he said to him-
self, at the bridge, "but I can dig some more,
if the fish bite. Sometimes they do, and some-
times they don't."
Over the bridge he went, and up a wagon
track on the opposite bank, but he paused for
one moment, in the very middle of the bridge,
to look upstream.
There 's just enough water to run the mill,"
he said. "There is n't any coming over the
dam. The pond 's even full, though, and it
may be a good day for fish.--I wish I was in
the city!"

LL Saturday afternoon was
before Jack Ogden,
when he came out
at the water's edge,
near the dam, across
from the mill. That
was there, big
and red and
and the dam was
there; andabove
them was the
mill pond,
spreading out
over a number
of acres, and ornamented with stumps, old
logs, pond-lilies, and weeds. It was a fairly
good pond, the best that Cocahutchie Creek
could do for Crofield, but Jack's face fell a little
as he looked at it.
"There are more fellows than fish here," he
said to himself, with an air of disgust.
There was a boy at the end of the dam near
him, and a boy in the middle of it, and two boys

at the flume, near the mill. There were three
punts out on the water, and one of them had
in it a man and two boys, while the second boat
held but one man, and the third contained four.
A big stump near the north shore supported a
boy, and the old snag jutting out from the south
shore held a boy and a man.
There they all were, sitting perfectly still,
until, one after another, each rod and line came
up to have its hook and bait examined, to see
whether or not there had really been a bite.
"I 'm fairly crowded out," remarked Jack.
"Those fellows have all the good places. I '11
have to go somewhere else; where '11 I go ? "
He studied that problem for a full minute,
while every fisherman there turned to look at
him and then turned back to watch his line.
"I guess I '11 try down stream," said Jack.
" Nobody ever caught anything down there, and
nobody ever goes there, but I s'pose I might as
well try it, just for once."
He turned away along the track over' which
he had come. He did not pause at the road
and bridge, but went on down the further bank
of the Cocahutchie. It was a pretty stream
of water, and it spread out wide and shallow,
and rippled merrily among stones and boulders
and clumps of willow and alder for nearly
half a mile. Gradually, then, it grew narrower,
quieter, deeper, and wore a sleepy look which
made it seem more in keeping with quiet old
"The hay 's about ready to cut," said Jack,
as he plodded along the path, near the water's
edge, through a thriving meadow of clover
and timothy. "There 's always plenty of work
in haying time. Hullo! What grasshoppers!
As he made the last exclamation, he clapped
his hand upon his trousers-pocket.
"If I did n't forget to go in and get my
sinker! Never did such a thing before in all my
life. What 's the use of trying to fish without a
sinker ? "
The luck seemed to be going directly against
him. Even the Cocahutchie, at his left, had
dwindled to a mere crack between bushes and
high grass, as if to show that it had no room to
let for fish to live in--that is, for fish accus-
tomed to having plenty of room, such as they




could find when living in a mill-pond, lined
around the edges with boys and fish-poles.
"That 's a whopper!" suddenly exclaimed
Jack, with a quick snatch at something that
alighted upon his left arm. "I've caught him!
Grasshoppers are the best kind of bait, too. I '11
try him on, sinker or no sinker. Hope there are
some fish, down here."
The line he unwound from his rod was some-
what coarse, but it was strong, and so was his
hook, as if the fishing around Crofield called for
stout tackle as well as for a large number of
sportsmen. The big, long-limbed, green-coated
jumper was placed in position on the hook, and
then, with several more grumbling regrets over
the absence of any sinker, Jack searched along
the bank for a place whence he could throw his
bait into the water.
This '11 do," he said, at last, and the breeze
helped him to swing out his line until the grass-
hopper at the end of it dropped lightly and
naturally into a dark little eddy, almost across
that narrow ribbon of the Cocahutchie.
Splash,- tug,- splash again,-
"Jingo! What's that ? I declare-if he isn't
pulling! He '11 break the line,-no, he won't.
See that pole bend! Steady,-here he comes.
Out he came, indeed, for the rude, strong
tackle held, even against the game struggling
of that vigorous trout. There he lay now, on
the grass, with Jack Ogden bending over him
in a fever of exultation and amazement.
I never could have caught him with a worm
and a sinker," he said, aloud. This is the way
to catch 'em. Is n't he a big fellow! I '11 try
some more grasshoppers."
There was not likely to be another two-pound
brook-trout very near the hole out of which that
one had been pulled; There would not have
been any at all, perhaps, but for the prevail-
ing superstition that there were no fish there.
Everybody knew that there were bullheads, suck-
ers, perch, and "pumpkin-seeds," in the mill-
pond, and eels, with now and then a pickerel,
but the trout were a profound secret. It was
easy to catch another big grasshopper, but the
young sportsman knew very well that he knew
nothing at all of that kind of fishing. He had
made his first cast perfectly, because it was

about the only way in which it could have' been
made, and now he was so very nervous and ex-
cited and cautious that he did very well again,
aided as before by the breeze. Not in the same
place, but at a little distance down, and close to
where Jack captured his second bait, there was
a crook in the Cocahutchie, with a steep, over-
hanging, bushy bank. Into the glassy shadow
under that bank the sinkerless line carried and
dropped its little green prisoner, and there was
a hungry fellow in there, waiting for foolish grass-
hoppers in the meadow to spring too far and
come down upon the water instead of upon the
grass. As the grasshopper alighted on the water,
there was a rush, a plunge, a strong hard pull,
and then Jack Ogden said to hifnself:
I 've heard how they do it. They wait and
tire 'em out. I won't be in too much of a hurry.
He '11 get away if I am."
That is probably what the fish would have
done, for he was a fish with what army men
call "tactics." He was able to pull very hard,
and he was also wise enough to rush in under
the bank and to sulkily stay there.
Feels as if I 'd hooked a snag," said Jack.
"Maybe I 've lost the fish and he 's hitched me
into a 'cod-lamper' eel of some kind. Steady,-
no, I must n't pull harder than the fish."
He was breathless, but not with any exertion
that he was making. His hat fell off upon the
grass, as he leaned forward through the alder
bushes, and his sandy hair was tangled, for a
moment, in some stubby twigs. He loosened
his head, still holding firmly his bent and strain-
ing rod. One step farther, a slip of his left foot,
an unsuccessful grasp at a bush, and then Jack
went over and down into a pool deeper than he
had thought the Cocahutchie afforded so near
There was a very fine splash, as the grass-
hopper fly-fisherman went under, and there was
a coughing and spluttering a moment afterward,
when his eager, excited, anxious face came up
again. He could swim extremely well, and he
was not thinking of his ducking,-only of his
I hope I have n't lost him!" he exclaimed,
as he tried to pull upon the line.
It did not tug at all, just then, for the fish
on the hook had been rudely startled out from



under the bank and was on his way up the
Cocahutchie, with the hook in his mouth.
"There he is! I 've got him yet! Glad I
can swim--" cried Jack; and it did seem as
if he and this fish were very well matched,
except that Jack had to give one of his hands
to the rod while his captive could use every fin.
Down-stream floated Jack, passing the rod
back through his hands until he could grasp the
line, and all the while the fish was darting madly
about to get away.
"There, I 've touched bottom. Now for
him! Here he comes. I 'll draw him ashore
easy,-that 's it! Hurrah !- biggest fish ever
was caught in the Cocahutchie "
That might or might not be so, but Jack
Ogden had a three-pound trout, flopping angrily
upon the grass at his feet.
I know how to do it now," he almost shouted.
"I can catch 'em! I won't let anybody else
know how it 's done, either."
He had learned something, no doubt, but he
had not learned how to make a large fish out
of a small one. All the rest of that afternoon

he caught grasshoppers and cast them daintily
into what seemed to be good places, but he did
not have another occasion to tumble in. When
at last he was tired out and decided to go home,
he had a dozen more of trout, not one of them
weighing over six ounces, with a pair of very
good yellow perch, one very large perch, a
sucker, and three bullheads, that bit when his
bait happened to sink to the bottom without
any lead to help it. Take it all in all, it was a
great string of fish, to be caught in a Saturday
afternoon, when all that the Crofield sportsmen
around the mill-pond could show was six bull-
heads, a dozen small perch, a lot of "pumpkin-
seeds" not much larger than dollars, five small
eels, and a very vicious snapping-turtle.
Jack stood for a moment looking down at
the results of his experiment in fly-fishing. He
felt, really, as if he could not more than half
believe it.
Fishing does n't pay," he said. "It does n't
pay cash, anyway. There is n't anything around
Crofield that does pay. Well, it must be time
for me to go home."

(To be continued.)







To the mariner inward bound from a long
voyage, few sights are more welcome than the
first view of the pilot-boat. Whether she be
met in fair summer weather, or in a winter's snow-
storm or blizzard; within sight of land, or far out
on the restless ocean, she is a welcome, a sign of
rest, of good fellowship, and good cheer. To
the passenger in pursuit of business, pleasure,
or health, she is a landmark or mile-post, so to
speak, on his way. To the tired sailor she prom-
ises rest from heavy labors, an easy berth, and
pay-day. To the captain she signifies relief
from anxious duty, for, with the good pilot on
board, he is relieved from further guidance, and
is practically at his voyage's end-moored to his
dock, and shaking hands with thg ship's owners
over the safe ending of a happy voyage.
The New York and New Jersey pilots are a
set of hardy and reliable men, inured to hard-
ship and responsibility, for their training is a
long and severe one. Many of them are brought
up on or near the harbors in which they after-
ward ply their trade, and the knowledge acquired
as boys, while cruising in familiar home waters,
stands them in good stead in after years.
The first pilots of New York harbor were
stationed at Sandy Hook, and visited incoming
vessels in whale-boats; and many a stately Brit-
ish frigate or colonial trader was forced to wait
anxiously outside the bar, rolling and tossing in
the sea-way, or tacking hither and yon, waiting
for a glimpse of that tiny speck where flashing
oars told of the coming pilot. It is in this way
many vessels are still met, off some of our
smaller harbors, and at the Port Eads Jetties
(those wonderful improvements of navigation at
the mouth of the Mississippi River) this practice
also remains. There the waters of the great river
pouring into the Gulf of Mexico make a turbu-
lent swell with foam-crested billows that roll the
stoutest ship's gunwale under, even in calm
weather; yet the little whale-boats, swift and
buoyant, dash out bravely in a race for the sail

on the distant horizon, for there are two pilot-
stations at the Jetties, and it is "first come first
engaged." There are plenty of tugs and small
steamers there also, but the whale-boat is still
used as easiest to handle and to embark from.
On our own northern coasts, the long icy
storms in winter, demand a stronger craft, and
our pilot-boats are stout, well-built little schoon-
ers of a type and style peculiarly their own, and
adapted to their work. They have a cook, boat-
tender, and boy, to bring them in When the pilots
are all" dropped," and are comfortably furnished
and amply provisioned.
The boats have regular cruising grounds to a
certain extent, but often are blown out to sea
or up or down the coast, as far north as the New-
foundland Banks and south as Cape Hatteras.
They are familiar with all the tracks of incoming
and outward-bound vessels and move about
hither and thither to lie in the way of a vessel;
here intercepting a steamer, yonder a fruit-ship,
or dashing down the coast to meet some familiar
craft which they know is due and for which the
pay will be large. This pay is regulated by law,
according to tonnage and draught of the vessel,
and is not collected by the pilots, but by their
employees who look after this part of the work.
One boat, known as the "station boat," is
always kept near the harbor entrance, in sight
of outgoing ships, to receive on board the pilots
who have steered them down the channels of
the bay; but sometimes, through darkness or
heavy weather, some vessel fails to drop her
pilot and he is compelled to sail in her to the
nearest port whence he can return. Thus many
a pilot has found himself a prisoner on board
a ship for weeks, or landed at a foreign port,
perchance in Europe or the West Indies, when
he expected to be in his cozy home with his
wife and children and Christmas dinner.
On dark nights the incoming vessel or steamer
may run by the waiting pilot-boat without see-
ing her, and find herself in dangerous waters


"" *. ,- -: ": '. '

BR N A* ". -

unawares. To prevent this, the pilots burn what
is known as a flare or torch, consisting of a
bunch of cotton or lamp-wick dipped in turpen-
tine, on the end of a short handle. It burns
with a brilliant flame, lighting up the sea for
a great distance and throwing the sails and
number of the pilot-boat into strong relief against
the darkness, enabling the distant ship's look-
out to discern her whereabouts and steer accord-
ingly. Many an accident has been avoided in
VOL. XVII.-30.

this manner also, for our modern steamships
run so swiftly that the boat might be run
down but for some such signal of position.
On a dark clear night, the boats' positions can
be seen not only by the flare on their sails,
but also by the reddish glare which the signal
projects on the under side of such clouds as
may be floating near on the night winds.
These flashes look like distant heat lightning
or gleams from some huge fire-fly.


21 ,

fhere once was a man with a snee3e

Wko always would sit in ao breeze

When beged to take shelter

He'd cry: I should swelter !

And s traightway go on with his snee3e.


IT was a wet morning at the seaside, and the
children could not have their picnic on the shore
that Mamma had promised them. Baby did
not mind, for he hardly knew what a picnic was;
but Dora was ready to cry when she saw the
rain falling, and the dull sky, without a bright
spot anywhere.
A little girl named Fanny, who lived in the
next cottage, was to have gone with them.

Dora wondered if Fanny was feeling as badly
as she did, about the rain. Then, suddenly,
she thought of something they could do, if
only Fanny could come over.
She asked her mamma if Nurse could go to
Fanny's house--it was so near and there was
a gate in the fence between and ask Fanny's
mamma to let her come over and play.
Mamma gave permission, and while Nurse






was gone, Dora went upstairs to the play-room,
and looked over her dishes. They were the
remains of two sets, one that she had at Christ-
mas, and the old set that was given her on her
birthday, long before Christmas.
Baby had broken very many of them, and
she herself had had "bad luck (as she called it
when she broke things). Those that were left
she found in one of the beach-pails, mixed up
with shells of different shapes and sizes, which
also were used as dishes. Then she took the
covers from the biggest doll's bed, and folded
them like doyleys; for on a picnic they would
have doyleys instead of the large napkins. It
was lucky the covers were quite clean. Mary
(that was the nurse's name) had washed and
ironed them, only the week before.
By this time Mary had come back, and
Fanny was with her. Dora leaned over the
banister and saw her, laughing and talking,
while Mary unbuttoned her waterproof.
"Is n't it too bad about the rain?" she
said. But as Fanny looked up her face was
as bright as the clearest sunshine could have
made it.
Oh, yes! said Dora. "But I 've thought
of a splendid play, if Mamma will let us have
some real things to eat. We can have a picnic
on the stairs. You must come up and help get
ready. And, Mary, will you ask Mamma for
some of the animal-crackers, and just a little
bread and butter too, because we want to play
with the animal-crackers. We won't be crumby
a bit, and if we are, we '11 sweep up all the
crumbs ourselves."
Mary went for the things to eat, and the lit-
tle girls filled one of the wooden beach-pails
with the dishes and covered them over with a
napkin,-Fanny did not mind in the least that
the napkins were really covers,-but the other
pail they did not fill, until Mary brought a plate-
ful of crackers and a very little bread and but-
ter, for it was too soon after breakfast, she said,
for them to have much.
The animal-crackers were n't all animals;
some were birds and fishes, and some were only
hearts and diamonds and stars and shields; but
they could play these were shells they had found
upon the shore. And besides the crackers and
bread and butter, there was an orange. There

was but this one, left from dessert the evening
before; but Mary said they could divide it
among them with the old fruit-knife which she
kept in the drawer of the table that stood in
the nursery.
While they were looking for the fruit-knife
they found something else, which had been
missing for days (that table-drawer was always
crammed full of things that Mary did not know
what else to do with, when she was "picking
up the room). They found the lid of the tea-
pot belonging to the best tea-set. Of course,
they would n't have tea, on a picnic, but Dora
pretended that the teapot had milk in it; and
she tied on the lid and stuffed paper in the
Baby would have his tin soldiers, though the
little girls explained to him that soldiers did not
go on picnics. But these soldiers went--as
many of them as Baby could cram into the pail
that held the crackers.
The orange would not go in either of the pails,
so Dora carried it in her hand.
Then they asked Mary for their hats. But
Fanny had come without any hat; and Mary
objected to Dora's taking hers, for it was one of
those white starched hats that have to be washed,
and it had just been done up, with the bows all
spread out like new. She said Dora would
drop it on the stairs and Baby would sit on it
- bless him! He never minded what he sat
on, nor where he stepped, but just went ahead,
like the great staving boy he was.
But when Baby heard talk of hats he called
for his hat, and Mary let him have it; for Mary
would always give Baby anything he asked for
and never minded how he spoiled his clothes,
because he was her favorite. So he was the
only person at the picnic with a hat on; but
five minutes after they had reached the shore,
which was the stairs, he wished it off again.
And the little girls laughed at everything he
did because he was so funny, even when he was
quite serious and put out.
Mary said they had better have the picnic
near the bottom of the stairs on account of
Baby, who might step off backwards, when they
were not looking. So the picnic began on the
third step from the bottom. That was the cliffs,
the green cliffs above the shore. The next step


was the rocks, with pot-holes in them filled with
water, where queer living things were imprisoned
at low tide. The last step was the sand; and the
floor of the hall below was the water.
It was a shiny floor and really
looked very like still water.
Dora sat on the cliffs,
and Fanny stayed be-
low on the rocks, hunting

shells and crabs, and Baby was to have played
on the sand; but he world step off into the


shells and crabs, and Baby .was to have played
on the sand; but he wo{lU step off into the
water, which was very improper, for of course
he had his shoes and stockings on and was
not prepared for wading. But he would do

it, and so they had to make believe that his
feet were wet.
Fanny on the rocks spoke loud to Dora on
the cliffs, so she could hear; but it was a singu-
lar thing about that picnic, that you could
reach a person's hand from the rocks, though
she were sitting on the cliffs, ever so far
/J It was quite con-
venient though, for
./ Fanny could hand
S/ up her cup for
more milk, always
i: lling in a loud
I ...ice to Dora: Oh,
S' ora, have you any
n-i.re milk ? The
v. ind makes me so
itlngry.- Oh, can
..,u see that tiny
S !rrle crab in a pool
M n, the rock? Shall
i catch him for
..u ? I 'm sure he
i a soft shell, so he
'.-"' won't bite me."
'Iv Of course there
.,bH'l- *' were no crabs
on the stair-
case, any more
than there was
,n *:,cean covering the
S- l ..:.:r. But Dora and
Fir\- vcr, good "make-be-
lie-r.." ,n,:l B,- --well, he did
-l-,i tlir; ilt.- rt but that was only
beL.:,ic, he dli.l i. understand how a

r tl v.iei i h', l -,ren the bread and
l.uriLr r:t., anfd r! .i.en il[ :rackers, stars, and
-. !I!e!-b :-, n11 I i tl -e :c .riiini ls- the elephant
Indl te li ...re'- !i ,.i .I Ir the dove and the
lion, the two dogs and the fishes and the
peacock- and divided the orange (with
great difficulty) into three equal parts, they
made believe the picnic was over. And they
told Mary that they had had a splendid time-
so it did not matter about the rain, and Mamma
promised them that they should have the real
picnic on the next bright day.



IN the zoological gardens of the ancient town
of Banackpore, in East India, are a pair of
ostriches, presented to the East India Company
by the Maharajah of Cawnpore in 1795. An
American traveler saw them in 1875 and said
they were fine birds then. They were, tradition
has it, far from young when presented to the
East India Company, so that at present they
are more than a century old, and from all ac-
counts seem cheerfully prepared for more. So
you see the ostrich is a long-lived bird.
He is not only long-lived, but he is strong,
and subject to comparatively few diseases. His
digestive powers have become proverbial.
An English gentleman in Port Elizabeth,
South Africa, lost a valuable gold watch in an
extraordinary manner. He was looking into
an ostrich pen, watching the great ungainly
creatures, when he had occasion to take out his
watch. An ostrich stalked up with friendly
curiosity (the ostrich is very curious), looked at
it with his great, black eyes, and the next instant
made a dive and swallowed the watch and as
much of the chain as snapped off. The price
of the bird being exactly the same as the watch,
the victim when last heard from had not been
able to decide whether he should buy the old
ostrich or a new watch.
Another ostrich, grazing near a ball-ground,
was seen to swallow a rubber-ball, two baseballs,
and a hard, green apple, and was none the worse
for his luncheon.
When you think of all the hats trimmed with
feathers, of all feather ornaments and trimmings,
and of the humble feather-dusters, and the noble
plumes ladies wear when they are presented at
court; when you consider that a century and a
half ago men still wore plumes on their hats, it
is really a matter of surprise to think where all
these lovely things come from. Till within
eighteen years the ostriches were hunted like
game and killed for the sake of their plumage.

In 1868 an English gentleman started an ostrich-
breeding farm in South Africa for the purpose
of cultivating the birds for their feathers, simply
clipping them twice a year, and leaving them
at peace the rest of the time.
In our great country the territory is so vast
that there appears to be land and climate suited
to all things. Ten years ago an American
gentleman traveling in South Africa became
deeply interested in ostrich-farming, and was
soon convinced that it could be introduced in
the United States as a new, and, after a time,
very profitable industry.
The ostrich, being a tropical bird, needed, of
course, a climate not subject to Eastern ice,
snow, and storms. He therefore decided that
Southern California, some five hundred miles
south of San Francisco, would be a place suit-
able for the experiment.
Africa is the home of the ostrich proper.
There are and were other species in southern
countries, as, for example, the Emu of Australia,
with its three toes and its hairy feathers, the
Cassowary of Africa, the extinct Dodo of Mada-
gascar, and the extinct Moa of New Zealand.
In South America they have the Rhea, and
from its short feathers they make our com-
mon feather-dusters.
The handsomest and most valuable ostriches
are found in Southern Africa. They are driven
down by hundreds from the interior, as cattle
are driven. There are ostriches in Algiers, also.
Those for the California ranch were exported
from South Africa. The price was five hundred
dollars apiece, and, including the heavy export
duty, they cost about a thousand dollars each
by the time they reached their American desti-
There were twepty-two of them, ten males
and twelve females,. They were driven some
six hundred miles to Cape Town, South Africa,
and shipped on board a sailing-vessel bound for


Buenos Ayres, where they were landed after a
six weeks' voyage. Here, after giving them
time to rest, they were sent by steamer to New
York. Then for a short time they rested again.


'.' 1 ,,

;: t _

They were next sent overland to San Francisco,
whence, after a last rest, they were transported
five hundred miles southward to their new home.
The safe transportation of these birds was due
to the great care taken that they should not be
overtired during the journey.
There are certain old traditions about the
ostrich which, I have been told by the owner
of the California ranch, are fallacious. He
says that the ostrich does not bury his head in
the sand and imagine he is unobserved by his
enemies. On the contrary, he is a very pugna-
cious bird and always ready for a fight. Nor
does the female ostrich lay her eggs in the sand
for the sun to hatch them. To do them justice,
they are quite domestic, and deserve a better
reputation. Nor is the ostrich ever used for
riding, as he has an exceptionally weak back;
any person might break it with a blow from an
ordinary cane.
His strength lies in his great breast, and his

feet. He has one great claw, and a very small
one, and with a terrible precision he can bring
down the large claw with a cruel force that will
tear open anything not made of sheet-iron.
Savage birds at best, they are dangerously so
during breeding time. The twenty-two birds
brought to our California ranch, trusted to their
instinct and laid their eggs during the Califor-
nia winter, which corresponded to their summer
south of the Equator. It being the rainy sea-
son, their nests were filled with water and the
eggs were chilled; so the first season of their
American sojourn was a failure.
The ostrich makes its nest by rolling in the
sand and scooping out a hole some six feet in
diameter, and, excepting an incubator-house,
the California ranch requires no buildings for
the use of the birds, though the land is di-
vided off into pens fenced in, each about an
acre in extent, for the use of the breeding birds,
every pair occupying one such inclosure.
The ostriches live upon alfalfa and corn.
Alfalfa is a grass cultivated all over the ranch;
it resembles our clover, and grows to a crop
some six times a year.
The ostrich hen lays her eggs every other day,
and she can set on some twenty-two; but some
hens lay as many as eighty, though of these only
a small proportion are found to produce ostriches
after proper hatching.
Eggs which the ostrich can not hatch are
hatched artificially in an incubator, like that
used for chickens, only on a larger scale.
In justice to the male ostrich, it must be said
that he not only sets on the eggs twenty hours
at a time to his mate's four hours, but that
afterward he takes upon himself the education
of his children and kicks the hen (which, to be
sure, is far from commendable) when she pre-
sumes to interfere.
Among our California birds was one named
"Long Tom." When they picked out a mate
for him he took a great dislike to her, and kicked
her over the fence, whereupon they put her
back. Then Long Tom was so disgusted that
he raised his great claw and brought it down on
her so decidedly that -she died. Since then
Long Tom has lived alone.
While the birds are setting, it is difficult to
examine the eggs to see which ones are fertile. A


little corn, however, lures the bird from the nest,
and a few of the eggs are then taken into a dark-
ened room with one window. The window is
entirely covered by a heavy blanket in which
is a single small hole admitting a ray of sun-
light. The eggs are held up to the light, one
by one, and it is thus made easy to see through
their coarse pores. If delicate veins run through
an egg, it is fertile, and is replaced in the nest.
If not, it is used for eating.
After forty-two days, either in the nest or
incubator, the little ostriches come into the
world. They are about as large as ordinary
hens, and are covered with small, hedgehog-
like quills, beneath which is a fine, gray fluff.
When they are a fortnight old, they are taken
from their parents and are adopted by some old
bachelor ostrich, who, having no family of his
own, kindly sees to them. During the first
three months all sorts of dangers threaten the

The male ostrich has the most valuable
feathers, and the handsomest and costliest are
on the first wing-joint and are either snow-white,
glossy black, or black and white.
Feathers forty-two inches long have been pro-
duced in this ranch, and we were shown some,
white and beautiful, that must have been fully
a yard in length. The shorter tail-feathers are
buff and black in the male bird, and buff and
gray in the female. These are used for dress
trimmings, and the coarsest are made into
feather-dusters and other such articles.
After four years their feathers grow more and
more beautiful, and in the height of his produc-
tive season the ostrich's lovely plumage is worth
a hundred dollars a year.
In the African farms, the ostrich clipping, be-
ing conducted on a large scale, simplifies itself.
The birds are driven into a long, narrow pen
called a "kraal" (a Dutch word), and then

I' i ' \'
,,,d ,U ,,,,., '

baby ostriches. They have all kinds of infantile they are s
illnesses, and it is only after these months- that sliding gat(
they can be reckoned upon as possessing any creatures c.
commercial value, fatal to go
In the beginning they are quite tame and clip them f
harmless, but when, after four years, they come The win
to maturity, they become as savage as are all (those feat
old birds, blood-vesse

o driven together, by means of a
Rolled against them, that the huge
an not move. Otherwise it would be
among them. Then the men who
force their way through the throng.
gs are spread and the ripe feathers
hers through the ends of which no
:ls are to be seen) are cut. To cut a




feather showing veins would be as painful to
the bird as it is for us to have a tooth pulled.
The unripe feathers are left for future clipping.

As many as one hundred and fifty birds are
driven into these kraals at a time; but in the
California ranch, there being at first but few
birds, some other method had to be devised to
catch and clip them, as there were not enough
to be crowded into a pen and so made helpless
and harmless. Ingenuity came to the rescue.
One fine morning a gentleman rode to the
nearest town and bought several dozens of
long stockings, and then, to the great amuse-
ment of the shopman, proceeded to cut off a
bit from each toe. He rode back to the ranch
with his apparently useless purchase.
A bit of corn lured each unsuspecting bird to
the fence, where he was seized, and in a twink-
ling had a long stocking slipped over his head.
Being blinded, he was helpless and easily clipped,
but he could meanwhile breathe sufficiently
through the mysterious hole in the toe of the
stocking. After the clipping the feathers are
gathered and packed and sent to San Francisco,

where they are sold at auction, and generally
go to New York merchants.
In this large California ranch there are at
present some three hundred or more birds.
" Long Tom" is the heaviest, weighing four
hundred and fifty pounds.
Ostriches are famous for their swiftness, some-
times running at the rate of forty miles an hour.
Long Tom once escaped from his pen and ran
at such a rate that it took four cow-boys with
fresh horses, in relays, to tire him out and cap-
ture him.
The first eighteen months of this experiment
were discouraging, as such experiments often
are; but the next year success began to come,
and now the ranch promises to be profitable.
It is a strange and wonderful thing -man's
power to bring all creatures to his uses. If he
does not tame so savage and wild a creature as
the ostrich, at least he captures him and makes
him subservient to a new industry.
It is pleasant to think that these beautiful
feathers are not obtained by the death of the
bird whose protection and whose beauty they
were. I like to imagine the great ostriches,
in that distant California ranch, gorgeous in

/ .-.... .... .

their black and snow-white plumes, contentedly
nibbling their clover in the clear sunshine and
being no worse for losing their fine feathers
twice a year--in fact, being much more fortu-
nate than poor, ordinary mortals who never
in a whole lifetime have a robe so royal.


''tii' \\ !aiid been busy talking, for hours, Christmas Eve,
I'i ] i "ll:- eat improvements until-will you believe?-
SI ilt iqur.- dlull and drowsy, and said, twixtt yawn and sigh,
i... I 'i :.i, rlin. .ld-fashioned had best pass out and die!"
Xi .\ .-i i.-i I...: -ned back smiling and quite self-satisfied,
I .'1 .: :i.:..:.i i-I eyelids slowly, when, lo! they opened wide
i' ii :-. .r, i: i-nd wonder, and would you know the cause ?
;i. I I.-. il.:lt.: iiv..: standing, the form of Santa Claus.

But, oh so strange and altered In clothes of latest style,
And not at all the Santa I 'd dreamed of all the while.
But still I recognized him, and said: I did n't see
You come out from the chimney,-'t was very dull of me."

" The chimney ?" said he gruffly, I beg of you to know
I clamber down no chimneys; I stopped that long ago!"
I said, "Your load was heavy, you 're tired; won't you rest ?"
" Oh, no," he answered grandly, "my goods were all expressed! "

VOL. XVII.--3.


You must have found it pleasant the sleighing, sir, I mean.
The roofs are much more snowy than I have ever seen."
Indeed "-his air was lofty -" 't is not the present mode
To drive a sleigh. I travel by the elevated road."

'T -' i :-il :.-I : tll r. I t ,: I ~i I ..! 1 I -. t till. "- r', i l,: .. 1
1'1..1 -'r !"'.:. [ 0i ,:- i u: ,,-: .:. ,1 .: L -i -t C i l ii 1 : '. : -
T he .:!. .lr: 1.:. .: I .:l,/ ..d [i -.:. IL. ., c.. "od." [ -- __._

,:It bra, .:1,. ,,N ,,, ...' ''.I-: l ''

I ''d .. l i,, ,..: | : 1 -.. r ..:.

ILL : 1 ,a. ,. r ,

.... And when I tried to answer him,: he 'd vanished quite away
:.ht lr:, r: .! ." '

Lhoj Irt.-
,,!, i, 1' [ -,q:u IT-l 10 C

I 1 _" L tl-

"I wish you Merry Christmas O I thought I heard him sa.,.

But though they say I dreamed it, I know we shall have still
Our dear old-fashioned Christmas, bringing "Peace on earth, good-will "



LITTLE Pierre wondered, when he began to
study geography, how any one could ever have
thought the earth was flat. It seemed round
enough to him, for he lived on the side of a
high hill; and in front of the house the ground
sloped down, down, over bare fields covered
with stones, until the slope was lost among the
tops of the tall trees which grew under the brow
of the hill. Over the trees, Pierre could see
nothing but sky; and back of the house the hill
rose up, up, to where the trees formed against
the sky a broken outline, in which Pierre found
shapes which looked like men, horses, elephants,
or great giants in deadly conflict with one
In the ranks of these shapes, one buttonwood
tree rose higher than all the rest; and upon the
very top of that tree Pierre discovered a little
man standing, with a walking-stick in one hand,
and holding his other arm akimbo.
So he stood always, never changing his posi-
tion in the hot summer days, and never coming
down from his place when it was dark or stormy.
Pierre thought the little man must see all over
the world from his high pinnacle; and there
was one thing which made Pierre think he did
not approve of all he saw in the world below;
and that was a habit he had of shaking his head
from side to side, as if he were emphasizing a
very disapproving" No." Generally, he shook
it slowly, but at times when the wind blew and
it seemed hard for him to keep his feet in that
exposed place, he shook it vigorously-some-
times bowing his whole body, and swaying from
side to side in the most excited way. But Pierre
had learned another side to the queer little man's
character: that his moods, like those of many
other people, changed with the direction of the
wind. In beautiful weather, when the wind came
from the west, he would toss back his head, and
laugh as if he would split his sides. Indeed, one
day Pierre was sure he had met with this very

accident; for he was so excited, and swayed
back and forth so violently that his whole body
seemed to split in two, just as if his face came
away from the- back of his head, and left the
three-cornered hat standing on the top of his
spinal-column. But, as he seemed to grow to-
gether again, and suddenly began to frown and
shake his head in the old forbidding way, Pierre
thought that perhaps he wore different masks
and that he had been discovered in the act of
changing them.
During the summer there was not a day
that Pierre did not stand at the window, study-
ing the little man's moods and pranks.
One day, Pierre's Uncle George came from
Philadelphia, where he lived.
Pierre had gone to the door twenty times to
see whether his uncle were coming; and at last,
just when it was growing dark and his grand-
mother had lighted the lamp so that she could
peer into the dark oven at the biscuits she was
baking in honor of her son's visit, Pierre discov-
ered the horse's ears just rising above the stones
in the rough road up the hill. But instead of
running out to meet his uncle, he slipped away
by himself into the back parlor.
Where has that child gone ? thought his
grandmother; but he was back in a moment,
and by the time she had welcomed her tall son
(the only one living since the death of Pierre's
father), and had turned to put the last touches
to the supper-table, Pierre had his uncle by the
hand, and fairly dragged him along to the big
arm-chair by the back-parlor window, and,
having climbed into his lap, was whispering in
his ear the long-kept secret. All day he had
feared that when his uncle came, it might be
too dark to distinguish the little man on the
top of the buttonwood tree; and it was for this
reason that he had gone for a final look at
the last moment, while his uncle was getting
out of the wagon. He then had found, to his


delight, that although the sun had set, the
moon was just rising over the mountain, and
the faithful old fellow stood out clear in the
Pierre had never dared say anything to his
grandmother about the little man, for he knew

: .-- .,." : :

.' .._--5 -^ ." ....

___t !. ... .3

i --i_ t .c ;*li i'I'i.'..

. I. > .:ul..l a ..1 \- i .. _

about where the little man came from, and what
he was there for. Pierre once had gone so far as to

ask Joe (the boy vho milked the cows and fed
the pigs) what he thought about it; but Joe
had said only, Humph I can't see no man."

He had wished to ask Bill Drake, the big wood-
., r.: !ll, '. l o m. n. ; i ...... t l l h n i ll

chopper who sat in the kitchen evenings, and
he was there for. Pierre once had gone so far as to

had said only, Humph I can't see no man."

told yarns about snakes and bears; but though
Bill liked to tell his own stories, he always told

Pierre, when asked the reason for anything,
that it was, To make little boys ask questions."
Pierre used to wish, if so many things had been
put in the world for this purpose, that a few
more people could have been put in to answer
little boys' questions, after they were asked.
But now had come the only person in the
world who always answered his questions; and
l- !elt :.: zIi::l !i e c:uld almost have cried
:A.L:.i ir ..- lie !:t re.:l into his uncle's ear the
!hist.-,\ o :" ii: I!.-, l .uittonwood man, and then

I ?-

V ti

n I!,i arms in the moonlight,
il,:I, "Now, please te' me
t".:at him! "
-- Why, he is one of Santa
ClIjus's sentinels, to be
-lire," began Uncle George.
-- Santy claws,- Santy
..'.s ? What is that?"
-i-ked Pierre, immediately
i.--,nnecting Santa Claus with
r Ii- old claw-hammerin Joe's
S- il-box.
.. Sentinels,- watchmen,"
:aI:l his uncle. "Don't you

c.,. ~-i: a Claus is too busy to
S k.:-_: i.i -':..'nt of all the bad boys
:1!n:1 al 1.i:- good boys. So he sets
.,' i.lri-' il men on the tops of the
'".' i -lh:t rre.-: to keep watch and let
S liiimn kn.oi: \. the the boys are naughty."
S Is tl- ilie reason he shakes his
. ~:. i,:':l --, ni,." ? inquired Pierre, very
i. I:. : I.,r Ihe remembered that one
:l:y, \. i..:!i lie answered his grand-
iTi...ih.. disrespectfullyy, the little
iial I1,d looked so solemn, and
I!,-.iken his head so sadly,
that Pierre had felt sure
-he knew all about it.
-"--'.-i. "To be sure,"
said Uncle George.
" I suppose he sees some boy doing something
he ought not to do, almost all the time; and per-
haps he is saying, 'Don't, don't,' when you see
him shaking his head back and forth in that way."
Just then they were called to supper, and dur-
ing the meal Pierre looked so thoughtful and
behaved so well that his grandmother wished
that Uncle George would come oftener if it



always would have so good an effect on the
Uncle George left the next day, but Pierre's
good behavior did not leave at the same time.
His grandmother thought she had never known
Pierre so ready to pick up her spool of thread,

loss. The only thing for him to do, was to send a
letter to his uncle. He was sure, if Uncle George
knew about it, it would be made right.
So he went away by himself and spent half a
day printing his letter, though there were only
these four crooked lines when it was done:

%nktL \"xaT

k&L L S-

rgr r.i%$5 tQ %5 Jf^

I ^ C -^ ey^
Is .*! y .L

or to bring things from the pantry when she was
baking; but she did not know how many of the
mischievous plans which were always popping
into his busy brain were never carried out be-
cause of that Don't! Don't do it!" which was
privately telegraphed to him from the little man
on the top of the tree.
By and by, when Pierre was beginning to long
for a smile of approval from his monitor, one
morning-what do you think?-he appeared in
an entirely new suit of clothes! His cap looked
like a crown of gold; his robe was spangled
with bits of emerald; he wore a sash of rich crim-
son at his side; and, for days after that, he never
shook his head at all, but stood nodding peace-
fully in a very satisfied way.
But one night there was a dreadful storm.
It rained and rained, and the wind blew and
whistled down the chimney; and in the morn-
ing, when Pierre looked out to see how the brave
little watchman had stood it -lo, he was gone !
Poor Pierre! He was sure, that if the mountain
could only be searched, the little man might be
found. But he did not wish to be laughed at,
and he knew that all the grown folks about the
place would laugh at him if he told them of his

Perhaps I would better translate it:
UNCLE GEORGE: He blew off. What will Santa Claus
do about the boys ? P. S.-When he said "Don't," I
did n't.
Pierre got Joe to address the envelope and
take it down to the post-office when he went for
the mail. It seemed a long while before the
answer came; and when it did come, it was the
very night before Christmas. It was printed in
large plain letters, so Pierre could read it for
himself, and this was what it said:
Don't worry. I ought to have told you, these little
men on the tree-tops are all invited to give in their re-
ports at a big Thanksgiving dinner at Mrs. Santa Claus's
house, so that there will be plenty of time for Santa Claus
to get ready for Christmas.

The next morning Pierre was downstairs as
soon as it was light, and the first thing he saw
was a beautiful new sled, with a card tied to it.
On the card was printed:
For the little boy who did n't when the But-
tonwood man said Don't.'"
Pierre wished he could see the Buttonwood
man once more to thank him; he went to the
window, and there, on the top of the hill, in the

, 11

1? i..


same old place, stood the little sentinel,- only Joe came running in for the snow-shovel, and
now he was bundled up warmly in the whitest Bill Drake said, Look at the snow on the tops
of cloaks -just such as they wear in Santa of the trees." But Pierre said softly to himself,
Claus's own palace. It is n't snow,- and it is n't a tree !"



WHO is this boy ?
This is Charles.
What is Charles doing?
He is looking out of the pantry.
Why does he look out ?
Because he wishes to see if the coast is clear,
so that he can run to his own room without
being seen by any one.
Why does he not wish to be seen ?
Because he has been naughty.
What has he done?

He was sent to the pantry half an hour ago
by his Aunt Matilda, to bring her a piece of
citron for the cake. He could not find the
citron, but he found a jar full of cinnamon-
sticks, and a dish of plum-jam, and he has been
enjoying himself very much, indeed. He left
the door only a crack open, for fear some one
should come, so the pantry was quite dark; and
in stepping down from the shelf he knocked
down three lamp-chimneys and a molasses-jug,
and then stepped right into the keg of pickled
cucumbers and sat down in it. He upset the keg
in getting out, and the floor is all covered with
cucumbers and vinegar and molasses and bro-
ken glass, so that it is not pleasant to walk on.
What will Charles do now?
If he can get to his room without being seen,
he will either have a bad headache and go to
bed, or will run away to sea; he is not quite
sure which.
Why does he look as if he heard a noise at
this moment?
Because he does hear one.
What noise is it ?
It is the sound of his Aunt Matilda's footstep.
If his Aunt Matilda catches him, what will
she do ?
She will spank him.
Is that the best thing that could happen to
him ?
It is.
What is the moral of this picture ?
It has two morals. The first is, that it is not
wise to send little boys to the pantry. The
second is, that a little cinnamon in a pudding,
with safety, is better than a whole stick followed
by disaster and spanks.



THE Brownies once approached in glee Who pictures out, with patient hand,
A slumbering city by the sea. The doings of the Brownie band.
When one remarked, On every side Who draws our portraits, sings our praise,
Now round us stretches in her pride And tells the world our cunning ways."
The greatest city, far or near,
Upon the Western Hemisphere."
And in this town," a second
cried, /
"I hear the artist does reside Q


" I 'd freely give," another said,
"The cap that now protects my head,
To find the room, where, day by day,
He shows us at our work or play."
A fourth replied: "Your cap retain
To shield your poll from snow or rain.
His studio is farther down,
Within a corner-building brown,

Then through the park, around the square,
And down the broadest thoroughfare,
The anxious Brownies quickly passed,
And reached the building brown at last.
They paused awhile to view the sight,
To speak about its age and height,
And read the signs, so long and wide,
Which swung around on every side.

Which overlooks the human tide
That crowds along the street so wide.
I know the city through and through,
As well as if the plan I drew;
So follow me a mile or more,
And soon we '11 reach the office door."

But little time was wasted there,
For soon their feet had found the stair.
And next the room, where oft are told
Their funny actions free and bold,
Was honored by a friendly call
From all the Brownies, great and small.


Then what a gallery they found,
As here and there they moved around -
A portrait now they criticize,
Which every one could recognize:
The features, garments, and the style,
Soon brought to every face a smile.
And next they
gaze upon a
S scene
S That showed
them sport-
ing on the
-- Or hastening
o'er the fields
with speed
To help some farmer in his need.
Said one, Upon this desk, no doubt,
Where now we cluster round about,
Our doings have been plainly told
From month to month, through heat and cold.
And there 's the ink, I apprehend,
On which our very lives depend.
Be careful, moving to and fro,
Lest we upset it as we go.
For who can tell what tales untold
That darksome liquid may unfold!
And here 's the
pen, as I
Th opine,
That 's written
every verse
and line;

to this
pen are
For all our
fame and

" See here,"
another cried, "I 've found
The pointed pencil, long and round,
That pictures all our looks so wise,
Our smiles so broad and staring eyes;

'T is well it draws us all aright,
Or we might bear it off to-night.
But glad are we to have our name
In every region known to fame,
To know that children lisp our praise,
And on our faces love to gaze."

Lay figures, draped in ancient styles,
From some drew graceful bows and smiles,
Until the laugh of comrades nigh
Led them to look with sharper eye.
Some tried their hand at painting there,
And showed their
Skill was some-
thing rare;
SWhile others talked
and rummaged
The desk to find the
stories new,
That told about
some late affair,
Of which the world
was not aware.
But pleasure seemed to have the power
To clip at will the passing hour,
And bring too soon the morning chime,
However well they note the time.
Now, from a
chapel's bra- R
zen bell, 4Iwv
The startling
hint of morn-
ing fell, I
And Brownies
realized the
Of leaving for
their haunts
with speed.
So down the Z
staircase to Il1
the street -
They made their
way with nim-
ble feet,
And ere the sun could show his face,
The band had reached a hiding-place.

VOL. XVII.-32.



A HAPPY NEW YEAR to you, one and all, my
friends! And, now I think upon it, I wished this
same wish about seventeen years ago, and some of
you have heard it from this pulpit many a time in
the years between. Certainly these good wishes
ought to take effect by this date, and you all should
have the very happiest year that good Father Time
ever shaped with his gleaming scythe.
The gift of a fresh New Year, the Deacon says,
is one that should fill any human heart with hope,
courage, and gratitude. That's all I ask. If you
are hopeful, brave, and full of gratitude, you '11
stand a fair chance of being as good and happy as
your Jack can wish.
Meanwhile, the wind is telling its story of the
coming of the new year and the going away of
the old. This is the way one of your ST. NICHOLAS
poets, Ida Whipple Benham, hears it:

One moment, eye to eye,
Under the midnight sky,
The Old Year and the New;
And one was fair to see
In his undimmed panoply,
And one a veteran true.

And this was the greeting sent
As they hasted, well content
Each on his untried quest:
Cried the Old Year to the New,
I pity you "
Straight back the answer flew,
"' I pity you "
As they rode, one east, one west.

It is very strange that human folk, including the
poets, always should speak of the going year as a
veteran, an old, old gray-beard, bewildered and
desolate, tottering away to die. Now, I don't be-

lieve a word of it. The old year, as they already
call 1889, can not have lived over twelve months,
say what they will; and, according to my thinking,
he is remarkably bright, and strong of his age.
So far from being old and decrepit, he is very fresh
and vigorous, and, as he steps briskly into line with
the brothers who have preceded him, he stands nod-
ding wisely at the very important baby, 1890, curi-
ous to know how the little chap is going to comport
Ah, how ? This will depend very much upon your-
selves, my chicks, and your fathers and mothers,
your friends, your teachers, your presidents, kings,
and emperors, and all the other members of this
NOT real stones, of course, but peach stones.
Yes, my birds tell me that somewhere in California
peach stones are sold and used for fuel. They bring
five or six dollars a ton, and in burning give out as
much heat as the same weight of hard coal would.
Your Jack has not heard how the peach stones
are obtained--whether from the unsold fruit or
refuse of peach orchards, or from the fruit canning
factories, or by gathering up the stones that the
peach-eating California young folk forget to swal-
low in their haste to get back to their studies -
at all events, peach stones make excellent fuel.

WHAT city is on the line of the equator ? Your
Jack is told that the sun sets and rises there at six
o'clock, apparent time, all the year round. Geogra-
phy class, please take notice.

You will remember, my hearers, being shown
from this pulpit, in November last, a photograph
of some very large pumpkins which I had been in-
formed were from Nebraska. Well, to my regret,
it appears that this was a mistake; they were not
Nebraska pumpkins at all. They were raised in
San Jos6, California, as more than one correspond-
ent has since informed me. And the following
are the garnered facts:
The picture was taken from life by Miss Pol-
hemus, an amateur photographer. The heaviest
pumpkin, or "squash," in the left-hand corner,
weighed one hundred and eighty-four pounds; thir-
teen of the specimens weighed a ton. The young
man in the corner is Mr. G. Wakefield, who raised
the pumpkins. He is a six-footer, and this fact
should be taken into account in estimating the size
of the fruit-and beyond and above all, as I have
already rectified and testified unto you, Nebraska
never knew, saw, nor heard of these pumpkins
before they had been raised in San Jos6, California.
This is to show that your Jack knows enough
to make a mistake, and is honorable enough to
acknowledge it and correct the same under



YOUR Jack has received a funny Christmas
present. It is a doll. And a doll made of grass!
It is dressed in a coarse white lace slip, fastened at
the waist by a girdle of red string the funniest
plaything that Jack-in-the-Pulpit ever had.
Here is the letter that came with it, and I am
sure it will interest my girls very much.

DEAR JACK: Since your "chicks" have lately
been interested in the subject of doll-foreigners, I thought
perhaps you would like to show them this primitive
little stranger. The doll I send is just as a little colored
girl in Mississippi made it for us, and it is the only kind
little slave children before the wah had to play with.
It is made by pulling up a bunch of grass, roots and all,
tying the grass together at the neck line, braiding the
roots for hair--and dressing it in any style suited to the
fancy or resources of the small owner. When these dol-
lies are fresh and green you can imagine they are really
quite handsome, and no doubt they were quite as warmly
loved as their more awe-inspiring wax and bisque cous-
ins would have been.
From a regular attendant upon your sermons,
B. E. L.
NEWARK, N. J., Oct. 31, '89.
DEAR JACK: A big boy asks "if any of your chicks
have ever seen the huge rose-bush in Hildesheim." I
have not only seen it but have a sprig from it given me
by the kilster of the cathedral. The bush is thirty-five
feet high and thirty feet wide, and when in bloom is
covered with single white roses. In Hildesheim it is
said to be over one thousand years old. The great fire
that burned part of the dom (or cathedral) nearly de-
stroyed the rose-bush. It has now a large iron railing
around it to protect it.
From your interested reader, BEATRICE.

DEAR JACK : Here is afunny story that I have just read
in an encyclopedia, and I hope you '11 show it to the other
fellows, because it explains an expression quite often used
in juvenile society.

Once, in a battle between the Russians and the Tartars,
who are a wild sort of people in the north of Asia, a
private soldier called out: Captain, halloo there I 've
caught a Tartar "Fetch him along, then! said the
captain. "Aye, but he won't let me," said the man; and
the fact was, the Tartar had caught him! So when a
man thinks to take another in, and gets bit himself, they
say: He 's caught a Tartar."
Yours truly, C. A. JR.



IF I were little again,- ah, me -
How very, very good I 'd be.
I would not sulk, I would not cry,
I'd scorn to coax for cake or pie.
I would not cause Mamma distress,
I 'd never hate to wash and dress.
I 'd rather learn a task than play,
And ne'er from school I 'd run away.
I 'd any time my jack-knife lend,
And share my toys with every friend.
I 'd gladly go to bed at six,
And never be "as cross as sticks."
I 'd run with joy to take a pill,
And mustard wear whenever ill.
I 'd never wish to skate or swim,
But wisely think of dangers grim.
And, oh, I 'd never, just for fun,
Beg to go hunting with a gun!
At every naughty thing I did -
For mischief might be somewhere hid -
I 'd drop at once upon my knees,
And say, "Dear Teacher, flog me, please."

It's easy to be good, you see,
When looking back from sixty-three.

Excited Brownie. "See here, old Chappie-- they 've up and put something more about us in
ST. NICHOLAS, right around the corner -a page or two back!"




DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never seen a letter from
this town as it is only about a year old. It is situated
right in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains in
the Valley of the Feather. My brother and myself live
in a little cabin about a mile from town. If you go along
any little creek you will see that the ground has all been
picked up by men who came for gold in 1849. About
five miles from here some men have commenced a mine
in the bed of the Feather River where they expect to get
gold. Your subscriber,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Last winter we were away
from home for seven months, and during part of the time
we visited in Alaska the Muir Glacier, one of the largest
as well as one of the most beautiful of that northern
On the morning of June 12 we found ourselves in
Glacier Bay, with icebergs large and small floating on all
sides of us, making the passage very dangerous.
When we caught our first glimpse of the glacier it
looked like a cloud or gray mist rolling down the wide
valley. About ten o'clock we dropped anchor in front
of the great glacier and for the first time heard the thun-
der of the falling ice. The glacier's front is from three
hundred to four hundred feet high. As our eyes glanced
along the front of it we caught the many tints of the ice.
On the left it was a deep indigo, slowly fading out to a
turquoise and then to a snowy white. Its front was
broken into huge pinnacles towering over the water.
We were landed in life-boats on the rocky moraine, and
then scrambled for a mile over huge boulders, rounded
pebbles, granite soil, and glacier mud. When we reached
the pure snow-colored ice of the glacier its surface
was seamed with deep chasms through which melted ice
flowed, but it was so far down we could not see it.
At last we had gained the top and could see over the
vast glacier, and saw its tributaries far back in the snow-
clad mountains, the great myriads of icebergs in the bay,
and the exquisite coloring of it all. The mountains all
around the glacier are worn down almost round, and only
the rocks are to be seen, for the soil is all ground off by
the slow process of glacial action. After we came back
from our tramp in those two short hours it almost seemed
as though we could see a change in the glacier. Great
chunks of ice had fallen off and revealed new crevices
and more dainty colors. The softest, palest blue changed
suddenly to a deep sapphire or a crystal white, as a loud
report announced the falling of another iceberg.
About five o'clock in the afternoon we steamed away
and took our last look at this beautiful and majestic work
of nature. As we threaded our way among the floating
icebergs it seemed as though their numbers had greatly
increased, and after supper we saw a sight never to be
To the starboard side was a lovely bay covered with
floating ice, and into this poured the great Pacific gla-
cier. Beyond were large mountains towering to the
height of thousands of feet, their slopes covered with
snow. Above them rose Mt. Fairweather and Mt.

Crillon, fifteen thousand feet high, just showing in the
fleecy clouds. The mountains were piled unevenly to-
gether, their snowy crests shimmering like frosted silver
in the soft sunbeams that danced merrily on them. A
little farther on we met a canoe with two Indians in it.
They were dressed in white, with a white screen before
them, and their paddles scarcely rippled the icy water as
they flew on. They looked very queer with their black
faces peeping out from their white dresses. Wefoundour-
selves believing it was some enchanted scene, for the
silvered mountains behind, the strange canoe with its two
occupants, the mountains before us tinged with a weird
golden light, the huge icebergs, and the unbroken still-
ness gave one the impression of living in a magic dream.
The Indians, it seems, were hunting seal and were dressed
to look as much like icebergs as possible.
Your loving friend, JULIA T. M- .

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have a little pug-dog,
and when he gets on his collar he is very pretty indeed.
When we came up from Chicago on the steamer Petos-
key he was very lonely, and the porter fed him.and was
kind to him, and when he saw him the next time the
boat came in, he jumped all over him and lickedhis hands
so joyfully that it was all we could do to get him away
from the porter when the boat started. He likes to play
ball, and when we play tennis he thinks it is his business
to get the balls and bring them to us. When we lose a
ball, we say, Find it; find it, Trix."
I am eleven years old; I like you very much indeed;
especially I like the "Bunny Stories,"- they are very
interesting indeed.
The reason our cottage was named "The Eagle's
Nest" was because there was once an eagle's nest in one
of our trees, and we used to sit and look at it. Some-
times we would see the mother eagle on the nest.
Your interested reader, HORTENSE L- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for nearly six
years, and have written twice before, but my letters were
not printed. I hope you will print this.
We are down here for the summer, my mother and my
little sister Ethel, and are staying at a very pretty house
called "East Lynne "; it has a high tower which, at
night, is lighted up, and the sailors can see the light on
stormy nights, and know where they are, for our light is
the only one between Barnegat and Sandy Hook. In the
winter we go to a boarding-school in West Philadelphia.
My mamma's aunt knew Mrs. Dodge very well, and
I think her stories are splendid. I was very much inter-
ested in the account of "Laura Bridgman "; I have read
Dickens's account of her in his "American Notes."
I am fourteen next month, and my favorite novelist
is Dickens; my favorite poet, Longfellow.
We go in bathing here nearly every day; it is great
fun. I can swim a little; my little sister is just learning.


Please, ST. NICHOLAS, will you tell me how to make a
" salt tumbler "? I remain one of your many devoted
admirers, MAY I. J-- .
Directions for making a salt tumbler may be found on
page 739, of ST. NICHOLAS for 1884.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: My sister and I have taken
you for five years and have always looked forward to
your coming.
Papa, Mamma, my sister, and I visited a fort this sum-
mer. It seemed so funny to ride in an ambulance drawn
by four mules.
One day we went out to target practice; when the
men would shoot, it sounded like a bunch of fire-crackers
going off. After the men were through, we rode down
and found many bullets.
The ground where the bullets hit looked as if some
one had plowed it.
Your constant reader, S. D. M- ,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Your stories I like very much.
I think the Bunnies are great fun, and the Brownies "
too. I am going to tell you how glad I was when my
mamma brought the first ST. NICHOLAS. I am always
reading them, and so glad when my mamma brings a
new one home to me. I am an English boy, but very
glad that I am over here. I never had such fun over
there, as all the boys have here. I live in New Rochelle
and like it very much.
Good-bye now.
Yours truly, WALLACE S- .
P. S.-Thank you so much for making dear old ST.
NICHOLAS larger. You could not make it too big; not
too thick, I mean. I liked "A Story of a Horse" in the
November number so much.-W. S.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : I have often thought you would
like a letter from this part of the world, as I suppose it
is the first
I am an English girl, twelve years old, and the only
foreign child in Fusan.
This is a Japanese settlement, founded some three
hundred years ago; the Corean people live some dis-
tance away.
I have many pets,- a little Corean pony which I brought
from Seoul (the capital), and called "Prince "; he is a
beauty, and very intelligent and amiable. I have also
a canary and a cat, both of which came from Hankow,
in China, with me; several pigeons, and a dog.
Our house is by the sea, and we-that is, Mamma,
Papa, and I -have greatly enjoyed sea-bathing during
the summer heat.
I study at home, not very regularly, as so many things
interfere; -but expect to go shortly to school in Chefoo,
China, four days' journey by steamer from here.
I greatly enjoy reading you, and am always very
anxious that the steamer should not miss the mail in
* I very much hope to see my letter in print, as it is
the first I have written to any paper.
If you care to know anything about Corea and the
Coreans, I will gladly write to you about Seoul.
Your constant and appreciative reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Don't you think this place has
a queer name? When we applied for a post-office, the
Post-office Department said the name was too long; but,
as we told them of some other places with names just as
long, they let us keep the name.
There is a little Indian pony here whose name is
"Flaxie," and upon him I have had a good many long
rides. Unhappily pony has a stubborn will of his own.
The other day I was in a hurry, and was galloping fast,
when we came to a sharp turn that led back to his stable,
so, though I wanted to go straight ahead and tried to
pull him round, he took the bit in his teeth and went
round the corner, when the girths broke and I found
myself on the ground! I was not hurt, however, though
I lost my ride.
I wonder how many of your readers know that Old
Ironsides is still in existence, and is at Portsmouth as
a training-ship ? I rowed under her bows the other day.
They have, however, built her upper deck out over the
sides, and then roofed it in to use as a ball-room, which
gives it a topheavy and uncomfortable look.
I have taken you ever since 1879, so I hope that you
will print this.
Your constant reader, DONALD MCI- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Will it be wrong to point out
two or three little mistakes in that very charming his-
torical tale, in your November number, The Prince and
the Brewer's Son"? Errors in historical matters, or
even in the embroidery work which surrounds the his-
tory of all great men, cling like burrs to a child's mind.
For instance, Queen Elizabeth died March 24, 1603,
and James I did not leave Edinburgh until April 5th;
and he took a month to reach London. For this, and
other reasons, it is not probable that he made another
journey that year. Then, too, Oliver Cromwell was
born April 25, 1599, and Charles I. was born November
9, 1600; therefore, in 1603 it would have been Oliver
who was four years old, for Charles was not quite three.
If, however, the date of the story were 1604, we could
reconcile that year with the ages of the children, for in
the legend Oliver is always represented to have been five
years old in his first encounter with his future king.
Again, in 1603-4, Charles was not his father's heir; but
Prince Henry, his older brother, was the heir to the
It was for this prince that, in 1599, before Queen
Elizabeth's death, James, who was then King of Scot-
land, wrote the Basilicon Doron," the Royal Gift, and
it was for him, too, that Sir Walter Raleigh, while a pris-
oner in the tower, began to write the "History of the
World." Prince Henry was a great friend of Sir Walter,
and said that no one but his father would keep such a
bird in such a cage.
This was not a very filial speech, and I doubt if at this
time there was much love lost between the father and son.
Some people believe that James was jealous of his son,
Prince Henry, and say that the prince died under sus-
picious circumstances.
However, the usual story of his death is, that Prince
Henry left Richmond, where he had been ill for some
time, and cane to Whitehall to help on the preparations
for his sister's wedding. This sister was the Princess
Elizabeth who, the next year, 1613, on St. Valentine's
Day, married the Elector Palatine of Bavaria, Frederick
V., who was afterward King of Bohemia, and it is this
same princess, Elizabeth, whose descendants have reigned
over England since 1714, for she was the grandmother of
George I.


But long before the wedding Prince Henry, one cold,
raw day, went out to play a game of tennis, and, throw-
ing off his coat in the heat of the game, he had a severe
chill and died, within two weeks, of what was called
"putrid fever." His death occurred in the latter part of
1612, when he was in his nineteenth year, while Charles
was at this time only twelve. Charles, of course, then
became the heir, but he was not made Prince of Wales
until 1616. And, by the way, Charles I. was executed
January 30, 1649, not 1648.
Is it likely that Cromwell would ever have been heard
of in history if Prince Henry had lived ?
Yours truly, G. 0. H-- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I often read in your invaluable
magazine of families where the "grown-up children"
express themselves as delighted to "still keep on reading
ST. NICHOLAS," although so old." I wonder what they
would say to me, a young mother, with a son a year and
a half old, who reads every number she can get?
With heartiest good wishes for the long life and pros-
perity of the good Saint (I mean to bring my boy up on
him, I assure you), I remain,
Very truly yours, MAY H. R-- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am just twelve years old.
I live in Boston. In summer we all stay at our cottage
by the sea.
I thought I would, write you a letter about our
"Tommy." I suppose almost every little girl has a
cat; but we think our Tommy a very wonderful one.
He is at least fourteen years old, Papa says. He is of a
bright black color, and has a white tip on the end of his
tail. He is good-natured, and very affectionate. He
always eats his dinner with the family, and has a stool
and plate all to himself. He is very neat and does not
soil the table-cloth. He knows us all when we come
into the room, and gives us a kiss with his black nose.
One evening the maid was going to bed, and she went to
the cellar to let Tom up; she called "Tommy, Tommy,"
but no Tommy came. The next morning he did not
come home, nor did he all day long. At night she was
waiting on the table, and suddenly the family heard a cat
mew. She went to the door to let him in. He ran
to the dining-room and got up on his stool. He was
very weak, and his feet (which really were white) were
black as coal. We thought he had been taken away and
shut in a coal-bin. When he hears the dinner-bell, he
runs, and is the first one at the table. I have a dress he
likes very much. When we go to the sitting-room after
dinner, if I have on the dress he likes, he lies in my lap
and takes a nap while I read. Tommy is getting so old
now that sometimes we have to carry him upstairs; but
he loves us all very much, and we are very fond of him.
He knows us all when we come in, by our voices.
Mamma has painted a portrait of him for Grandpapa.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: It is now nearly five years
since I began to read your delightful pages. A kind
American friend who was once here has sent you to me
all this time; and I think some of your readers would
like to hear something about the place I live in, as I have
never seen a letter from this part of Scotland. This is
one of the oldest parts of the world. There is not very
far from our house a grand old palace, near which stood
the stone upon which all the kings and queens of Scot-
land have been crowned. But in the thirteenth century
the English were so covetous of it that they took it away
from us, and now it stands in.Westminster, London, and
upon it stands the coronation chair where all the English
sovereigns have been crowned, and upon which, I be-
lieve, Victoria sat at her Jubilee, two years ago. Some
people say that this is the very stone that Jacob used as
a pillow when he dreamed the wonderful dream of the
ladder-but Father says that is nonsense.
This stone, however, has something wonderful about
it. It has been called for more than a thousand years
the Stone of Destiny." And this has been said of it:

Wherever rests this holy stane,
The Scottish race shall surely reign "

Up to this time, this has turned out true. All the
people of your country who come to England go to see
this stone.
Although you have no king or queen, yourselves, I
have no doubt if you had a stone like this you would
soon get one, and save the trouble of so many elections.
I remain, your constant reader,
BESSIE T. B--, age 13.

WE thank the young friends whose names follow for
pleasant letters which we have received from them: Mary
C. B., Mildred C., Fred B., Bettie E. T., Mabel P. H.,
Cornelia S., James L. S., Constance K. H., Robert H.
C., Zoe G. S., W. Dorman, Charlotte E., Rose M. H.,
Belle A. H., Katie R. C., Gerty L., Emily B. and Alice
M., M. Agnes B., Albert L. K., Helen L., Stanley W.,
Lucia W. M., Helen and Alfred M., Adele C., Mabel S.,
Harry N. B., "The Little Left-handed Girl," Anna H.,
C. M. Y., The Two Margarets," E. W. J., Carmen W.,
"Rae and Gae," G. F. and C. G., Richard T. W., Isabel
V. M. L., E. S. Hine, Elizabeth F., Charlotte E. B., G. C.,
Edith F., Ralph G., Harry B., Lily G., M. J. S., Lucille
W. S., Muriel D., Nettie P. R., Pansy M., Agnes M.,
Hamish C., Stella C., Alfreda H. W., Amar, Orville C.
P., Ida," Hyacinthe S. C., Margaret S. B., Honoria
P., Hattie W., N. Reall, "Clara, Allan, Alice, Georgie,
May, and Grace," Mildred D. C., Majorie B. A., Mary
Emma W., Marvin D., Astley P. C. A., L. de B. P.,
Carrie R., Mamie L., Edith and Addle, Marie L. S.,
J. G. P., Hellen, Zillah, and Bessie S., Natalie M., Cathe-
rine and Alexandre de M-N., Charlotte P., Louisa B.,
Louise C., Hildegarde H., G. F. Dolson, May A. W.


DOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals, Christmas Tide; finals, PENTAGON. I.S. 2. Awe. 3. Arias. 4. Single.
Childermas Day. Cross-words: I. Chromatic. 2. Hem- 5. Eagles. 6. Sleep. 7. Espy.
istich. 3. Ranunculi. 4. Impartial. 5. Stupefied. PI. January sparkles cold,
6. Turbinate. 7. Midsummer. 8. Asphaltum. 9. Sub- February glitters,
strata. o1. Tinctures. II. Impeached. 12. Discordia. March comes in, a muddy scold,
13. Extremity. April sobs and titters;
ILLUSTRATED PUZZLE. Arthur Penrhyn Stanley. Tracking close her bridesmaid May,
Cross-words: I. Holly. 2. Tents. 3. Horns. 4. Dance. Blushes June with roses sweet;
5. Parry. 6. Fruit. Then the smell of new-mown hay,
DOUBLE DIAMOND. Across: I. M. 2. Cit. 3. Palet. Then the waves of golden wheat,
4. Horicon. 5. Detur. 6. Tim. 7. A. Downward: Then the sentinel of Fall;
I. H. 2. Pod. 3. Caret. 4. Militia. 5. Tecum. 6. Tor Then the wizard month of all;
(rid). 7. N. Then the fireside glows, and then
DOUBLE FINAL ACROSTIC. Fourth row (downward), Christmas comes to earth again.
Mistletoe; fifth row (upward), Xmas Story. Cross- DIAGONAL. Diagonals, Mozart. Cross-words: I. Mid-
words: I. Palmy. 2. Choir. 3. Lasso. 4. Scott. 5. Foils. dle. 2. Cohort. 3. Wizard. 4. Canada. 5. Unfurl.
6. Moles. 7. Aorta. 8. Axiom. 9. Silex. 6. Packet.
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 OCTOBER NUMBER were received, before October 15th, from J. B.
Swann-Paul Reese-" The Wise Five "- David and Jonathan-" Maxie and Jackspar "-Helen C. McCleary-
Josephine Sherwood Blanche and Fred- Jo and I- Ida C. Thallon Jamie and Mamma -" Wit and Humor "-
Granbery- A. L. W. L.- Nellie L. Howes -William H. Beers No Name, Elizabeth, N. J.- Mary L. Gerrish.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE OCTOBER NUMBER were received, before October 15th, from Marion
Hughes, I -" Al. Addin," 2 -Joseph J. Cornell, I Thorne Blandy, I Two Cousins, 3 Laura G. Levy, 8 -
Maude E. Palmer, 9-A. B. Burns, 2-Uncle Wise, I-Alice M. Smith, 4-Ruth Myers and Alta Fellows, I-
May Smith, 5 Mary E. Colston and Mamma, 4- Double Beach, I Gertrude Fulton, 3 John Simpson, I -
Hubert Bingay, 6 George Seymour, 9- Laura Pandely, I Dudley S. Steele, Jr., I No Name, New York, 2-
John W. Frothingham, Jr., 4 May Balfour, I -" Richard Coeur de Lion," I Honora G. S., 2 Agnes Willard
Bartlett, 2--"Two Dromios," 3-" Three School Girls," 4 Milly Vincent, I- A. E. Wickes, 2-" Hermia," I-
Anna W. Ashhurst, 5- A. P. C. Ashhurst, 3 L. de B. P., I Effie K. Talboys, 7- Carrie Rockwell, I Frank
Warren, I-Freddie Sutro, 2 Katie Van Zandt, 4- Margaret L. P., 2 Ethel Taylor, I Hattie Wilder, I -
Eire B., I- Fred Banister, 3--F. H. P. and R. B. L., I- Grace McBride, I--Arthur B. Lawrence, 2--Bella
Myers, I -J. S. N., 7- Bessie McIntosh, -" May and '79," 6- M. H., 2 -"Miss Flint," 9 Lillian and
Bertha Cushing, 2 Albert E. Clay, 7 Eddie T. Lewis, I Charles Beaufort, 3 -" Little Women," 4-" Grand-
ma," 6 Mamma and Jenny, 2 -"The Trio," 7- Mabel E. Bremer, I- H. M. C. and Co., I Mary Cave and
Grace Allonby, 3 -E. R. Tinker, Jr., I Lisa D. Bloodgood, 5 -Ellen Smith, 5-" Dombey and Son," 4-
" Skipper," 3- Willie Curtiss, I Alice H. Guild, I-Edna McNary, Flora G. Clark, I -" Cceur de Lion and
Shakespeare," 7 -" All Work," 7.

TELVEW rome fibluteau sthmon ot gwins
Mofr teh bingned boguh fo emit,
Ot dub nad slomsob ni suyjoo grinsp
Nad dilye ni eth mursems emrip
Chir tifur fo bolen thoghut dan dede
Rof eht tumuna, ster dan eht stewrin eden.
THE diagonals, from the upper left-hand corner to the
lower right-hand corner, will spell the name of a little
cripple figuring in one of Dickens's stories.
CROSS-WORDS: I. Affliction. 2. The smallest kindof
type used in English printing. 3. The owner of a famous
box which is fabled to have been bestowed by Jupiter.
4. A man who attends to a dray. 5. A large artery.
6. Conciliatory. 7. A reward or recompense. c. B.
EACH of the words described contains the same num-
ber of letters. When these are rightly guessed, and
placed one below the other, the zigzag, beginning at the
upper left-hand corner, will spell the name of a famous
American statesman who was born in January, 1757.
CROSS-WORDS : I. A tree. 2. Ailing. 3. Misery.

4. A tool. 5. Some. 6. A hotel. 7. To command.
8. A fit of peevishness. 9. An animal. Io. Wary.
II. A meadow. 12. A foreign watering-place. 13. A
vine. 14. A beverage. 15. A portion. 16. A habitual
drunkard. 17. Modern. ALPHA ZETA.


I 2

8 3

7 4

6 5

FROM I to 2, a product of North Carolina; from 2 to
3, a color; from 3 to 4, a cave; from 4 to 5, a pile of cloth;
from 5 to 6, equal value; from 6 to 7, a fabulous bird;
from 7 to 8, a carriage; from 8 to I, a small animal.
AcRoss: I. A sailor. 2. Abundant. 3. Fought. 4. A
diplomatist's companion. 5. A badge on the sleeve.
6. A musical drama. 7. A tap. H. AND B.


ho '

0* S
~ bA'

FROM I to 14, hackneyed; from 2 to 14, a wandering
troop; from 3 to 14, a bird whose figure is often used
as an heraldic emblem; from 4 to 14, destitute of color;
from 5 to 14, a fraction of a pound; from 6 to 14, an
East Indian coin; from 7 to 14, faithful; from 8 to 14,
compact; from 9 to 14, a fund; from ro to 14, a scale;
from II to 14, a corner; from 12 to 14, to tinge deeply;
from 13 to 14, a river of Europe.
Perimeter, from I to 13, will form three words,--a
subject of frequent discussion.

I. I. IN sunflower. 2. A Hebrew. 3. A gem. 4. Per-
taining to the commencement of the year. 5. Abound-
ing with useless plants. 6. A poem. 7. In sunflower.
II. I. In cabin. 2. A projecting part of a wheel.
3. Dens. 4. A country of Europe. 5. To deserve. 6.
To hold a session. 7. In cabin. F. p. AND D. N.
EACH of the words described contains eight letters.'
When these are rightly guessed and placed one'below
the other, in the order here given, the fourth row of let-
ters, reading downward, will spell the name of one who
has been called the greatest orator that has ever lived
in the Western hemisphere"; he was born in January,
1782. The fifth row of letters will spell the name of
another famous orator who succeeded the former in an
important office; he died in January, 1865.
CROSS-WORDS: I. Blames. 2. A place of bliss. 3. In
a descending course. 4. Disagreement. 5. Slandered.

6. A measure of thirty-six bushels. 7. Bestowed liber-
ally. 8. Painful. 9. Stipends in cathedral churches.
o1. A kind of rose. II. Simulation. 12. Accosting.
13. A member of a princely court. F. s. F.

READING DOWNWARD: I. In salad. 2. A mass of
unsorted type. 3. A monstrous bird of Arabian mythol-
ogy. 4. A very light substance. 5. A rodent of the
genus Lefus. 6. An abbreviation often found in anthol-
ogies. 7. Rodents of the genus Mus. 8. A boy. 9. A
masculine nickname. o1. In salad.
When the words described have been rightly guessed,
and placed in the manner shown in the diagram, the
upper and lower rows of letters (indicated by stars)
will spell the Christian name and surname of a famous
writer of Christmas stories.


16 Io
7 .* 15 11
14 12


I. From I to 9, evidence; from 2 to 10, a Jewish
title of respect; from 3to II, a support for a picture;
from 4 to 12, a single oar used in propelling a boat;
from 5 to 13, to fascinate; from 6 to 14, outlay; from
7 to 15, an instructor; from 8 to 16, hackneyed.
Perimeter of wheel (from I to 8), a distinguished his-
torian who died Janiary 28, 1859. Hub of wheel, the
surname of a President of the United States who was
born January 7, 18oo.
II. From I to 9, a proper name found in II. Samuel,
II, 3; from 2 to lo, a veryfamous singer ; from 3 to 11,
a masculine name; from 4 to 12, a rich fabric; from 5
to 13, one of the West Indies; from 6 to 14, mimicking;
from 7 to 15, a country of East Africa; from 8 to 16,
to long for.
Perimeter of wheel (from I to 8), a church festival
occurring in January. Hub of wheel, the name of a State
admitted into the Union in January, 1837. F. s. F.



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