Front Cover
 A lesson of the sea
 Lady Jane
 The sea princess
 Bat, ball, and diamond
 A remarkable boat race
 Cupid and crab
 The white mountain coaching...
 The lost dream
 The audacious kitten
 Six years in the wilds of central...
 Crowded out o' crofield
 Through the back ages
 The rhyme of eppelin
 Wolves of the sea
 From the frozen north
 A grievous complaint
 Fableland stories
 One afternoon
 The brownies' yacht race
 The letter-box
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00230
 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: VID00230
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
    A lesson of the sea
        Page 811
        Page 812
        Page 813
        Page 814
    Lady Jane
        Page 815
        Page 816
        Page 817
        Page 818
        Page 819
        Page 820
        Page 821
        Page 822
        Page 823
    The sea princess
        Page 824
    Bat, ball, and diamond
        Page 825
        Page 826
        Page 827
        Page 828
        Page 829
        Page 830
        Page 831
    A remarkable boat race
        Page 832
        Page 833
    Cupid and crab
        Page 834
        Page 835
    The white mountain coaching parade
        Page 836
        Page 837
        Page 838
        Page 839
        Page 840
    The lost dream
        Page 841
    The audacious kitten
        Page 842
    Six years in the wilds of central Africa
        Page 843
        Page 844
        Page 845
        Page 846
        Page 847
        Page 848
        Page 849
        Page 850
        Page 851
        Page 852
    Crowded out o' crofield
        Page 853
        Page 854
        Page 855
        Page 856
        Page 857
        Page 858
        Page 859
        Page 860
        Page 861
    Through the back ages
        Page 862
        Page 863
        Page 864
    The rhyme of eppelin
        Page 865
    Wolves of the sea
        Page 866
        Page 867
        Page 868
    From the frozen north
        Page 869
        Page 870
        Page 871
        Page 872
    A grievous complaint
        Page 873
    Fableland stories
        Page 874
        Page 875
        Page 876
        Page 877
        Page 878
        Page 879
        Page 880
        Page 881
        Page 882
        Page 883
        Page 884
    One afternoon
        Page 885
        Page 886
        Page 887
        Page 888
    The brownies' yacht race
        Page 889
        Page 890
        Page 891
    The letter-box
        Page 892
        Page 893
        Page 894
    The riddle-box
        Page 895
        Page 896
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
        Page 900
Full Text



, ,,,

a, I J I


(SEE PAGE 821.)


^-- '

I 1 0, 1

i ,,
''' ''"



AUGUST, 1890.



IT was a beautiful spring afternoon, and the
sun was so warm that it made the soft westerly
breeze feel like a summer wind. Little Johnny
Franklin, who thought he was really a big boy
because he was ten years old and wore hip rub-
ber-boots when it rained, was visiting his uncle,
who lived at the Highlands of Navesink not far
from the twin lighthouses. He thought it was
too fine a day to stay on the hillside, so he
started down toward the beach intending to
pick up shells, or amuse himself by throwing
pebbles into the sea. On his way down, he met
Harry and Eddie Brownlow, who lived next door
to his uncle. They were going to the beach, too,
so all three boys walked along together. And
when they came to the beach, they found various
kinds of amusement. They threw pebbles, and
they tried to see how close down to the surf they
could follow the receding water without being
caught by the next wave. Johnny, however,
wet his feet from trying to go down as far as the
two other boys. They could run faster than he
could, for Eddie was twelve years old, and Harry
was fourteen and a big boy for his age. As
they ran along the beach, they came upon a sea
skiff, a fisherman's boat, drawn up on the sands.

Oh, look, look, boys!" exclaimed Johnny.
"Here are a sail and a pair of oars. Let us play
that we are out sailing."
Oh, yes," said Eddie, "that will be great
So they climbed into the boat, unrolled the
sail, and stepped the mast. Johnny did not
know how to do this, and Eddie was not quite
sure of the way; but Harry said:
You just leave it to me; what I don't know
about boats is torn out!"
And so with great admiration, they watched
Harry ship the sprit and made up their minds
that he was a very remarkable boy and ought
to be considered a man, even if he was no older
than fourteen. The three boys played at sailing
for nearly an hour. Then Harry said:
I don't see much fun in this. It is not sail-
ing, nor anything like it."
Johnny and Eddie looked rather blank at
this remark.
"Now, what I say," Harry continued, "is, why
should n't we really have a sail ? "
The two smaller boys looked astonished.
How ? asked Johnny.
Why," said Harry, "there's a very light

Copyright, 189o, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved.


No. 10.


breeze, and hardly any surf. Let 's take this
boat and go sailing."
What, on the ocean ?" asked Johnny.
Yes, to be sure," replied Harry.
Can you sail a boat ? Johnny inquired.
Of course," answered Harry, confidently.
I 've been out with father dozens of times, and
he always lets me steer a part of the time."
Oh, yes," said Eddie; that 's so. Father
always lets Harry steer. He wants him to be
a good sailor."
Johnny was a little alarmed at the notion of
sailing in so small a boat on so large a body of
water; but then the fishermen always went out
in such boats, and it must be all right. The sea
was as smooth as glass, and the surf was no more
than a ripple; so the boys had very little trouble
in getting off the beach. As soon as they were
a little out from under the lee of the beach, the
light breeze filled the sail, and Harry put an oar
against the quarter of the boat and steered very
easily. He let the boat run before the wind
straight away to the eastward. She went so
smoothly and the swells were so low and broad
that Johnny's timidity soon vanished and he
began to enjoy the new experience.
Oh, see he cried; there 's a steamer
coming! "
That 's no steamer," said Eddie. "That 's
nothing but a moss-bunker."
What 's a moss-bunker? "
"A vessel that catches fishes called moss-
bunkers and takes them over to Port Monmouth,
where they make sardines out of them."
"Well, she 's going by steam, anyhow," said
Yes, and so she 's a steamer," said Harry.
" But look away off yonder. There's an ocean
steamer coming in from Europe."
"Oh, what a big one!" exclaimed Johnny.
"What 's her name ? "
I can't tell for sure," said Harry; but she 's
the 'City of Paris,' the 'City of New York,'
or the City of Rome.'"
How do you know? asked Eddie.
"Because she has three smoke-stacks in a
row, fore and aft," said Harry.
Thus they sailed along talking about the sights
of the sea, till suddenly the little boat's canvas
began to flap and then hung limp.

What 's the matter with the sail? asked
Johnny, his doubts arising again.
Wind 's died out," said Harry; it '11 come
in from the south presently. Father says the
wind is never lost but it's found in the south.' "
I guess we'd better turn back, Harry," said
Eddie; "look at the shore."
Harry looked around for the first time, and
was much alarmed to find that they were fully
four miles out.
I think we '11 have to row," he said, getting
out the oars.
What makes the sky such a funny color over
there ? asked Johnny.
Harry turned and saw something that fright-
ened him very much. It was a heavy black
cloud over toward Raritan Bay, and it was
growing larger and coming closer every moment.
Presently a flash of lightning broke from its edge,
and the dull boom of distant thunder was heard.
I 'm afraid that it 's going to be a thunder-
storm," said Johnny.
"Yes, and rain, too," said Eddie. "We '11
be soaked."
I hope it will not blow hard," said Harry,
who was taking the sprit out of the sail. But
father always shortens canvas when he thinks
it 's going to blow."
Harry seated himself, and with all his strength
began to row toward the beach. All three
boys were pale and silent. The click of the
oars in the rowlocks and the threatening peals
of the approaching thunder were the only sounds
to be heard. Soon the cloud had spread from
north to south, and was almost over their heads.
The thunder peals became louder, and the
flashes of lightning sharper. Then a few drops
of rain began to fall. In another minute, it be-
gan to rain hard, and the three boys were very
quickly wet to the skin. Eddie and Johnny
began to cry. It was dark all around them.
They could not see the shore. The pelting of
the rain upon the ocean raised a great hissing
sound like the escape of steam. The thunder
bellowed and the lightning flashed incessantly.
Harry was as white as a sheet, but he kept on
rowing. Presently they heard a sort of hum-
ming sound, in the distance, but rapidly draw-
ing nearer.
"What's that? cried Eddie.




I don't know," said Harry, stopping to
Suddenly the sail gave one or two flaps, and
they felt a puff of cool air. The next moment
a powerful blast of wind swept upon them,
heeling their little boat far over on one side
so that the sea ran over the gunwale. The air
was full of flying spray and of fearful howling
noises. Eddie and Johnny, terrified, fell upon

The wind seemed to blow harder every minute,
and the angry green waves rose in tumultuous
fury around the little boat. Oh, how the three
boys wished that they had contented them-
selves with playing at sailing! And how Harry
realized that he did not know anything at all
about managing a boat! For half an hour the
wind continued to blow. The little skiff some-
times stood straight up and down in its mad

*- R- r -f---" -i

47 T

. ,-~, .- ,_,.,-&.-;
S- _

-2 =-m --- --


their knees in the bottom of the boat and tried
to pray. Harry lost one of his oars. He seized
the end of the painter and tied it to the handle
of the other. At that moment another heavy
gust of wind swept over the boat. Her little
mast broke short off and fell overboard, knock-
ing the other oar out of Harry's hand. For-
tunately for the boys, the oar became tangled
in the sail, and the canvas and sticks, held by
the painter floated out ahead of the boat, mak-
ing an excellent "sea drag," and keeping the
little craft head on to seas, which now began to
roll up in threatening height. Harry did not
know what to do. He tried to comfort his
younger companions, but they were terrified.

plunges over the waves, but, since the drag
kept its head to them, it rode safely.
Presently the heavy clouds began to break
away, and the thunder, lightning, and rain
passed off to the eastward. The sun came out,
and for a moment the boys felt the cheering
influence of his rays. Then the wind shifted to
the northwest, turned very cool, and blew quite
as hard as it did during the squall. The boys
looked toward the shore. They could see only
the Highlands rising above the distant purple
rim of the sea. Sandy Hook and the beach
were out of sight. Off to the northward of
them, a good three miles away, they could see
the swaying masts of the red lightship. They


were being driven farther and farther out to sea
by the cruel northwest wind which is even too
strong for the fishermen at times. The poor
boys gave themselves up for lost; wet and
chilled and shivering, they sank down in the
bottom of the boat and, with their arms around
one another, cried silently. By and by Eddie
and Johnny, worn out, sobbed themselves to
sleep. Then Harry sat up and looked around
him. To his surprise and joy he saw, not more
than half a mile away to leeward, a pilot-boat,
heading southward, under reefed main and fore-
sails and jib. He stood up and waved his hat,
and nearly fell overboard in so doing. He
shouted, and that aroused the two other boys.
"Let 's all scream at once," said Johnny.
So they each drew a long breath, and Harry
counted one, two, three, with his hand, and
they uttered piercing shrieks. Something
black was seen moving up the weather fore-
rigging of the pilot-boat. Then the vessel's
head came up into the wind, her jib flapped
heavily, she lifted her green forefoot clear out of
the white foam, and then filled away on the port
tack, heading directly away from the little boat.
Oh, she 's going to leave us!" screamed
The three boys shouted again and again fran-
tically. They did not understand the move-
ments of the pilot-boat, that was all. In two
minutes she came about and then headed
straight at them. Down she came, hurling the
foam aside in great clouds of smoke-like spray.

Oh," cried Eddie, "she '11 run over us!"
But, no; as she came near, the helm was eased
down, the jib was hauled to windward, and the
pilot-boat glided alongside of them gracefully
and easily.
Catch this line and make it fast in the bow! "
cried a voice.
A coil of rope came circling and unwinding
through the air, and the end fell into the boat.
Harry secured it and made it fast as directed.
All of you get into the stern!" cried the
The boys did as directed, and were hauled
up under the pilot-boat's lee quarter and pulled
aboard. The pilots took them into the cabin,
gave them warm drinks, and put them to bed.
"Who made that drag?" inquired the old-
est pilot, after hearing their story.
"What drag ?" asked Harry.
The pilot explained, and Harry said:
It made itself."
He told the pilot how it happened; and the
old man, slapping his leg, said:
"Then the Great Pilot up aloft meant this
as a lesson for you. That drag is all that saved
you. Now, boys, take my advice about two
things. First, never take anything that does n't
belong to you, without permission. Second,
never undertake to handle a boat alone till you
know all about it."
And when they were safe at home, Mr.
Franklin said that the old pilot's advice was
very good.

-- -- -m--=---s=--

~---.~.~_1 -_._ -i- -.- -.I;_ -






ON the occasion of Lady Jane's first visit to
the d'Hautreve ladies, she had been so interested
in Mam'selle Diane's works of art, that she had
paid no attention whatever to the piano and the
But on the second visit, while Tony was pos-
ing as a model (for suddenly he had developed
great perfection in that capacity), she critically
examined the ancient instrument.
Presently she asked a little timidly, Is that
what you make music on when you sing, Mam'-
selle Diane ? "
Mam'selle Diane nodded an affirmative. She
was very busy modeling Tony's leg in sealing-
"Is it a piano? "
"Yes, my dear, it's a piano. Did you never
see one before ? "
Oh, yes; and I 've played on one. Mamma
used to let me play on hers; but it was large,
very large, and not like this."
Where was that? asked Mam'selle Diane,
while a swift glance passed between her and her
Oh, that was on the ranch, before we came
Then you lived on a ranch. Where was it,
my dear ? "
I don't know"; and Lady Jane looked
puzzled. It was just the ranch. It was in
the country, and there were fields and fields,
and a great many horses, and sheep and lambs
dear little lambs!"
"Then the lady you live with is not your
mamma?" said Mam'selle Diane, casually,
while she twisted the sealing-wax into the shape
of the foot.
"Oh, no; she 's my Tante Pauline. My
mamma has gone away, but Pepsie says she 's

sure to come back before Christmas; and it's
not very long now before Christmas." The little
face grew radiant with expectation.
"And you like music?" said Mam'selle
Diane, with a sigh; she saw how it was, and
she pitied the motherless darling from the bot-
tom of her tender heart.
"Did n't you ever hear me sing when I used
to stand close to the window ? Lady Jane
leaned across Mam'selle Diane's table, and
looked at her with a winsome smile. I sang
as loud as I could, so you 'd hear me; I thought,
perhaps, you 'd let me in."
Dear little thing! returned Mam'selle
Diane, caressingly. Then she turned and spoke
in French to her mother, You know, Mamma,
I wanted to ask her in before, but you thought
she might meddle with my wools and annoy
me; but she 's not troublesome at all. I wish
I could teach her music, when I have time."
Lady Jane glanced from one to the other
gravely and anxiously.
I 'm learning French," she said. Pepsie 's
teaching me; and when I learn it you can al-
ways talk to me in French. I know some words
Mam'selle Diane smiled. "I was telling
Mamma that I should like to teach you music.
Would you like to learn?"
"What! -to play on the piano ?" and the
child's eyes glistened with delight.
"Yes, to play and sing, both."
"I can sing, now," with a little shy, wistful
Well then, sing for us while I finish Tony's
leg, and afterwards I will sing for you."
Shall I sing Sleep, baby, sleep' ? "
"Yes; anything you like."
Lady Jane lifted her little face, flushed like a
flower, but still serious and anxious, and broke
into a ripple of melody so clear, so sweet, and so
delicately modulated, that Mam'selle Diane


clasped her hands in ecstasy. She forgot her
bunch of wool, the difficulty of Tony's breast-
feathers, the impossible sealing-wax leg, and sat
listening, enchanted; while the old lady closed
her eyes and swayed back and forth, keeping
time with the dreamy rhythm of the lullaby.
"Why, my dear, you have the voice of an
angel! exclaimed Mam'selle Diane when the
child finished. I must teach you. You must
be taught. Mamma, she must be taught. It
would be wicked to allow such a voice to go
uncultivated !"
"And what can cultivation do that nature
has n't done ?" asked the old lady, querulously.
Sometimes I think too much cultivation ruins
a voice. Think of yours, Diane ; think of what
it was before all that drilling and training;
think of what it was that night you sang at
Madame La Baronne's, when your cousin from
France, the Marquis d'Hautreve, said he had
never listened to so wonderful a voice."
"It was the youth in it, Mamma, the youth.
I was only sixteen :" and Mam'selle Diane
sighed over the memory of those days.
It was before all the freshness was cultivated
out of it. You never sang so well afterwards."
I never was as young, Mamma, and I never
had such an audience again. You know, I went
back to the convent; and when I came out
things had changed, and I was older, and I
had changed. I think the change was in me."
Here a tear stole from the faded eyes that
had looked on such triumphs.
"It is true, my dear, you never had such an
opportunity again. Your cousin went back to
France; and-and-there were no more
files after those days, and there was no one left
to recognize your talent. Perhaps it was as
much the lack of recognition as anything else.
Yes, I say, as I always have said, that it's rec-
ognition you need to make you famous. It 's
the same with your birds as with your singing.
It 's recognition you need."
And perhaps it 's wealth too, Mamma,"
said Mam'selle Diane, gently. One is forgot-
ten when one is poor. Why, we have been as
good as dead and buried these twenty years.
I believe there 's no one left who remembers
"No, no, my child, it 's not that," cried the

old lady, sharply. "We are always d'Hautreves.
It was our own choice to give up society; and
we live so far away, it is inconvenient,- so few
of our old friends keep carriages now; and be-
sides, we have no day to receive. It was a
mistake giving up our reception-day. Since
then people have n't visited us."
"I was thinking, Mamma," said Mam'selle
Diane, timidly, that if I did as well with my
ducks next year as I have this, we might have
a day again. We might send cards and let
our old friends know that we are still alive."
"We might, indeed," said the old lady, bright-
ening visibly. "We are always d'Hautreves";
then her face fell suddenly. "But, Diane, my
dear, we have n't either of us a silk dress, and
it would never do for us to receive in anything
but silk."
"That 's true, Mamma. I never thought of
that. We may not be able to have a day
after all," and Mam'selle Diane bent her head
dejectedly over the sealing-wax and wool.
While these reminiscences were exchanged
by the mother and daughter, Lady Jane, whose
singing had called them forth, slipped out into
the small garden, where, amid a profusion of
bloom and fragrance, she was now listening to
the warbling of a canary whose cage hung among
the branches of a Marechal Niel rose. It was
the bird whose melody had enraptured her
while she was yet without the paradise, and it
was the effigy of that same bird that she had
seen on Mam'selle Diane's green woolen trees.
He was a bright, jolly little fellow, and he sang
as if he were wound up and never would run
Lady Jane listened to him delightedly while
she inspected the beds of flowers. It was a lit-
tle place, but contained a great variety of plants,
and each was carefully trained and trimmed;
and under all the seedlings were laid little sheets
of white paper on which some seeds had already
Lady Jane eyed the papers curiously. She
did not know that these tiny black seeds added
yearly a few dollars to the d'Hautreve revenues,
and at the same time furnished the thrifty gar-
dener with all she needed for her own use.
But whose hands pruned and trained, dug and
watered ? Were they the hands of the myth of



a servant who came so early, before Madame
was out of bed,- for the old aristocrat loved to
sleep late,- to clean the gallery and banquette
and do other jobs unbecoming a d'Hautreve?
Yes, the very same; and Mam'selle Diane

S -- _i
- .

I ii I

-, i :
I -i~l -

I Ii"


was not an early riser because of sleeplessness;
nor was it age that made her slender hands so
hard and brown.
When Mam'selle Diane rejoined Lady Jane in
the garden she had gained her mother's consent
to giving the child a music-lesson once a week.
The old lady had been querulous and difficult;
she had discussed and objected; but finally
Mam'selle Diane had overcome her prejudices.
"You don't know what kind of people her

relatives are," the old lady said, complainingly.
"And if we once open our doors to the child,
the aunt may try to crowd in. We don't want
to make any new acquaintances. There's one
satisfaction we still have, that, although we are
poor, very poor, we are always d'Hautreves, and
--: b:,- -.- b-n .r elusive, and I hope
'.,i I'. : :- l .ll 1.:. As soon as we allow

rli..e I.-.:..!.: t.._ Lt'eak down the barriers
1..- ,. ..:-. r .-i. Il ey will rush in on us,
.idi., in .i little while, they will
t! .- r ho we are."
N" N. ver fear, Mamma; if
r-, := mnt is as well bred as
I I.- c:lild, she willnot annoy
Si. [f we wish to know
S' r I.'e shall probably have
make the first advances,
'...'. judging by the child,
They are not common
i people. I have never
seen so gentle and
I --.l'i' polite a little girl.
I!I 'm sure she '11 be
no trouble."
'', "I don't know
about that; chil-
S dren are natural
gossips, and she
is very intelligent
for her age. She
will notice every-
thing, and the
secret of your
birds will get
Well, Mam-
ma dear, if
you feel that
AID PPSIE." she will be

an intrusion upon our privacy I won't insist;
but I should so like to have her, just for two
hours, say, once a week. It would give me a
new interest; it would renew my youth to hear
her angelic little voice sometimes."
Oh, I suppose you must have your way,
Diane, as you always do. Young people now-
adays have no respect for age. We must yield
all our traditions and habits to their new-fash-
ioned ideas or else we are severe and tyrannical!"



"Oh, Mamma- dear Mamma-I 'm sure you
are a little, just a little, unkind now," said Mam'-
selle Diane, soothingly. I '11 give it up at once if
you really wish it; but I don't think you do. I
am sure the child will interest you; besides, I'm
getting on so well with the bird. You would n't
have me give up my model, would you ? "
Certainly not, my dear. If you need her,
let her come. At least, you can try for a while;
and if you find her troublesome, and the lessons
a task, you can stop them when you like."
When this not very gracious consent was ob-
tained, Mam'selle Diane hastened to tell Lady
Jane that if her aunt approved she could come
to her every Saturday from one to three, when
she would teach her the piano, as well as singing;
and that after the lesson, if she liked to remain
awhile in the garden with the birds and flowers
she was at liberty to do so.
Lady Jane fairly flew to tell Pepsie the good
news; but, much to her surprise, her merry and
practical friend burst into tears, and hid her face
on the table among the pecan-shells.
"Why, Pepsie,--dear, dear Pepsie,--what ails
you? cried Lady Jane, in an agony of terror;
"tell me what ails you"; and dropping Tony,
she laid her little face among the shells, and
cried too.
"I 'm I 'm jealous," said Pepsie, looking
up, after a time, and rubbing her eyes furiously.
" I 'm a fool, I know, but I can't help it. I
don't want you to go there. Those fine, proud
people will teach you to look down on us.
We 're poor, my mother sells pralines, and the
people that live behind that green fence are too
proud and fine to notice any one in this street.
They've lived here ever since I was born, and
no one 's seen them, because they 've kept to
themselves, always; and now, when I 've just
got you to love, they want to take you away;
they want to teach you to despise-- us! and
Pepsie stumbled over the unusual word in her
passionate vehemence, while she still cried and
sobbed angrily.
But don't cry, Pepsie," entreated Lady
Jane. I don't love Mam'selle Diane so well
as I love you. It's the music, the singing. Oh,
Pepsie,-dear, dear Pepsie,-let me learn music,
and I'll be good and love you dearly! "
No, no; you won't; you won't care any

more for me," insisted Pepsie, the little demon
of jealousy raging to such a degree that she
was quite ready to be unjust as well as unrea-
"Are you cross at me, Pepsie ? and Lady
Jane crept almost across the table to cling tear-
fully to her friend's neck. Don't be cross, and
I won't go to Mam'selle Diane. I won't learn
music, and, Pepsie dear, I '11-- I '11 give you
This was the extreme of renunciation, and it
touched the generous heart of the girl to the very
quick. You dear little angel she cried, with
a sudden revulsion of feeling clasping and kiss-
ing the child passionately. You 're as sweet
and good as you can be, and I 'm wicked and
selfish! Yes, wicked and selfish! It's for your
good, and I 'm trying to keep you away. You
ought to hate me for being so mean."
At this moment Tite Souris entered, and, see-
ing the traces of tears on her mistress's cheeks,
broke out in stern reproachful tones.
Miss Lady, what's you be'n a-doin' to my
Miss Peps'? You done made her cry. I see
how she 's been a-gwine on! You jes'look out
or her ma '11 git a'ter you ef yer makes dat po'
crooked gal cry dat a-way."
"Hush, Tite," cried Pepsie; "you need n't
blame Miss Lady. It was my fault. I was
wicked and selfish; I did n't want her to go to
Mam'selle Diane. I was jealous, that 's all."
Pepsie cried because she thought I would
not love her," put in Lady Jane, in an explana-
tory tone, quite ignoring Tite's burst of loyalty
"Mam'selle Diane is nobility, French nobility;
and Pepsie thought I 'd be proud and love
Mam'selle best, did n't you, Pepsie? "
"Now, jes' hear dat chile! cried Tite, scorn-
fully. If dey is nobility, dey is po' white trash.
Shore 's I live, dat tall lean one, wat look lak a
graveyard bigger, she git outen her bed 'fore
sun-up, an' brick her banquette her own self. I
done seed her one morning ; she war a-scrubbin'
lak mad. An' bress yer, honey, she done had
a veil on, so no one won't know her. Shore 's
I live, she done brick her banquette wid a veil
"If she cleans the banquette herself they must
be very poor," was Pepsie's logical conclusion.
"Perhaps, after-all, they 're not so proud; only




they don't want people to know how poor they
are. And Tite, don't you tell that on the poor
lady. You know it 's just one of your stories
about her having a veil on. It may have
been some one else. You could n't tell who
it was if she had a veil on, as you say."
This argument did not in the least shake Tite
Souris in her conviction that she had seen the
granddaughter of the Count d'Hautreve brick-
ing her banquette, before sun-up," with a veil
over her face.
However, Lady Jane and Pepsie were recon-
ciled, and the little cripple, to show her confi-
dence in the child's affection, was now as anx-
ious to have her go to Mam'selle Diane and
learn music, as she was averse to it before.
"Yes, Lady dear, I want you to learn to play
on the piano, and I '11 tell you what I 've been
thinking of," said Pepsie, as they leaned confi-
dentially toward each other across the table.
" Mamma has some money in a bank. She 's
been saving it to get something for me. You
know she does everything I want her to do.
I wanted to learn to read, and she had a teacher
come to me every day until I could read and
write very well, so I 'm sure she '11 do this if I
want her to, and this is what it is: she must
buy a piano to put right there in that space
next the bed."
"For me to play on? Oh, Pepsie, how
lovely! and Lady Jane clasped her hands with
"And you can practice all the time," contin-
ued the practical Pepsie. "You know, if you
ever learn music well you must practice a great
deal. Cousin Marie practiced three hours a day
in the convent. And then, when you 're grown
up, you '11 sing in the Cathedral and earn a
great deal of money; and you can buy a beau-
tiful white satin dress, all trimmed down the
front with lace, and they '11 ask you to sing in
the French opera, on Rue Bourbon, and every
one will bring you flowers and rings and brace-
lets and jewels, and you 'll be just like a queen."
"And sit on a throne and wear a crown,"
gasped Lady Jane, her eyes wide and sparkling,
and her cheeks flushed, over the glories of Pep-
sie's riotous imagination.
Yes," said Pepsie. Now that she had started
she meant to give full rein to her fancy. And

every one will be ready to worship you, and
you '11 ride out in a blue carriage with eight
white horses."
"Oh, oh!" interrupted Lady Jane, raptur-
ously; and you '11 go with me, and it '11 be just
as good as riding in Tante Modeste's milk cart! "
Better, much better," agreed Pepsie, quite
willing, in her present mood, to admit that there
was something better; and then you '11 have a
big, big house in the country, with grass and
trees and flowers, and a fountain that will tin-
kle, tinkle, all the time."
"And you and Mamma Madelon will live
with me always." Here a sudden shadow passed
over the bright little face and the wide eyes
grew very wistful, And, Pepsie, perhaps God
will let Papa and Mamma come and live with
me again."
Perhaps so, dear," returned Pepsie, with quick
sympathy. "When I say my prayers, I '11 ask."
Presently Lady Jane said softly, with an anx-
ious glance at Pepsie, You know, you told me
that Mamma might come back before Christ-
mas. It 's nearly Christmas, is n't it? Oh, I
wish I could know if she was coming back!
Can't you ask your cards, Pepsie? Perhaps
they '11 tell if she '11 come."
I '11 try," replied Pepsie; yes, I '11 try; but
sometimes they won't tell."
When LadyJane asked permission of Madame
Jozain to study music with Mam'selle Diane,
"Tante Pauline" consented readily. In fact,
she was overjoyed. It was no common honor
to' have her niece instructed by a d'Hautreve,
and it was another feather in her much be-
plumed cap. By and by people would think
more of her, and treat her with greater consider-
ation. When she was once intimate with the
d'Hautreve ladies, the neighbors would n't dare
turn the cold shoulder to her; for through their
interest in the child she expected to gain a
foothold for herself; but she had yet to learn
how very exclusive a d'Hautreve could be under
certain circumstances.


AMONG all Lady Jane's friends, there was no
one who congratulated her on her good fortune

with half the enthusiasm and warmth displayed
by little Gex.
Veil, vell, my dear leetle lady," he said,
rubbing his small hands delightedly. "Vhy,
you are in luck, and no mistake! To have such
a teacher for the music as Mam'selle Diane
d'Hautreve is as good as a fortune to you.
She '11 give you the true style -the style of the
French nobility, the only style vhat is good. I
know just vhat that is. Peoples think old
Gex knows nothing; but they 're mistaken, lee-
tie lady; they 're mistaken. They don't know
vhat I vas once. There is n't nothing in music
that Gex has n't heard. I 've seen everything
fine, and I 've heard everything fine, vhen I
used to be alvays at the French opera."
Oh, were you in the French opera ? in-
terrupted Lady Jane, with sparkling eyes;
"that's where Pepsie says I shall sing; and I 'm
going to have flowers, and and a throne, and
- oh, I don't remember, but everything, every-
thing! she added, impressively, summing all
up in one blissful whole.
Vell, I should n't yonder, I should n't von-
der," said Gex, looking at her proudly, with his
head on one side, much like an antiquated
crow, for you 've got the voice already vhat
vould make soft the heart of one stone."
Oh,- Mr. Gex, where did you hear me
sing ? and Lady Jane looked at him with grave
surprise. I never sang for any one but Pepsie,
and Mam'selle Diane, and you were n't there."
But I 've heard you sing, I 've heard you,
my leetle lady," insisted the old man, with twink-
ling eyes. It vas one morning, vhen you vas
a-singing vith Mam'selle Diane, outside on the
banquette. I stepped out, and there I heard
you sing like one leetle bird; but you did n't
know I vas a-listening."
No, I did n't know it," said Lady Jane,
smiling brightly again. I 'm glad you heard
me, and some day I '11 sing 'Sleep, baby, sleep'
for you, if you 'd like to hear it."
Mr. Gex assured her that he would, and
added that he adored music. "I have n't
heard the fine music for many years," he re-
marked, with a little sigh, and I used to be
just crazed for it; but I vas different then, leetle
lady, I vas different; you vould n't think it,
but I vas different."

"You did n't wear a handkerchief over your
ears then, did you, Mr. Gex ?"
No, no, my leetle lady; it vas the ear-ache
vat made me tie up my ear."
Did you wear an apron, and did you sew ? "
continued Lady Jane, very curious to know in
what ways he was different.
Vear an apron exclaimed Gex, holding
up his hands. Vhy, bless your leetle heart, I
dressed like one gentleman. I vore the black
clothes, fine and glossy. I vas one neat leetle
man. My hair vas black and curly, and you
von't believe it, I 'm afraid you von't believe it,
but I vore the silk hose, and leetle fine shoes
tied vith one ribbon, and one gold chain across
my vaistcoat; and one ring on that finger," and
Gex touched one of his hard and shrunken digits
by way of emphasis.
"Did you, Mr. Gex-oh, did you ?" and Lady
Jane's eyes glistened, and her little face was one
smile of delight. Oh, how nice you must have
looked. But you did n't have a fruit stall, then ? "
"No, indeed; no, indeed; I vas in one fine
business. I vas fashionable then; I vas one fine
leetle gentleman."
"Mr. Gex, what did you do ? cried Lady
Jane, in a little shrill impetuous voice, for her
curiosity had reached the climax. I want to
know what you did when you curled your hair
and wore a gold chain."
I vas one professeur, leetle lady. I vas one
One professeur! Oh, what is one profes-
seur' ?" cried Lady Jane, impatiently.
"He is one gentleman vhat does teach."
"Then you taught music. Oh, I 've guessed
it, you taught music," and Lady Jane looked at
him admiringly. Now I know why you like
it so much!"
"No, no, leetle lady. It vas not the music.
It vas the sister to the music; it vas the dance.
I vas professeur of the dance. Think of that,
of the dance. So nimble, so quick; see, like
this," and little Gex, carried away by the mem-
ory of his former triumphs, took hold of the sides
of his apron and made two or three quaint fan-
tastic steps, ending them with a little pirouette
and low bow which enchanted Lady Jane.
"Oh, how funny, how funny! Please do it
again, won't you, Mr. Gex ? Oh, do, do!"




Gex smiled indulgently, but shook his head.
"No, no, leetle lady. Once is enough, just to
show you how nimble and quick one professeur
of the dance can be; but then I vas young and
supple and full of life. I vas running over with
life; I vas one fine leetle gentleman, so springy
and light, and I vas all the fashion. Vould
you believe it, leetle lady? I had one fine
grand house on Rue Royale, and all the rich
peoples, and all the noblesse, and all the leetle
gentlemen and the small leetle ladies like you
came to the 'Professeur Gex' to learn the
"But why, why, Mr. Gex, did you leave the
Rue Royale ? asked Lady Jane, greatly puz-
zled at his changed condition, and anxious to
know by what strange freak of destiny he had
been brought to sell fruit and vegetables in
Good Children Street, to wear an apron, and
to mend his own stockings.
"Ah, veil, my leetle lady, it vas many things
vhat brought me to here," he replied, with a
sigh of resignation. "You see I did not stay
the fashion. I got old, and the rheumatism
made me slow and stiff, and I vas no more such
a fine, light leetle gentleman. I could not jump
and turn so nimble and quick, and a new pro-
fesseur came from Paris, and to him vent all
my pupils. I had no money, because I vas
vairy fond of good living, and I lived high like
one gentleman; and so, vhen I vas old I vas
poor, and there vas nothing but to sell the fruit
and vegetable in Good Children Street."
Oh, dear, dear, what a pity! sighed Lady
Jane, regretfully. To think that the mighty
had fallen so low touched her loyal little heart,
and brought the tears of sympathy to her blue
"Naiver mind, naiver mind. You see I vas
old and I could not teach the dance alvay;
but attendez, my leetle lady, listen to vhat I
say," and he clasped his hands persuasively,
and turned his head on one side, his little twink-
ling eyes full of entreaty. "Vould you, now
vould you, like to learn the dance ? I 'm old,
and I 'm no more so nimble and light, but I
know the steps, all the fine steps, and my leetle
lady must learn the dance some time. Von't
you let me teach you how to take the fine leetle
steps ? "

Oh, Mr. Gex, will you ? cried Lady Jane,
jumping down from her chair, with a flushed,
eager face, and standing in front of the little
dancing-master. "Do, do! I 'm all ready.
Teach them to me now!"
"Vell, that is all right; stand as you are and
I vill begin just now," said Gex, beaming with
pleasure, while he hurriedly grasped the sides
of his loose trousers and pushed his spectacles
well on the top of his bald head. "Now, now,
leetle lady, turn out your toes, take hold of your
skirt; just so. Right foot, left foot, just so.
Vatch me. Right foot, left foot. One, two,
three! Right foot, one, two; left foot, one, two,
three; half around, one, two, three; just so,
vatch me! Back again, half around, one, two,
one, two; ah, good, good, vairy good, my leetle
lady! You vill learn the dance so vell! "
It was a delicious picture that they made in
the dingy little shop, surrounded by fruit and
vegetables. Lady Jane, with her yellow, flying
hair, her radiant rosy face, her gracious head co-
quettishly set on one side, her sparkling blue
eyes fixed on Gex, her dainty little fingers hold-
ing out her short skirt, her slender, graceful legs,
and tiny feet advancing and retreating in shy
mincing steps, turning and whirling with a pretty
swaying motion first one side, then the other,
right in front of Gex, who, with a face of preter-
natural gravity, held out his loose trousers' legs
and turned his small shoes to the correct angle,
while he went through all the intricate steps of
a first dancing-lesson in the quaint, old-fashioned
style of fifty years ago; every movement being
closely followed by the child with a grace and
spirit really charming.
When the lesson was over and Lady Jane
ran to tell her friend of this latest stroke of
good fortune, Pepsie showed all her white teeth
in a broad smile of satisfaction.
Well, Lady," she said, you are a lucky
child! You've not only found a music-teacher,
but you 've found a dancing-master "


CHRISTMAS came and went; and whatever
hopes, desires, or regrets, filled the loving little
heart of Lady Jane, the child kept them to her-


self, and was outwardly as bright and cheerful
as on other days, although Pepsie, who watched
her closely, thought that she detected a wistful-
ness in her eyes, and, at times, a sad note in the
music of her happy voice. If the affection that
finds expression in numerous Christmas gifts can
make a child contented, Lady Jane had cer-
tainly no reason to complain.
The first thing on which her eyes fell when
she awoke was her stockings, the slender legs
very much swollen and bulged, hanging in Ma-
dame's chimney-corner, waiting to be relieved
of their undue expansion. Even Raste-the
extravagant and impecunious Raste-had re-
membered her; for a very dressy, doll, with a
French gilt bangle encircling its waist (the ban-
gle being intended not for the doll, but for
Lady Jane), bore a card on which was inscribed
in bold characters, M. Adraste Jozain," and,
underneath the name, "A mery Crismus." Ad-
raste was very proud of his English, and as
Lady Jane was more grateful than critical it
passed muster. Then, there was a basket of
fruit from Gex; and beside the basket nestled a
little yellow duckling, which came from Mam'-
selle Diane, as Lady Jane knew without look-
ing at the tiny old-fashioned card attached to
it. And, after she had been made happy at
home, she still had another pleasure in store;
for Pepsie, wishing to witness the pleasure of
her little friend, had the Paichoux presents, with
her own and Madelon's, beautifully arranged on
her table, and carefully covered until the impor-
tant moment of unveiling. Every Paichoux had
remembered Lady Jane, and a finer array of pic-
ture-books, dolls, and toys wasnever spreadbefore
a happier child; but the presents which pleased
her most, were a small music-box from Madelon,
a tiny silver thimble from Pepsie, and Mam'selle
Diane's little duckling. These she kept always
among her treasures.
The day I like best," said Pepsie, after Lady
Jane had exhausted all adjectives expressive of
admiration, "is the Jour de I'An, New Year's, as
you call it. Then Tante Modeste and the chil-
dren come, and bring bonbons and fireworks,
and the street is lighted from one end to the
other, and the sky is full of rockets and Roman
candles, and there is so much noise, and every
one is merry-because the New Year has come."

At that moment, Tite Souris entered with an
expressive grin on her ebony face, and an air of
great mystery.
Here you, chil'ums, I done got yer Cris-
mus. Doan' say nufin' 'bout it, 'cause tain't
nufin' much. I ain't got no money ter buy
dolls, an' sech; so I jes' bought yer boaf a 'stage
plank.' I lowed yer might lak a stage plank.' "
Unfolding a large yellow paper, she laid a
huge sheet of coarse black gingerbread on the
table among Lady Jane's treasures.
"Thank you, Tite," said Lady Jane, eying the
strange object askance. What is it?"
Oh, lor', Miss Lady, ain't ye neber seed a
'stage plank' ? It 's ter eat. It's good; ain't it,
Miss Peps' ?"
"I don't know, Tite; I never ate one," re-
plied Pepsie, smiling broadly; "but I dare say
it 's good. It 's kind of you to think of us, and
we '11 try it, by and by."
Dear me! said Pepsie, after Tite, who was
grinning with satisfaction, had left the room.
" What shall we do with it? We can't eat it?"
"Perhaps Tony will," exclaimed Lady Jane,
eagerly. "He will eat almost anything. He
ate all Tante Pauline's shrimps the other day,
and he swallowed two live toads in Mam'selle
Diane's garden. Oh, he's got a dreadful appe-
tite Tante Pauline says she can't afford to
feed him," and she looked anxiously at her
greedy pet.
"Well, we '11 try him," said Pepsie, breaking
off a piece of the stage plank and throwing
it to Tony. The bird gobbled it down promptly,
and then looked for more.
Lady Jane clapped her hands delightedly.
"Oh, is n't Tony nice to eat it ? But we must
n't let Tite know, because she 'd be sorry that
we did n't like it. We '11 keep it and give it all
to Tony." And in this way Tite's "stage plank"
was disposed of.
If Christmas was a merry day to Lady Jane,
New Year's was certainly a happy one. The
Paichoux children came, as Pepsie said they
would, loaded with bonbons and fireworks, and
all day the neighborhood was lively with their
fun- and such a dinner as they brought with
them! Lady Jane thought there never could be
anything as pretty as the table in Madelon's
little room, loaded, as it was, with all sorts of



good things. Tante Modeste went home to dine
with her husband; but the children remained
until the milk-cart came for them, when it was
quite dark.
After they were all gone, and quiet was re-
stored to the tiny dwelling, Lady Jane remarked
to Pepsie that she thought New Year's was
better than Christmas.

Pepsie was teaching her to read and sew, and
Mam'selle Diane was drilling her in scales,-al-
though at times Madame d'Hautreve grumbled
and quavered about the noise, and declared that
the child was too young; for, stretch them all
she could, her tiny fingers would not reach an
And then there were the dancing lessons,

-"-r -t'*-

But just wait," said Pepsie, smiling myste-
riously; "just wait until Carnival! Christmas
and New Year's are lovely; but Mardi-Gras -
oh, Mardi-Gras! there 's nothing like it in the
world! "
Lady Jane wondered very much what Mardi-
Gras was; but tried to wait patiently until that
wonderful day should arrive. The time did not
pass slowly to her, surrounded as she was by
tender care and affection.

which were always a pleasure, and a constant
source of amusement in which Pepsie and Tite
Souris shared, Pepsie as an enraptured spectator,
and Tite Souris by personating Mr. Gex in Lady
Jane's frequent rehearsals; and even Tony had
caught the spirit of Terpsichore, and under Lady
Jane's constant instruction had learned to take
steps, to mince and hop and pirouette, if not as
correctly, at least as gracefully, as the ancient
Professor Gex.

(To be continued.)

*< *'*
-" *>

44.Lh''AL' "r


i j4;

THE :TA I-'i,'iC-.
L. K. i ', i '-C.

.. ,,, i r, ii .., I h,:|.| .

L .. I I .,

h 1 1 -, h. rh ...j
A I'-",1 I .,

--* i

:1.1. I,, ,. !

But deep down under the water
Better she loves to play,
Setting a rock with sea-shells
Purple and pink and gray;
Stringing with pearls a necklace,
Or learning curious spells
From the water-witch, gray and
And hearing the tales she tells.

Without the palace, her sea-horse
Feeds in his crystal stall,
And fishes, with scales that glisten,
Come leaping forth at her call.
And when the day has faded
From over the lonesome deep,
In a shell as smooth as satin
The princess is rocked to sleep.

z f .


-. c







MORE than the professional nine, the amateur
nine is dependent for its success upon the work
of the battery. For this reason it is that so much
time and attention are devoted to the men com-
posing this battery, throughout the season as
well as in preliminary training. The greatest
cause of poor work by pitcher and catcher at
the outset may be said to be lame arms. A
pitcher whose arm is lame will go on exhausting
himself, punishing the catcher, and breaking down
the nerve of his nine from inning to inning, until
the game is irretrievably lost. A catcher with
a lame arm soon betrays his inability to throw
to the bases; and the opponents steal second'
and then third, until his own nine feel that if a
runner reaches first he has merely to trot around
to third. Demoralization always follows, and
the nine goes to pieces."
The first problem to be studied, then, is how
to avoid a lame arm, and the second, how to
cure it if the misfortune comes. A lame arm is
usually acquired early in the season; for, when
the muscles are thoroughly trained and kept in
good condition, lameness seldom results from
any cause except some foolish overwork (such,
for instance, as pitching several hard games a
week for two or three weeks). This overwork
is not the temptation to an amateur player that
it is to the professional; but occasionally a com-
bination of circumstances makes an unusual de-
mand upon an amateur, and he is then even
more likely than the professional to forget that
his arm is not a machine. On this account it
is well to state that two games a week should
be the limit for the amateur pitcher. In fact,
even that allowance, continued steadily, is very
likely to weaken his pitching.
The preparatory training for the pitcher should
be even more gradual than that of the other
players. He should begin in the winter to take
VoL. XVII.- Io. 8

up all the exercises suggested for increasing the
suppleness and strength of the muscles of the
arm and shoulder, particularly the latter. He
should use the light dumb-bells, going through
as great a variety of motions as the most thor-
ough system provides. He should vary the bells
by exercises with the Indian-clubs. After a
week of this, he ought to do some rope-climbing
and swinging on the flying-rings, if he enjoys
the advantages of a well-equipped gymnasium.
Every day he should throw a little, both over-
hand and underhand, but without attempting
anything like speed, and he should avoid curves
until he has had two weeks or more of this
general exercise.
He may then begin upon the curves with a
degree of safety; taking preferably the in-curves
first, for a day or two, and later the out-curves.
If a comrade can go through the work with him,
nothing could be better; for they may be mutu-
ally useful, not only in keeping up the interest,
but also by acting as massage operators upon
each other. The arm and shoulder should be
thoroughly rubbed and kneaded every day, and
if there be any suspicion of lameness a little al-
cohol or cider-brandy may be rubbed in. The
pitcher should not be called upon to pitch for
any cage-batting except at his own desire, and
even then he should not be allowed to do very
much of it.
Having made a good beginning, and having
with no apparent difficulty reached a point
where he can get his curves and speed without
any feeling of exhaustion or heaviness in the
arm or shoulder, the next point of danger
comes with the first outdoor practice. For this
reason, it is an excellent plan for the pitcher to
go into the open air for a little preliminary work
some days before the rest of the nine are put
into the field. In doing this he must remember
that he should be almost as careful again as he
was while getting broken in for the winter work.
He should do no hard pitching for several
days, and should have his arm and shoulder


well rubbed with alcohol after his exercise.
Until the weather is warm and settled, the pitcher
should avoid hard pitching, or he will bitterly
repentit. To cure a lame arm is a difficult task,
but of course the treatment will vary with the
nature and extent of the injury. Recovery is a
question of rest and the encouragement of union
by means of electricity, friction, or other gentle
stimulus to the circulation through the part.
As a rule it is wise to seek at once a physician
or surgeon.
Before entering upon a description of the
work of the experienced pitcher after he is once
started for the season, it is only fair to tell some
of the younger aspirants for pitcher's honors
something of the methods of acquiring the
various curves and "shoots." There have been
almost numberless articles written describing
the theory of curving a ball. These are more
interesting to theorists than to ball-players. The
fact itself remains that a base-ball may be made
to describe more or less of a curve while travers-
ing the distance between the pitcher and the
batsman; and that curve is accomplished by
imparting a certain twist to the ball as it leaves
the pitcher's hand. No matter how thoroughly
one might explain to a man of no experience
the way to balance upon a bicycle, the first
attempt would result invariably in the machine
and rider losing that balance. So the would-be
pitcher must remember that no description will
enable him to curve the ball at his first attempts.
In fact, it is more discouraging than learning
bicycle-riding, because there one feels at the
very first trial the near possibility of success;
whereas, it is many a day before the novice can
impart even a very slight curve to the base-ball.
Perseverance will surely be rewarded eventually,
however, in this as in any other practice.
The easiest curve, and the one to be acquired
first, is the out-curve. The simplest method is to
take the ball in the hand between the extended
thumb, first and second finger, the third and
little finger being closed. The ball rests against
the middle joint of the third finger, but is firmly
clasped by the first two and the thumb. If the
arm be then extended horizontally from the
shoulder, with the palm of the hand up, it will
be seen that if the ball were spun like a top by
the two fingers and thumb it would turn in the

way indicated by the arrow in the diagram.
This is the way it must twist to accomplish the
out-curve. If this idea be borne in mind, and
the ball be thus thrown, the thrower will imme-
diately discover that the simpler way to impart
this twist is not the spinning motion, but rather
a snap as the ball is leaving the fingers, per-
formed almost entirely without the aid of the
thumb. The sensation is that of throwing the
ball hard, but dragging it back with the ends and


FIG. I shows the position of the ball and pitcher's fingers as
seen when looking directly at the back of the hand, whether the
pitcher is to deliver an out or in curve. For an in-curve, the pitcher
lets the ball go from his hand so that it last touches the inside of the
second finger, causing the ball to rotate in the direction indicated by
the arrow; and Fig. 3 shows the position of the arm as it turns just
previous to letting the ball go for this curve.
FIG. 2 shows the position of the ball and fingers as seen by one
looking at the side of the hand, instead of at the back; and is the
same, when the first motion of the arm begins, whether the pitcher
is to deliver an "out" or an "in." If an out-curve be delivered,
the pitcher will allow the ball to pass out of his hand so that it last
touches that side of the forefinger nearest the thumb; thus causing
the ball to rotate in the direction indicated by the arrow in Fig 2.
FIG. 4 shows the position of the arm just previous to letting the
ball go when an out-curve is delivered.
i FIG. 5 shows the beginning of, the motion; and as the arm
comes forward, if an out-curve be delivered the hand turns with the
motion of turning a screw; while if an in-curve is delivered the mo-
tion is reversed, or is as the hand would turn in extracting a screw.

sides of the fingers just as it leaves the hand.
In practicing to acquire this curve, it is best to
swing the arm not straight out, but bent at the


elbow, with the ball just a little higher than the
shoulder. When the curve is once acquired, it
is simple enough to impart it to the ball, whether
the arm is swinging high or low, straight or bent.
None but the out-curve should be attempted
until the pitcher finds himself able to make the

ball take a quite per-
ceptible bend.
The in-curve is
the reverse of the
out, and never can
be made so marked.
The ball is held as
for the out-curve,
but is made to go
out between the
second and third
fingers. Both these
curves can be ac-

complished by the use of the whole hand instead
of the two fingers, butitis easiertolearn to perform
them in the way described. The "rise" and
" drop are also possible, and are effected by im-
parting to the ball the twists illustrated in the
diagrams, page 826. These two curves can be ac-
complished very readily, after the out and in are
acquired, by simply changing the position of the
hand, so that the same twist as that which makes
the ball curve out will make it curve up; while
the twist which makes it curve in will make it
drop. For instance, the hand held as in Fig. 4 will
effect an out-curve, and when turned a little with
the same twist will effect an up-curve or rise.
The drop is sometimes also accomplished by
allowing the ball to roll over the end of the
fingers, this giving it the tendency' to shoot
down. The arm should be drawn up rather
sharply as the ball
goes over the tips
of the fingers.
.' All these curves
are susceptible of
I various combina-
tions one with an-
other, so that pitch-
Sers make use of the
out-drop and the
-_ .in-rise, the in-drop
and the out-rise.

Any combination



to pitch what many writers have called a snake
ball," that is, one which will have a change of
curve, in effect, opposite to that with which it
started, exists in the imagination only, unless
the ball be blown out of its course by the wind.
The effect of a strong wind upon the ball is
very marked, and when it is toward the pitcher
and against the ball, it aids materially in in-
creasing the tendency to curve. When with
the ball, it renders the curve less easy to pro-
duce and less marked. A left-handed pitcher
is able to make much more of what to a right-
handed batsman is an in-curve, for to such a
pitcher it is the easiest one to produce; while its
opposite, or the out-curve to a right-handed
batsman, is correspondingly weak.
The training of the catcher has in it less va-
riety, and is in consequence far more tedious
than that of the pitcher. The work of strength-
ening the muscles of the shoulder and arm is
the same as that de-
scribed for the pitcher; N
but in the throwing
practice, the catcher
should devote his at-
tention to the short- .
arm throw. He should *.3
begin at the short dis- :
tance of perhaps fifty
feet, and increase that
distance very gradu- -,
ally. In fact, he Z-
ought, even when he PITCHING A "DROP" BALL.
can readily throw the full distance from home
to second with comparative ease, to do most of
his throwing at two-thirds that distance. After
the nine has begun to work in the field, it is not
advisable for the catcher to throw to second
anything like the number of times the majority
of amateurs attempt daily. Only after the nine
has been out-of-doors for two or three weeks
is so much of the full-distance throwing safe for
any catcher who wishes to have his arm in
good condition.
The position of the feet in throwing is all
important. If he be a strong man of moderate
weight, he can, and should, throw without
changing the position of his feet. To this ob-
ject his gymnasium practice should be devoted.
Standing steadily upon his feet in the exact.



position assumed at the moment of catching the
ball, he should with a slight swing at the hips
be able to send the ball down. Throwing in a
cage with a low ceiling is the best thing possi-
ble for him, as it forces him to throw hard and
on a line. A point of catcher's practice, which
does not enter into the work of the pitcher, is
that of toughening the hands. Rowing on the
machines, climbing the rope, swinging on the
flying-rings, and hand-ball, if there be any court
for that excellent game, will all tend toward this
end. He should consider, however, that it is
not merely toughening the skin of the hands
that is desirable, but also hardening the flesh so
that it is not easily bruised. For this reason
he should "pass ball" without gloves regularly
every day. At the outset he should receive no
swift balls, and should stop at the first feeling
of anything beyond a moderate tingling of the
palms. His hands should receive their full
preparatory hardening before he goes out into
the field, for ordinary carefulness demands that
he should do no catching behind the bat after the
season commences except with hands thoroughly
protected by well-padded gloves. Whatis com-
monly called a "stone bruise" is one of the
tenderest and most lasting mementos of care-
lessness in this respect. In his gymnasium
practice he should wear the mask. This seems
to most catchers a useless bore; but the
captain or coach should insist upon it, and
the mask should become almost a part of the
*catcher himself. All his throwing and passing
should be performed with his eyes behind its
wires, in order that, from becoming thoroughly
accustomed to it, it may add no inconvenience
to his work. The breastplate need not be so
rigorously insisted upon, but even this should
be worn frequently. The right-hand glove must
always be worn when practicing throwing, in
.order that this also shall offer no unusual diffi-
culty in the later work. Many a catcher may
think that it looks silly to stand up with a mask
and glove on to throw at a mark; but there is
every reason for doing this, and he will him-
self appreciate the value of such practice when
he stands accoutered on the field behind the
batsman and with a runner on first.
As often as it is convenient, the catcher, par-
ticularly if a novice, should have some one

swing the bat before him while he is "passing
ball in the gymnasium. By the time he gets
out-of-doors, he should be thoroughly accus-
tomed to the close proximity of the batsman and
the swing of the bat, so that it does not discon-
cert him in the least or affect his holding the
ball. It is no very difficult achievement for a
novice to prepare for this part of the catcher's
duties. He should begin by having a comrade
swing the bat quite far from the actual course
of the ball, say a foot above or below it, while
the pitcher tosses the ball at slow speed. After
several days more, the pitcher should slightly
accelerate his delivery, and the batsman swing
the bat within four or five inches of the ball.
After a few days of this latter practice, the nov-
ice will find that he does not flinch at all, and
from that time on, all that he needs is daily
practice behind the bat to become perfectly at
home so far as catching the ball is concerned.
-When the battery have left the gymnasium
and are fairly settled down to regular field-prac-
tice, they require the strictest of supervision to
prevent them from doing foolish things. For
instance, all the nine have the strongest fancy
for batting the delivery of the regular pitcher.
They like the practice, and know that it is good
for their batting. The pitcher, likewise, is prone
to a vanity that urges him on to extreme effort
when pitching to members of his own nine;
and while such effort to a moderate degree is an
excellent thing for him, it will be found that,
left to himself, he will very likely enter into a
duel with the batsman and pitch himself into
exhaustion or a lame arm before the batsman
will tire of the sport. He therefore should be
permitted to pitch to one or, perhaps, two bats-
men daily, just enough to give him a little in-
terest; while the rest of his pitching practice
should be very limited, and should have no ele-
ment in it that would tempt him to pitch a sin-
gle ball after his arm is tired. When the season
is at its height, the games themselves will give
him enough to do without any pitching to his
own men- unless he may occasionally desire
to try the effect of some new delivery upon the
batsman. In that case he should be free to se-
lect his own victims as he may require them.
The pitcher should also practice throwing to
bases, paying particular attention to holding a



runner close upon first base. He should aim
to acquire such precision in this as habitually to
throw four out of five balls successively in prac-
tically the same, spot--namely, at about the
height of the baseman's knee and just a little
toward second. The same relative place is a
good one for throwing to the other bases, for
the purpose to be borne in mind is not to throw
at the base, but to cut off the runner.
The catcher needs little watching, but the
captain or coach must never allow him to stand
before any swift pitching if his hands are sore.
Sometimes a plucky fellow will not care to tell
everybody that his hands are sore, and it there-
fore must be the captain's business to know all
about this. The pitcher should tell the captain;
for it is the pitcher who will notice the unavoid-
able wince that is the proof of a catcher's sore
hand. The catcher should do a moderate
amount of throwing to all the bases every day,
and he ought also to practice receiving the ball
from both in-fielders and out-fielders at the home
plate, in order that he may be able to put the
ball on a runner coming in from third. For
general work, it is not a bad plan to have both
catcher and pitcher bat to the in-fielders, as it
gives them relaxation as well as exercise good
for all-around development.
Their work with one another is of the most
vital interest to the success of the nine, for in it
lies the best part of the strength of the battery.
If two men do not get on well together, it is
an almost hopeless task to make of them a
successful battery. In the matter of signals, as
almost every one nowadays understands, they
must be thoroughly accustomed to each other.
These signals indicate what kind of ball is to be
pitched, and sometimes the catcher gives them,
sometimes the pitcher. If the catcher be a good
judge of batsmen, and the pitcher be of a dis-
position inclining him to depend upon some one
else, it is best that the catcher give the signals.
It is also less likely to attract the attention of
the coaches or batsmen, as the catcher can
better conceal a gesture. The pitcher may,
however, give them if it seems necessary.
Signal systems of great ingenuity may be con-
cocted, but as a rule the simpler they are, with-
out too great risk of discovery, the better, as
neither player should have his mind distracted

from his work any more than is necessary by
being obliged to think twice about a signal.
A movement of the thumb or a finger, as the
catcher stands with his hands on his knees pre-
paratory to receiving the ball, is the most com-
mon; and if the catcher keep his hands on the
inner sides of the legs in giving this signal it is

difficult for the coach to catch it. The height
at which he holds his hands may indicate the
kind of delivery he wants. A movement of the
head, the position of the feet all may be
made useful in this way.
I remember one college catcher who gave
the signals for an out-curve or an in-curve in a
peculiar manner, and one which was never sus-


pected by any one not in the secret. The signal
consisted in the relative position of a certain wire
in the mask, to his eyes. If he looked over this
wire he wanted an in-curve; if under it, an out-
curve. The change in position of his head was al-
most imperceptible, but it was unmistakable to
the pitcher who understood its significance.
Ward once told a very good story apropos of
signaling. A certain pitcher was giving the
signals, and the man who was catching was
comparatively a stranger to his delivery. It
appears that the signals which the pitcher was
giving were a smile and a-frown; and after a
time, the first-base man, who had been in the
habit of catching for the same pitcher, began to
expostulate with the new catcher for his wretched
"Why," replied the poor fellow, "the sun is
in that pitcher's eyes, and he squints his face up
so that I can't tell, for the life of me, whether
he's grinning or scowling "
It is customary for the one of the pair who is

not giving the signals, to be perfectly free to
shake his head if he does not approve of any
particular delivery which has been signaled, and
his comrade then gives the sign for a different
curve. In a strong battery the man who is a

good judge can in this way often be of great as-
sistance to the other.
In his pitching to batsmen, the pitcher should
bear in mind that it is by no means possible to
strike out all, or even a moderate proportion, of
the men who face him; whereas it is possible to
prevent the majority from hitting the ball just
where they wish. The first principle to keep be-
fore him, then, is to make the batsmen hit the
ball either close up on the handle or out at the
end of the bat. In either case the hit will prob-
ably be one which may be easily fielded so as to
result in putting out the batsman. By the ju-
dicious use of the rise or drop, also, the pitcher
may cause the batsman to hit flies or grounders,
according to the delivery. If his out-field be
exceptionally good, it is often good policy to
make the batsman knock a fly. Again, a weak-
ness in the out-field accompanied by unusual
strength in the in-field may indicate that he
should endeavor to make the batsman keep the
ball on the ground. There are, correspondingly,
occasions when, with men
on the bases and less than
two out, a pitcher can
greatly relieve the feel-
ings of his nine by strik-
ing out one or two men,
Sand it is upon such an
T occasion that he should
make an especial effort
S' i to accomplish this. All
i F these things he should
consider in practice, as
well as in games, and
trainhimself accordingly.
He should also think
of his catcher; and, in
S__ a game, remember that
he is giving the man
behind the bat a deal
more work to do, if he
continually labors -to
strike out the men, than
THE MASK AND HIS EYES. if he judiciously controls
their hitting so that the rest of the nine shares in
the labor. When there is a man on first who is
known to be a good and daring base-stealer, it
is also good policy to refrain from pitching the
ball in such a manner as to give the catcher a


1890.] BAT, BALL, AND DIAMOND. 831
poor opportunity for his throw, as, for instance, two bases instead of one. No matter what has
sending an in-shoot very close to the batsman, happened, it is the catcher's business to get the
or a slow out-curve which will give the runner a ball as quickly as possible, and make any neces-

(7' 1,is.


long lead on the ball. It is the pitcher's business
to keep the base-runner as close to the base as
possible, and to have his delivery of the ball to
the batsman accompanied by as little prelimi-
nary step and swing as is consistent with good
work, because in that way the runner cannot
get very far toward second before the catcher
receives the ball. The best of catchers can not
throw out even a moderately fast runner unless
the pitcher assists in this way.
The catcher, on his part, must return the
kindnesses of the pitcher by like consideration.
He must begin by a resolution to try for every-
thing, and to consider no ball beyond his reach,
no matter how wild. If he cannot catch it, he
may by an effort at least stop it; and nothing is
so encouraging to the pitcher as to see that his
catcher will try for even the wildest pitch. It
is the fashion of some amateur catchers, if there
has been a mistake in the signal, or a wild pitch,
to stand a moment to cast a reproachful look at
the pitcher before starting after the ball. This
is, of course, absurd. It never does any good;
it usually disgusts the pitcher and the rest
of the nine, and allows the runner to take

sary explanation later. The catcher should also
be very willing in the matter of trying for foul
flies. It makes glad the heart of the pitcher to

S .' "-- ", --,

catcr should be min l of thi
*'- ; --_:M ". .-/ -- ""

see a batsman go out on a foul fly, and the
catcher should be mindful of this.


One very difficult 'ball for most catchers to
handle is a high, swift rise which passes the
batsman's face; and as it is, in the hands of a
pitcher who uses it well, a very effective ball,
the catcher should devote plenty of practice to
it, until he is absolutely sure of holding it. It
will sometimes go a little higher than the pitcher
intends, and unless the catcher gives him good
support, the pitcher becomes afraid to use it,
and thus loses a strong feature of his delivery.
The catcher, even though he be an excellent
thrower, should not fall into the error of throw-
ing too frequently to first and third. An occa-
sional throw when there is a chance of catching
a too venturesome runner is good policy; but
simply to return the ball to the pitcher by way
of first or third is inviting the accident of a mis-
play which will give a runner a base and perhaps
a run. Throwing to second has been dwelt

upon already to considerable length; but one
thing may be added, and that is, that a catcher
will find it productive of the greatest improve-
ment to his work in this respect, if he will make
a point of catching every ball, no matter whether
there be a runner on first or not, exactly as if he
must throw it to second. He will be astonished
at the marked increase in quickness that comes
from making this a habit. One word more for
the catcher, and that in regard to returning the
ball to the pitcher. Bearing in mind that the
pitcher has a long task before him, the catcher
should return the ball to him as accurately as
possible; never falling into the slipshod habit
of sending it back carelessly so that the poor
pitcher is kept dancing hither and yon to catch
these returns. The ball should be so returned
by the catcher as to go on a clean first bound
almost into his very hands.

(To be continued.)



- ~ f ,.-~-- B


IT was the day of the long talked-of Atalanta-
Yale race; and every one was on the tip-toe of
expectancy at the thought of the question of
boating supremacy to be settled between the
champion amateur-eight and the champion col-
lege-eight. Experts in boating matters had ex-
pressed differing opinions as to the probable result,
and every one at all. interested in rowing had
read of the merits of the rival crews. The gen-

eral opinion was that the Atalantas would lead
for at least two miles, and then would strain every
nerve to hold that advantage to the end of the
four miles which had been agreed upon as the
distance. The race was to be rowed between
the hours of ten and seven, at any time when the
conditions of wind, tide, and water were most
favorable. At nine o'clock, the wind had sprung
up; and the crews, referee, and judges, who were
assembled at the Yale boat-house in preparation
for the start, began to cast dubious looks at the



flags as they stood out straight from the poles in
the freshening breeze. The course had been
laid out in the harbor, extending four miles
direct from the outside breakwater to the end
of Long Wharf. The boat-house stood a mile
back from the long pier, and the boats of both
crews were here housed until the referee should
order them out for the race. The Long Wharf,
and boats and bridges were black with people
by ten o'clock. Eleven o'clock, and still the
wind whipped the water into waves, not high,
but too rough for the low, eight-oared shells
to ride without danger of becoming filled before
the four miles could be rowed. Now the only
hope of the weather-wise was that on the turn

at once crept gingerly into their cranky shells
and paddled up to the line.
Soon the shells were in place, the referee called
out, "Are you ready?" and then his Go!"
rang out like a pistol-shot. The sixteen oar-blades
were buried and the two boats sprang forward
like unleashed hounds, the Yale bow a trifle to
the fore. Now for the lead! The Yale crew
have been told that they must not be alarmed
if the Atalantas should at first succeed in ob-
taining the coveted lead, but they have also been
instructed to spurt up to thirty-five strokes
to the minute (which is four above their regu-
lar number) rather than let these sturdy rivals
have their own way at this point. Both

of the tide, just after noon, the wind would
slacken. This hope proved well-founded, for by
twelve o'clock the flags were drooping, and the
water becoming quieter, the referee ordered out
the boats, and the crews hastened to bring the
slender shells.
The Yale crew then jumped aboard the ref-
eree's steam launch, which started down the har-
bor, towing the shell. A steam tug performed
the same offices for the Atalantas. As the two
little steamers puffed down past the piers, the
"Rah! rah! Yale!" of the college sympa-
thizers mingled with the cheers of the friends of
the Atalantas. By the time they reached the
starting-flag, the course was by no means bad
except at a few exposed points. The two crews
VOL. XVII.- 102.

crews are putting forth all their strength; the
Yale blades splash a little more than those
of the Atalantas, but nevertheless the power of
their stroke keeps them still a foot ahead. Al-
most stroke for stroke they row, but now the
Yale boat is traveling more smoothly on her
keel and she begins to draw away. The half-
mile flag is passed, and there is clear water be-
tween the boats. Down drops Yale's stroke to
thirty-one, while the Atalantas' must remain at
On they go, the space between the boats
slowly growing until, at the mile, Yale is three
lengths ahead. At the mile and a half they
have increased this lead to four lengths, and it
begins to look as if it were all over but the


shouting." The Yale blades go more smoothly
now, and there is hardly a splash in the rhyth-
mic swing of the rising and falling oars when -
what! stroke has ceased to row! See the spurt-
ing sheet of water rising over his motionless
oar! Oh, Allen! -no one thought you 'd fail!
But why does he not recover ? The water still
leaps from the dragging blade; the cause is plain
-he has broken his oar, and Yale's chances
are gone! What a pity, after their fine work
and with such a lead Allen is reaching out and
unlocking his rowlock to set the oar free and stop
its impeding drag upon the boat. The Yale
oars go bravely on, not a stroke lost, although
there are only seven oarsmen now. But the
Atalantas are creeping up, and it is manifestly
a hopeless task for those seven men to carry a
"passenger" as heavy as Allen over the re-
maining two miles, and- keep ahead of the
eight in red who are now steadily overhauling
them. Allen has succeeded in freeing the
broken oar and drops the two treacherous bits
into the water astern. Poor fellow, it will break
his heart to watch the steady approach of that
slender prow behind and be unable to help his
men See, he turns and says something to star-
board-stroke, and now- he is certainly going
to stand up! Just leaning forward, he rises as
the seven oars make their catch and lift the
boat firmly; and, almost without a splash, over he

,^\ TWO
^^ Y

goes, clear of the boat, which shoots ahead as he
turns in the water and calls cheerfully, Go in
and win! A few strokes of his muscular arms,
and he is reached by the launch and swings
himself up into her bows the hero of the
hour! Now his crew still has a chance to win,
for the loss of his oar is partly compensated by
the decreased weight. A half mile will tell the
story, for they have lost but a length or two of
their lead. As they pass the next flag it is evi-
dent that the Atalantas are no longer gaining,
and at the three miles they are surely dropping
farther astern 1 Only a mile more, and if the
plucky little coxswain can keep up the courage
of his seven men, Allen will have no cause to
mourn. We are near enough to hear the cox-
swain shout, Only a half mile more, boys; keep
it up and we '11 beat them yet! The boats at
the finish begin to see them coming, and the
whistles blow and the cheers come rolling over
the water, encouraging them to hold that pow-
erful swing just a little longer. Two minutes -
and "bang" goes the gun on the judge's boat and
the Yale crew shoot by, the winners of one of
the most remarkable races ever rowed. And how
the boys will make heroes of them all! -Allen for
his coolness and pluck, the coxswain for his
skill and courage, the starboard-stroke for his
steady work, and all the crew for their endur-
ance and nerve!




LONG years ago, when the tide was low
One lazy summer's day,
From a distant star to a sandy bar
A cupid winged his way.

His quick glance fell upon a shell;
A crab lay on the shore;
With seaweed fine he made a line,
And hitched the crab before.


"Go 'long !" he cries. In sad surprise,
He finds the reins are slack;
And though he plead to move ahead
The crab began to back.

In vain is talk; of ways to walk,
The crabs possess queer notions; -

-. -

'-c -

One would suppose so many toes
Would give much better motions.

This cupid, though, was bound to go;
On riding he was bent.
He tied the crab behind his cab,
And said, Go back! He went.


/, "4a.

,,.-- -~:z~~j.

c, r.



S.......- I ... .. ..

'" : z' ^ ,.: ,.,.;''*,,t',,*iy : '" .,,- ', c:f ',


ON the clear and bright August morning
chosen for the White Mountain Coaching Pa-
rade, all the roads within twenty-five miles lead
to Bethlehem. On other days there is a long,
wood-shaded drive to the Notch or the Flume;
a steep climb to Mt. Agassiz; a pleasant moun-
tain road to Franconia, or Crawford's, or the
Glen. But to-day no one mentions these at-
tractions. Every boy and girl, every young
man and maiden, who can possibly get there,
is going to Bethlehem to the annual Coaching
Parade. And every horse and every vehicle of
whatever age or physical condition is engaged
for the occasion.
Do you know how many young people can
ride on and over and around the roof of a full-
sized mountain tally-ho ? Of course, upon this
fine summer morning no one wishes to ride
inside if he can find a corner to cling to on the
roof. This is the way twenty-four young people
arranged themselves on a big tally-ho, for a
twenty-five mile ride to Bethlehem, one coaching
day: First, there were two on the seat with the
driver. Then four sat on the roof seat just be-

hind; four more were on the front "upper-
deck" seat, above the roof; four on the seat
next behind; four in the "rumble"; four on
the rear of the roof, facing the rumble; and, as
there were two more very anxious for places on
top, and quite willing to be inconvenienced,
cushions were placed for them between the roof
seat, behind the driver, and the front "upper-
deck" seat. In this latter position no allow-
ance is made for feet, which therefore had to
swing over the side of the coach.
But no one stops to think of discomfort this
busy morning. The inside sgats are quickly
taken by older people, banners displaying the
house colors are spread, the young man in the
rumble sounds the bugle, and the six horses
dash away amid the farewell cheers of stay-
at-home guests.
If a drive of twenty miles is before us, we
have taken our early breakfasts and by nine
o'clock are well on our way; for mountain roads
are not level nor favorable for making time, and
the grand procession will move at eleven. Off
we go, under long shady stretches of birches,


maples, and pine-trees, through which are steal-
ing flecks of silver sunshine; starting up all the
squirrels and crows and bluebirds, and waking
sudden echoes which seem to mock the loud
laughter and the bugle notes. The roads are
smooth and hard, the horses are in the best
condition, the sky is blue, the sunshine brilliant,
and a tally-ho song or some college glee rings
out from the glad young passengers on the rum-
bling coach.
The procession of ornamented coaches and
other vehicles is to move from Maplewood, one
mile distant from Bethlehem, down the entire
length of the street, and then return to the start-
ing-point to receive the prizes. These are four

awards to the successful competitors the pretty
silk banners which constitute the premiums.
On every road to the north, east, south, and
west long lines of carriages are pouring into
the wide Bethlehem street; and every carriage
is crowded to its utmost capacity with visitors.
The girls are in bright summer costumes and
bear banners and pennants. The young men,
in brilliant tennis-blazers and negligee costumes,
are giving the mountain calls or yells,"- cries
adopted according to the well-known college
custom and uttered with more energy than
music. Here for instance is a heavily loaded
coach, the passengers of which on meeting an-
other coach cry, in strong, distinct chorus:


,-- '

J I :
:.I 11'

I,- N--
, = -- .. ...
'" ', ,' '-.'' "^
1 ., *. 7 .. -


in number, and are offered, first, for the coach
load of prettiest girls; second, for the most
beautifully decorated coach; third, for the fin-
est horses and equipment: fourth, for the
coach coming the greatest distance. There is
also a second prize in each class, making eight
in all, and the governor of New Hampshire

Look-off! Look-off! Who are you?
We 're from the Look-off!
How do you do?
And the second coach-load replies:
Hurrah for the silver!
Hurrah for the white!
We 're from the Howard!
We 're all right.


A third chimes in with an indescribable and
very ingenious call to which no pen could do
justice :
Bric-a-kex-kex, co-ax, co-ax,
Bric-a-kex-kex, co-ax, co-ax,
Hoi moi, Hoi moi,
Parabaloo, Maplewood !
All the coaches and mountain wagons, and
many of the smaller vehicles, are decorated with
bunting or flowers, often after very artistic de-
signs; and all the houses, big and little, hotels
and cottages, on both sides of the street, are
gay with draperies and festoons, evergreens and
flowers, of every color. Here is a pretty sum-
mer home whose wide verandas are festooned
with apple-green and white bunting, while deli-
cate linings of pink are blushing through them
in a pleasant summery fashion. Another has all
its decorations of apple-green and white. The
hotel doors and windows are prettily draped
and a fringe of large green and white snow-
balls made of tissue paper is lightly swinging
in the cool summer air. Festoons of swaying
balls also envelope the handsome tally-ho be-
longing to this house. The rumble is appar-
ently filled with snow-balls which are carelessly
dropping over, and are kept in place by being
strung, at irregular intervals, on strong thread.
Silvered paper conceals the hubs, pole, and

whiffletrees. Eight fine gray horses step
proudly in their trappings of white and plumes
of white and green; and, prettiest of all, six-
teen young girls in white dresses, apple-green
sashes, with sailor-hats trimmed with green, and
large bouquets of pink and white sweet-peas
tied with green ribbon, are seated on top of the
coach, while a group of laughing children is
crowded inside.
Another house is out in blue and red, with
streamers draped and festooned from a Maltese
cross in the center; and the tally-ho matches
it in coloring. These young ladies wear blue
dresses, silver girdles, and large white hats
trimmed with red poppies.
It would be quite useless to try to describe
all the beautiful coaches and costumes in the
long procession; for there are one hundred and
fifty well-filled vehicles in all, and every possi-
ble combination of color. But I must tell you
of one unique turnout that amused every one.
A big hay-wagon with pole and stanchions cov-
ered with green and white cloth is partly filled
with hay. Festoons of fruit, corn, and veg-
etables adorn its sides, and the stanch team
of eight fine fat oxen wear long green and white
streamers on their horns. In the cart are six-
teen jolly (city) farmers in coarse attire, with



A '-5 '

.. .. '.Z .

T ,,C ..... I,



decorated hats, carrying rakes, hoes, and pitch-
forks, and bearing a banner inscribed with the
name Hayseed Tally-ho." The farmers"
had two "calls," as follows:
Huckleberry, huckleberry, huckleberry pie !
Buckwheat, buckwheat, buckwheat cakes!
and these they delivered with energy as the
oxen slowly drew the cart down the street.
But most charming of the sights in all this
fair procession is a large mountain tally-ho trans-
formed, by the aid of a skillful decorator, into
a state chariot of the olden time, such as a king
or queen might have used when making a
"royal progress." Picture to yourself a stately
coach in full decoration of light blue and gold
satin, the commonplace wheels being covered
with blue satin, on which gilded spokes are
painted in imitation of chariot-wheels. Within,
the coach is fully hung with blue satin draperies,
with fine Honiton lace curtains from the win-
dows. Handsome paintings of the seasons are
on the door and at the sides, while a lovely fig-
ure representing August," painted on gold-col-
ored satin and hung with a rich blue silk rope,
is at the rear. In front of the driver's seat is a

large gold eagle with outspread wings, bearing
a laurel wreath. The driver himself, who looks
exceedingly proud of the handsome turnout,
wears a coachman's coat of light cloth, white
knee-breeches and hose, and large buckles on
his shoes. The little bugler has a red coat, white
stockings, and knee-breeches. The six horses
have blue and gold blankets and plumes.
The crowning attraction is, of course, the
twelve young girls seated on the carved and
draped roof seats. Seven of them are from New
England, the rest from New York. All are
dressed in costumes of fine white muslin, with
Directoire capes of fine light blue broadcloth
trimmed with gold fringe, white silk mitts, gold-
colored sashes, white poke hats, trimmed with
blue and gold. They carry twelve ensigns or
little banners of blue and gold handsomely
As the long and gay procession of coaches
moves down the street, crowds of spectators,-
about ten thousand in all,-dressed in holiday
attire, salute them from balconies and verandas.
Generous applause greets the riders as one and
another beautiful or unique vehicle goes by.
The Indian basket-makers from their encampment
are out, in full dress of war-paint and feathers, on


a picturesque conveyance. Here is a company of
little children in white and pink, having a fine
frolic as they scatter field-flowers among the
crowd. There is a tiny carriage accompanied
by four small boys, as postilions, in white suits
with canary sashes, and they look very pretty
on their little ponies.
By the time all the coaches have passed on
their return to Maplewood, the spectators have
quite generally decided as to the winners of
the prizes.
The state chariot easily carries off the first
banner for coach decorations and also the first
for fine horses. A coach-load of beautiful dark-
eyed girls in white costumes with gold-colored
jackets and sashes, and white hats with golden
trimming, is made happy by the presentation of
the first prize for beauty. The other prizes are
given with equal discrimination. The governor
makes a wily speech as he awards the prizes
from the hotel piazza, the bands play their most

joyful strains, and thousands of tired people
scatter in every direction for dinner.
Most of us stay to the afternoon games of
base-ball, for each large mountain house has its
base-ball club as well as its tally-ho. But very
few of those coming from a distance can enjoy
the elaborate fireworks in the evening, which
terminate the festivities of the day, and by five
o'clock all the grand old mountain peaks around
Bethlehem see hundreds of happy young peo-
ple on their homeward way making the woods
ring again with bugle-note and lively song, the
waving of banners and exchange of friendly
calls with neighboring coaches.
The prize banners are placed conspicuously
in the rotundas of the respective hotels; the story
of the day's triumphs and pleasures is recounted
to friends at home; a dance in the parlor finishes
the evening, and the happy coaches enjoy the
long, dreamless sleep which ends one of the mer-
riest of all merry White Mountain summer days.

.. I2

- -- -





OH, why can't I think of it ? Where did it go ?
I thought I would tell you this morning, you
Yes, I thought, half awake-all so plain it did
And now I have lost it -my dear little dream.

Do you think it will come again-maybe to-
night ?
Oh, if I once catch it I '11 hold it so tight.
'T was like music, I think-and it must have
had wings;
'T was like flowers and sunshine and all lovely

If one could just peep into dreamland and see!
Do you think I would find it there, waiting for
But trying to catch it, one never could tell-
It might fade quite away, under dark fairy

For a queer place is dreamland, you know,--
very queer;
And you can't be quite sure which is there and
which here;
And you always keep doing but never get
And the ground floats from under your feet as
you run.

There the hills and the hollows seem melting in
'T is an Indian summer of unending days.
And the music will never play straight through
one tune;
And the trees are so tall they go brushing the

There the cats and the dogs are all able to
When you meet 'em together, out taking a walk.
There the roses are green-and the leaves may
be pink;
And things are so mixish" it scares you to

There speaking to some one you 're sure that
you know,
Why, it 's somebody else-and that bothers
you so !
You '11 mean to say something--the sense will
all change
To something you did n't mean, foolish and

But I think I shall know it the minute I see,
And I '11 tell you the moment I wake. Oh, dear
I hope that I '11 find it. Too bad it would seem
To lose it forever-that dear little dream!

VOL. XVII.-103.

'. IO ;"

" HURRAY cried the kitten, "
As he merrily set the sails;
"I sail o'er the ocean to-day
To look at the Prince of W.
"0 kitten! 0 kitten!" I cried,
"Why tempt the angry gales
" I 'm going," the kitten replied
To look at the Prince of Wa


K itfer\.

hurray! "0 kitten! pause at the brink,
And think of the sad sea tales."
"Ah, yes," said the kitten, "but think,
ales Oh, think of the Prince of Wales "

"But, kitten!" I cried, dismayed,
? "If you live through the angry gales
[, You know you will be afraid
ales! To look at the Prince of Wales "

" I know what it is to get wet,
I 've tumbled full oft in pails
And nearly been drowned and
%g I must look at the Prince ofW;
"0 kitten!" I cried, "the Deep
Is deeper than many pails !"
Said the kitten, "I shall not sleep
S Till I 've looked at the Prince of

Said the kitten, "No
such thing!
yet Why should he make
ales!" / me wince ?
If' a Cat may look at a
A kitten may look at a






/ ARLY in 1887, my

uat the Equator was
thrown into a fever
of excitement by a
very interesting oc-
The shouts from
mymen, "Sail, ho!
/ Sail, ho i" made
known to me that a boat had been sighted.
I hastily ran to the beach and saw the little
steamer" Peace" breasting the rapid river at the
point just below, and out in the stream were "Le
Stanley" and the "Henry Reed," each towing
lighters alongside, and battling against the swift
current. I could see that the decks of all the
boats were crowded with blacks, and besides the
natives there were several white men aboard.
It was evident to me that some important ex-
pedition was on its way up-river in this formid-
able flotilla.
As the first boat neared my beach, I glanced
along her deck, and to my intense delight I saw
standing in the bow of the Peace my old chief
Mr. Stanley. Having received no warning
of the arrival of this expedition, it was natu-
rally a great surprise. I felt beside myself with
excitement, and shouted, "Hip, hip, hurrah!"
at the top of my voice as the boat touched the
Mr. Stanley was dressed in his usual traveling
costume of jacket, knickerbockers, and peak cap,
and he looked remarkably well. He dined with
me, and explained during the evening that the
black crowds on board the boats were men of
his expedition for the relief of Emin Bey at
The next day was occupied by the members
of the expedition in procuring food for the

journey, and bythe crews of the boats in cutting
dry wood for the steamers,
I had then the pleasure of meeting Stanley's
gallant officers, whose names are now so well
known to the world.
The Equator Station had never seen so busy
a day. Crowds of Zanzibaris, Soudanese, and
other natives hurried about all day; and old
Tippu Tib, the well-known Arab chief, who was
being taken up to his headquarters at Stanley
Falls, pitched his tent in my yard. He and
his followers occupied it during their stay.
Tippu was certainly a fine-looking old fellow
and a very intelligent man. He looks like a pure
negro and shows no sign of the Arab blood
which is supposed to be in his veins. He wore
a long white linen shirt, and around his waist a
silk sash in which was stuck his dagger. On
his feet were a pair of light sandals.
Being able to speak his language, I had quite
a long talk with him, and I was surprised at
his accurate knowledge concerning European
Mr. Stanley was exceedingly jolly all day;
nothing occurred to worry or trouble him during
his brief stay at my Station.
I had the pleasure of entertaining at dinner
the Chief and all his officers on the night before
their departure up river.
Since that time the great explorer and his
brave followers, after suffering terrible privations
and hardships in their arduous journey through
Africa, have rescued and brought back to civili-
zation Emin Pasha. Early on the third morn-
ing, Stanley and the Emin Bey relief expedition
moved up river, leaving the Equator Station
again to its wonted quiet.

At the time I made my first visit up the Ma-
linga lhe river had overflowed its banks, and
we steamed, sometimes hours and hours without
seeing a patch of dry land on either bank.


One evening, just at sun-down, turning a point
in the river, we espied in the distance a few
native huts built on a low-lying shore. As we
neared the village we could see that it was en-
tirely deserted, and moreover, there were ghastly
evidences of the cause of the desertion. The
huts were seven in number, old, dilapidated
habitations, built on piles, with a floor just above
the water's edge. Placed on sticks in front of
them were several whitening skulls. What a
tale of suffering these grim and hideous trophies
told! Probably but a few months before, the
poor natives had been surprised at night by the
murderous slave-raiders.
I hoped to find dry land here; but all the re-
gion was under water. It was now too dark to
go farther, so I anchored for the night, allowing
my men to swim to the native huts, shelter them-
selves under the roofs, and light their fires on
the raised platforms. The dwellers in these pile
houses,in order that their fires shall not burn
their wooden stick flooring, have always a large
cake of clay on which to build fires.
There was one of these huts which, by its
size, suggested that it was the general Council
House of the little settlement. My men
crowded into this, and after talking, smoking,
and singing far into the night, they rolled them-
selves in their mats and went to sleep. They
had made a large, bright fire, but had not taken
the necessary precaution of building it upon
clay. The deep silence was rudely broken by
mingled screams and groans. I jumped up at
the first cry, thinking that perhaps we were at-
tacked. The fire had eaten into the flooring
and let my men through into the water. Such
an unceremonious waking few had ever experi-
enced. To be suddenly hurled, without the
slightest warning, from their cozy sleep to the
deep, dark river below, was certainly sufficient
excuse for the screams, groans, and yells which
rose up from that mass of black figures, floating
mats, and sparks.

Among the white officers whom I knew on
the Congo, one of the bravest was a young
Englishman named Deane. He had spent five
years on the Congo, formerly as an officer of
the Congo Free State; he had also com-
manded one of the government Stations on the

Kasai. There the natives, taking advantage of
his small force, attacked him when he was out
in the river and clinging to his canoe, which
had been upset by a tornado. His guns had
sunk to the bottom, and he had only his knife;
but with this he fought so desperately that he
succeeded in cutting his way through his enemies,
receiving, however, a wound on his leg from the
thrust of a barbed fishing-spear.
A few months later he was on his way to
Stanley Falls to replace the officer in command
of that Station, who had finished his term of
service. At nightfall a terrific storm compelled
him to seek shelter ashore, as his little boat, the
Royal," loaded with her steel lighter and thirty
black Houssa soldiers, could not have lived
through the waves. They anchored in the
channel, just below the Monongeri villages, a
few days from Stanley Falls. As the steamer
was very small, Deane slept on shore in a small
tent. His men, rolling themselves in their
blankets and mats, tried to sleep. Cold and
cheerless was it that night, as camp-fires were
impossible in such a storm. Suddenly the war
of the tempest was drowned in groans of agony
and yells of rage. The Monongeri savages,
under the cover of the night and storm, had
been gathering around the band. So stealthily
and silently did they come that the actual
attack was the first signal of their presence.
Only a few minutes before, Deane, who was
a thorough soldier, had been his rounds to see
that the sentries were at their posts; hardly had.
he returned to his camp-bed when the villain-
ous onslaught began. He himself was severely
wounded in the shoulder; and the keen blade
of a Monongeri spear pierced his thigh. His
cartridges were damp, but he fought manfully,
using the butt of his revolver, and a shield
which he had wrested from the enemy, holding
at bay the fierce warriors, who savagely hurled
their spears, but at last were driven to the dark
shadows of the forest, by volley after volley fired
by the Houssa sentries. In short gasps and
feeble tones, Deane rallied his men, and then he
fell exhausted to the earth, unconscious. Sev-
eral of his people had been killed, and many
more lay dying from their wounds. Harris,
Deane's companion, carried the dead and dying
on board the little steamer, and getting up steam



pushed off and anchored in mid-stream. What
a night of misery The groans of the wounded
were mocked by the unearthly mirth and drum-
ming which the wind bore to them from the
savages gathered thickly on the banks. Early
in the morning the boat steamed away, with
Deane wounded and half his men massacred.
With so small a force, punishment of the Monon-
geri for this treacherous onslaught was out of
the question; so they pushed on up-stream; the
natives, emboldened by their victory, came out in
large war-canoes, harassing the fugitives until the
deadly rifle warned them that there was still
danger from that little boat. At last he arrived at
Stanley Falls, but so weak was he that all feared
he would die. It was decided that he should
return to Leopoldville. But a few months elapsed,
and again Deane was on his way up river to pun-
ish the Monongeri villages and take command of
Stanley Falls. With his renewed forces he was
able to avenge the death of his men and his
own sufferings.
After he had been at Stanley Falls a few
months, hostilities broke out between the Sta-
tion and the Arabs. Deane fought desperately,
killing a great number of the Arab slave-raiders
and Manyema banditti, until, the ammunition
being exhausted, his men, with the exception
of three, deserted him. Deane fired the Station
and escaped into the forests, where he lived on
berries and roots for a month, hunted about
by the Arabs who were in search of him.
A few months later he was again on the Congo,
this time to try his fortune in hunting big game.
He joined Captain Bailey, and they decided to
hunt together the elephants, which abound all
through this part of Africa.
They spent a little time at Lukungu, on the
lower reaches of the Congo, after which they
had some good sport hunting the antelopes and
buffaloes on Long Island, in Stanley Pool. But
they were impatient to try their guns on the
elephants, so they hurried on up-stream. Cap-
tain Bailey had a severe attack of fever, and
had to return to Europe invalided. So Deane
was left to camp alone. Eventually, prompted
by reports of the great quantities of game at
Lukolela, he shifted his camp to that place, and
had been there but a few days when, returning
to the Station after a short absence up the

Ikelemba river, I heard the sad news that he
had been killed by an elephant.
The scene of the tragedy was about one hun-
dred miles down the river, and I decided to
leave the next morning and learn full particulars
from the people on the spot. My boat was a
very slow craft, and it took me two days to get
down to Lukolela. Arriving on the second day,
I learned the sad details from those at the Station;
and the news was graphically confirmed by my
old hunter, Bongo Nsanda, who had been three
years with me in the hunting-field, and was with
poor Deane at the time of his death. I tell
the story nearly as I learned it from Bongo
Nsanda. He said it was a very wet morn-
ing, a day not at all suitable for hunting, being
very misty; but Deane was determined to
go out. Bongo Nsanda advised him to post-
pone the hunt, but this he would not consent
to do. So getting his few men in a canoe they
paddled down the river, and entered a small
grass-blocked creek.
Upon arriving there, in a little stretch of open
water they heard the breaking down of branches
by an elephant-to the hunter's ear an unmis-
takable sound. Deane gave his orders, and the
nose of the canoe was noiselessly brought up to
the bank, where there was a little dry land.
When the hunter had arrived at this stage of
his story, I took two of my men and determined
to go over the ground and hear the remainder
of the sad story on the spot. Bongo Nsanda,
as soon as he landed, seemed to become mel-
ancholy in the death-like silence of this wood.
The only sounds to be heard were the combined
murmuring hums of numberless insects, and the
occasional mournful call of the hornbill. When
we had walked twenty or thirty yards, Bongo
Nsanda arrested my footsteps, and said, Here,
you see, these footmarks were made by the
white man. Now, if you will go with me over
there, I will show you where the elephant was
I accompanied him. He pointed out to me
a long strip of the bark of a tree. Said he, "The
elephant was tearing off that bark."
The white man," added Bongo Nsanda, took
a steady aim; but he must have just missed the
right place, as the elephant curled up his trunk,
gave one shrill trumpet, and made off into the


bush." Deane and the hunter followed him as
quickly as they could, but the wounded ani-
mal ran a great distance, and Deane became
tired. He sat' down on a log," said Bongo
Nsanda, and told me in a whisper to keep
my ears open as the elephant might be within
hearing, and at the same time added that
I must make no noise. After a few minutes,
a sound told him that the elephant was not
far away. He held his head low, and his hand
to his ear, and listened for about half a minute,
when the sound was repeated." Again Bongo
Nsanda moved on another thirty or forty yards,
and then, suddenly stopping, he said in a whisper,
as if the same great danger was still hanging
over us, "This is where he stood. He was a
brave man; he was not afraid of an elephant or
a buffalo, for the elephant was standing in that
open space under the trees, and was just fill-
ing it up with his head, this way; but Deane
boldly crept up within ten yards of him and
fired. This time the elephant came down on
his knees; but before the smoke had blown
away, the elephant rose to his feet, and plunged
off in another direction." I again followed
Bongo Nsanda's footsteps. The same feeling
of awe that was shown by this black hunter took
possession of myself also, as we approached
nearer the fatal spot. Bongo Nsanda must
have been deeply impressed indeed; for, at
every step he took, he looked all around with
a hesitating glance, as if expecting that an an-
gry elephant might appear any moment.
At last we came to a little patch of clear
ground, perhaps ten or eleven yards square.
"Over there," said Bongo Nsanda, "the ele-
phant was standing, swaying his trunk backwards
and forwards, and switching his tail in an angry
manner." Deane at first got behind a tree near
where we stood, opened the breech of his rifle
to make sure that he had put in two cartridges,
and then boldly left his cover and approached
to within seven yards of his game. He raised
his rifle and fired his two barrels in quick
succession, causing the elephant to stagger.
The lever of his gun was stiff, and he seemed
to be struggling with it trying to open it; but,
as it would not work, he threw down his
own rifle, and snatched from the hands of his
hunter a loaded Snider rifle, aimed, and fired.

This was the last shot ever fired by poor Deane,
for the elephant made a short, wild rush at him,
and killed him on the spot just as he reached
his cover.
Upon examining the surrounding forest, I was
forcibly impressed by the depredations which
this wounded and infuriated elephant had com-
mitted in his anger. He had evidently imag-
ined every thing about him to be an enemy.
From some trees the bark had been ripped.
He had torn down every branch within his
reach, and trampled them beneath his feet;
young trees had yielded before his mighty
strength--had been uprooted and flung from
his path.
I followed the elephant's track for a long
distance. At first he had made his way through
a forest, and then plunged into a swamp. Here
he seems to have rested for a time in the water,
and to have regained his strength to some ex-
tent; for after this his tracks became firmer and
firmer, until, when the tracks had passed right
through this swamp and into another forest be-
yond, there was nothing in them to show that
they were those of a wounded elephant. Find-
ing it was hopeless to track him any farther, I
returned to the Mission Station at Lukolela.
Probably the elephant eventually died of his
wounds, but it is surprising how far they will
travel after being badly wounded.
Deane, throughout his whole career on the
Congo, had shown himself to be a man of un-
doubted pluck. I admired him, and we were
the best of friends. Some time before, on
my road up from Kinshasa, I had put in at his
camp, when we had spent a very merry day to-
gether. But now everything had been taken
away from the spot, and there was a sad and
somber blank in the place of the vivid scene I
had left only a few days earlier.
There seems to be almost a fatality attached
to the hunting of wild animals in the district
of Lukolela. Poor Keys and Deane met their
death in encounters with wild animals at this
place. And just before I left the Congo, in '89,
another friend, named Thompson, had a narrow
escape from becoming a victim to the ferocity of
a buffalo.
We were camped below Lukolela, near a
large buffalo plain, where just a narrow fringe



of bush ran along the water's edge. At night
my watchman came and told me that he heard
a buffalo a few yards distant in the plain. I
answered, My experiences with the buffalo do
not encourage me to hunt him at night; he is
bad enough to deal with in the daytime." But
Thompson said, I '11 go, old man! I want to
shoot a buffalo I remonstrated with him, and
tried to convince him of the risk which he was
running; but he answered, It is all right,"-
and off he started. It was foolish on my part
to have allowed it. He took his gun, loaded
it, and started, followed by the fag-end of my
crew. There were with him two watchmen, the
fireman, two table-boys, a steward, the cook,
the boy who looked after the fowls, and one or
two other small boys who were employed about
the boat. At that time I had command of the
larger steamer, the Florida.
Thompson was absent a few minutes when the
precipitous retreat of his rear-guard plainly told
me that something was wrong. I then heard a
shot, and presently Thompson came walking
down to the boat bleeding from a wound on his
head. He coolly told me that he had tracked
the buffalo, and had even heard him eating grass,
but could not see him. Presently the buffalo
caught sight of the hunter, and made a quick
rush at him. Thompson, with great presence
of mind, threw himself on the ground, and the
buffalo passed over his head. In doing so, the
animal's hoof had tapped him on the head, tak-
ing out a piece as big as a five-shilling piece;
and, besides, with one of his hind legs he had
bruised Thompson's back. It was indeed a nar-
row escape.
When another opportunity occurs to shoot
buffaloes at nine o'clock at night, I am sure
Thompson will not unnecessarily volunteer for
the honor of being the hunter.
During the latter part of my life on the
Congo River, I was living in a small stern-
wheel boat, thirty-four feet long by seven feet
wide. As two-thirds of the boat were taken
up by the machinery and boiler, the small
space amidships did not give sufficient room for
myself and crew, and I had to tow a large
dugout alongside. In this canoe I carried some
of my men, with their mats and cooking-pots,
two or three goats, some fowls, and last, but not

least important, my cooking-apparatus-a small
earthenware native bowl in which my cook kept
his fire and over which every dish was cooked.
My cook was a native boy, named Mochindu,
to whom I had imparted, to the best of my
ability, the few culinary recipes which I had
gathered during my travels. But his posi-
tion as cook on board my boat was not an envi-
able one, as he was exposed to all weathers and
sometimes had to turn out a dish under the most
trying circumstances. The slightest ripple of
the water or any movement of the men in the
canoe would upset any gastronomic calculation
that he might have made. Often he had to fry
a fowl or make some kind of stew under a heavy
downpour of rain; and the poor little chap had
a very dejected appearance as he struggled to
hold up an old umbrella to keep the rain from
the fire, and at the same time made frantic
efforts to save the whole cooking-apparatus
from toppling over as the canoe lurched from
side to side. When his cooking was all fin-
ished and the dishes were passed along to the
boat, he always seemed to give a sigh of relief
as he stepped out of the canoe and crept into
the boat near the boiler to get thoroughly
warmed so as to be ready for the next culinary
I remember that one day he was frying some
fowl which he had chopped up into cutlets. We
were on the beach of a large village, and were
surrounded by natives. A group of these na-
tives, attracted evidently by the savory odor of
the cooking, pointed up to something in the
boat and asked 'my little cook what it was.
When he turned his head in the direction indi-
cated, one of the fellows made a grab at the
pan and, snatching two of the cutlets, bolted off.
When Mochindu came to look into the pan, for
the purpose of turning over his meat, he con-
nected the hasty retreat of the native with the
ominous gap in his frying-pan, picked up his knife,
and made a rush for the fellow. Then I saw a
great struggle going on. Blows were being ex-
changed, and there was a tussle on the ground;
and presently Mochindu returned, holding in
his hand the missing cutlets; his face, be-
grimed with dirt, seemed struggling between
sorrow at the mishap and joy at having re-
covered the booty.



The last steamer voyage I made before leav-
ing for Europe was up the Ruki, a tributary
just above the Equator Station. It had always
been my wish to visit the people living in these
regions, but I would not attempt such an expe-
dition in my small boat, as the ferocity and
hostility of these Ba-Ruki were too well known for
me to attempt the journey without a faster and
more imposing craft. Now that I had com-
mand of the bigger boat again, I decided to
ascend the Ruki, and hoped to see the natives
about whose warlike abilities and cannibalistic
qualities I had heard so many tales.
I left the Equator Station early one morning
with a cargo of merchandise and trinkets, with
which I hoped to overcome, if possible, the
prejudices of the terrible Ba-Ruki. I was
warned by the natives around our settlement
what I was to expect from my present venture;
but I was accompanied by an English engineer,
named Davy, upon whom I could rely in help-
ing us to give a good account of ourselves if
any serious trouble rose. And besides, the same
crew, in charge of my trusty Bienego, that ac-
companied me through my little Oubangi diffi-
culties were now aboard, and had proved by
their former conduct their pluck and devotion.
After five hours' steaming up the river, at the
invitation of the natives ashore I put in to their
beach, and exchanged beads and cowries for
fresh eggs and fowls. These people I found
very friendly; they had been down in their
canoes as far as my Station, so knew that they
had nothing to fear. In this village, Nkole, we
saw but few knives and spears, but all were
armed with bows and arrows. They were very
friendly toward us, but exceedingly scared at
all our strange actions. We had a harmony
steam-whistle on board which alarmed them a
great deal. Just before leaving their beach, on
my continuing the voyage, I called my men
together by blowing the whistle. The poor
natives of Nkol6, superstitious as all savages
are, thought it was some angry spirit who was
kept by me to terrify people, and who gave
vent to his feelings in this way. The natives on
the beach, at this unusual sound, beat a hasty
retreat, and those in their canoes lost all pres-
ence of mind. Some jumped into the river;
others jumped into their canoes; and we

steamed away leaving in our wake a mass of
upturned canoes and struggling figures, while
on shore the beach was deserted, and from
behind every tree black faces grinned in safety
at their less fortunate friends in the water.
After an hour's steaming above this settle-
ment we were beyond the district of the friendly
people. To all my offers to buy their goats,
fowls, or ivory, in exchange for beads, cowries,
knives, and cloth, the natives in the villages we
passed responded by such a plentiful supply of
sticks, stones, and village refuse that I decided
that I should have to seek a more rational peo-
ple to receive my beads and cowries. So I
steamed up past this line of villages, which were
built on a high bank and seemed to be very
thickly populated.
Before long I was compelled to meet more
serious attacks. At one large village, crowds of
people lined the beach and invited us to ap-
proach; but, when we turned the boat in their
direction, they fired a flight of arrows at us, then
ran and hid among the thick bushes which grew
at the water's edge. From here, in comparative
security, they kept up their fire. Their beach
was too rocky to admit of my taking the boat
right in-shore; so, firing a few volleys into their
hiding places, we manned our large dugout and
paddled toward the beach. We landed and
routed them out of their village. Then, throw-
ing out skirmishing sharpshooters at the limits
of the settlement, I completed the punishment
by ordering the huts to be destroyed by fire.
On my way back I made friends with these
people; it is a good trait in the character of
these natives that they know when they meet
their master, and they bear no malice.
For the first few hours' steaming above the
spot where this engagement took place we
met with no opposition. The inhabitants had
sensibly taken warning from the result of their
neighbors' arrogant behavior. But, in the
afternoon, when we arrived at villages where
news of the fight had not preceded our arrival,
we had to contend with the same difficulties
again. I could easily have avoided the arrows
by keeping out in the middle of the stream and
steaming away; but my object was to make
friends, and to learn something of the people
and the commercial possibilities of their country.




In the middle of '89, I came down to Leo- hunter had also turned about and bolted for a
poldville in my steamer and there left the river tree which was at hand. He reached it only just
and returned down to the coast by the caravan- in time. The buffalo, making a furious charge,



route. While waiting for the native porters
who were to carry my baggage to the coast,
I occupied my leisure time in making short
hunting excursions in the neighborhood of
Stanley Pool.
An old friend of mine on the Congo, Captain
Bailey, who has killed elephants and hunted
the lion near the head waters of the Zambesi,
had a thrilling experience and a very narrow
escape from a buffalo on Long Island, in Stan-
ley Pool; and had it not been for the plucky
conduct of his little terrier he would undoubtedly
have lost his life. He had tracked abuffalo out
of the swamps, had dropped his game and
thought it was dead, as it lay quite motionless.
But upon his coming closer, it sprang upon its
feet and charged him. He had only time to
fire, but without taking good aim; so he hit a
little too low on the forehead and the animal was
not stopped. Captain Bailey barely escaped the
buffalo by swinging himself to one side the
animal, in charging past, actually grazing his
side. Finding it had missed its mark, the
brute wheeled sharply about again; but the
VOL. XVII.--o4.

came full tilt against the tree, and knocked off a
big piece of bark. Although the captain had
succeeded in getting behind the tree, he had
no time to spare.
Even then the brute would not give up the
chase, but made a
rush around the tree.
At this moment, the
brave little fox-ter- : r
rier, Nep," sprang -
at the huge beast's
neck; and, although -
thrown off, still con-
tinued to harass the
angry bull, thereby
distracting its at-
tention from mas-
ter to dog, and giv-
ing the hunter time
to put another car-
tridge into his rifle, HEAD OF AFRICAN BUFFALO.
and with another shot to drop his game.
All hunters of big game expect to meet occa-
sionally with animals who will show their disap-


proval of being shot at by a rush. But Captain Another very annoying member of the ant
Bailey's experience with the buffalo on Long race is the dark-brown driver. These ants
Island is the narrowest escape of which I know. crawl along the ground in a dark mass, twelve

4 42'

-. .. -- .'
-M 7U
^^^^r'^ '*'^^^ ^^


- --


At the season of the year in which I was travel-
ing the grass was in seed; and as I passed
through the country on my way down to the
coast I became painfully aware of the prickly
nature of this grass. It penetrated my shirt,
and made me feel as if the shirt was made of
some material much like the exterior of the
barrel of a musical box. The prickly pieces cov-
ering the outside made the wearer of the shirt
resemble one of the porcupine species.
The Ant family are well represented in Cen-
tral Africa, and there are three with which the
traveler is oftenest brought in contact: the
white-ant, the driver-ant, and the red-ant. The
last is found on shrubs in the forests, and if you
brush against a branch on which these insects
live, you will become painfully aware of the
reason why the Zanzibari call this pest mati-
moto (hot water), for its bite resembles a burn
from scalding water. The dwarfs who during
his last expedition gave Mr. Stanley so much
trouble around Lake Albert, poisoned their
arrows with crushed red-ants.

inches wide and several yards long, composed of
many hundred thousands of individuals. They
move slowly along like a great army, occasion-
ally stopping to devour whatever animal-food
they may meet in their path.
I have often been visited by these unwel-
come guests at night. On such occasions the
contents of my larder would form a meal for
them; and if my mosquito-net was not properly
tucked in so as to exclude such intruders, I
would be overrun with them, and would have
to beat a precipitate retreat until they had ran-
sacked my establishment to their satisfaction.
This has happened several times to me. The
bite of the driver-ant is very painful, for the in-
sect is provided with large pincers with which
he digs deep into the flesh of an enemy.
The white-ant makes itself an equally unwel-
come visitor by eating away all woodwork,
leather, or cloth which it can find. A wooden
case, if exposed to the attacks of this insect for
two or three days, will have the bottom of it
eaten away; and a pair of boots, if left at the


'-~P~'~~,~ ~~t "ns
1- ~en~Fa_:


mercy of this pest, will be made utterly worth-
less in a few days.
Large clay mounds, sometimes reaching to
thirty feet in height, mark the house and store-
houses of the white-ant.
These mounds are of cellular formation, and
contain their store of grubs. So large and solid
are these ant-hills that at one of our Stations
we leveled the top of an ant-hill and built a
sentry post upon it.
Nature has bestowed upon the African a rich
gift in the palm-tree. Its branches form a can-
opy to shelter the village huts from the noon-
day sun; with its leaves the houses are thatched;
and the Congo kitchen would be devoid of its
chief means of flavor and delicacy if deprived
of the mbila, or palm-fruit. And it plays an
even more important part. Its juice, as malafu,
cheers the hunter on his return from the chase,
is partaken of at every tribal ceremony, and
provides a sparkling nectar for the otherwise
insipid African banquet. It is obtained by


tapping the tree at its very top. Holes are
bored to the heart of the palm-tree, and gourds
are attached. Into these the juice flows, and the
gourds are collected by the natives, who climb
up the trunk of the tree by means of a band of
leather or cane which encircles climber and tree.
By this ingenious device the native is kept from
falling, and can ascend the trees with great

rapidity. Using the rough projections of the
bark as steps they lean back and mount higher
and higher, at the same time lifting with a jerky
motion the band that holds them to the tree.
This malafu, or palm-wine, resembles in color
milky water, is of a sweet acidulated flavor, and
when not too old is exceedingly refreshing and
palatable; but in a few days it becomes sour,
and is then very intoxicating.
My carriers Were at last ready, and I was
now fairly started on my way to the coast. I
have tried all available methods of locomotion on
land in Africa, and I have come to the conclu-
sion that walking is the most satisfactory. The
hammock is sometimes used; this article of
porterage is a piece of canvas looped up on a
long pole, wherein the traveler lies and is carried




by the blacks, one being at each end of the
pole; but the small bridle-path of the caravan-
route is at places so stony and ragged that falls
often occur by the carriers stumbling, and bruises
are the result. A few donkeys are sometimes
seen on the Congo, but unless you get a really
good animal you have no end of trouble. The
ordinary beast becomes affected by the climate,
and requires a great amount of encouragement
and assistance. As a rule, you must have one
man to pull him, another to push him, and when
he is very tired you may require the assistance
of two others to prevent his falling. Taking all
drawbacks into consideration, I prefer to walk.
It was in this way that my six years of wan-
dering were brought to a close. I had left
home a raw lad, and I returned feeling quite an

old and hardened traveler. Something more
than the interval of time separated me from
those early days. My thoughts and habits had
been molded by the experiences through which
I had passed. My interests and sympathies
were centered in the land I had left and I felt
almost a stranger among my own people.
I missed for some time the wild tropical
scenery, the shouting negroes, and the hundred
sounds and sights of savage life.
If Africa had seemed strange to me six years be-
fore, my own country was now as unfamiliar. I
have left many a dear friend and comrade on the
banks of the great river in lonely Stations in the far
interior; and in my heart there is still a warm
corner for the poor savage, who has often been my
sole companion in the Wilds of Central Africa.







WHEN Jack Ogden left the Staten Island
ferry-boat, he felt somewhat as if he had made
an unexpected voyage to China, and perhaps
might never return to his own country. It was
late in the afternoon, and he had been told by
the little man that the ferry-boat would wait an
hour and a half before the return voyage.
I won't lose sight of her," said Jack, thought-
fully. No running round for me this time! "
He did not move about at all. He sat upon
an old box, in front of a closed grocery store,
near the ferry-house, deciding to watch and
wait until the boat started.
Dullest time I ever had!" he thought;
" and it will cost me six cents to get back. You
have to pay something everywhere you go. I
wish that boat was ready to go now."
It was not ready, and it seemed as if it never
would be; meanwhile the Crofield boy sat there
on the box and studied the ferry-boat business.
He had learned something of it from his guide-
book, but he understood it all before the gates
He had not learned much concerning any
part of Staten Island, beyond what he already
knew from the map; but shortly after he had
paid his fare, he began to learn something about
the bay and the lower end of New York.
I 'm glad to be on board again," he said, as
he walked through the long cabin to the open
deck forward. In a few minutes more he drew
a long breath and exclaimed:
She 's starting! I know I 'm on the right
boat, too. But I 'm hungry and I wish I had
something to eat."
There was nothing to be had on board the
boat, but, although hungry, Jack could see
enough to keep him from thinking about it.
"It's all city; and all wharves and houses

and steeples,--every way you look," he said.
"I 'm glad to have seen it from the outside,
after all."
Jack stared, but did not say a word to any-
body until the ferry-boat ran into its dock.
If I only had a piece of pie and a cup of
coffee!" Jack was thinking, as he walked along
by the wharves, ashore. Then he caught sight
of the smallest restaurant he had ever seen.
It was a hand-cart with an awning over it,
standing on a corner. A placard hanging from
the awning read: "Clams, one cent apiece;
coffee, five cents a cup."
"That 's plain enough!" exclaimed Jack.
"She can't put on a cent more for anything."
A stout, black-eyed woman stood behind a
kind of table, at the end of the cart; and on the
table there were bottles of vinegar and pepper-
sauce, some crackers, and a big tin coffee-heater.
"Clams ?" she repeated. Half-dozen, on
the shell? Coffee? All right."
That 's all I want, thank you," said Jack,
and she at once filled a cup from the coffee-urn
and began to open shellfish for him.
"These are the smallest clams I ever saw,"
thought Jack; "but they 're good."
They seemed better and better as he went on
eating; and the woman willingly supplied them.
He drank his coffee and ate crackers freely, and
he was just thinking that it was time for him to
stop when the black-eyed woman remarked,
with an air of pride,
Nice and fresh, ain't they ? You seem to like
them,- thirteen 's a dozen; seventeen cents."
Have I swallowed a dozen already? said
Jack, looking at the pile of shells. "Yes,
ma'am, they 're tiptop !"
After paying for his supper, there were only
some coppers left, besides four one-dollar bills,
in his pocket-book.
"Which way 's the Battery, ma'am?" Jack


asked, as she began to open clams for another
"Back there a way. Keep straight on till
you see it," she answered; adding kindly, It's
like a little park; I did n't know you were from
the country."
Pretty good supper, after all," he said.


" Cheap, too; but my money 's leaking away!
Well, it is n't dark yet. I must see all I can be-
fore I go to the hotel."
He followed the woman's directions, and he
was glad he had done so. He had studied his
guide-book faithfully as to all that end of New
York, and in spite of his recent blunder did not
now need to ask anybody which was the start-
ing place of the elevated railways and which
was Castle Garden, where the immigrants were





It occurred to him, nevertheless, that he was
a long way from Crofield, and that he was not
yet at all at home in the city.
I know some things that they don't know,
anyway -if I am green!" he was thinking. "I'11
cut across and take a nearer look at Castle
"Stop there! Stop, you fellow in the light
hat! Hold on! Jack heard some one cry out,
as he started to cross the turfed inclosures.


landed. There were little groups of these for-
eigners scattered over the great open space be-
fore him.
They 've come from all over the world,"
he said, looking at group after group. "Some
of those men will have a harder time than I
have had trying to get started in New York."


What do you want of me ? Jack asked, as
he turned around.
Don't you see the sign there, Keep off the
grass'? Look! You 're on the grass now!
Come off Anyway, I '11 fine you fifty cents !"
Jack looked as the man pointed, and saw a
little board on a short post; and there was the
sign, in plain letters; and here before him was a
tall, thin, sharp-eyed, lantern-jawed young man,
looking him fiercely in the face and holding out
his hand.
"Fifty cents Quick, now,-or go with me
to the police station."
Jack was a little bewildered for a moment.
He felt like a cat in a very strange garret. His
first thought of the police made him remember
part of what Mr. Guilderaufenberg had told him
about keeping away from them; but he remem-
bered only the wrong part, and his hand went
unwillingly into his pocket.
Right off, now No skulking! exclaimed
the sharp-eyed man.
"I have n't fifty cents in change," said
Jack, dolefully, takiAg a dollar bill from his
"Hand me that, then. I '11 go and get it
changed "; and the man reached out a claw-like
hand and took the bill from Jack's fingers, with-
out waiting for his consent. I '11 be right
back. You stand right there where you are
till I come -"
"Hold on shouted Jack. "I did n't say
you could. Give me back that bill! "
"You wait. I '11 bring your change as soon
as I can get it," called the sharp-eyed man, as
he darted away; but Jack's hesitation was over
in about ten seconds.
"I '11 follow him, anyhow! he exclaimed; and
he did so at a run.
"Halt "-it was a man in a neat gray uni-
form and gilt buttons who spoke this time; and
Jack halted just as the fleeing man vanished into
a crowd on one of the broad walks.
He 's got my dollar! "
Tell me what it is, quick! said the police-
man, with a sudden expression of interest.
Jack almost spluttered as he related how the
fellow had collected the fine; but the man in
gray only shook his head.
I thought I saw him putting up something,"


he said. It's well he did n't get your pocket-
book, too! He won't show himself here again
to-night. He 's safe by this time."
"Do you know him?" asked Jack, greatly
excited; but more than a little in dread of the
helmet-hat, buttons, and club.
Know him ? 'Jimmy the Sneak?' Of course
I do. He 's only about two weeks out of Sing
Sing. It won't be long before he 's back there
again. When did you come to town? What's
your name? Where'd you come from? Where
are you staying? Do you know anybody in
town ?"
He had a pencil and a little blank-book, and
he rapidly wrote out Jack's answers.
"You '11 get your eyes open pretty fast, at
this rate," he said. "That 's all I want of you,
now. If I lay a hand on Jimmy, I '11 know
where to find you. You 'd better go home. If
any other thief asks you for fifty cents, you
call for the nearest policeman. That 's what
we 're here for."
"A whole dollar gone, and nothing to show
for it!" groaned Jack, as he walked away.
Only three dollars and a few cents left! I '11
walk all the way up to the Hotel Dantzic, instead
of paying five cents for a car ride. I '11 have to
save money now."
He felt more kindly toward all the policemen
he met, and he was glad there were so many
of them.
"The police at Central Park," he remarked
to himself, and that fellow at the Battery, were
all in gray, and the street police wear blue; but
they 're a good-looking set of men. I hope
they will nab Jimmy the Sneak and get back
my dollar for me."
The farther he went, however, the clearer be-
came his conviction that dollars paid to thieves
seldom come back; and that an evening walk of
more than three miles over the stone sidewalks
of New York is a long stroll for a very tired and
somewhat homesick country boy. He cared
less and less, all the way, how strangely and how
splendidly the gaslights and the electric lights
lit up the tall buildings.
One light 's white," he said, and the
other 's yellowish, and that 's about all there is
of it. Well, I 'm not quite so green, for I
know more than I did this morning! "



It was late for him when he reached the ho-
tel, but it seemed to be early enough for every-
body else. Many people were coming and
going, and among them all he did not see a
face that he knew or cared for. The tired-out,


1i .
1I --


homesick feeling grew upon him, and he walked
very dolefully to the elevator. Up it went in a
minute, and when he reached his room he
threw his hat upon the table, and sat down to
think over the long and eventful day.
This is the toughest day's work I ever did !
I 'd like to see the folks in Crofield and tell 'em
about it, though," he said.
He went to bed, intending to consider his
plans for Monday, but he made one mistake.
He happened to close his eyes.

The next thing he knew, there was a ray of
warm sunshine striking his face from the open
window, for he had slept soundly, and it was
nearly seven o'clock on Monday morning.
Jack looked around his room, and then sprang
out of bed.
Hurrah for New York! he said, cheerfully.
I know what to do now.
I 'm glad I 'm here! I '11
write a letter home, first
-- I. thing, and then I '11 pitch
-L in and go to work!"
He felt better. All the
hopes he had cherished
so long began to stir with-
in him. He brushed his
clothes thoroughly, and
put on his best necktie;
and then he walked out
of that room with hardly
S a doubt that all the busi-
ness in the great city was
ready and waiting for him
to come and take part in
it. He went down the
elevator, after a glance
at the stairway and a
shake of the head.
"Stairs are too slow,"
he thought. I '11 try
then some time when I
am not so busy."
As he stepped out upon
the lower floor he met
Mr. Keifelheimer, the proprietor.
You come in to breakfast mit me," he said.
"I promise Mr. Guilderaufenberg and de ladies,
too, I keep an eye on you. Some letters in
de box for you. You get dem ven you come
out. Come mit me."
Jack was very glad to hear of his friends,
what had become of them, and what they had
said about him, and of course he was quite
ready for breakfast. Mr. Keifelheimer talked,
while they were eating, in the most friendly and
protecting way. Jack felt that he could speak
freely; and so he told the whole story of his
adventures on Sunday,- Staten Island, Jimmy
the Sneak, and all. Mr. Keifelheimer listened
with deep interest, making appreciative remarks



every now and then; but he seemed to be most
deeply touched by the account of the eighty-
cent dinner.
Dot vas too much! he said, at last. It
vas a schvindle! Dose Broadvay restaurants rob
a man efery time. Now, I only charge you
feefty-five cents for all dis beautiful breakfast;
and you haf had de finest beefsteak and two
cups of splendid coffee. So, you make money
ven you eat mit me! "
Jack could but admit that the Hotel Dantzic
price was lower than the other; but he paid it
with an uneasy feeling that while he must have
misunderstood Mr. Keifelheimer's invitation it
was impossible to say so.
Get dose letter," said the kindly and thought-
ful proprietor. Den you write in de office. It
is better dan go avay up to your room."
Jack thanked him and went for his mail, full
of wonder as to how any letters could have come
to him.
A whole handful! he said, in yet greater
wonder, when the clerk handed them out.
Who could have known I was here ? Nine,-
ten,- eleven,- twelve. A dozen "
One after another Jack found the envelopes full
of nicely printed cards and circulars, telling him
how and where to find different kinds of goods.
That makes eight," he said; and every one
a sell. But,- jingo! "
It was a blue envelope, and when he opened
it his fingers came upon a dollar bill.
Mr. Guilderaufenberg's a trump! he ex-
claimed; and he added, gratefully, "I 'd only
about two dollars and a half left. He 's only
written three lines."
They were kindly words, however, ending
I have not tell the ladies; but you should be pay
for the stateroom.
I hope you have a good time.

The next envelope was white and square;
and when it came open Jack found another
dollar bill.
She 's a real good woman !" he said, when
he read his name and these words:
I say nothing to anybody; but you should have pay
for your stateroom. You was so kind. In haste,
VOL. XVII.-io5.

I '11 go and see them some day," said Jack.
He had opened the eleventh envelope, which
was square and pink, and out came another dollar
bill. Jack read his own name again, followed by:
We go this minute. I have not told them. You
should have pay for your stateroom. Thanks. You
was so kind.
Now, if she is n't one of the most thought-
ful women in the world!" said Jack; and what's
this? "
Square, gray, with an ornamental seal, was
the twelfth envelope, and out of it came a fourth
dollar bill, and this note:
For the stateroom. I have told not the others. With
thanks of DOLISKA POD-SKI.
It was a fine, small, pointed, and wandering
handwriting, and Jack in vain strove to make
out the letters in the middle of the Polish lady's
"I don't care! he said. "She 's kind, too.
So are all the rest of them; and Mr. Guilderau-
fenberg's one of the best fellows I ever met.
Now I 've got over six dollars, and I can make
some more right away."
He pocketed his money, and felt more con-
fident than ever; and he walked out of the
Hotel Dantzic just as his father, at home in
Crofield, was reading to Mrs. Ogden and Aunt
Melinda and the children the letter he had
written in Albany, on Saturday.
They all had their comments to make, but
at the end of it the tall blacksmith said to his
There 's one thing certain, Mary. I won't
let go of any of that land till after they 've run
the railway through it."
"Land ?" said Aunt Melinda. "Why, it 's
nothing but gravel. They can't do anything
with it."
".It joins mine," said Mr. Ogden; "and I
own more than an acre behind the shop. We '11
see whether the railroad will make any difference.
Well, the boy 's reached the city long before
this "
There was silence for a moment after that,
and then Mr. Ogden went over to the shop.
He was not very cheerful, for he began to feel
that Jack was really gone from home.
In Mertonville, Mary Ogden was helping



Mrs. Murdoch in her housework, and seemed to
be disposed to look out of the window, rather
than to talk.
Now, Mary," said the editor's wife, "you
need n't look so peaked, and feel so blue about
the way you got along with that class of
Girls? said Mary. "Why, Mrs. Mur-
doch! Only half of them were younger than I;
they said there would be only sixteen, and there
were twenty-one. Some of the scholars were
twice as old as I am, and one had gray hair
and wore spectacles! "
I don't care," said Mrs. Murdoch," the Elder
said you did well. Now, dear, dress yourself,
and be ready for Mrs. Edwards; she 's coming
after you, and I do hope you '11 enjoy your visit.
Come in and see me as often as you can and
tell me the news."
Mary finished the dishes and went upstairs,
saying, "And they want me to take that class
again next Sunday "


AFTER leaving the Hotel Dantzic, with his un-
expected supply of money, Jack walked smilingly
down toward the business part of the city. For
a while he only studied signs and looked into
great show-windows; and he became more and
more confident as he thought how many dif-
ferent ways there were for a really smart boy to
make a fortune in New York. He decided to
try one way at just about nine o'clock.
"The city's a busy place!" thought Jack, as
he walked along. Some difference between
the way they rush along on Monday and the
way they loitered all day Sunday!"
He even walked faster because the stream of
men carried him along. It made him think of
the Cocahutchie.
I '11 try one of these big clothing places,"
he said, about nine o'clock. "I '11 see what
wages they're giving. I know something about
He paused in front of a wide and showy-
looking store on Broadway. He drew a long
breath, and went in. The moment he entered
he was confronted by a very fat, smiling gentle-
man, who bowed and asked:

"What can we do for you, sir ?"
I 'd like to know if you want a boy," said
Jack, "and what wages you 're giving. I
"After a place? Oh, yes. That 's the man
you ought to see," said the jocose floor-walker,
pointing to a spruce salesman behind a counter,
and winking at him from behind Jack.
The business of the day had hardly begun, and
the idle salesman saw the wink. Jack walked
up to him and repeated his inquiry.
"Want a place, eh ? Where are you from?
Been long in the business ? "
Jack told him about Crofield, and about the
"merchant tailors" there, and gave a number of
particulars before the very dignified and sober-
faced salesman's love of fun was satisfied; and
then the salesman said:
"I can't say. You 'd better talk with that
man yonder."
There was another wink, and Jack went to
"that man," to answer another string of ques-
tions, some of which related to his family, and
the Sunday-school he attended; and then he was
sent on to another man, and another, and to
as many more, until at last he heard a gruff
voice behind him asking, "What does that fel-
low want? Send him to me!"
Jack turned toward the voice, and saw a
glass "coop," as he called it, all glass panes up
to above his head, excepting one wide, semicir-
cular opening in the middle. The clerk to
whom Jack was talking at that moment suddenly
became very sober.
"Head of the house! he exclaimed to him-
self. "Whew! I did n't know he 'd come."
Then he said to Jack: The head partner is at
the cashier's desk. Speak to him."
Jack stepped forward, his cheeks burning with
the sudden perception that he had been ridiculed.
He saw a sharp-eyed lady counting money, just
inside the little window, but she moved away, and
Jack was confronted by a very stern, white-
whiskered gentleman.
"What do you want ?" the man asked.
"I 'd like to know if you '11 hire another boy,
and what you 're paying ? said Jack, bravely.
No; I don't want any boy," replied the man
in the coop, savagely. "You get right out."
"Tell you what you do want," said Jack, for



his temper was risingfast, "-you 'd better get
a politer set of clerks!"
I will, if there 's any more of this nonsense,"
said the head of the house, sharply. "Now,
that's enough. No more impertinence."
Jack was all but choking with mortification,
and he wheeled and marched o'ut of the store.
I was n't afraid of him," he thought, and I
ought to have spoken to him first thing. I
might have known better than to have asked
those fellows. I sha'n't be green enough to do
that again. I '11 ask the head man next time."
That was what he tried to do in six clothing-
stores, one after another; but in each case he
made a failure. In two of them, they said the
managing partner was out; and then, when he
tried to find out whether they wanted a boy, the
man he asked became angry and showed him the
door. In three more, he was at first treated po-
litely, and then informed that they already had
hundreds of applications. To enter the sixth
store was an effort, but he went in.
One of the firm? Yes, sir," said the floor-
walker. "There he is."
Only a few feet from him stood a man so like
the one whose face had glowered at him through
that cashier's window in the first store that Jack
hesitated a moment, but the clerk spoke out:
"Wishes to speak to you, Mr. Hubbard."
"This way, my boy. What is it ? "
Jack was surprised by the full, mellow, be-
nevolent voice that came from under the white
"Do you want to hire a boy, sir ? he in-
"I do not, my son. Where are you from? "
asked Mr. Hubbard, with a kindlier expression
than before.
Jack told him, and answered two or three
other questions.
"From up in the country, eh?" he said.
"Have you money enough to get home again ? "
"I could get home," stammered Jack, "but
there is n't any chance for a boy up in Cro-
"Ten chances there for every one there is in
the city, my boy," said Mr. Hubbard. "One
hundred boys here for every place that 's va-
cant. You go home. Dig potatoes. Make
hay. Drive cows. Feed pigs. Do anything

honest, but get out of New York. It's one great
pauper-house, now, with men and boys who
can't find anything to do."
"Thank you, sir," said Jack, with a tighten-
ing around his heart. "But I '11 find something.
You see if I don't -"
"Take my advice, and go home!" replied
Mr. Hubbard, kindly. Good-morning."
Good-morning," said Jack, and while going
out of that store he had the vividest recollections
of all the country around Crofield.
"I '11 keep on trying, anyway," he said.
"There 's a place for me somewhere. I '11 try
some other trade. I '11 do anything!"
So he did, until one man said to him:
Everybody is at luncheon just now. Begin
again by and by; but I 'm afraid you '11 find
there are no stores needing boys."
"I need some dinner, myself," thought Jack.
"I feel faint. Mister," he added, aloud, "I
must buy some luncheon, too. Where 's a good
place ? "
He was directed to a restaurant, and he seated
himself at a table and ordered roast beef in a
sort of desperation.
I don't care what it costs he said. I 've
got some money yet."
Beef, potatoes, bread and butter, all of the
best, came, and were eaten with excellent ap-
Jack was half afraid of the consequences
when the waiter put a bright red check down
beside his plate.
Thirty cents ? exclaimed he joyfully, pick-
ing it up. "Why, that 's the cheapest dinner
I 've had in New York!"
"All right, sir. Come again, sir," said the
waiter, smiling; and then Jack sat still for a
"Six dollars, and more too," he said to him-
self; and my room's paid for besides. I can go
right on looking up a place, for days and days,
if I 'm careful about my money. I must n't
be discouraged."
He certainly felt more courageous, now that
he had eaten dinner, and he at once resumed
his hunt for a place; but there was very little
left of his smile. He went into store after store
with almost the same result in each, until one
good-humored gentleman remarked to him:


My boy, why don't you go to a Mercan-
tile Agency ?"
What 's that?" asked Jack, and the man
explained what it was.
"I '11 go to one right away," Jack said hope-
"That 's the address of a safe place," said
the gentleman, writing a few words. Look out
for sharpers, though. Plenty of such people in
that business. I wish you good luck."
Before long Jack Ogden stood before the
desk of the Mercantile Agency to which he
had been directed, answering questions and
registering his name. He had paid a fee of
one dollar, and had made the office-clerk laugh
by his confidence.
"You seem to think you can take hold of
nearly anything," he said. "Well, your chance
is as good as anybody's. Some men prefer boys
from the country, even if they can't give refer-
When do you think you can get me a place ?"
asked Jack.
Can't tell. We've only between fourhundred
and five hundred on the books now; and some-
times we get two or three dozen fixed in a day."
Five hundred!" exclaimed Jack, with a
clouding face. "Why, it may be a month be-
fore my turn comes "
"A month ? said the clerk. Well, I hope
not much longer, but it may be. I would n't
like to promise you anything so soon as that."
Jack went out of that place with yet another
idea concerning business in the city," but he
again began to make inquiries for himself. It
was the weariest kind of work, and at last he was
heartily sick of it.
"I 've done enough for one day," he said to
himself. I 've been into I don't know how
many stores. I know more about it than I did
this morning."
There was no doubt of that. Jack had been
getting wiser all the while; and he did not even
look so rural as when he set out. He was
really beginning to get into city ways, and he
was thinking hard and fast.
The first thing he did, after reaching the
Hotel Dantzic, was to go up to his room. He
felt as if he would like to talk with his sister Mary,
and so he sat down and wrote her a long letter.

He told her about his .trip, all through, and
about his German friends, and his Sunday; but
it was anything but easy to write about Mon-
day's experiences. He did it after a fashion,
but he wrote much more cheerfully than he felt.
Then he went down to the supper-room for
some tea. It" seemed to him that he had
ordered almost nothing, but it cost him twenty-
five cents.
It would have done him good if he could
have known how Mary's thoughts were at that
same hour turning to him.
At home, Jack's father and Mr. Magruder
were talking about Jack's land, arranging about
the right of way and what it was worth, while
he sat in his little room in the Hotel Dantzic,
thinking over his long, weary day of snubs,
blunders, insults, and disappointments.
Hunting for a place in the city is just the
meanest kind of work," he said at last. Well,
I '11 go to bed, and try it again to-morrow."
That was what he did; but Tuesday's work
was "meaner" than Monday's. There did not
seem to be even so much as a variation. It
was all one dull, monotonous, miserable hunt
for something he could not find. It was just
so on Wednesday, and all the while, as he
said, Money will just melt away; and some-
how you can't help it."
When he counted up, on Wednesday even-
ing, however, he still had four dollars and one
cent; and he had found a place where they sold
bread and milk, or bread and coffee, for ten
I can get along on that," he said; and it 's
only thirty cents a day, if I eat three times. I
wish I 'd known about it when I first came
here. I 'm learning something new all the time."
Thursday morning came, and with it a long,
gossipy letter from Mary, and an envelope from
Crofield, containing a letter from his mother
and a message from his father written by her,
saying how he had talked a little-only a little -
with Mr. Magruder. There was a postscript
from Aunt Melinda, and a separate sheet writ-
ten by his younger sisters, with scrawly post-
scripts from the little boys to tell Jack how the
workmen had dug down and found the old
church bell, and that there was a crack in it, and
the clapper was broken off.



Jack felt queer over those letters.
"I won't answer them right away," he said.
" Not till I get into some business. I '11 go fur-
ther down town to-day, and try there."

At ten o'clock that morning, a solemn party
of seven men met in the back room of the Mer-
tonville Bank.
Gentlemen of the Board of Trustees, please
come to order. I suppose we all agree? We
need a teacher of experience. The academy 's
not doing well. The lady principal can't do
everything. She must have a good assistant."
Who 's your candidate, Squire Crownin-
shield? asked Judge Edwards. "I 'm trus-
tee as judge of the County Court. I 've had
thirty-one applications for my vote."
"I 've had more than that," said the Squire,
good-humoredly. I won't name mr choice till
after the first ballot. I want to know who are
the other candidates first."
"So do I," said Judge Edwards. "I won't
name mine at once, either. Who is yours,
Elder Holloway?"
"We 'd better have a nominating ballot,"
remarked the Elder, handing a folded slip of
paper to Mr. Murdoch, the editor of the
Eagle. "Who is yours, Mr. Jeroliman ?"
"I have n't any candidate," replied the bank-
president, with a worried look. I won't name
*any, but I '11 put a ballot in."
"Try that, then," said General Smith, who
was standing, instead of sitting down at the
long table. "Just a suggestion."
Every trustee had something to say as to how
he had been besieged by applicants, until the
seventh, who remarked:
I 've just returned from Europe, gentlemen.
I 'II vote for the candidate having the most
votes on this ballot. I don't care who
"I agree to that," quickly responded Gen-
eral Smith, handing him a folded paper. Put
it in, Dr. Dillingham. It 's better that none of
us should do any log-rolling or try to influence
others. I '11 adopt your idea."
I won't, then," said Squire Crowninshield,
pleasantly but very positively. Murdoch,
what 's the name of that young woman who
edited the Eagle for a week?"

"Miss Mary Ogden," said the editor, with a
slight smile.
"A clever girl," said the Squire, as he wrote
on a paper, folded it, and threw it into a hat
in the middle of the table. He had not heard
Judge Edwards's whispered exclamation:
That reminds me I promised my wife that
I 'd mention Mary for the place; but then there
was n't the ghost of a chance!"
In went all the papers, and the hat was
turned over.
"Now, gentlemen," said General Smith,
"before the ballots are opened and counted,
I wish to ask: Is this vote to be considered
regular and formal ? Shall we stand by the re-
sult ?"
Certainly, certainly," said the trustees in
Count the ballots! said the Elder.
The hat was lifted, and the count began.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven for
Mary Ogden," said Elder Holloway calmly.
"I declare !" said General Smith. Unani-
mous? Why, gentlemen, we were agreed!
There really was no difference of opinion
I 'm glad she is such a favorite," said Judge
Edwards; "but we can't raise the salary on that
account. It'll have to remain at forty dollars a
I 'm glad she 's got it !" said Mr. Murdoch.
"And a unanimous vote is a high testimonial!"
And so Mary was elected.
Each of them had other business to attend
to, and it was not until Judge Edwards went
home, at noon, that the news was known to
Mary, for the Judge carried the pleasant tidings
to Mary Ogden at the dinner-table.
"Oh, Judge Edwards!" exclaimed Mary,
turning pale. "I? At my age to be assist-
ant principal of the academy ? "
There 's only the Primary Department to
teach," said the Judge, encouragingly. Not
half so hard as that big, overgrown Sunday-
school class. Only it never had a good teacher
yet, and you '11 have hard work to get it into
What will they say in Crofield! said Mary
uneasily. They '11 say I 'm not fit for it."
I 'm sure Miss Glidden will not," said Mrs.


Edwards, proudly. "I 'm glad it was unani-
mous. It shows what they all thought of you."
Perhaps it did; but perhaps it was as well for
Mary Ogden's temper that she could not hear
all that was said when the other trustees went
home to announce their action.

It was a great hour for Mary, but her brother
Jack was at that same time beginning to think
that New York City was united against him,--
a million and a half to one.
He had been fairly turned out of the last store
he had entered.

(To be contiited.)



When Coal Was Made.
AGES and ages ago, so many that geologists
have given up reckoning them, this surprising
old planet of ours went into the coal-making
business. Such a diligent worker was she that
the stores she then laid up have supplied the
world ever since, and bid fair to do so for
350,000 years to come: How long she re-
mained in the business no one knows. Stu-
dents sometimes amuse themselves by trying to
work out that problem. A famous German
chemist has estimated that it takes 170 years
to make a layer of coal one inch thick. Now,
there are some layers 60 feet thick. To make
one of those layers would require 122,400
years; and the time it would take to make
68 layers like those found in the Joggins mines
of Nova Scotia, is beyond our comprehension.
However, these figures are based on the present
condition of affairs, and things were certainly
very different in the days when coal was
made. The materials out of which the vast
coal-beds were formed were trees and plants;
and wondrously beautiful and regular trees and
plants. They grew in great marshes, which
covered enormous tracts, of land.
How these immense swamps were formed
is easily seen. At the close of the first age,
there was only one piece of the continent, now

known as North America, elevated above the
sea. This was a narrow strip of solid granite,
shaped like a bent arm, and stretched from
what is now Nova Scotia to the region occu-
pied to-day by the Great Lakes, and thence up
toward the northwest. The Silurian Age had
enlarged this strip by adding a beach. The
Devonian Age also contributed a large amount
of new land; but the greater portion of the con-
tinent still lay under the sea, in whose depths
the coral animals had constructed great lime-
stone fields.
As the preceding age drew to a close, there
must have been great commotion in the interior
of our world, for nature was preparing to make
the coal beds. Agassiz tells us that low hills
were first thrown up over all the places where
the important coal-fields now lie. Between
these low hills extended wide valleys filled with
salt-water. Under the plentiful rains, as the
years went by, these valleys became fresh-water
lakes. Animals and plants lived and died on
the banks or in the waters of these lakes; and
these animal remains, with the material worn
from the shore, in the course of centuries filled up
the lakes and changed them into great marshes,
wherein flourished the curious plants and mag-
nificent tree-ferns which filled the forests of the
ancient world. These trees and plants budded,
bloomed, dropped their leaves and fruit, and
in time died,.as trees and plants do to-day.



Others filled their places, and died in their turn.
Then, when some great upheaval took place,
the marshes were dropped into the earth and
buried beneath the surging waters. On account
of the heat, the pressure of the water, and a
curious chemical change, which you will under-
stand when you grow older, the trees and shrubs
down in these buried swamps were changed
into coal.
Nor was the water idle during this change.
It was very busily employed, bringing in loads
of sand and pebbles, and laying them carefully
over the coal-beds. The coral-animals also
were diligently at work, making limestone cover-
lets for these beds.
Often another change of the earth's crust
brought the new sea-bottoms to the surface,
when they once more became swamps in the
moist air, to undergo again the changes just
described. This course of events happened in
some places several times. Down in Kentucky
we find that the land was thus raised and low-
ered fifteen times, and in the Joggins mines of
Nova Scotia, sixty-eight times! Such is the his-
tory of a coal-bed.
The fact that all the coal in the earth has been
made from the trees, plants, and shrubs that lived
at this period, and the abundance of remains that
has been found in the rock between the layers,
prove that vegetable life was more luxuriant
than anything we can now see.
The plants were giants in size, compared with
the same species in our day. In order to pro-
duce this abundance and gigantic size, there
must have been a warm, moist climate, such as
Dr. Livingstone found prevailing near the center
of Africa, where some plants like those of the
Coal Age now grow.
There is a little island out in the Pacific, where
it rains during some three hundred days in the
year, and where continual fogs shut out the sun-
light. In its climate and vegetation it approaches
more nearly than any region we now know to
what the earth was during the Age of Coal. In
that island ferns grow into trees, and there is the
same thick undergrowth that must have then
A curious thing about the fossils of this age
is the fact that the same kinds are found all over
the earth, from the equator to the poles. This

shows that every part of the globe was equally
warm and moist. The earth then did not de-
pend, as it does now, entirely upon the sun for
warmth. Its crust was still thin in comparison
with its thickness to-day; and the boiling mass
in the interior made the surface so warm that
the less heat received from the sun would not
make an important difference.
The days of the Coal Age, we are told by
Hugh Miller, were like the moist, mild, cloudy
days of early spring, with perhaps a little more
cloud and moisture, and a great deal more heat.
In spite of the moisture, however, a brighter
light shone on the beautiful ferns and lofty for-
ests than had shone on the scanty vegetation
of the ages before; for the air was beginning to
be clearer.
If we could look into one of the grand old
forests of that age, what a sight we should see!
You know the small horse-tails" that grow in
the marshes, with the jointed stems surrounded
by a little sheath? Imagine them grown into
great trees, forty feet high and nine feet around 1
These were jointed just like the small ones, were
hollow inside, and outside were deeply fluted
like the beautifully carved pillars that support
the old Grecian temples. Then the ferns-little
ones and big ones! There were more ferns than
anything else. Some of them shot up into
trees forty and fifty feet high. Their trunks rose
like stone shafts, and then came the crown of
wavy, plumy leafage, with the new leaves curled
up in the center, looking for all the world like
a piece of gigantic Moorish carving. Do you
know the "club-mosses" ? We often tread
under foot this humble little creeper; but to be
club-moss in the Age of Coal was to occupy
anything but a humble station. They rose into
gigantic trees, fifty and sixty feet high, which
bore on their trunks scales, carved in different
designs according to the species. Mighty cone-
bearing trees raised their heads a hundred feet
above the ground. Nature seemed to be show-
ing what she could do on a large scale.
There was another remarkable tree, fluted in
the same manner as the "horse-tail," but each
fluting had a line of beautiful carving running
down its center. The roots of this tree ran out
in ribbon-like bands of exceedingly graceful
shape, marked with little dots arranged in


groups. Each dot had a little ring beneath it,
and in one rare species each was surrounded by
a sculptured star.
The forest into which we now suppose our-
selves to be looking has none of the knotty
trunks so familiar to us. These trunks are grace-
ful beyond compare. They run up perfectly
straight, and are ornamented with beautiful
designs: zigzags, spirals, circles, and diamonds.
Here are patterns enough to supply all the
designers in the world. They are old leaf-scars,
and what is most remarkable about them is their
regularity. The most exact measuring could
not have made them more perfect. And then
the profusion of low, swampy plants, and of
plants that live on others, running from tree to
tree, sometimes in thick tufts, sometimes airy as
the most delicate lace !
No herds roamed through the dense groves,-
there was nothing for them to live on. You
know cattle never crop the "horse-tails"; no
matter how pretty and green a fern may be, no
animal feeds on it; and the club-mosses," al-
though once used in medicine, have been found
to be positively harmful.
The insects made their appearance during this
age; but they had no flowers among which to
fly or from which to gather honey. The first in-
sects were not very particular; they were the scor-
pions, cockroaches, and beetles. They could
live on any rubbish.
Of all the animals of this period, the corals
came first; they had so much to do with laying
the limestone beds for the coal and the limestone
covers to put over it. Their pretty, lily-like rela-
tives, the crinoids, during this age had their heads
surmounted by many slender ribbons, and were
much more gorgeous than before. Of the trilo-

bites only a few existed, and they were the last of
their race. There was a great abundance of hard-
shelled animals. One of them, resembling the
chambered-nautilus in shape, had its shell marked
by colored bands. It must have given a bit of
variety to the prevailing green, as it rowed its
dainty boat through the shallow waters. There
also have been found remains of reptiles, which
first appeared in this age, giving the world a
hint of what was to be in the next.
The fishes were of the same reptilian char-
acter as those in the Devonian age; that is,
they could move their heads freely in all direc-
tions without moving their bodies. There is
only one kind of fish now alive that looks at all
like the fishes of the Coal Age. It is the garpike,
found in the waters of the West. It has an ar-
mor of bony scales, covered with enamel so
hard that shot has little effect on it. Imagine a
fish of this kind, thirty or forty feet long, with
teeth three times larger than those of the
largest alligator, and covered from head to tail
with a coat of enameled bone, and you will have
an idea of the reptile-fishes of the Coal Age.
During this age, although the land had in-
creased so that all the eastern part of our conti-
nent was raised above the level of the ocean,
the western part was still occupied by an inland
sea, and a great gulf ran up to where is now sit-
uated the mouth of the Ohio.
The end of the age was marked by great
disturbances, which in some cases lifted the
beds of coal and rock and bent them out of
their original positions. It seemed a prepara-
tion for man's appearance that these beds of
coal should be formed far below and then be
brought nearer the surface, so that man should
find and use them.






THE wind from the south blew soft and free,
As I sat me down neathh the linden tree;
And the rustling leaves which the branches bore
Repeated this story o'er and o'er,
That the mossy linden told to me.

Ages ago, in his castle tall,
Made strong and safe by moat and wall,
Lived the bandit knight named Eppelin,
In the gray old town of Sailengen,
Known far and wide and feared by all.

Scarce threescore knights his castle manned,
And yet so brave was the bandit band
That he lightly laughed with child and wife,
And he feared not death and he lived his life,
And no foeman's foot dared cross his land.

He watched from his towers with falcon eye
For train or caravan passing nigh;
And, like the falcon upon its prey,
He struck- and bore their wealth away,
And his red wine quaffed, as the dogs went by.
VOL. XVII.- in6

But the falcon fierce at last was caged;
In a king's dark dungeons he pined and raged.
And he who had scorned all earthly power
Stood face to face with his own death-hour.-
Yet a hidden hope his grief assuaged.

They led him forth ere the morning sun
On Niirnberg's wall had the day begun.
He bared his brow as the sun uprose,
And shook the straws from his prison clothes,
As he dreamed in his heart of a deed to be done.

For unto one condemned, though knave
Or peer, the law a last wish gave.
'T was a custom old-too old to tell--
But Eppelin prized the custom well,
For by it he hoped his life to save.

He begged his white steed again to ride
Ere he should die, round the walls inside
The prison yard: I would try as of yore
The long, free stride of my horse once more,
While his willing speed I curb and guide "


The warder brought him his brave white steed,
Which never had failed at Eppelin's need,
And he neighed with joy at his master's call,
And proudly the echoing hoof-beats fall,
As Eppelin urged him to utmost speed.

Then Eppelin bent to the saddle-bow;
He patted the neck as white as snow,
Caressing his forehead and eyes and breast,
And called him the name he loved the best,
And stroked his long mane's silken flow.

Then the noble steed uptossed his head,
And faster and faster around he sped;
Till warder and soldiers, to give him space,
Crept close to the wall from his circling pace,
For his hoofs shot fire as on he fled.

And warder and soldiers looked on and smiled
Without misgiving-though never so wild
And gallant a steed and daring a man
Had their eyes beheld since their days began -
For the castle walls were strongly piled.

But the steed uprose and the knight struck spur,
He thought of his child and he thought of her
The love of his life.- Then a gleam of light,
And high on the battlements fair and bright
Stood the fiery beast, nor seemed to stir.

Thus half the deed was bravely wrought,
And quicker than glint of sight or thought
Down from the wall themselves they cast,
And safely both steed and rider passed
O'er the turbid moat, with danger fraught!

And this is the story the linden told
Of the robber Eppelin, brave and bold,
How he rode away to his castle wild,
And held to his heart his wife and child,
Whom he loved better than life or gold.



THE "wolves of the sea" are not sharks, as
might perhaps be fancied. The shark is indeed
ravenous and voracious; but in ferocity and
destructiveness it is far inferior to the orca, an-
other inhabitant of the world of waters, and yet
not a fish.
The orca, or grampus, as it is sometimes
called, is a member of the Whale family -a
sort of third cousin to the whale and a first
cousin to the porpoise. It is usually from eigh-
teen to thirty feet in length, and has a large
mouth, well supplied with strong, conical,
curved teeth. In color it is black above and
white below, with a white patch over each little
eye. It is easily distinguished from its relatives
by the dorsal fin, which is sometimes six feet
long, and rises abruptly from the back.
To call this creature the wolf of the sea"

does not tell half the story of its savage nature.
The wolf seems a puny foe compared to the
orca. For, there are animals on land which the
wolf dares not attack, even when hard driven
by hunger; but there is nothing inhabiting the
water which the orca will not assail. Moreover,
the wolf is almost cowardly except when made
dangerous by famine; but the orca is always
dangerous, or cannot satisfy its hunger. That
its appetite is insatiable seems likely, for an orca
was once found choked to death by a seal which
it had tried to swallow whole. An examination
showed that the gluttonous monster had already
swallowed a number of porpoises, besides several
As if not satisfied with the harm it can do
alone, the orca secures the aid of two or three of
its fellows, and then the little pack of monsters




starts on an expedition. Everything is game
to them. If a school of dolphins come in sight,
away go the fierce sea-wolves in hot chase.
The frightened dolphins dash madly through
the waves, urged to their swiftest speed by ter-
ror; but grimly the ravenous pursuers close upon
the flying quarry.
Perhaps a great Greenland whale may cross
the path of the marauders. Huge as it is-the
largest of created beings-it has no terrors for
the bloodthirsty pack. They dart about the
giant with lightning velocity; now in front, now
underneath, now on the sides; until the bewil-
dered monster, with a lash of his ponderous tail,
turns his mighty head downward and seeks the
ocean's bed. Vain effort! His tormentors fol-
low him apparently with ferocious glee. Up, up
again, rage and agony lending added strength,
till the surface is reached and all that bulk of
flesh shoots out of water and then falls with a
ponderous crash, dashing the boiling waves asun-
der. Still the agile foes are there. They leap


/ '

over his head, high in the air, and dive under
him. They rush at him, here, there, and every-
where. He opens his huge mouth to engulf
them. They only mock at the danger, and soon,
wounded in a hundred places, weakened and
powerless, the whale succumbs.
Even the fierce walrus, armed with enormous
tusks which it well knows how to use, is no
match for the orca. It is only the young wal-
rus, however, for which the orca cares, and it
will not hesitate to pursue one into the very
midst of a herd of walruses, trusting to superior
swiftness to enable it to carry off the prey in
The young walrus is well aware of its danger,
and the moment an orca comes in sight the
poor thing climbs frantically upon its mother's
back, and clings there in an agony of fear. The
wily orca is not to be foiled so easily, however.
It dives down, and then comes up with a sudden
surge, striking the mother walrus such a blow
that the little one is knocked from her back into
the water and is seized in a twinkling.
So rapid a swimmer is the orca that it easily
overtakes the salmon, and often pur-
sues them into the rivers.
Its swiftness, ferocity,
and rapacity make

terror of the
1 :ocean.



.- -."


Deep in the wood I made a house
Where no one knew the way;
I carpeted the floor with moss,
And there Iloved to play.

I heard the bubbling of the brook;
At times an acorn fell ,
SAnd far away a robin sang
Deepin a lonely dell .

I set a rock with acorn cups ;
So quietly I played
A rabbit hopped across the moss,
And did not seem afraid.

That night before I went tobed
I at my window stood ,
And thought how dark my house mustbe
Down in the lonesome wood.



OR a year or more
there has been a
"stranger within
our gates," whose
story of life in her
native land is so
fascinating and
Swt wonderful that had
she dropped from
some cold, starry
planet in the Northern skies her presence would
be hardly more marvelous.
Olof Krarer, a young Eskimo woman, now
visiting this country, is probably the only edu-
cated Eskimo lady in the world.
There have been one or two women who
have accompanied Arctic voyagers upon their
return to this country, but they were the wives
of hunters, women who knew little more than
the strange dogs which were their companions.
All except Olof Krarer have been natives of
West Greenland, a region of which we have
read and learned much within the last two dec-
ades. It has been left to this one little Eskimo
lady from the far distant, almost unknown re-
gion of the East Coast, to tell to us the pathetic
and curious tale of home life and child life in
the frozen North.
Of this little-explored portion of the globe
Captain Holm, the Danish explorer, who re-
cently returned from the Arctic seas to Copen-
hagen, says:
I found the east coast of Greenland to be
the coldest and most dismal region of all the
Arctic lands I ever visited; and here, isolated

from the whole world, is a race of people who
have never known of the great civilized nations
of the earth!

1 ..


"They differ entirely in language and physi-
cal character from the Eskimos of West Green-



land. From the meager traditions they have, it
is to be supposed that they are descendants of
early Icelandic Norsemen, who, centuries ago,
were wrecked off that perilous coast, and, una-
ble to return to their native land, became the
founders of this strange people who to-day in-
habit this little-known portion of the land.
"They have been cut off from communi-
cation with the outer world, by reason of
the great masses of ice, sometimes hundreds of
miles wide, perpetually piled up against the
shore, which have kept explorers from the east
coast of Greenland long after all other Arctic
lands were fairly well known. Within the past
two centuries, ten or twelve expeditions have
been sent out in search of the lost Norsemen,
who, it is supposed, settled here, but only one
ship has ever been known to reach the coast.
The people of this country live in little
hamlets or settlements; and, aside from their
ignorance and the suffering caused by the in-
tense cold, they seem to be a happy, con-
tented, honest people."
In this dreary land, some thirty years ago, was
born the little woman who to-day tells us her
wonderful story.
Her first recollections are of the snow-hut
which was her home, and the bitter cold and
frequent hunger from which every one about
her suffered. Fuel there was none, there being
no vegetable life in that latitude; and to make
the feeble fires which served to keep them only
half warm, the dried flesh of the reindeer, with
the bones of walrus and of fish, were ignited by
means of a piece of flint.
The precious bits of flint are obtained when
some aged iceberg breaks up on their coast;
they are fragments picked up by the glacier, of
which the berg was a portion, during its slow
progress of centuries. Flints are rare in Eskimo-
land; and sometimes there is only one in a com-
munity of several families. The flint-owner is
the rich man of the place. He does not hoard
his treasure, however, for the flint is freely bor-
rowed and generously offered at all times.
Inside the snow-hut, obedience is the law. An
Eskimo mother, when she says to her child, I
will punish you," never fails to keep her word.
The punishment is severe, and is never for-
gotten -for it leaves its mark.

You have disobeyed me; I will punish you;
I will burn you with the bone," says the mother,
and the little one sees her light the fire and
heat a bone very hot, and then upon some portion
of the body--but never upon the face--the
mother burns into her naughty little one a pain-
ful reminder of disobedience.
There appears to be little true affection in the
care which an Eskimo mother gives her babies;
she never fondles and pets them, and when they
are peevish or ill she neglects them not unlike
some of the lowest brutes.
As soon as they are able to sit alone, they are
put upon the fur-covered floor to take care of
themselves; and there they sit, muffled in their
little seal-skin jackets the fur side turned
inward--with their little arms folded about
their bodies to keep warm. The girls grow de-
formed by being constantly in this constrained
position. The boys, who are more active and
go out-of-doors, escape such deformity; but all
Eskimo women have the upper arm short and
crippled from disuse.
An Eskimo girl has an indolent time of it;
there is no housework to do. There are no
household utensils of any kind; no brooms with
which to sweep; even no water for washing.
The blubber of the whale, the flesh of the polar-
bear, and fish their only articles of food are
eaten frozen and raw. Only the very sick or old,
or infants, ever taste heated meat. As for wash-
ing, an Eskimo does not understand the term.
Occasionally they grease themselves with oil
and fat; but that is their only mode of personal
cleanliness or adornment, and, indeed, the Es-
kimo girl with the shiniest face is considered the
belle of the community!
"Be good to one another," is the precept
taught to her children by an Eskimo mother;
and quarrels and disagreements among them,
when not settled by the hot bone, are argued
down and met with that same Golden Rule "
by which Christians are told to live.
When an Eskimo baby is born, a bag of skins
is fashioned for its sole use, and in it a record
of its age is kept forever after. Into this bag
a little bone is put once every year, and it is
considered a kind of sacrilege either to take
out or put in a bone except at the proper time.
The year is reckoned from the time the person


first sees the sun appear upon the horizon -for
that luminary is not a daily visitor in the land
of the frozen North. Four long months of
continual night, lighted only by the stars and
moon; four months of daylight without rest
from the blinding sun; two months of glimmer-
ing twilight before, and two after, the coming
of the sun, make up the Arctic year. After the
second twilight period, which is the pleasantest
season, when the sun first shows his dazzling
rays above the horizon, the new year begins in
the Eskimo's family life, and into each bag of
skins is deposited a bone to keep the record
of the family ages.
They have no register or notation of time, nor
routine of daily life, as we understand it. They
eat when they are hungry and sleep when they
are sleepy.
The furniture of an Eskimo woman's house is
very simple: a rug of furs upon the snow floor;
perhaps a rude seat or two built of snow and
covered with fur, and li.ings of .the same
about the snow walls. There are besides a huge
bag of fur, into which the entire family crawl to
sleep, and perhaps a few rough implements of
bone for the rude work of their monotonous
lives. The making, or rather holding together,
of the fur garments they wear is accomplished
by means of a sort of bone needle and cords
made of the dried sinews of the reindeer.
The flesh of the same animal, poor and tough
from the meager nourishment it is able to ob-
tain, is never eaten, but is used for fuel; and
from the skin the harness for the dogs and
sledges is made. All tools for working, and
weapons for the capture of seals and walrus
and bear, are formed of bone and the tusks of
the walrus.
There is no outdoor occupation or amuse-
ment for the women. Occasionally a man will
take his mother or wife out in a sledge for an
airing; and if a little one goes, too, it is carried
inside the large fur hood of the woman's coat,
and dangles down her back.
There is no mode of government, as we
understand it, in these communities: no laws;
no written language; no one man holds a
higher place than any other-the man who
owns the flint is perhaps the millionaire of
the hamlet, but he shares his riches with

the rest. All are equal, and meet on common
Custom is the highest law of their bare, rude
lives; and their customs are prompted and regu-
lated mainly by the first great instinct of self-
When the sun makes its appearance, after the
long night of many months has passed, and the
bitter cold becomes a little less severe, a faint,
peculiar, crackling sound is heard in the land.
It is eagerly listened for and joyously reported
as soon as heard, for it denotes the advent of
the only eventful season of their quiet lives.
From hut to hut goes the inquiry, "Have
you heard the ice breaking up ? and when the
glad news is confirmed and the good tidings
spread throughout the settlement, the men and
youths assemble and prepare for the hunt;
and the women feel glad that there will soon be
fresh food to put into the hungry mouths of
their cold little ones.
The.polar-bears are an easy prey, for their
hunger, too, drives them to the shore to contest
with the men in the search for food. The
whale, walrus, and seal are the most difficult to
obtain and the most valuable, for here are oil
and blubber as well as flesh and fur.
To the fortunate man who first puts his spear
into the animal killed, belongs the skin; but of
the rest of the creature each man receives an
equal share for himself and family.
Although there is no recognized religion
among this peculiar people, they have some
idea of worship and a vague belief in an Al-
mighty power for good, as well as a fear and
terror of a great bad spirit.
The bad spirit, they believe, dwells in a cli-
mate much colder and more wretched than their
own; while to the Good Spirit they attribute an
abode of warmth and comfort, whose dwelling-
place is in the region of the beautiful and bril-
liant aurora borealis; and in such awe do they
hold that rosy, palpitant splendor, when it bursts
upon their vision, that they deem it daring to
boldly face the dazzling light, and therefore they
reverently bow their heads.
When, after along winter's fast-sometimes a
famine the men kill the first walrus or bear or
whale, they perform a curious sort of ceremony.
They dip their hands into the blood, and before


they eat a mouthful, sing a song of rejoicing
over the food they have found at last. Surely
a true thanksgiving feast!
Some twenty-five years ago, a crew of Ice-
landic sailors were wrecked off the east coast of
Greenland, and in due time found their way in-
land and came to a settlement of these strange
It took a long time-it must have been a year
or more -before the Icelanders could establish
a mode of communication by which to make
known to their new friends the story of their
own happy homes, and the warmth and com-
fort to be found in other lands.
At last, growing bitterly homesick, they im-
portuned the natives for help to return. The
idea seemed preposterous; but one among the
Greenlanders listened gravely to their beseeching
overtures, and finally determined that he would
risk the perilous journey; and with all his pos-
sessions, which consisted of his family, his dogs,
and his sledges, agreed to take the unhappy
strangers back to their native land.
It was the father of Olof Krarer who was
thus brave and kind. And so one winter when,
fortunately for them, the passage across the
hundreds of miles of sea lying between that part
of the coast and Iceland was entirely frozen and
traversable, he started with his family and friends
for the Eldorado of the East" of which the
castaways had told such glowing tales.
It took months of perilous travel to make
the journey, but they finally reached Iceland,
and were welcomed by its hospitable people.
Here it was that the little Olof, then a girl of
fifteen was adopted, and educated in the mission
After five years' residence in Iceland, her own
people dying from the effects of the change
of climate, she came to British North America
with friends; and there she pursued her studies,
learned the English language, and a few years
later was prepared to lecture upon the manners
and customs of her native land.
One would never associate one's preconceived
idea of the "dark, ugly Eskimos'' with this
blonde, blue-eyed, pretty little lady who intro-
duces herself as of that people; but one can
readily trace all the characteristics of the sturdy
Norse race in her appearance. Stunted and

dwarfed as her people have been by centuries of
cold and suffering and ignorance, she still shows
the characteristics of that hardy, handsome, and
intelligent race.
The people of East Greenland are, as she tells
us, the lineal descendants of the Norsemen;
there are no others among their ancestors; and

consequently, beneath the coating of grease
and smoke and dirt, which their daily lives in
the close snow-huts produce, they are really as
fair and white as their Norse brethren across
the frozen sea.
When first introduced to the ways of civilized
life, the little Olof ate the soap given her, and
stoutly rebelled against the use of water for
washing, having never seen it so used!
For months after her arrival in British North
America, it was necessary to keep her in a room
filled with ice and snow, so bitterly did she suf-
fer from the heat.



Notwithstanding she is rejoiced to be away
from so desolate a country as her native land,
she speaks affectionately of her home, and of the
people in that isolated spot. She says, with a
certain pride:
"1My people, in spite of their ignorance and
misery, are an honest, contented, happy race:
they are good to one another; they never steal,
and they never lie; and," she adds, a little se-
verely : I find that when one becomes civilized
and educated, it is not so uncommon a thing to
tell lies-what you call 'little white lies' ; but
it yet seems wrong to me a heathen born! "
To those who ask, Can nothing be done to
lessen the sufferings of your people ?" she re-
plies, Nothing, absolutely. To go to them is
almost impossible; and the cold would kill you
even if you were successful in reaching them.
Then, there is no language by which you could
make them comprehend what you would do. The
language of the coast of East Greenland is un-
like any other Eskimo language all Arctic
explorers will tell you that. My poor people
would have no conception of what you meant
were you to tell them what they miss in life.
They are fast decreasing in numbers. They are
dying out. They will not suffer much longer.
To come to you ? Ah, that, too, would kill them,
as it killed all of my family but myself. No;
your people are kind and generous, but there is

nothing to be done. My people are dying from
the face of the earth."
Such hopeless, pathetic truth !
In the interesting lectures which this little
lady is delivering in our country (and she speaks
very intelligibly, in good, pure English, and at
times quite captivatingly), she tells us the Es-
kimo names of the family, which are as follows:
Father, kato; mother, keralenja; brother,
drayos; sister, stokee; baby, karaka. House
is igloo. And she sings a little Eskimo love-song,
which she gives any one permission to remember,
words and music, if they can. The words would
not be intelligible, but the music, like the music of
all uncivilized races, is weird and attractive; and
she sings it in a very good mezzo-soprano voice,
the last note of each bar being prolonged as much
as possible.
Allegro JModerato. _

___ ___ ___ _____ __ ftw fe __ __ 7\ _

eS D




" IT 's hard on a fellow, I do declare! "
Said Tommy one day, with a pout;
" In every one of the suits I wear
The pockets are 'most worn out.
They're 'bout as big as the ear of a mole,
And I never have more than three;
And there's always coming a mean little hole
That loses my knife for me.

" I can't make 'em hold but a few little things-
Some cookies, an apple or two,
A knife and pencil and bunch of strings,
Some nails, and maybe a screw,
VOL. XVII.- 107.

And marbles, of course, and a top and ball,
And shells and pebbles and such,
And some odds and ends- yes, honest, that's all!
You can see for yourself 't is n't much.

" I 'd like a suit of some patent kind,
With pockets made wide and long;
Above and below and before and behind,
Sewed extra heavy and strong.
I'd want about a dozen or so,
All easy and quick to get at;
And I should be perfectly happy, I know,
With a handy rig like that."





Nt 1'ANY years ago, in a
far-off country, very
strange things hap-
The name of this far-off
country was Fableland, and the
children there learned many use-
ful lessons by listening to a merry little Wizard-
bird whose first name was Con."
One bright summer morning in Fableland,
Con. the wizard-bird was singing among the
snowy blossoms of a white hawthorn-tree near
the porch of a quaint old castle.
The bird seemed to be waiting for some one,
for he sang the same song over and over again,
and this was the song he sang:

I know a maid with a sunny face,
And sunlit golden hair;
Whose sunny thoughts have lent their grace
To make her life as fair.
Whose golden deeds spring up like flowers
And weave for her a crown.
May love's glad sunshine gild her hours
Until life's sun goes down."

Presently, while the bird was still singing, a
lovely little maiden came out of the castle and
ran eagerly down the broad path which led to
the tree.
The maiden seemed to understand every word
of the song, for when the bird saw her and
ceased singing, she blushingly answered: "Thank
you, dear Con., for your kind thoughts. I am
glad you have come this morning, for I am go-
ing away, and wish to ask a favor of you."
The bird flew down and perched upon her
outstretched hand, and said: "I heard your
wish, although you only whispered it to yourself
this morning; and I came at once to answer it,
for Con. the Wizard is always glad to serve his
good friend Mistress May."
"Thank you again, dear Con.," said Mistress

May. You are such a comfort to me, and I
need you more than ever, just now."
"What is troubling you this lovely morning ?"
asked Con. "Are the pets behaving badly be-
cause you are going to the fair in the village
to-day ?"
You have guessed rightly, as you always do,"
replied Mistress May. "They behaved shame-
fully when I went to bid them good-bye this
They all wished to go, too, I suppose," said
Yes," answered the maiden, and they were
very rude when I told them they could not go
with me, because I must remain over night with
my friends in the village."

"You wish me to sing to these ungrateful pets,
and try to put them in good humor while you
are away, do you not ? said Con.
"Indeed I do, if you will be so kind," replied


Mistress May; "for they grow more and more
selfish and discontented every day, though I try
to do all I can to make them happy."
"Will you leave Teddy Mann at home to take
care of the pets, as usual ?" asked Con.
Certainly I will, for no one understands them
so well as he does. But why do you ask?" said
Mistress May.
Because I fear his example is not good for
the pets," replied Con. He finds too much
fault, himself, and seems to forget all you have
done for him and his family."
"Poor Teddy has a hard time, I fear," said
Mistress May. "Just now I saw him hurrying
across the fields trying to catch that runaway
donkey Sancho.'"
"Leave the pets and Teddy to me until to-
morrow, and I will see what I can do to make
them more cheerful and reasonable," said Con.
Thank you for all your kindness, dear Con."
answered Mistress May; "and now I must say
good-bye until we meet again when I return
from the fair."

"Good-bye, fair Mistress May.
Kind Fortune spare you sorrow.
Speed well,-a merry day,
And safe return to-morrow,"

sang the bird as he spread his wings and flew
away over the fields; while the maiden returned
to the castle to prepare for her journey.


WAY over the fields flew the little
bird to a neighboring hillside,
where Arco, a shepherd-boy,
was lying under the wide-
spreading branches of an
old oak-tree, playing on
a sweet-toned pipe made
of a hollow reed.
The shepherd-boy's
task was to watch a flock of sheep and lambs
while they were grazing on the open pasture-
lands during the daytime, and to sleep near
their fold at night, in a snug, heather-thatched
hut built against an overhanging rock.
Every morning, one of the men from his mas-
ter's farm in the village came on horseback to

bring him a basket of food and a jug of milk
for the day; and a spring of sparkling water
bubbled out from under the rocks near his
For company he had his gentle flock, a fine
shepherd-dog, and his musical pipe, and almost
every day he met and had a friendly chat with
Joan, a rosy-cheeked lassie, as she drove her
flock of snow-white geese to their feeding-
grounds in the meadow beyond the grazing-
On this bright summer morning all the land-
scape before him was smiling in the sunlight;
the air was full of sweet, glad sounds of busy
insects, a gentle breeze was whispering in the
tree-tops, and the waving branches were play-
ing with their shadows on the grass.
The tones of the shepherd's pipe were soft
and musical, but the tune was a sad one, and
the boy's face became sober and wistful as he
laid aside his pipe and gazed far across the val-
ley where the roofs and steeples of many build-
ings were glistening in the distance.
Presently, as if thinking aloud, he said : "Oh,
how I wish I were anything but a shepherd!
For then I would have a holiday and go to the
fair over yonder, where all the lads and lassies
of the village will have a merry time to-day! "
Before he had finished speaking the bird flew
down from the branches of the oak, and, perch-
ing upon a rock near by, began to sing this
little song:

Why are you sad
When all is glad,
My gentle shepherd-boy ?
The birds and bees,
The flowers and trees
Are all alive with joy.
Your heart attune
To cheery June,
And pipe a merry lay.
The fields are fair,
Their gladness share -
Come, pipe your gloom away."

The music of the song was so full of gladness
that Arco turned a scowling face toward the
singer, and grumblingly said: Oh, you can
sing and make believe you are happy, for you
are only a bird, and know no better. If you
were in my place you would feel like singing a
very different strain!" *




The song ceased, and a voice that came from
the bird replied, Only a bird, did you say ?
PRESTO! CHANGE! and in a twinkling the
bird was gone, and in its place Arco beheld
another boy, the very image of himself, leaning
against the oak and smiling at him.
"Who are you ? cried the startled shepherd.
"I am Con. the Wizard," replied the voice,
"and I will take your place to-day and watch
the flock, while you have your wish and go to
the fair in the village."
What will the master say if I do not perform
my task? asked Arco.
Leave your task to me," replied Con. Go,
follow your wish, where your thoughts have
already been straying, to the fair; and when
you have found the happiness you seek, come
back at this hour to-morrow and tell me about
Taking the shepherd's staff and pipe from
Arco and giving him a silver flute instead, Con.
seated himself under the tree and began to play
a lively quickstep, while Arco ran eagerly down
the. hillside, and was soon out of sight on his
way to the fair..

FEW minutes later a fussy little
man, dressed in a footman's
livery, came panting along
the hillside, beating and
S scolding a half-grown
l- donkey.
-When the fussy little
"3' man saw Con. sitting
-under the tree dis-
guised as a shepherd boy, he said petulantly:

" It is an easy time you are having, lying there
in idleness. I wish I were in your place, young
lazy-bones! "
What is the matter with you and your long-
eared companion, and why are you so fretful
and sullen this lovely morning?" asked Con.,
with a merry twinkle in his eyes.
Companion to a donkey, am I ?" said the
fussy little man. I would have you to know,
young lazy-bones, that I am as fine a man as
yourself, any day in the week, barring my bad
luck, for,
I am Teddy Mann of the Castle,
And I was a poet born;
Bad luck has brought my gifts to naught,
I 'm slaving from night till morn.
"Young Mistress May of the Castle
Goes off with her prancing span,
And leaves behind, her pets to mind,
Poor Teddy, her serving-man.

) ~i42

4-- ~

There are: Sancho,' this rascal donkey,
A poodle called Prince,' from France,
'Tam O'Shanter,' the cat, out late like a bat,
And a huge St. Bernard named' Lance.'
All four of these troublesome creatures
Are grumbling or glum to-day,
They bray and growl, they scream and howl
Whenever she goes away,

Our mistress goes to the fairing,
With never a thought nor care
For Teddy Mann; -'t is a sorry plan,
I 'm abused, I do declare! "

When Teddy had finished his rhyme, Con.
smilingly said: "Poor fellow, you think you
have outgrown your station in life and would
like .to be an idler in the world. I fear, how-
ever, you would be just as discontented if
you changed your task for mine."
"Your task ?" scornfully repeated Teddy.


" What have you to do but to lounge about and
pipe the day away ? Listen to me, lazy-bones:

If I were a shepherd like you,
I 'd be happy the whole day long;
With no drudging nor trudging to do
I would laugh at the toiling throng,
For while they were coming and going,
And trudging with plowing and sowing,
Or drudging with reaping and mowing,
I 'd be dreaming or making a song."

While Teddy was reciting his lines the shep-
herd boy suddenly vanished from sight, and a
little bird flew up into the tree, and a strange
voice exclaimed: "A shepherd you shall be.
PRESTO CHANGE!" and before Teddy could
wink he found himself changed into a shepherd,
lying under the tree, pipe in hand, while the
donkey scampered off alone toward the castle.
"What does this mean?" cried Teddy, the
Shepherd, as he looked wonderingly about him
and saw only the bird watching him from the
branches overhead.
It means," replied the bird, that I am Con.
the Wizard, and that your wish is granted."
And then he added, sternly, See to it that you
remain here and do a shepherd's duty until I
return in the morning."
"All right," said Teddy, "but who will mind
the pets at the castle? "
"Leave the pets to me, and do your duty
here," answered Con., and away he flew toward
the castle, leaving Teddy Mann alone with the
flock, and the faithful dog that was watching at
the foot of the hill to keep the lambs from


HEN Con. reached the
castle he found the four
pets, Sancho the donkey,
Lance the St. Bernard,
Prince the poodle, and
i Tam O'Shanter the cat,
all gathered in a group
in the courtyard, complaining to each other
and looking very unhappy.
Perching upon a dove-cote near the group,
Con. listened for a moment, and then, to attract
their attention, he began a sweet, low song:

"Why will you miss all gladness,
And fill your lives with sadness,
By dwelling on your troubles and your ills ?
You never hear the flowers
Complaining of the showers,
Or hear the valleys envying the hills.
Come, be jolly, jolly, jolly,
'T is folly, folly, folly,
And only makes life harder, to complain;
The world is full of beauty
And smiling lightens duty,
Like sunshine weaving rainbows in the rain."

The pets stopped their wrangling to listen to
the bird, but when Con. had finished his song
Sancho gruffly said: "It is all very well for you
to sing and tell others to be happy, for you have
nothing else to do. What do you know about
our trials and troubles, you idle, good-for-noth-
ing bunch of feathers ? "
"Calling me names does not mend your for-
tunes," replied the bird. "I am Con. the Wiz-
ard, and have come to find out why there is so
much grumbling and fault-finding among Mis-
tress May's pets."
"I beg your pardon, good Mr. Wizard," has-
tily exclaimed Sancho, bowing very humbly;
I hope you will excuse my manners, for I have
had many things to try my temper this morning."
"All the more need, then, of controlling your
temper and keeping a civil tongue," replied
Con. I do not mind your rudeness to me, but
it is a good rule to be civil to strangers, and good
manners are never out of place even among your
most intimate friends.
"As you are the eldest," continued Con., "I
will hear your story first. Of what were you
complaining before I came ? "
"I was only telling this vagabond of a dog,
Lance, what an easy time he had," said Sancho.
"I wish," continued the donkey, "that I had
his liberty to go roaming about the fields and
have a little fun by myself, without having Teddy
Mann always chasing at my heels, to beat and
drive me back to the stable, and to harness or sad-
dle me by day, and shut me up in a box-stall at
Poor Sancho," said Con; "I can guess what
troubles you. You are sorry you were not born
a dog."
"It is the dog's liberty I ask, good Mr. Wiz-
ard," replied the donkey; "for I am as well born
as Lance, and my full name is Sancho Panza,



after a great traveler in Spain, and yet I am
kept trotting between the castle and the village,
day in and day out, with never a glimpse of the
world beyond, while the dog Lance goes rov-
ing at will, when he is not too lazy to leave the
"You are in a sad state of mind," said Con.,
"and, like many another donkey in the world,
you do not seem to know when you are well
Turning to the St. Bernard, Con. said: "Now,
Lance, tell me your grievance, and be as brief as
possible, for we are wasting precious time."
The dog glanced haughtily at the donkey as
he said: "My mistress calls me 'Lance,' but
my name is Sir Launcelot, after a famous Knight
of King Arthur's Round Table, who wore gay
armor and had a groom to keep it bright and
to wait upon him. Even so has this donkey
Sancho; while I must follow his village-cart like
a lackey when I go out with my mistress, and at
night I must watch the castle grounds.
"Why should I not be given gay trappings
and a groom, like Sancho, and have his privilege
of being admired in the village and snugly housed
at home? growled Lance.
"You must, indeed, be very miserable in your
mind to envy a poor donkey his gaudy trappings
and the tasks that go with them," said Con.;
and with a smile he turned to the poodle, and
asked: "What is troubling the Mistress May's
little pet, Prince, to-day ?"
The poodle looked up at Con. and peevishly
replied: My life is full of troubles; not be-
cause I deserve them, but because I am a poodle.
I am not only Prince by name, but a
prince by birth, for my father was a French King
Charles, and yet I have fewer privileges and
more hardships than this plebeian cat.
"Tam O'Shanter," continued Prince, "has
the freedom of the castle and grounds at all
hours of the day and night, and is allowed to
to make his own toilet or to neglect it as he may
choose, while I must be washed and scrubbed
and combed and tied up with ribbons every day
of my life.
And besides these indignities," whined the
poodle, I am put on exhibition and made to
do stupid tricks every time my mistress has
company, and at night I am locked in like a

prisoner, because she fears I may be stolen or
get lost. I am tired of being bathed and
combed and dried, and dandled by day, and
kept in at night, while Tam O'Shanter has
such a free and easy time. Do you wonder
that I am not happy, Mr. Wizard-bird ? "
Con.'s eyes sparkled as he answered: "You
may be a prince by name and station, but you
seem to have very common tastes and a tramp-
like prejudice against habits of neatness and
good-breeding. I fear you would fare poorly
if left to care for yourself."
Con. turned from the poodle to the cat and
said: "It is now your turn, Tam O'Shanter.
You look very comfortable and ought to be
happy. What fault have you to find with
your lot ? "
"If you please, Mr. Wizard," said Tam, "I
have not been complaining of myself, but it
pains me to see these other creatures behave so
ungratefully, especially Prince. If there was
given to me half the care and attention that is
wasted on this thankless poodle, I should be
the happiest cat alive.
"No one waits upon me, or seems to care
how I look, no matter how much pains I take
with my toilet; and at meal-times Prince gets
all the tidbits from the table, while I am put off
with a dish of milk, or must get my own, as best
I can, if I wish for a dainty bit of mouse or any
delicacy of that kind.
Prince talks about my privileges," continued
Tam, "but I should like to be coddled and
waited on as he is; and let him try staying out-
of-doors in all kinds of weather, and see how he
would enjoy having empty bottles and other
things thrown at him every time he attended
a moonlight concert with his friends in the
"You have stated your case very well for a
cat," said Con. Your trouble seems to be not
so much what you do not have, or can not get
for yourself, as that others have more and are
not sufficiently thankful for their blessings.
Perhaps," continued Con., "it wotild be a
wiser plan for you to think less about the faults
of others, and set a good example of cheerful-
ness and patience by being thankful for the
privileges you enjoy.
And now," continued Con., "having listened



to your complaints, I will say that the situation
is very serious, and needs to be promptly
"You are all more or less envious of eacl
other, and I know of but one way to treat such
cases, and that is to grant your wishes.
"I have seen many such instances among
human beings, and have this morning tried the
experiment on two persons in this neighborhood.
If you wish, I will permit you to exchange
places with each other, and see how you like
the change. Do you all agree to this ? asked
Yes! shouted the pets in chorus.
"Then it shall be done," said Con; but, as
you are animals, not human beings, it will be
necessary only to change your heads.
PRESTO CHANGE! exclaimed Con., and
instantly the four heads were changed to the
four bodies according to their wishes.
So Sancho had exchanged heads with
Lance, and Prince with Tam O'Shanter, and
there they stood: the donkey-dog and the dog-
donkey, the poodle-cat and the cat-poodle, all
gazing at each other in wonder and astonishment.
Before they had recovered from their surprise

Con. spoke again and said: Let each perform
the duties belonging to the lot he has chosen, and
wait. until I come again. PRESTO CHANGE "
and when they looked again the bird was gone,
and Teddy Mann, or some one who looked like
him, stood among them as if nothing had
It was not Teddy, however, but Con. himself
disguised as a footman, and he began at once to
attend to his morning duties.
What happened during the next twenty-four

hours can never be fully told, but we know that
after the change as before, the sun shone, the
birds sang, the flowers bloomed, and all nature
told the same helpful story, to those who loved
peace and shunned strife.


ARLY the next morning
the pets heard the bird
singing again, and when
they saw Con. perched
/ s in the same place where
they had last seen him,
with one accord they
begged him to listen to their complaints once
"What is the matter now?" asked Con.
"Have you not all had your wishes granted?
Are you not happy ? "
"We are more wretched than ever," replied
Sancho, "and we beg of you, good Mr. Wiz-
ard-bird, to change us back as we were when
you came here yesterday morning."
Con. looked at their woe-begone faces, and
answered: "You are a fickle-minded lot of
creatures, and very hard to please; however
I will listen to your present troubles and
then decide whether to leave you as you
are, or to grant your requests."
Please, Mr. Wizard, may I speak first ?"
asked Tam O'Shanter, the cat-poodle, in a
plaintive voice.
Yes," answered Con. "But why are
you in such haste to find fault with the lot
which yesterday you said would make you
the happiest cat alive ? "
I was sadly mistaken," whimpered Tam,
"and I am in a hurry to be changed to my old
self, before Teddy Mann comes to put me in
that horrible bath-tub again, where he nearly
drowned me yesterday. Ugh! how I dread
that water and the scrubbing and combing! I
wonder now how poor Prince has lived through
such trials so many years. I am willing to
make my own toilet, and will never wish to
play poodle again so long as I live, if you will
let me be the same comfortable cat I was be-
fore we changed places."
It takes two, and sometimes more, to make



a bargain, and perhaps Prince will not consent,"
replied Con.
"Oh, yes! I will consent to anything, if you
will kindly let us be ourselves again," eagerly
cried Prince the poodle-cat, for I need my
snug basket to rest in and something fit to eat;
I am worn out with the terrors of the night,
and am half-starved besides."
What has happened to change
your mind ? asked Con.
Nearly everything un-
pleasant that could
happen in one long
night," responded /
Prince, dolefully.
"I had a com-
fortable time during
the day," he

but such a
night I never
passed before!
I hunted in the
dark for some-
thing to eat, until even a mouse would have been
a luxury; but not a mouse could I catch, for
when the mice saw me coming they ran away
and hid' in their holes. Then I tried to make
friends with a pair of strange cats who were
calling for Tam in the garden, but the savage
brutes scratched and tore me, and they shrieked
so loud that the maids threw all manner of things
at me from the window, until I was glad to escape
with my life. Oh, it was a terribly long night,
and I thought the morning would never come!
Please let me be a poodle, as I was before, and
I will promise never to be envious of the cat
Be patient awhile," said Con., when Prince
had finished speaking, and let us hear what
Lance has to say. He seems to be very impa-
tient in his stall. What is the matter with you,
Lance ? "
"I wish you would send at once for Teddy
Mann to let me out of this box-stall," said
Lance, the dog-donkey, "for I am disgusted
with the whole plan of a donkey's life.
"It was bad enough," growled Lance, "to

have Sancho's bridle put on my head, with his
ugly bits in my mouth, and to be strapped to a
cart to drag it back and forth on all manner
of errands in the sun and dust yesterday, but
this is more than I can bear. Here I have
been shut up all night with only a bundle of
coarse hay and a handful of oats for my dinner
and supper, until I feel like a thief in jail and
am famishing for a bone to gnaw. This kind
of life may be all well enough for a plebeian
donkey, but I have seen better days,- and
nights, too, for that matter,-and the sooner we
exchange heads and places again, the better I
shall be pleased. 'I 'd rather be a dog and
bay the moon than such a'-donkey. Please
make haste, Mr. Wizard, and get Sancho to
consent to the change."
"It is now your turn. Let us hear from you,
Sancho," said Con.
"I need no urging," replied Sancho, the
donkey-dog, "for I was a senseless fellow to
change with Lance in the first place, and have
had quite enough of roving by day and watch-
ing by night."
"Tell us about it," said Con.
"I have been tenderly reared," continued
Sancho, "and another night of exposure and
abuse would ruin my amiable disposition, and
my health, too, I fear. Somehow, I lost my
relish for thistles when I strolled about the
fields for my lunch in the daytime, and such
a night as I had, I hope never to go through
Being tired of roaming, when evening came
I tried to take a nap in Lance's cramped kennel;
but I found no comfort there and was glad to
take a turn about the castle grounds.
Then I tried a quiet place under a tree by
the roadside, but I had no sooner fallen asleep
than I was rudely awakened by a strolling tramp,
who beat me and set his vagabond of a dog
upon me, and laughed to see him chase me
over the fields.
I am not naturally a coward, I trust, but
every ugly cur in the neighborhood seemed to
owe me a grudge and joined the tramp's dog in
making me miserable. Not a wink of sleep, nor
a peaceful moment have I had all night long.
This kind of excitement may do for Lance, but
it is a dog's life to me.



"I pray you, good Mr. Wizard, restore us to
ourselves, and let me do a donkey's duty again
in the world. Liberty is sweet, but it has its
dangers. I prefer safety and peace of mind.
Let me be a donkey to the end of my days."
"You seem to have been almost as unfortu-
nate as the great traveler after whom you were
named," remarked Con., with a chuckle; and
turning to the group, he said: This is just the
result I expected when you asked to change
places with each other yesterday. You have
begun your education in the dear school of ex-
perience, because you would not learn in any
other, just as the old maxim says; and perhaps
one lesson will be enough."
"It will!" shouted the pets in chorus, and
they begged Con. to forgive their grumbling
and to grant their requests.
If you are all agreed, it shall be done," said
Con. "Are you ready? "
"Yes -and thank you a thousand times!"
shouted the pets again.
PRESTO CHANGE exclaimed Con., and
instantly, their heads came off and then on again
in their proper places, and the four pets were
themselves once more.
When each had finished shaking himself, and
looking himself over to see if he were all there,
they began to ask why Teddy Mann had not
come to give them their breakfast, and how it
happened that he had not seemed to notice any
change in the pets while they were wearing each
other's heads.
"I will explain that part," said Con. I
took his place for the time, while Teddy was
having his wish and trying to be happy as a
shepherd over yonder on the hillside. I will
send him to you presently. Good-bye, until
I come again! "

HEN Con. reached the
SI hillside the sun was just
peeping over the hill-
tops and chasing the shadows
From the valley, where the
,- 7 dewdrops were sparkling a wel-
come to the sunlight and getting
ready to say good-bye to their
dainty couches among the grass and flowers.
VOL. XVII.-lo8.

Teddy Mann, the shepherd, had just released
the flock from the fold, and the gentle ewes were
straying along the beaten paths, nibbling here
and there, or watching the frisky lambs as they
capered about among the rocks and heather,
having plenty of fun, but making their anxious
mothers uneasy, just as other happy little lambs
sometimes do without meaning any harm.
All the scene was fresh and balmy, yet Teddy
Mann seemed blind to the beauty and fragrance
of the morning, and to be wrapped in his own
gloomy thoughts, as he came slowly from the
hut toward the old oak-tree, muttering bitterly
to himself.
Con. was sitting upon the edge of the great
rock in front of the tree; and, as Teddy came
near, Con. heard him repeating to himself these
doleful rhymes:
Why did you leave your serving,
Teddy Mann ?
Good luck you 're not deserving,
Teddy Mann !
You thought you were a poet,
That a shepherd's life would show it,
And all the world would know it,
Teddy Mann, Teddy Mann!
"An idle shepherd turning,
Teddy Mann,
Your cares and comforts spurning,
Teddy Mann,
Have turned your life to grieving:
Your own plain duty leaving,
Yourself you were deceiving,
Teddy Mann, Teddy Mann! "


"Good morning, Teddy," said Con. "Is
what I heard you singing the kind of song a
happy shepherd sings?"
The startled Teddy looked sharply around,
and when he saw the bird sitting on the rock
he dropped upon his knees and cried out:
Oh, good Mr. Wizard-bird, please take me
out of this before I am gone daft entirely! "
"You must not kneel to me!" said Con.


sternly. "Get up and stop whimpering, and
face your troubles like a man." And then he
added: "Tell me why you now complain and
wish to leave this delightful place, where only
yesterday morning you said you would be
happy the whole day long."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Wizard," replied
Teddy. "I know my own mind better now,
and I have changed my tune entirely. Listen
to me:
Through all the day from friends away
No comfort could I take;
Half crazed with fright, the long, long night
The owls kept me awake.
I miss my home where children come
To greet me at the door,
My humble task is all I ask,
For Teddy's dream is o'er.
One day and night have set me right
And cured my foolish plan;
I know my place, and pray for grace
To be a serving-man."
"Are you sure you wish to go back to your
old life and its tasks ? asked Con.
Indeed I am, for my heart is pining for the
sound of the children's voices at home, and for
a glimpse of my kind Mistress May and the
dear pets," replied Teddy, brushing away a
If I grant your wish this time, will you try
to set a good example to 'those troublesome
creatures' as you called the dear pets yester-
day?" asked Con.
Upon my honor, I will," answered Teddy;
and, furthermore, I will make none but cheer-
ful rhymes in future, if you will let me be my
old self again."
Then I think you may be trusted, and you
shall have your wish," said Con. PRESTO!
CHANGE and, instead of the doleful shepherd,
there stood Teddy Mann, dressed in his foot-
man's livery once more, with a happy smile on
his face as he said to the bird:
"My hearty thanks, good Mr. Con.,
To the castle I '11 away;
No happier man the sun shines on
Than Teddy Mann this day.
While I 've a home, and friends to share,
Of tasks I '11 ne'er complain,
And when my lot seems hard to bear,
I '11 sing my merriest strain.
"And should the sky grow dark and drear,
I '11 bravely do my part
To keep the clouds from coming near
The sunshine in my heart."

Bravo, Teddy!" cried Con.; "you have hit
the right key at last, and the more of that kind
of music you make in your life, the happier you
will be. Go back to the Castle and be kind to
the pets, and remember Con.'s advice, that
"The best kind of luck,
For all kinds of weather,
Is plenty of pluck
And cheerful endeavor."


HILE Teddy was hasten-
ing to the Castle, Con.
hid himself behind the
m .rock and watched Arco
as he came slowly and
sadly toward his old resting-place by the
oak. Con. could see that the shepherd-boy
was far from happy, for the glad smile of boy-
ish eagerness and hope, which beamed in his
face when he gaily set out for the fair on the
previous morning, was gone. Arco sighed
wearily as he threw himself upon the grassy
mound under the tree.
Presently Arco raised his head; and, looking
across the fields where he could see the peaceful
flock grazing in the sunshine, or nestling in the
shade, he said, sadly:
"Oh, why did I ever leave this quiet place
to be jostled and tormented by that noisy throng
of strangers at the fair ? I wonder where that
Wizard shepherd, who took my place, has gone,
and whether he will give me back my reed pipe
and staff, and let me be a happy shepherd boy
again ? "
Con. peered from behind the rock while Arco
was speaking, and seeing the troubled and anx-
ious face of the boy, he flew at once to the tree,
and said, kindly: Welcome home, Arco! How
fared you in the village yesterday ? "
Raising his eyes to the branches overhead,
where Con. was seated, and seeing only the
bird, Arco asked in a trembling voice: "Are
you the same little Wizard-bird who was here
yesterday morning ? "
"The very same Con. the Wizard, at your
service, now as then," replied Con.
"Where is my double, the other shepherd I
left in my place? asked Arco.
Gone to his own tasks, a wiser and a hap-



pier man, I hope," replied Con. "Teddy
Mann, of the Castle, took your place soon after
you left, and was glad enough to leave it when
I came to see him a few moments ago."
Then, may I have my place back again ?"
asked Arco, eagerly.
Perhaps you may; but first tell me why you
are in such a humor, and what you have done
with the silver flute ? said Con.
"I have lost the silver flute, and have been
very unhappy," replied Arco; and if you will
please be patient with me, I will tell you all
about the miserable time I have had, and how
wretched and ashamed my foolish wish has
made me."
"I am always patient," replied Con., for
my mission in the world is to try to teach
everybody to be patient, not only with others
but with themselves. Cheer up, and tell me
your story; perhaps your new troubles are not
so bad as they seem," said Con.
Arco's face began to brighten as he said:
"Thank you, dear Wizard-bird; I suppose I
ought to be punished for my folly. Not one
happy moment did I have in the village, for
when I reached the fair I found the lads and
lassies all dancing in couples on the green, and
I wished to join them. In my selfish haste to
have a good time myself, I forgot that Joan
would not be there, and as I had no partner, the
other lads made me pipe for them to dance.
When they were tired of dancing, they mocked
me and called me 'a long-haired rustic,' and
made fun of my awkward ways, until they al-
most broke my heart. Then I went away and
hid behind a hedge, where I cried myself to
"While I slept, a band of strolling gypsies
came along and robbed me of my flute. I fol-
lowed them for many miles, and begged them
to give me back the flute, because it was not
mine; but they jeered at me and said I had stolen
it, and bade me begone or they would do me
harm. I was ashamed to return without the
flute, and, being so troubled, I lost my way,
and have been wandering all night long without
food. Believe me, dear Wizard-bird, I was glad
to reach this peaceful place; and if you will for-
give me for the loss of the silver flute and let
me have my reed pipe, my hut by the rock, and

my shepherd's life once more, I will thank you
as long as I live."
My poor boy," said Con., pityingly, "you
need not grieve for the lost flute, for you have
gained something far more precious than silver
or gold: you have found your place in the world,
and the spirit of Content shall come and abide
with you to the end of your days. Take back
your reed pipe and staff, and be a gentle shep-
herd boy again!"
Arco's face beamed with joy, and his eyes
were full of happy tears as he tried to speak his
thanks; but Con., who was looking across the
valley, suddenly exclaimed: "Look yonder,
Arco, there is Joan, driving her geese to the
meadows Run and meet her, and be glad you
have one true friend in whose simple life and
honest heart you will find more happiness than
all this bustling world, with its pleasures and
strifes, can give you. Be your own gentle, faith-
ful self, Arco. Good-bye!"
Good-bye cried the shepherd boy, as he
ran down the hill to meet Joan, while Con. flew
back to the Castle.
A few moments later Con. heard the sweet
tones of the shepherd's pipe blending softly
with the morning voices in the air, and, listening,
he caught the notes of this tender "song with-
out words":

and he knew that Joan and Arco were together,
in the fragrant meadow, and happy in their own
simple way.


T the castle gate, Con. found
Teddy Mann and all the pets
waiting and watching for
Mistress May's return, all
smiling and good-natured
/ and eager to give their
mistress a pleasant wel-
Scome home.
Presently they heard
the coachman's horn, and in a very few minutes
after the coach and pair came dashing into
the court yard.



Mistress May noticed at once the happy faces
of her pets, and giving each a kind caress, not
forgetting a pleasant word to Teddy Mann, she
smilingly said to Con., who had perched upon her
shoulder: You have been teaching my pets to
be happy, I see, and I thank you, my good Con.,
for them and for myself."
We have learned many things since you left
us," said Sancho;-"And we hope you will
pardon our rudeness yesterday morning," said
Lance;-" And we will promise to behave
better in future," said Prince;--" For we have
all been so unhappy," said Tam O'Shanter;-
"And Con. has taught us a new song," said
Teddy Mann, about which I will give you a
rhyme, if you will kindly listen."
Mistress May smiled and replied that it
would give her great pleasure to hear both the
rhyme and the song, and Teddy began:

While you have been a-fairing
Your pets have all been wearing
Each other's heads, and sharing
Another lot in life.
And Teddy has been lying
On yonder hillside, trying
A shepherd's life, denying
Himself his home and wife.
"The joys we thought alluring
Proved griefs beyond enduring,
Our foolish wishes curing; -
And Con., the Wizard-bird,
A new song has been singing,
Which in our hearts is ringing,
A glad song, comfort bringing
Wherever it is heard."

Chorus by the pets !" cried Con., and they
made the courtyard ring as they merrily sang
"We are jolly, jolly, jolly,
For 't is folly, folly, folly,
And only makes life harder, to complain.
The world is full of beauty,
And smiling lightens duty
Like sunshine weaving rainbows in the rain."

Mistress May clapped her hands and said:
"Thank you, my gentle pets!" and then she
added: Now I will sing you a song, if you
will all join in the chorus with me," and in a
sweet, low voice she sang:

See the clouds go drifting by
Leaving clear the summer sky;
So our little troubles fly
When the bird is singing nigh.
For merrily, cheerily, ever is heard
The glad little song of the wise little bird."

If the heart is pure within,
When you hear his song begin,
Better than a crown to win
'T is to let the singer in.
For merrily, cheerily, ever is heard
The glad little song of the wise little bird.

"Would you learn the lesson meant,
Why the Wizard-bird is sent
With his message ? Heaven has lent
Con." the Spirit of Content.
For merrily, cheerily, ever is heard
The glad little song of the wise little bird."

When the last chorus had been sung, Teddy
Mann took off his hat, and bowing to Mistress
May, said: Craving your pardon, it is Con.'s
turn now."
Certainly it is," replied Mistress May; and
I hope he will give us a parting song, for I
must go into the Castle, and Con. will dine with
me to-day."
Con. looked up into her face as, he modestly
said: "If I sing at all, it must be the same
simple song, with only a change of words, for I
have never learned any other "; and, swelling
his little throat, Con. filled the air with a joyous
melody as he sang:

'T is better to smile than to frown;
'T is better to laugh than to cry;
For when the bright sun goes down
The stars are still left in the sky.
Contentment is life's fairest crown,
And hope's sweetest songs never die.

Smile bravely on, the Wizard Con.
Still waits where'er you roam;
He loves to cheer all who will hear,
And make their hearts his home! "

When the song ceased, Mistress May and
Con. said good-bye, and entered the Castle,
while Teddy Mann and the pets returned to
their every-day duties to try, each in his own
way, to make the best of his lot in life.
Con. the Wizard is still singing in Fableland,
and when our hearts are troubled, if we keep
very still and listen, we may hear the echoes of
his glad song, even in this noisy world of ours.



PAPA and Mamma went out to row,
And left us alone at home, you know,-
Roderick, James, and me.
" Now, dears," they said, "just play with your
Like dear little, good little, sweet little boys,
And we will come home to tea."

We played with our toys the longest while !
We built up our blocks for nearly a mile,
Roderick, James, and I.
But when they came tumbling down, alas!
They fell right against the looking-glass;
Oh! how the pieces did fly!

Then we found a pillow that had a rip,
And all the feathers we out did slip,
Roderick, James, and I.
And we made a snow-storm, a glorious one,
All over the room. Oh! was n't it fun,
As the feathery flakes did fly!

But just as the storm was raging around,
Papa and Mamma came in, and found
Roderick, James, and me.
Oh! terrible, terrible things they said.
And they put us all three right straight to bed,
With the empty pillow-case under my head,
And none of us had any tea.


. ,I". I, *.,_ A- '' .- .I' T'. H F -,P U

.- .A l-K-IN- T Hi- PL FLPIT.

HERE'S a summer for you, my hearers! Is it
not the very brightest, sweetest, most musical sum-
mer that ever has come to gladden us all? Did
ever the meadow look so fair or the sky bend over
it so kindly, so grandly ? And the bird-songs now
near, now faint in the distance -how exquisite they
are !
And the bird language what a language it is !
Perhaps some of you bright school-house children
have studied it on Sundays and holidays? You
even may be able to say as certain grown folk and
little folk say of French and German: "I don't
speak it, but I can understand it pretty well."
There's brother Burroughs now-John Burroughs,
the author of Wake-Robin." He not only under-
stands bird language like a native, but he almost
speaks it--bless his big observant soul! You
may feel quite sure too, my friends, that when he is
around the birds always have plenty to say to him.
That reminds me. Here is a letter which you
shall see at once. It was sent from North Ger-
many to the Little Schoolma'am by Mrs. Leon-
owens, a lady widely known in America, I am told
and one who loves young folk well:

MY DEAR FRIEND: Knowing how much is done
through the columns of the ST. NICHOLAS to awaken
the kindly interest of its readers in behalf of animals, I
send you this translation, made by my eldest grandson,
of a leaflet just issued by C. W. Peter of Cassel, and
put into the hands of every boy and girl, in the interest
of the birds which visit Cassel in the spring and sum-
mer. Owing to the humane spirit which prevails here,
birds are friendly and confiding beyond measure; so that
they form one of the chief attractions of our summer
life. It occurred to me that perhaps you might make
use of it in behalf of your birds on the other side of the
Atlantic, so I asked James, who is just eleven, to render

it into English for you. This he has gladly done, as he
is a great lover of nature, and delights in studying and
observing the birds, butterflies, and insects here.
Very sincerely yours, A. H. LEONOWENS.
Here is the manifesto itself translated by Master
James Carlyle Fyshe:

The assembled flock of birds of the province Hessen has
in the first meeting this year uttered the following warn-
ing cry :
Now that we have returned from strange and distant
lands to our dear old homes, and have resumed our
former habitations in wood and field, in town and coun-
try, intending to establish here happy households, and to
lead peaceful and joyous lives; we beg to put ourselves
and our offspring under the all-powerful protection of
man. We cherish the hope that each and all, young and
old, big and little, will do us no injury, nor cause us any
suffering, either to our persons or to our lives, nor rob
us of the precious gift of noble freedom. In particular
do we urgently and kindly pray of you never to disturb
the little homes which we have, with so much labor and
care, built up, nor to take away our tiny eggs, but to leave
them and our young brood always in our care; and in fact
to treat us at all times as good friends.
In return, we will, on our part, by jolly hopping, flutter-
ing, and flying, with our whistling, twittering, and sing-
ing, prepare for you both entertainment and pleasure;
and we also will rid the trees, bushes, shrubs, herbs, and
the cattle of all destructive insects, so that your woods,
fields, gardens, and parks will thrive in all their loveliness,
and the people on God's newly revived and glorious crea-
tion may find every joy and delight therein.
This was given forth in In the name of the as-
the "Forest Home," be- sembly.
tween Easter andWhitsun- Signed by the Plenipo-
tide of this year, A. D. tentiaries:
I890. MR. LARK,

HERE is a capital little letter which came to
your Jack all the way from California.
VACA VALLEY, CAL., Feb. 14, 1890.
DEAR JACK: I am a little boy, and I live on a fruit
ranch in Vaca Valley, Northern California. Jack-in-the-
Pulpit wants to know how we get fruit-pits for fuel. All
of the ranches in our valley dry a great deal of fruit,
both peaches and apricots, which have to be cut in halves
before drying. As they are cut, the pits are thrown
into a large box; and these are put away for winter's
use. They must be kept dry and will burn like coal and
make as much heat. I hope you will tell the boys and
girls about this. Good-by. EDMUND K. R-- .

HERE is a nice letter which my birds seemed
delighted to bring me. These messenger birds,
by the way, are very useful. I believe there is
something of the same sort made out of boy, which
is used in large cities. I doubt, though, whether
they "fly" on their errands as mine do.
DEAR JACK : I am a Jack-in-the-Pulpit myself, and so
I thought that I would write to you and tell you about
my work. I do not have human children clustering



around me, but, instead, the children of the forest. All
the flowers like to hear me, and even the little violet lifts
up her head to listen. And the dandelion never wearies
though his yellow locks turn white with age. May you
prosper, Jack, in your good works, as I hope to in mine.
Sincerely your fellow-worker,

I AM told that according to a good Maine news-
paper called The Portland Transcript," a flower
has been discovered growing upon a mountain in
one of the Philippine Islands, which is perhaps the
largest flower in existence. It is three feet in di-
ameter and weighs twenty-two pounds. It has five
oval creamy-white petals, which grow around a cen-
ter filled with countless, long violet-hued stamens;
whether it has perfume or not "The Transcript"
does not say. It must be handsome, and from all
accounts a very flower-like flower for its size.
Talking of flower-like flowers, reminds me of the
fact that geese are by no means such geese as they
are generally supposed to be. Some of them, in-
deed, are surprised, nay, deeply pained, at the
reputation that has falsely been given them. For
instance, hear this verse-story written for you by
Mr. A. R. Wells, in which he allows the goose to
explain its true position in society.


--I ./A. L

And all admire her cunning ways;
But when I venture in the room,
To play, in turn, some stick or broom


Soon drives me out. Those birds they call
Canaries cannot sing at all
In my sweet fashion; yet their lay
Is praised from mine folks turn away.

* I,

IT was a goose who sadly cried,
"Alas Alas! The farm is wide,
And large the barnyard company,
But no one ever looks at me;
There really seems to be no use,
Or praise, or glory, for a goose.
They pet the dog whose bark and bite
Scare tramps by day and thieves by night;
But when I bravely stand on guard,
And drive intruders from the yard,
They laugh at me. The kitten plays,

They prize the horse who pulls the cart;
But when I try to do my part,
And mount the shafts to help him draw,
They'whip me off. Last week I saw
Two stupid horses pull a plow,
I watched the work, I learned just how;
S Then, with my bill, I did the same
- In flower-beds, and got only blame.
It really seems of little use
To try to help when one's a goose !"






~F~ ~-----~

B Al





HEN fleets of yachts The Brownies ventured from their place
were sailing round To find the yachts and have their race.
The rippling bay and The leader's prophecy came true;
ruffled sound, That night the wind increased and blew,.
= The Brownies from a And dipped the sails into the wave,
lofty place And work to every Brownie gave.
Looked out upon the novel race. Not one on board but had to clew,
Said one: "This very night, when all Or reef or steer or something do.
Have left the boats, we '11 make a call, At times the yachts ran side and side
And boldly sail a yacht or two A mile or more, then parted wide,
Around that ship as people do. Still tacking round and shifting sail
If I can read the signs aright To take advantage of the gale.
That nature shows, 't will be a night Sometimes a yacht beyond control
When sails will stretch before the blast, At random ran, or punched a hole
And not hang idly round the mast." Clean through her scudding rival's jibs,
Or thumped her soundly on the ribs.
So when the lamps, in city square Mishaps occurred to two or three
Or narrow street, began to glare, Who tumbled headlong in the sea,

^'** '+ ,

Vo XVI '' 109.

VOL. XVII.-109o.


5~.% 1 I -~;l~i-
- ~~
, w


While they performed some action bold, -"
, And failed to keep a proper hold.
At first it seemed they would be lost,
For here and there they pitched and tossed;
Now on the crest of billows white,
Then in the trough, quite out of sight,
But all the while with valiant heart
Did wonders in the swimming art.
Some life-preservers soon were thrown,
And ready hands left sails alone
And turned to render aid with speed
To those who were so much in need.
But accident could not displace
Or weaken interest in the race:
And soon each active Brownie stood
Where he could do the greatest good.
It mattered not if shifting sail,
Or at the helm or on the rail,

._ . .. .





With arm to arm and hip to hip,
They bent in rows to trim the ship.
All hands were anxious to succeed
And prove their yachts made greatest speed.
But though we
sail, or though
we ride,
Or though we
sleep, the mo-
ments glide;
And none must bear this fact in mind
More constantly than Brownie kind.
For stars began to lose their glow
While Brownies still had miles to go.
Said one who scanned, with watchful eye
For signs of dawn, the eastern sky,
"We '11 crowd all sail for fear the day
Will find us still upon the bay,

And it would prove a sad affair
If morning light should find us there."
But when the winds began to fail
And lighter pressed the flapping sail
It was determined by the band
To run their
yachts to near-
est land,
So they could
reach their
Before the sun
revealed his
By happy chance a cove they reached
Where high and dry the boats were beached,
And all in safety made their way
To secret haunts without delay.




CONTRIBUTORS are respectfully informed that, between the Ist of June and the I5th of September, manuscripts can
not conveniently be examined at the office of ST. NICHOLAS. Consequently, those who desire to favor the
magazine with contributions will please postpone offering their MSS. until after the last-named date.

READERS of the biographical sketch of little Helen
Keller, the blind deaf-mute, which appeared in ST.
NICHOLAS for September, 1889, will be glad to learn that
the bright little girl has recently been taught to speak
and can now readily make herself understood.
WE take much pleasure in giving to our readers the
following simple story which Helen wrote especially for


HARRY is twelve years old. He has two little sisters,
both younger than himself. Mabel is ten and Kitty is
five years of age. They live in a beautiful and quiet vil-
lage, in a far-away southern country, where the sun shines
brightly nearly all the year. and where the little birds
fill the air with their glad songs from morning until
night, and where each gentle breeze is sweet with the
perfume of roses, jasmines, and magnolias. Harry and
Kitty have a little garden on the sunny side of the house,
which they plant, and carefully tend. Harry digs and
plows the ground because he is taller and stronger than
Kitty. When the ground is alt ready, Kitty helps sow
the seeds and cover them lightly with the soil. Then
they bring water from the well to sprinkle over them.
The little boy and his wee sister are very happy together.
Mabel loves to watch them at play from her window.
Mabel is an invalid. She has never been able to run and
frolic with her brother and sister; but Mabel is not often
sad. She sits by the window with the warm sunshine
upon her pretty brown hair and pale face, and chats hap-
pily to the other children while they work or play. Some-
times a sad feeling comes into Mabel's heart because she
cannot run and skip like other little girls, but she wipes
away the tears quickly when she sees her brother or sis-
ter coming toward her, and tries to greet them with a
pleasant smile; for Mabel does not wish to make them
unhappy. She often tells Kitty pretty stories she has
read, and is always delighted to help Harry with his les-
sons. I am very sure, Mabel helps everybody with her
sunny smiles and gentle words. Harry is sure to bring
Mabel the first juicy peach which ripens, and dear little
Kitty never forgets to give her the first sweet hyacinth
which blooms in the little garden. When Harry was ten
years old, his father gave him a pretty pony named
Don"; a beautiful pet, and very gentle. Nearly
every pleasant morning, after breakfast, Harry and Kitty
would go to the stable, and saddle and bridle Don. Then
they would lead him around to the side of the house,
under Mabel's window, and there he would stand quietly
until the other children were ready for their ride, and let
Mabel pat his soft nose while he ate the delicious lumps
of sugar which she kept for him.
Don has a good friend named"Jumbo." Jumbo is a
splendid mastiff with large, kind eyes. Don is never
happy if Jumbo is not at his side. Jumbo will sit on
his hind legs and look up at Don, and Don will bend his

beautiful head and look at Jumbo. Mabel thinks they
have some way of talking to each other for why should
not animals have thoughts and a language as well as we?
Harry would mount Don first, then Kitty's mother
would put a blanket before the saddle and place Kitty
upon it, and Harry would put his arms around her, and
give her the reins, and away they would go I First they
would ride through the village and then they would take
the broad country road. They would sometimes stop
Don to admire the green fields and lovely wild flowers
that grew by the way. On their way home they would
dismount, and gather the most beautiful flowers they
could find for Mabel. Then Harry would drive and
Kitty would hold the flowers in her lap. The boy and
girl made a pretty picture sitting so gracefully on the
pony's back and many people looked at them. Mabel
always kissed her hand to them when she saw them
coming up the path.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have taken you ever since
your first number was published, and as that was Novem-
ber, 1873, and my birthday was in January, 1874, you see
we have grown up together. I have never been well
enough to play like other children, so my chief amuse-
ment is reading, and you don't know what a comfort you
have been to me, dear Saint.
The place I live in is a quiet, commonplace little vil-
lage, but it is very pleasant in the summer-time, as there
is a great deal of fruit raised here,-peaches, plums,
apples, grapes, etc., and the orchards are very pretty
when in blossom.
My sister, who took you before I learned to read, is
now living in Grand Rapids, a thriving city sixteen miles
from here. She is teaching elocution, and ST. NICHO-
LAS is a great help to her in her work, as she finds in it
so many bright recitations. "Briar Rose is our favorite.
My sweet little cousin, Daisy D-, who also lives in
Grand Rapids, spends a few weeks with me every sum-
mer, and we have such merry times together! We used
to have a game something like "Flower Ladies," though
not as quaint and pretty, for we just used dominoes, hav-
ing them go through picnics, weddings, baptisms, and
funerals in fact, everything we could think of. One day
while we were playing she surprised me by saying:
"Faytie, we 're just the same as God to these dominoes,
are n't we?"
She, too, loves you, and while here spends many happy
hours poring over the well-worn pages that have been
such a source of pleasure to your loving friend,
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I had such an unusual expe-
rience last winter. I was blockaded on the Union
Pacific Railroad. My father and mother were summoned
to San Francisco by the severe illness of my only brother;
as I am the youngest, I went with them. We had a
pleasant and uneventful trip as far as Terrace, when
we were delayed for eight hours. We had to wait
there for orders to move. We reached Reno, Ne-


vada, an uninteresting frontier town, on Tuesday, Jan-
uary 21st, only to be met with the distressing infor-
mation that all trains were to be held until the drifts at
Summit, Emigrant Gap, and Blue Canfon, and Truckee
were cleared. We, of course, supposed this would be
done in a day. But, alas day followed day, and night
followed night, and there we were kept in suspense and
despair for ten days. Our only diversion was looking out
of the window at the other delayed passengers, now and
then recognizing a familiar face or friend, and at the
prowling bands of Indians who hovered around our cars.
They looked at us, but never begged nor made them-
selves disagreeable in any manner. We saw also the
cyclone plows running in every direction. Our evenings
were enlivened by the Salvation Army, who evidently
thought the ten trains of delayed passengers needed the
music to.cheer them, even if they did not desire the dis-
sertations which they showered upon us. The people at
Reno practiced no extortion upon any of us, but gener-
ously gave us the best they had for meals, at low prices.
It has been said that the U. P. R. R. Company paid all
the expenses of delayed passengers. But it was not
true -except that they did issue a few cheap meal-tickets
to those emigrants who asked or demanded to be cared
for. Our car was not supplied with even the necessaries
of life, many of the passengers providing their own ice,
and oil for lamps, if they wished it pure.
My dear brother happily recovered from his illness.
We remained in San Francisco three months.
H- S--.

WE print this letter just as it came to us :
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little boy eight years
old. I am in the Third Reader.
We have two big black horses. We have one cow.
One day the cow got out and ran away. And papa and
I had to go after her. We caught two moles in our gar-
den. I have a little brother two years old. I have a
cat that jumped up on the bed with me and sung. All
of are chickens are a collor black.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I live in Wyoming, Ohio, ex-
cept in summer, when I come every year to Mamma's
homein Massachusetts. I have two brothers, one older,
aged twelve, and the other younger, eight. I am eleven
years old. And we are having a happy time with Aunt
Nellie this summer. I thought some of the children would
like to hear about my visit to Plymouth last week. For
I saw so many interesting things. When we came near
the city, the first things we saw were the monument of
Miles Standish and the statue of Faith, with Education
and Morality at her feet; the highest granite statue in the
world. First, we took a ride on an electric car through
Plymouth. We saw many old and interesting houses
there. Then we dined at the Plymouth Rock House.
After dinner a large steamer came in loaded with people
from New York. And one by one they walked over
Plymouth Rock, a good-sized one, surrounded by an iron
fence, with stone ornaments on the top. Then we went
to Pilgrim Hall. On the front of the hall there is a picture,
carved in stone, of an Indian down on one knee receiv-
ing the pilgrims. Also, a monument out in the yard,
surrounded by an iron fence bearing the names of the
pilgrims. By paying a quarter apiece, we were admitted
into the hall. I took note of some things to tell you: I
sat down on a mouse-colored sofa that belonged to Gov-
ernor Hancock in 1780. I saw a table that was brought
over in the "Mayflower," in 1620; also, the ancient
records of the first church in Plymouth. I sat down in
a chair that belonged to Governor Winslow, who came

over in the Mayflower. I saw a book published in 1556,
the oldest book I had ever seen. Governor Bradford's
coat of arms was there. I saw small shoes that had been
worn by Governor Winslow, who came in the Mayflower;
also, a cradle which was brought over in the Mayflower.
I saw many other things.
We have at home a nice pony named "Pet," and two
goats, "Ned" and "Ed." Ed belongs to me, and we
drive both goats together.
I will be in the Sixth Reader when I get home. I
like your magazine better than any other. Good-bye,
Your little friend, MABEL S- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am fourteen years old, but
do not go to school, as I have never walked. I have a
music-box that plays four tunes. It came from over the
ocean. I am very fond of reading, and have read most
of Miss Alcott's and Dickens's books. This year, I have
enjoyed Jack's Cure," Goody Grill," and May Bart-
lett's Stepmother very much.
I have one very odd pet, a big rooster. Mamma
bought it for me at the fair, when it was only three days
old. He had been dyed a bright green, so I named him
" Charlie Green." He used to sit on my lap most of the
time, but after a few weeks the green wore off, and he is
now a handsome white rooster. He has lost all his
affection for me, chases the children whenever they go
into the yard, pecks the baby, and is so very disagreeable,
generally, that I am afraid he will have to be killed.
N. W. A.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for several
years, and I think you are the bestmagazine going. One
of your most ardent admirers, who does not wish her
name mentioned, made these verses about you:

Christmas Eve had come at last,
Six little socks hungin a row,
Six pairs of sleepy eyes at last
Agreed to Slumberland to go.
Santa Claus came there that night,
And filled five of the little socks,
What shall I put in this sixth one ?
And he turned to his Christmas box.
The owner of that stocking seemed
To hear him as he spake,
For suddenly good Santa Claus
Saw the child was awake.
Good Santa Claus," the child then said,
Grant me one thing, please do,
Put in my sock ST. NICHOLAS,
Then I '11 always love you !
ST. NICHOLAS I 've longed for so,
I would give everything
If I could have it for my own,
And could its praise but sing! "
I remain, your admiring friend, MIRIUMI M.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Five of us little girls, who go
to school together, began taking you this year, and like
you very much.
We have had some very cold weather this spring, which
killed all the oranges here.
There are a great many interesting places around
Pensacola; near here there is a Life-saving Station


where the people go every afternoon in the summer to
I went to New York last fall, and enjoyed my visit very
much. From there I went to Boston, where I have an
aunt at school.
Five of us are writing to you at the same time; we
know that all of our letters cannot be published in your
magazine, but hope to see one.
I remain your loving little reader, NELLIE M--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We are three little boys who
see your nice magazine every month, and we thought we
would like to write you a letter. One of us is called
Jim; he is a Canadian, and has red hair; and one is
called Cesare, and is an Italian. I am the biggest, and
am a Scotch boy, and have freckles. We all have por-
ridge for breakfast, and all had the grip, which my Pa calls
influenza. We have a dog called Tim. We like the
" Brownies and the "Great Storm at Samoa." Tim
catches birds and eats them. I have an air-gun and a
Japanese sword. We all put our names, and hope you
will print this letter. WILLIAM,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you how much
I like you. Mamma has taken you for me all my life. I
will soon be nine years old. Long before I could read
I was delighted with your pretty pictures, and now I
could not get along without you.
I wish we could have some of the rain and snow you
have East. This is a new town only eleven years old -
in the southwestern part of the State. It is so dry here
that it is necessary to irrigate the land in order to raise
anything. The water for irrigation comes from the Ar-
kansas River, which is kept full by the melting of the
snow in the summer, up in the Rocky Mountains.
The Government Experimental Grass Farm here is
trying to see how many kinds of grasses can be grown
without irrigation. The prairies are covered with many
beautiful wild flowers, different kinds of cactus, and
yuccas all summer long.
Your constant little reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : You were given me last Christ-
mas as a present. I have been glad ever since. I am a lit-
tle girl living in the rich lowlands of the Mississippi River.
This spring our levees, which protect us from the river,
broke in several places, and we are now overflowed. The
warm winter had made the river unusually high, and the
rains over all the Mississippi valley were so constant
and so heavy that everybody feared some trouble would
come. There will be great loss of property, and suffer-
ing, too. But nobody dreams of leaving the country.
Our levees will be built even higher, and there never was
such a high river as this spring. Our country is beauti-
ful, the air is soft and lovely, and the soil is so rich that
everything grows. Cotton is the principal thing we
plant. It used to be much more unhealthy here in the
summer-time; but since many swamps have been opened,
and much land cleared. The railroad runs through our
plantation, and we have large and beautiful boats on the
river. Many strangers have come to our country, and

all seem so well pleased. Your magazine is a great
pleasure to me, and a great comfort.
Your little friend, MARY IRMA M-

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am twelve years old, and
thought I would write to you, as I have never written to
you before. I am very glad that the World's Fair is
coming in '93. I think the scheme of raising people into
the air would be a failure. I see it is a Chicago young
lady who planned it, Chicago people are so enterpris-
ing." On my way home this morning, I noticed a sign
in abook-store. I stopped to read it. It was about
Stanley in the Dark Continent," or rather one of his
officers. Oh, but I hurried home! When I got there,
the first thing that I did was to ask Mamma if my ST.
NICK had come yet. She told me it was upstairs. I ran
up and began reading that story, the one I mentioned
before. I know the rest of it will be nice. The nicest
story yet is Crowded Out o' Crofield."
Wishing dear ST. NICK and Jack-in-the-Pulpit good
health, I remain yours, JULIAN V. B- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I received the April number of
ST. NICHOLAS last evening, and looking over the Letter-
box, read the description of the "Potato Gentlemen."
I at once set to work and made two. I showed the first
to Papa, who remarked that it looked like a "flying beetle-
bug" (complimentary, wasn't it?); and the secondlooked
like a gentleman discussing politics. I shall make more,
and I thank the little boy who wrote about them.
I have a play something like it, though it is with spools.
I take empty spools and light-yellow worsted and make
hair by splitting the worsted and laying the strands side
by side and tying a knot in the end. Fasten this on the
top of the spool. Then take a piece of silk or satin of
bright color, one inch wide and four or five long, pinned
or tied on, which serves for a dress. A piece of lace on
the hair improves it, and serves as a cap, and the doll
is complete.
I have taken the ST. NICHOLAS only this year, but think
it very nice indeed. I like "Marjorie and her Papa"
and "Crowded Out o' Crofield," too. Even Papa gets
interested in them when they come.
I should like the children who read this letter to have
as much fun with spools as I have had.
Your devoted reader, GRACE S-.

WE thank the young friends whose names follow for
pleasant letters received from them: Heliotrope and
Mignonette, May E., Kit, Edna J. B., Amabel F. M.,
Harry H., Nellie H. McC., "Affectionate Reader,"
Anne W. D., Me John L. D., Juanita C., Clara
G. B., Leighton R. C., Agnes Howard B., David N.,
AnnaL. P., Mary A. E., One of Us and The Other One,
Bess and Frank, Lily D. B., Irene F., Gracie M., Eleanor
K. Biddle, Katie McC., Charles W. B., Kittie B., Eliza
A., Susie Rose P., A Friend, Maud A. P., Clara R.,
Hattie S., Frank G. W., Arthur H., Irma S. B., Mary
Nicholas F., Ellen T. E. and Eleanor G. G., Elsie H. J.,
Hattie and Katie, Emily Julia A., Hattie F. B., Laura
H. R., Kitty, Bertie H. and Clara E., Elsie A. N., Flor-
ence M., Matie E. L., Helen A. D.,Ellen M. B., Brown-
ing B., E. S. J., Anna H., Eric S. S., and Helen H. H.


EASY WORD-SQUARE. I. Erin. a. Ride. 3. Idea. 4. Neat. CROSS-WORD ENIGMA. Brandywine.
TRANSPOSITIONS. Saint Swithin's Day. i. Daisy. 2. Tints. NUMERICAL ENIGMA AND PI PUZZLE. His heart was as great
3. Wish. 4. An. as the world, but there was no room in it to hold the memory of a
EASY BEHEADINGS. Bunker Hill. I. B-ale. 2. U-sage. 3. N-one. wrong." Said of Abraham Lincoln by Emerson, in his essay entitled
4. K-eel. 5. E-aster. 6. R-ace. 7. H-arbor. 8. I-rate. 9. L-ever. Greatness."
o1. L-adder. Him so true and tender,
SINGLE ACROSTIC. Victor Hugo. Cross-words: x. Victoria. The patriot's stay, the people's trust,
2. Irrigate. 3. Captured. 4. Tolerate. 5. Operatic. 6. Rotatory. The shield of the offender."
7. Horseman. 8. Undulate. 9. Gelatine. io. Obstacle. ST. ANDREW'S CROSS OF DIAMONDS. I. I. T. 2. Low. 3. 3Towel.
ZIGZAG. Firecracker. Cross-words: I. Fir. 2. Tie. 3. Fur. 4. Web. 5. L. II. I. L. 2. Cut. 3. Lurid. 4. Tim. 5. D. III.
4. Net. 5. Cab. 6. Art, 7. Sea. 8. Ice. 9. Kin. x. Bet. i. i. L. 2. Bit. 3. Livid. 4. Tin. 5. IV. L. 2. Pit. 3. Livid.
Tar. 4. Tip. D. V. D. 2. Nod. 3. Dower. 4. Den. 5. R.
ILLUSTRATED PUZZLE. Third row, Independence; sixth row, DOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals, toothache; finals, dentistry. Cross-
Philadelphia. i. Epitaphs. 2. Punisher. 3. Modality. 4. Treadles. words: I. Threatened. 2. Ostensible. 3. Osculation. 4. Triumphant
5. Capitals. 6. Preludes. 7. Managers. 8. Pedicles. 9. Precepts. 5. Hindustani. 6. Admonishes. 7. Compliment. 8. Heightener.
o1. Banished. xi. Decisive. 12. Trespass. 9. Entomology.
To OUR PUZZLERS: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the i5th of each month, and
should be addressed to ST. NICHOLAS Riddle-box," care of THE CENTURY CO., 33 East Seventeenth St, New York City.
ANSWERS TO ALL THE PUZZLES IN THE MAY NUMBER were received, before May s5th, from Paul Reese- Aunt Kate, Mamma, and
James -Josephine Sherwood-" Mamma, Aunt Martha, and Sharley "-" Infantry "- Blanche and Fred H. A. R.-Wm. H. Beers
and Co.- Gertrude L.- Odie Oliphant -" Mohawk Valley."
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE MAY NUMBER were received, before May i5th, from Schnippermann O.," x-E. W., M. H., and
B. D., 2-Pixy. I -" Budge," -- Katie Van Zandt, 9 -A. and E. Haas, I F. Dorsey, --H. G. N., 2-Maude E. Palmer, 9-
Donald M. Hill, I -J. Montgomery Flagg, 2-Elaine Shirley, 2-C. Lanza, z-M. Buck, i-"Jo and I," 9-" F. Pinafore," 4-
Harry S. Reynolds, 3 N. Warner, i L. T. Haehulen, I- Honora Swartz. i Norman E. Weldon, i-- L. H. Fowler, 3- W. E.
Eckert, a E. Shirley, i G. E. M., Grace Olcott, 9- G. Van Rensselaer, i -Amy Ewing, 2- Effie K. Talboys, 5-" Charles
Beaufort,"7--"The Lancer," Ernest Serrell, 6-Mrs. D. and A. E. W., 6-"Dombey and Son," 4-Darius E. Peck, 3-A. B.
Lawrence, Mary Francis, 9-Dictionary, 7- M. and M., 9 -Little A." I-"We Three," 4-John W. Frothingham, Jr., 7- Jean
Webster, Hubert L. Bingay, 8 M. G. Cassels, i Capt White, 2-Pearl F. Stevens, 9- Ida and Alice 7- Nellie and Reggie, 9-
June A. Jaquith, 8 -Elsa Behr, ix-Marian S., 3- C. and Estelle Ions, a-Nellie L. Howes, 8--Ida C. Thallon, 8-Helen M.
Walker, 4 Mary K. Stauffer, H. D. and W. E. Verplanck, i -" May and 79," 6 Seth and Florence, 4 -" Doctor and I," 2-
J. S. B., Kittie, and Bess 5- S. E. M., 3- Alex. Armstrong, Jr., 5 -" Miss Flint," 8- E. M. G-, 9-" Dame Durden," 9-Arthur
H. LeR. Rington, 5-M. D. and C. M., 8-J. B. and A. C. Hartich, 6-"We Two," 9-J. B. Swann, 8-Charles L. and Reta
Sharp, 5- Aunt Mathilde and Alma, 8.


TRANSPOSE the following letters and make the name
of a distinguished English contemporary:

THE diagonals, from the upper left-hand letter to the
lower right-hand letter, will spell the name of an English
CROSS-WORDS: I. To construct. 2. A city in France.
3. Pertaining to a harp. 4. A baser metal mixed with a
finer one. 5. To bedeck. J. MONTGOMERY FLAGG.

THE central letters, reading downward, will spell the
name of a large city in the United States.
CROSS-WORDS: I. Roomy. 2. Vocation. 3. One
fully skilled in any art. 4. The beginning of the night.
5. In Denver. 6. A beverage. 7. To lessen. 8. An
animal related to the starfish, but growing on a long,
jointed stalk. 9. Deceased persons. c. DIGNAN.

I 3

** *
S *

2 4
CROSS-WORDS: I. To desire with eagerness. 2. The
act of following and being followed by turns. 3. Half

vocal. 4. Twisted. 5. A plant something like mint.
6. Compassionated. 7. An old word meaning an ac-
countant of the exchequer. 8. A city on the Tigris.
From I to 2, making certain marks; from 3 to 4, de-
vised. These two words, read in connection will spell
an event which occurred on August 14, 1437. F. s. F.

CROSS-WORDS: I. Behead to melt, and leave utility.
2. Behead a green or light blue color, and leave a cooling
substance. 3. Behead any thing small, and leave the
name of the hero of a story by Thomas Hughes. 4. Be-
head a garment, and leave what may be found in many
fields. 5. Behead uncovered, and leave to write. 6.
Behead part of a neck, and leave to-mimic.
The beheaded letters will give the initial of the Chris-
tian name and all of the surname of the greatest, the
wisest, the meanest of mankind." The initials of the
beheaded words (represented by stars)will, when rightly
transposed, form the name of a famous work by Sir
Thomas More.
F. T. M.
THE first word described contains eight letters. Drop
one letter, transpose the remaining seven, and the second
word may be formed. Continue to drop one letter and
transpose the rest till only one letter remains.
I. Rocks. 2. Those who make nails. 3. Foreigners.
4. Boundaries. 5. A legal claim. 6. Nothing. 7. A
preposition. 8. In inn. NARDYL AND THIDA.




------ -.Sk'^ ^ *J.-

7 1 5
" h7 -'^^ **^

~v5 2.2-J 23 *(

THIS differs from the ordinary mumerical enigma, in
that the words forming it are pictured instead of de-
scribed. The answer, consisting of forty-nine letters, is
a saying of Poor Richard's. C. MCC. R.

Eht dwil pho, rofm teh gunyo slem ohgub,
Sawsy no het ginlaud zebree,
Dan heer nad theer teh umtanu stint
Lameg linfaty huhgrot eht stere;
Lai runate shlep ot wells het gons
Dan tanch eht mase reinfar;
Jylu adn unje vahe ledpips yawa,
Nda satugus rehe inaga.

I. I. A slave in ancient Sparta. 2. To eat into or
away. 3. To let down. 4. A kind of theater in ancient
Greece. 5. Long-winged aquatic fowls.
II. I. Mercenary. 2. One of the Muses. 3. A
deputy or viceroy in India. 4. To expiate. 5. Pro-
jections or divisions, especially of a somewhat rounded
form. CARRIE B. P.
ALL of the words described contain the same number
of letters. When these are rightly guessed, and placed
one below another in the order here given, the central
row of letters, reading downward, will spell a name given
to a day in August.
CROSS-WORDS : I. The mother of Venus. 2. A small
but famous island in the JEgean Sea. 3. A nine-headed

monster. 4. A brother of Prometheus. 5. A name for
Artemis. 6. A divinity worshiped at Meroe. 7. The
god of festive mirth and joy. 8. The author of certain
laws that were said to have been written in blood. 9. The
leader of the Argonauts. io. A daughter of 2EEtes, cele-
brated for her skill in magic. II. One of the Muses.
12. A nymph of the woods. JOB PEERYBINGLE.

SI. UPPER SQUARE: I. Denominated. 2. To cast
down. 3. An adage. 4. A small river which empties
into the Adriatic Sea. 5. An evil spirit.
II. LEFT-HAND SQUARE: I. Disabled. 2. Cognizant.
3. A title of respect. 4. One of the Muses. 5. A de-
parted spirit.
III. CENTRAL SQUARE: I. An immaterial being.
2. Exalted. 3. An island in the Mediterranean Sea.
4. A highly fragrant oil. 5. Approaches.
IV. RIGHT-HAND SQUARE: I. Draws nigh. 2. The
lesser white heron. 3. An agreeable odor. 4. To for-
give. 5. Dignity.
V. LOWER SQUARE: I. Comes close to. 2. The name
of the heroine in "The Lady of the Lake." 3. Full of
alacrity. 4. A riotous feast. 5. A short line by which
a fish-hook is attached to a longer line.

I. IN Thibet. 2. A small animal. 3. A title of nobil-
ity. 4. The title next below the preceding one. 5. Tuned.
6. A masculine nickname. 7. In Thibet.-" RAINBOW.


EACH word described contains six letters. When
rightly guessed, and placed one below the other, in the
order here given, the first and last words will be the same
as the words spelled by the initial and final letters.
CROSS-WORDS: I. A territory of the United States.
2. Sweet-bay. 3. The name of a young woman who
figures in the poem of Summer," in Thomson's "Sea-
sons." 4. Holy persons. 5. A village of Egypt noted
for its grand remains of a collection of old temples. 6. A
country inhabited, partly, by Thlinkits.



- -"- 1

~v~nu~u~ *


University of Florida Home Page
© 2004 - 2010 University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries.
All rights reserved.

Acceptable Use, Copyright, and Disclaimer Statement
Last updated October 10, 2010 - - mvs