Front Cover
 The little maid of Spain
 The admiral's caravan
 Winter fairies
 The rudder
 Jugglers in the moss
 War elephants
 Two girls and a boy
 Bargains for scholars
 Tom Paulding
 The pink gown
 The revenge of the fawns
 Ye olde tyme tayle
 Two queer cousins of the crab
 When I was your age
 A year with Dolly
 Mother goose in silhouette
 Little nut people
 The reward of the cheerful...
 The barefoot dance
 On Christmas day (words and...
 The letter-box
 The riddle box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00250
 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: VID00250
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: oclc - 01764817
lccn - 04012675
 Related Items
Preceded by: Our young folks
Preceded by: Children's hour (Philadelphia, Penn.)
Preceded by: Little corporal
Preceded by: Schoolday magazine
Preceded by: Wide awake

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
        Front Cover 3
        Page 162
    The little maid of Spain
        Page 163
    The admiral's caravan
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
    Winter fairies
        Page 171
    The rudder
        Page 172
    Jugglers in the moss
        Page 173
    War elephants
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
    Two girls and a boy
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
    Bargains for scholars
        Page 185
    Tom Paulding
        Page 186
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
    The pink gown
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
        Page 203
    The revenge of the fawns
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
    Ye olde tyme tayle
        Page 209
        Page 210
        Page 211
        Page 212
        Page 213
        Page 214
    Two queer cousins of the crab
        Page 215
        Page 216
        Page 217
    When I was your age
        Page 218
        Page 219
        Page 220
        Page 221
        Page 222
        Page 223
    A year with Dolly
        Page 224
    Mother goose in silhouette
        Page 225
        Page 226
        Page 227
        Page 228
        Page 229
    Little nut people
        Page 230
    The reward of the cheerful candle
        Page 231
        Page 232
    The barefoot dance
        Page 233
        Page 234
        Page 235
    On Christmas day (words and music)
        Page 236
    The letter-box
        Page 237
        Page 238
    The riddle box
        Page 239
        Page 240
        Page 241
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text



JANUARY, 1892.
Copyright, 1891, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved.



TINY, stately maid of Spain,
With your formal fan and train!
Strange the spell the painter cast,
Strong to make you live and last!
Some one, Sweet, who bore your name,
Changed and grew, as people do;
Had adventures gay or tragic;
Died, one day yet here are you,
By the wand-like brush's magic
Held among us, just the same !
On your brow the same soft curls,
On your wrist the changeless pearls,
In the gems the moveless gleams,
In your eyes the selfsame dreams;
What a fairy-tale it seems!

Oh, that he who saw you thus,-
Seized and sent you down to us,
On his canvas limned with skill

Tender curves of throat and cheek,-
Might have added one thing still,
Made the grave lips ope and speak !
For I fain had heard it told
What the world was like around you,
That old world of cloth-of-gold
Where the cunning painter found you.
Tell me how your time was spent:
Had you any playmates then;
Or were all who came and went
Ceremonious dames and men ?
Had you some tall hound to pet -
Some caged bird, with eyes of jet?
As you moved, a soul apart,
Through that world of plume and glove,
Could your precious little heart
Fix on anything to love ?
- Sober, silent you remain,
Tiny, stately maid of Spain!



No. 3.



DOROTHY felt very ridiculous. The stork
ferryman suddenly reappeared, and she could
see him running along the roofs of the houses,
and now and then stopping to stare down at
her from the eaves as she sailed by, as if she
were the most extraordinary spectacle he had
ever seen, as indeed she probably was.
Presently the street ended at a great open
space where the water spread out in every di-
rection, like a lake. The day seemed to be
breaking, and it was quite light; and as the
sideboard sailed out into the open water, Doro-
thy caught sight of something like a fat-looking
boat, floating at a little distance and slowly drift-
ing toward her. As it came nearer it proved to
be Mrs. Peevy's big umbrella upside down, with
a little party of people sitting around on the
edge of it with their feet against the handle, and
to Dorothy's amazement she knew every one of
them. There was the Admiral, staring about
with his spy-glass, and Sir Walter Rosettes, care-
fully carrying his tobacco-plant as if it were a
nosegay, and the Highlander, with his big watch
dangling in the water over the side of the um-
brella; and last, there was the little Chinese
mandarin clinging to the top of the handle as if
he were keeping a lookout from the masthead.
The sideboard brought up against the edge
of the umbrella with a soft little bump, and the
Admiral, hurriedly pointing his spy-glass at
Dorothy so that the end of it almost touched
her nose, exclaimed excitedly, There she is I
can see her quite plainly," and the whole party
gave an exultant shout.
How are you getting on now? inquired Sir
Walter, as if he had had her under close obser-
vation for a week at least.
I 'm getting on pretty well," said Dorothy,
mournfully. I believe I 'm crossing a ferry."

So are we," said the Admiral, cheerfully.
"We 're a Caravan, you know."
"A Caravan? exclaimed Dorothy, very
much surprised.
I believe I said Caravan' quite distinctly,"
said the Admiral in an injured tone, appealing
to the rest of the party; but no one said any-
thing except the Highlander, who hastily con-
sulted his watch and then exclaimed Hurrah!"
rather doubtfully.
"I understood what you said," exclaimed
Dorothy, "but I don't think I know exactly
what you mean."
Never mind what he means," shouted Sir
Walter. That's of no consequence."
No consequence exclaimed the Admiral,
flaring up. "Why, I mean more in a minute
than you do in a week!"
"You say more in a minute than anybody
could mean in a month," retorted Sir Walter,
flourishing his tobacco-plant.
"I can talk a year without meaning any-
thing," said the Highlander, proudly; but no one
took any notice of this remark, which of course
served him right.
The Admiral stared at Sir Walter for a mo-
ment through his spy-glass, and then said very
firmly, You 're a pig !" at which the High-
lander again consulted his watch, and then
shouted Two pigs! with great enthusiasm, as
if that were the time of day.
"And you're another," said Sir Walter, an-
grily. If it comes to that, we 're all pigs."
"Dear me!" cried Dorothy, quite distressed
at all tlhis. What makes you all quarrel so ?
You ought to be ashamed of yourselves."
"We 're all ashamed of one another, if that
will do any good," said the Admiral.
"And, you see, that gives each of us two
people to be ashamed of," added Sir Walter,
with an air of great satisfaction.
"But that is n't what I mean at all," said

Dorothy. "I mean that each one of you ought I should think not! said Sir Walter, in-
to be ashamed of himself dignantly. I 'd as lief go to sea in a toast-
"Why, we 're each being ashamed of by two rack. Why don't you bring her head up to



people, already," said the Admiral, peevishly.
"I should think that was enough to satisfy
But that is n't the same thing," insisted
Dorothy. "Each particular him ought to be
ashamed of each particular self." This sounded
very fine indeed, and Dorothy felt so pleased
with herself for having said it that she went on
to say, And the truth is, you all argue pre-
cisely like a lot of school-children."
Now, Dorothy herself was only about four
feet high, but she said this in such a superior
manner that the entire Caravan stared at her
with great admiration for a moment, and then
began to give a little cheer; but just at this
instant the umbrella made a great plunge, as if
somebody had given it a push, and the whole
party tumbled into the bottom of it like a lot
of dolls.
What kind of a boat do you call this? "
shouted Sir Walter, as they all scrambled to
their feet and clung desperately to the handle.
It 's a paragondola," said the Admiral, who
had suddenly become very pale. "You see, it
is n't exactly like an ordinary ship."

the wind?" he shouted, as the paragondola
took another plunge.
I can't! cried the Admiral, despairingly;
"she has n't got any head."
Then put me ashore roared Sir Walter,
Now, this was all very well for Sir Walter
to say, but by this time the paragondola was
racing through the water at such a rate that
even the sideboard could hardly keep up with
it; and the waves were tossing about in such
wild confusion that it was perfectly ridiculous
for any one to talk about going ashore. In
fact, it was a most exciting moment. The air
was filled with flying spray, and the paragon-
dola dashed ahead faster and faster, until at
last Dorothy could no longer hear the sound
of the voices, and she could just see that they
were throwing the big watch overboard as if to
lighten the ship. Then she caught sight of
the Highlander trying to climb up the handle,
and Sir Walter frantically beating him on the
back with the tobacco-plant, and the next mo-
ment there was another wild plunge and the
paragondola and Caravan vanished from sight.


CHAPTER IV. Now all this was very distressing, because, in
TREE-TOP COUNTRY. the first place, Dorothy was extremely fond of
visiting, and, in the second place, she was get-
IT was a very curious thing that the storm ting rather tired of sailing about on the side-
seemed to follow the Caravan as if it were a board; and she was therefore greatly pleased
private affair of their own, and the paragondola when she presently came to a door without any
had no sooner disappeared than Dorothy found notice upon it. There was, moreover, a bright
herself sailing along as quietly as if such a little brass knocker on this door, and as this
thing as bad weather had never been heard seemed to show that people were expected to
of. But there was something very lonely about call there if they felt like it, she waited until
the sideboard now, as it went careering through the sideboard was passing close to the platform
the water, and she felt quite disconsolate as she and then gave a little jump ashore.
sat on the little shelf and wondered what had The sideboard took a great roll backward
become of the Caravan. and held up its front feet as if expressing its
"If Mrs. Peevy's umbrella shuts up with surprise at this proceeding, and as it pitched
them inside of it," she said mournfully to her- forward again the doors of it flew open, and a
self, I 'm sure I don't know what they '11 do. number of large pies fell out into the water and
It's such a stiff thing to open that it must be floated away in all directions. To Dorothy's
perfectly awful when it shuts up all of a sudden," amazement, the sideboard immediately started
and she was just giving a little shudder at the off after them, and began pushing them toge-
mere thought of such a thing, when the side- their, like a shepherd's dog collecting a flock of
board bumped up against something and she
found that it had run into a tree. In fact, she
found that she had drifted into a forest of enor-
mous trees, growing in a most remarkable man-
ner straight up out of the lake, and all covered
with leaves as if it had been midsummer instead
of being, as it certainly was, Christmas day.
As the sideboard slowly floated along
through this strange forest, Dorothy pre-
sently discovered that each tree had a ,
little door in it, close to the water's
edge, with a small platform be-
fore it by way of a door-
step, as if the people
who lived in the trees b-s o
had a fancy for going
about visiting in boats.
But she could n't help
wondering who in the
world, or, rather, who in -
the trees, the people went
to see, for all the little doors were -
shut as tight as wax, and had notices --
posted up on them, such as No admittance,"
" Go away," Gone to Persia," and many others,
all of which Dorothy considered extremely rude, DOROTHY MAKES A CALL IN THE TREE-TOL' COUNTRY.
especially one notice which read, Beware of runaway sheep; and then, having got them all
the Pig," as if the person who lived in that together in a compact bunch, sailed solemnly
particular tree was too stingy to keep a dog. away, shoving the pies ahead of it.


Dorothy now looked at the door again, and
saw that it was standing partly open. The
doorway was only about as high as her shoul-
der, and as she stooped down and looked
through it she saw there was a small winding
stairway inside, leading up through the body of
the tree. She listened for a moment, but every-
thing was perfectly quiet inside, so she squeezed
in through the doorway and ran up the stairs
as fast as she could go.
The stairway ended at the top in a sort of
trap-door, and Dorothy popped up through it
like a jack-in-the-box; but instead of coming
out, as she expected, among the branches of
the tree, she found herself in a wide, open field
as flat as a pancake, and with a small house
standing far out in the middle of it. It was a
bright and sunny place, and quite like an ordi-
nary field in every way except that, in place of
grass, it had a curious floor of branches, closely
braided together like the bottom of a market-
basket; but, as this seemed natural enough, con-
sidering that the field was in the top of a tree,
Dorothy hurried away to the little house with-
out giving the floor a second thought.
As she came up to the house she saw that it
was a charming little cottage with vines trained
about the latticed windows, and with a sign
over the door, reading-


"I suppose they '11 take me for a customer,"
she said, looking rather doubtfully at the sign,
"and I have n't got any money. But I 'm
very little and I won't stay very long," she
added, by way of excusing herself, and as she
said this she softly pushed open the door and
went in. To her great surprise, there was no
inside to the house, and she came out into the
field again on the other side of the door. The
wall on this side, however, was nicely papered
and had pictures hanging on it, and there was a
notice pasted up beside the door, reading-


as if the rest of the house had gone out for a
walk, and might be expected back at any time.

Dorothy was looking about in great perplex-
ity, when she suddenly discovered that there
was a bed standing, in a lonely way, out in the
field. It was altogether the strangest-looking
bed she had ever seen, for it was growing di-
rectly out of the floor in a twisted-up fashion,
like the grape-vine chairs in Uncle Porticle's
garden; but the oddest thing about it was that
it had leaves sprouting out of its legs, and great
pink blossoms growing on the bedposts like
the satin bows on Dorothy's little bed at the
Blue Admiral Inn. All this was so remarkable
that she went closer to look at it; and as she
came up alongside the bed she was amazed to
see that the Caravan, all three of them, were
lying in it in a row, with their eyes closed as if
they were fast asleep. This was such an un-
expected sight that Dorothy exclaimed, "Jim-
iny!" which was a word she used only on
particular occasions; and the Caravan opened
their eyes and stared at her like so many owls.
"Why, what are you all doing here ? she
said; at which the Admiral sat up in bed, and
after taking a hurried look at her through his
spy-glass, said, "Shipwrecked!" in a solemn
voice and then lay down again.
"Did the paragonorer shut up with you?"
inquired Dorothy, anxiously.
"Yes, ma'am," said the Admiral.
"And squashed us," added Sir Walter.
"Like everything," put in the Highlander.
"I was afraid it would," said Dorothy, sor-
rowfully; I s'pose it was something like being
at sea in a cornucopia."
"Does a cornucopia have things in it that
pinch your legs ? inquired Sir Walter.
"Oh, no," said Dorothy.
"Then it was n't like it at all," said Sir
Walter, peevishly.
"It was about as much like it," said the Ad-
miral, "as a pump is like a post-captain "; and
he said this in such a positive way that Dor-
othy did n't like to contradict him. In fact
she really did n't know anything about the
matter, so she merely said, as politely as she
could, I don't think I know what a post-cap-
tain is."
I don't either," said the Admiral, promptly,
"but I can tell you how they behave"; and
sitting up in bed, he recited these verses :




Post-captain at the Needles and
commander of a crew
On the "Royal Biddy" frigate
was Sir Peter Bombazoo;
His mind was full of music, and
his head was full of tunes,
And he cheerfully exhibited on
pleasant afternoons.

'f7 He could whistle on his fingers
an invigorating reel,
And could imitate a piper on the
handles of the wheel;
He could play in double octaves,
too, all up and down the rail,
Or rattle off a rondo on
the bottom ofa pail.

Then porters with their packages, and
bakers with their buns,
And countesses in carriages, and grenadiers with
And admirals and commodores arrived from near
Sand far
To listen to the music
of this entertaining
l i~ tar.

When they heard the Captain humming, and
beheld the dancing crew,
The commodores severely said, "Why, this will
never do! "
And the admirals all hurried home, remarking,
This is most
Extraordinary conduct for a captain at his

Then they sent some sailing-orders to Sir Peter,
in a boat,
And he did a little fifing on the edges of the note;



But he read the sailing-orders, as, of course, he had to do,
And removed the "Royal Biddy" to the Bay of Boohgabooh.

Now, Sir Peter took it kindly, but it 's proper to explain
He was sent to catch a pirate out upon the Spanish main;
And he played, with variations, an imaginary tune
On the buttons of his waistcoat, like a jocular bassoon.

Then a topman saw the Pirate come a-sailing in the bay,
And reported to the Captain in the customary way.
" I '11 receive him," said Sir Peter, with a musical salute "
And he gave some imitations of a double-jointed flute.

Then the Pirate cried derisively, "I 've heard that done before!"
And he hoisted up a banner emblematical of gore.
But Sir Peter said serenely, You may double-shot the guns
While I sing my little ballad of 'The Butter on the Buns.'"

Then the Pirate banged Sir Peter and Sir Peter banged him back,
And they banged away together as they took another tack.
Then Sir Peter said politely, "You may board kim, if you please."
And he whistled, for a moment, in a dozen minor keys.

Then the "Biddies" poured like hornets down upon the Pirate's deck,
And Sir Peter caught the Pirate and he took him by the neck,
And remarked, "You must excuse me, but you acted like a brute
When I gave my imitation of that double-jointed flute."

So they took that wicked Pirate and they took his wicked crew,
And tied them up with double knots in packages of two;



.i Vy.

'T was a ric" dii n on te ande o a 'He.

Now admirals and commodores, in rows upon the strand,
Come to listen to Sir. Peter as unto a German band;
And he plays upon a tea-Pot that 's particularly sweet
\ ,,,f l, ,- ,I.W ,

His latest composition -called The Tooter of the Fleet.'
"I think Sir Peter was perfectly grand!" appeared under the bed with all possible
said Dorothy, as the Admiral finished his despatch.
verses, "he was so composed." "We are out, you know," said Dorothy to
"So was the poetry," said the Admiral. herself, because there 's no i: for us to be in ";
"It had to be composed, you know, or there and then she called out in a very loud voice,
would n't have been any." "We 're all out in here!" which was n't exactly
.' ?"- ..Y^. -' "' "

Highlander. But there was no answer, and she was just
The Admiral got so red in the face at this, stooping down to call through the keyhole

that Dorothy was quite alarmed; but just at when she saw that the wall-paper was nothing
this moment there was a sharp rap at the door but a vine growing on a trellis, and the door
and Sir Walter exclaimed, "That 's Bob Scarlet, only a little rustic gate leading through it.
and here we are in his flower-bed!ctly grand!" And dear me! -where has the bed gone
Christopher Columbus!etry," said the Admiral, to ? she exclaimed, for where it had stood a
"Iwould never thought of that. Tell him we 're moment before there was a great mound of
all out," said the Admiral to Dorothy in an ander. waving lilies, and she found herself standing in
agitated voice, and the whole Caravan dis- a beautiful garden.
(To be continued.)


-n~~- ___ .3u :ViY-.
~jI~ ~ _



OF what are you thinking, my little lad, with the honest eyes of blue,
As you watch the vessels that slowly glide o'er the level ocean floor?
Beautiful, graceful, silent as dreams, they pass away from our view,
And down the slope of the world they go, to seek some far-off shore.

They seem to be scattered abroad by chance, to move at the breezes' will,
Aimlessly wandering hither and yon, and melting in distance gray;
But each one moves to a purpose firm, and the winds their sails that fill
Like faithful servants speed them all on their appointed way.

For each has a rudder, my dear little lad, with a stanch man at the wheel,
And the rudder is never left to itself, but the will of the man is there;
There is never a moment, day or night, that the vessel does not feel
The force of the purpose that shapes her course and the helmsman's watchful care.

Some day you will launch your ship, my boy, on life's wide, treacherous sea,-
Be sure your rudder is wrought of strength to stand the stress of the gale,
And your hand on the wheel, don't let it flinch, whatever the tumult be,
For the will of man, with the help of God, shall conquer and prevail.


SOME time you will come across
Elfin jugglers in the moss.
This will be the way they '11 look
In their shady forest nook:
Gray-green faces, gray-green hair,
Gray-green are the clothes they wear.
Some are short and some are tall,
Light and nimble are they all,
Nodding this way, nodding that-
Pointed cap or plumed hat;
Now on tiptoe spinning round,

Now with forehead to the ground;
Bowing last, their hands they kiss.
But the strangest thing is this,
Though you go and come again,
In these postures they remain,
And your movements never heed.
Have you seen them ?-Then, indeed,
You can say that you have been
Where King Oberon and his Queen
Oft in summer-time do go-
To the elfin jugglers' show.



S. `' HE back of an elephant
Should hardly be con-
) sidered a safe place in
Ia modern battle. The
S I huge animal would be
riddled by bullets and
S- round shot, and, far
-,' from being an object
of terror, would be
simply a target for the enemy.
In ancient times, long before the invention
of gunpowder, the elephant corps was an im-
portant feature of an army, and was relied upon
not only to charge upon and trample down the

opposing beasts, but to terrify and put men to
flight; and that the huge animals understood the
object of the fighting we have every reason to
believe. Elephants were then plentiful; bands
of thousands were not uncommon; and a host
of them, fitted with rich harness and trappings,
protected by shining armor, and bearing towers
containing archers and slingers, must have made
a magnificent and imposing spectacle.
Exactly when the elephant was first used in
war is not known; but we do know, from the
writings of the historian Ctesias, that when
Cyrus sent an expedition against the Derbices,
their king, Armoreus, concealed an army of


SOME time you will come across
Elfin jugglers in the moss.
This will be the way they '11 look
In their shady forest nook:
Gray-green faces, gray-green hair,
Gray-green are the clothes they wear.
Some are short and some are tall,
Light and nimble are they all,
Nodding this way, nodding that-
Pointed cap or plumed hat;
Now on tiptoe spinning round,

Now with forehead to the ground;
Bowing last, their hands they kiss.
But the strangest thing is this,
Though you go and come again,
In these postures they remain,
And your movements never heed.
Have you seen them ?-Then, indeed,
You can say that you have been
Where King Oberon and his Queen
Oft in summer-time do go-
To the elfin jugglers' show.



S. `' HE back of an elephant
Should hardly be con-
) sidered a safe place in
Ia modern battle. The
S I huge animal would be
riddled by bullets and
S- round shot, and, far
-,' from being an object
of terror, would be
simply a target for the enemy.
In ancient times, long before the invention
of gunpowder, the elephant corps was an im-
portant feature of an army, and was relied upon
not only to charge upon and trample down the

opposing beasts, but to terrify and put men to
flight; and that the huge animals understood the
object of the fighting we have every reason to
believe. Elephants were then plentiful; bands
of thousands were not uncommon; and a host
of them, fitted with rich harness and trappings,
protected by shining armor, and bearing towers
containing archers and slingers, must have made
a magnificent and imposing spectacle.
Exactly when the elephant was first used in
war is not known; but we do know, from the
writings of the historian Ctesias, that when
Cyrus sent an expedition against the Derbices,
their king, Armoreus, concealed an army of


elephants in the forest. A sudden charge by
these monsters utterly routed the cavalry of
Cyrus. Ctesias also tells us that this Indian
king went to war with ten thousand elephants.
All this happened four hundred and fifty years
before the Christian era; and how many years
before this elephants were used in warfare we
can only guess. Pliny and Arrian tell us of
elephant armies numbering in one case five hun-
dred thousand, and in another seven hundred
thousand. These figures we may well doubt,
though it is known that great numbers were
employed by the Indian kings.

-.-( :-

^ Ll"^.~-:^! ".


Alexander was one of the first of the famous t
kings of history to tell of fighting against an p
kings of history to tell of fighting against an p]

ephant host. His invading army had reached
ae river Hydaspes, and as the warriors looked
cross they beheld the opposing army of King
orus, who had not only chariots and an enor-
Lous army, but the huge creatures called
ephants." These great animals, which stood
n the farther river-bank shrieking and trum-
eting, filled the soldiers of Alexander with
*rror and dismay.
The two armies watched each other for sev-
ral days; then Alexander succeeded in cross-
.g the river, and the two forces drew up in
ne of battle. The Indian king placed his ele-
phants in the front rank,
one hundred feet apart,
thinking in this way so
to frighten the horses of
the foe that the entire
army would be put to
flight. Between the ele-
phants were foot-soldiers,
and at the ends of the
line were large elephants
I' bearing strong towers
1..:-*. filled with armed men.
M."- -_-"2L* King Porus himself was
borne upon an elephant
of unusual height, prob-
ably as large as the famous
S/ "Jumbo."
IV When King Alexander,
who was a very brave
.. and valiant man, saw
S the orderly foe, he said: "At
last I have met with a danger
worthy of the greatness of my soul."
S Evidently he had due respect for the
elephant soldiers that opposed him.
Alexander moved his forces to the
attackk, and poured in a shower of arrows
Snd spears. The elephants stood like a stone
all, trampling the foot-soldiers beneath their
heavy feet, seizing them in their trunks and
delivering them to the soldiers upon their
backs, or tossing them high in air. The ele-
phants were evidently the main hope of King
Porus, and, perceiving this, Alexander directed
men, armed with scythes and knives, to attack
iem. These warriors chopped at the ele-
hants' feet and tender trunks, until in terror


the great creatures turned and began a stam-
pede that was disastrous to the foot-soldiers
of their own side, for they trampled upon them
and in their flight mowed them down like grain.
Alexander followed close after the elephants
upon his wounded charger; and finally the bat-
tle was lost to Porus because of the elephants
themselves. King Porus, being wounded dur-
ing the hurried retreat, desired to alight. The
driver ordered his elephant to kneel, whereupon
all the elephants, having been accustomed to
obey in concert, did the same, and the soldiers
of Alexander fell upon them and gained a
complete victory.
It is said that elephants which survived this
famous battle were revered for years by the
Indians and honored much as are the vet-
erans of our wars. In an ancient book, the
"Life of Apollonius of Tyana," he is said to
have seen in a town of India an elephant
which the people held in the greatest respect as
having been owned by King Porus. It was
perfumed with sweet essences and decked with
garlands, while upon its tusks were rings of
gold, inscribed with these words: "Alexander,
son of Jupiter, dedicates Ajax to the Sun." The
elephant Ajax, according to Apollonius, was the
old war elephant of Porus in his battle with
Alexander, and had survived and lived in
honorable idleness for three hundred and fifty
While Alexander defeated the elephant corps
of Porus, he saw they were good fighters, and
created the office of elephantarch, or Chief of
Elephants; and afterward visiting monarchs
found him surrounded by the largest elephants
magnificently harnessed.
Alexander was proud of the huge elephants
of his court and fond of showing their intelli-
gence; and the trainer who succeeded in making
the elephant accomplish the most wonderful
deeds was highly honored.
On one occasion some elephants were being
shown to an eminent general, when the latter
remarked that evidently they could perform any
service that a man could. "They might even
bridge a stream," he added.
No sooner were the words uttered than a
signal was given and the herd was marched
into a stream that rushed by the camp.

The well-trained animals waded into the
water, which was four or five feet deep, and
arranged themselves side by side, some head-
ing up-stream, and others down. Men now ran
forward with planks, which were placed against
pads upon the backs of the animals, while
others were continued from back to back, and
in a remarkably short space of time an ele-
phant bridge was ready, over which the soldiers
passed, while the huge animals trumpeted and
sent streams of water whirling into the air.
On another occasion one of the generals of
the army, who had displayed especial bravery,
was ordered before the chief, who publicly
thanked him.
"Even my elephants,"- said one of the ele-
phantarchs, "can distinguish the hero."
At this the crowd fell back, and a gorgeously
ornamented elephant approached, bearing in
its trunk a wreath of oak-leaves. Walking up
to the hero of the hour, it dropped upon its
knees, placed the wreath upon the officer's head,
and then retired amid the shouts of the admiring
Undoubtedly the driver who sat upon the
animal's head had much to do with this per-
formance, but we must admit that the ele-
phant exhibited wonderful intelligence in so
exactly carrying out orders.
Elephants were used in various wars after
the time of Alexander. One general employed
sixty-five to batter down the walls of a city;
but they were destroyed by ditches skilfully
dug by the besieged.
Hannibal, Mago, Scipio, and many famous
generals used elephants in war, relying upon
them generally to frighten the foe by their
huge, strange forms. Some of the war elephants
presented a remarkable appearance, as the tusks
of the huge animals were made longer by metal
coverings or long knives with which to cut and
cleave the enemy.
In modern times the elephant has been used
in war, and to-day forms a corps of the British
army in India.
In the army of Aurengzebe, an emperor of
India, the elephants dragged the artillery, lift-
ing the cannon-wheels from the mud when
mired, and in some instances carrying the guns
upon their backs.


The elephants of Akbar, another emperor in
an early period of the Mogul empire, were
armed after the fashion of knights, being pro-
tected by great coats of mail fitted to their
bulky forms. The following description of such
armor is taken from an ancient book:
"Five plates of iron, each one cubit long
and four fingers broad, are joined together by
rings, and fastened round the ears of the ele-
phant by four chains, each an ell in length;
and between these another chain passes over
the head, and across it are four iron spikes
and iron knobs. There are other chains with
iron spikes and knobs hung under the throat
and over the breast, and others fastened to the
trunk; these are for ornament and also to
frighten horses." There was also a kind of
steel armor that covered the body of the ele-
phant; and other pieces of it for the head and
proboscis. One historian adds that "swords
are bound to their trunks, and daggers are
fastened to their tusks."
It can well be understood that the approach of
several hundred elephants covered with clank-
ing armor, their tusks bearing daggers, and their
trunks swords, struck terror to the foe. The
Sultan Ibrahim marched his elephants against
the army of Alim Khan, and utterly put the
men to flight. They looked at the huge mon-
sters for a single moment, then fled in utter
The army of Timour, when on the plains be-
fore Delhi, was almost frightened away by the
elephants, and he prevented a retreat only
by digging ditches and building great bonfires
about his army. The force arrayed against him
was that of the Sultan Mamood (A. D. 1399),
who had a corps of elephants armed with cui-
rasses, while upon their tusks were poisoned
daggers. The towers upon their backs bore
archers and slingers, and upon the ground by
their sides were throwers of pitch and fire. On
the sides of the elephants were musicians who
beat bass-drums and made a terrible din with
their bells and cymbals. This, with the shriek-
ing and trumpeting of the elephants, might well
have carried terror into the hearts of the men.
But Timour by mere force of will put to flight

the foe. His grandson, a youth of but fifteen,
wounded a large elephant, whereupon the men
upon its back were thrown, and the young
warrior drove the animal into Timour's camp.
While the elephants were defeated here by
the skill of Timour's attack, the latter saw their
value in battle, and two years later we find him
using elephants in Syria.
In the famous battle of Aleppo, the front rank
was protected by elephants mounted by archers
and throwers of Greek fire (a sort of burning
pitch). Timour had trained his elephants to
hide or coil up their trunks when attacked at
this tender point, and this aided him in win-
ning a great victory, the elephants completely
routing the enemy.
It was in the processions and pageants that
elephants made the finest appearance, fitted
with magnificent trappings, and marching slowly
along, as if conscious of their fine looks. One
of the most remarkable shows was that at the
wedding of Vizier Ali, in 795. Here twelve
hundred elephants were in line, all richly cos-
tumed. Of these one hundred had howdahs, or
castles, covered with silver, while in the center
sat the nabob upon a very large elephant whose
howdah was covered with gold set with jewels.
The daily parade of the elephants of the
court of Jehanghir was a wonderful display.
The elephants were bedecked with precious
stones, chains of gold and silver, gilt banners
and flags. The first elephant, called the Lord
Elephant, had the plates of his head and breast
set with rubies and emeralds, and as he passed
the king he turned, dropped upon his knees,
and trumpeted loudly-not in loyal frame of
mind, exactly, but because the driver pricked
him with a sharp prod just at the right time.
Silly people, however, believed that the ele-
phant was showing respect for the king.
To-day, the elephant is still used in India
in pageants, as a laborer, especially in the
lumber districts, where it is taught to carry
long timbers, and, as has been said, forms a
corps in the British army; but in active war-
fare it is now useful only in a few cases, and
can never be employed so frequently as in
ancient times.


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VOL. XIX.- 12.

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SiU authorr of Tcirjorie & her"Pop

... and her father had been born there, and her
grandfather. It was her great-grandfather,
3 CHAPTER I. Gentleman Fairleigh," as he was called, who
had built the house in 181o. That was when
THIS story is about a little girl named Mil- Mr. Madison was President. Gentleman Fair-
dred Fairleigh, and her two friends Leslie and leigh was a friend of the Madisons- in fact
Charlie Morton. At the time the story begins they were connected by marriage.
Mildred lived in Washington City, in a pretty, But about this Amanda could have told you
old-fashioned house on Sixteenth street. It more than I can. She had the family history
was a very old-fashioned house indeed, almost at her tongue's end, and dearly liked to talk
as old as Washington City itself. It was built about it-though not more than Mildred liked
of yellow brick, with a high steep roof, and a to listen. Amanda was a colored woman, old
tall chimney at each end. A flight of stone and tall and thin, who wore big silver-rimmed
steps with curiously twisted iron railings led spectacles. She had been in the service of the
from the pavement to the front door, which was Dwights and the Fairleighs ever since she could
in the middle. Over the front door, and over remember. She had been nurse to Mildred's
all of the windows (except the two queer little mama when that lady was a baby; and when
dormer-windows in the roof), were fan-shaped "Miss Mary," as Amanda always called her,
pieces of white stone. On the stone over the grew up and married Major Fairleigh, Mildred's
doorway was cut the date when the house was papa, Amanda came to live with them, and after-
built, "181o." ward became nurse for the little Mildred. There
In 181o Washington City was little more were many servants in the house then, and
than a wilderness. Its streets were like winter Aunt Mandy" ruled them all.
roads, muddy and full of ruts. There were But after the war of the rebellion, the Fair-
very few good-looking houses, aside from the leighs, like a great many other old families,
buildings of State, the President's mansion, Mr. found themselves no longer rich. One by one
Fairleigh's residence, and a score of others; the servants fell away, until finally, one day
pavements were scarce, street lamps were when the expensive cook had to be discharged,
scarcer, and altogether it was a forlorn sort of Amanda begged to be appointed to the office
place to live in. To-day, however, the thou- of cook herself. And although Mrs. Fairleigh
sands of fine houses that line the smoothly thought it was asking too much of her faithful
paved streets and look down on the pretty old attendant, there was nothing else to be done.
parks make the Fairleigh dwelling, as I say, Then the "upstairs girl" was intrusted with
seem very old-fashioned by comparison. Never- the care of Mildred, although Mildred, being
theless, Mildred thought her house the loveliest by this time eight years of age, was old enough
house in the city. She had been born there, to take care of herself, if she had but known


it. As for Amanda, this was one of the hard-
est parts of her self-sacrifice in taking upon her-
self the tiresome duties of cook in her old age.
She loved her little nursling, and it went sorely
against her will to give up the care of Mildred
to any one else. And Mildred, if the truth
must be told, did not make it any easier for
her old nurse. Being used to having her sole
attention, Mildred tagged after her in the kit-
chen, begging for stories just when Amanda
was getting dinner ready; and this naturally
made the old woman very cross. Threatening
to pin a dish-cloth on Mildred's dress, or to give
her to the soap-fat man, had no effect; and
finally Amanda had to make complaint to Mil-
dred's mother, which resulted in Mildred's re-
ceiving strict orders to keep out of the kitchen.
But the first time that Mildred saw Amanda
after that, she was very saucy to her, and told
her that she was "a hateful old thing."
"And I would n't come in your kitchen, not
if you were to beg me on your bended knees! "
she said. "And I don't love you any more.
Now, there!"
Amanda was making beaten biscuits at the
time, and she stopped and looked down at Mil-
dred from over her spectacles, and then slowly
rubbing some flour on the rolling-pin, she said
quietly, "Da's right. Go right on. Da's de way
it is with chillun. W'en dey 's little, dey tram-
ples on you' toes; w'en dey 's big, dey tramples
on you' heart. Keep right on! Be naughtyan'
say sassy things to you' ole black mammy w'at 's
nussed you w'en you was a baby, w'at's sot up
nights wid you w'en you was sick, w'at 's taken
care o' you all dese days. Da's right! "
"I don't care," said Mildred, beginning to
cry; "you had no business to tell mama that
you did n't want me to come in the kitchen."
Now Amanda, in spite of her pretense of be-
ing severe, was in reality very soft-hearted. So
at sight of Mildred's tears she changed her tone
a little and said, Now w'at 's de use o' your
carrying' on like dat, honey? You know you
don't mean dat." And then, wiping the flour
from her hands, she continued, Come yere,
an' le' me talk to you."
"You know, Miss Milly," she said, "in dis
yere world it ain't w'at you want ter do, it 's
w'at you got ter do, dat keeps you a-movin'.

Who 's gwine ter look out fer dis yere family ef
Mandy don't? Hit's kind o' hard on you, I
allow dat, fer I can't submit to your follerin' me
roun' de kitchen dis yere way. De kitchen
ain't no place fer my mist'is's chillun. But I '11
tell you w'at I'11 do. If you's a good chile an'
keep out o' de kitchen during' de day, w'en de
dinner things is done cl'ar'd away in de evening'
you kin come in, an' I '11 tell you de stories
'bout you' ma's folks an' you' pa's folks, des as
I use ter."
And so it happened that in the evenings,
when dinner was over, Mildred would come
down the kitchen stairs and sit on the bottom
step, and wait for the clattering of dishes and
pots and pans to cease. Then she would put
her head in at the kitchen door and say, Is
your work all done, Mammy?" Then, if
Amanda said yes, she would go in and draw
up a low chair by Amanda's big one, and
Amanda would throw open the stove doors so
that the red glow lit up her own dusky face and
colored head-handkerchief, and flickered on the
burnished copper pots and pans arranged around
the wall, and on the soft fur of Miss Betty,"
the cat, who curled herself up comfortably on
the warm zinc, and purred while Amanda told
Mildred the old, well-known tales of her ma's
folks and her pa's folks."
Those were delightful romances, indeed. For
all of the men, according to Amanda, were fine
gentlemen, and brave, dashing fellows, and all
of the women were beautiful ladies, gentle yet
spirited. And all of them had elegant manners,
and wore rich clothing, and rode in splendid
coaches. I rather think, however, that Amanda
exaggerated a little, at times, about the gran-
deur and importance of the Fairleighs and the
Dwights (which was the name of Mildred's
mother before she was married); but that was
because she had been in their service so long,
and was proud of them, and loved them so
that she always tried to make it appear that
no other family ever had had a better house,
or better clothing, or finer manners.
Some families there might have been equal to
them, perhaps, in the days of the Revolution-
the Paynes and Washingtons, for instance, and
the Lees, and the Dearborns, and the Pinck-
neys, and a few others that Amanda" allowed"


were good families. Yes, some there might
be equal to them, "but dere war n't none of
'em," Amanda declared, "dat was better 'n
de Dwights or de Fairleighs. 'Cause why?
'Cause de Dwights always was quality, an' as
fer de Fairleighs, de fust Fairleigh w'at come to
dis country 'way back, long befo' de Riv'lu-
tion, was a mighty big man, I tell you! Dey
called him Sir John Fairleigh, an' he wa' de
guv'nor o' de province. Da's who he was! An'

II I "11W A A

k' .... .. .. . ..


anybody w'at don't believe it, kin jest go right
upsta'rs in you' pa's lib'ary, an' see his coat 'n'
arms an' his jennylugical tree a-hangin' on de
wall dere, in a gold frame."
And Mildred would nod her head here,
and say very solemnly, Yes, I have seen it
myself"-as indeed she had every day since
she could remember, and a very dingy and
ugly picture she used to think it, though she
never dared to say so, because Amanda re-
garded it with such awe. The fact was that
Amanda did not know what these emblems
meant any more than Mildred did.

According to Amanda, there was no event
of the last two hundred years, since the time
when the famous Sir John had set foot in Amer-
ica, that the Fairleighs had not had a great
deal to do with the shaping of it. Before the
Revolution, when the British and Colonial
troops were fighting the French and Indians,
there had been a Fairleigh in the king's ser-
vice. Then in the Revolution there had been
two patriot Fairleighs fighting lustily for inde-

. .II i

''S 'W


pendence, and one on the other side fighting
just as hard for the king. In the war of 1812
there had been several of them, some in the
American army, and one in the navy, the lat-
'ter a bold lad by the name of John H. Fair-
leigh, who had seen service also in the war
with Tripoli, in i80o. He got to be a captain
later on in life. His picture was now up-
stairs in the parlor. He wore a blue coat with
brass buttons and a very high collar, higher
than his ears. And in the background of the
picture were ships firing cannon-balls into each
other, and running each other down, and some



were sinking, and some were burning up, and
altogether it was a very lively picture, and one
that Mildred liked better than the coat of arms
and the genealogical tree.
There was a picture of Gentleman Fairleigh,
too. He wore a coat with silver lace, and there
were ruffles on his shirt, and his hair was tied in
a queue. There were some pictures of ladies,
also, with brocaded silk gowns, and quilted
satin petticoats, and their hair done up very
high and powdered. One of them, which
greatly took Mildred's fancy, was that of a
young girlish-looking creature with big brown
eyes and dark curling hair. Mildred was said
to resemble this young lady, of whom she never
wearied of hearing. Her mother was a Mis-
tress Fairleigh, who lived in the time of the
Revolution at Oaks Manor, near New Ro-
chelle. And the story that Amanda used to
tell about them was this: One night, when Mr.
Fairleigh was away from home with General
Washington's army, some British soldiers came
along and rapped on the door of Oaks Manor,
and called out, "Are you king's men or reb-
els? And Mistress Fairleigh, opening the
window upstairs, put her head out and said,
We are women." Then the soldiers battered
the door down, and began to ransack the house
for silver plate and whatever they could find of
value, punching holes in the pictures with their
bayonets and breaking the furniture, till at
last they came to Mistress Fairleigh's bedroom.
The door was locked, but they burst it in.
The lady was standing by the bed, having laid
her baby down on a pillow. One of the sol-
diers, who was looking for money, took hold of
the pillow and threw it aside so that the baby
almost fell on the floor.
So, den," said Amanda, Mist'is Fairleigh,
who had a mighty spicy temper, her eyes jest
flashed, an' she grabbed dat baby up wid one
han' an' she raised de odder, an' she smack
dat British sojer in de face, right hard, too!
An' she say, 'You mis'able feller, you dar' to
hu't my baby!' Den de man he make like he
gwine to shoot her wid his gun. But Mistis
Fairleigh she drawed herself up an' say,' Shoot,
den, you coward! Shoot!' Den de odder
sojers dey laugh at de man w'at got smacked,
an' interfere, an' allow dat de lady got a heap

o' pluck, an' purty soon dey went away, an'
did n't distu'b her no mo'. Den w'en dey all
done gone, Mistis Fairleigh she sat down an'
begun to cry. An' w'en dey ax her w'at make
her cry, ef 't war because de sojers steal her
plate an' spile her fu'niture, she say no, she
cry on 'count o' demeanin' herself, smackin' de
"An' w'en all dis was a-gwine on, de young
Mist'is Barb'ra, w'at's picture is hangin' in de
parlo' (de one dat favors you, honey), she heerd
de sojers w'en dey begin poundin' on de front
do'; an' she minded herself of her pa's money
w'at was in de desk, an' she run quick an' got
it an' hid it in de bosom of her dress, an' jest as
de sojers come bustin' in de front do' she run
out de back do'. An' she run fer a neighbor's
house, jest as fast as she kin make her feet go,
spickity-spack! spickity-spack! an' when she
got to de neighbor's house she begun poundin'
wid her little fists on de do', an' de people
come down an' opened de do', an' de money
was saved."
Then Mildred would sit and think about this
girl who had looked like her, and wonder to
herself whether she would be as thoughtful and
brave if she heard soldiers pounding on the
front door of their house some night, and call-
ing out to know if they were "king's men or
rebels." Only she did not know where her
father kept his money, and, besides that, there
were no king's men nor rebels now, and no war.
There had been a war, her mama had told her,
not so very long ago-a war between the North
and the South. And her papa, who was an of-
ficer in the United States army at the time,
had been wounded at the battle of Gettysburg,
so that he had to be "retired from active ser-
vice." Mildred did not know exactly what
that meant, but that was what he was now, a
major in the army, on the retired list. She was
a baby at the close of that war, and all that she
knew about it was that her papa had to walk
with a crutch, and was sometimes very ill on
account of his wound, and that this made her
mother very unhappy. But this war seemed
almost as far away to Mildred's mind as those
others that Amanda told her about- the Revo-
lution and the War of 1812. Only Amanda
did not talk about her papa's war. When Mil-


dred would ask her about it, she would shake
her head and say, Dem was par'lous times,
honey! Dem was par'lous times! I don't like
to talk about 'em, 'deed I don't! "
Did mama ever do anything in her war, like
-like what Miss Barbara and the others did in
the Revolution ? Mildred had once asked.
Who! exclaimed Amanda. "You' ma? "
Then turning around so as to face Mildred,
she looked at her over her spectacles a mo-
ment, and shaking her long, black forefinger,
said solemnly, Listen to me, chile! De Fair-
leigh was never bo'n dat was Miss Mary's ekal
in goodness an' sperrit. W'y, w'en dat battle
o' Gettysburg was fit, an' dere did n't come no
news o' you' pa, wa't she do ? She did n't set
in de parlo' wid a lace han'k'cher to her eye.
No, sir! She walk herself right over to de
Sec'tary o' Wa', an' she git a pass, an' she go
to dat place, me 'n' her togedder-'cause I's
boun' to go, honey, wherever Miss Mary goes
-an' she hunt all through de hospitals an' de
houses whar de wounded was-an' dey was a
ter'ble sight, to be sure!-an' out in de fields
whar de fighting' had b'en, an' dat was ter'-
bler, an' no fittin' place fer a 'oman, let alone
a lady like you' ma; and finally she foun' you'
pa a-lyin' in a ole stable along wid a heap mo'
w'at de hospital folks had n't had time to 'tend
to. An' she brung him home, an' nussed him
back to life. Da's w'at you' ma done! An'
dat ain't all-but I tell you, honey, I don't
like to talk about dem times. You' ma 's a
angel, da's w'at she is-a angel on earth-
an' don't you never fergit it!"

OF course, as Mildred grew older, she be-
came more used to Amanda's being the cook
instead of her nurse. Eliza, the upstairs girl,
had a great deal to do, and was not as patient
as Amanda, so that Mildred soon began to
learn to take care of herself. Then other
little duties and occupations entered into her
When she was ten years old, she began to
attend school. Before that, her mother had
taught her to read and write, and practice on
the piano. Then, also, from the time that she
was a baby, her mother had talked to her in

French, so that she had learned to speak that
language with very little trouble. But going to
school was another matter. Now, instead of
sitting by the kitchen fire after dinner, listening
to Amanda's stories, she had to spend the even-
ing studying. It was in this way that two years
passed by, during which Mildred grew up to be
a slim little maiden of twelve, with not much
color in her face, dark, curling hair, and big,
brown eyes, and that is what she looked like
when this story begins.
Mildred had just reached her twelfth birth-
day when she became acquainted with Leslie
Morton. One Friday afternoon, in the month
of October, she came home from school tired
and hungry. Going straight to the dining-room,
she looked in the sideboard for something to
eat, for Amanda never failed to save her a piece
of cake or something good from luncheon. On
this occasion Mildred found a generous slice
of bread spread with honey. Throwing aside
her hat, she settled herself comfortably on a seat
in the window that opened on the garden, and
proceeded to enjoy the feast. But scarcely had
she looked at the bread to see exactly where
she would take the first bite, when Eliza came
in and said:
"Miss Milly, you' ma say that jest as quick
as you git home f'om school, you 's to wash
you' face an' han's, an' come in the parlo'.
There 's a lady in there wants to see you."
"Oh, bother!" exclaimed Mildred, frown-
ing and pouting, "I wish I did n't have to go
in the parlor."
Well, I can't help what you wish," said
Eliza; "I 'm jest tellin' you what you' ma said
to tell you."
Who is the lady ? said Mildred, crossly,
with her mouth full of bread and honey.
"I don' know w'at the lady's name is," said
Eliza. "There 's a little girl with her."
"Oh, is there ? said Mildred, stopping in
the act of taking another bite to look at Eliza
with interest. What is she like ? "
Now, Miss Milly," said Eliza, do you
think you ought ter be staying' there askin' a
thousand' questions! Why don' you go an' do
w'at you' ma say ? "
All right," said Mildred. You tell mama
I '11 be there in a moment."


'Deed I ain't got time to be car'yin' mes-
sages 'round the house every time you want
me," said Eliza, leaving the room.
But Mildred knew that Eliza would take the
message. Eliza liked to grumble and seem
disobliging, but it was only her way. Never-
theless, Mildred hurriedly finished the bread
and honey,-that is, all except the crust, which
it took too long to eat,-and then ran upstairs
to her own room to make herself tidy, wonder-
ing all the time what the little girl was like.
When she went into the parlor, her mother
said, "Here is my daughter. Mildred, this is
Mrs. Morton."
The lady smiled and held out her hand, and
said, "Why, how do you do ? in a rather
quick, high tone, as if she were very much
Mildred gave her her hand, and said, I 'm
very well, I thank you."
Then said Mrs. Morton, "You see I have
got a little girl, too. Leslie, go and shake hands
with Mildred."
A short, rather stout girl, with straight light
hair hanging down her back in a braid, a round
face, and merry blue eyes, got up from the chair
where she had been sitting, and came forward
very frankly and held out her hand to Mildred;
at the same time she seemed to be trying not
to laugh. Mildred looked at her in her serious
way, and wondered why she wanted to laugh,
and then their hands fell apart and they stood
there a moment with their eyes wandering
around, not knowing exactly what to do next.
Perhaps Leslie would like to go out and
look at the garden," said Mildred's mama.
"Yes, dear, run along with Mildred," said
Mrs. Morton.
So Mildred led the way and Leslie followed
her. Mildred had a vague idea that, being the
hostess, she ought to open the conversation.
But while she was trying to think of some po-
lite and interesting remark to make, Leslie in-
terrupted her by saying:
"Do you chew gum?"
No," said Mildred, shaking her head very
earnestly, "I don't."
"I do," said Leslie, laughing, and putting a
piece into her mouth to prove it.
Mildred watched her with such curiosity that

Leslie laughed again and said, What are you
staring so for ? "
At which Mildred became a little embar-
rassed and answered, Oh, nothing." And
then, for want of something better to say, she
added, "Do you go to school?"
Not now," said Leslie. "We 've only just
come to Washington. My father is an officer
in the cavalry, and we have been out on the
plains for ever so long. What is your father
in? Oh, yes, I know. He used to be in the
cavalry, but now he 's retired, 'cause he was
wounded. I heard pa say so."
Do you live in Washington now?" asked
"Yes," said Leslie, "Pa is on duty at the
War Department. I don't like it a bit. I 'd
rather be in a garrison where there are plenty
of horses to ride, and dogs. I guess I '11 have
to go to school here. Charlie does n't like it
either, but ma does."
Who is Charlie ? said Mildred.
"He 's my brother," said Leslie. He 's
older than I am. I 'm thirteen and he 's six-
teen. Have you got a brother ?"
No," said Mildred.
Don't you wish you had ? said Leslie.
No," said Mildred, shrugging her shoul-
ders, I don't care for boys."
I do," said Leslie. I like to play with
boys. Can you run fast ? I bet I can beat you.
Now, one for the money! Two for the show "
And Leslie put her foot out and began swaying
her body for the start.
I don't want to run," said Mildred.
"Three to make ready! cried Leslie, warn-
ingly, and preparing to start without heeding
Mildred's protest.
But at that moment Eliza made her appear-
ance, and called to the girls that Mrs. Morton
was going.
"Oh, dear! Is she ? said Leslie, with a dis-
appointed look. "Just as we were having
such a nice time! Well, never mind," she
added, brightening up, I '11 tell you what
we '11 do. Our house is right close to yours,
just around the corer, and I '11 come to-mor-
row and see you. Shall I ? "
Yes," said Mildred, and I '11 show you
my play-room and my dolls." And she went


with Leslie into the house, and said good-by
to Mrs. Morton.
When the visitors were gone, Mildred fol-
lowed her mother upstairs to her sitting-room.
There she sat down and watched her mother
sewing; and, after thinking a little while, she
said, Are n't they common, Mama ? "
Are not what common? said her mother,
looking up from her sewing. Her brown eyes
were just like Mildred's.
"I mean Mrs. Morton and Leslie," said
I don't think that I quite understand you,
dear," said her mother.
Well, they don't seem to me to be very -
very genteel," said Mildred. Mrs. Morton
talks so fast and so loud, and does n't act at all
as you do, and Leslie chews gum, and wanted
me to run a race. I don't think that is very
Mrs. Fairleigh smiled at this, and then, letting
her hands, which held her sewing, rest in her lap,
she looked at Mildred a moment and said,
"But I do not think that she did anything as
'ungenteel' as my little daughter has done."
Why, Mama," exclaimed Mildred, in sur-
prise. "What have I done?"
"Spoken unkindly of our guests after they
have gone," said her mother.
Oh," said Mildred, faintly. Then recover-
ing, she said eagerly, But, Mama, I did n't
mean to. I was just thinking, when you were
talking to Mrs. Morton, that you spoke so-so
softly and so gently, and she did n't. And
everything you did was so quiet, and I was so
glad that you were just what you are, and not
like her. That was all. And-and Leslie chews
gum! You would n't like me to chew gum,
'cause you said so once," concluded Mildred,
bending her head two or three times reproach-
fully at her mother.
At which Mrs. Fairleigh laughed.
"There said Mildred, earnestly, "that 's
what I mean. When you laugh like that, I
love to hear you, and I want to go right up
and hug you. But when Mrs. Morton laughed,
I wanted to stop my ears." And Mildred's
eyes became a little tearful as she defended
"Sweetheart," said her mother, more seriously,

holding out her hand and drawing Mildred
down into her lap. "You must not give such
matters too much importance. It is natural for
a little girl to think her own mama the nicest,
and I should be sorry if you did not. At
the same time, no doubt, Leslie thinks the same
about her mama. Then, too, while pretty man-
ners are very necessary to a lady, and I hope
that you will always have them, still they don't
make a lady any more than fine clothes do."
"Yes, but-" began Mildred, eagerly.
"Wait a moment, dear," said her mother,
gently, covering Mildred's hands with her own.
"To be a lady one must be sincere. I mean,
by that that we must be careful, as little girls
say, 'not to put on airs.' We must be truthful
and brave, and that means not to say anything
about people in their absence that we would be
afraid to say before them. As for chewing
gum and running races, I certainly should not
like you to chew gum, for although there is no
great harm in it, it is a silly habit and not a
pleasant one for other people. But about run-
ning races. Well-shall I tell you a secret?
When I was a little girl I used to run races!"
And Mrs. Fairleigh threw her head back and
looked at Mildred, as much as to say, "What
do you think of that ? so funnily that Mildred
laughed and said:
"Oh, Mama! You did n't!- did you really? "
Yes, I did, really," said her mother. That
was when we lived on a big plantation in Vir-
ginia. And I think that if you were to run
more in the garden, it would not do you any
harm, dear. On the contrary, it would bring
some roses into these cheeks."
And Mrs. Fairleigh pinched the cheeks, and,
taking up her sewing, left Mildred thinking of
what she had said, particularly of her having
run foot-races when she was a little girl. Mil-
dred was surprised, even astonished, to hear
that, but after she had thought over it a little
while, she was glad that it was so. And pres-
ently she went downstairs into the garden and
ran a little race with Miss Betty, the cat, just to
see if she could run fast. And then she got to
laughing at Miss Betty because she ran so ab-
surdly. She would sit down and pretend that
she was not going to run at all, until Mildred
was far ahead of her, and then she would come



scurrying along very suddenly and beat Mildred
after all. And then she would jump stiff-legged
from one side to the other, and whirl around
and dash up on to the roof of the old, empty
stable, and crouch there while she looked down

at Mildred as quietly as if she had not done
any of these ridiculous things.
In fact, Mildred ran and laughed so much
that when she went into the house there was a
whole bouquet of roses in her cheeks.

(To be continued.)


A QUEER little man kept an alphabet shop,
And out from his counter, hippity hop,
He danced until he was ready to drop,
Singing and shouting with never a stop:
Come in, little scholars
With bright silver dollars,
Or if you 've not any
Then come with a penny.
I have bumble Bs
And marrowfat Ps,
Some Chinese Qs
And Japanese Ts,
A flock of Js
And lots of Es,
And perfectly beautiful dark-blue Cs;

% 185


This is the place to buy your knowledge,
At cheaper rates than are given at college!"
Then he 'd draw a long breath and spin like a top,
This queer little man in an alphabet shop.


-~-.V -
>-g~.j '- Kc

(A Tale of Treasure Trove in the Streets of New York.)


[Begun in the November number.]



much men may
differ in thefive
Quarters of the
globe, boys are
alike the world
over. Wherever
they may be
born,and what-
ever be their
=e abringingup,the
quality of boy-
ishness is sure to be in all of them. When the
little cockney lad in the dark lanes of London
hears the sound of Bow Bells, he cannot help
sometimes putting himself in the place of Whit-
tington, and, by sheer force of make-believe, suc-
ceeds in owning a cat, and in disposing of it for
a high price to the Barbary king. No doubt the
little Arab of Bagdad plays at Haroun al Raschid,
and makes up out of his own head a tale of

which he is the hero-one that in unexpect-
edness of adventure and in variety of incident
far surpasses any told by the fair Scheherazade
fo the cruel Sultan in the watches of the
"Thousand and One Nights."
So it is no wonder that the boys of Amer-
ica delight in being Indians. The condition
of the streets and parks near the house where
Tom Paulding lived was very well adapted
for redskin raids, sudden ambushes, and long
scouts after a retreating tribe of hostiles.
Rarely a week passed that the Black Band
did not go upon the war-path. And it was
therefore with no surprise that Tom was called
upon by Cissy Smith and Corkscrew Lott, the
next Saturday morning, and was by them bid-
den to hurry over to Morningside Park as soon
after dinner as he could.
Tom was kept busy at school during all the
week; and Saturday was the only day when he
really had any time to himself. In the morning
he had usually a few errands to run for his
mother and a few chores to do about the house.
The afternoon was always his own.
"What are you going to do to-day ? asked


"We've got a mighty good idea," Cissy
replied. "We are going over to Morningside to
play the Death of Custerin the Lava Beds.'"
"That is a good scheme," Tom said. "Whose
was it ? "
"Harry Zachary suggested it," answered
Smith. He said that, if we did, we could have
a bully massacre, and that we could pretend to
kill them all off one by one."
"Harry has first-rate notions about a good
fight," Tom declared. "I 'd like to join in,
but I can't."
Why not ? asked Corkscrew.
"Well," said Tom, with a sense of the im-
portance of the disclosure he was about to
make, "I have some business to attend to.
You remember that stolen gold I said belonged
to us if we could only find it ?"
"Yes," Cissy replied.
Have you found out where it is ?" asked
Lott, eagerly.
"No," Tom answered, "at least not yet.
But my mother has given me all the papers -
a whole box full of them and I 'm going over
them this afternoon."
"Shucks!" said Cissy scornfully. "If you
don't know where the gold is, what's the use
of looking for it? "
"I hope to find a clue--that's what the
detectives call it, is n't it ?" Tom responded.
"All the clues you find," returned Cissy,
"you can clue yourself up with! You had
better come over to Morningside, instead of
staying at home looking at old papers."
"What sort of papers are they?" inquired
Lott. Newspapers ?"
"All sorts," Tom replied; "newspapers and
old letters and reports; lots and lots of them.
I have n't sorted them out yet, but they seem to
be very interesting."
"Would you like me to come around and
help you ?" asked Lott.
No," responded Tom, I am going to find
that gold myself, if it's to be found at all."
I don't believe it 's to be found at all," said
Cissy. I don't believe there ever was any to
be found anywhere. This is just a sort of ghost-
story they are fooling you with. I '11 tell you
what you had better do. You come over with
us this afternoon, and we '11 let you be Custer."

This was a temptation to Tom, and for a
moment he wavered.
We 'd let you be the Indian Chief, Rain-in-
the-Face," Cissy went on, noticing Tom's hesita-
tion, "but Harry said, as he'd suggested it, he
thought he ought to be the Indian chief and
lead in the scalping. But you can be Custer,
if you '11 come."
I 'd like to," answered Tom, who had made
up his mind now, but I can't. I 'm going over
these papers this afternoon."
If you find out anything, will you tell me ?"
Lott inquired.
"I '11 see," was Tom's response.
He '11 tell you all he finds out," said Cissy
as he rolled away, "and so could I -for he
won't find out anything. As I said before, I
don't believe there 's anything to find out."
This discouraging remark was intended for
Tom's ear, and it had its due effect. Tom
had a great respect for Cissy Smith's judgment.
For a few seconds he wondered whether it was
really worth while to give up a beautiful day just
to turn over a lot of dusty old papers in the
wild hope of finding something which the owner
of the papers had ceased to seek long before
he died.
But he had made his choice and he stuck
to it. After the midday dinner of the family,
Tom's resolve was fixed as if it had never
faltered. His mother had given him permission
to take the box of papers from a trunk in the
attic where it had been ever since the death of
Nicholas Paulding; and early in the morning he
had gone up and opened the trunk and lifted
out the box. As soon as he had finished his
dinner, he went upstairs to his own room and
locked his door. Then he emptied out upon
his bed all the papers in the box.
The tumbled heap was about a foot high, and
it contained one hundred and twenty-seven
separate pieces. There were letters of his great-
grandfather's. There were letters from and to
his grandfather. There were copies of official
documents. There were newspapers, and there
were single articles cut from newspapers. There
were old maps, marked over with notes in
Wyllys Paulding's handwriting. There was a
pamphlet printed in London in r776, and giv-
ing a full and detailed account of the taking



of New York by his Majesty's forces. There
were several old magazines with descriptions of
the events which preceded and followed the
battle of Harlem Heights. This pamphlet and
these magazines contained notes in red ink by
the hand of Wyllys Paulding. Most important
of all was a statement, addressed in the hand-
writing of Tom's great-grandfather, in which
Nicholas told his son the whole story of the
stolen guineas.

appeared. Tom had to puzzle out and piece
together, but at last he got at all the facts so
far as it was possible to discover them.
Here, then, is an orderly account of events
from the time the treasure came into the posses-
sion of Nicholas Paulding to the hour of its
disappearance and the disappearance of the
man who had stolen it:
When General Washington had his head-
quarters in New York, after the battle of Long

5 i 4 f'^ --. l ;r '%T

.'1- -I .-
-- ** ,- .


Tom wondered why it was that his grand-
father, having taken so much interest in the
search for the stolen gold, should have aban-
doned it suddenly. This wonder, strong in
the beginning, kept coming back again and
again as Tom pursued his quest; and it
grew stronger with every return. A time was
to come when Tom would understand why his
grandfather had so suddenly given up the
search. For the time, and for a long while
afterward, Tom could see no reason for this
strange action.
With the aid of the statement Nicholas Paul-
ding had written for Wyllys Paulding, the grand-
son of the latter was able to learn the exact
circumstances under which the money had dis-

Island, Nicholas Paulding mortgaged his houses
and lots near the Battery for the large sum of
two thousand guineas. He had great difficulty.
in getting any one to lend him the money. In
those troublous times, when none knew what
might be the future of the colonies, few men
were willing to part with the gold in their pos-
session. At last, however, Nicholas Paulding
found a man willing to let him have the money
on his bond and mortgage. This man was a
newly arrived German, and his name was
Horwitz -Simon Horwitz. He was very par-
ticular about the form of the papers; and even
after all the papers had been drawn up to
his complete satisfaction, he delayed the pay-
ment of the money. It was not until Saturday,


September 14, 1776, when the Continental army
was leaving New York, and when the patriots
were flocking out of the city, knowing that the
British might take possession at any hour-it
was not until then that Simon Horwitz finally
accepted the bond and mortgage of Nicholas
Paulding and paid over the two thousand
Nicholas Paulding was a very young man,
barely of age. He had been at King's Col-
lege (as Columbia College was then called) with
Alexander Hamilton, and he was scarcely second
to that great man in devotion to the cause of his
country. He had early enrolled himself in
Washington's army, and he had been chosen
to act as paymaster of a New York regiment.
The post was honorable but laborious, for the
soldiers would expect their pay regularly and
there was little money in the treasury. It was
as his contribution to the cost of the struggle
for liberty that Nicholas Paulding had bor-
rowed two thousand guineas on the security of
his homestead. He intended to devote the
money to the payment of the men in his regi-
ment as there might be need.
As soon as he had counted the coins received
from Simon Horwitz, Nicholas Paulding tied
them up in four canvas bags, sealing the knots
with wax, on which he impressed his seal.
Then he concealed these bags about his person
as best he could. He was a stalwart man, of
full stature and unusual strength for his years,
but the weight of these bags must have been an
inconvenient burden. Two thousand guineas
would be worth more than ten thousand dol-
lars; they would be in bulk a little more than a
thousand solid eagles; and they would weigh
not far from forty pounds.
Early on the morning of Sunday, September
15, the day after Nicholas Paulding had re-
ceived his money, three British men-of-war sailed
boldly by the Battery and entered the Hudson
River. Every one knew then that the city was
doomed to fall into the hands of the King's
forces in a few hours. The American troops
made readyto retreat, and there were none to
oppose the landing of the British soldiers as
they crossed from Long Island under cover of
the fire of the fleet. Nicholas Paulding was
with some men who made a stand against a regi-

ment of Hessians in the fields across which ran
the Boston Road (near what is now the corner
of Third Avenue and Twenty-third street).
Then the Americans fell back and joined the
main body of the Continental army retiring on
Harlem Heights. The rain poured in torrents,
and there sprang up a chill wind. The men of
Paulding's regiment were footsore from their
long march when they halted for the night a
little above Bloomingdale, and not far from the
eight-mile stone.
They found small comfort in their hasty
camp, a smoky fire of damp wood, what food
they had with them and no more,-no tents
and no blankets. Upon the sodden earth they
laid them down to sleep; and despite the rag-
ing of the storm, most of them were so tired
that they slept soundly.
With his fellow-officers, Nicholas Paulding
had done his share in seeing to the safety and
the comfort of his men. After the sentries were
placed, he joined his companions in consulta-
tion as to the work for the next day. Then he
went to the place set apart for him, before a
smoking fire beaten by the pelting rain; and
there he lay down to sleep, if he could. A
man named Jeffrey Kerr had been serving as
paymaster's clerk, and to this fellow Nicholas
Paulding had confided the fact that he had
two thousand guineas concealed about his per-
son. This Kerr was lying before the camp-
fire, apparently asleep, when Nicholas Paulding
settled himself for the night; the clerk was
wrapped in a huge, loose surtout with enormous
How long Nicholas Paulding slept he did
not know, but he remembered a faint dream of
a capture by brigands who felt about his body
and robbed him of his treasure. When he
slowly awakened he was being turned from his
side over to his back, and some one was loosen-
ing the belt which sustained the bags of guineas.
The night was blacker than ever, and the rain
was pouring down in sheets. Still almost
asleep, he resisted drowsily and gripped the
belt with his hands. When the belt was pulled
from his grasp he awoke and sprang to his feet.
In the black darkness before him he could see
nothing; but his hand, extended at a venture,
clasped a rough coat.



Then there came a dazzling flash of lightning,
and Nicholas Paulding found himself face to
face with the man Kerr, who had hold of the
belt and the four pendent bags of treasure.
The two men were almost in the center of the
storm; the lightning had struck a tree between
them and the British troops; but before the
clap of thunder followed the flash, Jeffrey Kerr
smote the man he was trying to rob and forced
him to let go the coat. Whether Kerr had
seized a limb of a tree lying there ready for the
fire, or whether he had used as a weapon the
belt itself with the treasure-bags attached, the
robbed man never knew.
Nicholas Paulding was stunned for a moment,
but he soon recovered and gave the alarm. As
the thief passed the sentry he was fired at,
but in the dense darkness the shot went wide of
its mark, and Kerr rushed on through the lines
of the American army.
He was familiar with the region. He had
been a clerk with Colonel Morris at the Red
Mill, and knew every foot of that part of Man-
hattan Island. It was well for him that he did,
else he never could have escaped from his pur-
suers, in spite of the blackness of the night. He
was within thirty yards of a second sentry when
another flash of lightning revealed him again.
The soldier fired at once. There was a slight
cry of pain; but the man could not have been
wounded severely, since Nicholas Paulding,
with a company of the men of his regiment,
carefully examined the ground where Kerr had
stood at the moment of firing, and thence
down a hundred yards or so, to a little brook,
which divided the lines of the Americans from
the British, and across which it was not safe to
venture, even if the rain-storm had not so swol-
len the stream as to make a crossing dangerous
in the darkness.
And after that hour Nicholas Paulding had no
news of his treasure, and no man ever laid eyes
on Jeffrey Kerr.
The morning following the robbery, there
was fought the Battle of Harlem Heights, which
was a decided victory for the Continental army.
Encouraged greatly by the result of this
fight, the American forces lay intrenched on
Harlem Heights for three weeks, facing the
British troops, separated from them by barely

three hundred yards, the width of the little valley
of Manhattanville. During these three weeks,
Nicholas Paulding made every possible search
for the man who had robbed him, but without
learning anything. From prisoners taken during
the Battle of Harlem Heights he inquired
whether any deserter had been received in the
British lines on the night of September I5, but
he could hear of none.
A month later most of Washington's army
was marched away from Manhattan Island, to
do its part in the long and bloody struggle of
the Revolution.
For seven years Nicholas Paulding did not
set foot in the city of New York, which was
held for George III. until the close of the war.
When the cause of the patriots had triumphed,
and the British troops had departed, Nicholas
Paulding seems to have made but few inquiries
after his stolen guineas. Apparently, in the
wanderings and hardships of the Continental
army, he had made up his mind that the money
was gone and that any further effort was use-
less. Besides, he did not feel any pressing need
of it, as he made money after the war was over,
being able to buy lands and to build the house
where his descendants were to live during the
most of the next century.
But early in this century, when Wyllys,
Nicholas Paulding's only son and Tom's grand-
father, was nearing manhood, the tide of fortune
turned and several successive investments were
most unfortunate. Long before the war of 18 12
the lost two thousand guineas would have been
very welcome again. Even then Nicholas
Paulding seemed to take little interest in the
quest--at least all the correspondence was car-
ried on by Wyllys. The statement of the cir-
cumstances of the robbery written by Nicholas
bore an endorsement that it was drawn up
"at the Special Request of my Son, Wyllys
Paulding, Esq."
The first thing Wyllys Paulding tried to do
was to hunt down Jeffrey Kerr; but he had no
better luck than his father. Tom found among
the papers two letters which showed how care-
fully Wyllys had conducted the search. One
was from the British officer who had com-
manded the King's troops encamped opposite
the regiment in which Nicholas Paulding served



on the night of Sunday, September 15, 1776.
This letter was dated London, October 1o,
181o; and in it the British officer declared that
he remembered distinctly the night before the
Battle of Harlem Heights, and that he was cer-
tain that if a deserter had entered their lines
that night he would surely recall it; but he had
no such recollection; and on looking in the
journal which he had kept all through the war,
from his landing in New York to the surrender
at Saratoga, he found no account there of any
deserter having come in on the night in ques-
tion; and he felt certain, therefore, that Kerr had
not been received by his Majesty's forces. This
letter was indorsed, in Wyllys's handwriting:
"A Courteous Epistle: the Writer, having
survived the seven years of the Revolution and
the Continental Wars of Buonaparte, was killed
at the Battle of New Orleans."
The second of these letters was from a clergy-
man at New London, evidently a very old man,
judging by the shaky handwriting. It was
dated February 22, 1811. The writer declared
that he had known Jeffrey Kerr as a boy in New
London, where he was born, and that even as a
boy Kerr was not trusted. His fellow-towns-
men had been greatly surprised when they heard
in 1776 that he was appointed paymaster's clerk,
and they had remarked then that it was just the
position he would have chosen for himself.
The news of his robbery of his superior and of
his flight had caused no wonder; it was exactly
what was expected. Kerr had not been seen
by any of his townsmen since he had left New
London to join the army, and nothing had ever
been heard of him. There was a general belief
that he was dead; and this ripened into cer-
tainty when the wife he had left behind him
inherited a fortune and he never came back to
share it with her. The wife was firmly con-
vinced that she was a widow; and so, in 1787,
she had married again.
Upon this letter Wyllys Paulding had in-
dorsed, Can the man have been shot the night
he stole the money? We know he did not
reach the British lines, and now we are told
that he never returned home, though he had
every reason to do so. Well, if he be dead,
where is our money ?"
Among the other papers were cuttings from

Rivington's New York Gazetteer or the Connec-
ticut, New Jersey, Hudson's River and Que-
bec Weekly Advertiser, a folded sheet of paper
on which was written Notes of Horwitz's con-
fession, Dec. 13, i811," but which was blank
on the other side (nor could Tom find any writ-
ing which might seem to belong within the
cover of this paper); a letter from a fellow-
officer of Nicholas Paulding's who was with
him on the night of the robbery and who set
forth the circumstances very much as Nicholas
himself had already recorded them; and, most
important of all, a rough outline map of the
positions of the American and British troops on
the night of September 15, 1776. This map
had been sketched from memory by Nicholas
Paulding, whose name it bore, with the date
January, 181o.
On this map Nicholas had marked in red ink
his own position when he was robbed, and the
positions of the two sentries who had fired at
Jeffrey as the thief fled in the darkness.
There were many other papers in the box be-
sides those here mentioned, but the most of
them did not seem to have anything to do with
the stolen money.
There were not a few letters in answer to in-
quiries about Jeffrey Kerr; there were many news-
papers and cuttings from newspapers; and there
were all sorts of odds and ends, memoranda, and
stray notes- such, for instance, as a calculation
of the exact weight of two thousand guineas.
Tom went through them all, laying aside
those which seemed to contain anything of
importance. When he had examined every
paper in the heap on his bed, he had two piles
of documents before him: one was large and
contained the less important papers and news-
papers; the other was smaller, as it held only
those of real importance.
Tom took the papers in the smaller heap and
set out to arrange them in order by their dates.
When this was done he made a curious dis-
covery. They were all the work of little more
than two years.
Wyllys Paulding seemed to have started
out to search late in 1809 and there was no
document of any kind bearing date in 1812.
Although he had not found what he was seek-
ing and what he had sought most diligently at



--.. ,

. -- y .: .'; -:


least for two years, it seemed as if he had sud-
denly tired and desisted from his quest.
So it was when Tom Paulding went to bed
that night he had three questions to which he
could find no answers:

I. What became of Jeffrey Kerr ?
II. If Kerr was killed, what became of the
two thousand guineas ?
III. Why did Wyllys Paulding suddenly
abandon all effort to find the stolen money?

0 I



OH, what a lovely old gown! cried Alice.
That morning Grandmama had given us the
long-sought permission to rummage through
the old chest, and, after a slight examination of
its treasures, Alice and I had borne it triumph-
antly from its resting-place in the garret down
into the pleasant sewing-room, where Grand-
mama sat mending stockings.
Now Grandmama is a very prim old lady,
sweet and neat, and dainty as can be, but still
rather precise and severely plain in everything;
and this frivolous, fussy little costume, with its
low-cut neck, trimmed with many rows of dainty
lace, and little more than a few flounces of lace
to serve as sleeves-no, nothing about the
little dress seemed at all like the Grandmama
we know.
The dear old lady had only smiled and nod-
ded as, one after another, we had drawn the
old-fashioned, Quaker-like frocks from out their
bed of camphor-scented newspapers, dated -
ages ago! They seemed quite natural, the

modest gray and brown skirts, and plain waists,
and the strong aprons. But this showy gown ?
This delicate pink silk!
Why, Grandmama!" I cried, when did
you wear this lovely little gown ? "
"Do, dear Grandmama, tell us !" pleaded
Alice, posing before the mirror with the basque
held up before her.
And so we coaxed; and Grandmama, who,
like all good old ladies, never refuses anything
her grandchildren ask, let her busy hands fall
idly upon the work-basket in her lap, and, with
a hint of a tremor in her gentle voice, exclaimed:
"Now, girls! To think that you should
remind me of my wickedness after all these
The idea of Grandmama ever having been
wicked was too funny! But here is her story:

It was more than fifty years ago, my dears,
when I wore that gown. I wore it only once,
and many a bitter tear and sleepless night it

VOL. XIX.-- 13.




cost me. For a long time I kept it hanging in
my closet where I could see it, to punish my-
self with a constant reminder of my wrong-
doing. Then after a while I felt punished
enough, and so I put it carefully away, and -
dear me it seems only yesterday!
We were living in Woodbarrow, my brother

assistant, and many a night was spent in watch-
ing at the bedside of some poor sufferer, after the
day had been filled with anxious care and labor.
My old nurse, Milly, was housekeeper, and
by and by I grew big enough and old enough
to take some of the household duties upon my
own shoulders. I used to go to school in the

1 ; li t!l i l i, ll i i

'I"I I ',T r^: It
,,' 'f'' l


Henry (your grand-uncle) and I. Poor as we
were, I never felt the loss of parents, he was so
thoughtful, so industrious, so tender and kind.
At the time of my story, he was just beginning
his practice as a physician. Woodbarrow was
small and the people were poor, and so Henry
had to struggle, in spite of the good will of his
friends. He could n't afford to employ an

morning; at four o'clock in the afternoon I re-
turned, and then I would help Milly and look
after the mending, and often Henry and I
would spend a happy hour in chatting or read-
ing aloud before I began my lessons for the
coming day.
One summer a rich family named Norton
came to board at the little hotel in the village.


Mrs. Norton was recovering from an illness
caused by grief over the death of her little son,
and the physician had ordered quiet and se-
clusion; and so to Woodbarrow they came-
Mr. and Mrs. Norton; George, a son about
eighteen years df age; and Clara, the daughter.
Clara was a year younger than George, very
pretty, with laughing blue eyes and curly hair.
Well, we young people soon came to know
one another, and Clara and I became great
friends. Of course there was no school in
summer-time; and so I often spent hours at
the hotel with my new chum, and Clara would
often return home with me and stay until it was
quite dark, when George would come to take
her back to the hotel.
Mrs. Norton was very kind, and gentle, and
dignified, and I remember how delighted I was
when she herself begged Henry to let me go
to them in the city for the Christmas holidays.
Of course Henry consented; and soon after
that the Nortons left Woodbarrow and school
began again. But no matter how busy the
days were, I found myself constantly looking
forward to that wonderful visit to town which
every day brought nearer. Clara and I cor-
responded regularly; and one day in the early
part of December I received a letter.

Here Grandmama paused and looked up.
"Minnie, my dear, just put your hand in the
pocket of the skirt; I think you will find the
letter there, and you may read it aloud."
Sure enough, there was the letter, yellow
and faded, but the. writing plain as could be.
"Dearest Anna," said the letter, "you must
surely be here by the 2oth. It is George's
birthday, you know, and mama feels so much
better that we have decided to give our usual
party. Mama will write to the doctor and beg
him to let you come. Already we have a
number of people staying here, and besides
the party we will have all sorts of things going
on. Now let me hear at once. Yours affec-
tionately, Clara." Grandmama went on.

Well, next day Henry received the letter
which I had expected from Mrs. Norton, ask-
ing him to let me come. I was wild with joy
and excitement. My little box was packed

and sent to the station and Henry's gig stood
before the door, and I was all ready in my best
winter frock and fur tippet and muff. Milly
came out to say good-by, and the sun was
shining brightly on the snow-covered trees and
making the icicles sparkle as if the garden fence
were hung with brilliant gems.
"Take good care of everything," I said to
Off we started, and just as we turned the
corner I took a last look at the little cottage
and waved my hand to Milly, who stood on
the porch holding her shawl about her head.
Ah! I little guessed with what a heavy heart I
should return, and how dreary this same scene
would look.
"Good-by, my dear little sister," said Henry
fondly, holding me close to him just for a mo-
ment after the shout of "All aboard! My
heart gave a sudden, painful throb. I was
leaving Henry for the first time! In my
thoughtlessness and selfishness, I had forgotten
everything in anticipation of my own gaiety and
pleasure, and now I remembered that I was
leaving my dear, gentle, hard-working Henry to
spend his Christmas alone.
Henry, dear," I cried, with a quick sense of
self-reproach, I 'm leaving you all alone and
you look so tired and thin I I 've been so
selfish, I had n't noticed it before. Oh, Henry !
I don't want to go "
"All aboard!" shouted the guard again.
"Let go, little girl," laughed Henry, and,
loosing my nervous clasp, he sprang from the
platform, and though I looked out of my window
and waved my handkerchief, I could n't see him
through the tears that filled my eyes.
But before long my natural gaiety triumphed,
and my heart was beating with happy excite-
ment as the train reached the great station. In
the crowd I could see both Clara and George.
Here she is cried Clara. Mama would
have come to meet you, but she is so busy;
there are no end of people at the house. Oh !
I 'm so glad to see you, dear!"
I must confess that in my ill-fitting gown
I felt a little dowdyish and countrified beside
Clara, who looked so stylish and elegant in her
rich velvet and costly furs.
"Welcome, my dear," said Mrs. Norton,



in her soft, gentle manner, meeting us in the
It was a large and beautiful house.
Come up, dear! cried Clara; "this way!
Your room is next to mine. Is n't that nice ?

.- 7--

stand unopened for a while, wishing Clara
would go away that I might unpack its plain
contents unobserved.
"Are n't you going to take out your things?"
asked Clara, innocently.

i j .

1 ,,' i t-

*-- fL'~~r;--l~

'' -c- 1

/`*" ~ ~ ~--~-- ----`----


And there is a door between, so we can talk as
late as ever we like."
Such a pretty, dainty room! Such warm, rich
curtains and soft rugs! Such a cosy rocker!
Such a dear, little dressing-table, and, best of all,
such a bright, glorious fire! Clara's room be-
yond was, to me, a perfect marvel of luxury.
Presently Harris, a colored servant, came up
with my trunk. I told him where to set it
down, and then, I am ashamed to say, I let it

Oh, what a miserable little coward I was!
There was nothing to be ashamed of. My
clothes were neat and in good order. Clara
knew that I was poor. I had not expected to
feel so.
"You see I have n't brought much," I said.
This was something very like a fib. If I had
not brought many things, I had at least brought
all I had.
Dear me! cried Clara, six o'clock! It



is time to dress for dinner. Do let your hair
hang in the way I like, dear. I have spoken
so much of you, and I want you to look your
Clara tripped into her room, leaving the door
open, and chatted gaily all the while; and, peep-
ing through, I could see a beautiful costume
spread out upon the snowy bed.
I had taken off my traveling-gown, and was
about to put on a house dress of gray cloth which
had seemed quite handsome at home.
Presently Clara appeared at the door arrayed
in the gorgeous gown I had seen lying on the
bed. It was a rich velvet of dark blue with wide
bands of lace at the wrists and neck. Clara
was very vain and very much spoiled, and I
really believe that she took some pleasure in
flaunting her riches.
Well, I put on my little, house gown, which
Henry had thought so pretty, and crept meekly
down the broad stairway beside my handsome
young hostess.
Dear me! How is this ? said Mrs. Nor-
ton, as we entered the drawing-room. There
was no mistaking her look of displeasure when
she glanced at Clara's gown.
How sweet you look, my dear," she said,
holding out her soft white hand to me. Then
she talked of Woodbarrow and Henry, and I
found myself becoming quite at ease, until one
after another the young people who were visit-
ing at the house strolled into the room, when I
began to feel very strange and insignificant, and
countrified, and homesick.
After dinner there was music, and Clara begged
me to sing.
"Oh, please don't ask me! I whispered.
"But I will ask you, and you must sing,"
cried Clara, gaily.
Mrs. Norton looked up smiling.
Indeed, I wish you would," she said kindly.
Don't you remember that little Scotch ballad
I liked so much last summer? "
So there was nothing for me to do but sing,
and, after all, my singing seemed to please them
very much. There was quite a murmur of ap-
plause when I left the piano, and my heart
bounded with pleasure. Presently I began to
creep out of my shell, and after a while I found
myself laughing and chatting as gaily as the rest.

Then somebody proposed a dance. Away
went tables and chairs; the waltz began, and
the room was filled with merry dancers. I was
as lively as any one, and danced so steadily that
by and by I grew dizzy and tired, and dropped
into a cozy window-seat, and felt quite proud
and grown-up, you may be sure, as my partner
stood before me, smiling, and complimenting
me, and fanning me.
Do please get me a glass of water," I asked,
gasping a little; and the courteous young man
went off to do my bidding, while I closed my
eyes and doubted if I were really the same girl
who, at this very hour the evening before, had
been wiping the dishes for Milly in the quiet
little kitchen at Woodbarrow. It was quite
dark in my corer, and I was lost in my thoughts
when I suddenly heard my own name. Some
people were talking quite close to me; only
the curtain which divided from the room the
inclosure made by the bow of the window was
between the speaker and myself.
"Oh, yes. Herron- that 's her name. A
pretty little thing, but very dowdy, don't you
think ? I recognized the voice of one of the
young ladies who had praised my singing.
She is very rustic," was the reply. I won-
der how the Nortons picked her up ? Did you
ever see such a fright of a gown in your life ? "
And then they laughed. I did n't hear
more; my heart was in my throat; I had a
wild desire to rush out of the house and fly
home to Henry and Milly. The young man
came back with the water, but I am afraid I
forgot to thank him.
As soon as I felt my face growing cooler, I
marched out boldly and went over to where
Mrs. Norton was sitting.
"Well, my dear Anna, what is it?" she
"Please," I said, trying hard to keep my
voice from trembling-" please, may I go up-
stairs? I I I have been dancing too
much, I am afraid."
Mrs. Norton said, Certainly," and bade me
"good-night very kindly.
I walked sedately out of the parlor, but flew
up the stairs like mad, and, after taking a long
and bitter view of myself in the mirror, threw
myself on the bed in a passion of weeping.


I was angry with myself for coming among
all these grand people; and, worse than that,
I was angry at Henry-dear, gentle, patient
He should have known better! I sobbed;
"he should have told me what to expect, and
then I would n't have come I would n't!
I would n't! "
The door opened suddenly and Clara rus-
tled in.
"Why, Anna, what is the matter?" she
"I 'm I 'm homesick!" I muttered, bury-
ing my head in the pillow.
Oh, I 'm so sorry," said Clara in her pretty,
airy way. Mama said you were ill, and so
I came up directly. But I knocked and
knocked, and I-suppose you did n't hear
me? "
No," I said sullenly, I have been goose
enough to cry."
"Well, I sha'n't go down again, anyway,"
declared Clara.
So Clara gave the fire a little poke, which
sent the flames leaping as if they had been
suddenly wakened from sleep; and she moved
about briskly, taking off the handsome gown
and chatting in a merry way as she arranged
her hair. I know she meant to be kind and
hoped to cheer me. Everything was so pretty,
and bright, and cozy; the fire crackled, and
Clara's laugh rang out, and I gradually felt
my bad humor melting under the pleasant
Do you know," exclaimed Clara, making a
pretty picture in the doorway, with her bright
hair falling in golden waves over her snowy
gown-" do you know you have made quite an
impression ? The Curtis girls and their brother
are quite wild about you. They have a box at
the opera for to-morrow evening and I prom-
ised that we would go with them, you and I."
Clara laughed. I knew you would like it, and
Mrs. Curtis is going, and they will call for us,
of course."
The opera! My heart bounded with delight.
But then in a moment I felt the blood surg-
ing up into my face again, and my heart gave
another leap which was very far from pleasant.
"But, Clara -" I began; then I stopped and

made a sudden determination. I had only one
evening gown. It was of some soft white ma-
terial, inexpensive, but fresh and pretty, and
Henry had given me a satin sash to wear with
it. Of course I had intended it for the coming
Now, I saw that I could not possibly go to
the opera in the frock I had on, so I suddenly
made up my mind to wear my party gown at
the opera, and then-well, then let the party
take care of itself! If the worst came to the
worst, and I really felt too much ashamed to
wear the same gown again, I could make an
excuse and go home. The party was ten days
off, anyway, and meanwhile I determined to
enjoy the opera.
The next day passed very pleasantly, and at
last it was time to dress for the opera.
Don't wait, Rosanna," said Clara to the
colored maid who had put her things in readi-
ness. "That will do, I can get on very well by
Rosanna left the room.
What are you going to wear ? asked Clara,
and I knew from the tone of the question that
she was curious.
." Oh, just a simple white thing, I think," I
replied with a grand air, as if I had dozens
of party frocks. The "simple white thing"
did look very pretty, and I took a few white
roses from the bouquet that Mrs. Norton had
given me and pinned them at the bodice.
When Clara came in she looked at me with
surprise and pleasure.
Oh, how sweet you do look! she exclaimed.
" Come, you must show yourself to mama."
I laughed merrily, and we both tripped away
to Mrs. Norton's room. She kissed me and told
me I looked as fresh and pretty as a little flower,
and then she threw a long, soft, warm, blue
cloak over my shoulders. I had forgotten all
about a cloak.
"There," said my kind friend pleasantly,
"this was to have been my Christmas present
to you, my dear, but I know what a vain little
creature you are, and wondered if you would n't
like it to wear to-night."
It was a very thoughtful gift, and made in
such a pretty, cordial way that I could not feel
any mortification. Presently we heard a car-


riage drive up, and Mrs. Curtis and her son
were announced.
My head was in a delightful whirl as Clara
and I rustled down the stairs. I seemed to
myself to be one of the heroines of the romantic
tales I was so fond of reading, and I drew my
beautiful cloak about me with a grand air.
When we arrived in the box we found that
the rest of the party (Mr. Curtis and his two
daughters) were awaiting us. I was very much
astonished to recognize in the younger daughter
the same young lady who had called my gown
"a fright" the night before.
"What will she say now I asked myself
proudly, giving my head a toss and carelessly
throwing off my cloak.
But presently I forgot all about myself. The
lights, and the music, and the flashing jewels
bewildered me. I had never been in such a
place before, and I could n't help catching at
Clara's arm convulsively and whispering, Oh,
Clara, is n't it magnificent ? though I foolishly
tried hard to look indifferent and as if I had
been used to such things all my life.
As I lay in bed that night, after we had taken
leave of our friends, I began to feel very uncom-
fortable. Now, nobody whose opinion was worth
caring for would have thought any the less of
me for wearing my little white gown again to
the party; but I was so foolish, and so vain, and
so afraid that the fine people would say I was
" dowdy" and "countrified," and that those
haughty Curtis girls would smile when they saw
that I had only one evening gown, and-oh, dear
me, no! I could n't think of wearing it again.
So I tossed about and gazed mournfully into
the fire- which had left off crackling, and had
sunk into a glowing stillness, as if it knew that
it was time for sleep.
"I '11 make an excuse and go home the day
after to-morrow," I finally resolved, and that
was the last thought I remember.

Here Grandmama had to stop for a while,
for the tea-bell rang; but after tea we gathered
about her again and she went on with the story :

Come, come, you lazy girl! cried a merry
voice, as I opened my eyes next morning.
Clara was standing near my bed fully dressed.

"Dear me!" I exclaimed, sitting up and
rubbing my eyes, "what time is it?"
Ever so late. Do jump up and hurry. You
know we are to go to the shops and the dress-
maker's this morning."
"My head aches," I said dolefully, as I crept
out of bed.
I did n't want to go to the shops or to the
dressmaker's. I knew that Clara was going to
try on her gown which was being made for the
party, and I felt miserable and cross, and wished
I had not come at all. But there was no get-
ting out of it; so, shortly after breakfast, Clara
and I went off in the carriage. Clara chatted
all the way, but I leaned my head against the
cushion and absently watched the falling snow
and the brisk, hurrying crowd of people.
Here we are," cried Clara, as the coachman
pulled up his horses near a very handsome
establishment, before which numbers of car-
riages were waiting.
"Ah, bon jour, bon jour, mesdemoiselles!" cried
a little black-eyed Frenchwoman, who stood
in the center of a room filled with girls busily
sewing and draping the lay figures that stood
Ze costume eez almost finish, mademoiselle,"
continued the little woman, and, ah, it is beau-
tiful-charmante!" Then she turned to one
of her assistants and told her to bring "ze blue
costume of mademoiselle."
"But, ah! she exclaimed, when the girl had
gone to do her bidding, "I am in such difficultee.
A young lady has just treat me mos' unjustlee.
Come, mademoiselle, and you also, mademoi-
selle," bowing to me, "I beg you will give me
your opinions. Is not zis costume beautiful,
also ? "
The queer little woman then removed a
white cloth covering one of the long poles on
which the gowns were exhibited, and there
was the pink gown!
Oh, that pink gown! There it was hanging
so gracefully, and the lace looked so fresh. Oh,
dear me, I must have been a vain and silly girl
in those days Clara and I both thought it
beautiful indeed.
"Ah," said the little Frenchwoman, "I knew
mademoiselle would like it. And, do you
know, ze young lady for whom ze costume was



made, she refuse it, because she inseest it is not
as directed. Zat also is not true, mademoiselle;
but I can do nothing, and I have all my trouble
and ze rich gown upon my hands for nothing.
You see it is so small! It will not fit every
one. Ah, mademoiselle!" she exclaimed, sud-
denly turning her keen bright eyes on me,
"you are petite, so very tiny," smiling at me,
"perhaps you would purchase ze costume,
mademoiselle ? Oh, indeed, I will sell it vairy,
vairy cheap!"
My cheeks began to tingle. I had no money,
excepting the few dollars which poor Henry
had found it difficult enough to give me, and
had put under my plate as a surprise, on the
morning when I left home.
Oh, Anna," cried Clara in raptures, how
lovely you would look in it!"
"The costume would be a great bargain,
mademoiselle, I assure you," continued the
dressmaker temptingly.
"But-but-you know, Clara-" I began
Indeed, I had not the least idea of being able
to buy the gown. How could I, with no money ?
But somehow I could n't say No at once
and firmly.
What are you going to wear for the party ?"
Clara asked in a whisper.
"I don't know," I said faintly; "I thought
perhaps I I would -"
Oh," she broke in, this would be so lovely!
It would make a sensation, and think how well
it would look beside my blue! If only you
could take it! "
I felt how foolish all this was, and suddenly
exclaimed rather sharply, Clara, you know
very well I cannot afford to take the gown;
I I have n't money enough with me."
But would n't your brother-" began Clara,
when the keen little Frenchwoman interrupted
Oh," she exclaimed, "if mademoiselle will
but take ze gown, ze bill it can wait. It is not
necessaire zat I inseest a friend of Mademoiselle
Norton, who is one of my best customers, to
pay immediately. I can send ze bill to ze
brother of ze young lady, later. Indeed, I
should be charmed to see mademoiselle in ze
beautiful costume."

I do not know what evil spirit crept into my
conscience and held it silent while I asked
"What is the price? "
"Ze price, mademoiselle ? said the sharp
little creature. Ah, I will give it to you at ze
great reduction, simply to get it off my hands.
Ze price was eighty dollar, but I give it to
mademoiselle for fifty! "
"Only fifty dollars for that lovely gown!"
cried Clara, turning to me.
I felt myself growing cold all over. Fifty
dollars! I had never even seen so much money
in my life! Oh, dear me! Where was my
vanity leading me?
I had a sudden vision of myself arrayed in
this dainty silk and lace. I trembled with plea-
sure as I imagined the astonished glance of the
Curtis girls, who had called me a dowdy" and
said I was "rustic." And then--and then
perhaps my godmother would send me a pres-
ent of money, as she had done last year at
Christmas; besides, I had been so very eco-
nomical for a long time, and I deserved a little
something, and and I would be still more
saving, and I would make it up to Henry; I
would n't ask for anything new for a year, no,
not even a pair of shoes, and, and -
"Will mademoiselle take ze gown, and such
a bargain ?"
I looked at Clara weakly for a moment and
then stammered:
"Y-e-s,--I-I think I will take it."
Clara was delighted.
Ah, zat is right!" exclaimed the dress-
maker; "and now we must try it on, perhaps
some slight alteration is necessaire."
I stood meekly while the Frenchwoman and
her assistant put the gown upon me. I had
taken it, I could not retreat now, and I was
very much frightened.
Lovely, lovely cried Clara.
They all admired me, and indeed the dress
fitted me perfectly. I began to grow braver as
I looked at myself in the long mirror and drank
in the praises .of my admirers.
Clara's dress was then brought in, and I was
delighted that mine was quite as handsome.
"As to ze bill," said the dressmaker who had
so skilfully disposed of the gown, "if you will



give me ze address of your brother, made-
moiselle, I will send it, say--in a month from
now? "
A month would do, I thought. I would
have plenty of time to confess all about it to
Henry, and also to begin the economy which
was to atone for my present extravagance. So
I gave her Henry's name and address; and
Clara and I drove off in high spirits, after it had




been decided that the bill was not to be sent to
Woodbarrow until a month from the day I
bought it.
Next day our gowns came home; and from
that moment until the night of the party I was
wildly happy and dreadfully miserable by turns.
Whenever I got a letter from Henry, I felt, oh!
so guilty. And Milly wrote to me too, and told
me how they missed me at home, and how
Henry tried to be cheerful when he came in
tired at night, with no little sister to meet him."

At last the long looked for night came. The
guests were arriving, and Clara and I took our
places beside Mrs. Norton. They had all told
me how beautiful my gown was, and my foolish
little head was completely turned by all the
compliments I had received.
You are lovelier than any one here," whis-
pered Clara. "Just see how astonished Julia
Curtis is! I suppose that she thinks country
girls can't get
themselves up
in city fashion "
Ah, well, I
I have no mind to
Stalk much about
I the party. The
S' I'i' night passed very
I|II ,I pleasantly; and
S'i when Clara and
I' I crept wearily to
Si1I' bed, after the
Igay music ended,
t' and the crowds
Were dispersed,
and the lights
burned dim, my
i. spears still rang
with flattering
things that had
been spoken into
them. But when
I had put out the
light and thrown
aside my gor-
geous robe, and
pulled up the
shade to look at
ELF IN THE LONG MIRROR. the quiet street,
and watch the
soft moonlight shining so peacefully on the
snow, I suddenly felt a great lump come into
my throat, and hot tears began to drip, drip,
slowly down my cheeks, as I thought of Henry,
perhaps at this moment sitting patiently over
his books alone in his little office; and of
the quiet kitchen which Milly always left in
perfect order when she went to bed; and of
the great old clock ticking solemnly away on
the mantel, and of pussy purring contentedly
or sleeping heavily on the hearth. Oh I



did feel so ashamed and unworthy, and I
wanted to go home and beg forgiveness.

The whistle sounded shrilly, the train pulled
into the little station, and there stood Henry,
waiting on the platform with a happy, eager
look in his kind eyes.
Welcome home, little sister," he cried.
But come, what 's the matter ?"
I was crying like a baby.
"Oh, Henry, I 'm-I 'm so glad to get
home! Don't, don't ever let me go away from
you again! Please, please, never again! "
Henry smiled and helped me into the gig.
It was a cold, gloomy day, and my heart was
heavy as we went through the familiar streets
and passed the well-known houses. Milly
stood on the veranda to welcome me, and old
Rover gave a great howl of pleasure and
almost knocked me down in the joy of his
Nothing was changed in the little house. It
almost seemed as if I had not been away; but
somehow I, myself, seemed different.
I disliked to open my trunk when it was
brought up to my room. I never wished to see
the hateful pink gown again, and yet the bill
was coming, and I must tell Henry all about it.
"But not quite yet," I said to myself; "I
won't spoil my first days at home. There are
two weeks left before the bill comes, and I shall
have plenty of time."
So, after supper that night, I found myself sit-
ting in my rocker with my work-basket in my
lap, and Henry was putting some papers in
order. It was all so peaceful and happy.
If I could only put the recollection of that
dreadful bill out of my head for a little while !
But I could n't, I could n't!
Well, little girl," said Henry, neatly folding
the papers, I 'm glad to see you home again.
I would n't write you how I missed you. I
wanted you to enjoy yourself. But now I
confess that even home was a dreary place
without my little sunbeam."
I looked up quickly and gave his hand a pat.
"I did want to send you your Christmas
present, dear; but I was afraid my poor little
gift would look queer among all the fine pres-
ents I knew you would receive."

Henry I exclaimed reproachfully.
"Oh, I knew," he laughed-"I knew you
would n't be ashamed of it; but, after all, I
thought it would be pleasanter to hand it to you
myself, when you came home, with my love and
blessing." Henry had risen and come over near
me, and now he handed me a pretty box. Inside
were a dozen pairs of warm, knitted stockings,
a dozen dainty handkerchiefs, and two pairs of
kid gloves.
"You see, little girl," he said gently, "it 's
been a rather hard winter. Things have been
going wrong, and I have had no end of worries
to pull through. That's why, dear, I could n't
send you something pretty, and had to get these
everyday things that are necessary. But some
day my sister shall have the prettiest laces and
ribbons to be bought in the village "
I felt the tears coming, and could n't look up
until Henry had gone back to his work.
Then I took a long look at him. I saw that
he was pale and seemed overworked, and his
coat was very, very shiny and his shoes had
been carefully patched,-and then suddenly I
realized how good he was and how wicked I
had been; how he always denied himself that
I might have all that I needed; and how un-
grateful I had been in adding another burden
to his already heavily laden shoulders, simply
because of my miserable vanity.
I thanked him humbly for the presents, and
crept up to bed. I was very unhappy, and
sobbed myself to sleep.
All this time the pink gown lay in my trunk.
I would not have let Milly see it for anything
in the world.
So the days passed, and every day the coming
of the bill approached, and still I could not
bring myself to speak.
One day something happened which terrified
me, and which made my confession harder than
ever. It was at breakfast, when Milly came in
with a letter for Henry. I had made up my
mind to speak that morning, and was making a
great effort to get my courage up, when Milly
handed him the letter.
He opened it quickly, and suddenly a flush
covered his face, and he put his hand up to his
head as if he felt some pain.
"What is it, Henry ? I cried in fear.



Nothing, nothing, my child," he said heav-
ily,-" at least nothing that I need trouble you
In a moment I was at his side, and begging
him to tell me what the letter contained. He
took my face between his hands and looked
at me earnestly.
"I 'm in trouble, little one," he said. "You
see I have a bill to meet next week, and I was
depending upon a certain amount which is ow-
ing to me to pay it. Well, the man who owes
the money writes that it is impossible to pay just
now. That 's all, little girl. It rather upset
me at first, but I '11 see what else can be done."
I trembled from head to foot, and as soon as
I could I rushed away to my room.
What could I do? What could I say? Oh,
if I had only made a clean breast of it at first!
Now, it was so much harder.
Six days, seven days passed; and still I had
not spoken. I was too much of a coward. I
could not confess.
Henry worked night and day, and I knew
he was greatly troubled. Oh, what miserable,
wretched days they were! At last came the
last day before the bill was to arrive. I was
in a perfect fever of fear and despair. I sat up
in my room after coming home from school and
said I was ill,- which was the truth, indeed,-
and at last I resolved to speak to Henry the
moment he returned, and to tell him everything.
I waited for hours, and it began to get dark.
At last I heard Henry's familiar step crunching
the snow. I bathed my face and smoothed my
hair, and made a great effort to seem calm as I
went down the stairs.
It was quite late. Henry was leaning on the
mantel looking into the fire, with troubled eyes,
and he had not lighted the lamp. He turned as
I opened the door.
"Oh, here you are!" he said pleasantly,
"I 've got-" then he felt in his coat-pocket,
"I was just going to-" but before he could
say more, I clasped his hands in mine, and was
sobbing as if my heart would break.
No, no, don't speak to me I cried wildly.
Let me hide my face here and tell you every-
thing. I don't ask forgiveness; I can't ask it.
I only want to confess."

And then with tears and choking sobs I told
him all about the pink gown, and my vanity
and deceit, and the bill that was coming the
next day.
There was a long pause after I had finished
my story, broken only by my own sobs and the
solemn ticking of the kitchen clock, which we
could hear plainly. Henry stood quietly, still
looking into the fire, and I waited, penitent and
miserable, not daring to raise my eyes.
Presently, without a word, he went over to
the table and lighted the lamp. Then he said,
very gently: "Here is a letter for you, Anna;
I got it this evening at the post-office."
Trembling, I rose and took the letter. My
eyes were blinded with tears, and my hands
were shaking. I was about to put the letter
aside,- I did not care from whom it might be,-
when Henry's quiet voice again said, Why
not open your letter, Anna? "
My hands still trembling, I broke the seal. I
pulled out a folded letter, and a bit of paper,
which was inclosed, fell to the floor. I stooped
and picked it up, and the light of the lamp fell
upon it.
It was a check for one hundred dollars!
"Henry!" I gasped. I could n't believe
my eyes; I was afraid I was dreaming.
Again Henry spoke, Read the letter, dear."
I looked at him; I saw that he knew what it
"Yes," he said, answering my look, "it 's
from your godmother. She wrote me also by
the same mail, and said she had sent it."
"Little one, you have been punished enough,"
he said, smiling fondly at me. With a sob, I
knelt beside him, and he smoothed my hair
lovingly till I was comforted.
"My dear Anna," ran godmother's letter,
"from all reports, I understand that you have
been conducting yourself in a very proper and
praiseworthy manner during the past year.
Henry informs me that you are diligent, eco-
nomical, and not at all frivolous." (Here Grand-
mama winced a little.) Accept the enclosed
with my blessing. Your affectionate

And that 's the story of the pink gown.



ON CARLOS," said
Vitorino, throwing an-
other log upon the fire,
/j l* which caught his tall
S shadow and twisted it
and set it to dancing
/ against the rocky walls
,'K- of the canion in which
we were camped for the
night, "did you ever
hear why the wolf and
the deer are enemies ? And as he spoke he
stretched out near me, looking up into my face
to see if I were going to be interested.
A few years ago it would have frightened me
very seriously to find myself thus, alone in one
of the remotest corners of New Mexico save
for that swarthy face peering up into mine by
the weird light of the camp-fire. A stern, quiet
but manly face it seems to me now; but once
I would have thought it a very savage one, with
its frame of jet-black hair, its piercing eyes, and
the broad streak of red paint across its cheeks.
By this time, however, having lived long among
the kindly Pueblos of the Southwest, I had
shaken off that strange, ignorant prejudice
against all that is unknown, which seems to
be inborn in each of us, and wondered that I
could ever have believed in that brutal maxim,
worthy only of worse than savages, that A

good Indian is a dead Indian." For Indians
are men, after all, and astonishingly like the
rest of us when one comes really to know them.
I pricked up my ears, very glad at his hint
of another of these folk-stories.
No," I answered. "I have noticed that
the wolf and the deer are not on good terms,
but never knew the reason."
"Si, senior said he, for Vitorino knows no
English, and most of our talk was in Spanish,
which still is easier to me than the Tee-wahn
language, "that was very long ago, and now
all is changed. But once the wolf and the deer
were like brothers; and it is only because the
wolf did very wickedly that they are enemies.
Con su licencia, se/or. (With your permission,
sir.) "
Bueno; anda (All right; go ahead!) "
So Vitorino leaned his shoulders against a
convenient rock and began.

Once upon a time, when the wolf and the
deer were friends, there were two neighbors in
the country beyond the Puerco river, not far
from where the Indian town of Laguna now
is. One was a Deer-mother who had two fawns,
and the other a Wolf-mother with two cubs.
They had very good houses of adobe, just such
as we live in now, and lived like real people in
every way. The two were great friends, and


neither thought of going to the mountain for
fire-wood or to dig amol [the root of the
palmilla, generally used for soap throughout
the Southwest] without calling for the other to
accompany her.
One day the Wolf came to the house of the
Deer and said:
Friend Pe6-hlee-oh (Deer-woman), let us
go to-day for wood and amole, for I must wash
It is well, friend KAhr-hlee-oh," replied the
Deer. I have nothing to do, and there is
food in the house for the children while I am
gone. Too-kwai (Let us go!)"
So they went together across the plain and into
the hills till they came to their customary spot.
They gathered wood and tied it in bundles to
bring home on their backs, and dug amole,
which they put in their shawls to carry. Then
the Wolf sat down under a cedar-tree and
"Ay! But I am tired! Sit down, friend
Deer-woman, and lay your head in my lap,
that we may rest."
No, I am not tired," replied the Deer.
But just to rest a little," urged the Wolf.
The Deer good-naturedly lay down with her
head in the lap of her friend. But soon the
Wolf bent down and caught the trusting Deer
by the throat, and killed her. That was the
first time in the world that any one betrayed
a friend, and from that deed comes all the
treachery that is.
The false Wolf took off the hide of the Deer,
and cut off some of the meat and carried it
home on her load of amole and wood. She
stopped at the house of the Deer, and gave the
Fawns some of the meat, saying:
"Friends Deer-babies, eat. Your mother
will not come to-night."
The Fawns were very hungry, and as soon as
the Wolf had gone home they built a big fire in
the fireplace, meaning to cook their supper. But
at that moment one of them heard a voice.
" Look out, look out! the Wolf has slain your
He was greatly frightened, and called his
brother to listen, and again the same words
were heard.
"The wicked old Wolf has killed our nana!

(mama!)" they cried, and, pulling the meat from
the fire, they laid it gently away and sobbed
themselves to sleep.
Next morning the Wolf went away to the
mountain to bring the rest of the deer-meat;
and when she was gone her Cubs came over to
play with the Fawns, as they were used to doing.
When they had played awhile, the Cubs said:
Pee-oo-wZ'e-deh (little Deer), why are you so
prettily spotted, and why do you have your
eyelids red, while we are so ugly?"
Oh," said the Fawns, that is because when
we were little, like you, our mother put us in
a room and smoked us, and made us spotted."
Oh, Fawn-friends, can't you spot us, too, so
that we may be pretty ? "
So the Fawns, anxious to avenge the death
of their mother, built a big fire of corn-cobs in
the fireplace, and threw coyote-grass on it to
make a great smoke. Then, shutting the Cubs
into the room, they plastered up the door and
windows with mud, and laid a flat rock on top
of the chimney and sealed it around with mud;
and, climbing down from the roof, they ran
away to the south as fast as ever they could.
After they had gone a long way, they came
to a Coyote. He was walking back and forth
with one paw up to his face, howling dreadfully
with the toothache. The Fawns said to him
very politely:
"Ah-boo! (poor thing!) Old man, we are
sorry your tooth hurts. But an old Wolf is
chasing us, and we cannot stay. If she comes
this way, asking about us, do not tell her, will
you ? "
Een-dah (no). Little Deer-friends, I will
not tell her "-and he began to howl again
with pain, while the Fawns ran on.
When the Wolf came to her home with the
rest of the meat, the Cubs were not there;
and she went over to the house of the Deer. It
was all sealed and still; and when she pushed
in the door, there were her Cubs dead in the
smoke! When she saw that, the old Wolf was
wild with rage, and vowed to follow the Fawns
and eat them without mercy. She soon found
their tracks leading away to the south, and
began to run very swiftly in pursuit.
In a little while she came to the Coyote, who
was still walking up and down, howling so that


one could hear him a mile away. But not
pitying his pain, she turned and snarled at
him roughly:
"Say, old man! have you seen two Fawns
running away?"

-4,r; ( '-

The Coyote paid no attention to her, but kept
walking with his hand to his mouth, groaning,
"Mm-m-pdh! / Mm-m-pdk /"
Again she asked him the same question, more
snappishly, but he only howled and groaned.
Then she was very angry, and showed her big
teeth as she said:
"I don't care about your m-m-fdh / m-m-
fd1 !'/ Tell me if you saw those Fawns, or I '11
eat you this very now "
Fawns? Fawns ? groaned the Coyote-" I
have been wandering with the toothache ever
since the world began.* And do you think
I have had nothing to do but to watch for
fawns? Go along! and don't bother me."
So the Wolf, who was growing angrier all
the time, went hunting around till she found

the trail, and went running on it.as fast as she
could go.
By this time the Fawns had come to where
two Indian boys were playing k'wah-t'im
[a kind of walking target-shoot] with their bows
and arrows, and said to them:
Friends boys, if an old Wolf comes along and
asks if you have seen us, don't tell her, will you ? "
The boys promised that they would not, and
the Fawns hurried on. But the Wolf could run
much faster, and soon she came to the boys, to
whom she cried gruffly:
"You boys! Did you see two Fawns run-
ning this way ? "
But the boys paid no attention to her, and
went on playing their game and disputing.
My arrow 's nearest! No, mine is! "
'T is n't! Mine is! She repeated her ques-
tion again and again, but got no answer till she
cried in a rage:
You little rascals! Answer me about those
Fawns, or I '11 eat you "
At that the boys turned around and said:
We have been here all day, playing k'wah-
t'/im, and not hunting Fawns. Go on, and do
not disturb us."
So the Wolf lost much time with her ques-
tions and with finding the trail again; but then
she began to run harder than ever.
In the mean time the Fawns had come to
the bank of the Rio Grande, and there was
P'ah-ckah-kldo-Ili (the Beaver), hard at work
cutting down a tree with his big teeth. And
they said to him very politely:
"Friend Old-Crosser-of-the-Water, will you
please pass us over the river ? "
The Beaver took them on his back and car-
ried them safely across to the other bank.
When they had thanked him, they asked him
not to tell the old Wolf about them. He prom-
ised he would not, and swam back to his work.
The Fawns ran and ran, across the plain, till
they came to a big black hill of lava that
stands alone in the valley southeast of Tome.
Here! said one of the Fawns; I am sure
this must be the place our mother told us about,
where the Trues (gods) of our people live. Let
us look."
And when they came to the top of the hill,

* There is a very quaint folk-story- which I hope to tell you sometime -explaining why the coyote howls so much.


they found a trap-door in the solid rock. When
they knocked, the door was opened and a voice
called, "Enter! They went down the ladder
into a great room under ground; and there
they found all the Trues of the Deer-people,
who welcomed them and gave them food.
When they had told their story, the Trues
said :
"Fear not, friends, for we will take care of
And the War Captain picked out fifty strong
young bucks for a guard.
By this time the Wolf had come to the river,
and there she found the Beaver hard at work,
and grunting as he cut the tree.
Old man! she snarled, "did you see two
Fawns here ?"
But the Beaver did not notice her, and kept
on walking around the tree, cutting it and
grunting Ah-od-mah / Ah-oad-ma "
She was in a terrible rage
now, and roared:


rt ,I

"I am
not talking 'a/i-
od-maih!' to you. I'm
asking if you saw two Fawns." THE WOLF MEE
Well," said the Beaver, I have THEIR
been cutting trees here by the river ever since
I was born, and I have no time to think about
The Wolf, crazy with rage, ran up and down
the bank, and at last came back and said:
Old man, if you will carry me over the river
I will pay you; but if you don't I '11 eat you up."

"Well, wait then till I cut around the tree
three times more," said the Beaver; and he
made her wait. Then he jumped down in the
water and took her on his neck, and began to
swim across. But as soon as he came where the
water was deep, he dived to the bottom and
stayed there as long as he could.
"Ah-h-h sputtered the Wolf when he came
to the surface. As soon as the Beaver got a
breath, down he went again; and so he kept
doing all the way across, until the Wolf was
nearly drowned-but she clung to his neck
desperately, and he could not shake her off.
When they came to the shore the old Wolf
was choking, coughing, and crying, and so mad
that she would not pay the Beaver as she had
promised and from that day to this the
Beaver will never ferry a wolf across the river.

she found the
TS THE BOYS PLAYING WITH trail, and came run-
BOWS AND ARROWS ing to the hill. When
she knocked on the trap-door a voice from
within called, "Who ? "
Wolf-woman," she answered as politely as
she could, restraining her anger.
Come down," said the voice, and hearing
her name the fifty young Deer-warriors who
had carefully whetted their horns stood ready.


The door flew open, and she started down the
ladder. But as soon as she set her foot on
the first rung, all the Deer-people shouted:
Look what feet! [For, though the deer is
so much larger than the wolf, it has smaller
At this she was very much ashamed, and
pulled back her foot; but soon her anger was
stronger, and she started down again. But


Ho! thought the Wolf. That is easy
enough, for I will be very careful." And aloud
she said: It is well. Let us eat."
So a big bowl of soup was brought, and each
took a guayave,* and shaped it like a spoon to
dip up the soup. The old Wolf was very care-
ful, and had almost finished her soup without
spilling a drop. But just as she was lifting the
last sup to her mouth the Fawns appeared sud-

!P. '


each time the Deer-people laughed and shouted,
and she drew back.
At last they were quiet, and she came down
the ladder. When she had told her story the
old men of the Deer-people said:
"This is a serious case, and we must not
judge it lightly. Come, we will make an
agreement. Let soup be brought, and we will
eat together. And if you eat all your soup
without spilling a drop, you shall have the

denly in the door of the next room, and at sight
of them she dropped the spoonful of soup.
She has lost! shouted all the Deer-people,
and the fifty chosen warriors rushed upon her
and tore her to pieces with their sharp horns.
That was the end of the treacherous Wolf;
and from that day the Wolf and the Deer have
been enemies, and the Wolf is a little afraid
of the Deer.
And the two Fawns ? Oh, they still live with
the Deer-people in that black hill below Tom6.

*An Indian bread made by spreading successive films of blue corn-meal batter on a flat hot stone. It looks more like a piece
of wasp's nest than anything else, but is very good to eat.


-- -



In wwhych y olde-tyme ONCE onne a tyme there bin a knight,
ht.ayle y" begunne. Was called Sir Dominoes
Johannes Houven-Gouven-Schnouvers
San Domingo Mose-
e name A warrior hee of noble blood
yle goeth As e'er found funne in fyghte.
Oh, when hee putte hys armoure on
Hee was a fearsome sighte!
Bounde round with strappes,
and stripes, and stryngs,
With thingumbobbes and pegs,
eemeth With stove-liddes buckled on hys breast,
e on And stove-pypes on hys legs,
/ An ironne potte upon hys headde,
A brazen horne toe toote,
A sworde stucke uppe hys burlie back,
A razor down hys boote.
Ithie, Hee owned great castles, landes, and menne,
And gallant shyppes, and steedes,
And twice as manie goldenne coinnes
As aniebodie needs.
hys Y" knight hee loved a farmer's lass:
ew- Alas! Shee loved notte hym;
But doted on a yeo-manne bolde,
By name Sam-u-el Slimme,
Who ploughed, and sowed, and reaped,
and binned,
'resse Who stanchlie tilled ye dirte,
note And wore a look of honestie,
Likewise a flannel shirte.

Y' reste of y
omytted, ye ta

Y' knighte s
a junk-shopp
legs, forsooth

Hee was wea
hee was.

Hee carries
coales toe A

is neate butte

VOL. XIX. -14.

- ----- <


Stronge was hys arme; warme was hys
Colde was hys common-sense;
Hee was noe mil- Butte, otherwise, poore Sam-u-el
lionaire, note hee. Hadde notte a dozen pence.
Yet Albacinda scoffed and scorned
Y' high and haughtie knight:
She did notte like hys ironne clothes,
Nor care to see hym fyghte.
Hys castle was too olde and darke;
She scorned hys golde as welle-
A wilfulle woman Her father on Sir Mose dyd smyle:
will have her waye. She clung to Sam-u-el.


y birdes syngen and One morynge in ye month of Maye,
Sprynge come in. Amidst ye growing graine,
Y"e rivalle lovers met, eftsoon,
I A-comynge down ye lane.

Y' knight speaketh

Y" dogges of warre
are sycked onne.

Sam-u-el saveth
hys baconne.

Y' knight doeth
a grande circusse

"Give waye, vile caitiff!" cryed Sir Mose,
"And lette me journey on;
Or I will strewe thy fragments uppe
And down y' horizonne!"
Then bolde Sir Mose hee drewe hys sworde,
Felte once its rustie edge,
And slashed a slash at Sam-u-el
That mowed tenne yards of hedge.
I' faithe! It was a vicious blowe
And whystled in ye aire!
Butte when it reached brave Sam-u-el,
Sam-u-el was notte there.
Soe fierce and fearfulle was y' stroke
Sir What 's-hys-name arose,
Turned three successyve summersaultes,
And landed on hys nose.



141 ASO


A warnynge againstt
full-dresse suits.

A painfulle tailor-

Itpleaseth Sam-
u-el toe bee sar-

Y" knight howleth.

And threateneth
paine toe Sam-u-el.

Perchance a bon-
fyre later.

Being ye nighte-lyme,
when honest folke
are safe abedde.

Hys stove-plates drove hym in y" mudde
Sixe inches by y" falle:
ye knight, soe weightilie got uppe,
Coulde notte gette uppe atte alle.
Sam-u-el did notte haste awaye,
For hee hadde cutte a sticke
Four tymes as long as hys right arme,
And e'en a'moste as thicke;
Then, though ye knight was well dressed uppe,
Y farmer dressed hym down,
He made ye knight soe black and blue
Hee was quite done uppe browne.
"Ye picked thys bedde," quoth Sam-u-el,
Methinkes I '11 lette thee lie:
Thy lying once will bee grimme truthe.
Sweet dreams, faire Sir! Goode-by! "
Ye knight, soe sorelie taken in,
Woulde fain bee taken oute;
"I stycke at thys!" in wrathe hee cryed,
And loude for helpe dyd shouted.
And eke hee sware a mightie vow,
Greate fishynge-hookes, Y' bette,
By my beste Sunday garter-stryngs,
I '11 beate ye plough-manne yette! "
Hys haire it stoode strayghte uppe for rage;
Hys lippes were whyte with foame;
Hee sware toe goe that night and burne
Sam-u-el's humble home.


Above ye deepe and danksome delle
Beneathe ye gloomye woode,


ye wynde it howled a dismalle strain,
ye knight hee howled for blood;
-- "n

It growth interest-
ynge for Sir Mose.

Ye knight moveth
hys bootes.

Hee hath a pressynge
engagement else-

Hee taketh Excel-
sior" for hys
nottoe and clymbeth

Introducynge Sam-
u-el and hys
ironnie again.

But as hee stole along, a bulle
Espied ye lanterne dimme,
And whyles hee hunted Sam-u-el,
Y bulle it hunted hym!
When it flewe in, ye light flewe oute;
Y" knight flewe, with a crye;
Hys coat-tayles they flewe oute beehynde;
Hys legges how they dyd flye!
Ye stove-pypes flewe; ye stove-liddes too;
Hys weaponnes wente toe potte;

Sir Mose arose upon hys toes:
Hee just gotte uppe and gotte!
With those great homes, three cloth-yardes long,
A whystlynge in ye wynde,
Soe on yo knight spedde, like some curre
With a tinne canne beehynde.
For e'en a'moste twoe myles hee fledde;
Nigh tuckered oute was hee,
When oute of danger's waye hee clomb,
Into an apple-tree,
Whereon hee hunge a-shiverynge
And shriekynge atte ye beaste,
Till Sam-u-el came oute toe work,
When daye dawned in ye easte.
Forsooth, Sam-u-el's rage waxed hotte;
Then loude hee 'gan toe laugh:



Y" knight meeteth
with a fearsome
mishappe, and
I flyeth high.

" Hudd;
Sa m-u-e


"Toe judge by thy companion, Sir,
Thou art a bawlynge calfe -
For menne are known, I trow, Sir, by
Ye companies they keepe -
Thoughe onlie chickens rooste in trees
Whyles honest people sleepe! "
Sir Mose yelled fiercelie; butte, quite weake
From hangynge alle ye night,
Hee felle upon ye bulle, which tossed
Hym clean uppe oute of syghte !


p!"/ cryeth Then uppe gat bolde young Sam-u-el
l/. And galloped down y" lane,
Unto hys true-love's windowe-ledge,
And tapped upon ye pane:
zi Sam-u-el Come forthe, sweete-hearte; my love thou art!
boldlie. Come forthe and hie awaye!
Thou 'lt married bee, deare girle, toe mee
Before high noone thys daye.
Sweete Albacinda, flye with mee,
And rule these vaste concerns,
Helde safe in trustee for bolde Sir Mose!

Thys is a joke.

(If ever hee returns !)"

They proceede toe Now gallop, gallop, gallant horse!
flye. Now gallop with thy prize!


Maud S., please take
notyce hereabouts !


And hurle ye claye in chunkes awaye
As bigge as apple-pies!
Flye down ye roade, around ye hille,
Uppe toe y' castle doore;
Across y" tremblynge drawbrydge flye

Ahl I

Ye friar comet

Y, bells turne some

-If hee knowetlh
upon whyck side
hys bread is but-

Uppe toe ye banquette floor!
Quicke, calle ye gray-haired friar in
From oute hys gloomie celle,
Toe tie these twoe young true-loves tighte!
Ryng oute, ye marriage bell!
Ryng "jingle-jangle jangle jing!"
Ryng "fol-de-riddle-laye "
Bolde Sam-u-el has wonne hys bryde
For ever and a daye!
Goe, bidde ye foolish father
Toe forgette hys angrie pride,
Accepte hys new-made son-in-lawe,
And blesse ye bonnie bryde.

Jack Bennett.



-: -- i
7ZtSC.- 7' *la &S 'r::ir;~ Nt


/ A.

--~ _~eS;

....^^ ": *Y *.


WITH the people, the houses, the tea-pots, the
chickens, and so many things on so small a
scale in Japan, there is all the greater sur-
prise when one finds anything there which has
attained an unusual or gigantic size. The
coarse white radish, daikon, from six to ten
feet in length, strikes one as a vegetable
joke in that land of Lilliput. The giant in one
fairy story uses a daikon for a club, and the
street-peddlers lean their daikons up against the
side of a house as if they were whips or fish-
poles. One might very naturally inquire the
price of daikon by the yard, when he goes to
The daikon matches in its giant size the
famous crabs found off Enoshima, an island
lying some thirty miles below Yokohama.
At low tide Enoshima is a rocky peninsula

joined to the land by a long sandy bar.
At high tide the water covers this sandy
strip, and in time of heavy storms also the
far-reaching waves make it an island and sur-
round it with foam. Enoshima is covered with
groves and ancient temples, and there is even a
temple in a cave far in under the island, which
one can enter only at low tide. Tea-houses
and pretty summer villas peep from the dense
groves; and while pilgrims resort there to pray,
other people go to enjoy fish dinners and to
buy all the curious shells, sponges, corals, sea-
weeds, and pretty trifles that can be made of
shells and fish-scales.
The only unwelcome visitor to this beautiful
beach is the giant crab, whose shell is about
as large as that of the green-turtle, whose eyes
project and wink, and roll horribly, while each

- '


of its claws measures five to six feet in length.
The ordinary visitor does not meet this crab
walking up the beach in the daylight. Heavy
storms sometimes sweep them in from the deep
waters where they live, and the fishermen hunt

them on the reefs off-
shore, or to their sur-
prise bring them up in
their nets. The weight
of the crab and the
thrashing of his claws
generally ruin the fish-
erman's net, and he is

an unpleasant fellow-traveler in a sn. I -
boat. Such a crab in the middle c -
boat twelve feet long could re:i.-! A
out to both ends of it and nip tl,:
men at bow and stern; and his reach,
measured sidewise, in the real crab-
fashion, is sometimes over twelve feet.
The fishermen used to consider it bad
luck to haul up one of these crabs in
a net. They would make quick work
of throwing the crab back into the water, and
afterward beg in the cave shrine of Benten
Sama that the gods should not plague them
with any more such luck. In this modern and
money-making day, the fishermen have learned

- !.

that one big crab is worth more than a whole
netful of common fish. Every perfect crab
landed can be sold for five dollars or more, and
in time each travels to a foreign country and
becomes the gem in some museum's collection
of shell-fish.
The fisher-folk along this far
Pacific strand tell some stories
that make a bather find this
crab as dreadful as the cuttle-
fish, which also inhabits these
waters. They claim that the
big crab will fight fiercely when
attacked, and will, without rea-
son, nip at any moving thing.
SThen, too, they say that its
eyes give out light and glow
like balls of fire in the dark.
Some revelers coming home
very late from the tea-houses
of the neighboring village of
Katase have been frightened
sober by seeing the beach full
of these red-eyed crawling mon-
sters, who cracked their claws
in the air and rattled their bodies
over the stones as they gave
chase. In Japanese fairy stories,
these crabs have run away with
bad little boys and girls, haunted
wicked person's dreams, and
/ f taken other part in human
affairs. The Enoshima
crabs were brought into
-'~ 7 modern English fiction by
SRider Haggard, in his
story, Allan Quater-
--i main." In that book, the
heroes came out from an
Underground fire-chamber
and floated along a deep
Sand narrow cation. When
/' they stopped to rest and
THE GIANT CRAB. eat, an army of crabs
came up at the smell of
food, and rolled their eyes and cracked their
claws, until they frightened the heroes away.
Mr. Haggard says in a foot-note that he
had read of these crabs in some book of travel,
and borrowed them for this cation scene to




make Allan Quatermain's adventures the more
One Enoshima story tells of a great feast of
sweet potatoes the monkeys had planned by the
sea-shore. When the potatoes were cooked the
crabs smelled them, and came in from the sea
and drove the monkeys away. The monkeys
ran up the chestnut-trees and pelted the crabs
with the burrs, but the crabs never felt any
prickles through their thick shells, and continued
to eat. Then the monkeys made a chain of
themselves by hanging on to one another from
the branches overhead, and tried to snatch the


potatoes away. They cap-
tured a few, and had a great
chattering about it, until the
crabs found out the reason
for the loss of their sweet
potatoes. The next time
the chain of monkeys let
down a little ape, a big crab
reached out and caught him.
There are many other
stories and fables, which tell
of the constant warfare be-


I( i.rk

tween monkeys and crabs,E CRAB WITH A
and Japanese artists draw comical pictures to
illustrate them.
Another curious Japanese crab is the little
Dorippe, which comes from the Inland Sea of
Japan, and has a perfect human face modeled
on the back of his little inch-long shell.
The Dorippe's eyes, and the uneven edge

of the shell between them, look like tufts of
hair at the top of a narrow forehead. There
are lumps resembling eyelids, which slant up-
ward as do those of the Japanese, and other
parts of the shell look like full and high cheek-
bones. Below a ridge which might be called
the nose two claws spread out at either side,
and may be likened to the fierce, bristling mus-
taches which are fastened to the helmet of
Japanese armor. This plainly marked face on
the crab's shell naturally gave rise to many
stories and legends. At one place in the Inland
Sea, centuries ago, an army of the Taira clan
was overtaken and
driven into the sea by
their enemies. At
certain times of the
year the Dorippes
'come up on the beach
and the rocks by
Thousands. Then the
fishermen and vil-
./' "/ lagers say with fear,
"* "The Samurai have
Come again." They
believe that the souls
of the dead warriors,
or Samurai, live in the
Dorippes, and that
they gather in great
numbers at the scene


-C -'

of their defeat whenever the same day comes
round in later years.
The face on the Dorippe's back is like a
swollen and mottled one. The eyelids seem
closed, as if in a sleep or stupor, while its mouth
quite carries out the other common story, that
all the old topers are turned into these crabs

--- ---


and must keep that form as a punishment for one who notices the resemblance of the shell to
some long time. The swollen heavy faces may a queer Japanese face may think there is good
quite as well be those of bleary old topers as of reason for either story as to why the Dorippe's
warriors who met death by drowning; so that shell is so strangely marked.



THERE were five of us. There had been six,
but the Beautiful Boy was taken home to heaven
while he was still very little, and it was good for
the rest of us to know that there was always one
to wait for and welcome us in the Place of Light
to which we should go some day. So, as I said,
there were five of us here: Julia Romana, Flor-
ence, Harry, Laura, and Maud. Julia was the
eldest. She took her second name from the
ancient city in which she was born, and she was
as beautiful as a soft Italian evening, with dark
hair, clear gray eyes, perfect features, and a
complexion of such pure and wonderful red and
white as I have never seen in any other face.
She had a look as if, when she came away from
heaven, she had been allowed to remember it,
while others must forget; and she walked in a
dream always, of beauty and poetry, thinking
of strange things. Very shy she was, very sen-
sitive. When Flossy (as Florence was most often
called) called her "a great red-haired giant," she
wept bitterly, and reproached her sister for hurt-
ing her feelings. Julia knew everything, ac-
cording to the belief of the younger children.
What story was there she could not tell ? She
it was who led the famous before-breakfast
walks, when we used to start off at six o'clock,
and walk to the Yellow Chases' (we never knew
any other name for them; it was the house that
was yellow, not the people) at the top of the
long hill, or sometimes even to the windmill
beyond it, where we could see the miller at
work, all white and dusty, and watch the white

sails moving slowly round. And on the way
Julia told us stories, from Scott or Shakspere;
or gave us the plot of some opera, "Ernani" or
"Trovatore," with snatches of song here and
there, such as Home to our mountains," "Ai
nostri monti ritornaremo." Whenever I hear this
familiar air ground out by a hand-organ, every-
thing fades from my eyes save a long, white road
fringed with buttercups and wild marigolds, and
five little figures, with rosy hungry faces, trudg-
ing along, and listening to the story of the gypsy
queen and her stolen troubadour.
Julia wrote stories herself, too; very wonderful
stories, we all thought, and, indeed, I think so
still. She began when she was a little wee girl,
not more than six or seven years old. There
lies beside me now on the table a small book,
about five inches square, bound in faded pink
and green, and filled from cover to cover with
writing in a cramped, childish hand. It is a
book of novels and plays, written by our Julia
before she was ten years old, and I often think
that the beautiful and helpful things she wrote
in her later years were hardly more remarkable
than these queer little romances. They are very
sentimental; no child of eight, save perhaps
Marjorie Fleming, was ever so sentimental as
Julia. Leonora Mayre, a Tale," "The Lost
Suitor," "The Offers"-I must quote a scene
from the last-named play:

Enter ANNIE.
A. Well, Florence, Bruin is going to make an offer, I



F. Why so?
A. Here 's a pound of candy from him. He said he
had bought it for you, but on arriving he was
afraid it was too trifling a gift, but hoping you
would not throw it away, he requested me to give
it to thtt virtuous young lady, as he calls you.
F. Well, I am young, but I did not know that I was
A. I think you are.
Parlor. MR. BRUIN alone.
MR. B. Why does n't she come ? she does n't usually
keep me waiting.
F. How do you do? I am sorry to have kept you
MR. B. I have not been here more than a few minutes.
Your parlor is so warm this cold day that I could
wait. [Laughs.
F. You sent me some candy the other day, which I
liked very much.
MR. B. Well, you liked the candy, so I pleased you.
Now you can please me. I don't care about
presents, I had rather have something that can
love me. You.
F. I do not love you. [Exit MR. BRUIN.
FLORENCE alone. Enter MR. CAS.
F. How do you do?
MR. C. Very well.
F. It is a very pleasant day.
MR. C. Yes. It would be still pleasanter if you will
be my bride. I want a respectful refusal, but
prefer a cordial acception.
F. You can have the former.
MR. E. I love you, Florence. You may not love me,
for I am inferior to you, but tell me whether you
do or not. If my hopes are true, let me know it,
and I shall not be doubtful any longer. If they
are not,;tell me, and I shall not expect any more.
F. They are. [Exit MR. EMERSON.

The fifth scene of this remarkable drama
is laid in the church, and is very thrilling.
The stage directions are brief, but it is evident
from the text that as Mr. Emerson and his
taciturn bride advance to the altar, Messrs. Cas
and Bruin, to gain some private ends," do the
same. The Bishop is introduced without previous
BISHOP. Are you ready?
MR. B. Yes.

BISHOP. Mr. Emerson, are you ready ?
MR. C. Yes.
BISHOP. Mr. Emerson, I am waiting.
BRUIN and CAs, together. So am I.
MR. E. I am ready. But what have these men to do
with our marriage ?
MR. B. Florence, I charge you with a breach of prom-
ise. You said you would be my bride.
F. I did not.
MR. C. You promised me.
F. When ?
MR. C. A month ago. You said you would marry me.
MR. B. A fortnight ago you promised me. You said
we would be married to-day.
MR. C. Bishop, what does this mean ? Florence Evans
promised to marry me, and this very day was
fixed upon. And see how false she has been !
She has, as you see, promised both of us, and now
is going to wed this man.
BISHOP. But Mr. Emerson and Miss Evans made the
arrangements with me ; how is it that neither of
you said anything of it beforehand ?
MR. C. I forgot.
MR. B. So did I. [F. weeps.
[Enter ANNIE.
A. I thought I should be too late to be your brides-
maid, but I find I am in time. But I thought
you were to be married at half-past four, and it is
five by the church clock.
MR. E. We should have been married by this time,
but these men say that Florence has promised to
marry them. Is it true, Florence ?
F. No. [BEssY, heryounger sister, supports her.
A. It is n't true, for you know, Edward Bruin, that you
and I are engaged, and Mr. Cas and Bessy have
been, for some time. And both engagements
have been out for more than a week.
[BESSY looks reproachfulfly at CAS.
B. Why, Joseph Cas !
BISHOP. I see that Mr. Cas and Mr. Bruin have been
trying to worry your bride. But their story can't
be true, for these other young ladies say that they
are engaged to them.
F. They each of them made me an offer, which I re-
fused. [The BISHOP marries them.
F. [After they are married.] I shall never again be
troubled with such offers [looks at CAS and
BRUIN] as yours!

I meant to give one scene, and I have given
the whole play, not knowing where to stop.
There was nothing funny about it to Julia. The
heroine, with her wonderful command of silence,
was her ideal of maiden reserve and dignity;
the deep-dyed villainy of Bruin and Cas, the
retiring manners of the fortunate Emerson, the
singular sprightliness of the Bishop were all per-
fectly natural, as her vivid mind saw them.


So, she was bitterly grieved one day, when a
dear friend of the family, to whom our mother
had read the play, rushed up to her, and seizing
her hand, cried:
"'Julia, will you have me ?' 'No! Exit
Mr. Bruin." Deeply grieved the little maiden
was; and it cannot have been very long after
that time that she gave the little book to her
dearest aunt, who has kept it carefully through
all these years.
If Julia was like Milton's Penseroso," Flossy
was the "Allegro" in person, or like Words-
worth's maiden:

A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

She was very small as a child. One day, a
lady, not knowing that the little girl was
within hearing, said to our mother, "What a
pity Flossy is so small!"
I 'm big inside! cried a little angry voice
at her elbow; and there was Flossy, swelling
with rage, like an offended bantam. And she
was big inside her lively, active spirit seemed
to break through the little body and carry it
along in spite of itself. Sometimes it was an
impish spirit; always it was an enterprising one.
She it was who invented the dances, which
seemed to us such wonderful performances. We
danced every evening in the great parlor, our
mother playing for us on the piano. There was
the Macbeth dance, in which Flossy figured
as "Lady Macbeth." With a dagger in her
hand, she crept and rushed and pounced and
swooped about in a most terrifying manner, al-
ways graceful as a fairy. A sofa-pillow played
the part of "Duncan," and had a very hard
time of it. The "Julius Caesar" dance was no
less tragic; we all took part in it, and stabbed
right and left with sticks of kindling-wood.
One got the curling-stick and was happy, for it
was the next thing to the dagger, which no one
but Flossy could have. Then there was the
dance of the Four Seasons," which had four
figures. In spring we sowed, in summer we
reaped; in autumn we hunted the deer, and in
winter there was much jingling of bells. The
hunting figure was most exciting. It was per-
formed with "knives (kindling-wood), as Flossy
thought them more romantic than guns; they

were. held close to the side, with point project-
ing, and in this way we moved with a quick
chassis step, which, coupled with a savage frown,
was supposed to be peculiarly deadly.
Flossy invented many other amusements, too.
There was the school loan system. We had
school in the little parlor at that time, and our
desks had lids that lifted up. In her desk
Flossy kept a number of precious things, which
she lent to the younger children for so many
pins an hour. The most valuable thing was a
set of three colored worsted balls, red, green,
and blue. You could set them twirling, and
they would keep going for ever so long. It was
a delightful sport, but they were very expensive,
costing, I think, twenty pins an hour. It took
a long time to collect twenty pins, for of course
it was not fair to take them out of the pin-
Then there was a glass eye-cup without a
base; that cost ten pins, and was a great favorite
with us. You stuck it in your eye, and tried to
hold it there while you winked with the other.
Of course'all this was done behind the raised
desk-lid, and I have sometimes wondered what
the teacher was doing, that she did not find us
out sooner. She was not very observant, and I
am quite sure she was afraid of Flossy. One sad
day, however, she caught Laura with the pre-
cious glass in her eye, and it was taken away
forever. It was a bitter thing to the child (I
know all about it, for I was Laura) to be told
that she could never have it again, even after
school. She had paid her ten pins, and she
could not see what right the teacher had to
take the glass away. But after that the school
loan system was forbidden, and I have never
known what became of the three worsted balls.
Flossy also told stories; or rather, she told
one story which had no end, and of which we
never tired. Under the sea, she told us, lived
a fairy named Patty, who was a most inti-
mate friend of hers, and whom she visited
every night. This fairy dwelt in a palace hol-
lowed out of a single immense pearl. The
rooms in it were countless, and were furnished
in a singular and delightful manner. In one
room the chairs and sofas were of choco-
late; in another, of fresh strawberries; in an-
other, of peaches, and so on. The floors were



paved with squares of chocolate and cream
candy, the windows were of transparent barley-
sugar, and when you broke off the arm of a
chair and ate it, or took a square or two out of
the pavement, they were immediately replaced,
so that there was no trouble for any one. Patty
had a ball every evening, and Flossy never
failed to go. Sometimes, when we were good,
she would take us, but the singular thing about
it was that we never remembered what had
happened. In the morning our infant minds
were a cheerful blank till Flossy told us what a
glorious time we had had at Patty's the night
before, how we had danced with Willie Winkie,
and how much ice-cream we had eaten. We lis-
tened to the recital with unalloyed delight, and
believed every word of it, till a sad day of awak-
ening came. We were always made to under-
stand that we could not bring away anything
from Patty's, and were content with this ar-
rangement; but on this occasion there was to
be a ball of peculiar magnificence, and Flossy,
in a fit of generosity, told Harry that he was to
receive a pair of diamond trousers, which he
would be allowed to bring home. Harry was a
child with a taste for magnificence, and he went
to bed full of joy, seeing already in anticipation
the glittering of the jeweled garment, and the
effects produced by it on the small boys of his
acquaintance. Bitter was the disappointment
when, on awakening in the morning, the chair
by his bedside bore only the familiar brown
knickerbockers with a patch of a lighter shade
on one knee. Harry wept and would not be
comforted; and after that, though we still liked
to hear the Patty stories, we felt that the magic
of them was gone, that they were only stories,
like "Bluebeard" or "Jack and the Beanstalk."

JULIA and Flossy did not content themselves
with writing plays and telling stories. They
aspired to making a language; a real language,
which should be all their own, and should have
grammars and dictionaries like any other famous
tongue. It was called Patagonian -whether
with any idea of future missionary work among
the people of that remote country, or merely

because it sounded well, I cannot say. It was
a singular language; I wish more of it had sur-
vived; but I can give only a few of its more
familiar phrases:
MOUCHE Mother.
Bis VON SNOUT ? -Are you well ?
some doughnuts ?
These fragments will, I am sure, make my
readers regret deeply the loss of this language,
which has the merit of entire originality.
There were several dolls that should be men-
tioned. "Vashti Ann" was named after a cook;
she belonged to Julia, and I have an idea that
she was of a very haughty and disagreeable
temper, though I cannot remember her personal
appearance. Still more shadowy is my recol-
lection of Eliza Viddipock," a name to be
spoken with bated breath. What dark crime this
wretched doll had committed to merit her fear-
ful fate, I do not know; it was a thing not to
be spoken of to the younger children, appa-
rently. But I do know that she was hanged,
with all solemnity of judge and hangman. It
seems unjust that I should have forgotten the
name of Julia's good doll, who died, and had
the cover of the sugar-bowl buried with her,
as a tribute to her virtues.
Sally Bradford" and Clara" both belonged
to Laura. Sally was an india-rubber doll; Clara
a doll with a china head of the old-fashioned
kind: smooth, shining black hair, brilliant rosy
cheeks, and calm (very calm) blue eyes. I pre-
fer this kind of doll to any other. Clara's life
was an uneventful one, on the whole, and I
remember only one remarkable thing in it. A
little girl in the neighborhood invited Laura to
a dolls'-party on a certain day; she was to
bring Clara by special request. Great was the
excitement, for Laura was very small, and had
never yet gone to a party. A seamstress was
in the house making the summer dresses, and
our mother said that Clara should have a new
frock for the party. It seemed a very wonder-
ful thing to have a real, new white muslin frock,
made by a real seamstress, for one's beloved
doll. Clara had a beautiful white neck, so the


frock was made low and trimmed with lace.
When the afternoon came, Laura brought some
tiny yellow roses from the greenhouse, and the
seamstress sewed them on down the front of the
frock and round the neck and hem. It is not
probable that any other doll ever looked so
beautiful as Clara when her toilet was com-
Then Laura put on her own best frock, which
was not one half so fine, and tied on her gray
felt bonnet, trimmed with quillings of pink and
green satin ribbon, and started off, the proudest
and happiest child in the whole world. She
reached the house (it was very near) and climbed
up the long flight of stone steps and stood on
tiptoe to ring the bell; then waited with a
beating heart. Would there be many other
dolls ? Would any of them be half so lovely as
Clara? Would there-dreadful thought!-
would there be big girls there?
The door opened. If any little girls read this
they will now be very sorry for Laura. There
was no dolls'-party! Rosy's mama (the little
girl's name was Rosy) had heard nothing at all
about it; Rosy had gone to spend the afternoon
with Sarah Crocker.
"Sorry, little girl! What a pretty dolly!
Good-by, dear!" and then the door was shut
Laura toddled down the long stone steps,
and went solemnly home. She did not cry,
because it would not be nice to cry in the street;
but she could not see very clearly. She never
went to visit Rosy again, and never knew
whether the dolls'-party had been forgotten, or
why it was given up.
Before leaving the subject of dolls, I must
say a word about little Maud's first doll. Maud
was a child of rare beauty, as beautiful as Julia,
though very different. Her fair hair was of
such color and quality that our mother used to
call her Silk-and-silver, a name which suited her
well; her eyes were like stars under their long
black lashes. So brilliant, so vivid was the
child's coloring that she seemed to flash with
silver and rosy light as she moved about. She
was so much younger than the others that in
many of their reminiscences she has no share;
yet she has her own stories, too. A friend of
our father's, being much impressed with this

starry beauty of the child, thought it would be
pleasant to give her the prettiest doll that could
be found; accordingly he appeared one day
with a wonderful creature, with hair almost like
Maud's own, and great blue eyes that opened
and shut, and cheeks whose steadfast roses
did not flash in and out, but bloomed always.
I think the doll was dressed in blue and sil-
ver, but am not sure; she was certainly very
Maud was enchanted, of course, and hugged
her treasure, and went off with it. It happened
that she had been taken only the day before to
see the blind children at the institution near
by, where our father spent much of his time.
It was the first time she had talked with the
little blind girls, and they made a deep im-
pression on her baby mind, though she said
little at the time. As I said, she went off with
her new doll, and no one saw her for some time.
At length she returned, flushed and triumphant.
My dolly is blind, now!" she cried; and
she displayed the doll, over whose eyes she had
tied a ribbon, in imitation of Laura Bridgman.
"She is blind Polly!-ain't got no eyes 't all! "
Alas it was even so. Maud had poked the
beautiful blue glass eyes till they fell in, and
only empty sockets were hidden by the green
ribbon. There was a great outcry, of course,
but it did not disturb Maud in the least. She
wanted a blind doll, and she had one; and no
pet could be more carefully tended than was
poor blind Polly.
More precious than any doll could be, rises
in my memory the majestic form of" Pistachio."
It was Flossy, ever fertile in invention, who dis-
covered the true worth of Pistachio, and taught
us to regard with awe and reverence this object
of her affection. Pistachio was an oval ma-
hogany footstool, covered with green cloth of
the color of the nut whose name he bore. I
have the impression that he had lost a leg, but
am not positive on this point. He was con-
sidered an invalid, and every morning he was
put in the baby-carriage and taken in solemn
procession down to the brook for his morning
bath. One child held a parasol over his sacred
head (only he had no head!), two more pro-
pelled the carriage, while the other two went
before as outriders. No mirth was allowed


on this occasion, the solemnity of which was
deeply impressed on us. Arrived at the brook,
Pistachio was lifted from the carriage by his
chief officer, Flossy herself, and set carefully
down on the flat stone beside the brook. His
sacred legs were dipped one by one into the
clear water, and dried with a towel. Happy was
the child who was allowed to perform this func-
tion! After the bath, he was walked gently up
and down, and rubbed, to assist the circulation;
then he was put back in his carriage, and the
procession started for home again, with the
same gravity and decorum as before. The
younger children felt sure there was some mys-
tery about Pistachio. I cannot feel sure, even
now, that he was nothing more than an ordi-
nary oval cricket; but his secret, whatever it
was, has perished with him.
I perceive that I have said little or nothing
thus far about Harry; yet he was a very im-
portant member of the family. The only boy:
and such a boy! He was by nature a Very
Imp, such as has been described by Mr. Stock-
ton in one of his delightful stories. Not two
years old was he when he began to pull the
tails of all the little dogs he met,-a habit
which he long kept up. The love of mischief
was deeply rooted in him. It was not safe to
put him in the closet for misbehavior; for he
cut off the pockets of the dresses hanging there,
and snipped the fringe off his teacher's best
shawl; yet he was a sweet and affectionate child,
with a tender heart, and sensitive withal. When
about four years old, he had the habit of
summoning our father to breakfast; and, not
being able to say the word, would announce,
" Brescott is ready! This excited mirth among
the other children, which he never could stand;
accordingly, one morning he appeared at the
door of the dressing-room and said solemnly,
"Papa, your food is prepared!"
At the age of six, Harry determined to marry,
and offered his hand and heart to Mary, the
nurse, an excellent woman, some thirty years
older than he. He sternly forbade her to sew
or do other nursery work, saying that his wife
must not work for her living. About this time,
too, he told our mother that he thought he felt
his beard growing.
He was just two years older than Laura,

and the tie between them was very close.
Laura's first question to a stranger was always,
"Does you know my bulla Hally ? I hope you
does!" and she was truly sorry for any one who
had not that privilege.
The two children slept in tiny rooms ad-
joining each other. It was both easy and pleas-
ant to "talk across" while lying in bed, when
they were supposed to be sound asleep. Neither
liked to give up the last word of greeting, and
they would sometimes say "Good night!"
"Good night!" over and over, backward and
forward, for ten minutes together. In general,
Harry was very kind to Laura, playing with
her, and protecting her from any roughness of
neighbor children. (They said "bunnit" and
"apurn," and "I wunt," and we were fond of
correcting them, which they not brooking, quar-
rels were apt to ensue.) But truth compels me
to tell of one occasion on which Harry did
not show a brotherly spirit. In the garden,
under a great birch-tree, stood a trough for
watering the horses. It was a large and deep
trough, and always full of beautiful, clear water.
It was pleasant to lean over the edge, and
see the sky and the leaves of the tree reflected
as if in a crystal mirror; to see one's own
rosy, freckled face, too, and make other faces;
to see which could open eyes or mouth
Now one day, as little Laura, being perhaps
four years old, was hanging over the edge of
the trough, forgetful of all save the delight of
gazing, it chanced that Harry came up behind
her; and the spirit of mischief that was always in
him triumphed over brotherly affection, and he

Ups with her heels,
And smothers her squeals,"

in the clear, cold water.
Laura came up gasping and puffing, her hair
streaming all over her round face, her eyes star-
ing with wonder and fright!
By the time help arrived, as it fortunately
did, in the person of Thomas the gardener,
poor Laura was in a deplorable condition,
half choked with water, and frightened nearly
out of her wits.
Thomas carried the dripping child to the
house and put her into Mary's kind arms, and


then reported to our mother what Harry had misdeed Harry was put to bed at once, and our
done. mother, sitting beside him, gave him what we used
We were almost never whipped; but for this to calla" talking to," whichhe didn't soon forget.
(To be continued.)

f[ ya with To ly

3y etudora S. ~B13ustead.

My darling Dolly is one week old; -
Her forehead is fair' and creamy ,
Her cheei s are -pink and her hair is gold, Y
Aji-d her eyes are dark and dreamy.
SShe's lovely and sweet .as The can be ; A
She's San.ta Claus' own little dau.~ter,
.But she came to me on the Christmas Tree:-
How lad I am that he brought her

n r a lnel sice she ae,

1,And the on]y 'ble i'th ''e i
he ben able to i i'nd a nane
,, ,1 :'r.Tg ; M a-" o "s
...,, 's i, It ] ,r f *Js~L~e ',

^ /A\nd IRe thoauh and. thought and mayLe-
''I guess I shell call her Dolly. [wel
,,, r ,i- : -:.

,,: fl-,e 0n] fni-t. sLib;e '": e I:,

O.ne 13 ,C"' ....ettv 3S She: .

And I'e fhoLShh anc thought and mpybe-
'":'1, I- guess I sh-a l call her Dolly. I ,re 1,




MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In introducing to
you my young friend Miss Katie Robertson, the
artist of the Mother Goose Silhouettes," I de-
sire to relate the circumstances which first re-
vealed to me this young lady's peculiar gift. It
was during my first visit to the Teche country in
lower Louisiana. Upon landing from the queer
little stern-wheel steamer that brought us up the
bayou, I was introduced to Mr. William Robert-
son, who with characteristic Southern hospitality
invited me to lunch with himself and family. As
we approached the house, his little daughter ran
toward her father and with outstretched arms
greeted him with a kiss. This affectionate wel-
come was performed with some difficulty, as the
deep sunbonnet in which her childish face was em-
bedded made it as difficult for her father to reach
it as if she had been at the other end of a tunnel.
After luncheon I walked out upon the broad
veranda of the house, where I found the child
VOL. XIX. 15. 2

seated on the floor and surrounded by a host of
children of various sizes. Little Katie had re-
moved the extinguisher from her head, which
was adorned with golden hair, and in her hand
she held a pair of scissors, with which she busied
herself and interested her eager audience by
cutting out with wonderful dexterity long rows
of dolls from an old newspaper. I naturally
expected to see a string of those conventional
babies clinging to each other with outstretched
arms and looking like so many twins, but
on examination I discovered that the skill of
the little artist avoided too great a family re-
semblance between the children. Tall, short,
thin, fat, laughing, and crying; many in gro-
tesque and awkward attitudes; some posed
with perfect grace, and each and all breathing
life and character. The busy little hands and
flashing scissors worked with wonderful rapid-
ity-cut, slash, snip-and lo! we had a whole
menagerie of wild animals and a barn-yard of




domestic ones, in a jiffy. Where could a little
child of five years of age have seen and received
so clear an impression of all these things, and
whence came the dexterity to form them ? This,
I said to myself, is genius, intuition; there
has been no time to learn it. I predicted that
some artistic excellence would come of this, and
I do not believe that I was mistaken. A letter

will reveal to your young readers better than
I can how charmingly the artist does her
work. Still, I would like to point out certain
touches that strike me as being particularly
marked and original. Jack Spratt and his
wife, for instance, how jolly and plump is the
little woman, and how mean and stingy is the
man, as if his dislike to fat was more from



written to me by the artist and now before me,
says, "You gave me the first pair of scissors I
ever owned." I am proud of this, for by her
own confession she is my protege. Her pic-
tures, which you now publish for the first time,

economy than taste! In the silhouette "If
wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,"
note the contrast between the fantastic refine-
ment of my lord and my lady and the vulgar
aspect of the beggars who tramp after them.





See how the figures dance as the piper's son plays
the pipe! The pig leaps from the ground, and the
very birds in the air catch the infection and

all, behold the maid of honor bearing the pipe to
her king-with what grace she moves, and how
dainty are her tapering fingers. Her back is
toward us, but we know that she is beautiful.
In her bewitching carriage there is the lady of
the court; no cringing to the king. She offers
the pipe, quite conscious of her own dignity, as
if she whispered to herself, Who knows ? some
day I may be queen! "

caper rather than fly. In the picture of Old Indeed, I am right glad that you are the first
King Cole the figures are most eloquent. See to publish the work of my old young friend, and
with what regal dignity the old monarch calls I congratulate the little lady on finding a pa-
for his pipe, and calls for his bowl, and calls for tron saint so kind as good ST. NICHOLAS.
his fiddlers three." Mark the jester, how care- Faithfully yours,
fully he bears the steaming punch; and, above JOSEPH JEFFERSON.



'N-. d~~

__ ___ __






" '"~`;"`"'~`





..." "- .......... .^ .. ** mru -..^-








OLD Mistress Chestnut once lived in a burr
Padded and lined with the softest of fur.
Jack Frost split it wide with his keen silver knife,
And tumbled her out at the risk of her life.

Here is Don Almond, a grandee from Spain,
Some raisins from Malaga came in his train.
He has a twin brother a shade or two leaner,
When both come together we shout, "Philopena!"

This is Sir Walnut; he 's English, you know,
A friend of my Lady and Lord So-and-So.
Whenever you ask old Sir Walnut to dinner,
Be sure and have wine for the gouty old sinner.

Little Miss Peanut, from North Carolina.
She 's not 'ristocratic, but no nut is finer.
Sometimes she is roasted and burnt to a cinder.
In Georgia they call her Miss Goober, or Pinder.

Little Miss Hazelnut, in her best bonnet,
Is lovely enough to be put in a sonnet;
And young Mr. Filbert has journeyed from Kent,
To ask her to marry him soon after Lent.

,- LlI



This is old Hickory; look at him well.
A general was named for him, so I 've heard tell.
Take care how you hit him. He sometimes hits back!
This stolid old chap is a hard nut to crack.

Old Mr. Butternut, just from Brazil,
Is rugged and rough as the side of a hill;
But like many a countenance quite as ill-favored,
His covers a kernel deliciously flavored.

Here is a Southerner, graceful and slim,
In flavor no nut is quite equal to him.
Ha, Monsieur Pecan, you know what it means
To be served with black coffee in French New Orleans.

Dear little Chinkapin, modest and neat,
Is n't she cunning and is n't she sweet?
Her skin is as smooth as a little boy's chin,
And the squirrels all chatter of Miss Chinkapin.

p -t

And now, my dear children, I 'm sure I have told
All the queer rhymes that a nutshell can hold.



ONCE upon a time two little candles lay side
by side in a big box. Both were pure white.
Said one: "I wonder what will become of
us? Do you think we could be meant for a

Christmas tree ? (For you must know that
to be put on a Christmas tree is the best possi-
ble thing that can happen to a candle.)
Of course not!" said the other, who was



-e ~~-
>-- ---~-



cross. If we are meant for a Christmas tree
it will be for some shabby little children,-see
if it is n't."
"If we are," said the first, "I '11 shine my
very brightest; for the eyes of even poor chil-
dren with only few pleasures in prospect are
enough to rival little candles on Christmas eve."
"If we are," grumbled the second, "I am not
sure that I will allow myself to be lighted at
Christmas eve drew nearer and nearer. Sure
enough, the two little candles, with many others
of blue and pink and yellow and red, were
bought for a Christmas tree.
On the day before Christmas, while it still
was daylight, some young girls came to arrange
the presents, and make the __ _
tree ready for the exi,11I. .
"Oh, what a lot of pretty
little candles! said .,iie .'
them. "They are sl... h
lovely colors,-all .:'...t
those two white on'e:
We will put those out
of sight, because th-
red and pink ones at.:

'. ...


"Did n't I tell you what would happen? "
said the cross little candle, in a whisper.
"Yes; but wait," replied the other. "Just
shine your brightest all the time."
"I won't! snapped the cross one.
When evening came, ranged all round the
tree were happy boys and girls. Soon every
bough on the great tree blossomed with little
lights. Some of the flames were faint, but
many were bright. When the little white can-
dles were lighted, the cross one just sputtered
a minute, and then went out. The other shone
so brightly that a gentleman standing near
Oh, what a brilliant little candle but it
is almost out of sight among the green branches.
We ought to put it where it

F', r ._-I the very tip-
ri?," :,1i 1 iul,- lady.
.Ar d tiul I, where they
.:.,: i.. --.-_n the very
(tilrop o ,, r.le iree, where
it r..od ded ian.i gleamed in
:i\c' .: t1!-c- !,iling faces
all around it.

4** ^







/ ,,, _

Zoo AND JOE are going to bed. Their cribs are side by side in the big
nursery. From the window Joe sees the lights, one, two, three, four, in a
big house across the river; he hears the water dash over the dam and go
down with a roar. Zoo is watching the wood-fire that is burning on the
hearth. She likes to see the little sparks creep up the chimney,- people
on their way to church," grandpa calls them.
One, two, free, one," Zoo counts.
Joe runs from the window and says, One, two, three, four, Zoo."
When the children are ready for bed, they stand before the pretty fire
and take each other's hands. Then they dance around and around upon the
soft rug, and mama claps her hands and sings:

" Oh, for the merry barefoot dance!
Barefoot children skip and prance,

Skip and prance, white feet glance,
Oh, for the merry barefoot dance!"

Once more, Mama," asks Joe, and mama sings again and claps her hands.
Now dance away to bed," she says, and the children scamper off and
jump into their cribs.



ABOUT four hundred years ago, my friends, this
now highly intelligent earth, while revolving round
the sun (though its inhabitants did n't know it at
the time), rolled right into a date that has become
one of the most famous periods of its kind ever
known. I allude to the year 1492. I '11 venture to
say, now, that the members of this congregation
are quite as familiar with that date as with any
other in the world's history. You feel a sort of
right in it, so to speak; a sense of satisfaction
sometimes mounting to enthusiasm. In brief, you
are supposed, in this four-hundredth anniversary
year, to have a wild desire to learn all about it, and
the grown folk do not intend that you shall be
disappointed, if they can help it. Therefore, your
Jack will be happy, during the coming twelve
months, to amuse and refresh you occasionally
with simple facts and incidents entirely outside
of the remarkable and distinguished date under
So here is a nice little sea-story--true, too-
that the Deacon related only yesterday to a few of
the Red School-house children. It happened over
forty years before 1492, so we are safe:
IT appears that a bright little fifteenth-century
Italian boy, a son of humble and honest parents,
was possessed by a strong desire to go to sea; and
so, when he was about fourteen years of age, he
was allowed to make his first voyage. Of course,
there was no such thing as steam-navigation in
those days, so this boy went on a sailing-ship, and a
pretty mean one at that. At the start he was as
proud and happy a little mariner as one could wish
to see. But trouble came. The ship caught fire,
and as this Italian boy never had heard of your old
friend Casabianca, and the situation was desperate,
he sprang overboard. Fortunately, he caught
hold of an oar, and with its assistance he deter-

mined to swim all the way to land, wherever it
might be.
It was a hard tussle with the waves for a boy of
fourteen, but he had grit and resolution, and, in
short, there was other work waiting for him some-
where, he knew. So he swam on for a mile, then
another-and another-and another-and an-
other- and finally, persevering manfully, he ac-
complished the sixth mile, and reached the land
in safety!
I believe in that boy; and I 'd like to know
what became of him in later years-what he ac-
complished; what he suffered; whether he was a
benefactor to his race or not. Who can tell me
about him?

Meantime, let us consider the strangeness of

DEACON GREEN says he has never happened to
meet with one of this special breed of Bostonian
cows, but he has placed upon my pulpit an extract
from a letter, which he thinks is well worth read-
ing to you, my beloved:
During the past year thousands of cows in Russia
have been seen wearing blue spectacles Yes, blue glass
was obtained from Vienna, Paris, and London for the
purpose, because Vienna alone could not supply the quan-
tity required.
It must have been a funny sight. But it was not funny
to the cows. They, poor things, had suffered so much
from the blinding effect of light upon the snow that their
eyes became diseased, and, to help them, the experiment
of making them wear blue spectacles was tried, and with
good results, I am told.
So you see some kinds of animals are kindly cared for
in that far land of the Czar.
THE naughtiest boy in the Red School-house
goes about asking helpless girls and boys how it
happens that we are to have another 1890.
But we 're not," reply the poor children.
"But you are," insists the naughty boy.
"There 's to be a new 1890 as sure as you live."
How do you make that out ?" sharply put in
the Deacon, this very morning.
Why," replied the naughty boy, did n't we
have 1890 a year or so ago? "
"Certainly," said the Deacon.
Very well, sir. Is n't the new year going
to be 189o too? "
The Deacon walked slowly away.

DEAR JACK: Here is a little matter which I beg
to lay before your very observant crowd of young
folk: When the snow began to melt last winter,
I found a great number of little mounds of dry
grass which proved to be nests. They were closed
on top and had small openings at one side, from
which paths led in all directions. It was easy to
see that these had been tunnels when the snow
covered the ground. In several places near by I


found little heaps of roots nicely gnawed into con-
venient sizes, and all ready for use.
Doubtless many of your boys and girls will
know at once to whom these cozy homes belong,
but I am as yet woefully ignorant on the subject.
Will somebody please enlighten me?
Very sincerely, K. H.

DEAR JACK: May I introduce to your favorable notice
my friend Mr. Kinkajou of South America. Circum-
stances prevent his visiting you personally, but the ac-
companying picture will show you exactly how he looks.
Indeed, his absence is timely, for it enables me to
tell you of many of his charming qualities, which would
embarrass him if he were present.
To begin with, he is purely American. He never has
been found on the Eastern hemisphere,
though certain distant- relatives of his
make their homes there.
In size the kinkajou resembles a large
cat. From his picture you might fancy
he belonged to the monkey tribe, but
the bear family claim him. His long tail
is very useful in climbing from tree to
tree, for he can hang or swing by it as
easily as any monkey. In captivity he
coils it round and round, till it looks
like a thick mat, and he uses it as a
blanket or mattress,whichever he chooses.
His tongue is remarkable in that it is
very long. In his native haunts he lives
on insects and sweet fruits; and when
he finds wild honey he considers himself
very lucky indeed. His liking for this .'I'
dainty has given him another name- "
"honey-bear." In obtaining the honey '1
stored in crevices of rock or hollow trees ,
his long tongue is very useful-in fact,
he could not do without it.
His head is round, and his ears are
like those of a cat, and, like the cat, his
habits are nocturnal. His fur is a tawny-
yellow, a trifle darker on the back than
But, beautiful as he is to look at, he
is good as he is beautiful. Though when
caught and tamed he longs for his native
land and his free, happy life in the forest,
he is a pattern for the most particular. He is not mis-
chievous; he is neat, he is good-tempered, and as loving
and affectionate as a child.
One of these really beautiful creatures, owned by a
lady, was one night seeking some sweet food of which
he was extremely fond. He fancied that it was concealed
in some vase on the parlor mantel. Instead of smashing
all the bric-a-brac, as a monkey would have done, he
took one vase at a time, examined it (with his tongue, I
fear), and then set it carefully on the floor. Pictures,
too, were examined, were actually taken from the
walls, and placed gently on the floor beside the vases.
In the morning, when his owner entered the room,
she found no more mischief done than an absolutely
new arrangement of her choice ornaments and en-

Mr. Kinkajou has one rather bad habit which I will
touch upon briefly. Sometimes, in the forests, he has
been known to snatch mother-birds out of their nests
with those deft little claws of his, and drink the contents
of their eggs; still, so long as this bad practice is confined
to his home we will not censure him too severely, but
think, with gratitude, of our own lack of faults both at
home and abroad.
For fear all of your congregation will at once send
orders for a kinkajou, I must tell you that his home is
in Guiana, Venezuela, and the United States of Colom-
bia. Like the monkey, he has always been accustomed
to the warm, moist climate of the tropical forests, and he
does not long survive a removal to a colder country.
M. V. W.
YOUR Jack has no wish to join the exiles in
Siberia, but if it is true, as a Portland newspaper


N -I


-r '* :zi -'I

said, that an enormous polar bear with bright
pink fur has been captured in that country, and
that it is to be sent as a present to the Czar of
Russia, Jack would be glad to make a short visit
to Siberia- that strange land where there is a
pink polar bear! Nature has queer fancies now
and then, my dears. Why, I have been informed
on very good authority that a live white frog was
exhibited last spring at a meeting of the Linnean
Society of London-an albino frog, they called it.
I can see it now, rolling its great pink eyes co-
quettishly at the learned men bending over it and
declaring it to be one of the very rarest things they
ever had seen.


`--i. -.. -

(Old words set to new musicc)


And all the an gels in Heaven shall sing On Christmas day, on Christmas day: And
lii- -j^ =5r = I _J ^ JE E : -J ^ -h S ~ f ~ ~! '={~ ~ .,


WE thank two young readers of ST. NICHOLAS for
a beautiful photograph showing them reading the Maga-

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Have you ever been in a
typhoon ? because if not you may like to hear of one that
took place in Kob6 on the night of the I6th of August.
The weather had been lovely but very hot, and we jeered
at the weather-ball which had been up for two days warn-
ing ships not to put out to sea. The storm was gathering
all Sunday, and about eight o'clock in the evening it
came upon us in full force. All our windows and shut-
ters are very strong, but we had to barricade them all
inside as if for a siege; and truly it was like a siege. The
din was awful, and above it all we could hear the signals
of distress from the bay, but knew that no help could
be given. It was a fearful night. At daybreak the wind
had died down, and we opened the house, almost afraid
to look out. Our beautiful garden was a wreck, trees
were blown down in all directions, and not a flower was
left standing; but this was nothing to what met our view
when we rode down to the harbor. We did nothing but
exclaim all the way. The streets were full of the wrecks
of sampans and junks (Japanese boats), and enormous
planks of wood and masts of ships had been jammed up
against the houses in front of the bay. The sea-wall
was gone in many places, and the Bund, which is a
pretty lawn in front of the bay, was piled with wrecks of
steam-launches, roofs of houses, and uprooted trees, and
a big ocean-steamer was on the rocks. Nothing was left
of the P. and O. dock except the iron foundations. Many
lives were lost among the Japanese, but several, lives
were saved in front of the hotel, and for hours the streets
were waist-deep in water.
I am afraid this is a rather long letter, but there is so
much to tell.
I remain, dear ST. NICHOLAS, your constant reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for a year,
and have enjoyed you very much.
Last summer we went to Canada and had a very pleas-
ant trip, and this summer we went to Manitou Springs,
which also was pleasant. I have been in Denver about
three years, and every winter have missed the sleigh-
riding, coasting, and tobogganing that I had when I
lived in Canada three winters ago. Manitou Springs,
at the base of Pike's Peak, is a very pretty little place.
When we were there we took many rides, and these are
some of the places we went to: Garden of the Gods,
Cheyenne Canon, Iron Springs, Rainbow Falls, and the
Cog Railway (which runs to the summit of Pike's Peak,
over fourteen thousand feet high), all of which present
very curious and wonderful points of interest.
I like to read the interesting letters from boys and
girls in the ST. NICHOLAS "Letter-box."
When I was in Manitou Springs I had some fun rid-

ing on a donkey. I have no brothers nor sisters, and
sometimes I am very lonely. I go to Wolfe Hall. Papa
is the warden of both Wolfe Hall and Jarvis Hall; these
are two large boarding-schools, four miles apart, the
former being for girls, the latter a military academy for
boys. I am your faithful little reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little boy nine years
old. You have been in our family about seventeen years,
and so I am going to write you a letter. We have a
small printing-press which I like to play with very much.
I am going to learn telegraphing. I have a small dog
named Tip and a cat named Buttercup.
Good-by. PARKER.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: This is the first time any of us
has written to you, but my eldest brother has taken you
since 188o. I like all your stories very much. I am a
little girl eleven years old, and I have four brothers and
three sisters. We are staying in Coburg at present,
which I like very much; it is such a pretty old town,
with an old castle overlooking it. I have traveled in Eu-
rope a great deal, and seen many interesting places. You
do not know how impatient we are for you to arrive; we
even count the days.
I am your constant little reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am an American boy ten years
old. I enjoy al your stories. I think The Fortunes
of Toby Trafford is the best. I like "Chan Ok," too.
The Indians were on our ranch only six years before
we came.
From your loving reader, MALCOLM L- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In our school-room we have
three green French frogs. They eat flies ; it is very
curious to see them catch flies. When we put a fly into
the aquarium, sometimes they will jump and take it out
of our hands, and sometimes we drop it'into the aqua-
rium they live in, and let them catch it. They wait till it
moves for fear it should be dead, for they never eat a dead
fly. When the fly moves they jump. They take very
good aim, and hardly ever miss. When it is dusk, they
like to croak; it is a very ugly noise. I think they like
music, because often, when somebody is playing upon the
piano, as soon as the playing stops they croak. In winter
we have to put a sod of earth in the aquarium for them
to go to sleep in till the spring. I was very interested
in "Toby Trafford." I am twelve years old.
I remain your sincere admirer, HILDA T-

I __ _


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been visiting my grandpa
all summer, and I had a very pleasant time. We went
out driving or down-town 'most every day. We went
to the theater and we saw some Lilliputians. They
played a very pretty play; the tallest one was a great
deal taller than the rest, and she was only thirty-seven
inches high, and the shortest was only twenty-eightinches
high. We went into Chinatown, and visited a great
many places, but we remained on one street, so did not
see much. What we did see was very interesting; we
went to a store where they had fancy things. I saw a
satchel which was made of wood; it is opened by the
handle; you take the handle out of a place made for it,
and then the top springs open. On our way here we
stopped at Redoak, a small place eighteen miles from Los
Angeles, on the coast. We went in bathing every day,
and I got knocked down three or four times by the break-
ers. Then we stopped at Fort Bliss, a mile from El
Paso (The Pass), and there I had a very nice time, as I
knew everybody there. We went across the river to
Juarez (pronounced Wharez). It was a very queer place,
the streets were narrow, and there were hardly any side-
walks. From there we came here.
Yours truly, WINNIE M. P- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for over eight
years. My little sister Maia wrote a poem about Lit-
tle Lord Fauntleroy," and I illustrated it. I have three
sisters and two brothers: Maia, Trixie, and Lisa are the
girls, Laurie and Harold the boys. I go to a private
school, and shall be graduated in '93.
I have a parrot from Cuba for a pet. Our family is
very musical: Maia (thirteen years) plays the mandolin;
Lisa (eighteen) the harp; and Laurie and I the violin.
Harold has a banjo, and Trixie (ten).plays the "bones "
when she dances; mama plays the piano and papa a
cornet; and mama and I sing soprano and Lisa alto.
We have concerts every night.
Our papa is Spanish-French, and mama is Spanish. I
bear her name. We are all brunettes except Maia, who
has lovely golden curls. Many people tell her she looks
like Elsie Leslie, whom we met in New York. Besides
our Chicago home we have a chateau near the Pyrenees
in Spain. I love it much; also Paris, where I was born.
With love, dear ST. NICK, I am your friend,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: My papa is in the army and
we have to move very often. We had a very long move
from Fort Mackinac to San Antonio. It took us five
days and a half. I like the army very much and would
not leave it for anything. Fort Mackinac was very old;
it was built by the British in 1780. Our house was very
queer; there were a great many old block-houses and
other old places; it was a very pretty place, and there
were a great many curiosities on the island. There
were Arch Rdck and Sugar-loaf and a great many other
things. We used to go wading in the lake very often
and also would go boating on the lake. San Antonio is
a very old place too; it is the headquarters of our regi-
ment. The post is lovely; the houses are all new. From
there we moved to Davis, which was twenty-two miles
from the railroad, and we had to ride in ambulances.
There used to be dust-storms so that we could not see

ahead of us, and at last we moved here. I do not like
this place so well. I have one little playmate, and we
have lots of fun riding burros.
Your loving little friend, MARY S. P--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Mama and I composed a story,
without using a dictionary, with words beginning only
with S:
Sarah Simonds sought some Sunday-school scholars.
" Scholars seldom sit still" said she, so she selected six,
straightforward, sober, steady, serious, save Stella Stark's
small sister Susan. Susan seemed stubborn, sullen.
Stella started scolding. Seeing she seemed sorry, soon
stopped -said sweet, soothing sentences.
Soon she seemed satisfied, serene. So Stella spun
some startling stories. She said she saw seven ships
sailing southward Sunday.
Suddenly she saw some ships slowly sinking. She
screamed several seconds. Strangely she saw six sailors
swim swiftly shoreward, seeking succor. Sad scene Six
sole survivors She simply said," Sabbath-breaking! "
Susan sighed.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought perhaps the readers
of A School-girl's Recollections of Hans Christian An-
dersen," in the October number, would like to know that
the story is quite true, and I have even heard Fraiilein
Rosa tell it. I spent the winter of 1887-88 in Dresden,
and I spent all the time I was there with the author of the
delightful tale. After supper we would all go into the
salon and beg her to tell us the story, and when she did
she showed the flowers and verse-the former carefully
pressed, and she is very proud of them One day Fraii-
lein Schmalz took us to the house where she had the
birthday party. It is a dear little house, high up on the
mountain, with a beautiful view of the Elbe. Dresden
is a beautiful and quaint old city, but is not at all clean-
looking on account of the soft coal the people burn. It
has one of the very finest picture-galleries in the world.
It contains the "Sistine Madonna," the most celebrated
of Raphael's Madonnas. Unfortunately I was only
nine years old then, and it is very seldom children
under twelve years of age are admitted, so I did not see
as much of it as I wished to. There is a beautiful park
there called the Grosser Garten, which is over two hun-
dred acres in size. It has a great many flower-beds,
which have different flowers put into them about twice a
week. The garden is full of beautiful walks and drives.
In winter it is especially nice, for there are many skating-
ponds. Many of the German families get their break-
fasts in the cafds. I went to a German school, but it was
very different from American ones. We never had any
school in the afternoon, but always on Saturday. I think
I would rather have it in the afternoon and then have
Saturday to myself. I enjoy ST. NICHOLAs very much.

WE thank the young friends whose names follow for
pleasant letters received from them: Tom B., Tom R.,
Eleanor G., Adeline L., Leslie A. F., Rebecca W. N.,
Eliza C., Yum-yum," Edna F. S., Anna, Emma O.




RHOMBOID. Across: i. Quest. 2. Satyr. 3. Tepid. 4. Melon.
5. Seton.
DOUBLE ZIGZAGS. From i to ro, Childermas; from iI to 20, St.
Nicholas. Cross-words: I. Collects. 2. Chaplets. 3. Criminal. 4.
Calliope. 5. Sadducee. 6. Besought. 7. Reggiolo. 8. Amusable.
9. Braggart. io. Amassing.
HoUR-GLASS. Centrals, Crimson. Cross-words: i. flaCcid. 2.
maRks. 3. fin. 4. M. 5. aSk. 6. crOak. 7. flaNnel.
ACROSTIC. Oregon, "Alis volat propriis." She flies with her
own wings. Cross-words: i. Cacas. 2. Elate. 3. Field. 4. Ascot.
5. Ovoid. 6. Colon. 7. Elegy. 8. Galop. 9. Atoll. so. Optic. ir.
Orion. x2. Lotus. 13. Apple. 14. Erato. 15. Girth. 16. Tiger. 17.
DECEMBER DIAMONDS. I. i. C. 2. She. 3. Sarah. 4. Sadiron.
5. Christmas. 6. Earthen. 7. Homes. 8. Nan. 9. S. II. i. M.
2. His. 3. Paste. 4. Hastens. 5. Mistletoe. 6. Steered. 7. Enter.
8. Sod. 9. E.
COMBINATION PUZZLE. Primals, terra; finals, cotta. Cross-
words: i. Talc. 2. Echo. 3. Rust. 4. Rant. 5. Anna.

ANAGRAM. Ralph Waldo Emerson.
BEHEADINGS. I. Byron. Cross-words: i. B-racket. 2. Y-ale.
3. R-ice. 4. 0-pen. 5. N-ape. II. Chaucer. Cross-words: I.
C-arouse. 2. H-eaves. 3. A-tone. 4. U-sage. 5. C-rash. 6. E-re-
bus. 7. R-anger.
PI. Heap up the fire more cheerly,-
We'll hail the new year early,
The old one has gone fairly,-
A right good year and true!
We 've had some pleasant rambles,
And merry Christmas gambols,
And roses with our brambles,
Adieu, old year, adieu !
DOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals, dog; finals, dog. Cross-words: x.
Deputed. 2. Othello. 3. Grazing.
A LAMP PUZZLE. Centrals, Statue of Liberty. Cross-words: i.
Asp. 2. Ute .Bag. 4. Hates. 5. Volutes. 6. Propeller. 7.
Camelopards. 8. Grandfather. 9. Elk. ro. Brisk. ri. Fable. 12.
Fleet. 3. Arc. 14. Whittle. I5. Rallyings.

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 OCTOBER NUMBER were received, before October isth, from Maude E. Palmer -Lillie O.
Estabrook-"The McG.'s" -"The Wise Five"- "Arthur Gride" -Josephine Sherwood-A. H. R. and M. G. R. -"Mid" -
Stephen O. Hawkins-Jo and I-"Eagle-eye," "Nimble Sixpence," J. M. V. C., Jr., and E. F. S. -" King Anso IV."- Ida
Carleton Thallon- E. M. G. Gertrude L. "Leather-stocking"- Alice Mildred Blanke and Edna Le Massena- "Uncle Mung" -
"The Spencers."
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE OCTOBER NUMBER were received, before October z5th, from Blanche Watson, r-- Susan W. F., I-
"Lorna Doone," I "Lillian Adonis," 3- Jennie De Shields, I Sarah Maxwell, Genevieve Mattingly, I- Elizabeth Moffatt, i
-Hughes, i-Elaine S., 2--Annie McClure, i-"Topsy" Adams, I-Paul Reese, I Helen Sewell, Harold Franks, 2-Julia
Johnson, I "The Peterkins," 9- Mabel Ganson, I Georgiana Stevenson, i Helen R., I Effie K. Talboys, 7- One of the
A. S.," 2 -A. P. C., A. A. W., and S. W. A., 4- Jane V. Hayes, Crosby Miller, Jessie and Robert King, i Edith Emory,
4 May and "79," 6 Carita and Mama, 4 Eric Palmer, 3 David W. Jayne, 6 The Tivoli Gang," s Wee 3," xx B. G.
Harman, i Wilfred W. Linsly, 3- Nellie L. Hawes, o0 Blanche and Fred, o Leap Year," Agnes E. Brewin, i Hubert L.
Bingay, --" Papa and Ed," o--Jessie Chapman, 6 --Ida and Alice, i--" Suse," 9.


I HAD a young playmate named I -2- 2 I,
And I went to school with her once, just for fun;
But at 2- 3 3 2, when recess was most through,
I said that she was a 2--3--4- 2.
She said she was not, that my grammar was new,
But that if she was one, then I" was one, too.
So we quarreled and parted, as others have done,
And I went home alone, without I 2 2- I.
The words to be supplied may be arranged so as to
form a word-square. M. E. D.

EXAMPLE: Take a word of denial from signified, and
leave an act. Answer, de-not-ed.
I. Take consumed from conquered, and leave a boy's
nickname. 2. Take to possess from made dusky, and
leave reared. 3. Take part of a table from to declare,
and leave a beverage. 4. Take the entire sum from rent
paid for a stall, and leave a platform. 5. Take frequently
from gently, and leave crafty. 6. Take one of a certain
tribe of Indians from cried, and leave furnished with
shoes. 7. Take a pronoun from ecclesiastical societies,
and leave a beautiful city. 8. Take the conclusion from
despatching, and leave to utter musically. 9 Take to
fasten from a clavichord, and leave to place. to. Take

an era from directs, and leave fortifies. II. Take an
article from boiled, and leave a germ. 12. Take the god-
dess of Revenge from a clergyman's assistant, and leave
worthless dogs.
All the syncopated words contain the same number
of letters. When these twelve words are placed one
below another, in the order here given, the central let-
ters, reading downward, will spell' the name of a festival
time occurring in January. F. s. F.


* *r *
a. B
a s

I. ACRoss: I. A Mexican plant. 2. Having the
mouth wide open. 3. Household deities among the
ancient Romans. 4. On the point. 5. A colloquial word
meaning "troublesome."
INCLUDED SQUARE: I. An opening. 2. A measure
of surface. 3. A vegetable.
II. ACROSS: I. To delineate. 2. One who breaks or
manages a horse. 3. Farewell. 4. Tests. 5. Confidence.
INCLUDED SQUARE: I. A small fish. 2. To expire.
3. A snake-like fish. "XELIS."


EACH of the seven pictures in the accompanying pic-
ture forms the cross-word of a double acrostic. When
these have been rightly guessed and placed one below
the other, the initial letters will spell the Christian name
and the finals the surname of a celebrated American
commodore, born in January over a hundred years ago.

A FOWLER owlbunn; a kobo rudane;
A reet whit turif undersaveth;
A thap rotund; a hoseu howes smoor
Klac tey het tearsh nidive musefrep;
A sledancap showe weid bredor slie
Ni stelin hades thane tensil kiess;
: A sourdown fanitoun tey sealdune;
A kescat whit tis gfist conelaced: -
Hist si het raye hatt fro yuo iwast
'Bonedy stowromor cystim stage.


THE primals name colors; the finals, an ensign or
CROSS-WORDS: I. A number going in company.
2. A river in North America. 3. A time of day. 4. An
estate held of a superior on condition of military service.
5. A feminine name. 6. A web-footed bird. 7. A dish
of stewed meat. 8. A hamlet of Palestine memorable
as the place of a miracle recorded by St. Luke. s. s.


> I. UPPER SQUARE: I. Pertaining to a city. 2. Gold
and silver. 3. A North American quadruped. 4. The
positive pole of an electric battery. 5. Certain days in
the Roman calendar.
II. LEFT-HAND SQUARE: I. A kind of rampart.
2. One of the Muses. 3. The friend of Pythias. 4. To
expiate. 5. Certain days in the Roman calendar.
III. CENTRAL SQUARE: I. Certain days in the
Roman calendar. 2. A round molding, the quarter of a
circle. 3. Unhackneyed. 4. A pupil. 5. Certain fishes.
IV. RIGHT-HAND SQUARE: I. Part of the feet.
2. Shaped like an egg. 3. A machine-tool for shaping
articles by causing them to revolve while acted on by a
cutting-tool. 4. A volatile fluid which produces a deep
-~ sleep. 5. Prophets.
2i .V. LOWER SQUARE: I. In every pair of shoes. 2. A
musical drama. 3. A fruit. 4. To eat into. 5. Healthier




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