Front Cover
 The famine among the gnomes
 A realized hope
 A picus and his pots
 A sudden shower (picture)
 Learning to ride
 A scholar
 A story of a very naughty girl;...
 To the author of Jabberwocky
 The captain of the Orient Base-ball...
 The queen's repartee
 Stories of art and the artists:...
 Little Guido's complaint
 The sister's three and the...
 The riddle
 A surprise party
 Donald and Dorothy
 What can be made with a handke...
 The poor dolly
 "Oh, that composition!": An offer...
 The letter-box
 Thr riddle-box
 Back Cover

Group Title: St. Nicholas.
Title: Saint Nicholas: Volume 9, no. 12. October 1882.
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00120
 Material Information
Title: Saint Nicholas: Volume 9, no. 12. October 1882.
Series Title: St. Nicholas.
Uniform Title: Saint Nicholas: Volume 9, no. 12
Alternate Title: Saint Nicholas
Physical Description: 68 v. : ill. ; 25-30 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Dodge, Mary Mapes, 1830-1905
Publisher: Scribner,
Publication Date: October 1882
Subject: Children's literature -- Periodicals.
Literature for Children
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: VID00120
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: notis - ocm0176
oclc - 7405657; (DLC)SF 89099153
oclc - (DLC) 2006255186; 55136171

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    The famine among the gnomes
        Page 909
        Page 910
        Page 911
        Page 912
        Page 913
        Page 914
    A realized hope
        Page 915
    A picus and his pots
        Page 916
        Page 917
        Page 918
    A sudden shower (picture)
        Page 919
    Learning to ride
        Page 920
        Page 921
        Page 922
        Page 923
        Page 924
    A scholar
        Page 925
    A story of a very naughty girl; or my visit to Mary Jane
        Page 925
        Page 926
        Page 927
        Page 928
        Page 929
    To the author of Jabberwocky
        Page 930
    The captain of the Orient Base-ball nine
        Page 931
        Page 932
        Page 933
        Page 934
    The queen's repartee
        Page 935
    Stories of art and the artists: Tenth paper
        Page 936
        Page 937
        Page 938
        Page 939
        Page 940
    Little Guido's complaint
        Page 941
        Page 942
    The sister's three and the kilmaree
        Page 943
        Page 944
        Page 945
        Page 946
        Page 947
        Page 948
        Page 949
        Page 950
        Page 951
        Page 952
    The riddle
        Page 953
        Page 954
        Page 955
    A surprise party
        Page 956
        Page 957
        Page 958
    Donald and Dorothy
        Page 959
        Page 960
        Page 961
        Page 962
        Page 963
        Page 964
        Page 965
        Page 966
        Page 967
        Page 968
        Page 969
        Page 970
        Page 971
    What can be made with a handkerchief
        Page 972
        Page 973
        Page 974
        Page 975
        Page 976
    The poor dolly
        Page 977
        Page 978
        Page 979
        Page 980
        Page 981
    "Oh, that composition!": An offer to young writers
        Page 982
    The letter-box
        Page 982
        Page 983
        Page 984
    Thr riddle-box
        Page 985
        Page 986
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text


-.- .# '


* ~ ;e n~~;


[See Letter-box.1



L, l


OCTOBER, 1882.

[Copyright, 1882, by THE CENTURY CO.]



I BELIEVE it was in the winter of 18- (but
it does not matter so much about the time) that
the servants on the large estate of Halthorp raised
a great ado about something or other. Whereupon
the baron of Halthorp, who was too stout to walk
down the stairs on slight provocation, called his
steward in a voice like that of an angry lion, and
asked him, "Why in the name of Moses he did
not keep the rascals quiet."
But, your honor," stammered the steward, who
was as thin as the baron was stout, "I have kept
them quiet for more than a month past, though it
has been hard enough. Now, they refuse to obey
me unless I admit them to your honor's presence,
that they may state their complaint."
"Impudent beggars!" growled the old gentle-
man. Tell them that I am about to take my after-
dinner nap, and that I do not wish to be disturbed."
I have told them that a dozen times," whined
the steward, piteously. "But they are determined
to leave in a body, unless your honor consents to
hear them."
"Leave! They can't leave," cried his honor.
" The law binds them. Well, well, to save talk-
ing, fling the doors open and let them come in."
The steward hobbled away to the great oak-
paneled doors (I forgot to tell you that he limped
in his left foot), and, cautiously turning the knob
and the key, peeped out into the hall. There stood
the servants-twenty-eight in all-but, oh what
a sight They were hollow-cheeked, with hungry
eyes and bloodless lips, and deep lines about their
mouths, as if they had not seen food for weeks.

Their bony hands twitched nervously at the coarse
clothes that flapped in loose folds about their
lean and awkward limbs. They were indeed a
pitiful spectacle. Only a single one of them-and
that was of course the cook--looked like an ordi-
nary mortal, or an extraordinary mortal, if you
like, for she was nearly as broad as she was
long. It was owing to the fact that she walked at
the head of the procession as they filed into the
parlor, that the baron did not immediately dis-
cover the miserable condition of the rest. But
when they had faced about, and stood in a long
row from wall to wall-well, you would hardly
believe it, but the baron, hard-hearted as he was,
came near fainting. There is a limit to all things.
and even a heart of steel would have been moved
at the sight of such melancholy objects.
"Steward," he roared, when he had sufficiently
recovered himself, "who is the demon who has
dared to trifle with my fair name and honor?
Name him, sir,-name him, and I will strangle
him on the spot "
The steward, even if he had been acquainted
with the demon, would have thought twice before
naming him under such circumstances. Accord-
ingly he was silent.
Have I not," continued the baron, still in a
voice that made his subjects quake have I not
caused ample provisions to be daily distributed
among you? Have not you, Mr. Steward, the keys
to my store-houses, and have you not my authority
to see that each member of my household is
properly provided for? "


No. 12.


The steward dared not answer; he only nod-
ded his head in silence.
If you please, your honor," finally began a
squeaky little voice at the end of the row (it was


r ** "


that of the under-groom), it is n't the steward as
is to blame, but it 's the victuals. Somehow there
is n't any taste nor filling' to them. Whether 1 eat
pork and cabbage, or porridge with molasses, it
don't make any difference. It all tastes alike. As
I say, your honor, the old Nick has got into the
The under-groom had hardly ceased speaking
before the baron, who was a, very irascible old
gentleman, seized his large gold-headed cane,
and, as quickly as his bulk would allow, rushed for-
ward to give vent to his anger.
I '11 teach you manners, you impudent clown,"
he bawled out, as, with his cane lifted above his
head, he rushed into the ranks of the frightened

servants, shouting to the under-groom, Criticise
my victuals, will you, you miserable knave "
The under-groom having on former occasions
made the acquaintance of the baron's cane, and
still remembering the unpleasant sensation, imme-
diately made for the door, and slipped nimbly out
before a blow had reached him. All the others,
who had to suffer for their spokesman's boldness,
tumbled pell-mell through the same opening, and
jumped, rolled, or vaulted down the steps and
landed in a confused heap at the bottom of the
The baron, in the meanwhile, marched with
long strides up and down the floor, and expressed
himself, not in the politest language, concerning
the impudence of his domestics.
However," he grumbled to himself, "I must
look into this affair and find out what fraud there
is at the bottom of it. The poor creatures could n't
get as lean as that unless there was some real
About three hours later, the baron heard the
large bell over the gable of his store-house ring out
for dinner. The wood-cutters and the men who
drove the snow-plow, and all other laborers on the
large estate, as soon as they heard it, flung away
their axes and snow-shovels and hurried up to the
mansion, their beards and hair and eyebrows all
white with hoar-frost, so that they looked like
walking snow-men. But as it happened, the
under-groom, Nils Tagfat, chanced at that mo-
ment to be cutting down a large snow-laden
fir-tree which grew on a projecting knoll of the
mountain. He pulled off his mittens and blew on
his hands (for it was bitter cold), and was about
to shoulder his ax, when suddenly he heard a
chorus of queer little metallic voices, as it seemed,
right under his feet. He stopped and listened.
There is the bell of Halthorp ringing! Where
is my cap? where is my cap ? he heard ci;-i;n.:rl
uttered, though he could not exactly place the
sound, nor did he see anybody within a mile
around. And just for the joke of the thing,
Nils, who was always a jolly fellow, made his voice
as fine as he could, and, mimicking the tiny voices,
squeaked out:
"Where is my cap ? Where is my cap ?"
But imagine his astonishment when suddenly he
heard a voice answer him with: "You can take
Grandfather's cap !" and at the same moment
there was tossed into his hands something soft,
resembling a small, red-peaked cap. Just out of
curiosity, Nils put it on his head to try how it
would fit him, and small as it looked, it fitted
him perfectly. But now, as the cap touched
his head, his eyes were opened to the strangest
spectacle he ever beheld. Out of the mountain





came a crowd of gnomes, all with little red-
peaked caps, which made them invisible to all who
were not provided with similar caps. They hur-
ried down the hill-side toward Halthorp, and Nils,
who was anxious to see what they were about, fol-
lowed at a proper distance behind. As he had
half expected, they scrambled up on the railings at
the door of the servants' dining-hall, and as soon
as the door was opened they rushed in, climbed up
on the chairs, and seated themselves on the backs
just as the servants took their places on the seats.
And now Nils, who, you must remember, had
on the cap that made him invisible, came very

at the steward's side sat the baron himself, in a
large, cushioned easy-chair. He did not eat, how-
ever; he was there merely to see fair play.
Each servant fell to work greedily with his knife
and fork, and just as he had got a delicious morsel
half-way to his mouth, the gnome on the back of
his chair stretched himself forward and calmly
snatched the meat from the end of the fork. Thus,
all the way around the table, each man uncon-
sciously put his piece of beef into the wide-open
mouth of his particular gnome. And the unbidden
guests grinned shrewdly at one another, and seemed
to think it all capital fun. Sometimes, when the


near splitting his sides with laughter. The first
course was boiled beef and cabbage. The smell
was delicious to Nils's hungry nostrils, but he had
to conquer his appetite in order to see the end of
the game. The steward stood at the end of the
table and served each with a liberal portion; and

wooden trays (which were used instead of plates)
were sent to be replenished, they made horrible
grimaces, often mimicking their poor victims, who
chewed and swallowed and went through all the
motions of eating without obtaining the slightest
nourishment. They all would have liked to fling




knives and forks and trays out through the win-
dows, but they had the morning's chastisement
freshly in mind, and they did not dare open their
mouths except for the futile purpose of eating.
"Well, my lads and lasses," said the baron,
when he had watched the meal for some minutes;
"if you can complain of food like this, you indeed
deserve to be flogged and put on prison fare."
Very likely, your honor," said one of the milk-
maids; but if your honor would demean yourself
to take a morsel with us, we would bless your honor
for your kindness and complain no more."
The baron, looking around at all the hopeless
eyes and haggard faces, felt that there was some-
thing besides vanity that prompted the request; and
he accordingly ordered the cook to bring his own
plate and drew his chair up to the table. Hardly
had he seized his knife when Nils saw a gnome,
who had hitherto been seated on the floor awaiting
his turn, crawl up on the arm of his big chair and,
standing on tiptoe, seize between his teeth the
first bit the baron was putting to his mouth. The
old gentleman looked astounded, mystified, be-
wildered; but, fearing to make an exhibition of
himself, selected another mouthful, and again con-
ducted it the accustomed way. The gnome came
near laughing right out, as he dispatched this
second morsel in the same manner as the first,
and all around the table the little monsters held
their hands over their mouths and seemed on the
point of exploding. The baron put down knife
and fork with a bang; his eyes seemed to be start-
ing out of his head, and his whole face assumed
an expression of unspeakable horror.
"It is Satan himself who is mocking us !"he
cried. "Send for the priest! Send for the priest!"
Just then Nils crept around behind the baron,

who soon felt something soft, like a fine skull-
cap, pressed on his head, and before he had time
to resent the liberty, he started in terror at the
sight of the little creature that he saw sitting on the
arm of his chair. The baron sprang up with an
exclamation of fright, and pushed the chair back
so violently that it was almost upset upon the floor.
The gnome dexterously leaped down and stood
staring back at the baron for an instant; then, with
a spring, he snatched a potato and half a loaf of
bread, and disappeared. In his haste, the baron
ran against Nils, the under-groom, who (now with-
out a cap) was standing with a smiling countenance
calmly surveying all the confusion about him.
"Now, was I right, your honor? he asked'with
a respectful bow. Did you find the victuals very
filling? "
The baron, who was yet too frightened to an-
swer, stood gazing toward a window-pane, which
suddenly and noiselessly broke, and through which
the whole procession of gnomes, huddled together
in flight, tumbled headlong into the snow-bank
"And what shall we do, Nils ? said the baron,
the next day, when he had recovered from his
shock, "to prevent the return of the unbidden
guests ?"
Stop ringing the great bell," answered Nils.
" It is that which invites the gnomes."
And since that day the dinner-bell has never
been rung at Halthorp.
But one day, late in the winter, Nils the groom, as
he was splitting wood on the mountain-side, heard
a plaintively tinkling voice within, singing:

"Hunger and sorrow each new day is bringing,
Since Halthorp bell has ceased its ringing."







WHAT is it, Charley-what are you digging for
now? Is it mice ?"
"Mice! Wud he go for mice wid a rake? An'
it 's not mice, begorra," said Pat McCue.
"No, it is n't mice; but if you boys want some
fun, you can climb over and take hold."
We 're coming. I'll call Grip. What on earth
is it, Charley ? "
"No, sir I don't want Grip. Not this time.
I don't care to have any small dogs in my town."
"Your townY?"
Hal Pinner had reached the top rail of the gar-
den fence, and he paused for a moment to look
down on the puzzle.
"Town!" echoed Pat McCue. "I 'd like to
know what wud a town be wid no dogs ?"
Charley Brayton had not stopped work for an
instant. He was plying a long-handled garden
rake upon a patch of soft earth near the fence, and
his younger brother stood in the path, a few feet
away, watching him very seriously.
"Dogs ?" he said. Yes, of course, dogs. When
the town 's done, I '1 have some; cats, too, if I
can get 'em of the right size."
"Hal," said Pat McCue, gravely, "Charley 's
took wid one of his quare noshins--that's all."
Just now Charley's "queer notion" had so
strong a hold upon him that he did not seem to
notice it. He raked away, with a care that was
quite remarkable, for a moment more. Then he
drew a long breath and leaned upon his rake-
"Well, I '11 tell you, boys, it 's just this way:
My Uncle Frank is visiting at our house. He
lives away out West. None of our folks have seen
him before for years and years. I did n't know
him at first. They had to tell me who he was.
Then he showed me a couple of bats and a ball
he 'd bought for me."
"Show us thim," interrupted Pat McCue.
"Sure, it 's a new ball we nade, worst of all
things in the worruld."
"I will, by and by," said Charley. "And he
brought me a new knife with four blades."
"Hear that, Hal Pinner! shouted Pat. "It's
out West they make the right kind of uncles. I '11
get me mother to spake for wan."
"And he said if I 'd come and pay him a visit
he'd give me a gun--"
"Now, Charley, whin ye go on that visit, take
me along. Mebbe he 's got two o' thim guns "

"Keep still, Pat," said Hal Pinner. "Let
Charley get through."
Charley had to turn, just then, and say to his
small brother: Keep back, Bub-you 're step-
ping on the boundary line," but he went right on
with his explanation.
"And you see, boys, Uncle Frank's been build-
ing a new town, and they let me sit up till eleven
o'clock last night, hearing him tell all about it- "
"Elivin o'clock," muttered Pat.
"And it was all a bare prairie when he began.
Not a house, nor a fence, nor so much as a field of
corn on it "
That's it," said Pat; "it 's aisy to do anything
at all, af there 's nothing at all in the way."
And Uncle Frank went at it, and now it's a
young city, with two railroads and a river, and all
sorts of things, and the people that live there buy
town-lots of him and pay him rent for their houses,
and buy sugar and coffee and things at his store,
and he has a big farm outside, and hunts for
birds and deer and rabbits."
I 'd like to have four or five of them uncles,"
said Pat, with a long sigh, as he slowly came down
from the fence. "But what's all that got to do
wid your rakin' for mice in the garden, to-day ?"
Mice? said Charley. This bed was full of
radishes, till they got ripe. Then we pulled 'em
up and ate them. Uncle Frank says they have
radishes three times as large out West. And I
asked Father if I might have the bed for a town,
now it's empty, and I've got it almost level now.
The first thing to do, when you 're going to build
a town, is to get all the weeds and sticks and old
roots out of the way."
Hal Pinner was on the ground now, and both
he and Pat McCue began to see the fun in Charley
Brayton's quaree noshin."
As for Grip, that active little black-and-tan
had worked his way under the fence, but he had
scented something among Deacon Pinner's lilac
bushes, and was dodging in and out through
The rake had nearly done its part in the work
of making that town, and the patch of earth,
about six feet wide by twice as many long, was as
smooth and level as a table.
A hoe, a shovel, a lot of half-bricks, and a pile
of shingles were lying in the path, and little Bub
Brayton was doing his best on a building of his
own with some of the bricks.

1882. J



"That 's our prairie," said Charley. "We '11
want a river next."
What for ? asked Hal Pinner.
What for ? said Pat McCue. Did ye never
see a river ? It's to put bridges over. What wud ye
do wid yer bridges av ye did n't provide a river? "
"And to run steam-boats on," said Charley, as
he worked away with his hoe at a sort of trench
running across the patch from corner to corner.
"I '11 put in this end of yer river wid the spade,"
said Pat.
"What shall I do ?" asked Hal.
Pick out a good big brick for a corner grocery
store, and another for a college, and another for a
hotel. Then you go and cut some sods for a City-
hall square. That 's got to be green, till the peo-
ple kill the grass by walking on it. Uncle Frank
says they 've killed all his grass, except some that
grows wild in the streets."
The new river was rapidly dug out, but no water
made its appearance.
We 'II do without weather for a while," said
Pat, "but we '11 build twice as many bridges, so
they '11 know it 's a river whin they coom to it."
The sods were cut and brought, and Charley went
to the house for a long pole, and, with that laid flat
on the ground, he began to mark out the patch of
ground into little squares of about twelve inches each.
"What are ye doin' now? asked Pat.
Laying out the streets. Uncle Frank did that,
first thing. Only he says the cows can't find some
of them yet, and there 's two he wishes he 'd lost
before he let 'em be built up the way they are.
This is the main street."
Make it wider," said Pat. Think of all the
processions there '11 be on that street! Make it
wide enough for any kind of a Fourth of July to
walk in."
"I say, Charley," said Hal, here 's a lot of
bricks just alike. Let's have a block of stores."
"All right. And these stones are for meeting-
"There 's just about shingles enough for
bridges," said Pat. But what are ye raisin' that
hape o' dirt for, at the corner ? "
"That 's our fort. We '11 cut a Liberty-pole
and swing out a flag, and I '11 mount all three of
my cannon on it."
And my pistol," said Hal.
"And I 've a big cannon of me own," added
Pat. "I can put it behind the fort, lukin' over
into the town. They '11 all be paceable enough
whin they luk into the mouth of it."
It was grand fun, and the boys worked like beavers.
They were so busy, in fact, that they were not
listening for the sound of coming feet, and their

first warning of the approach of a visitor was from
a deep voice behind them, which suddenly said:
All right, Charley. I see what you 're up to.
Did n't I hear you say that all those stones were
meeting-houses ? "
Oh, Uncle Frank Are you here? Yes, sir."
He rapidly ran over the names of several de-
nominations, and could not see why Uncle Frank
should laugh as he did.
That's it, Charley. We went at it just in that
way. We 're doing a good deal what you are, to
this very day."
What 's that, sir?" asked Charley.
"Waiting for population, my boy. Some of it
has come but we want more."
"'Dade, sir, and some of ours has come, too,"
suddenly exclaimed Pat McCue, and it 's diggin'
cillars, first thing."
Charley turned to look, and instantly shouted:
Hal Pinner, call off Grip He's scratching the
main street right into the river Bub, jump out
quick You 've put the Baptist meeting-house on
top of the town-hall. Stop "
Bub chuckled with delight, and before he obeyed
he rearranged several of the bridges across the new
stores instead of the river.
What is the name of your new city, Charles?"
asked Uncle Frank, soberly.
"Name? I had n't thought of that. I suppose
it must have a name."
"Certainly. That's the first thing, when you
build a town. All there was of my new town, for
ten years, was the name and an old wagon I left in
the middle of it. The rest of it grew up around
that wagon."
"Did n't ye say there was radishes here, wance,
on the bed that was ? asked Pat McCue.
"Yes," hesitated Charley.
That 's it, thin-our town is named, sir. It's
Radishville! "
Capital," exclaimed Uncle Frank. All your
letters '11 come straight. It 's the only town of that
name in the whole country. But you '11 have to
look out for one thing."
"What 's that, sir ?"
"The right kind of population. We let in some
that made us all sorts of trouble."
So did we, sor," said Pat McCue. There he
is again. Was it dogs of that size, sor ? Sure and
that black-and-tan wud scratch the streets out of
ony town, av he got at it while it was young and
Grip was put over the fence again and Uncle
Frank walked away, but the boys spent more than
one morning, after that, in building up and orna-
menting and fortifying Radishville.





0 DEAR, it 's very hard indeed to sit here pa-
And see that heartless little girl eat chicken for
her tea!
She don't know how to take a hint, for I have
said Bow-wow,"
And no one could look hungrier than I am look-
ing now.

It surely is a drum-stick that she 's holding in her
If I had that, I 'd be the happiest puppy in
the land !
I wonder if she hears me crying softly through
my nose;
I 'd yelp out if I dared, but it would never do,
I s'pose.

Ma had some meat like that one day, and I
gnawed it, but since then
She 's watched me, and I 've never had a single
chance again.

I 've dreamed of it sometimes! -yaf/--yaJ !-
'T would move a heart of stone,
That I 'm too old for bread and milk, and yet
too young for bone.

Perhaps if I should come up near, and play a
little trick,
My mistress would throw down a bite; but no !-
"'T will make him sick,"-
That 's what she always says, and she laughs at
my big head and feet.
'T would serve her right if I should go and get
lost in the street.

I look so young, she often says,-as if she did n't,
too !-
There comes a bone / I whined so hard, I do
believe she knew.
My, what a noise With teeth like that, a pug
like me deserves
Something beyond such trashy stuff as pickles
and preserves.





IN very ancient times, when men believed that
almost every mountain and river, brook and grove,
was presided over by a deity of some sort, it was
said that nectar and ambrosia were the drink and
food of these gods. Because those old poets and
philosophers indulged in those fine stories about
nymphs and satyrs, fawns, naiads, and dryads, we
call them heathen; but, after all, their myths, like
the fictions of our own writers, are beautiful and
entertaining. I have often thought of a charming
story which might be written by some imaginative
boy or girl about a wood deity which haunts some
of the groves of America. It can be said with
much truth that nectar and ambrosia fill the cups
and pots of this bright and joyous being. I have
seen him sipping nectar more fragrant than the
fabled sweets of Hybla and Hymettus. This is
saying much, for Hybla used to be the most
famous town in the world for its honey, and Hy-
mettus was a mountain, south-east of Athens, in
Greece, where the bees stored their combs with the
purest distillations from the flowers. But I have
looked into the clean, curiously wrought cups of
our American grove-god, when they were full to
overflowing with clear fluid. I have even tasted
the nectar, although the cups were so small that
only the merest bit of my tongue could enter. It
is slightly acrid, this nectar, but it has in its taste,
hints, so to speak, of all the perfumes and sweets
of the winds and leaves and flowers-a fragrance
of green wood when cut, and of the inner tender
bark of young trees. And a racy flavor, too, which
comes from the aromatic roots of certain of our
evergreens, is sometimes discoverable in it.
The being of which I speak is an industrious
little fellow. Many times I have watched him
making pots to catch nectar in, and cups to hold
the precious ambrosia. These he hollows out so
neatly that they all look alike, and he arranges
them in rows around the bole of a tree-some-
times a maple, often an ash, may be a pine, and
frequently a cedar. He has a great many of these
pots and cups-so many, indeed, that it seems to
keep him busy for a great part of the day drinking
their delicious contents. He has very quiet ways,
and you must be silent and watchful if you wish
ever to see him. He rarely uses his voice, except
when disturbed, and then he utters a keen cry
and steals off through the air, soon disappearing
in the shadows of the woods.
In the warm, dreamful weather of our early

spring days you may find him by keeping a sharp
lookout for his pots, which are little holes or pits
bored through the bark and through the soft outer
ring of the wood of certain trees. Very often you

*1 -



can find rings and rings of these pits on the trunks
of the apple-trees of the orchards, every one of
them full of nectar.
And now you discover that, after all, my winged
grove-deity is nothing but a little bird that
many persons call by the undignified but very
significant name of Sap-sucker! Well, what of
it? My story is truer than those of the old Greek
and Latin poets, for mine has something real in it,
as well as something beautiful and interesting.. I
suspect that many of the ancient myths are based
upon the facts of nature and are embellished with
fantastic dressing, just as some imaginative boy or
girl might dress up this true story of our sap-drink-
ing woodpecker.
In fact, how much happier, how much more
redolent of joyous sweets, is the life of this quiet
bird than that of any such beings-if they could
have existed-as those with which the ancients
peopled their groves and mountains Think of
flying about on real wings among the shadows of
the spring and summer woods, alighting here and




there to sip real nectar and ambrosia from fragrant
cedar pots !
The sap-drinking woodpecker is of the Picus
family, or Picidce, which name was given to a bird
of his kind in ancient times. The story runs that
a king of Latium, named Picus, renowned for his
beauty and for his love of horses and the chase,
went forth one day to hunt in the woods, dressed
in a splendid purple robe with a gold neck-band.
Circe, a sorceress, became angry at him, and,
crril:!rn him with her wand, turned him into the
bird that has ever since borne his name.
Several of the smaller American woodpeckers
are sap-drinkers; but only one kind, the one of
which I am writing, ever pecks holes for the pur-
pose of getting at the sap. He is named by
naturalists Centurus Carolinus. He is a very cun-
ning bird. One of his habits is to move around the
bole of a tree just fast enough to keep nearly hid
from you as you walk around trying to get a good
look at him. This he will continue to do for a con-
siderable length of time, but, finally getting the
tree-trunk fairly between you and him, he takes to
his gay wings and flies in such a line as to keep
hidden from your eyes. Usually he says good-bye
with a keen squeal as he starts away.
Down in the mountain valleys of Northern
Georgia I used to amuse myself with watching the
little half-naked negro boys trying to shoot sap-
suckers by means of their blow-guns. Such a
blow-gun as they had is a straight reed or cane
about six feet long, through the whole length of
which a smooth bore is made by punching out the
joints. The arrow used in this gun is made of a
sharp piece of cane-wood not longer or larger than
a knitting-needle, with a ball of cotton-lint bound
on the end opposite the point. The arrow is blown
out of the gun by the breath from the shooter's
mouth. It flies with so great force that I have
seen a bird killed at a distance of forty yards.
Some of the little negro boys were very skillful in
using the blow-gun, and as sly as cats in creeping
up close to a bird before shooting at it. Many
people in Northern Georgia have China trees on
their lawns. The berries of these trees intoxicate
or render drowsy the robins which feed upon them,
and then the poor birds are killed very easily by
these blow-gun Nimrods ; but the sap-sucker never
eats berries of any kind, so he keeps sober and
gives his persecutors great trouble, nearly always
outwitting them, for birds, like people, succeed
better by keeping clear of everything intoxicating.
In our Northern States, when the winter is very
cold and all the maples and ash and hickory trees
are frozen so that their sap will not flow into our
bird's pots, he is compelled to depend upon the
cedar trees for food, since their resinous sap is not

affected by the cold. Often I have seen him peck-
ing away at the gnarled bole of an evergreen when
the thermometer's mercury stood ten degrees below
zero, and the air was fairly blue with winter's breath.
Even in Georgia it is sometimes so cold that he
chooses the pine trees, finding between their bark
and the underlying wood a sort of diluted turpen-
tine upon which he feeds. While busily engaged
pecking his holes on cold, windy days he is not so
watchful as in fine weather. At such times I have
seen a little negro "blow-gunner" stick three or
four arrows into the soft bark all around the busy
bird before it would fly, and have been just as much
surprised at the boy as at the bird; because, if it
was strange how the bird could be so busy as not
to notice an arrow "chucking" into the tree close
by him, it was equally strange how that little negro
could stand it" to be out so long in such a cold,
raw wind with nothing on but a shirt !
But in spring and summer it seems to me this
little bird ought to be supremely happy, having


[..il'i;r. to do but to fly from tree to tree and
attend to his brimming pots of nectar and am-
brosia, now sipping the amber wine of the hickory,
now the crystal juice of the maple, and anon the
aromatic sap of the cedar.
The nest of the sap-sucker is in a hole pecked in
a rotten tree. A beautiful little home it is, cun-
ningly carved to fit the bird's body. Its door is



" %



-- ,I Ii.I -


usually shaded by a knot or bough, and sometimes
its cavity is a foot or two deep, lined in the bottom
with finely pulverized wood and leaves of lichen.
One peculiarity of the woodpecker family is
extremely strong in the sap-sucker. This peculiarity
maybe called a rolling flight, and is produced by a
single vigorous stroke of the wings, which are then
held for a second or more closely pressed to the
bird's sides. Of course, with each of these wing-
strokes the bird mounts high in the air; then while
the wings are closed it falls a certain distance.
Another stroke causes it to mount again, and so
on, this peculiar flight giving it a galloping motion,
or a motion like that of a boat riding on high-roll-
ing waves.
For a long while I felt sure this bird ate nothing
but the sap or blood of trees; but, finally, I dis-
covered one very complacently sipping the juice of
a ripe peach. I do not blame him for that, how-
ever,-do you ? If I were a bird I should take a
sample sip from every ripe peach I came across,
particularly such great blood-red Indian peaches as
that one was.

Many owners of orchards are of the opinion that
the sap-sucker injures their trees by pecking so
many holes in them, but after closely studying the
subject for several years I have concluded that,
instead of hurting them, he really benefits them;
for some of the finest bearing apple-trees I ever
saw were just as full of pits from root to top as
they could be, many of these pits having been
pecked ten years before I saw them. So our
nectar-loving bird should not be killed as an
enemy, but ought to be loved for his beauty and
admired for his rare cunning.
One notable habit of the sap-sucker is that of
returning year after year to the same tree for his
food. I spent three consecutive winters in a cheery
old farm-house, in front of whose hospitable door
stood a knotty and gnarled cedar tree, to which
every January came a solitary sap-sucker. It
was quite a study to examine the holes he had
pecked, all up and down the entire length of its
rugged surface. Some of them had been made so
long ago they were almost grown over; others were
a little more distinct, and the latest were bright and



,,'` \


new, overflowing with clear, viscid fluid. By care-
fully comparing the number of pits made each
year, and the yearly change in their appearance, I
concluded that this bird had been drawing upon
this tree for food every winter for at least ten years.
Of course some other bird may have helped at
times, but my opinion is that the sap-sucker is a
very long-lived bird, and that if not frightened
away he will return to his pots or make new ones
in the same tree every year for a long period of

The red-head, the flicker, and the smaller vari-
eties of woodpecker, all of close kin to the sap-
sucker, take great delight in ........ :.. .. drinking
to the health of the latter out of his own pots, first
driving him away by furiously attacking him ; but
they are either too lazy or too ignorant to make
any pots of their own. Our nectar-loving little
friend, however, does not seem to care much for
this kind of robbery. He knows where all the best
trees are, and if he is driven from one he gives a
sharp squeal and flies away to another.


// /
/ ///


------ /
















ONG. ago, when our great
grandfathers came to this
country, they found a land
where there were no horses.
When they pushed out into
S the far West, they found
wild horses roaming over the
prairies. These animals were
not natives, but the descend-
1 ants of horses brought over
Sby the Spanish when they
( ; invaded Mexico. Some of
these Spanish
o horses ran
away and be-
came the wild
horses of the
/ plains, or, as
they are call-
ed, mustangs.
To-day this is the great horse country of the
world. Nowhere else are these animals so cheap
and plentiful.

Now American boys are as brave and active as
any in the world, and learned travelers tell us
they know more than any boys yet discovered in
the solar system. Likewise, the American girl is
sweet and good and true-as bright as any girl in
Europe. For all this, American boys and girls do
not, as a rule, ride horseback. It is true, some
country boys, east and west, ride fearlessly and
well, but the majority of boy and girl riders have
climbed, by the aid of a rail-fence, on the back of
a farm-horse, and when they were mounted the
horse either laughed in his mane or ingloriously
tumbled the rider over his head. It is very strange
that in such a land of horses so few boys and girls
know how to ride. It is a mistake to think that,
when Dobbin has been brought to the fence and
you have climbed on his back, this is riding.
Not even the most uncommonly bright girl or the
most learned boy can ride without instruction.
One has to learn this art, just as one must learn to
play the piano or to mount a bicycle.
Let us consider the horse, see what he is like,
and then, perhaps, we may learn what it means to
ride. A horse is an animal with a large brain, and,
though he seldom speaks, you may be sure he
thinks and has a mind of his own. Besides this,
he has four legs. These are important things to
remember-he stands on four legs and can think

for himself. He also has ears, and, though he is
not given to conversation, he hears and understands
much that is said to him. He also has a temper-
good or bad-and may be cross and ill-natured,
or sweet-tempered, cheerful, patient, and kind. In
approaching such a clever creature, it is clear a boy
or girl must be equally patient, kind, cheerful, and
good-natured. Unless you are as good as a horse,
you have no right to get upon his back.
Of course, there are bad horses, but they are not
fit for riding, and are used only to drag horse-cars
or do other common work. All riding-horses fit
for the society of boys and girls are good horses,
not merely for walking or galloping, but morally
good-gentle, kind, patient, careful, and obedient.
Any boy or girl, over seven years of age, with a
brave heart and steady hand, and also sweet-tem-
pered, gentle, kind, and thoughtful, can learn to
ride. All others must sit in a box on wheels and
be dragged about.
Come, all boys and girls who love fun Let us
go to the Riding-school. Baby can come, too, and
sit with Mamma and look on, while the others
mount the ponies. The school is a large hall,
with a lofty roof and a floor of sand or tan-bark.
At the sides are galleries and seats for the specta-
tors. Adjoining the school is the residence of the
amiable horses and charming ponies the pupils use
in taking their lessons, and it may be truly said
they make a large and happy family. There are
more than a hundred of them, and each one has
been selected for his gentleness and sweet temper.
They have nothing to do but to carry the scholars
in the school-room or in the park. They certainly
live in the best society, and it is not a matter of
wonder that they are very polite and of the most
agreeable horse-manners.
First of all is the saddling-room, a corner of
which is shown on the next page. This is where
our horses and ponies are harnessed for us. At the
right, the man is just taking the saddles from the
elevator on which they come down from the har-
ness-room upstairs. At 'the back is a view of the
school-room. Behind the man are three of our
ponies. Another is looking this way. He cer-
tainly has a pleasant face. He will do for Nellie,
as she is a beginner and rather timid.
Mamma and the baby go upstairs and find seats
in the gallery, where they can look down on the
school. Nellie and the girls go to their dressing-
rooms to put on their habits, and the boys, includ-




ing Master Tommy, go to their quarters to make
ready for the mount. When all are ready we meet
in the great school-room. Here we find the head
master and the assistant teachers. It is a queer
school-no books or slates, and the teachers with
small whips-for the horses only. Each teacher
has four pupils, and Nellie falls to the lot of the
head master of the school.
"Now, Miss, there is nothing to fear. See!
The old fellow is as gentle as a lamb. There's
no danger whatever." A fall in the riding-school
is as rare as citron in a baker's cake. Still, she is
afraid, and requires some urging to consent to be
lifted and put on the pony's back. "Take one
rein in each hand, pass it between the little finger
and the next, and over the first finger, with the
thumb resting on top. Do not touch the saddle
nor pull hard on the reins. You must keep your
seat by balancing yourself as the horse moves, but
not by the reins."

all about it, but the teacher seems to have a good
deal to say to him about something. The others,
with merry talk and laughter, are mounted at last,
and the teachers lead the horses and ponies slowly
around the ring, showing each pupil how to ride
This horseback riding is a curious art, and you
can not master it in one lesson. Such lessons of
an hour each, three times a week, for three
months, is the usual course required to make a
really good rider. To make the horse perform
fancy steps, leap hedges, and that sort of thing,
requires from one to two years' study in a good
school and much out-of-door practice. Like learn-
ing to dance, it consists in the art of holding and
carrying the body gracefully and naturally. Very
few boys and girls in this country ever learn to
walk naturally and gracefully without instruction,
and to dance or ride one must go to school. Walk-
ing, dancing, and riding are parts of a good edu-

,,' I' ,,"i, "' 1"' 1: '' '-1 'i '' "I' 'N
,, . :r ~' '.''" ,: "

I ,, hl 1, 11''T" ,- lr

". I *i ,
,, i *; I
1,11.11 '
i i L 1

"Hello, Master Tommy! You are over-bold.
You look like a mouse on a mountain on that tall
horse. Get down and take a pony of your own
size." Tommy, by the way, rode the farm-horse
to water once last summer, and he thinks he knows

I:..,, l ,, ,. I,,, ,, . .!,,! ,,, v in g
,-.' ,, t ",' 1 i ,. !L;-rl I n. ,i . I .,,,., ,'i !r ,.. O u r
great lauli in tis CiiOuIly is LhiaL Wve du ntoL know
how to be natural.
The body is the house we live in. It is a pretty
good house, and should not only be neatly clothed,
but be carried in a correct and natural manner.
No one thinks of wearing torn clothes or living in




a tumble-down house, and why should we not
stand and walk, or sit and ride, in a natural and
graceful manner? We are so made that if we do
things in the right way we shall always find it the
easiest way also, and that it will enable us to be
natural and graceful at the same time.
The art of riding teaches all this, and once
learned is wonderfully easy, and becomes as much
second nature as walking. It consists of two
things: a good seat and guiding the horse. By a
good seat is meant a secure position on the horse.
For a boy it means to put both legs over the horse,
with the upper part of the leg bent slightly for-
ward, the lower part hanging down, with the foot
in the stirrup and the heel slightly lower than the
toes. Sit erect, with the body free to sway in every
direction on the hips. For a girl, the right leg is
thrown over the horn of the saddle, and the left
hangs down like a boy's. Her body is really on a
pivot, through the hips, and must freely bend for-
ward or backward, or on either side, without mov-
ing in the saddle. With a little practice, even timid



of the class with the teacher. She is looking at him
to see howhe holds the reins. She has got over her
fright in mounting and looks quite like a young
horse-woman. The others follow in pairs, a boy
and girl together. Last of all, on the left, is Master
Tommy at the foot of the class. With all his haste
he goes rather slowly. Take them altogether, they
make a very handsome cavalcade.
The horse, as was remarked, has four feet and a
brain. Riding consists not only in a good seat, but
the art of teaching the horse to give up his will
and to do, not what he wishes, but what you wish.
So you must come to an understanding with the
horse-learn his way of thinking and his language.
Left to himself, he might go the wrong way, or stand
still and go nowhere in particular. It might be
very pleasant for him, but this is not what we want.
So in the school you are taught all the words of
command: to start, to halt, to trot or gallop, to
change step, and to go to the right or left. To tell it
all would fill a book, and we can only now observe,
in a general way, how a horse is managed. It


girls like Nellie soon learn to sit securely. Now is done both by voice and by motions of the hand
she is safe and comfortable, and it is a pleasure to and body, For instance, the word is given to start
look at her. or stop, but the rider's body must be moved :1i i,1
Here is the entire party, with Nellie at the head on the hips to help the horse. To turn to the right



1882.] LEARNING TO RIDE. 923

or left, the reins are turned very slightly, the body
is bent in the opposite direction to that you wish to
take, and the horse's side is touched gently with the

The moment you get on his back you observe
that the motion is very different from walking. As
he has four legs, and as you sit between the two pair,

- ..


foot. Boys use either foot, but girls use only the left
foot, and touch the horse on the right with a riding-
whip. This is the merest hint of what is meant by
learning to ride, but it is enough to show what is
done in the riding-school. The horse has a mind of
his own, and, though he surrenders his will to the
rider, he yet watches where he is going and always
has his wits about him. He will not willingly fall or
stumble. He will not step on you should you fall
on the ground, nor can you drive him against a
wall or down a steep bank. A steam-engine has
no mind, and will run into a ditch or into the river
just as readily as on the rails. A horse has a brain
and can use it, and so in riding he thinks for him-
self and the rider, and will not follow what he
knows to be wrong or foolish commaidtts.
VOL. IX.-59.

you are really at a place between four points of
support that. are continually moving. This you
have always to remember, and to ride gracefully
you must conform to every motion of your horse.
If you wish him to turn sharply to the right and
change his step, you lean to the left. This throws
your weight on three of his legs and leaves the right
fore leg free, and, as it moves more easily than any
other, the horse steps out with that foot first. But,
to give you all the details would only weary you.
The best way to learn is to go to a riding-school,
or else to have a good teacher at home.
After several weeks' study in the school the
pupils are taken out in the park, along the bri-
dle-paths. On the next page is a picture of one
of the advanced classes out for a practice ride.






They have been caught in a shower, and have and hedges, destroying the farmers' crops and
run under a bridge to get out of the rain. Two doing a great deal of harm, all for the sake of a
of them have been beaten in the race with the race after a fox or a rabbit. They never think
shower, as you will observe, of paying the farmer for the damage,
Sometimes boys and g'ili ;f.. .- -. .i.1 li.-y call it fine sport. We
English families come to li.: i .... none of this kind of riding
school with a note from ho'i,:' America. There is no
saying they must be taught i need of learning to leap
to ride in the English A on horseback over a fence
style-that is, learn to j here, and if we did so,
leap fences and ditches. very likely the farmer
So Master Percy Fitz- would make us pay a
dollymount and his fine for trampling on
sister, the Honorable P _. .- his crops.
Mary Adelaide Fitz- Last of all, here is
dollymount, are given Nellie, just as she fell
lessons in leaping over asleep in her riding hab-
a low fence. Why do it, after her first lesson.
you suppose they do She seems to be dream-
this ? In England, the ing of the great horseshoe
grand people who own th,: b that surrounds her head
land go hunting for like a glory. Let us hope
hares, rabbits, and .. that she will be a
foxes, and ride rough- brave horsewoman,
ly right across the and that the shoe will
country, over fields bring her good luck.







" YES, I am five years old to-day
Last week I put my dolls away;
For it was time, I 'm sure you '11 say,
For one so old to go
To school, and learn to read and spell;
And I am doing very well;-
Perhaps you 'd like to hear me tell
How many things I know.

" Well, if you '11 only take a look-
Yes, this is it-the last I took,
Here in my 'pretty picture-book,
Just near the purple cover;-
Now listen--Here are one, two, three
Wee little letters, don't you see?-
Their names are D and 0 and G;
They spell-now guess !- Old Rover. "



WHEN Mary Jane Hunt left Tuckertown last
summer, she invited me to come to the city and
make her a visit.
If I were sure Mrs. Hunt wanted you, 'Lizbeth,
I would like to have you go," said Mother, for
it's good for young folks to widen their horizon
now and then, and you would enjoy seeing the
I did n't care anything about my horizon, but I
did want most awfully to see the sights; but,
although I teased and teased, Mother would n't
let me go.
There was a great church bother in Tucker-
town that year, but our folks were n't in it. The
trouble began in the choir, who could n't agree
about the tunes. On some Sundays the organist
would n't play, and on others the singers would n't
sing. Once, they all stopped short in the middle
of "Greenland's Icy Mountains," and it was real
exciting at church, for you never knew what
might happen before you came out; but folks
said it was disgraceful, and I suppose it was. They
complained of the minister because he did n't put
a stop to it; so at last he took sides with the organ-
ist, and dismissed the choir, and declared we would
have congregational singing in the future. 'Most
everybody thought that would be the end of the
trouble; but, mercy! it was hardly the begin-
ning Things grew worse and worse. To begin
with, the congregation would n't sing. You see,
they had had a choir so long, people were sort of
afraid to let out their voices; and besides, there

was Elvira Tucker, who had studied music in
Boston, just ready to make fun of them if they
did. For she was one of the choir, and they were
all as mad as hornets.
In fact, the whole Tucker family were offended.
They said folks did n't appreciate Elvira, nor what
she had done, since she returned from Boston, to
raise the standard in Tuckertown. I don't know,
I am sure, what they meant by that, for I never
saw Elvira raise any standard; but I do knew that
they were real mad with the minister, and lots of
people took their side and called 'emselves "Tuck-
You see, the Tuckers stand very high in Tuck-
ertown, and other people try to be just as like
them as they can. They were first settlers, for
one thing, and have the most money, for another.
and they lay down the law generally. The
post-office and the station are at their end of the
village. They decide when the sewing-societies
shall meet, and the fairs take place, and the straw-
berry festivals come off. If there is to be a picnic,
they decide when we shall go, and where we shall go,
and just who shall sit in each wagon. If anybody
is sick, Mrs. Tucker visits 'em just as regularly as
the doctor, and she brings grapes and jelly, and is
very kind, though she always scolds the sick person
for not dieting, or for going without her rubbers,
or something of that sort. If Mother had a hand
in this story, not a word of all this would go down.
She says they are very public-spirited people, and
that they do.a great deal for Tuckertown. I suppose






" YES, I am five years old to-day
Last week I put my dolls away;
For it was time, I 'm sure you '11 say,
For one so old to go
To school, and learn to read and spell;
And I am doing very well;-
Perhaps you 'd like to hear me tell
How many things I know.

" Well, if you '11 only take a look-
Yes, this is it-the last I took,
Here in my 'pretty picture-book,
Just near the purple cover;-
Now listen--Here are one, two, three
Wee little letters, don't you see?-
Their names are D and 0 and G;
They spell-now guess !- Old Rover. "



WHEN Mary Jane Hunt left Tuckertown last
summer, she invited me to come to the city and
make her a visit.
If I were sure Mrs. Hunt wanted you, 'Lizbeth,
I would like to have you go," said Mother, for
it's good for young folks to widen their horizon
now and then, and you would enjoy seeing the
I did n't care anything about my horizon, but I
did want most awfully to see the sights; but,
although I teased and teased, Mother would n't
let me go.
There was a great church bother in Tucker-
town that year, but our folks were n't in it. The
trouble began in the choir, who could n't agree
about the tunes. On some Sundays the organist
would n't play, and on others the singers would n't
sing. Once, they all stopped short in the middle
of "Greenland's Icy Mountains," and it was real
exciting at church, for you never knew what
might happen before you came out; but folks
said it was disgraceful, and I suppose it was. They
complained of the minister because he did n't put
a stop to it; so at last he took sides with the organ-
ist, and dismissed the choir, and declared we would
have congregational singing in the future. 'Most
everybody thought that would be the end of the
trouble; but, mercy! it was hardly the begin-
ning Things grew worse and worse. To begin
with, the congregation would n't sing. You see,
they had had a choir so long, people were sort of
afraid to let out their voices; and besides, there

was Elvira Tucker, who had studied music in
Boston, just ready to make fun of them if they
did. For she was one of the choir, and they were
all as mad as hornets.
In fact, the whole Tucker family were offended.
They said folks did n't appreciate Elvira, nor what
she had done, since she returned from Boston, to
raise the standard in Tuckertown. I don't know,
I am sure, what they meant by that, for I never
saw Elvira raise any standard; but I do knew that
they were real mad with the minister, and lots of
people took their side and called 'emselves "Tuck-
You see, the Tuckers stand very high in Tuck-
ertown, and other people try to be just as like
them as they can. They were first settlers, for
one thing, and have the most money, for another.
and they lay down the law generally. The
post-office and the station are at their end of the
village. They decide when the sewing-societies
shall meet, and the fairs take place, and the straw-
berry festivals come off. If there is to be a picnic,
they decide when we shall go, and where we shall go,
and just who shall sit in each wagon. If anybody
is sick, Mrs. Tucker visits 'em just as regularly as
the doctor, and she brings grapes and jelly, and is
very kind, though she always scolds the sick person
for not dieting, or for going without her rubbers,
or something of that sort. If Mother had a hand
in this story, not a word of all this would go down.
She says they are very public-spirited people, and
that they do.a great deal for Tuckertown. I suppose




they do; but I 've heard other people say that they
domineer much more than is agreeable.
The people on the minister's side were called
"Anti-Tuckerites"; but, as I said, our folks were
n't in the quarrel at all. The consequence of be-
ing on the fence was, that I could not join in the
fun on either side, and I think it was real mean.
Every now and then, the Tuckerites would plan
some lovely picnic or party, just so as not to invite
the Anti-Tuckerites. Then, in turn, they would
get up an excursion, and not invite any of the
Tuckerites. Of course, was n't invited to either,
and it was just as provoking as it could be.
One day, when I went to school, I found that
Elvira Tucker was going to train a choir of chil-
dren to take the place of the old choir.
"I went over to call on Elvira last evening,"
I heard Miss Green tell our school-teacher, and
I found her at the piano playing for little Nell to
sing. It was just at dusk, and they did not see
me; so I stood and listened, and wondered why we
could n't have a choir of children instead of the
congregational singing. Elvira said she thought
it would be lovely.",
Now, I had been to singing-school for two
winters, and the singing-master said I had a good
voice; so I thought I ought to belong to the choir.
You can't, 'cause only Tuckerites are going to
belong," said 'Melia Stone. "And your folks
are just on the fence. They are n't one thing or
I could n't stand being left out of all the fun
any longer, so I said: I 'm as much a Tuckerite as
anybody, only our folks don't approve of making
so much trouble about a small affair."
"I want to know!" said Abby Ann Curtiss.
"Well, I '11 ask Miss Elvira if you can belong
Mercy me I had jumped from the fence and
found myself a Tuckerite I was sure Mother would
be real mad if she knew what I had said, for I sus-
pected in my heart of hearts that, if she had jumped
from the fence, she would have landed on the
minister's side. I made up my mind that I would
not tell her what had passed, for maybe, after all,
Miss Elvira would decide that I was no real Tuck-
erite. But the very next day she sent word to me
by Abby Ann that she would like to have me join
the choir.
I told Mother that I was wanted in the children's
choir because I had a good voice, and I never said
a word about being a Tuckerite.
A children's choir," said she. That's a real
good idea-a beautiful idea."
She never suspected how I was deceiving her.
Well, we had real fun practicing. That week
we learned a chant and two hymns.

One day Miss Green came in.
How does she happen to be here ? I heard
her ask Miss Elvira, with a significant look at me.
Oh, she has a real good voice," answered Miss
Elvira, laughing. "Most of the children who
can sing are on the Tuckerite side. Besides,
from something she said to Abby Ann, I think at
heart the Halls sympathize with us."
What would my folks have said to that? I felt
half sick of the whole affair, and went home and
teased Mother to let me go to the city and visit
Mary Jane.
I never shall forget the Sunday 1 sang in the
choir. Miss Elvira played for us on the organ, for
when the real organist heard that only the Tuck-
erite children were to belong to it she refused to
play. Everybody seemed surprised to see me in
it, and even Dr. Scott looked at me in a mournful
sort of way, as if he thought the Halls had gone
over to the enemy. What troubled me most,
though, was the look Mother gave me when she
first realized that the choir was formed only of the
Tuckerite children, and that she had not found
it out before.
But, in spite of all this, I enjoyed the singing.
We sat, a long row of us, in the singers' seats up
in the gallery. After the hymn was given out and
we stood up, Miss Elvira nodded to me and whis-
pered: "Now, don't be afraid, girls Sing as loud
as you can."
Mercy how we did sing Twice as loud as the
grown-up choir. Luella Howe said, afterward, that
we looked as if we were trying to swallow the
But I never sang but just that once in the choir,
for next Sunday I spent with Mary Jane, in Boston.
The way it happened was this. That night
Mother sent me to bed right after supper, as
a punishment for not telling her all about the choir
before I joined it; and, as I undressed;.she had a
great deal to say about the defects in my character.
She talked to me a long time about my faults, and
she went down-stairs without kissing me good-
night. I was thinking what a miserable sinner I
must be, and was trying to cry about it, when I
heard her go into the sitting-room and say to
Father, who was reading his paper there:
I just put'Lizbeth to bed; but she is n't half
so much to blame as some other folks. If grown
people act in such a way, you can't expect much
of the children. I declare, I wish I could send
her away from Tuckertown till this choir-matter is
Well," says Father, why don't you let her go
and see Hunt's girl? You know she invited her,
and 'Lizbeth wants to go."
Oh, no," says Mother. They have so much




sickness there. I 'm afraid she would be in the
way," and she ended her sentence by shutting the
door with a slam.
I got right up -and sat on the stairs for a long

I I ': I

let me go, for she was afraid Mrs. Hunt did n't like
to write that my coming would be inconvenient.
She declared that I ought to have written I would
go if I heard that it would be agreeable.

--=~-- -I---

-- Ii


time, to see if they would say anything more about
my visiting Mary Jane, but they did n't. Father
began to talk of the black heifer he had just
bought, and then about the Presidential campaign,
and several other unimportant things like that.
Not a word about me.
.But I began early the next morning and teased
steadily to go and visit Mary Jane. Finally, Tues-
day morning Mother said I might write Mary Jane
that, if it were perfectly agreeable to her mother,
I would now make them the promised visit, and,
if I heard nothing to the contrary from them,
would start on Friday in the early train for Boston.
Well, Tuesday passed and Wednesday came,
and Thursday came, and at last-at last Fri-
day came, and no letter from Mary Jane. My
trunk was all packed. I took my best dress and
my second-best dress, and most of the every-day
ones, and Mother lent me her hair jewelry. I had
my shade hat, and my common one, and my too-
good hat. That last is one I've had for years--
ever so many years,-fully two years, I guess,-
and it 's always too good to wear anywhere, and
that 's why it lasts so long. At the last, Mother
declared she was sorry she had ever consented to

I had fifty frights that morning before I was
finally put in Deacon Hobart's care in the cars,
for he, too, was going to Boston that day.
He promised my mother that, if no one was at
the depot for me, he would put me in a carriage,
so that I should get safely to Mrs. Hunt's house.
I was real mad to have him tag along-it would
have been such fun to travel alone, and I did hope,
when he stood so long on the platform talking to
Father, the cars would go off without him; but he
jumped on just as they were starting. However,
when we finally got to Boston, and I found that
nobody was waiting for me there, I was glad enough
to have him with me.
I must say that, as I rode along in the carriage,
I thought it was real queer and rude for no one to
come to meet me; but the city was so interesting,
I had forgotten about it by the time we had stopped
at the Hunts' door. The house had a kind of
shut-up look, and I felt queer for a moment, as I
thought perhaps they were all away from home;
but, just then, Mary Jane flew down the steps, and
Dot came squealing behind her.
Now, you just hush! said Mary Jane to her,
after she had kissed me. "You wake Lucy up,






and see what you '11 get." (She is always awful
domineering to Dot, Mary Jane is.)
"Why, what 's the matter with Lucy? I asked.
"Why is she asleep in the day-time ? "
"Why, she is sick," said Mary Jane.
"Oh, awful sick cried Dot.
'T is n't catching, though; so come right in,
Beth," added Mary Jane, and in we went.
She had the hackman carry my trunk up into
her room, and she went up behind him all the way,
ordering him to be quiet, and slapping Dot and
holding up her finger at me, and making more
noise herself than all the rest of us put together.
"You see, I have to take care of everything,"
she said, when we were up at last. Mother has
to stay with Lucy all the time, and Dot is so
thoughtless. But, what have you got in your
trunk ? "
"Yes, why don't you unpack? asked Dot.
It took me some time to get to the bottom of my
trunk, but I showed them everything that was in
it. After that, Mary Jane said she must go and
see about tea. When we got down-stairs we found
the table set.
"Why! there 's no preserves on it," said Mary
Jane to Bridget, who tossed her head, and an-
Your ma did n't order any, and I wont open
'em without her telling me."
Oh, my! cried Mary Jane; "you are very
particular just now, are n't you ? You don't mind
so much when your aunt's step-mother's cousin
Bridget turned as red as a beet. Now, jist you
take yourselves out of my kitchen said she, and,
as true as you live, she shut the door right in my
face !
Hateful old thing! cried Mary Jane. Well,
never mind, I 'm going to the china-closet to get
some. But, which do you like best, peach preserves
or raspberry jam ? "
Peach preserves, o' course," answered Dot.
Everybody does."
I don't see why Dot had to say that. It was
just enough, and I knew it would be, to make Mary
Jane take the jam. When we went back to the
dining-room, we found Susan (that's the nurse) had
come in with the baby.
"Here, Mary Jane," said she, "your ma
said you were to take care of Baby while I 'm up-
Mary Jane looked as cross as two sticks. Oh,
bother I can't! I have Dot to take care of, and
Beth and the house, and everything. Bridget
ought to do that."
But just then Mr. Hunt came down. He looked
real worried, but he spoke to me just as kind, and

asked after the Tuckertown folks. I tried to tell
him about the singing affair, but he did n't
seem to take much interest, and soon went up-
stairs again.
He has n't eaten any of his supper," said Dot.
" I 'm going to give his jam to Baby."
The baby had been sitting in a high chair up to
the table, and had n't had a thing but a piece of
graham cracker to eat. I thought he was real
He can't have any jam. Here give it to me,"
said Mary Jane. I '11 eat it."
Of course, at that he banged his cracker on
the floor, and began to cry for the jam. But
Mary Jane did n't take the slightest notice of him.
She went on eating the jam as calmly as if he was
asleep in his cradle. Dot had been sent out on an
errand, so I tried to amuse him; but he was afraid
of me, and screamed louder than before.
"Don't pay any attention to him," said Mary
Jane. I 'm going to break him of screaming
so much. I always longed to break him of it, and
at last I 've got a chance. When he finds no one
takes any notice of him, he '11 stop it, I guess."
While he was still screaming, Mrs. Hunt came
down. She had on her wrapper, and her hair
was just bobbed up, and she looked as if she
had n't slept for a month.
"Mary Jane, why don't you amuse him?" she
said, after she had shaken hands with me, and
had taken Baby in her arms. "You know that
the noise disturbs Lucy, and yet you '11 let him
"It 's too bad," said I. "I would amuse him,
only he is afraid of me."
Why, I '11 amuse him, of course," said Mary
So her mother went upstairs again, and we had
that child on our hands till seven o'clock, when
Susan came and took him to bed.
The next morning I told Mary Jane that I

thought I ought to go home.
"Oh no!" she begged. "You are here, and
you might as well stay, and Lucy will be better
soon." .
"Oh," said Dot, "don't go! You can help us
take care of Baby, you know."
I don't see how I can be in your mother's way,
when I hardly ever see her," said I. "Besides, it
would be real mean to leave you while you are in
trouble." So I decided to stay.
I should have had a splendid time of it, had it
not been for the baby; but we never began any
interesting play but Susan would come and leave
him with us, and then he always had to be amused.
I never saw such a child-never quiet a moment.
They said it was because he was so bright. If I




ever have a child, I hope it will be one of the
stupid kind, that will sit on the floor and suck its
thumb all day.
He was particularly in the way when we went to
see the sights. We went to the State-house and
the Art Museum, and one day Mary Jane showed
me a place where they were having a baby show.
"Mercy!" said Mary Jane, who would ever
want to go to, that ?"
"Lots o' people are going in, anyhow," said
We had started on, but all at once Mary Jane
stopped short. Lizbeth," said. she, I '11 tell
you what. Let's take Baby to the baby show.
I mean to exhibit him, and p'raps he '11 take a prize,
and we will have the money."
Was n't it a splendid idea? The trouble was,
we did n't know how to get in. At last, Mary
Jane told the ticket-master what we wanted, and
he sent for the manager.
"And so you want to put this little chap in the
show," said he. "How old is he?"
Mary Jane told him.
"Well, he is a whopper," said the man.


"Is it too late for him to get the prize?" we
"Oh, he wont stand so good a chance as if he
had come at first. You see, the babies are all
numbered, and each person, when he goes out of
the show, gives the number of the baby he thinks
is the finest, and the one that has the most votes,
so to speak, gets the prize. Those folks that came
yesterday, you see, have n't voted for your baby,
but then you '11 have part of to-day and to-morrow."
Why, will we have to stay all the time?" asked
Mary Jane.
"No, you can take him out when you choose;

but the more he is here the more votes he '11
Well, if there 's a prize for the baby that can
cry loudest, he '11 get it," said Dot.
But they did n't give any prize for that.
We gave Baby's name and address to the man-
ager, who then took us in to the show. His num-
ber was three hundred and twelve, and a paper
telling his age, and number of teeth, and so on,
was tacked over the little booth where we sat.
There were lots of people in the room, but when
any one came near our baby he cried.
"I do believe he wont get a single vote," said
Mary Jane, in despair. But somebody gave him
some candy, and that pacified him for a while,
and ever so many persons said he was the finest
child in the show. We were so encouraged, we
planned just how we would spend the money, and
we stayed till dinner-time, when Mary Jane
thought we ought to go home.
Mrs. Hunt was real pleased that we had kept
him out so long. It was a pleasant day, she said,
and the air would do him good.
We will take him out again this afternoon,"
said Mary Jane.
When we went back, Baby was so tired he went
to sleep in Dot's lap. They looked awful cunning,
and everybody raved over them; but we had to
promise Dot everything under the sun to keep her
Lucy was worse that night, and the next morn-
ing Mrs. Hunt sent us right out after breakfast.
We stayed at the show all day, but the baby
was n't good a bit. He screamed and kicked, and
looked, oh, so red and ugly! We had to send Dot
for some candy for him, and we felt worried and
The doctor's carriage was at the door when we
went home at last, and Mr. Hunt was walking
up and down in the parlor. He called Mary Jane
and Dot in, and I went upstairs, for Susan said
the postman had left a letter for me. I thought
it was from Mother; but it was a printed thing
from the Dead-letter Office, saying that a letter for
me was detained there for want of postage. It had
been sent to Tuckertown, and the postmaster had
forwarded it to Boston. I had spent all my money,
except just enough to buy my ticket home; but I
thought I would take out enough for the stamps,
and borrow six cents from Mrs. Hunt. I went out
right off and mailed my letter with the stamps, so
as to get the other letter that was in the Dead-
letter Office. When I came back I found Mary
Jane crying in the hall.
Lucy was worse and the doctor had given her up.
"And I have always been so cross to her."
sobbed Mary Jane.





"Yes, so you have! put in Susan, who was
coming down stairs with a tray. I hope you 'll
remember now to be kinder to Dot and the baby."
"But they are so healthy," she sniffed. But she
seemed to feel real bad, and it's no wonder, for Lucy
is a darling! I could n't help crying myself.
That night, poor little Three Hundred and
Twelve was taken sick. Mr. Hunt and the doctor
came to our room to ask what we had given him to
eat, and when we told them about the candy (we
did n't dare say a word about the show) they
were angry enough.
I sha'n't forget that night in a hurry. I did n't
think it would ever come to an end, and we both
lay and cried till the sun shone into our window in
the morning, when Susan came to tell us that Lucy
was sleeping beautifully, and was going to get well,
after all. After breakfast, we went into Mrs.
Hunt's room, which was next to the nursery, where
Lucy lay, and she took us all in her arms -there
was room for me too--and we just cried with joy
The baby had got all over his colic, and Mary

Jane and I had just concluded we had better tell
Mrs. Hunt where we had taken him, when a letter
came for Mrs. Hunt.
It was a notice that number three hundred and
twelve had taken the third prize at the baby show.
It could not have come at a better time for us,
for how could she scold, with Lucy comingback to
life, as it were, after those dreadful hours of sus-
pense and suffering? But I know she did scold
Mary Jane afterward, for it was n't right to keep
the baby in that stuffy place when she thought he
was in the fresh air; but that was after I went
home, which happened a few days later.
And what do you think !-Just as the carriage
came to take me to the depot, the postman left a
sealed envelope from the Dead-letter Office. I
opened it as the cars started, and while I was
traveling home, I read the very letter Mrs. Hunt
had written in answer to the one I wrote her to
tell her I was about to visit them in Boston. And
in that letter she had asked me to postpone my
visit till some later date, on account of the illness
of little Lucy !




OH, sir! I was a beamish child,
Who gyred and gimbled in the lane,
Until your weird words drove me wild
A-burbling in my brain.

At brillig, when my mother dear
Calls me to dine, I really do-
To make it clear, close to her ear
I loudly cry Callooh "

My brother, like a frumious patch,
Regards me as his manxsome foe,
As if I were a Bandersnatch,
Or a jubjub bird, you know!

He snicker-snacks his vorpal sword,
And vows he 'l slay me-what a shock!
If I do quote another word-
One word-from Jabberwock.

I then galumphing go away,
Beneath the leafy shade of trees,
Where all the day I cry "Callay! "
And chortle when I please!

I wish I were a borrowgove,
To dwell within the tulgey wood,
Where I could say the words I love;
I 'd whiffle--that I should.

Oh, frabjous poem pray, sir, tell,
Compounded was it by what laws?
Why did you write it in a book?
I know you'll say-- "Because!"

Oh! when you sit in uffish thought
Beneath the tum-tum tree, and wait,
Write other words, I think you ought,
To drive these from my pate.



I'm ryin g .to --ip- A is -1Ae.dry-sr,-

,,. w'wheir'. es-a :wll. e.rc'sa way"

-. 6~ -2




THE Orient Base-ball Nine, of Orient Academy, hereby challenges
the Eagles, of Clayton Academy, to a match game of ball; time
and place to be at the choice of the challenged.
TOM DAVIS, Secretary of Orient B. B. C.
To Secretary of Eagle B. B. C., of Clayton Academy.
There said Tom, as he wiped his pen on his'
coat-sleeve; "how '11 that do?"
The Orient Base-ball nine was sitting in solemn
council in Captain Gleason's room. The question
had long been debated at the Orient School about
playing a match game with the Eagles of Clayton,
the rival Academy on the same line of railroad,
about thirty miles from Orient. Until lately, the
teachers of the Academy had withheld their per-
mission for the necessary absence from school;
but at last they had yielded to the petitions of the
nine, and the Orient Club was now holding a meet-
ing which had resulted in the above challenge.
"Very well put, Tom," answered Gleason, and
then an animated conversation took place.
We must beat those fellows, or they '11 crow
over us forever."

Yes; do you remember, fellows, that Barton
who was down here last fall when our nine played
the town boys? They say he stole a ball out
of Tom's pocket during the game. I hear he 's
short-stop this year." This from Johnny Rider,
the Orient first-baseman.
We don't know about that," said Gleason.
"Don't be too sure."
Well," put in Wagner, the popular catcher of
the nine, we do know some of them are not to be
trusted, and will cheat, if they get a chance. You
see if they don't."
"All the more reason why we should play fair,
then," retorted Gleason. "Look here, boys, I
have n't time to orate, and am not going to make a
speech, but let 's understand one another. If we go
to Clayton-and I think they will prefer to play on
their own grounds-we are going to play a fair
game. If we can't beat them without cheating,
we wont beat them at all "
Three cheers for the captain shouted Tom,
upsetting the inkstand in his excitement. The




cheers were given; and the pitcher, a short, thick-
set fellow, with quick, black eyes, whispered to
Wagner : If there's any cheating done, it wont
be done by Glea, that 's sure."
No," replied Wagner; "but they will beat us.
You mark my words."
"We shall have something to say to that, I
think;" and the Orient pitcher shut his teeth
together vigorously, as he thought of the latest
curve which he had been practicing.
Gradually, after more talk on the merits of the
two clubs, one after another dropped out of the
captain's room, and at last he and Tom Davis were
alone. Tom was sealing up the challenge.
"What do you think, Glea, of Rider's remark
about Barton ? asked Tom, as he licked a stamp
with great relish. Base-ball was food and drink
to Tom.
"Why," replied Gleason, "I don't think Bar-
ton 's any worse than the others. None of them
are popular around here, but I think it's only on
account of the jealousy of the two academies.
Probably they have the same poor opinion of us."
"They're a good nine, anyway. You know
they beat the Stars last Saturday."
"Yes," said Gleason, smiling, "and we beat
the Rivals."
Do you think they '11 cheat, or try to ? asked
Well, no; there is n't much chance of cheat-
ing nowadays at base-ball. We may have some
trouble with the umpire."
Well, good-night, old fellow !" said Tom, as he
rose. "I '11 take this down to post, and then hie
me to my downy couch. I suppose you are going
to 'dig,' as usual."
Yes; I have some Virgil to get out."
"I don't envy you. Good-night, mypiusiEneas."
"Good-night, my fidus Achates." And the
captain was left alone.
He took down his books, but somehow he could
not compose himself to study. The anticipated
game with the Claytons filled his mind, and he
could think of nothing else; so he shut the books,
and took a turn up and down the room.
Young Gleason was a handsome, well-built
fellow, with an open, sunny face, the very soul of
honor, and a popular fellow with every one. He
was all but worshiped by the nine, who adored him
as a decided leader, a steady player, and a sure
batsman, with a knack of wresting victory out of
seeming defeat. His powers of endurance were
the wonder and admiration of all the new boys,
who were sure to hear of Gleason before they had
been in the school two days.
He had whipped Eagen, the bully, in the cotton-
mills across the river, for insulting some ladies; he

had walked from Centerville to Orient in thirty-six
minutes, the fastest time on record; he had won
the silver cup at the last athletic tournament, for
the finest exhibition of the Indian clubs; and, in
short, he was a school hero, and not only the boys
but the teachers of the Academy learned to admire
and love him.
Perhaps the weakest point in his character was
his thirst for popularity. He felt keenly any loss
of it, and when Sanders carried off the first prize
for original declamation, it was noticed that Glea-
son treated Sanders rather coldly for some time.
But, in spite of this defect, Gleason was a splendid
fellow, as every one said, and sure to make his mark
in the world along with the best.
For two days the nine waited impatiently for the
answer to their challenge. The third day it came.
The Claytons, with characteristic coolness, Wag-
ner said, chose their own grounds, and a week from
date for the match.
Should n't wonder at all if they tried to work
in some outside fellow for pitcher. I hear their own
is a little weak," said the ever-suspicious Wagner.
"I 'm glad they 've given us a week," said
Francis, the pitcher. I need about that time for
practice on the new curve, and I think you will
need about the same time to learn how to catch it.
So stop your grumbling, old boy, and come out on
the campus."
The week sped rapidly by, and at last the ap-
pointed day arrived--clear, cool, still; just the
perfection of weather for ball.
A large delegation went down to the station to
see the nine off.
"I say, Glea," shouted a school-mate, tele-
graph down the result, and we '11 be here with a
carriage to drag you up the hill when you come
"Yes," echoed another; "that is, if you beat.
We can't turn out of our beds to get up a tri-
umphal march for the vanquished."
All right, fellows-we 're going to beat them.
We're sure to beat them--hey, Captain?" said
Tom, looking up at Gleason.
"We '11 do our best, boys," answered Gleason.
Then, as the train moved off, he leaned far out of
his window and whispered impressively: "You
may be here with that carriage."
There was a cheer from the students, another
from the nine standing on the platform and lean-
ing out of the windows, and the Orients were
whirled rapidly off to Clayton.
They reached their destination in little more than
an hour, and found almost as large a delegation as
they had left at Orient. The talk and excitement
here for the past week over the coming game had
been as eager as at Orient. Nothing about the





visitors escaped the notice of the Claytons. Their
" points were discussed as freely as if they were
so many prize cattle at a county fair.
"Just look at that fellow's chest and arms !"
He '11 be a tough customer at the bat, I 'mi
He 's the fastest runner at Orient."
These and other whispers drew a large share of
the attention to Gleason, and, as usual, admiration
seemed to stimulate him to do his best. He sum-
moned the nine together before the game was
called, to give them final instructions.
"Keep cool. Play steady. Don't run any
foolish risks in stealing bases; and, above all, let
every man do honest work. Show these fellows
that we know what the word gentleman means."
After some little delay necessary for selecting an
umpire and arranging for choice of position, the
game was finally called, the Orients coming first to
the bat.
The crowd gathered to witness the game was the
largest ever seen on the grounds, and almost every
man was in sympathy with the home nine. So, as
Gleason had said on the train, the only hope of
his men for victory was to play together, and force
the sympathy of some of the spectators, at least,
by cool and steady work.
The captain himself was the first man at the bat.
After two strikes he succeeded in getting a base
hit, stole to second on a passed ball, reached third
on a base hit by Wagner, and home on a sacrifice
hit by Davis, scoring the first run for Orient amid
considerable applause. The next two batters struck
out in quick succession, leaving Wagner on second.
Then the Claytons came to the bat, and after
an exciting inning scored two runs, showing
strength as batters and base-runners. In the third
inning the Orients made another run, thus tying
the score.
So the game went on until the ninth and last
inning, when the score stood eight to seven in
favor of the Orients.
The excitement by this time was intense. The
playing all along had been brilliant and even.
Both nines showed the same number of base hits
and nearly the same number of errors. Francis,
for the Orients, had done splendid work, but Wagner
for some reason had not supported him as well as
usual. And now, as the C1 .. [. .'! came to the bat
for the closing inning, every one bent forward, and
silence reigned over the field, broken only by the
voice of the umpire.
Gleason had played a perfect game throughout.
No one looking at him could imagine how much
he had set his heart on the game. His coaching
had been wise, his judgment at all times good,
and he now, from his position in left field, awaited

the issue of the closing inning with a cheerful
The inning opened with a sharp hit to short-
stop. He made a fine stop and threw to first, but
poor Johnny Rider, who had played so far without
an error, muffed the ball, and the Clayton bats-
man took his first amid a perfect storm of cries and
The next batter, after a strike, drove the ball
into right field, a good base hit, and the man on
first took second. Then, as if to aggravate the
Orients and complete their nervousness, Francis
allowed the third batsman to take first on called
balls; and so the bases were filled. A player on
every base and no one out It was enough to de-
moralize the coolest players.
But Francis was one of those men who, after the
first flurry of excitement, grow cooler. The next
two Claytons struck out in turn.
Then Barton came to the bat, and all the Ori-
ents held their breath, and the Claytons watched
their strongest batsman with hope. One good base
hit would tie them with the Orients, and Barton
had already made a two-bagger and a base hit
during the game. The umpire's voice sounded
out over the field:
"One ball. Two balls. One strike. Three
balls. Four balls. Five balls. Two strikes."
Francis ground his teeth, as he delivered the next
ball directly over the plate. But Barton, quick
as lightning, struck, and the ball went spinning out
above short-stop, between second and third.
It was one of those balls most difficult to catch,
nearly on a line, and not far enough up to allow
of much time for judgment as to its direction.
Gleason was standing well out in the field, expect-
ing a heavy drive of the ball there, where Barton
had struck before. But he rushed forward, neck
or nothing, in what seemed a useless attempt.
With a marvel of dexterity and quickness, he
stooped as he ran, and, reaching down his hand,
caught the ball just as it touched the ground, by
what is known in base-ball language as a pick-
He felt the ball touch the ground, heard it dis-
tinctly, and knew that, where it had struck, a tuft
of grass had been crushed down and driven into
the earth; and he had straightened himself up to
throw the ball home, when a perfect roar of ap-
plause struck his ears, and the umpire declared
"out on the fly."
He was just on the point of rushing forward
and telling the truth, but, as usual after a game,
the crowd came down from the seats with a rush,
the Orients came running up to him, declaring it
the best play they ever saw; and before he knew
what he was about, the nine had improvised a




chair and carried him off, with cheers and shouts,
to the station, for the game had been so long that
they could not stay later, as they had planned.
It certainly was a great temptation. Besides,
the umpire had declared it a fly. What right had
he to dispute the umpire ? And no one but him-
self knew that the ball had touched the ground.
The whole action had been so quick, he had run
forward so far after feeling the ball between his
fingers, that not the least doubt existed in the
minds of the Claytons that the catch was a fair
But, on the other hand, his conscience kept
pricking him. He, the upright, the preacher to
the rest of the nine on fair play, the one who had
been such a stickler for the right, no matter what
the result, he had been the only one to cheat!
Yes, it was an ugly word. Cheat But he could
find no other name for it. And after all he had
said !
He sat in silence during the ride home. The
rest of the nine made noise enough, and as he was
generally quiet, even after a victory, no one noticed
his silence very much.
As the train ran into the station at Orient a
great crowd was in waiting. Tom had telegraphed
the news from Clayton, and all Orient was wild
with joy. When Gleason appeared, he received
a regular ovation, such an ovation as a school-boy
alone can give or receive. They rushed him into
the carriage, and before the order was given to pull
up the hill to the Academy, some one cried out,
"Speech, speech !"
It was the most trying moment of Gleason's life.
During the ride home he had fought a battle with
himself, more fiercely contested than the closest
game of ball, and he had won. He trembled as
he rose, and those who stood nearest the lights
about the station noticed that his face was pale.
There was silence at once.

"Fellows, I have something to tell you which
you don't expect to hear. We would n't have
won the game to-day if I had n't cheated."
"How 's that ?"
"Who cheated?"
What 's the matter?"
There was the greatest consternation among
the Orients. When quiet had been partly restored,
Gleason went on and related the whole event just
as it happened. And now," he concluded sadly,
"I suppose you all despise me. But you can't
think worse of me than I do myself." And he
leaped out of the carriage, and, setting his face
straight before him, walked away up the hill.
No one offered to stop him. Some hissed. A
few laughed. The majority were puzzled.
"What did he want to tell for ? No one would
ever have known the difference."
But Tom Davis ran after the captain, and caught
him about half-way up the hill. School-boy fashion,
he said never -a word, but walked up the hill to
the captain's room, shook hands with him at his
door, and went away with something glittering in
his eyes.
Next morning, Gleason's conduct was the talk
and wonder of the whole school. But the captain
himself showed true nobility; He begged the'
school and the nine to consider the game played
with the Claytons as forfeited to them. And,
after much talk, Gleason himself wrote, explaining
the whole affair, and asking for another game on
the Orient grounds.
The Claytons responded, came down, and
defeated the Orients in a game even more hotly
contested than the first. But Gleason took his
defeat very calmly, and smilingly replied to Tom's
almost tearful, "Oh, why did n't we beat this
time?" with, Ah Tom, but I have a clear con-
science, and that is worth more than all the ball-
games in the world "


.- . -


he knew
--,-_ The worth of gold
for payment;
She was a queen-
a woman, too,
And fond of costly

I 'A,.


" This is a dainty cap,"
he said,
Fine as a cobweb,

What was the price?" She shook her head:
" You '11 think it cost unduly.

" Men should not ask what women pay
For ribbons, caps, and collars.
But this was a bargain, as you will say,
'T was only just ten thalers."

,'/ "- a', ,.

-4 .. ; .

Q.-2 --I-- -. "

/ 1 _'' w '

And beckoned a guardsman, poor and old.
"Here! you are no impostor:
Tell this lady the worth of gold;
What should that lace thing cost her ?"

On his clumsy hand he turned the cap.
I 've but a feeble notion
Of the cost of women's gear. Mayhap,
It cost her many groschen."

'Groschen, man! Such a bit of lace
As that costs ten whole thalers.
This pretty lady with smiling face
Pays dear for caps and collars.

"Ask her to give as much to you-
She can afford it surely."
He held his hand with small ado,
She gave the sum demurely.


1jj C~

I __

I t _______



" Only ten thalers! You can not mean
You paid such a sum of money
For that small thing, my darling queen!"
He looked o'er the landscape sunny,

Then said with a gesture arch and sly:
" This gentleman so stately
Standing here, is richer than I-
His wealth is increasing greatly;





f, ..

:I "_~


"All that I have he gives to me-
Thankfully I receive it.
Ask twice ten thalers, and you '11 see
He can afford to give it."

Laughing, the king bestowed the gold-
Such grace his rank befitted,
And merrily oft the story told
How he had been outwitted.




IN reading of the Italian painters we often find
something about the early masters." This term
is applied to the great men like Michael Angelo,
Raphael, Titian, and a few others who were them-
selves illustrious from their own genius, and were
imitated by so many other artists that they stand
out with great prominence in the history of paint-
ing. Titian may be named as the last of the
really great masters of the early schools. He died
in 1575, near the close of the sixteenth century,
just when there was a serious decline in art. The
painters of that time are called Mannerists," be-
cause they followed mechanically the example of
those who had gone before. Some copied the'
style of Michael Angelo in a cold, spiritless man-
ner; others imitated Raphael, and so on; but true
artistic inspiration had died out-the power to fix
upon the canvas or the wall such scenes as would
come to a poet in his dreams seemed to be lost to
the world.
About 1600 a new interest in art was felt, and
painters divided themselves into two parties, be-
tween whom there was much bitterness of feeling.
On one side were those who wished to continue
the imitation of the great masters, but also to
mingle with this a study of Nature. These men
were called "Eclectics," which means that they
elected or chose certain features from various
sources, and by uniting them produced their own
manner of painting. Their opposers desired to
study Nature alone, and to represent everything
exactly as it appeared-these were called "Nat-
The chief school of the Eclectics was at Bologna,
where Ludovico Caracci had a large academy of
painting, and was assisted by his two nephews,
Agostino and Annibale Caracci, the latter being
the greatest artist of the three. The effect of the
Caracci school upon the history of painting was
so great that it can scarcely be estimated, and
Domenico Zampieri, called Domenichino, was the
greatest painter who came out from it.

Domenichino was born at Bologna in 1581, and
was early placed under the teaching of Denis Cal-
vart, who forbade his drawing after the works of
Annibale Caracci. The boy, however, disobeyed
this order; and, being discovered, was treated with
such severity that he persuaded his father to
remove him from Calvart and place him in the
Caracci school.
He was so dull a boy that his companions gave
him the name of "the Ox"; but the master, Anni-
bale, said, Take care: this ox will surpass you
all by and by, and will be an honor to his art."
Domenichino soon began to win the prizes in the
school, and at last, when he left his studies and
went to Rome, he was well prepared for his brilliant
career. He shunned society, and visited public
places only for the purpose of studying the expres-
sions of joy, sorrow, anger, and other emotions
which he wished to paint in his pictures, and
which he could see without embarrassment on the
faces of those whom he observed at places of
public resort. He also tried to feel in his own
breast the emotion of the person he was repre-
senting. It is said that, when he was painting an
executioner in his picture of the Scourging of
St. Andrew," he threw himself into a passion and
used high words and threatening gestures; at this
moment he was surprised by Annibale Caracci, who
was so struck with the ingenuity of his method,
that he threw his arms about his pupil, exclaiming,
"To-day, my Domenichino, thou art teaching
me "
The masterpiece of Domenichino is now in
the Vatican, and is called the Communion of
St. Jerome." This is universally considered as the
second picture in Rome, the Transfiguration,"
by Raphael, only being superior to it. St. Jeiome
is one of the most venerated of all saints, and
especially so on account of his translation of The
Vulgate," or the New Testament, from Hebrew
into Latin. The story of St. Jerome's life is very
interesting. He was of a rich family, and pursued
his studies in Rome, where he led a gay, careless
life. He was a brilliant scholar, and became a




celebrated lawyer. When he was thirty years old
he was converted to Christianity; he then went to
the Holy Land and lived the life of a hermit. He
founded a monastery at Bethlehem, and there made
his translation of the Scriptures, which entitled him
to the consideration of all Christian people.
After ten years' absence from Rome he returned,
and made as great a reputation as a preacher as he
had before enjoyed as a lawyer. Under his influ-
ence many noble Roman ladies became Christians.
After three years he returned to his convent in
Bethlehem, where he remained until his death.
When he knew that he was about to die, he desired
to be carried into the chapel of the monastery;
there he received the sacrament, and died almost
It is this final scene in his life that Domenichino
has painted. In the foreground is the lion usually
seen in all pictures of St. Jerome, and which is
one of his symbols, because he was a hermit and
passed much time where no living creature existed
save the beasts of the desert. There is also a legend
told of St. Jerome and a lion, which says that one
evening, as the saint was sitting at the gate of the
convent, a lion entered, limping, as if wounded.
The other monks were all terrified, and fled, but
Jerome went to meet him; the lion lifted up his
paw and showed a thorn sticking in it, which
Jerome extracted, and then tended the wound until
it had healed. The lion seemed to consider the
convent as his home, and Jerome taught him to
guard an ass that brought wood from the forest.
One day, while the lion was asleep, a caravan of
merchants passed, and they stole the ass and drove
it away. The lion returned to the convent with an
air of shame. Jerome believed that he had killed
and eaten the ass, and condemned him to bring the
wood himself; to this the lion patiently sub-
mitted. At length, one day, the lion saw a
caravan approaching, the camels led by an ass, as
is the custom of the Arabs. The lion saw at once
that it was the same ass that had been stolen from
him, and he drove the camels into the convent,
whither the ass was only too glad to lead them.
Jerome at once comprehended the meaning of it
all, and, as the merchants acknowledged their theft
and gave up the ass, the monk pardoned them and
sent them on their way.
After a time, the jealousy of other artists made
Domenichino so uncomfortable in Rome that he
returned to Bologna, and his fame having gone
abroad, he was invited by the Viceroy of Naples to
come to that city, and was given the important
commission to decorate the chapel of St. Januarius.
At this time there was an association of painters
in Naples who were determined that no strange
artist who came there should do any honorable

work. They drove away Annibale Caracci, Guido
Reni, and others, by means of a petty system of
persecution. As soon as Domenichino began his
work, he was subjected to all sorts of annoyances;
he received letters i,, .. ,ii. .;,, his life; and though
the Viceroy took means to protect him, his colors
were spoiled by having ruinous chemicals mixed
with them, his sketches were stolen from his
studio, and insults and indignities were continually
heaped upon him. At length, he was in such de-
spair that he secretly left the city, meaning to go
to Rome.
As soon as his flight was discovered, the Viceroy
sent for him and brought him back. New measures
were taken for his protection, but, just as his work
was advancing well, he suddenly sickened and
died. It has been said that he was poisoned; be
this as it may, there is little doubt that the fear,
anxiety, and constant vexation that he had suffered
caused his death; and in any case his tormentors
must be regarded as his murderers. He died in
1641, when sixty years old.


GUIDO was the next most important painter of
the Caracci school. He was born at Bologna, in
1575. His father was a professor of music, and,
when a child, Guido played upon the flute; but he
early determined to be a painter, and was a great
favorite with the elder Caracci. When still a
youth, Guido heard a lecture by Annibale Caracci,
in which he laid down the rules which should
govern the true painter. Guido listened with fixed
attention, and resolved to follow these directions
closely in his own work. He did so, and it was
not long before his pictures attracted so much
attention as to arouse the jealousy of other
artists; he was accused of being insolent and
trying to establish a new system, and, at last, even
Ludovico turned against him and dismissed him
from the Academy.
He went to Rome, where his fate was but little
better. Caravaggio then had so much influence
there that he almost made laws for all other paint-
ers, and when the Cardinal Borghese gave Guido
an order, he directed him to do his work in the
manner of Caravaggio. The young painter obeyed
the letter of the command; but quite a different
spirit from that of Caravaggio filled his picture, and
his success was again such as to make other artists
hate and endeavor to injure him.
Considering the work of this artist with the
cooler and more critical judgment made possible
by the lapse of so many years, the truth seems to
be that Guido was not a truly great painter, but
he had a lofty conception of beauty, and tried to




reach it in his pictures. He really painted in
three different styles. His earliest manner was
the strongest, and had a force that he outgrew
when he came to his second period, where his
only endeavor was to make everything bend to the
idea of sweetness and grace. His third style was
careless, and came to him when his ambition to
be a great artist was gone, and only a desire for
money remained.
In his best works there is no full depth of mean-
ing, and a great sameness of expression marks them
as the pictures of an artist lacking originality and
inventive power. His masterpiece in Rome was
the "Aurora," on a ceiling in the Rospigliosi
Palace. It is much admired, and is familiar to us
from the engravings after it. Aurora, the goddess
of the dawn, is represented as floating on the clouds
before the chariot of Phoebus, or Apollo, the god
of the sun. She scatters flowers upon the earth,
which is seen in the distance far below. The sun-
god holds the reins over four white and piebald
horses; just above them floats Cupid, with his
lighted torch. The hours, represented by seven
graceful female figures, dance along beside the
chariot. A question is sometimes asked as to the
reason of their number being seven. The hours,
or Horse, have no fixed number; sometimes they
were spoken of by the ancients as two; again
three, and even ten, are mentioned. Thus an
artist has authority for great license in painting
them; however, it has always seemed to me, in re-
gard to this picture, that Guido counted them as
ten, for in that case three would naturally be out
of sight on the side of the chariot which is not seen
in the picture.
A second very famous picture by Guido, painted
during his best period, is the portrait of Beatrice
Cenci, which is in the gallery of the "Barberini Pal-
ace at Rome. There are few pictures in the world
about which there is so sad an interest. The beau-
tiful young girl whom it represents was the daugh-
ter of Francisco Cenci, a wealthy Roman nobleman.
The mother of Beatrice died, and her father made
a second marriage, after which he treated the
children of his first wife in a brutal manner; it is
even reported that he hired desperate men to mur-
der two of his sons, who were returning from a
journey to Spain. It is said that his cruelty to
Beatrice was such that she murdered him, with
the aid of her brother and her step-mother. Other
authorities say that these three had no hand in the
father's murder, but were made to appear as the
murderers through the plot of some robbers who
were really guilty of the crime. But, guilty or
innocent, all three were condemned to death, and
were executed in 1599. Clement VII. was the
Pope at that time, and would not pardon Beatrice

and her companions in their dreadful extremity,
though all the crimes and cruelty of the father
were told to him, and mercy was implored for this
beautiful girl. It has been stated that the Pope
desired to confiscate the Cenci estates, as he had a
right to do if the members of the family suffered
the penalty of death. The sad face of the girl, as
painted by Guido, is so familiar to us, from the
many reproductions that have been made from it,
that sometimes when we see it suddenly it startles
us almost as though it were the face of some one
whom we had known.
After a time, Guido left Rome for Bologna.
From there he sent his picture of St. Michael to
the Cappucini in Rome, and wrote as follows con-
cerning it: I wish I had the wings of an angel
to have ascended into Paradise, and there to have
beholden the forms of those beatified spirits from
which I might have copied my archangel; but not
being able to mount so high, it was in vain for me
to search for his resemblance here below; so that I
was forced to make an introspection into my own
mind, and into that idea of beauty which I have
formed in my own imagination." It is said that
this was always his method-to try to represent
some ideal beauty rather than to reproduce the
actual loveliness of any living model. He would
pose his color-grinder, or any person at his com-
mand, in the attitude he desired, and, after draw-
ing the outline from them, he would supply the
beauty and the expression from his own imagina-
tion. This accounts for the sameness in his heads:
his women and children are pretty, his men lack
dignity; and we feel this especially in his represen-
tations of Christ.
It is said that on one occasion a nobleman, who
was very fond of the painter Guercino, went to
Guido, at the request of his favorite artist, to ask
if he would not tell what beautiful woman was the
model from which he painted all the graces which
appeared in his works. In reply, Guido called
his color-grinder, who was a dirty, ugly-looking
fellow; he made him sit down and turn his head
to look up at the sky. He then sketched a Mag-
dalen in the same attitude, and with the same light
and shadow as fell on the ugly model; but the
picture had the beauty and expression which
might suit an angelic being. The nobleman
thought this was done by some trick, but Guido
said: "No, my dear count; but tell your painter
that the beautiful and pure idea must be in the
head, and then it is no matter what the model is."
Toward the end of his life, Guido's love for
gaming led him into great distresses, and he mul-
tiplied his pictures for the sake of the money of
which he stood in great need; and for this reason
there are many works said to have been painted





I .<. i, ,,. I

S .
1:1, .*^ ,L; .b

... .; j,, ..


by him which are not worthy of his name. He most generous prices from his patrons, he passed
died at Bologna in 1642, when he was sixty-seven his last days in miserable poverty, and left many
years old; and though he had always received the unpaid debts as a blot upon his memory.
VOL. IX.-60.


r882. ]

.- .. -, -. '




AMONG the followers of Guido Reni, this young
woman, who died when but twenty-five years old,

associated with her. She was also a charming
singer, and was ever ready to give pleasure to her
friends. Her admiring biographers also commend
her taste in dress, which was very simple; and they


is conspicuous for her talents and interesting on
account of the story of her life. She was the
daughter of a reputable artist, and was born at
Bologna about 1640. She was certainly very indus-
trious, since one of her biographers names one
hundred and fifty pictures and etchings made by
her, and all these must have been done within a
period of about ten years.
She was a good imitator of the sweet, attractive
manner of Guido Reni, and the heads of her
Madonnas and Magdalens have a charm of expres-
sion which leaves nothing to be desired in that
respect; and, indeed, all that she did proves the
innate grace and refinement of her own nature.
Much has been said of the ease and rapidity with
which she worked, and one anecdote relates that
on an occasion when it happened that the Duch-
ess of Brunswick, the Duchess of Mirandola, and
Duke Cosimo de' Medici, with other persons, all
met at her studio, she astonished and delighted
them by the ease and skill with which she sketched
and shaded drawings of the subjects which one.
after another named to her.
When twenty years old, she had completed a
large picture of the "Baptism of Christ." Her
picture of St. Anthony adoring the Virgin and
Child," in the Pinacotheca of Bologna, is very
much admired, and is probably her masterpiece.
The story of her life, aside from her art, gives
an undying interest to her name, and insures her
remembrance for all time. In person she was
beautiful, and the sweetness of her character and
manner won for her the love of all those who were

even go so far as to praise her for her moderation
in eating! She was well skilled in all domestic
matters, and would rise at daybreak to perform her
lowly household duties, never allowing her art to
displace the homely occupations' which properly, as
she thought, made a part of her life.
Elisabetta Sirani's name has come down through
two hundred and seventeen years as one whose
" devoted filial affection, feminine grace, and art-
less benignity of manner added a luster to her
great talents, and completed a personality which
her friends regarded as an ideal of perfection."
The sudden death of this artist has added a
tragic element to her story. The cause of it has,
never been known, but the theory that she died
from poison has been very generally accepted.
Several reasons for this crime have been given:
one is that she was sacrificed to the jealousy of
other artists, as Domenichino had been; another
belief was that a princely lover, whom she had
treated with scorn, had taken her life because she
had dared to place herself, in her lowly station,
above his rank and power.
A servant-girl named Lucia Tolomelli, who had
been long in the service of the Sirani family, was
suspected and tried for this crime. She was sen-
tenced to banishment; but, after a time, Elisabetta's
father requested that Lucia should be allowed to
return, as he had no reason for believing her
guilty. And so the mystery of the cause of her
death has never been solved; but its effect upon
the whole city of Bologna, where it occurred, is a
matter of history.




The entire people felt a personal loss in her
death, and the day of her burial was one of gen-
eral mourning. The ceremonies of her funeral
were attended with great pomp, and she was buried
beside her master, Guido Reni, in the chapel
of Our Lady of the Rosary, in the magnificent
Church of the Dominicans. Poets and orators
vied with one another in sounding her praises, and
a book published soon after her death, called Il
Pennello Lagrimato," is a collection of orations, son-
nets, odes, anagrams, and epitaphs in both Latin
and Italian, all telling of the love for her which filled
the city, and describing the charms and virtues of
this gifted artist. Her portrait, representing her
when painting that of her father, is in the Ercolani
Gallery at Bologna. According to this picture she
was very pretty, with a tall and elegant figure.
The two sisters of Elisabetta, called Barbara and
Anna Maria, were also artists, but the fame of the
first was so great as to overshadow theirs.


THE character and life of Michael Angelo
Amerighi, called Caravaggio, who was the head
of the school of Naturalists at Naples, were not
such as to make him an attractive study. His
manner of painting and his choice of subjects to-
gether produced what has been called the poetry
of the repulsive." Caravaggio was wild in his
nature and his life. If he painted scenes of a
religious character they were coarse, though his
vivid color and his manner of arranging his figures
were striking in effect. His "Cheating Game-
sters is a famous picture, and represents two men
playing cards, while a third looks over the shoulder
of one, and is apparently advising him how to play.

Next to Caravaggio came Ribera, called II
Spagnoletto because of his Spanish origin. It is
said that, when very young, he had made his way
to Rome, where he was living in miserable poverty,
and industriously copying the frescoes which he
saw all about the public places of the city. He
attracted the attention of a cardinal, who took the
boy to his home and made him comfortable. But
soon Ribera ran away and returned to the vagrant
life of the streets; the cardinal searched for him,
and when at last the boy was brought before him
he called him an "ungrateful little Spaniard," and
offered to receive him into his house once more.
Ribera replied that he could not accept, and
declared that as soon as he was made comfortable
and well fed he lost all his ambition and his desire
to work; adding that he needed the spur of pov-
erty to make him a good artist.
The cardinal admired his courage and resolution,
and, the story being repeated, the attention of other
artists was attracted to him; and from this time he
was known as II Spagnoletto. He made rapid
advances in his style of painting, and later, in
Naples, he joined with Belisario Corenzio and
Gianbattista Caracciolo in the plan, to which we
have referred, of keeping all other artists from
being employed there. On Ribera rests much of
the responsibility of the many crimes which were
committed in Naples, even if he did not actually
do the deeds himself; and when one sees his works,
and the horrible, brutal subjects which he studied
and represented, it is easy to understand how all
kindliness of feeling might have been crushed out
of a man whose thoughts were given to such
things. He became very rich, and his numerous
works are in the famous galleries of the world,
from Madrid to St. Petersburg.

(Biogpia, A. D. Z585.)


"OH, how shall I bear it? They 've taken away
My brushes, and paper, and pencil, and say
I must thrum on the harpsichord till I can play.
" My father is fretted, because he foresees
I have not his marvelous genius to please
The lute-loving, musical-mad Bolognese.
" My mother-dear heart! there is pain in her
Whenever she finds me hid safe in some nook,
Bent over my drawing, instead of my book.

"And so, as it daily is coming to pass,
She twits me with idleness, chiding: 'Alas!
They tell me my Guido is dunce of the class.'
" And Friar Tomaso (the stupid old fool!),
Because on my grammar, instead of the rule,
I had scribbled his likeness, has whipped me
in school.

" The boys, leaning over, with shouting began:
'Oh, ho! Little Guido Reni is the man
To step after Raphael, if any one can !'




" I drew on the door of my chamber, in faint,
Yet delicate outlines, the head of a saint:
My mother has blotted it over with paint.

" I sketched with a coal, on the vestibule wall,
Great Caesar, returning triumphant from Gaul:
They came with their whitewash and covered
it all;

" And yesterday, after the set of the sun
(I had practiced my lute, and my lessons were
I went to the garden; and choosing me one

" Of the plots yet unplanted, I leveled it fair,
And traced, with a stick, the Horatian pair
Of brothers. To-day, there 's no trace of it there.

" If only Caracci one moment could see
My drawings, and know how I 'm thwarted-
why, he
Is a painter-and so would be sorry for me.

" Ah, the pictures, the pictures that crowd to my
eye !
If they never will let me have brushes to try
And paint them- Madonna! Think lwilldie!"







THERE were once three sisters, who were nearly
grown up. They were of high birth, but had lost
their parents, and were now under the charge of a
fairy godmother, who had put them on an island
in the sea, where they were to live until they were
entirely grown up. They lived in a beautiful little
palace on this island, and had everything the)
wanted. One of these sisters was pretty, one was
good, and the other had a fine mind. When the
Fairy Godmother had settled everything to her
satisfaction, she told the sisters to stay on the
island and be happy until they were grown up, and
then she sailed away in a kilmaree.
A kilmaree is a boat used exclusively by fairies,
and is shaped a good deal like a ram's horn, with
little windows and doors in various parts of it. The
waters between the main-land and the island of
the sisters were full of strange, entangled currents,
and could be navigated only by a boat like a
kilmaree, which could twist about as much as any
current or stream of water could possibly twist or
turn. Of course these boats are very hard to
manage, for the passengers sometimes have to get
into one door, and sometimes into another; and
the water sometimes comes in at a front window
and goes out at a back one, while at other times it
comes in at a back window and goes out at a front
one; sometimes the boat twists around and around
like a screw, while at other times it goes over and
over like a wheel, so that it is easy to see that any
one not accustomed to managing such boats would
have a hard time if he undertook to make a trip
in one.
It was not long after the three sisters had been
taken to their island that there came riding, on a
road that ran along the shore of the main-land,
a lonely prince. This young man'had met with
many troubles, and made rather a specialty of grief.
He was traveling about by himself, seeking to
soothe his sorrows by foreign sights. It was now
near evening, and he began to look for a suitable
spot to rest and weep. He had been greatly given
to tears, but his physicians had told him that he
must weep only three times a day, before meals.
He now began to feel hungry, and he therefore
knew it was weeping-time. He dismounted and
seated himself under a tree, but he had scarcely
shed half a dozen tears before his attention was
attracted by the dome of a palace on an island
in the sea before him. The island was a long way
off, and he would not have noticed the palace-

dome had it not been gilded by the rays of the
setting sun. The Prince immediately called to a
passer-by, and told him to summon the Principal
Inhabitant of the adjacent village.
When the Principal Inhabitant arrived, the Prince
asked him who lived in that distant palace, the dome
of which was gilded by the rays of the setting sun.
That palace," replied the other, is the home
of three sisters. One is pretty, one is good, and
the other has a fine mind. They are put there to
stay until they are grown up."
Indeed exclaimed the Prince. I feel inter-
ested in them already. Is there a ferry to the
island ?"
A ferry cried the Principal Inhabitant. "I
should think not! Nobody ever goes there, or
comes from there, except the Fairy Godmother,
and she sails in a kilmaree."
Can you furnish me with a boat of that kind ?"
asked the Prince.
"No, indeed!" said the Principal Inhabitant.
"I have n't the least idea where in the world you
could find a kilmaree."
"Very well, then, sir," said the Prince, "you
may go. I am much obliged to you for coming to
You are very welcome," said the Principal In-
habitant, and he walked away. The Prince then
mounted his horse, rode to the village, ate his
supper, and went to bed.
The next morning the Prince shed barely three
tears before breakfast, in such a hurry was he to
ride away and find the kilmaree in which he might
sail to the distant isle and the sisters three.
Before he started, he went to the place whence
he had first seen the dome of the palace gilded by
the rays of the setting sun, and there he whittled a
large peg, on which he cut his initials. This peg
he drove down on the very spot where he had
seated himself to cry, that he might know where to
start from in order to reach the island. If he
began his voyage from any other place, and the
evening sun did not happen to be shining, he
thought he might miss his destination. He then
rode away as fast as he could go, but he met
nobody until he came to the outskirts of a little
village. Here, in a small workshop by the side
of the road, was a young man busily engaged in
making wooden piggins.
This person was an expectant heir. Among the
things he expected to inherit were a large fortune




from an uncle, a flourishing business from his
brother-in-law, a house and grounds from his
maternal grandfather, a very valuable machine for
peeling currants, from a connection by marriage,
and a string of camels from an aged relative. If
he inherited any one of these things, he could
either live in affluence or start himself in a good
business. In the meantime, however, he earned a

sidered very smart, and now, though quite young,
was the head of the family. He had been edu-
cated at a large school near by, in which he was
the only scholar. There were a great many mas-
ters and professors, and there used to be a great
many scholars, but these had all finished their
education and had gone away. For a long time
there had been no children in that part of the


little money by making piggins. The Prince dis-
mounted, and approached this young man.
Can you tell me," he said, "if any one in
these parts has a kilmaree ? "
I don't so much as know," said the Expectant
Heir, sitting down on his work-bench, what a
kilmaree is."
The Prince then told him all he had heard about
the kilmaree, and why it was necessary for him to
have one to reach the distant isle.
"I expect," said the other, "to inherit a house
and grounds. Among the valuable things there I
shall find, no doubt, a kilmaree, which I shall be
very glad to lend to you; but, perhaps, you will
not be willing to wait so long, for the person from
whom I am to inherit the house is not yet dead."
No," said the Prince, I can not wait at all. I
want a kilmaree immediately. Could you not make
me one ? You seem to work very well in wood."
I have no doubt I could make one," said the
Expectant Heir, "if I only had a model. From
what you say, a kilmaree must be of a very peculiar
shape, and I would not know how to set about
making one. But I know a person who probably
understands all about kilmarees. His name is
Terzan, and he lives at the other end of this vil-
lage. Shall we go to him ? "
The Prince agreed, and the two then proceeded
to the house of Terzan. This individual was a
poor young man who lived in a cottage with his
mother and five sisters. He had always been con-

country to take their places. But the masters and
teachers hoped their former pupils would marry
and settle, and that they would then send their
boys and girls to the school. For this reason the
school was kept up, for it would be a great pity
if there should be no school when the scholars
should begin to come in. It was, therefore, with
much pleasure that the teachers and masters
took Terzan, when a mere boy, into their school.
They were afraid they would forget how to teach
if they did not have some one to practice on.
Every day Terzan was passed from professor to
professor, from teacher to teacher, each one trying
to keep him as long as possible, and to teach him
as much as he could. When they were not teach-
ing Terzan, the teachers and professors had nothing
to do, and time hung heavy on their hands. It is
easy to see, therefore, that Terzan was taught most
persistently, and, as he was a smart boy, it is prob-
able that he must have learned a good deal. In
course of time he was graduated, and although the
professors wished him to begin all over again, so as
to make himself absolutely perfect in his studies,
his family thought it would be much better for him
to come home and work for his living. Terzan
accordingly went home, and worked in the garden,
in order to help support his mother and sisters.
These good women, and indeed nearly everybody
in the village, thought Terzan was the smartest
boy in the world, and that he knew nearly every-
thing that could be learned. After a time, Terzan





himself believed that this was partly true, but as he
was a boy of sense he never became very vain.
He was very fond, however, of having his own
way, and if people differed with him he was apt to
think that they were ignorant or crack-brained.
The Expectant Heir knew what a clever fellow
Terzan was considered to be, and he therefore sup-
posed he knew all about the kilmaree.
But Terzan had never seen such a boat. He
knew, however, what a kilmaree was. "It is a
vessel that belongs to a fairy," said he, and it is
a curly-kew sort of a thing, which will go through
the most twisted currents. If I could see a kil-
maree, I could easily make a model of it; and I
know where there is one."
Where ? oh, where ? cried the Prince.
It belongs to a fairy godmother, who lives in a
mountain not far from here. It is in a little pond,
with a high wall around it. When the moon rises
to-night we can go and look at it, and then, when
I have carefully considered it, I can make a model
of it."
You need not take that trouble," said the
Prince. "You and this young man can just lift
the boat out of the pond, and then I can take it
and sail away to the distant isle."
No, indeed cried Terzan. That would be
stealing, and we will do nothing of that sort."
We might borrow it," said the Expectant Heir,
"and bring it back again. There could be noth-
ing wrong in that. I have often borrowed things."
But Terzan would listen to neither of these plans;
so that night, when the moon rose, they all went
to the Fairy's pond, that they might see the kil-
maree, and that Terzan might have the oppor-
tunity of carefully considering it, so that he could
make a model of it. Terzan had a good idea
about such things, and he studied and examined
the kilmaree until he was perfectly satisfied that he
could make one like it. Then they went home,
and the next morning work was commenced upon
the vessel. The Expectant Heir was used to work-
ing in wood, having been a piggin-maker for
several years, and he, therefore, was expected to
do the actual work on the kilmaree, while Terzan
planned it out and directed its construction. The
Prince was in a great hurry to have the vessel
finished, and said that he hoped that they would
work at it night and day until it was done.
And what are you going to do ?" said Terzan.
"I shall wait as patiently as I can until it is
finished," said the Prince. I dare say I can find
some way of amusing myself."
But you expect to sail in it when it is finished ?"
asked Terzan.
Of course I do," replied the Prince, proudly.
"What do you mean by such a question ?"

Then, if you expect to sail in this kilmaree,"
said Terzan, you must just go to work and help
build her. If you don't do that, you shall not travel
one inch in her. And, as you do not appear to
know anything about ship-building, you may carry
the boards and boil the pitch."
The Prince did not like this plan at all; but, as he
saw very plainly that there was no other chance of
his sailing in a kilmaree, he carried the boards and
he boiled the pitch. The three worked away very
hard for several days, until at last their boat began
to look something like a kilmaree.
It must not be supposed that the Fairy was
ignorant of what was going on. She had sat
and watched the three companions while Terzan
examined and studied her kilmaree, and she knew
exactly what they intended to do, and why they
wished to do it. She knew very well they could
never build a vessel of the proper kind, but she
let them work on until they had nearly finished
their kilmaree. She could see, as well as anybody
could see .1- ilii.. that, if that vessel were ever
launched upon the water, it would immediately
screw itself, with everybody on board, down to the
bottom of the ocean. It was not her intention
that a, ii;,, of this kind should happen, and so,
at night, after the three workers had gone to
bed, she removed their vessel, and had her own
kilmaree put in its place in the work-shop of the
Expectant Heir.
In the morning, when the three companions
came to put the finishing touches to their work,
Terzan began to compliment the Expectant Heir
upon the excellent manner in which he had built
the vessel.
"You really have made a splendid kilmaree,"
said he. I don't believe there is anything more
to be done to it."
"It does seem to be all right," said the other,
"but I never should have built it so well had you
not told me exactly how to do it."
The Prince expected one or the other would say
something about the admirable manner in which
he had carried the boards and boiled the pitch;
but, as neither of them said anything of the kind,
he merely remarked that it was a very good kilma-
ree, and the sooner it was launched the better. To
this the others agreed, and the same day the ves-
sel was carried down to the shore and placed in
the water.
"Now, then," said the Prince, when this had
been done, I shall sail along the coast until I
reach the spot where I drove my peg, and then I
shall go directly across to the distant isle. I am
very much obliged to both of you for what you
have done, and when I come back I will pay you
something for your trouble."



"Then," asked Terzan, "you expect to sail alone
in this kilmaree?"
"Oh, yes," replied the Prince. "I know the
direction in which to steer it, and there is no
necessity for any one coming with me."
Indeed !" cried Terzan. "Do you suppose
we built this boat just for you to sail to the distant
isle? I never heard such nonsense. We, too, are
going to sail in this kilmaree, and, as you were good
enough to carry the boards and boil the pitch, we
will take you with us, if you behave yourself. So,
if you want to go, just jump aboard, and clap your
hand over the forward spout-hole. It will be your
duty to keep that shut, except when I tell you to
leave it open. And you," said he to the Expectant
Heir, may sit in the middle, and open and shut
the little door on the right where the water runs in,
and open and shut the little door on the left where
it runs out. I '11 steer. All aboard !"
There was nothing else for the Prince to do, and
so he jumped on the kilmaree, and clapped his
hand over the forward spout-hole. The Expectant

times, when the boat rolled over, the Prince tumbled
overboard, and then the kilmaree dipped down
and scooped him up, making the others just as
wet as he was. The Expectant Heir, at his post in
the middle of the vessel, found the waters some-
times rush in so fast at one little door, and rush
out so fast at the other, that he thought it would
wash all the color out of him. Sometimes the
kilmaree would stand up on one end and then bore
itself far down into the water, rubbing against
sharks and great, fat turtles, and darting about as
if it were chasing the smaller fish; then, just as
Terzan and his companions feared they were
going to be drowned, it would come to the surface
and begin to squirm along on top of the water.
The others thought that Terzan did not know how
to steer, and he admitted that perhaps he did not
guide the kilmaree in exactly the proper way, but
he hoped that after some practice he would become
more skillful.
It began to be dark; but, as there was no stop-
ping the kilmaree, which sailed by some inward


Heir went to his duties in the middle of the vessel.
And Terzan sat in the stern to steer. But he did
not steer at all. The Fairy was there, although he
did not see her, and she made the kilmaree go just
where she pleased.
Off they started, and very soon the three com-
panions found that sailing in a kilmaree was no
great fun. Just to amuse herself, the Fairy made
it twist and turn and bob up and down in the
water in the most astonishing manner. Several

power of its own, they were obliged to keep on.
Terzan thought he could steer by the stars, and so
they all tried to be as well satisfied as possible.
But the Fairy knew very'well how to steer, and
as soon as it became dark she steered right away
from the distant isle of the sisters three, and sailed
toward a large island far out in the ocean. About
midnight they arrived there, and the three com-
panions immediately jumped on shore.
"I am glad to be out of that horrible kilma-





ree! said the Prince, "but how in the world am
I to find the palace and the sisters three? It is as
dark as pitch."
You will have to wait till morning," said Ter-
zan, "when we will go and help you look for it."

who does not know how well off he is. What I
want you to do with these three persons, who are
all very young men, is to take the nonsense out of
"I '11 undertake the task with pleasure," said

-- --_ .-- -
-. -__ __


You need not go at all," said the Prince. I
can easily find it when it is light."
We shall certainly go with you," said Terzan,
"for we want to find the palace as much as you
do. Don't we?" said he, addressing the Expect-
ant Heir.
"Indeed, we do," replied that individual.
"The palace I am looking for," said the Prince,
"is occupied by three sisters of very high degree,
and why a poor young gardener and a pigginist
should wish to call upon such ladies, I can't, for
the life of me, imagine."
"We will show you that when we get there,"
said Terzan; and he laid himself down on the
sand and went to sleep. The two others soon fol-
lowed his example.
As for the Fairy Godmother, she left the three
young men, and went to a castle near by, which
was inhabited by an Afrite. This terrible creature
had command of the island, which belonged to
the Fairy Godmother, and was tenanted by many
strange beings. "I have brought you," said she
to the Afrite, "three very foolish persons: one of
them is a poor young gardener, who thinks he is a
great deal better off than he is; one of them is an
expectant heir, who expects to be much better off
than he ever will be; and the other is a Prince,

the Afrite, with what was intended to be a bland
and re-assuring smile.
"Very well," said the Fairy, "and when the
nonsense is entirely out of them, you can hoist a
copper-colored flag on the topmost pinnacle of
your castle, and I will come over and take charge
of them."
And then she left the castle, and sailed away in
her kilmaree.
The next morning, when the three young men
awoke, they saw the great black Afrite sitting on
the sand before them. Frightened and astonished,
they sprang to their feet. The Prince first found
courage to speak.
Is this the island of the sisters three ?" he
"No," replied the Afrite, with an unpleasant
grin; "it is my island. There are plenty of
sisters here, and brothers, too; but we don't divide
them up into threes."
"Then we have made a mistake," said Terzan.
" Let us go back. Where is our kihnaree ?"
"Your kilmaree is not here," said the Afrite,
sternly, rising to his feet; "you have n't any, and
you never had one. The thing you made would
not work, and the Fairy Godmother brought you
here in her own kilmaree."



The three companions looked at each other in
"Yes," continued the Afrite, "she sat in her
little cranny in the stern, and steered you to this
island. She has told me all about you. You are
three young men who don't know how to take care
of yourselves. How did you ever dare to think of
going to the island of the sisters three, and of steal-
ing the model of the Fairy's kilmaree ?"
I wanted to see the beautiful palace and the
three sisters," said the Prince. It seemed a
novel and a pleasant thing to do."
That was my case also," said Terzan.
And mine," said the Expectant Heir.
"And so, just to please yourselves," said the
Afrite, "you were going to a place where you
knew you were not wanted, and where, by going,
you would interfere with kind and beneficent plans.
You need say no more. You are not fit to take
care of yourselves, and what you need is a guard-
ian apiece. Come along, that I may put you under
their care."
The three young men mournfully followed the
Afrite to his castle. He led them 'through its
gloomy halls to a great court-yard in its center.
This yard was filled with all sorts of unnatural
creatures. Here were two or three great, grim
giants chained together; here and there sat a
sulky-looking genie surrounded by mischievous
elves and fairies, while, scattered about, were
gnomes, and dwarfs, and imps, and many other
creatures which our friends had never seen nor
heard of. The island seemed a sort of penal
colony for such beings, every one of whom looked
as if he or she had been sent there for some
Now, then," said the Afrite to the young men,
I will give you the privilege of choosing your own
guardians. Go into that yard, and each pick out
the one you would like to have take care of you."
The young men did not want to have anything
to do with these strange beings, but there was no
disobeying the Afrite. So they went into the court-
yard and looked about them. In a short time
each had selected a guardian. The Prince chose
a malignant fay. The Afrite told him what she
was, but the Prince said she was such a little thing,
and had such a pleasing aspect, that he would pre-
fer her to any of the others. So the Afrite let him
take her. The Expectant Heir selected a spook,
and Terzan chose a dryad.
"Now, then," said the Afrite, "begone! And
I hope it will not be long before I have a good
report of you."
The Malignant Fay led the Prince to the sea-
shore. As he walked along he remembered that
for several days he had forgotten to weep before

meals. The sisters three and the kilmaree had
entirely filled his mind. So he wept copiously to
make up for lost time.
"Now, then," said the Fay, with a smile, sit
down on the sand and tell me all about yourself.
How do you live when you are at home ?"
Then the Prince sat down and told her all about
the beautiful palace, the fine kingdom, and the
loving subjects he had left in order to find some-
thing novel and pleasant that would make him
forget his grief.
What is it you would like more than anything
else ?" she asked.
I think I would rather go to the isle of the sis-
ters three than to do anything else," he said.
All right said the Malignant Fay. You
shall go there. Pick up that ax and that bag of
nails you see lying there, and follow me into the
The Prince picked up the ax and the nails, and
followed his guardian. When, after a long and
toilsome walk, he reached the center of the forest,
the Malignant Fay pointed out to him an enormous
Cut down that tree," she said. "And when
that is done you shall split it up into boards and
planks, and then you shall build a boat in which to
sail to the distant isle of the sisters three. While
you are working, I will curl myself up in the heart
of this lily and take a nap."
The poor Prince had never used an ax in
his life, but he felt that he must obey his guard-
ian. And so he began to chop the tree. But he
soon became very tired, and sat down to rest.
Instantly the Fay sprang from her lily, and
pricked him in the face with a sharp bodkin.
Howling with pain, the Prince seized his ax, and
began to work again.
There must be no stopping and resting," cried
his guardian. "You must work all day, or the
boat will never be built."
And so the Prince worked all day, and for many,
many days. At nightfall, his guardian allowed him
to stop and pick some berries for his supper. And
then he slept upon the ground. He now not only
wept before each meal, but he shed a tear before
each berry that he ate.
As the Expectant Heir and his guardian left the
castle, the Afrite beckoned the Spook to one side,
and said:
"Do you think you can manage him ?"
The Spook made no answer, but opening his
eyes until they were as wide as tea-cups, he made
them revolve with great rapidity. He then grinned
until his mouth stretched all around his head, and
his lips met behind his ears. Then he lifted his
right leg, and wound it several times around his





neck; after which he winked with his left ear. This
is a thing which no one but a spook can do.
The Afrite smiled. "You '11 do it," said he.
Now, then," said the Spook to the expectant
heir, after they had gone some distance from the
castle, "I am famishing for exercise. Will you
hold this stick out at arm's length ?"
The Expectant Heir took a stick about a yard
long, which the Spook handed him, and he held
it out horizontally at arm's length. The Spook
then stood on tiptoe, and stuck the other end of
the stick into the middle of his back. He was a
smoky, vapory sort of being, and it did not seem
to make any difference to him whether a stick was
stuck into him or not. Throwing out his legs and
arms, he began to revolve with great rapidity
around the stick. He went so fast he looked like
an enormous pin-wheel, and, as his weight was
scarcely anything at all, the Expectant Heir held
him out without difficulty. Soon he began to go
so fast that, one after another, his arms, legs, and

arms and legs. I wear them only because it is the
fashion. Come along !"
They then proceeded up a steep and stony hill,
and paused under a tall tree with a few branches
near the top. The Spook languidly clambered up
the trunk of this tree, and hitched his right foot to
the end of one of the limbs. Then, hanging head
downward, he slowly descended, his legs stretching
out as he gradually approached the ground. When
his head was opposite that of the Expectant
Heir, he turned up his face and gazed steadily at
him, revolving his eyes as he did so. Had the
Expectant Heir been a little boy, he would have
been very much frightened.
What do you want most in this world?" asked
the Spook.
"A large fortune, a flourishing business, a
house and grounds, a machine for peeling cur-
rants, and a string of camels," answered the expect-
ant heir.
Do you want them all, or would two or three

of them do?" asked the

Two or three would
do very well, but I would
not object to have them
"Would you like to
have them now ?" asked
the Spook, "or are you
disposed to postpone the
fulfillment of your wishes
until some indefinite pe-
riod, when you may actu-
ally come into possession
of what you desire? "
"Wait till I get them,
you mean?" said the
Expectant Heir.
Precisely," answered
the other.
"I have been doing
that for a long time,"


head flew off, and fell to the ground at some dis-
tance. Then the body stopped whirling.
"Hello!" said the head. "Will you please
pick me up, and put me together ?"
So the Expectant Heir gathered up the arms,
legs, and head. I hope," said he, that I shall
be able to stick you together properly."
Oh, it does n't matter much," said the Spook,
whose head was now on his body. Sometimes I
have a leg where an arm ought to be, and some-
times an arm in a leg's place. I don't really need

-..1I !i: i I-.":' .o.i i .,r, rather pensively.
ii..i..- .l! ...... ..d the Spook; and turning
away his head, he began to try to unhitch his foot
from the limb. Finding he could not do this, he
climbed up his leg, hand over hand, and unfastened
his foot. Then he dropped to the ground, and,
drawing his leg in to its ordinary size, he started
off again up the hill, the Expectant Heir closely
following. When they reached the top of the hill,
the Spook stopped before five small trees which
grew close together in a row.
I want you to stay here and watch these trees,"
said the Spook to the Expectant Heir. "One of
them bears plums, another peaches, another dates,



another pomegranates, and the last one bears
Watermelons don't grow on trees cried the
Expectant Heir.
There is no knowing where they will grow,"
said the Spook. "You can't be sure that they


will never grow on trees until you see they don't.
You must watch these trees until they have each
borne ripe fruit. There are no buds yet, but they
will soon come; then the blossoms will appear;
and then the green fruit; and after a while, in the
course of time, the fruit will ripen. Then you
will have something to eat."
Oh, I can't wait so long as that! cried the
Expectant Heir. "I am hungry now."
"You can wait easily enough," said the Spook;
"you are used to it. Now, stand under these trees
and do as I tell you. I will bring you something
now and then to take off the edge of your
So the Expectant Heir stood and watched, and
watched. It was weary work, for the buds swelled
very slowly, and he did not know when the blos-
soms would come out.
One day, the Spook came to him and asked:
"Do you like pickled lemons?"
They must be dreadfully sour," said the Expect-
ant Heir, screwing up his face at the thought.
That is all I have got for you to-day," said
the Spook, "therefore you '11 have to eat them or
go hungry."
So he had to eat the pickled lemons, for he was
very hungry.

Another day, the Spook said: Would you like
some peppered peppers ?"
Peppered peppers exclaimed the Expectant
Heir in horror.
They are red peppers stuffed with black pep-
per," said the Spook. "I expect they are hot,
but you '11 have to eat them, for
they are all I have got."
So the Expectant Heir had to eat
the peppered peppers, for the fruit-
trees had barely begun to blossom.
II "Would you like some ice-
cream?" the Spook said, another
time. I 've only the kind which
is flavored with mustard and onion-
juice, but you '11 have to eat it, for
S it is all I have got."
Day after day the Spook brought
such disagreeable food to the Ex-
pectant Heir, who was obliged to
S eat it, for these fruit-trees were just
as slow as any other trees in bring-
ing forth their fruit, and the poor
young man could not starve to death.
The Afrite told the Dryad to take
Terzan and be a guardian to him.
"You can take him about all day,"
he said, "but at night you must
AND HER WARD." go to your tree and be shut up."
As they went out of the castle,
the Dryad explained to Terzan that she had been
sent to that island as a punishment for abandoning
the tree she should have inhabited. I now spend
the days in this castle," she said, and the nights
in a tree over there in the forest. I am glad to get
out. Come along, and I will show you something
worth seeing."
As they went along, they passed a little garden
in which some gnomes were working, and Terzan
stopped to look at them.
"What do you see there?" asked the Dryad,
"Oh, I take great interest in such things,"
replied Terzan. I have a little garden myself,
and it is one of the best in all the country round.
When I am at home, I work in it all day."
I thought you had a good education," said
the Dryad, "and could do better things than to
dig and hoe all day."
I have a good education," said Terzan, and,
what is more, no man can dig potatoes or hoe
turnips better than I can."
"Humph!" sneered the Dryad. "A fellow
could do those things who had no education at all.
I'd as soon be shut up in a tree as to spend my
life digging and hoeing, when I knew so much
about better things. Come along."




Day after day the Dryad led Terzan to lofty
mountain-tops, whence he could see beautiful land-
scapes, with lakes and rivers lying ied and golden
under the setting sun, and whence he could, some-
times, have glimpses across the waters of distant
cities, with their domes and minarets sparkling in
the light.
Do you not think those landscapes are lovely ?"
said the Dryad. And there are lovelier views on
earth than these. And, if you ever visit those
cities, you will find so many wonderful things that
it will take all your life to see and understand
On other days she took him to the cell of a
hermit. The good man was generally absent look-
ing for water-cresses, but his extensive library was
always open to the Dryad and her ward. There
they sat for hours and hours, reading books which
told of the grand and wonderful things that are
found in the various parts of the earth.
Is n't this better than being shut up in a tree,
or a little garden?" said the Dryad.

*;~\ \


Perhaps it is," said Terzan, but my garden
was a very good one, and it helped to support my
mother and sisters."
"He 'll have to see a good many more things,"
said the Dryad to herself.
All this time the three sisters on the distant isle
had no idea that three young men had ever thought
of visiting them in a kilmaree. They lived tran-

quilly, pursuing their studies, and enjoying the
recreations and healthful exercises for which the
Fairy Godmother had made the most admirable
arrangements. Their palace was furnished with
everything they needed, and three happier sisters
could nowhere be found.
In the course of time the Afrite went to look into
the condition of the young men who had been
intrusted to him. He first visited the Prince, and
found him still chopping away at his tree.
How do you feel by this time ?" said the Afrite.
"I feel," said the Prince, leaning wearily upon
his ax, for he was not afraid of the Malignant Fay
now that the Afrite was by, "that I wish I had
never left my kingdom to seek to soothe my sor-
rows by foreign sights. My troubles there were
nothing to what I endure here. In fact, from
what I have seen since I left my home, I think
they were matters of slight importance, and I am
very sure I did not know how well off I was."
Ha ha said the Afrite, and he walked away.
He next went to the hill-top where the Expectant

1 1
_." ...


Heir was watching the fruit-trees. How do you
feel now ?" said the Afrite to the young man.
I am sick of expecting things," said he. If
I ever get back to my old home, I am never going
to expect any good thing to happen to me unless I
can make it happen."
Then you don't like waiting for this fruit to
ripen?" said the Afrite.




I think it is the most tiresome and disagree-
able thing in the world," said the Expectant Heir.
I thought you were used to expecting things,"
said the Afrite.
"Oh, I was a fool!" said the other. "I had
no right to expect to be as well off as I thought I
would be."
Just then the Spook came up with a gruel of
brine-water thickened with salt.
"You need not give him that," said the Afrite.
When the Afrite came to the hernit's cell, where
he found Terzan and the Dryad, he asked the
young man how he felt now.
I feel," said Terzan, looking up from his book,
" as if I had wasted a great deal of valuable time.
There are so many wonderful things to be seen
and to be done in this world, and I, with a good
education, have been content to dig potatoes and
hoe turnips in my little garden! It amazes me
to think that I should have been satisfied with
such a life! I see now that I thought myself a
great deal better off than I was."
Oh, ho !" said the Afrite, and he walked away
to his castle, and hoisted a copper-colored flag
upon the topmost pinnacle.
The Fairy immediately came over in her kil-
maree. "Is the nonsense all out of them ?" she
said, when she met the Afrite.
"Entirely," he replied.
All right, then !" she cried. Dismiss the
guardians, and send for the boys."
The three young men were brought to the castle,
where they were furnished with a good meal and
new clothes. Then they went outside to have a
talk with the Fairy.
"I think you are now three pretty sensible
fellows," said she. You, Terzan, have not been
punished like the other two, because, although you
wasted your time and talents, you worked hard to
help support your mother and sisters. But you
two never did anything for any one but yourselves,
and I am not sorry that you have had a pretty
hard time of it on this island. But that is all over,
and, now that the nonsense is entirely out of you
all, how would you like to sail in my kilmaree, and
visit the isle of the sisters three?"
"We should like it very much, indeed they
answered all together.
"Then come along!" she said. And they
went on board of the kilmaree.
This time the Fairy steered the vessel swiftly
and smoothly to the distant isle. The kilmaree
turned and screwed about among the twisted cur-
rents; but the motion was now so pleasant that
the passengers quite liked it. The three young
men were taken into a beautiful room in the palace,
and there the Fairy made them a little speech.

"I like you very much," she said, "now that
the nonsense is out of you; if you don't object,
I intend you to marry the sisters three."
We don't object at all! they replied.
"Very well," said the Fairy. And Terzan, I
will give you the first choice. Will you take the
pretty one? the good one? or the one with a fine
mind ?"
Terzan really wanted the pretty one, but he
thought it was proper to take the one with a fine
mind; so he chose her. The Expectant Heir also
thought he would like the pretty sister, but, under
the circumstances, he thought it would be better
for him to take the good one, so he chose her.
The pretty one was left for the Prince, who was
well satisfied, believing that a lady who would some
day be a queen ought to be handsome.
When the sisters came in, and were introduced
to their visitors, the three young men were very
much astonished. Each of the sisters was pretty,
all were good, and each of them had a fine
That comes of their all living together in this
way," said the Fairy. I knew it would be so, for
good associations are just as powerful as bad ones,
and no one of these sisters was either ugly or bad
or stupid to begin with." And then she left them
to talk together and get acquainted.
In about an hour the Fairy sent for a priest and
had the three couples married. After the weddings
they all sailed away in the kilmaree, which would
accommodate any number of people that the Fairy
chose to put into it. The Prince took his bride
to his kingdom, where his people received the
young couple with great joy. The Expectant Heir
took his wife to his native place, where he went
into a good business, and soon found himself in
comfortable circumstances. Before long his con-
nection by marriage died, and left him the valuable
machine for peeling currants, after which he be-
came quite rich and happy.
Terzan and his wife went to a great city, where
he studied all sorts of things, wrote bocks, and
delivered lectures. He did a great deal of good,
and made much money. He built a comfortable
home for his mother and sisters, and lived in a
fine mansion with his wife. When his children
were old enough, he sent them to the school
where he had been educated.
Every year the three friends took a vacation of
a month. They all went, with their wives, to the
spot on the shore where the Prince had driven
down his peg; then the Fairy took them over to
the distant isle in her kilmaree. There they spent
their vacation in pleasure and delight, and there
were never any six persons in the world who had
so little nonsense in them.





BY M. P. D.


FIERCE and bitter was the struggle,
But the strife at length was o'er,
And the joyful news went ringing,
Ended is the cruel war.
Proudly homeward rode his lordship,
Bold Sir Guy of Atheldare;
Flashed his eyes with pride and triumph
As his praises filled the air.

Every heart was full of gladness.
Said I, every heart? Ah, no!
Here, amidst this joyful people,
One heart ached with speechless woe:
'T was the little captive stranger,
Claude, the vanquished Norman's son-
Taken prisoner, brought a trophy
Of the victory they had won.

Bravely fought he for his freedom,
And, when taken, smiled disdain
As his captors stood around him,
Bound his arms with gyve and chain;
Smiled defiance when they told him
That Sir Guy his life would spare,
Should he serve and swear allegiance
To the house of Atheldare,-


Spurned their offer, while his dark eyes
Spoke the scorn he could not tell,
As he followed, without murmur,
To his dreary prison-cell.
Then they left him, and his young heart
Bowed beneath its weight of pain
For a moment. But he rose up,
Calm and cold and proud again.

From without the grated window,
In the pleasant court below,
He could see the little princess,
As she wandered to and fro.
Long and eagerly he watched her;
Like a cloud the golden hair
Glanced and rippled in the sunlight,
Framing in her face so fair.

And the little Highland princess,
As if by a magic spell,
Seemed to feel her eyes drawn upward
To the dreary prison-cell;
And the sad, pale face she saw there
Caused the ready tears to start,
While a woman's gentlest pity
Filled the tender, childish heart.




Then a firm resolve rose in her-
Lit the troubled little face.
Not a moment to be wasted;
Breathless, hurrying from the place
On an errand fraught with mercy,
Straight she to her father sped;
Humbly kneeling down before him,
Lowly bowed the dainty head,

While the sweet lips, red and quivering,
Faltered out her anxious plea,
Told her pity for the captive,
Begged Sir Guy to set him free.
But he answered, sternly gazing
On the downcast face so fair:
"Can our daughter doubt the justice
Of the house of Atheldare ?

"But we pardon this, and tell you
Of our wise and just decree:
If this captive swear to serve us,
We will spare and set him free."
Then up rose the little maiden
Dauntlessly, without a fear.
"Would you have a traitor serve us?"
Rang her voice out, sweet and clear.

And Sir Guy paused for a moment,
All his anger from him fled,
As he watched her, flushed and eager,
While her cause she bravely plead.
Gravely smiled he as she ended,
Drew her gently on his knee:
"You have conquered, little pleader-
You have gained the victory.





"But your prince must earn his freedom:
Not with bow or spear in hand-
We are weary of the bloodshed
Spread so long throughout the land.
Let him ask our court a riddle:
Six days' grace to him we give,
And the court three days to guess it;
If it fail, he then may live."

Once more in the pleasant court-yard
Danced the little maid in glee;
Surely he could find a riddle
That would save and set him free.
But five long days and five nights passed,
And the prince no riddle gave:
To his brain, all dazed with sorrow,
Came no thought his life to save.

And the little blue-eyed princess
Pondered sadly what to do,
Till at last she sought the counsel
Of her old nurse, tried and true.
" Go," her nurse said, as she finished,
" Go, and search the green fields over,
Never stopping for an instant
Till you find a four-leaf clover.

" Take and put it in a nosegay,
In the center, full in sight,
Throw it to the little captive;
All I promise will come right."
Out into the merry sunshine,
While her feet scarce touched the ground,
Went the princess, never stopping.
Till the treasure she had found.

Threw it, with the pretty nosegay,
In the window, barred and grated.
Then, and only then, she paused-
Paused, and hoped, and feared, and waited.
Through the window, barred and grated,
In the dreary prison-cell,
Like a ray of happy sunshine
At his feet the nosegay fell.

As he raised and held it gently,
While the burning tears brimmed over,
Through the mist he caught a glimpse
Of the little four-leaf clover.
Thoughts went dashing through his brain,
And, before the evening dew
Kissed the flowers of the land,
All the court this riddle knew:

Fourteen letters am I made of.
Over countries fair and bright,
Under many d.ifir;./ heavens,
Raise we flags, both red and white.
VOL. IX.-61.

Living with my many brothers,
Ever in the long, sweet g rass,
As we play, the happy zpefyrs
Fan us gently as they pass.
Chanced you e'er to find me out,
Luck I 'd surely bring- to you.
Often of me have you heard,
Very often seen me, too;
Ere you turn away from me,
Read me well--my name you '11 see.

Three days passed, unguessed the riddle,
And the sun rose joyfully,
Turned the prison bars all golden,
Told the captive he was free.
Life had never looked so radiant,
Earth had never seemed so fair;
Sang the birds and played the fountain,
Sweetest fragrance filled the air.

But the day wore slowly on,
Sank the sun from out the sky
Ere the waited summons came,
And he stood before Sir Guy.
In the stately council there
Knelt he down, with peerless grace;
Not a tinge of doubt or fear
In the proud patrician face.

To him, then, began Sir Guy:
"You have earned your freedom well,
And, we pray you, speak the answer
That our court has failed to tell."
Then up rose the little captive,
While his eyes with fun danced over:
" If you read its letters downward,
You will find a four-leaf clover."

And Sir Guy laughed long and loud,
As he read the riddle through,
That the court had failed to guess
With the answer in full view.
So the little prince was saved,
And ere many days were o'er,
Happily he sailed away
Toward his longed-for home once more.

But he carried back a memory
Of a court-yard fresh and fair,
Where there walked a little princess
Radiant with her golden hair.
So my story 's almost finished,
And the end I need not tell,-
For of course 't is in the ringing
Of a joyful -.. .1:,-b.ii.




(A Drama for Children.)


ESTHER, a girl of fifteen. MAUD.
GEORGE, her younger brother. LIZZIE.
DELIA, his younger sister. OTIS.
CLARENCE, their cousin. FREDDIE.
TOM, his older brother. BRIDGET, a servant
TIME: Evening. SCENE: A sitting-room.
ESTHER.-Red and blue skirt; white waist, with yellow stars;
liberty cap or helmet; carries small flag; wears a number of very
small flags.
GEORGE.- Gilt crown,cut in points; hair and whiskers of yam ray-
elings or curled hair; dressing-gown edged with ermine (ermine made
of cotton flannel spotted with black paint or cloth); vest covered
partly or wholly with red; long stockings (over trousers); buckled
shoes (buckles made of tinsel or silver paper); carries scepter.
MAUD.--Plaid skirt (short); white waist; bright or plaid scarf
over right shoulder; stockings criss-crossed with two colors; plaid
Scotch cap, edged with dark binding or with fur.
OTIs.-Dark jacket; plaid skirt, ending above the knees, and
belted over the jacket with black belt; criss-crossed stockings;
plaid scarf with long ends, clasped together on left shoulder; Scotch
cap, edged with plaid, with cock's feather in front; carries bow and
arrows; dagger in belt.
LIZZIE.- High comb, with hair of jute or yar, done high; a nar-
rowish cape, made long on the shoulders; dress, with leg-o'-mutton
sleeves, or an old-fashioned small shawl may cover waist and sleeves;
carries work-bag.
FREDDIE.- Felt hat, turned up, with a large feather; a skirt; a
large cape, opening at the right shoulder; wide ruffle, edged with
points or lace; long stockings, with bows at the knees.
DELIA.- Light dress, with garlands of flowers; hat trimmed with
flowers; basket of flowers on arm; carries bouquet.
CLARENCE.-Red flannel jacket or shirt; dark trousers; belt;
long boots; cap, with large visor and a cape at the back of it;
carries slender cane.
BLIND MAN.-Very shabby clothes; hair of gray curled hair or
If these articles of dress are not easy to procure, different ones may
be used; also, if desirable, other characters may be substituted for
those here designated. Feathers are easily made of tissue-paper
and wire.

[Enter GEORGE, dressed as a King. Walks pompously about the
[Enter ESTHER, as America; courtesies to GEORGE.
ESTHER. The Goddess of America, at your Majesty's
GEORGE (extending his hands). You have our royal
E. (earnestly). It took me so long to find these little
flags that I was afraid Clarence would arrive before I
could get them arranged.
G. I think the cars are not in yet. Is Delia ready ?
E. Yes; she makes a darling flower-girl; and Otis
and Maud have come in their Highland costumes. I '11
go for them- Oh here they are, with Delia.
[Enter MAUD and OTIs, followed by DELIA.
G. (advancing). Welcome, my Highland subjects!
MAUD (clapping her hands). Oh, splendid! Why,

George, you make a splendid king Wont it be larks !
Wont it be larks I wonder if the cars are in?
OTIS. Is it a sure thing that he will be here to-night?
DELIA. Our mother wrote so.
M. Does Lizzie know all about it?
E. Not yet; I had time only to scribble a note and
ask her to come this evening in that old-fashioned dress,
you know, and bring her little brother as page, and to
be sure and get here before seven, for something very
particular. She may not come at all. (A knock at the
door.) I do believe she has come! (Steps quickly to
open door. Enter LIZZIE and FREDDIE.) Oh, I am
so glad to see you!
THE OTHERS (coming forward and speaking nearly
at the same time). And so am I.
M. (looking at LIZZIE'S dress). Now, is n't that dress
too funny for anything ? And Freddie's is just capital!
Oh, what larks! what larks!
LIZZIE (breathing hard). Oh, we did have to hurry
so I thought surely we 'd be late!
FREDDIE (looking at his feet). And I almost jumped
into a mud-puddle.
G. (taking out watch). It is time for the cars.
O. Lizzie should be told before he gets here.
G. Let's all sit down. (They seat themselves.) In
the first place turningg to LIZZIE), our Cousin Clarence
is coming to-night.
D. And we have n't seen him for three years !
O. Is he a boy, or a young fellow?
E. When he was here three years ago, with his
brother Tom, he was about a year older than I.
M. I dare say he is more than that much older now.
E. Yes, living in the city, and being a boy (to LIZZIE
and FREDDIE). You know our father and mother went
to Aunt Margaret's, and left us three to keep house.
Well, this morning I got a letter from my mother, writ-
ten yesterday- stop I '1 read that part of the letter.
(Takes long letter from pocket, and reads '- .) "If
your dress needs-- Oh, that's not it! (Looks far-
ther on.) If that stove gets red-hot-- Pshaw!
(Turns the sheet.) Oh, here it is! "If-a tramp comes
to the house to-morrow evening, do not be afraid to let
him in. Your Cousin Clarence is home on his vacation.
He thinks you will be having fine times there by your-
selves, and wants to come down, if only for a day; and
I tell his mother he ought to, it is so long since you have
seen him. There is one thing I think I must tell you.
Perhaps George and Delia need not be told of it, but if
Clarence does as he is planning to do, I think one of
you should have a hint of it, for fear you might be
really frightened. Clarence has been with Tom to
masquerade parties and surprise parties lately, and his
head is full of costumes and odd pranks, and he has
spoken of taking some old clothes along and comIng to




the door as a tramp and surprising you. I thought that
if he should, and should insist on entering the house,
you or Delia might be alone, and might be badly fright-
tened, and that one of you ought to be told of it.
Clarence will bring his violin, and you can have family
concerts. Give him the best the house affords, for he is
remarkably fond of goodies. When you go--" Oh,
that's something else.
M. So, instead of being surprised yourselves, you are
going to surprise him?
E. I thought of it almost as soon as I read the letter.
O. A bright thought, Esther; I 'm glad it occurred
to you.
D. And she has told Bridget, and asked her to send
him in here.
G. And we are going to ask him questions, to hear
what he will say.
F. (speaking quickly). What questions shall we ask?
BRIDGET. There 's an would man at the door, Miss, an'
he says he 's an would blind man, Miss, an' he axes a
morsel o' food.
E. (excitedly). That 's the one! Send him in,
[GIRLS and BoYS look at each other; clap hands softly; rise; sit
down; rise again; go toward the door; listen; tiptoe back to
MAUD (raising forefinger). Hush! hush! Let's
keep sober faces.
O. So he 's coming in a blind way !
L. When we ask questions, we must not let him sus-
pect we know who he is.
F. (more loudly than before). What questions shall
we ask?
G. Oh ask him how he lost his eyesight.
D. (motioning to others with her hand). Hark! I
hear him !
[All look toward the door. BRIDGET shows in an old blind beggar
with bundle and a cane, with which he feels his way. He wears
a green blinder.
BLIND MAN pullingg at the rim or his hat). Good
evening. Pretty cold weather we 're having. Bless ye
all, and may ye never lack for a friend in need !
G. (placing chair near him). Wont you sit down?
There are seven of us here, all young people.
[GEORGE remains standing.
O. And all dressed in costume-if you could only
see us!
E. Would you like something to eat ?
B. M. Yes, Miss; and thank ye kindly.
E. I will fetch you something immediately.
L. ( '"" "-,). Do you feel very, very, very tired?
B. M. (with heavy sigh). I 'm ready to drop, Miss.
D. Have you come far to-day?
B. M. A long, long way, Miss.
G. Have you much farther to go ?
B. M. (sighs). I hope to beg a night's lodging some-
where hereabout (mournfully) -if anybody will take
me in.
M. Poor old man! Are these the best shoes you 've

B. M. I 've a pair a trifle better, given to me to-day,
L. (pitifully). Sometimes I suppose you can hardly
get any food at all ?
B. M. (sadly). I often go hungry, Miss.
F. (speaking up loudly). How did you lose your
eyesight ?
B. M. Ah, little boy, little boy (Shakes head sadly.)
Do you want to hear my story?
[Enter ESTHER with tray, on which is bread and water.
E. Here is something for you to eat. (. .. at
the others.) I suppose you are used to living on bread
and water ?
[ESTHER remains standing.
B. M. An' may I always be able to get that, is my
humble prayer.
[Eats bread.
M. (to L., aside). How well he acts his part! (To
B. M.) Good stranger, have n't you a fiddle outside ?
L. That you could play us a tune on, by and by?
D. If we want to dance ?
G. I '11 fetch my flute, and we '11 play a duet.
B. M. Ah, children, I've only my bits o' duds tied up
here in my bundle to put on when these drop off o' me.
[Continues eating and drinking.
M. (to E., aside). It is too bad to make him eat that
dry bread! Let's tell him we know him.
E. Would you ?
M. and 0. (aside). Yes, yes !
E. (coming toward B. M.). Come, Mr. Blind Man,
you may as well give up; we know who you are.
D. (rising). Mother gave us a hint, for fear we 'd be
G. Yes, Clarence, take off your duds and your
blinder, and get your fiddle, and we '11 play a tune,
and then have some supper.
B. M. Children, don't make a jest of me! Don't!
F. He seems exactly like a blind man.
O. So he does. Things are not what they seem.
L. (to M., aside). He seems to mean to keep up the
G. Come now, Clarence, don't keep it up any longer;
we want -o have some fun, you know. I '11 agree to
restore your sight in ten seconds, and not charge a cent.
B. M. (shakes head sadly). It may be a joke to you,
but, ah! if you knew the reality! (Sighs.) If you only
M. (to L., aside). He knows how to disguise his
voice, does n't he?
BRIDGET. There's a fireman come to the house, Miss.
He says he was sent by the Fire Brigade to expect the
[Enter CLARENCE, as Fireman. Exit BRIDGET.
CLARENCE. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Fire
Brigade think there may be danger that this house will
take fire.
[All look at CLARENCE in astonishment
G. Our house? Why, it never did!
C. Very likely; but that is no reason why it never
E. (anxiously). What do they think is the danger ?




C. They think one of the stoves stands too near the
M. (to E., anxiously). Do you really suppose there
is any danger?
L. (to E., in alarm). Is there very much fire in it
O. (hastily). We boys will take hold and pull it for-
G. Then the pipe would be too short.
E. We should have to put out the fire.
D. Why, Mother wrote about that stove, in her letter.
C. Yes, she 's one of the Fire Brigade which sent
me; your father is the other one. (Takes off cap,
false hair, and whiskers; bows to G. and E.) I have the
honor to be your Cousin Clarence, supposed by this
cruel maiden to be regaling himself on bread and water.
(Briskly, and shaking hands.) How do you do, Cousin
Esther? How do you do, Cousin George? How doyou
do, my little flowery maiden, with bright flowers laden ?
(Shakes hands with DELIA.) And are all these my
cousins, too ?
E. (laughing). Oh, no; this is my friend, Miss Maud
Somers, and this is my friend, Miss Lizzie Bond.
[MAUD and LIZZIE rise.
G. (quickly, andlaughing). And this is my friend, Mr.
Otis Somers, and this is my friend, Mr. Freddie Bond.
[OTIS and FREDDIE rise. All shake hands, with much merriment.
OTIS (suddenly). But who is this? (Points to Blind
G. Yes! Who? If it is not-- (Looks at Clarence.)
C. (briskly). No, it is not I. "I 've a little dog at
home, and he knows me." Clarence Cahoon, at your
service (bows), Fireman and Letter-carrier. This is from
your mother. (Gives E. a letter.)
E. So we were cheated, after all !
M. How strange that this real blind man should hap-
pen in here to-night!
C. Pardon me, Miss Maud, he did not happen in; he
was sent in.
M. (with a roguish smile). By the Fire Brigade ?
C. Oh, no; by the Fireman.
D. You mean you, Cousin Clarence ?
F. (speaking up loud). We thought that blind man
was you.
G. Do tell us all about it, Clarence.
E. We may as well be seated. [They take seats.
L. (to M.). Did you ever know anything so funny?
M. Truly, I never did.
C. My first idea was to come to the door as a tramp,
but I suspected, from questioning your mother, that she
had given you a hint of this, and decided to come in my
fireman's costume. I really was requested to see about
the stove. Your father and mother both seem to think
that some calamity will befall the family while they are
E. But where did you find this poor, unfortunate
C. At the station. I knew that you were expecting
something of the kind, and thought I might play a trick
upon you, and get him a good supper at the same time.
[Blind Man coughs, putting handkerchief to his mouth.

G. Perhaps he '11 play for his supper; blind men
usually can handle a fiddle. Of course you brought
yours, Clarence?
E. (starting up). And we '11 have a dance (Count-
ing.) One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight; just
B. M. (starting zip, to CLARENCE). And I thought I
might play a little trick upon you!
[Pulls off hat, wig, beard, and blinder, showing brown hair and
mustache. The others start and stare.
CLARENCE, My brother Tom!
GEORGE, Cousin Tom!
ESTHER. ) [GEORGE goes toward him.

CLARENCE (clutching his own hair). Beaten! cheated!
done for! fooled! bamboozled! humbugged! (Clasps
hands theatrically.) I 'm a dunce! an idiot! a goose!
an owl! a bat!
TOM. Neither of the last two, or you 'd have seen
better in the dark.
C. (sitting down). I '11 go to the school for feeble-
minded youth! (. .) But, say, Tom, how did you
ever think of anything so bright?
TOM. Oh, I never like to be left out of a good time,
you know; and I thought it would be fun to appear
here in disguise and cheat the cheater. My plan was to
come to the house after you. Your help in bringing me
here was unexpected; so unexpected that when you
stepped up and spoke to me I very nearly betrayed my-
self. Luckily the cotton in my mouth kept you from
recognizing my voice. But, how do you do, cousins ?
(Shaking hands with G., E., and D.) Please, ladies
and gentlemen (bowing to the others), I am my brother's
brother. My brother's brother is not so stout as he
seems; it is clothes which make the man.
E. (comically). Shall I take your hat and coat ?
TOM. No, thanks; I prefer being in costume, like the
rest. (Puts on hat, wig, etc.)
G. But can you see through that green silk?
ToM. Oh, yes; it is thin silk, just stretched over a
wire. Now, I '1' get the fiddle, and play for you.
[Steps briskly out, followed by GEORGE and CLARENCE.
E. So we were all cheated.
O. And a jolly cheat it was !
M. The whole thing is perfectly splendid !
L. Oh, I am so glad I came!
D. I 'm glad I 've learned the grand right and left.
Freddie, can you dance?
F. I can sash-ay, and all promenade, and cross over,
and do some of the other things.
L. He'll need a little help from his partner-just a
[Enter TOM, GEORGE, and CLARENCE, with fiddle.
G. We '11 have one dance before supper.
[TOM tries the bow on the strings, tightens keys, and then starts off
into a lively tune. CLARENCE takes ESTHER, GEORGE takes
MAUD, OTIS takes LIZZIE, FRED takes DELIA. They go
through several changes, CLARENCE calling. (Curtain falls.)
Or they can form into a march (if there is no curtain), and march
out. An accordion, or even a jew's-harp, can take the place of a






row,,wh;lk ;S i1e vWdy to BaKerftwn.?
7t Cy tell nelifte man."

And- yI '

." __

'*T 1 :


u walik-up the hill andyou then. w.Al -
L giojJSt a5 far- a5yeu. can
u can.r L-t (i any faer, -,
licKy anri came bacK., .
of tv r s,. with fhe tin c ,-t,- : .-. 1 .r 1. .
- e.rS o Ie. I ra.Nly track '

k-, wkick is h6e wvy to BaKertelv.- -
,Do tell me fll ai." -----
Wky, folowyour' rose just aS far a5 it 6roeS,
And txever-yoLL be afraid
\vhy 'yo. must be a. b ler.irr
SOr'.y ', a 'harcd meb-cy s ay,
Hovw akerfown wa" fir5t burned dowjx,
--- And then. it I4ew awyi "/
-~ 2-





DONALD, going to his room, laid the three
Ellen Lee letters upon the table before him and
surveyed the situation. That only one of them
could be from the right Ellen Lee was evident;
but which one? That was the question.
"This can not be it," thought Donald, as he
took up a badly written and much-blotted sheet.
" It is English-French, and evidently is in the
handwriting of a man. Well, this brilliant per-
son requests me to send one hundred francs to pay
her expenses to Aix-la-Chapelle, and she will then
prove her identity and receive the grateful re-
ward. Thank you, my good man!-not if the
court knows itself. We'll lay you aside for the

The next was from a woman- a bonne--who
stated that by good nursing she had saved so
many babies' lives in her day that she could not
be sure which two babies this very kind D. R."
alluded to, but her name was Madame L. N. Lit.
A wise friend had told her of this advertisement,
and explained that as L. N. Lit in French and
Ellen Lee in English had exactly the same sound,
the inquirer probably was a native of Great Britain,
and had made a very natural mistake in writing
her name Ellen Lee. Therefore she had much
pleasure in informing the kind advertiser that at
present her address was No. Rue St. Armand,
Rouen, where she was well known, and that she
would be truly happy to hear of something to her
advantage. Donald shook his head very doubt-
fully, as he laid this letter aside. But the next he
read twice, and even then he did not lay it down
until he had read it again. It was a neatly written

* Copyright, i88x, by Mary Mapes Dodge. All rights reserved.


- --





little note, and simply stated, in French, that D. R.
could see Ellen Lee by calling at No. Rue Sou-
diere, Paris, and making inquiry for Madame Rene.
"An honest little note," was Donald's verdict,
after carefully scrutinizing it, "and worth follow-
ing up. I shall go to Paris and look up the writer.
Yes, this Madame Ren6 shall receive a visit from
his majesty."
Don was in high spirits, you see, and no won-
der. He already had accomplished a splendid
day's work in visiting M. Bajeau, and here was at
least a promising result from this advertisement.
He longed to rush back at once to the quaint
little shop, but he had been asked to come in the
evening, and the old gentleman had a certain dig-
nity of manner that Don respected. He felt that
he must be patient and await the appointed hour.
It came at last, and by that time Donald had en-
joyed a hearty meal, written to Mr. Wogg, and
made all needed preparations to take the earliest
train for Paris the next day.
M. Bajeau good old man was made happy
as a boy by the sight of Ellen Lee's letter.
It is great good luck, my friend, that it should
come to you," he said, in rapid French, his old
cheeks fairly flushing with pleasure. "Now, you
take my word, if she is tall, dark, fine-looking--
this Madame Rend, eh ?-you have found the
very bonne who came to my little shop with the
widow lady. Ask her about me -if she remem-
ber, eh? how I -engraved the two letters with
my own hand, while she stood by, holding the
pink-faced baby- ha! ha! (Here Monsieur
rubbed his hands.) "She will remember! She
will prove what I say, without doubt. She will
know about the key to the necklace-yes, and the
lock that has the air of a clasp. Let me see it
again. You have it with you ?"
Donald displayed the treasure promptly.
Stay," said Monsieur. "I will, with your per-
mission, try and open the little lock for you. I
shall be very careful."
"No, no-thank you!" said Donald, quickly, as
M. Bajeau took up a delicate tool. "I would rather
wait till I have tried to find the key, and until my
uncle and-and sister have seen it again just as it
is. My uncle, I am positive, never suspected that
the top of the clasp could be slid around in this
way. The key itself may come to light yet-who
knows? Now, Monsieur, will you do me a great
favor ? "
Name it," replied the old man, eying him not
Will you allow me to cut that page out of your
"Certainly, my boy; certainly, and with pleas-
ure," said M. Bajeau.

No sooner said than done. Donald, who had
his penknife ready, delighted M. Bajeau with his
clever way of cutting out the page, close to its inner
side and yet in a zigzag line, so that at any time
afterward the paper could be fitted into its place in
the book, in case it should be necessary to prove
its identity.
Next the story of the chain was retold with great
care, and written down by Don as it came from
Monsieur's lips, word for word, and signed by M.
Bajeau with trembling nicety. Stay!" he ex-
claimed, as he laid down the pen. It will be
right for me to certify to this in legal form. We
can go at once to my good neighbor the notary.
We shall soon know whether this Madame Ren6 is
Ellen Lee. If so, she will remember that hour spent
in the shop of the watch-mender Bajeau, ha! ha 1"
Monsieur could afford to laugh, for, though he
still repaired watches, he had risen somewhat in
worldly success and dignity since that day. An
American, under the same circumstances, would
by this time have had a showy bric-h-brac estab-
lishment, with a large sign over the door. But
Monsieur Bajeau was content with his old shop,
well satisfied to know the value of the treasures of
jewelry and rare furniture which he bought and
The visit to the notary over, Donald took his
leave, promising the old man to come and bid
him good-by before sailing for America, and, if
possible, to bring Ellen Lee with him.
Late in the afternoon of the same day, after a
dusty seven-hours' ride in a railway coach, he
found himself in Paris, on the way to the Rue
Soudiere, in search of Madame Rend.
It was something beside the effort of mounting
five flights of stairs that caused his heart to beat
violently when, after inquiring at every landing-
place on his way up, he finally knocked at a small
door on the very top story.
A short, middle-aged woman, with pale blue
eyes and scanty gray hair, opened the door.
"Is this Madame Rend?" asked Donald, de-
voutly hoping that she would say No."
The woman nodded, at the same time regarding
him with suspicion, and not opening the door wide
enough for him to enter.
You replied to an advertisement, I believe?"
began Donald again, bowing politely; but noting
the woman's blank reception of his English, he
repeated the inquiry in French. The door opened
wide; the woman smiled a smile that might have
been agreeable but for the lonely effect of her
solitary front tooth, and then courteously invited
her visitor to enter and be seated.
Poor Donald, wishing that he were many miles
away, and convinced that nothing could come of




an interview with this short, stout, pale-eyed
"Ellen Lee," took a chair and waited resignedly
for Madame to speak.
I have advertised," she said in French, "and
am ready to begin work."
Donald looked at her inquiringly.
"Perhaps Madame, the young gentleman's
mother," she suggested, "wishes a fine pastry-
cook at once ?"
A pastry-cook! exclaimed Donald, in despair.
"I came to see Ellen Lee, or rather to inquire
for Madame Rene. Is your name Ren6 ?"
I am Madame Rend," answered a woman, in
good English, stepping forward from a dark corner
of the room, where she had been sitting, unob-
served by Donald. "Who is it wishes to see
Ellen Lee ?"
"The boy whose life you saved said Donald,
rising to his feet and holding out his hand, unable
in his excitement to be as guarded as he had
intended to be. A glance had convinced him that
this was Ellen Lee, indeed. The woman, tall,
dark-eyed, stately, very genteel in spite of evident
poverty, was about thirty-five years of age. There
was no mistaking the sudden joy in her care-worn
face. She seized his hand without a word; then,
as if recollecting herself, and feeling that she
must be more cautious, she eyed him sharply,
saying :
And the other ? the brother? There were two.
Is he living ? "
For a second Donald's heart sank; but he
quickly recovered himself. Perhaps she was trying
tricks upon him; if so, he must defend himself
as well as he could. So he answered, carelessly,
but heartily, "Oh! he's alive and well, thank
you, and thanks to you."
This time they looked into each other's eyes--
she, with a sudden expression of disappointment,
for would-be shrewd people are apt to give little
credit to others for equal shrewdness.
Did you never have a sister? she asked, with
some hesitation.
Oh, yes! he replied, "but I must ask you
now to tell me something of Ellen Lee, and how
she saved us. I can assure you of one thing-I am
alive and grateful. Pray tell me your story with
perfect frankness. In the first place: Are you
and Ellen Lee the same?"
"And do you know my name ?" he pursued.
"Indeed I do," she said, a slow smile coming
into her face. I will be frank with you. If you
are the person I believe you to be, your name is
Donald Reed."
"Good!" he exclaimed, joyfully; "and the
other-what was-- "

"His name?" she interrupted, again smiling.
"His name was Dorothy Reed, sir! They were
twins -a beautiful boy and girl."
To the latest day of his life Donald never will
forget that moment, and he never will understand
why he did not jump to his feet, grasp her hand,
ask her dozens of questions at once, and finally im-
plore her to tell him what he could do to prove his
gratitude. He had, in fancy, acted out just such
a scene while on his hopeful way to Paris. But,
no. In reality, he just drew his chair a little nearer
hers,-feeling, as he afterward told his uncle, thor-
oughly comfortable,-and in the quietest possible
way assured her that she was right as to the boy's
name, but, to his mind, it would be very difficult
for her to say which little girl she had saved-
whether it was the baby-sister or the baby-cousin.
This was a piece of diplomacy on his part that
would have delighted Mr. Wogg. True, he would
prefer to be entirely frank on all occasions, but, in
this instance, he felt that Mr. Wogg would highly
disapprove of his giving the case away" by let-
ting the woman know that he hoped to identify
Dorothy as his sister. What if Madame Rend,
in the hope of more surely "hearing of something
greatly to her advantage," were to favor his desire
that the rescued baby should be Dorothy and not
"What do you mean? asked Madame Rene.
I mean, that possibly the little girl you saved
was my cousin and not my sister," he replied,
Ellen Lee shrank from him a moment, and then
almost angrily said:
Why not your sister ? Ah, I understand -you
would then be sole heir. But I must tell the truth,
young gentleman; so much has been on my con-
science all these years that I wish to have nothing
left to reproach me. There was a time when, to
get a reward, I might, perhaps, have been willing
to say that the other rescued baby was your cousin,
but now my heart is better. Truth is truth. If I
saved any little girl, it was Dorothy -and Dorothy
was Donald Reed's twin sister."
Donald was about to utter an exclamation of
delight, but he checked himself as he glanced
toward the short, light-haired Madame, whose
peculiar appearance had threatened to blight his
expectations. She was now seated by the small
window, industriously mending a coarse woolen
stocking, and evidently caring very little for the
visitor, as he was not in search of a pastry-cook.
"We need not mind her," Madame Rene ex-
plained. "Marie Dubois is a good, dull-witted soul,
who stays here with me when she is out of a situa-
tion. She can not understand a word of English.
We have decided to separate soon, and to leave





these lodgings. I can not make enough money
with my needle to live here; and so we must both
go out and work-I as a sewing-woman, and she
as a cook. Ah me! In the years gone by, I
hoped to go to America and live with that lovely
lady, your poor mother."
Do you remember her well ? asked Donald,
hesitating as to which one of a crowd of questions
he should ask first.
Perfectly, sir. She was very handsome. Ah
me and so good, so grand The other lady--her
husband's sister, I think-was very pretty, very
sweet and gentle; but my lady was like a queen.
I can see a trace of her features -just a little -in
yours, Mr.-Mr. Reed. I did not at first; but the
likeness grows on one."
"And this?" asked Donald, taking a photo-
graph from his pocket. Is this like my mother? "
She held it up to the light and looked at it long
and wistfully.
Poor lady !" she said at last.
Poor lady?" echoed Donald, rather amused at
hearing his bright little Dorry spoken of in that
way; "she is barely sixteen."
"Ah, no It is the mother I am thinking of.
How proud and happy she would be now with this
beautiful daughter For this is your sister's like-
ness, sir?"
Ellen Lee looked up quickly, but, re-assured by
Donald's prompt "Yes, indeed," she again studied
the picture.
It was one that he had carried about with him
ever since he left home-tacking it upon the wall,
or the bureau of his room, wherever he happened
to lodge; and it showed Dorothy just as she looked
the day before he sailed. He had gone with her
to the photographer's to have it taken, and for his
sake. she had tried to forget that they were so sud-
denly to say good-by."
"Ah, what a bright, happy face A blessed
day indeed it would be to me if I could see you
two, grown to a beautiful young lady and gentle-
man, standing together--"
"That you shall see," responded Donald,
heartily, not because he accepted the title of beauti-
ful young gentleman, but because his heart was
full of joy to think of the happy days to come,
when the shadow of doubt and mystery would be
forever lifted from the home at Lakewood.
Is she coming ? Is she here ?" cried Madame
Rene, who, misinterpreting Donald's words, had
risen to her feet, half expecting to see the young
girl enter the room.
"No. But, depend upon it, you will go there,"
said Don. "You must carry out the dream of
your youth, and begin life in America. My uncle
surely will send for you. You know, I promised

that you should hear of something greatly to your
"But the ocean," she began, with a show of
dread, in spite of the pleasure that shone in her
eyes. "I could never venture upon the great,
black ocean again "
It will not be the black ocean this time. It
will be the blue ocean, full of light and promise,"
said Donald growing poetic; and it will bear you
to comfort and prosperity. Dorothy and I will see
to that--"
"Dorothy! cried Ellen Lee. "Yes, I feel as
if I could cross two oceans to see you both to-
gether, alive and well, so I would."
At this point Madame Dubois, rousing herself,
said, rather querulously, in her native tongue:
"Elise, are you to talk all night? Have you for-
gotten that you are to take me to see the lady on
the Rue St. Honor at six? "
"Ah, I did forget," was the reply. "I will go
at once, if the young gentleman will excuse me."
Certainly," said Donald, rising; "and I shall
call again to-morrow, as I have many things yet
to ask you. I '11 go now and cable home."
Ellen Lee looked puzzled.
"Can I be forgetting my own language?" she
thought to herself. But she had resolved to be
frank with Donald-had not he and Dorothy al-
ready opened a new life to her? "Cable home?"
she repeated. I do not understand."
"Why, send a cable message, you know-a
message by the ocean telegraph."
"Oh, yes. Bless me! It will be on the other
side, too, before one can wink. It.is wonderful;
and Mr. Donald, if I may call you so, while you're
writing it, would you please, if you would n't mind
it, send my love to Miss Dorothy? "
Good cried Donald. "I '11 do exactly that.
Nothing could be better. It will tell the story
Donald, going down the steep flights of stairs
soon afterward, intending to return later, longed
to send a fine supper to Ellen Lee and her com-
panion, also beautiful new gowns, furniture, pict-
ures, and flowers. He felt like a fairy prince,
ready to shower benefits upon her, but he knew
that he must be judicious in his kindness and con-
siderate of Ellen Lee's feelings. Poor as she
evidently was, she had a proud spirit, and must
not be carelessly rewarded.

Before another night had passed, Uncle George
and the anxious-hearted girl at Lakewood received
this message:

Ellen Lee Sends Love to Dorothy.







ON the following day, when Donald again
climbed the many flights of stairs and knocked at
her door, he found Madame Ren6 alone. The

self had brushed her threadbare gown with care,
and, by the aid of spotless white collar and cuffs,
given herself quite a holiday appearance. Very
soon she and Donald, seated by the shining little
window, were talking together in English and like
old friends, as indeed they were. The reader
shall hear her story in her own words, though not


pastry-cook advertisement had succeeded: Marie with all the interruptions of conversation under
was gone to exercise her talents in behalf of a little which it was given.
hotel on the Seine, where, as she had assured her
new employer, she would soon distinguish herself It 's no wonder you thought me a French-
by her industry and sobriety. The almost empty woman, Mr. Donald. Many have thought the
apartment was perfectly neat. Madanie Rene her- same of me from the day I grew up. But, though




I look so like one, and speak the language readily,
I was born in England. I studied French at school,
and liked it best of all my lessons. In fact, I
studied little else, and even spoke it to myself, for
there was no one, excepting the French teacher,
who could talk it with me. I never liked him.
He was always pulling my ears and treating me
like a child when I fancied myself almost a woman.
Then I took to reading French stories and ro-
mances, and they turned my head. My poor
home grew stupid to me, and I took it into my
heart to run away and see if I could not get to be
a great lady. About that time a French family
moved into our neighborhood, and I was proud to
talk with the children and to be told that I spoke
'like a native' (just as if I did!), and that, with
my black hair and gray eyes, I looked like a Nor-
mandy girl. This settled it. I knew my parents
never would consent to my leaving home, but I
resolved to 'play' I was French and get a situ-
ation in some English family as a French nurse-
a real Normandy bonne with a high cap. I was
seventeen then. The bonne in the latest romance
I had read became a governess and then married
a marquis, the eldest son of her employer, and
kept her carriage. Why should not some such
wonderful thing happen to me? You see what a
silly, wicked girl I was.
"Well, I ran away to another town, took the
name of Eloise Louvain (my real name was
Elizabeth Luff), and for a time I kept up my part
and enjoyed it. The parents who engaged me
could not speak French, and as for the children--
dear, what a shame it was -they got all they knew
of it from me. Then I went to live with a real
Parisian. The lady mistrusted my accent when I
spoke French to her, and asked me where I was
born; but she seemed to like me for all that, and I
staid with. her until she was taken ill and was
ordered to the baths at Aix-la-Chapelle for cure. I
had the name of being quieter than I was by
nature, for I always spoke French or broken Eng-
lish, and it was not always easy. At last I saw in
the newspaper that a lady in Aix wanted a French
maid to go with her to America. Here was my
chance. Why, Mr. Donald, if you '11 believe me,
I was n't sure but that if I went I 'd in time be the
bride of the President of America himself! You
need n't laugh. Many 's the silly girl-yes, and
boy, too, for that matter-who gets ridiculous
notions from reading romantic books. My French
lady was sorry to lose me, but she let me go, and
then, sir, I became your mother's maid. By this
time my French was so good that she need n't
have found me out; but she was so lovely, so sweet
and sharp withal, that I one day told her the whole
truth, and it ended in my writing a letter home by

her advice, sending my parents fifty francs, asking
their forgiveness, begging them to consent to my
going to America with my new lady, and telling
them that I would send presents home to them
whenever I could. When the answer came, with
love from my mother, and signed, 'Your affection-
ate and forgiving father, John Luff,' I laughed
and cried with joy, and forgot that I was a Nor-
mandy bonne. And a bonne I was in earnest, for
my lady had the prettiest pair of twins any one
could imagine, if I do say it to your face, and such
lovely embroidered dresses, more than a yard long,
the sleeves tied with the sweetest little ribbon-
bows- "
Here Donald interrupted the narrative: What
color were they, please ?" he asked, at the same
time taking out his note-book.
"Pink and blue," was the prompt reply. "Al-
ways blue on the boy and pink on the girl-my
lady's orders were.very strict on that point."
"Did-did the other baby-little Delia, you
know--wear pink bows? "
Not she, never anything but white, for her
mamma insisted white was the only thing for a
"What about their hair?" Donald asked, still
holding his note-book and looking at this item:
" Girl's hair, yellow, soft, and curly. Boy's hair,
pale brown, very scanty."
Their hair? Let me see. Why, as I remem-
ber, you had n't any, sir, at least, none to speak
of-neither had the poor little cousin; but my
little girl-Miss Dorothy, that is-had the most I
ever saw on so young a child; it was golden-yellow,
and. so curly that it would cling to your fingers
when you touched it. I always hated to put a cap
on her, but Mrs. Reed had them both in caps from
the first. I must hurry on with the story. You
know the other baby was never at Aix. We met
it and its parents at Havre, when my lady went
there to take the steamer to America. You twins
were not two months old. And a sad day that was
indeed For the good gentleman, your father-
Heaven rest his soul! i-died of a fever before you
and Miss Dorothy had been in the world a fort-
night. Oh, how my lady and the other lady cried
about it when they came together I used to feel
so sorry when I saw them grieving, that, to forget it,
I 'd take you two babies out, one on each arm, and
walk the street up and down in front of the hotel.
I had become acquainted with a young Frenchman,
a traveling photographer, and he, happening to be
at Havre, saw me one morning as I was walking
with the babies, and he invited me to go to his
place, hard by, and have my picture taken, for
nothing. It was a willful thing to do with those
two infants, after I had been allowed only to walk




a short distance by the hotel; but it was a tempta-
tion, and I went. I would n't put down the babies,
though, so he had to take my picture sitting on a
rock, with one twin on each arm. If you'11 believe
it, the babies came out beautifully in the picture,
and I was almost as black as a coal. It was like a
judgment on me, for I knew my lady would think
it shocking in me to carry the two helpless twins
to a photographer's."
"But the picture," said Donald, anxiously,
" where is it? Have you it yet ? "
I'11 tell you about that soon," Madame Ren6
answered, hurriedly, as if unwilling to break the
thread of her story. The dear lady was so kind
that I often had a mind to own up and show her
the picture, but the thought of that ugly black
thing, sitting up so stiff and holding the little inno-
cents, kept me back. It'swell it did, too--though
it's rare any good thing comes out of a wrong--
for if I had, the picture would have gone down with
the ship. Well, we sailed a few days after that,
and at first the voyage was pleasant enough, though
I had to walk the cabin with the babies, while my
lady lay ill in her berth. The sea almost always
affects the gentry, you know. The other lady was
hardier, though sometimes ailing, and she and her
husband tended their baby night and day, never
letting it out of their arms when it was awake.
Poor little thing, gone these fifteen years "
Are you sure the little cousin was lost? asked
Donald, wondering how she knew.
"Why, Mr. Donald, I drew it from your not
saying more about the child. Was she ever found?
And her mother, the pretty lady, Mrs. Robbins-
no, Robertson-and my lady, your mother? I
heard people saying that all were lost, except those
of us who were in our boat. And I never knew
to the contrary until now. Were they saved, sir ?"
Donald shook his head sadly.
"Not one of them saved!" she exclaimed.
"Ah me! how terrible! I had a sight of Mr.
Robertson with their baby in his arms-just one
glimpse in the dreadful tumult. It all came on so
suddenly-every one screaming at once, and not
a minute to spare. I could not find my lady, yet
I fancied once I heard her screaming for her chil-
dren; but I ran with them to the first deck, and
tried to tie them to something-to a chair, I
think, so they might float-I was frantic; but
I had no rope -only my gown."
"Yes, yes," said Donald, longing to produce
the pieces of black cloth which he had brought
with him, but fearing to interrupt the narrative
then. Please go on."
I tore long strips from my gown, but I could
not do anything with them; there was not time.
The men were filling the boats, and I pushed to the

side of the sinking vessel. No one could help me.
I prayed to Heaven, and, screaming to the men in a
boat below to catch them, I threw the babies out
over the water. Whether they went into the boat
or the water I could not tell; it seemed to me
that some one shouted back. The next I knew, I
was taken hold of by strong arms and lifted.down
into one of the boats. My lady was not there, nor
the babies, nor any one of our party-all were
strangers to me. For days we drifted, meeting no
trace of any other boat from the ship, and living
as best we could on a few loaves of bread and a jug
of water that one of the sailors had managed to
lower into our boat. We were picked up after a
time and carried to Liverpool. But I was fright-
ened at the thought of what I had done -perhaps
the twins would have been saved with me if I had
not thrown them down. I was afraid that some
of their relatives in America would rise up and
accuse me, you see, sir, and put me in disgrace.
I had acted for the best, but would any one believe
me? So when they asked my name, I gave the
first I could think of, and said it was Ellen Lee,'
and when they wondered at such a strange name
for a French girl, as I appeared to be, I told them
one of my parents was English, which was true
enough. Not having been able to save a bit of
my luggage, I was fain to take a little help from
the ship's people. As I had been entered on the
passenger-list only as Mrs. Wolcott Reed's maid,
they were satisfied when I said I was Ellen Lee.
After getting safe ashore I kept my own counsel
and hid myself. To this day I never have breathed
a word about the shipwreck or my throwing out
the babies-no, not to a living soul, save yourself,
sir. Well, a woman gave me another gown, which
was a help, and I soon found a place with a family
in the country, fifteen miles from Liverpool, to
sew for the family and 'tend the children. Of
course I dropped the name of Ellen Lee the mo-
ment I left Liverpool, and I hoped to settle down
to a peaceful life and faithful service. But I grew
sadder all the time; ii- l'!d. could cheer me up.
Night and day, day and night, I was haunted by
the thought of that awful hour."
"IYes, awful indeed," said Donald. "I have
often thought of it and tried to picture the scene.
But we will not speak of it now. You must com-
fort yourself with knowing that, instead of losing
the babies, you saved them. Only don't forget a
single thing about the twins and their mother.
Tell me all you can remember about them.
Have n't you some little thing that belonged to
them or to any of the party ? A lock of hair or a
piece of a dress-anything that was theirs? Oh, I
hope you have-it is so very important "
Ah, yes, sir! I was just coming to that.




There 's a few things that belonged to the babies
and the poor mother-and, to tell you the truth,
they 've pressed heavy enough on my conscience
all these years."
Donald, with difficulty, controlled his impatience
to see the articles, but he felt it would be wisest to
let Madame have her way.
You see how it was: a young man-the same
young man who had taken the picture came to the
ship to bid me good-by, and stood talking apart
with me a minute, while the ladies were looking
into their state-rooms and so on; and somehow he
caught hold of my little satchel and was swinging
it on his finger when Mrs. Reed sent for me. And
before I could get back to him, the ship was ready
to start; all who were not passengers were put
ashore; somebody shouted an order, and we began
to move. When at last I saw him, we were some
distance from shore and he was standing on the
dock looking after me, with my satchel in his
hand We both had forgotten it--and there was
nothing for me to do but to sail on to America
without it."
Were the things in that satchel? cried Don.
"Where is the man ? Is he living ?"
Her eyes filled with tears. No, I shall never
see him again in this world," she said.
Her grief was so evident that Donald, whose dis-
appointment struggled with his sympathy, felt it
would be cruel to press her further: But when she
dried her eyes and looked as if she were about to
go on with the story, he could not forbear saying,
in a tone which was more imploring than he knew:
Can't you tell me what was in the satchel? Try
to think."
"Yes, indeed, I can," she said, plaintively.
"There was the picture of the babies and me;
the baby Dorothy's dress-ribbon; my purse and
the key--"
"A key!" cried Donald. "What sort of a
key ? "
Oh, a little bit of a key, and gloves, and my
best pocket-handkerchief, and--most of all, Mrs.
Reed's letter- "
Mrs. Reed's letter !" echoed Don. "Oh, if
I only could have had that and the picture But
do go on."
"You make me so nervous, Mr. Donald in-
deed you do, begging your pardon-that I hardly
know what I'm saying; but I must tell you first
how each of the things had got into my hands.
First, the picture was my own property, and I prized
it very much, though I had not the courage to
show it to Mrs. Reed; then the pink ribbon was
for baby Dorothy. My lady had handed it to me
at the hotel when we were dressing the twins, and
in the hurry, after cutting off the right lengths to

tie up the dear little sleeves, I crammed the rest
into my satchel."
And the key ?"
Oh, you see, baby Dorothy had worn a chain
from the time she was a week old. It fastened
with a key. Mr. Reed himself had put it on her
little neck and locked it the very day before he was
taken down, and in the hurry of dressing the babies,
as I was telling you, Mrs. Reed let fall the speck of
a key; it was hung upon a bit of pink ribbon, and
I picked it up and clapped it into the satchel,
knowing I could give it to her on the vessel. But
the letter-ah, that troubles me most of all."
She paused a moment and looked at Donald,
before beginning again, as if fearing that he would
be angry.
"It was a letter to a Mr. George Reed, some-
where in America -your uncle, is n't he ?-and
your mother had handed it to me a week before
to put in the post. It would then have gone
there in the steamer before ours, but-ah, how
can I tell you? I had dropped it into my little
satchel (it was one that I often carried with me),
and forgotten all about it. And, indeed, I never
thought of it again till we had been two days out,
and then I remembered it was in the satchel. I
don't wonder you feel badly, sir, indeed I don't,
for it should have gone to America, as she intended,
the poor, poor lady "
Heaven only knows what trouble it might have
spared my uncle, and now he can never know,"
said Donald in a broken voice.
"Never know? Please don't say that, Master
Donald, for you '11 be going back alive and well,
and giving the letter to him with your own hands,
you know."
Donald could only gasp out, "With my own
hands? What! How?"
"Because it's in the satchel to this day. Many
a time, after I was safe on shore again, I thought
to post it, but I was foolish and cowardly, and
feared it might get me into trouble in some way,
I did n't know how, but I had never the courage to
open it when the poor lady who wrote it was dead
and gone. May be you '11 think best to open it
yourself now, sir- "
So saying, Madame Rend stepped across the
room, kneeled by an old trunk, and opening it, she
soon drew forth a small leather hand-bag.
Handing it to the electrified Donald, she gave a
long sigh of relief.
"There it is, sir, and it's a blessed day that sees
it safe in your own hands "
Yes, there they were-the ribbon, the picture,
the tiny golden key, and the letter. Donald, look-
ing a little wild (as Madame Rene thought), ex-
amined them one after the other, and all together,




with varying expressions of emotion and delight. He
was bewildered as to what to do first: whether to
take out the necklace, that he now always carried
about with him, and fit the key to its very small
lock; or to compare the group with the babies'
photographs which his uncle had intrusted to him,
and which he had intended to show to Madame
Rend during the present interview; or to open and
read his mother's letter, which the nature of his
errand to Europe gave him the right to do.
The necklace was soon in the hands of Madame
Rene, who regarded it with deep interest, and
begged him to try the key, which, she insisted,
would open it at once. Donald, eager to comply,
made ready to push aside the top of the clasp, and
then he resolved to do no such thing. Uncle
George or Dorry should be the first to put the key
into that long silent lock.
Next came. the pictures. Don looked at the
four little faces in a startled way, for the resem-
blance of the babies in the group to those in the
two photographs was evident. The group, which
was an ambrotype picture of Ellen Lee and the
twins, was somewhat faded, and it had been taken
at least three weeks before the New York photo-
graphs were. But, even allowing for the fact that
three weeks make considerable change in very
young infants, there were unmistakable points of
similarity. In the first place, though all the four
heads were in baby caps, two chubby little faces
displayed delicate light locks straying over the
forehead from under the caps, while, on the other
hand, two longish little faces rose baldly to the
very edge of the cap-border. Another point which
Ellen Lee discovered was that the bald baby in
each picture wore a sacque with the fronts rounded
at the corners, and the "curly baby," as Donald
called her, displayed in both instances a sacque
with square fronts. Donald, on consulting his
uncle's notes, found a mention of this difference
in the sacques; and when Madame Rend, without
seeing the notes, told him that both were made
of flannel, and that the boy's must have been
blue and the girl's pink,-which points Mr. Reed
also had set down,-Don felt quite sure that the
shape of the actual sacques would prove, on exami-
nation, to agree with their respective pictures. Up
to that moment our investigator had, in common
with most observers of the masculine gender, held
the easy opinion that "all babies look alike," but
circumstances now made him a connoisseur. He
even fancied he could see a boyish look in both
likenesses of his baby self; but Madame Rene un-
consciously subdued his rising pride by remarking
innocently that the boy had rather a cross look in
the two pictures, but that was owing to his being
the weakest of the twins at the outset."

Then came the pink ribbon-and here Donald
was helpless; but Madame Rend came to the res-
cue by explaining that if any ribbons were found
upon baby Dorothy they must match these, for
their dear mother had bought new pink ribbon on
purpose for her little girl to wear on shipboard, and
this was all they had with them, excepting that
which was cut off to tie up the sleeves when the
baby was dressed to be carried on board the ship.
And now Madame recalled .the fact that after the
first day the twins wore only their pretty little
white night-gowns, and that, when it was too warm
for their sacques, she used to tie up baby Doro-
thy's sleeves loosely with the bits of pink ribbon, to
show the pretty baby arm.
Next came the letter. Donald's first impulse was
to take it to Uncle George without breaking the
seal; but, on second thoughts, it seemed probable
that for some yet unknown reason he ought to
know the contents while he was still in Europe. It
might enable him to follow some important clew,
and his uncle might regret that he had let the op-
portunity escape him. But-to open a sealed letter
addressed to another !
Yet, all things considered, he would do so in
this instance. His uncle had given him permis-
sion to do whatever, in his own judgment, was
necessary to be done; therefore, despite his just
scruples, he decided that this was a necessary act.
Madame Rend anxiously watched his face as he
Oh, if you. had only posted this, even at any
time during the past ten years! he exclaimed,
when half through the pages. Then, softening, as
he saw her frightened countenance, he added:
" But it is all right now, and God bless you It
is a wonderful letter," said Donald, in a tone of
deep feeling, as he reached the last line, "and one
that Dorothy and I will treasure all our lives.
Every word seems to confirm Dorry's identity, and
it would complete the evidence if any more were
needed. How thankful Uncle George will be when
he gets it! But how did you ever get all these
treasures again, Ellen Lee?"
Madame Rend started slightly at hearing her old
name from Donald's lips, but replied promptly:
It was by neither more nor less than a miracle.
The satchel was given back to me not very long
after I found myself in Europe again."
"Not by that same young man!" exclaimed
Donald, remembering Madame Rene's tears.
"Yes, Mr. Donald, by that same young man
who took it on the vessel-the photographer."
Oh said Donald.
I may as well tell you," said Madame Rene,
blushing, and yet looking ready to cry again,
" that I had his address, and, some months after




the shipwreck, I sent him a line so that he might
find me if he happened to pass my way. Well,
you may believe I was glad to get the purse and
some of the other things, Mr. Donald, but the
picture and the key were a worriment to me.
The picture did not seem to belong to me any
longer. Sometimes I thought I would try to send
them to the ship's company, to be forwarded to the
right persons, and so rid my mind of them; but I
had that foolish, wicked fear that I'd be traced
out and punished. Why should I, their bonne,
be saved and they lost? some might say. Often I
was tempted to destroy these things out of my
sight, but each time something whispered to me to
wait, for some day one who had a right to claim
them wouldbe helped to find me. I little thought
that one of the very babies I threw down over the
waves would be that person-- "
That's so," said Donald, cheerily.
Hearing a doleful sound from the alley far be-
low them, he opened the window wider and leaned
A beggar in rags stood there, singing his sad
story in rhyme.
Verse after verse came out in mournful measure,
but changed to a livelier strain when Don threw
down a piece of money, which hit the ragged
"Well," said Donald, by way of relief, and
again turning to Madame Rend, "that's a sorry-
looking chap. You have all kinds of people here
in Paris. But, by the way, you spoke of tearing
strips from your gown on the night of the ship-
wreck. Do you happen to have that same gown,
"No, Master Donald-not the gown. I made
it into a skirt and wore it, year after year, as I had
to, and then it went for linings and what not;
yonder cape there on the chair is faced with it,
and that 's ready to be thrown to the beggars."
"Let this beggar see it, please," said Donald,
blithely; and in a moment he was by the window,
comparing his samples with the cape-lining as
knowingly as a dry-goods buyer.
Exactly alike I" he exclaimed. Hold let 's
try the flavor."
This test was unsatisfactory. But, after explana-
tions, the fact remained to the satisfaction of both,
that the goods were exactly the same, but that
Madame Rene's lining had been washed many a
time and so divested of its salt.
Here was another discovery. Donald began to
feel himself a rival of the great Wogg himself.
Strange to say, in further corroboration of the story
of the buxom matron at Liverpool, Madame Ren6
actually gave Donald a fragment of the gown that
had been given to her so long ago; and it was

identical, in color and pattern, with the piece Mr.
Wogg had lately sent him.
"How in the world did you ever get these
pieces, Master Donald ?" asked Madame Ren6.
Whereupon Donald told her all about his Liver-
pool friend and her rag-bag-much to Madame's
delight, for she was thankful to know that the
good woman who had helped her long ago was
still alive and happy.
"And now," said Donald, pleasantly, "let me
hear more of your own history, for it interests me
greatly. Where have you lived all these years ?"
"Well, Master Donald, I went on keeping my
own counsel, as I told you, and never saying a
word about the wreck or the two dear babies, and
living with Mr. Percival's family as seamstress
and nursery governess, under my old French
name of Eloise Louvain. I was there till, one day,
we said we 'd just get married and seek our fortunes
We repeated Donald, astonished and rather
shocked; "not you and Mr. Percival?"
Oh, no, indeed !-I and Edouard Rene," she
said, in a tone that gave Don to understand that
Edouard Ren6 was the only man that any girl in
her senses ever could have chosen for a husband.
What! The photographer?"
"Yes, Mr. Donald, the photographer. Well,
we married, and how many nice things they gave
me-and they were not rich folk, either !"
They ? Who, Madame Ren6 ?"
"Why, Mrs. Percival and the children--gowns
and aprons and pretty things that any young wife
might be proud to have. She had married a fine
gentleman, but she had been a poor girl. Her
little boy was named after his grandfather, and it
made such a funny mixture,-James Wogg Percival,
but we always called him Jamie."
"Wogg! exclaimed Don. "I know a James
Wogg-a London detective "
Oh, that 's the son, sir, Mrs. Percival's brother;
he 's a detective, and a pretty sharp one, but not
sharp enough for me."
She said this with such a confident little toss of
her head that Don, much interested, asked what
she meant.
"Why, you see, Mr. Wogg often came to see
his sister, Mrs. Percival, as I think, to borrow
money of her, and he was always telling of the
wonderful things he did, and how nothing could
escape him, and how stupidly other detectives did
their work. And one day, when I was in the
room, he actually told how some people were look-
ing for one Ellen Lee, a nursemaid who had been
saved froin shipwreck, and how one of the sur-
vivors was moving heaven and earth to find her,
but had n't succeeded; and how, if the case had




been given to him he would have done thus and
so-for she never could have escaped him. And
there I was, almost under his very nose !-yes,
then and many a time after!"
"It 's the funniest thing I ever heard!" cried
Donald, enjoying the joke immensely, and con-
vulsed to think of Mr. Wogg's disgust when he
should learn these simple facts.
"Poor old Wogg !" he said. It will almost
kill him."
"I tell you, Mr. Donald," continued Madame
Rene, earnestly, though she had laughed with
him, "I listened then for every word that man
might say. I longed to ask questions, but I did
not dare. I heard enough, though, to know they
were looking for me, and it frightened me dread-
"Well, as soon as we were married,-Edouard
and I,-we went to my old home, and I made my
peace with my poor old parents, Heaven be praised !
and comforted their last days. Then we went about
through French, Swiss, and German towns, taking
pictures. I helped Edouard with the work, and
my English and French served us in many ways.
But we found it hard getting a living, and at last
my poor man sickened. I felt nothing would help
him but the baths at Aix-la-Chapelle. He felt the
same. We managed to work our way there, and,
once safe at Aix, I found employment as a douch-
euse in the baths.
What is that, please?" asked Don.
"The doucheuse is the bath-woman who gives
the douche to ladies. My earnings enabled my
poor husband to stay and take the waters, and
when he grew better, as he did, he got a situation
with a photographer in the town. But it was only
for a while. He sickened again- Heaven rest and
bless his precious soul -and soon passed away like
a little child. I could n't bear Aix then, and so I
went with a family to Paris, and finally became a
visiting dress-maker. My poor husband always
called me Elise, and so Madame Elise Rend could
go where she pleased without any fear of the
detectives finding her. At last, only the other
day, I picked up a French newspaper, and there I
chanced to see your notice about Ellen Lee, and I
answered it."
Bless you for that! said Donald, heartily.
But had you never seen any other? We adver-
tised often for Ellen Lee in the London and Liver-
pool papers."
No, I never saw one, sir; and, to tell the truth,
I hated to remember that I had ever been called
Ellen Lee, for it brought back the thought of that
awful night-and the poor little babes that I
thought I had killed. If the notice in the paper had
not said that I saved their lives, you never would

have heard from me, Mr. Donald. That made
me happier than I ever had been in all my life
-mostly for the babies' sake, though it seemed to
lift a load of trouble off my mind."
Several times, during the long interview with
Elise Ren6, Donald found himself wondering how
he could manage, without hurting her pride in any
way, to give her the money which she evidently
needed. For she was no pauper, and her bright,
dark eyes showed that time and trouble had not
by any means quenched her spirit. The idea of
receiving charity would shock her, he knew; but
an inspiration came to him. He would not reward
her himself; but he would act for Dorothy.
Madame Ren6," he said, with some hesitation,
"if my sister had known I was coming here to
talk face to face with the friend who had saved her
life, I know what she would have done: she would
have sent you her grateful love and-and some-
thing to remember her by; something, as she
would say, 'perfectly lovely.' I know she would."
Madame had already begun to frown, on prin-
ciple, but the thought of Dorry softened her, as
Donald went on: I know she would, but I don't
know what to do about it. I 'd buy exactly the
wrong article, if I were trying to select. The fact
is, you '11 have to buy it yourself."
With these words, Donald handed Elise Rend a
roll of bank-notes.
Oh, Mr. Donald !" she exclaimed, flushing, "I
can't take this-indeed, I can not "
Oh, Madame Rend, but indeed you can," he
retorted, laughing. "And now," he added hastily
(to prevent her from protesting any longer), I
am not going to inflict myself upon you for the
entire day. You must be very tired, and, besides,
after you are rested, we must decide upon the
next thing to be done. I have cabled to my uncle,
and there is no doubt but he will send word for
you to come at once to America. Now, can't you
go? Say yes. I '11 wait a week or two for you."
Elise hesitated.
It would be a great joy," she said, "to go to
America and to see little Dorothy. She is a
great deal more to me-and you, too, Mr. Donald
-than one would think; for, though you were
both too young to be very interesting when I was
your bonne, I have thought and dreamed so often
of you in all these long years, and of what you
both might have lived to be if I had not thrown
you away from me that night, that I-- her
eyes filled with tears.
Yes, indeed; I know you take an interest in
us both," was his cordial reply. "And it makes me
wish that you were safe with us in America, where
you would never see trouble or suffer hardship any
more. Say you will go."




Could I work?" she said, eagerly. "Could I
sew, make dresses, do anything to be useful to Miss
Dorothy'? My ambition of late has been to go
back to England and set up for a dress-maker, and
some day have a large place, with girls to help;
but that would be impossible -life is so hard for
poor folk, here in Europe. I feel as if I would do
anything to see Miss Dorothy."
But you can have America, and Miss Dorothy,
and the dress-making establishment, or whatever
you please," Don pursued with enthusiasm; "only
be ready to sail by an early steamer. And, since
you go for our sakes and to satisfy my uncle, you
must let us pay all the cost and ever so much more.
Think what joy you give us all in proving, without
a doubt, that Dorothy is-Dorothy."
"I will go," she said.

That same day Donald, who had found a letter
waiting for him on his return to the hotel at which
he had that morning secured a room, flew up the
long flights of stairs again, to ask if he might call
in the evening and bring a friend.
"A friend?" Madame Rend looked troubled.
Donald, to her, was her own boy almost; but a
stranger!-that would be quite different. She
glanced anxiously around, first at the shabby apart-
ment and then at her own well-worn gown-but
Mr. Donald, she thought, would know what was
best to do. So, with a little Frenchy shrug of her
shoulders, and a gesture of resignation, she said,
Oh, certainly; she would be much pleased.
The evening visit was a success in every way,
excepting one. The bonne of former days did not
at first recognize the "friend," M. Bajeau, though
at the first sight he was certain that this tall,
comely woman was the veritable person who had
come with Mrs. Reed and the pink-faced twins into
his little shop. But she remembered the visit per-
fectly, and nearly all that happened on that day.
She recalled, too, that Mrs. Reed had intended to
have the baby's full name, Dorothy, engraved upon
the clasp, and that, on account of the smallness of
the space, the initials D. R. were decided upon.
Still it was annoying to M. Bajeau, and, conse-
quently, rather embarrassing to Donald, that the
woman did not promptly recognize him as the
same jeweler.
The simple-hearted and somewhat vain old
gentleman, who felt that this would be a very
important link in the chain of evidence, had
recognized Madame Rene; and why could she not
return the compliment?
Donald, by way of relieving the awkwardness,
remarked, during a rather stiff moment, that it was
unusually warm, and begged leave to open the
door. At this, Monsieur, hinting delicately that a

draught would in time kill an angel, produced a
skull-cap, which he deftly placed upon his head;
and no sooner was this change effected than
Madame Ren6 grew radiant, clasped her hands in
honest rapture, and declared that she would now
recognize M. Bajeau among a million as the very
gentleman who engraved that blessed baby's dear
little initials upon the clasp.



WHILE the great ship that bears Donald and
Madame Ren6 to America still is plowing its way
across the ocean, we who are on dry land may
look into the home at Lakewood.
Uncle George and the two girls have just come
in from a twilight walk, the glow of exercise is on
their faces, and they are merry, not because any-
thing funny has been seen or said, but because
their hearts are full of joy. Donald is coming
Down-stairs, in the cozy sitting-room, are a pair
of old friends, and if you could open the door with-
out being seen you would hear two familiar voices.
"Where's the use," Mr. Jack is saying confi-
dentially, "in Master Donald's bein' away so long?
The place aint natteral, nothing's natteral, without
that boy. And there's Miss Dorothy, the trimmest
little craft that ever was, here she 's been tossin'
about and draggin' anchor, so to speak, all because
he haint here alongside. He 's gone to find out
for certain Is he? Where 's the use in finding'
out ? One clipper 's as good as another, if both are
sound in the hull and full-rigged. To my mind,
the capt'n 'd better took what the Lord 's giv
him, and be thankful according You can make
any sea rough by continyelly takin' soundin's. I
tell you, messmate-"
He stops short as Lydia raises a warning
"You're forgetting again, Mr. Jack !" she
pleads, and after all the grammar me and Miss
Dorry have taught you. Besides, you might be
just as elegant in talking to me as to the family."
"Eleganter, Mistress Blum-eleganter," is the
emphatic rejoinder, "but not when a chap 's trou-
bled-'t aint in the order o' things. A cove can't
pray grammatic and expect to be heard, can he?
But, as I was sayin', there 's been stormy times
off the coast for the past three days. That boy
ought t' have been kept at home. Gone to find
out. Humph! Where 's the use? S'pose, when
them two mites was throwed out from the sinkin'
ship, I 'd 'a' waited to find out which babies they




were; no, I ketched 'em. fur what they was.
Where 's the use finding' out ? There aint no use.
I 'm an old sailor, but somehow I 'm skeery as a
girl to-night. I've kind o' lost my moorin's."
"Lost what, Mr. Jack?" said Liddy, with a
My moorin's. It seems to me somehow's that
lad '11 never come to land."
Mercy on us, Jack!" cried Lydia, in dismay.
" What on earth makes you say a thing like that ?"
"'Cos I 'm lonesome. I 'm upsot," said Jack,
rising gloomily, "an' that's all there is about it;
an' there 's that wall-eyed McSwiver-- "
"Mr. Jack," exclaimed Lydia, suddenly, you
're not talking plain and honest with me. There's
something else on your mind."
"An' so there is, Mistress Lydia, an' I may as
well out with it. Ken you picture' to yourself a
craft tossed about on the sea, with no steering' gear
nor nothing and the towin'-rope draggin' helpless
alongside--not a floatin' thing to take hold of it.
Well, I 'm that craft. I want some one to tow me
into -smooth waters, and then sail alongside allers
-somebody kind and sensible and good. Now,
do you take the idee ? "
Lydia thought she did, but she was not quite
sure; and as we can not wait to hear the rest of the
conversation that followed, we will steal upstairs
again and see Mr. George lock up the house, bid
Dorothy and Josie good-night, and climb the softly
carpeted stair-way, followed by a pretty procession
of two.
Later, while the girls are whispering together in
their room, the long letter is written to Eben
Slade, which tells him at the close that he may
now come on with legal actions" and his threats
of exposure; that Mr. George is ready to meet him
in any court of law, and that his proofs are ready.
Then at the last follows a magnanimous offer of
help, which the baffled man will be glad to accept
as he sneaks away to his Western home-there to
lead, let us hope, a less unworthy life than of old.
The letter is sealed. Now the lights are out.

Mr. Jack, tranquil and happy, has tiptoed his
way to his bachelor-room above the stable, and
Watch settles himself upon the wide piazza to
spend the pleasant midsummer night out-of-doors.

Sleep well, good old Watch! To-morrow will
be a busy day for you. A trim young man will
come with a letter from the telegraph office, and
you will have to bark and howl as he approaches,
and slowly subside when Dorothy, after calling
from the window, "Be quiet, Watch!" will rush
down to receive the telegram. Then affairs at the
stable will occupy you. Jack, getting out the car-
riage in a hurry, and harnessing the horses with
trembling hands, never heeding your growls and
caresses, will drive to the house, and (while you are
wildly threading your way between wheels and the
horses' legs) Uncle George, Josie, and Dorothy,
radiant with expectation, will enter the vehicle,
Jack will mount to the box, and off they will start
for the station!
Lydia, happy soul! will scream for you to come
back, and then you may amuse yourself with the
flies that try to settle on your nose, while she
makes the house fairly shine for the welcoming that
is soon to be, and rejoices that, after their wedding,
she and Jack are to continue living on the old place
just the same, only that they are to have a little
cottage of their own. Yes, you may doze away
your holiday until the sunset-hour when Lydia,
Jack, and all the Danbys stand waving handker-
chiefs and hats, as two carriages from the station
come rolling up the shady avenue.

.Hurrah! Bark your loudest now, old Watch!
Ed. Tyler, his father, and Josie Manning jump
out of one carriage; Uncle George, leaping like
a boy from the other, helps a tall, bright-eyed
woman, dressed in black, to alight, and then, amid
a chorus of cheers and barking, and joyous cries
of welcome, happiest of the happy, follow the
brother and sister-Donald and Dorothy !

VOL. IX.-62.




_ .... .
...a- ~ r_--Z --




If a folder of handkerchiefs folds as he's told,
Rolling and folding the folds he has rolled,
The folder unfolds, from folds he has rolled,
Amusing amusement both for young and for old.
A PLAIN white handkerchief would hardly appear
a very promising object from which to derive any
great amount of amusement, but, as the compli-
cated and intricate steam-engine was evolved from

make from an ordinary pocket-handkerchief. As the
conjurer says, after surprising you with some marvel-
ous trick, It's quite easy when you know how."
The Orator" (Fig. 4) is one of the most simple,
and, in the hands of a clever exhibitor, one of the
most amusing, of all the handkerchief figures.
To make up the Orator, tie a common knot


the boiling tea-pot, you need notbe astonished when in the corer A (Fig. I). (See Fig. 2.) Fit the
you see what curious and interesting things we can knot on the forefinger of the left hand, as in Fig.

S '

I ~ ,-
*'' ', ." .a '' ,I -I

^^^^^; ""'




3, draw the sides B and C over the thumb and private for the little folks. The first thing which sug-
middle finger to form the arms, and our orator gests itself as a toy for a child is almost invariably a
stands forth (Fig. 4) ready to entertain his audience, doll. Almost all children have a natural curiosity to
If, now, the speech of Othello,
beginning "Most potent, grave,
and reverend seigniors," be re-
peated, accompanied with appro- .
private gestures of its arms and -i
solemn nods of its head, the i I
ludicrous effect will cause great j
fun and many a merry laugh. -_
"The Father Confessor and the
Repentant Nun" properly come '
next, as the Orator will serve for
the Priest. To form the Nun,
another handkerchief is required. ,
As you know, the dress of a nun -
is very simple. You have but to -.-.
turn the corner B (Fig. 5) and' / -
place it over the forefinger of the
right hand with the fold upper- REPENTA
most, so as to form the cap; then
draw the handkerchief over the hand, using the discover the mechanism of their playthings, other-
thumb and middle finger as arms, as in the Orator, wise toys would last much longer than they do;
and the Nun is complete (Fig. 6). With the left so, to stand and watch the manufacture of the
doll will prove a new source of pleasure to our lit-
tle ones. "The Doll-baby" is a little more com-
S.plicated than the preceding figures, but, after
Sone or two trials, is not difficult to make. First,
S roll the two sides of the handkerchief until they
S-!'meet in the middle; next, fold the two ends, A
S- and B (Fig. 7), as shown in Fig. 8; then fold
-" the upper ends, C and D, over and down, as in
S Fig. 9. The rolled ends, C and D, are then
brought around the middle of the handkerchief
1 and tied, the ends of the knot forming the arms;
then, with a little pulling and arranging, you
have a pretty fair doll (Fig. o1).
*' We know that some little boys will disdain
S' to play with dolls, as belonging exclusively to

hand dressed as the i ,
Priest, and the right as
the Nun, any dialogue .
that suggests itself may ,! *
be repeated., ,,
If the proper gest-
ures, nods, and bows
be introduced, this will t.
prove very laughable --,
to those who have never
seen it before.
Now, let us see if
the handkerchief can- .-. -
not produce something
more especially appro- "THE DOLL."

^^ 1

_______ _



the girls. Such little fellows can be pacified at the white rabbit..- Take the two corners B and C
once by the production of a very creditable ball, (Fig. i), holding them as shown in Fig. 16, while
and one that can be thrown you bring the end D over
against a looking-glass or the back of the hand, and
window without the slightest 'lil' lll',l",I'il l',lll l"iii' hold it down with the second
danger of damage. To roll ,,' i finger (Fig. 17). Draw the
up a ball, fold the corner B, 4 .i- .. end A over the front of the
as in Fig. 5, and roll the ;' i hand, and hold it down as
handkerchief as in Fig. II; "'i 'j,' seen in Fig. 18. Still holding
fold back the two ends, A and l'* ... these tightly, fold the end A,

6' \

D (Fig. 12),-the reverse
side is represented in Fig.
13,-and turn the point
C back over A and D;
then the pocket (Fig. 14)
formed by the sides should
be turned inside out, and
this process of turning kept
up (being always careful to
take hold at the corners
when turning) until a firm
ball is formed (Fig. 15).
The first attempt may not
produce as round a ball as
might be desired, but prac-
tice will make perfect.
You can further delight
the children with "Bunny,"


and bring the corner D
through the hand, clasp-
ing it as in Fig. 19. The
portion of the handker-
chief covering the back of
the hand must then be
turned over that in front,
taking heed, however, to
prevent the ends B, C, and
D (which are to form the
ears and the tail respect-
ively) from being wrapped
in with the body; keep
turning (after the manner
in making the ball) until
the body is firm; then
spread out the ears and
arrange the tail, and you




have Bunny," as shown in Fig. 20. A pink / \ tied loosely in one corner; the remainder of
button fastened on makes an effect .. .- -- .. the handkerchief is then wrapped around the
"The Twins" are not so difficult .. / / two first fingers, as shown in Fig. 25.
make as the preceding, but woul ..- Call the attention of the spectators to
be quite odd, if they were not / the comical appearance that a man

"A .
(7 \.


-4 i
*~ -i

K. '* "'


even. Fold the handker-
chief as in Fig. 21; roll
up the two folded ends
as in Fig. 22; then take
the handkerchief by the
two lower corners and
gently pull them in op-
posite directions. (See
Fig. 23.) A doll's head
may then be placed in
each of the rolls, or a
string tied around them
a little below the upper
ends, which will give the
appearance of heads.
The hammock, with the
twins in it, will then
appear, as in Fig. 24.
The Bather is simple
in construction, consist-
ing of a handkerchief
with an ordinary knot


cuts in a bathing-dress,
and then run the hand-
kerchief figure (Fig. 26)
rapidly toward the com-
pany. He is sure to
create a laugh, if made

"Oh, you have left
out Little Red Riding
Hood!" exclaimed a
young friend of mine,
after she had carefully
examined the foregoing
"And, pray, how is
Little Red Riding Hood
made ?" I asked.
She answered by run-
ning into the next room,
and, returning with a
bright red silk pocket-


_ ~~_





handkerchief, she
proceeded to fold
it in the manner
shown in Fig. 27.
Then, at the places
marked by the dot-
ted line, she fold-
ed the corners
back, and, revers-
ing the handker-
chief, the opposite
side appeared fold-
ed as shown in Fig.
28. At each fold.
she patted the
handkerchief, and
said: "There, you
see how that 's
"Yes, but that
looks like a sol-
dier's hat," said I.
Now, you wait
a moment," she

r;- -.""""





L^--^--y---- ^
/ ;\ 2

/ /////I ^



i I
V---L ~-- --


answered, and, as she spoke,
she folded the bottom mar-
gin, C D, over, until it had
the form of Fig. 29.
"Now, what do you call
that ?" I asked.
"Why, that" (here she
picked it up by the corners
C and D and bent the cor-
ners back, making a fold at
K) "is the hood!"

interesting things that can be
manufactured from a hand-
kerchief. And now that the
girls and boys have seen how
easily these have been made,
they can exercise their own
ingenuity in devising other
methods of using their hand-
kerchiefs for the amusement
of their friends in the coming
winter evenings.

'-C- j
i .



Sure enough,
here was the hood
(Fig. 30).
Putting it upon
her head, and deft-
ly tying the ends
under her chin,
she exclaimed:
"And here is Lit-
tle Red Riding
Hood! "
A more simple
but very cunning
little cap may be
made for baby (see
final illustration),
by tying knots in
the four corners
of a handkerchief,
and fitting it close-
ly to the head.
Of course, these
are only a few of
the curious and


: ~
Ir 'r
'-'; '';




IT was a good while af-ter Christ-mas, when Su-sie and
S-- Jen-nie, two lit-tie girls who had en-joyed the hol-i-days
.. ver-y much, made up their minds that they would let
.-' their doll-ba-bies have the same pleas-ure that they had
i had, and that they would give them a Christ-mas of their
.. '.. own. So they set up a lit-tle tree, and got out the dolls'
stock-ings to hang up, and did ev-ery-thing that lit-tle
--.'i.t girls do for dolls when they give them hol-i-days of this
S kind. But Su-sie thought they ought to do some-thing
more than this.
"I '11 tell you what we '11 do," said she to Jennie.
"We '11 have a poor dol-ly. She shall be hun-gry and
cold and wear rag-ged clothes, and then our dolls, who have ev-ery-
thing they want, shall in-vite her to their Christ-mas par-ty, and give
her some of their clothes and good things, and hang some pres-ents for
her on their tree, and nev-er say one word to hurt her feel-ings."
Oh, that will be splen-did said Jen-nie, and the two lit-tle girls hur-
ried off to find a poor dol-ly. They had three good dolls, whose names
were Hen-ri-et-ta, Lau-ra, and Car-min-a-tive. The oth-er name of this

last doll was Bal-sam. They had read
the whole name on a bot-tle, and they
thought it ver-y pret-ty. They once had
an-oth-er doll, who lost her arms, and
so she had been put a-way in a clos-et.
They thought she would make a good
poor dol-ly, and so they brought her out
and called her Ann. They tore her clothes,
which were pret-ty old, any-way, and
made her look ver-y rag-ged and cold.
Ann was in-vit-ed to the Christ-mas

i' c ) ,

"- "-- -',
: -- 1-- i' .* .=-- -, ,\
,... .. i _

par-ty, and she came. The tree

was all read-y, the dolls' ta-ble was spread with their best chi-na, and
there was can-dy, cake, and jel-ly, be-sides al-monds and rai-sins.
"Now then," said Su-sie, "I will speak for our dolls, and you must
speak for Ann."
Jen-nie a-greed, and then Su-sie said, speak-ing for Hen-ri-et-ta:
"How do you do, lit-tle girl? Are you ver-y cold? Come up close



to the fire, and eat some of this jel-ly. It will warm you." And then
Su-sie took a small spoon-ful of the jel-ly, and af-ter put-ting it to
Ann's mouth, she of course ate it her-self.
Thank you ver-y much," said Jen-nie, speak-ing for Ann. I think

.- ," .

piece of can-dy to Ann's mouth and then in-to her own.
"Are you ver-y poor? "' said Su-sie, speak-ing for Lau-ra. Is your
fa-ther dead? Do you like al-monds I '
Yes, ma'am,. said Jen-nie, speak-ing for the poor dol-ly, and each of
the lit-tle girls gave her an al-mond, and then ate them themselves.
"Have you any lit-te broth-ers and sis-ters said Su-sie, speak-ing

for Car-min-a-tive Bal-sam. "Do they have to go out and work?"
Yes, ma'am," said Jen-nie, for Ann. "They go out to work at five

o'-clock ev-ery morn-ing. They are ver-y young."
","/~. .'i I -, *i ,- ... ./ ;. .- '

"Whatdo they work at" asked Su-sie, speak-ing for Hen ri-et-ta.
"---- IJ._ .

"They make but-tons," said Jen-nie, af-ter think-ing a-while.
ThenI will take some of this wrcan-dy as well a the ta-ble, and Su-sie and Jen-nie put a
piee of can-dyll of them,o Ann's mouth poor dol-y just as much as the rest.own.
"Are you vper-y pres-ent" said Su-sie, speak-ing from the tree, and Annyour
fa-ther d a lit-te silver thimble l-monwhich had once be-longed to Jen-nie.
Ites, ma'am,s now said Jen-nie, speak-ing for the poor dol-ly, and Su-sie said that Ann
must hang uplit- her stocking justal-mond, the same as the them themselves.
Have you any lit-tie broth-ers and sis-ters?" said Su-sie, speak-ing
for Car-min-a-tive Bal-sam. Do they have to go out and work ?"
"Yes, ma'am," said Jen-nie, for Ann. "They go out to work at five
o'-clock ev-ery morn-ing. They are ver-y young."
"What do they work at?" asked Su-sie, speak-ing for Hen-ri-et-ta.
"They make but-tons," said Jen-nie, af-ter think-ing a-while.

Then all the dolls were laidset up at their fac-es on the floor, so that they Su-sie and Jen-nie
should not see, while Suate for all of them, giv-ing the poor dol-ly just ed they were San-ta Claus
Af-ter sup-per the pres-ents were tak-en down from the tree, and Ann
had a lit-tle sil-ver thim-ble which had once be-longed to Jen-nie.
It was now time to hang up the stock-ings, and Su-sie said that Ann
must hang up her stock-ing just the same as the rest.
Then all the dolls were laid on their fac-es on the floor, so that they
should not see, while Su-sie and Jen-nie played they were San-ta Claus


and his wife, and filled the four stock-ings with small bits of can-dy and
pieces of ap-ple cut quite small. As Ann was so poor, a rai-sin was al-so
crammed in-to her stock-ing. When the dolls were tak-en up and seat-
ed in a row, and af-ter they had looked at the stock-ings long e-nough
to won-der what was in them, each one's stock-ing was placed in her lap.
It was now quite time for Ann to go home, but be-fore she went
a-way Hen-ri-et-ta gave her a frock; Lau-ra gave her a lit-tle straw hat,
while Car-min-a-tive gave her a red shawl, which was much bet-ter for
her than a cloak, as she had no arms. Some cake, and some of the
jel-ly that was left, was wrapped up in a piece of pa-per for her to
car-ry home to her moth-er and her lit-tle broth-ers and sis-ters, and
then, be-ing made just as hap-py as it was pos-si-ble for a poor dol-ly
to be, she was tak-en back to the clos-et, which was now sup-posed
to be her moth-er's home, up a lit-tle al-ley.
"Those chil-dren of ours," said Su-sie, in a thought-ful tone, "ought
to be much hap-pi-er for hav-ing been kind to that poor dol-ly."

1I <

i;-', a

I :L

"I think they look hap-pi-er al-read-y," said lit-tle Jen-nie, who
looked hap-py her-self for e-ven hav-ing played at kind-ness.
When the old-er sis-ter of these two lit-tle girls has time to make
arms for poor: Ann, Susie and Jen-nie in-tend to a-dopt her in-to their fam-
i-ly, and be moth-ers to her, as they are to the oth-er dolls.



'~ .-


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LITTLE squirrels, crack your nuts;
Chip your busy tune;
Sound your merry rut-a-tuts-
Boys are coming soon!
Hide to-day, and pile to-day,
Hoard a goodly store;
When the boys are gone away,
You may find no more.
Hear you not their merry shout,
Song, and happy laughter?
Sure as leaping, boys are out!
Girls are coming after.
Hide and pile, then, while you may,
Hoard a goodly store;
If the children come this way,
You may find no more.

I HAVE told you before of the way in which my
birds look at the telegraph wires. The little rascals
truly believe them to be hanging in mid-air just
for their benefit-a sort of perching ground, you
know. But some birds are wiser- either because
they have traveled more, or because they number
traveled birds among their intimate acquaintances.
What stories, now, some of those gay foreign song-
sters and talkers might tell of far-away telegraph
lines; and who knows what the sea-gulls may hear
of the trials of the ocean cable! Think of the fish
that gnaw its covering; the heavy shell-animals
that cling to it and weigh it down ; the whales that
bump against it! And as for overland wires, it
would astonish you to hear the birds tell secrets
about that telegraph in Sumatra, which, you know,
is one of the East India Islands. Think of it there,
helpless and alone among the jungles! The dear
Little School-ma'am says that at first, within three
years, there were over fifty serious interruptions on



this Sumatra telegraph, on account of elephants.
They actually pulled down the wires, in some in-
stances, and hid them away in the cane-brakes!
Probably they mistook them for a sort of trapping
apparatus. Imagine a suspicious elephant (with a
young family growing up about him) wrenching up
poles and dragging down wires, by way of precau-
tion! Think, too, of the tigers and bears that
gently rub their sides against the poles, and the
monkeys that delight in finding such grand tight-
ropes all ready for their performances! Ah, the
telegraph in that region has a hard time of it, and
the men who have to go and repair it are certainly
not to be envied. How would you like to be in
that service, my hearers ?
Very much? Well, well! Go and tell your
mothers at once, then, and we '11 see what can
be done about it.
DEAR JACK: Here is another letter about squirrels. A lady
that we know tamed a squirrel, and it became so tame that it would
sit in her lap and eat. out of her hand. One day, after it had been
with her about two months, it disappeared, and the lady was much
troubled to know what had become of it. One day, after it had been
missing about a month, she was out on the piazza; she saw the
squirrel running toward her with five little squirrels, the body of each
being about as long as a boy's finger. The mother brought them
forward, one at a time, as if to introduce them. They were very
timid at first, but they soon 1.i r- i their mother was ashamed
of them for being so much si. .;I .. .1 they ran away, she would
run after them and scold at them.-Yours, sincerely,
A YOUNG friend, fourteen years of age, sends
me this account of a big pyramid, and when I ask
the dear Little School-ma'am whether it is exactly
correct or not, she says: "Ask the children." So,
why not?
DEAR JACK: I have been reading a good deal about the Great
Pyramid of Cheops. It is the only one remaining of the seven
wonders of the ancient world. It stands on a bluff on the edge of
the desert across the Nile from Cairo. It is 460 feet high and 793
feet'square-all built of large blocks of stone. I have some pieces
of it. They are yellowish-white, and somewhat harder than chalk.
There is no rain or frost in Egypt. It is said there are as many
solid feet of rock in the pyramid as it is miles to the sun. If
this pyramid was converted into paving stones two feet wide and
one and a half inches thick, it would make a pavement around the
earth twice, and then leave enough to pave from New York to the
principal cities of the Union. You or your "chicks" can make
the estimate. J. M.
WHAT think you, young bicyclers, of a three-
wheeled, no-horse journey of over two thousand
miles ? The dear Little School-ma'am has just given
me the particulars of precisely such an exploit.
M. Somebody, Vice-President of a French Bicycling
Club, and his wife, started from Lyons lately on
a two-seated machine. They went on into Italy,
through Nice, Genoa, and Rome, to Naples. On
their way back to France, they took in Florence
and Turin, making, in fact, a total journey of
2300 miles, and at an average rate of fifty to sixty
miles a day.
Exactly. And your Jack has an idea that the
worthy but enterprising couple have been resting
at the rate of fifty to sixty days a mile ever since.
But then, what can a poor Jack-in-the-Pulpit
know of the charms of bicycle travel?


THE Deacon is fond of an old adage which hits
off the way some persons have of punishing them-
selves pretty badly in their efforts to punish some-
body else. These people, he says, are apt to "cut
off their nose to spite their face." But, did ever
you hear of an animal that cut off its own tail to
help itself?
No? Well, it appears that on .the European
side of the ocean is a plucky little fellow, known as
the blind-worm or slow-worm. It is a little mite
of an animal, a snake-like lizard, that when fright-
ened has a way of suddenly contracting its muscles
so as to snap its tail off at a considerable distance
from the end. Then what does this fragment of
tail do but dance about in a lively way, so as to at-
tract the notice of the enemy, while the lizard him-
self slinks off unobserved. Then, after awhile, he

"_ ., ; ,- ..

grows a fresh tail, and is ready to resort to the
same trick whenever an enemy puts him to his self-
ONE of my old owls lately put this question in
arithmetic to his children: If one swallow does
not make a summer, how many swallows will it
not take to make an autumn ?
The poor little things very naturally replied
that, so far as they could see, it was the square of
the difference. Whereupon the swallows declared
that, if they were going to be talked about in that
manner, they would leave.
Moral: Do not leave that thing done to-mtrrow
which you can undo to-day. Neglect of this prin-
ciple, dear little children, has caused much trouble
in this careless world.

1, .. .. . -- U ... . .

,' i ,, ,il,, .2 = ---; h

1 . .

r J 'I -" : t' I ,
-2 "" "" i "- *'-:;^?--

,- M A.. ^ ",": *.K'
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..... ...:........ ... .../






THE most acceptable one-or-two-page story
*embodying this picture, written and composed
entirely by a girl or boy under sixteen years of
age, and received at this office before November
Ist, shall be printed in ST. NICHOLAS, and paid
for at the rate of five dollars a page. The stories
sent in possibly may be useful to their respective
writers as school compositions. Should this sug-


gestion meet with the approbation of teachers and
pupils, similar offers shall be made by this maga-
zine from time to time, and FOUR ST. NICHOLAS
SUBJECTS for composition shall be given out each
month, so that school-boys and school-girls all
over the land may, if they choose, work in concert
-thus giving new interest to a duty which to
many young folk is often a dreary task.

\'-1 ~--.' -.


"WWHEN WE WERE Bovs."-The two old gentlemen standing
there in the orchard, and talking over their young days, have
changed so very much since they were boys-their hair has grown
so much whiter, and their eyes so much dimmer, and their shoul-
ders so much more bent-and, altogether, so much has happened
to them, that you 'd think they must have forgotten that they ever
aere boys. But no, indeed! They may have been sobered by all
they have passed through in those long years-the trouble and
sorrow they have had to face and the difficulties they have had to
conquer in becoming the dignified land-owners that you see them
now. But that does not mean that they have put away their boy-
hood forever; and the truth is that, while they have changed so

greatly in outward appearance and estate, yet the boy-hearts within
them have n't changed so much by any means. And we cannot
help suspecting, from the queer smiles they wear, that among the
incidents they are recalling with so much zest, there must have
been one or two that had a spice of mischief in them. How would
they feel, we wonder, if they knew that our artist had caught them
slyly enjoying, out in the solitude of the orchard, the memory of one
of their boyish frolics, and had suddenly brought them, smiles and
all, before the multitude of boys and girls who read ST. NICHOLAS ?
Ah well, good readers, they would find gentle judges in you, we
are sure. For you now are in the full enjoyment of scenes very like
those that they are remembering with pleasure. And then, besides,






THE most acceptable one-or-two-page story
*embodying this picture, written and composed
entirely by a girl or boy under sixteen years of
age, and received at this office before November
Ist, shall be printed in ST. NICHOLAS, and paid
for at the rate of five dollars a page. The stories
sent in possibly may be useful to their respective
writers as school compositions. Should this sug-


gestion meet with the approbation of teachers and
pupils, similar offers shall be made by this maga-
zine from time to time, and FOUR ST. NICHOLAS
SUBJECTS for composition shall be given out each
month, so that school-boys and school-girls all
over the land may, if they choose, work in concert
-thus giving new interest to a duty which to
many young folk is often a dreary task.

\'-1 ~--.' -.


"WWHEN WE WERE Bovs."-The two old gentlemen standing
there in the orchard, and talking over their young days, have
changed so very much since they were boys-their hair has grown
so much whiter, and their eyes so much dimmer, and their shoul-
ders so much more bent-and, altogether, so much has happened
to them, that you 'd think they must have forgotten that they ever
aere boys. But no, indeed! They may have been sobered by all
they have passed through in those long years-the trouble and
sorrow they have had to face and the difficulties they have had to
conquer in becoming the dignified land-owners that you see them
now. But that does not mean that they have put away their boy-
hood forever; and the truth is that, while they have changed so

greatly in outward appearance and estate, yet the boy-hearts within
them have n't changed so much by any means. And we cannot
help suspecting, from the queer smiles they wear, that among the
incidents they are recalling with so much zest, there must have
been one or two that had a spice of mischief in them. How would
they feel, we wonder, if they knew that our artist had caught them
slyly enjoying, out in the solitude of the orchard, the memory of one
of their boyish frolics, and had suddenly brought them, smiles and
all, before the multitude of boys and girls who read ST. NICHOLAS ?
Ah well, good readers, they would find gentle judges in you, we
are sure. For you now are in the full enjoyment of scenes very like
those that they are remembering with pleasure. And then, besides,




who knows but you, too, may yet smile through your spectacles at
gray-haired Master Tommy or Miss Sue, your present chum, when
(in the year nineteen hundred and something) you call to mind that
picnic near the melon-patch last month, or yesterday's fine trick
upon Cousin Jack?

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I read the article in the November number
about some curious birds'-nests, and thought I would tell you of one
which I saw near Muscatine, Iowa.
The Cedar River, though quite wide at Muscatine, is very shallow,
and each ferry-boat is run across by means of a wire rope stretched
from one bank to the other. A block and pulley slips along the wire,
and from each end of the boat comes a rope, which is fastened to the
block; by means of these ropes the boat is inclined to the current in
such a manner that the force of the stream drives the boat across with-
out the use of oars, paddles, or screw-propeller.
On this traveling block, a pair of birds built their nest, and success-
fully reared a brood of young. The boat crossed at all times of the
day and night, and every time the block, with the nest on it, would
go rattling across on the iron cable, above the water. The nest was
well guarded by the ferry-man, and was the marvel of all who passed
by.-Yours, I. M.

THE following bright little puzzle is from a seven-year old reader

F{AR T G H[otA 5.


CA. TH Ec H I D RE ) No94



,PI&Tp R5.1 0 A U,($7E0,o$/ocI

iT TL urgI Ef DP


TH.Ag WE1 R. Is.5A tN


I _____

THE following are the most important existing works of the artists
mentioned in this month's "Art and Artists" paper:
DOMENICHINO: Communion of St. Jerome, Vatican, Rome; Mar-
tyrdom of St. Agnes, Pinacotheca, Bologna; St. Mary Magdalen,
Pitti Gallery, Florence; Portrait of a Cardinal, Uffizi Gallery, Flor-
ence; the Cumman Sibyl, Borghese Palace, Rome; Six Pictures
in the Louvre, Paris; Tobias and the Angel, National Gallery, Lon-
don; St. Jerome and the \..:.1 National Gallery, London; many
frescoes in the Churches i ...... Fano, and Naples.
GUIDO RENI: Aurora, Rospigliosi Palace, Rome; Portrait of
Beatrice Cenci, Barberini Palace, Rome; Madonna della Pieta, and
seven other pictures, Pinacotheca, Bologna; Sts. Paul and Anthony,
Berlin Museum; Cleopatra, Pitti Gallery, Florence; Virgin and

Child, Uffizi Gallery, Florence; Sts. Paul and Peter, Brera, Milan;
Fortune, Academy of St. Luke, Rome; Bacchus and Ariadne,
Academy of St. Luke, Rome; and many others in European gal-
leries and churches.
ELISABETTA SINANI: St. Anthony Adoring the Virgin and Child,
Pinacotheca, Bologna; Charity, Sciarra Palace, Rome; Martha and
Mary, Belvedere, Vienna; Cupids, Lichtenstein Gallery, Vienna;
Infant Christ, Hermitage, St. Petersburg.
CARAVAGGIO: Beheading of St. John, Cathedral, Malta; En-
tombment of Christ, Vatican, Rome; Holy Family, Borghese Gal-
lery, Rome; Cheating Gamester, Sciarra Palace, Rome; Geometry,
Spada Palace, Rome; Fortune-teller, Capitol Gallery, Rome;
Earthly Love, Berlin Museum; Portrait of Vignacourt, Louvre,
IL SPAGNOLETTO: Flaying of St. Bartholomew, Queen of Spain's
Gallery, Madrid; Ixion on the Wheel, Queen of Spain's Gallery,
Madrid; Jacob's Dream, Queen of Spain's Gallery, Madrid; Jacob
Watering the Flock, Escurial, Spain ; Adoration of the Shepherds,
Cathedral of Valencia; Cato of Utica, Louvre, Paris.

DURING the summer months many, if not most, of our Chapters
have been scattered. But the objects of the society have not been
forgotten. Indeed, freed from city limits and roaming by the sea-
shore and among the mountains, we have all enjoyed the best
opportunities for collecting and observing. And now the tide has
turned, and the town-bound trains have been the full ones, and our
dispersed naturalists have gathered together again, and are busily
comparing the fruits of their various expeditions. Your Presi-
dent lately had the pleasure of visiting Chapter 283, of Greenfield,
Mass., and was greatly surprised and delighted. There are now
thirty members, and all are wide-awake and enthusiastic. Every
day, during vacation, excursions were made for flowers, eggs, or
insects, or time was spent in classifying and arranging the
specimens. They have built three elegant cases, and have in one
of them over one thousand insects, many of which are accurately
labeled. We hope that the Secretary will be willing to write for us
a complete description of their entomological and botanical cases, for
they are the best adapted to the wants of the A. A. of any we have
seen. They have eggs to exchange. Other requests for exchanges
Oregon and Washington Ter. Plants, for eggs, minerals, fossils,
and shells.-H. W. Cardwell, White Salmon, Klikital Co., Washing-
ton Ter.
Sandwich Islands. Shells, for insects or living chrysalids.-Miss
Isabel P. Cooke, Concord, Mass.
Petrified wood, for sea-beans, buck-eyes, ores, or Florida moss; also
desired, a foreign correspondent- Jacob Gaddis, Fairfield, Iowa.
Insects and birds' eggs. Please write before sending specimens.
-Fred. W. Hatch, Box 338, Nashua, N. H.
Copper ore, for fossils.-Ezra Lamed, 2546 S. Dearborn St., Chi-
cago, Ill.
Eggs, for eggs and sea-mosses.--C. W. Sprague, Hodges' Block,
Twenty-second St., Chicago, Ill.

gNo. Name. Members. Secretary's Address.
312. New York, N. Y. (G)...... 4..Geo. Wildey, 249 W. 26th St.
313. Chicago, Ill. (H)...... .. .O. J. Stein, 51 S. Sheldon St.
314. Lancaster, Pa. (A). ..... 6..E. R. Heitshu,
322 W. James St.
315. Syracuse, N. Y. (A) ..... 6..E. J. Carpenter,
222 Montgomery St.
376. Palmyra, N. Y. (A) ....... 8.Jarvis Merick.
317. Buffalo, N. Y. (E) ....... W. L. Koester, 523 Main St.
318. Sweetland, Cal. (A).. 7..Miss K. M. Fowler.

We have an aquanum almost finished. On a piece of fresh cocoa-
nut I saw what I took to be a mold, but it was very strange. All
over it were tiny crimson sacs. Will some one tell me what it was?
I have analyzed twenty-four flowers
We have heard essays on chalk, the echinus, reindeer, etc. The
boys are going to make a cabinet.




One of our members found a petrified mushroom. We think it a
wonderful specimen. DAVID K. ORR, Allegheny City, Pa.

H. U. Williams, of Buffalo (B), writes: We know Number 14. We
try to have the subject of every paper something which has fallen
under the writer's personal observation. I think it will please you
to know that the Buffalo Society of Natural Sciences allows us to
meet at its rooms. We also have the benefit of its library and

The cat-birds have held a grand concert in our cherry-trees this
morning. Is n't it a pity that, when they are such fine songsters,
they condescend to squall as they usually do ? I have a little garden
with twelve varieties of wild flowers. It is ever so much better
than an herbarium, for I can watch the flowers grow. I love the
A. A. work more and more. PANSY SMITH.

[It will be new to many that the cat-bird is a "fine songster," but
he is little inferior to the mocking-bird. How many have heard him
do his best ?]
This city is on an island of the same name, in the Gulf of Mexico.
It is low and flat, not being more than six feet above the gulf in
the highest part. It is formed of sand from South American rivers,
brought over by the gulf current. It was settled in 1836, after the
battle of San Jacinto, which secured the independence of Texas.
Before this it was covered with tall grass, and the only trees upon
it were three small groups of stunted oaks. The nearest rocks are
three hundred feet below the surface of the island, and therefore
there is no way of collecting them. I have sea-shells and "sand-
dollars" to exchange for ores. PHILIP J. TUCKER.

Our Chapter was organized early in June, with six members. We
now have nine. Being in a region rather unfavorable to research in
natural history, it is more difficult for us than for some of the more
favored Chapters. Nevertheless, the difficulty of acquiring knowl-
edge and obtaining specimens will make us value more highly the
results of our exertions. CHAS. C. BCEALE.

[Nothing is more true. If a large collection were given to any
Chapter, it would be nearly worthless,]

Allow me to offer a suggestion as to the possible formation of
geodes. Water, we know, sinks into the ground until it comes to
some thick rock, and then stands, and is reached by artesian wells.
The water, standing thus in pools, may have had a hard crust formed
around it, and afterward the water may have dried, leaving a crys-
tallized surface. Large caves are formed by the action of water on
limestone, and my thought is that geodes are only miniature caves,
and formed in the same way. GEO. POWELL.

One day I saw this: At the base of the stalk of an herb was a
web extending entirely aroundthe stalk, and within it a mass of life
which, on examination, proved to be small green spiders. I think
I am not exaggerating when I say there were not less than ten
thousand of them. Are spiders ever gregarious, laying their eggs so
that the young, f6rm vast communities? One morning I noticed
that our fly-trap, which had been full of flies the evening previous,
was nearly empty. Soon I saw, to my astonishment,.aline.o black
ants enter the trap, where each one seized a fly, whirled it rapidly
around a few times, and then tugged it off to its nest. I calculated
that several hundred flies had been carried off during the night.

We have eighteen members, and we are trying to improve our
minds in natural history. The prairies are covered with wild flowers,
and we are learning to analyze them. We have a large room, with
a picture of Prof. Agassiz hung up in it. We have had essays read
on different subjects. The next will be on serpents. We gave an
entertainment recently, and took in enough money to buy a good
microscope (magnifies iooo times), and had some left besides. We
are trying to be one of the Banner Chapters.

I have prepared a number of microscopic objects in Canada bal-
sam, between glass slips, such as blood-corpuscles, bees'-wings, sul-
phur (which looks very beautiful under the condensing lens at night),
scales of butterflies, etc. I have three dainty humming-birds' nests,
an.4 bi 'imii,;-bird and egg from Southern California. The bird
'( -' omoschitus) is three and a quarter inches long, includ-
ing the bill. The back is brilliant green, and the throat a bright
ruby, that sparkles in the sunlight like gems. The nests are about
the size of small walnuts. They are made of sage-leaves, cotton,
wool, seeds of grasses, down, feathers, and cobwebs. One has pale

green lace-moss woven in and streaming out. The egg is like a
small white bean. I have also an oriole's nest from California, made
of straw and lined with hair and wool. The straw is woven in and
out of eucalyptus leaves, and looks as if it had been sewed. The
egg is white, with scrawls on it, which look as if made with a pen.
JOHN L. HANNA, 219 Madison Street.

Chapter 189 has been analyzing minerals. We have been given
the use of a small room. It has been freshly papered and we are
now painting it. We are to have a press in the club-room, and each
is to bring her flowers and press them there.
The interest increases, and we have added four new members.
Our work has been mainly on the questions from ST. NICHOLAS.
We have quite a number of specimens for our cabinet.
We like the following method of preparing a paper on any sub-
ject: First, think of all the questions you can on the subject; write
them down and number them; then read up on each of these, and
write the answers from memory. ELLISTON J. PEROT.
Peekskill.Chapter has made a fort on a small rocky island in the
Hudson, and christened the island Agassiz Island, and the fort
Fort Agassiz. GEo. E. BRIGGS.


Linville H. Wardwell, Secretary Beverly, Mass., Chapter, reports
appropriation of $4.00 for instruments, etc. Among those pur-
chased is a microscope. The question whether all animals are
useful to man was discussed, but remained undecided at date of
report. Three keepers were appointed, one each to have charge
of the herbarium, minerals, and insects. A vacation of two months
was taken by this Chapter.

The report of Chapter 126, E. Philadelphia, Pa., through its
Secretary, Raymond P. Kaighn, says a vacation, extending through
July and August, is taken. Many specimens are contributed,
among which are two nicely mounted red-wing blackbirds.
[In reading this letter to our Berwyn Chapter, one bright member,
of about twelve years, took exception to the name "red-wing black-
bird," and said the proper name is starling." Whether he is right
or not, I leave to you, but judging from the number of specimens he
brings in at a meeting he has fallen madly in love with natural

Report from Chapter iog, Washington, D. C., states that all rules
are suspended from June to September, and that a picnic will be
held each week during that time. The President sends the report
this time, and says the Secretary will be abroad for several years.
While we regret losing her pleasantly written reports, the Chapter,
no doubt, will gain numerous specimens from the countries she may

Charles W. Sprague, Secretary Chapter 1o8 (D), Chicago, Ill.,
says they have obtained a great number of birds' eggs, and have a
variety in good condition to trade for rare and valuable specimens of
any kind.

Instead of the regular monthly reports for November, we propose
a general debate, in which all Chapters and all corresponding mem-
bers are invited to participate. Let the question be:
Resolved, That geodes are formed without the intervention of
animal or vegetable life.
We hope that the President of each Chapter will interest himself
to appoint some one who can worthily represent his Chapter (the
person might be determined by competitive papers in the Chapter),
or that he will cause the Chapter, as a whole, to prepare a paper on
this subject. The best arguments on both sides shall be printed.
All papers must reach us by the first of January, 1883. The usual
reports will be resumed again in December. Let us get all the infor-
mation possible on this subject. Consult books, papers, and friends.
Examine specimens and localities, if possible; reason out your own
conclusions, and let us see whether we can not settle the question.
Address all communications to HARLAN H. BALLARD, Principal
Lenox Academy, Lenox, Mass.




THE above should first be read as a rebus. The answer will be a
charade consisting of six lines, of which the second, fourth, and
sixth are in parentheses. This should, in turn, be solved as if it
were printed like similar charades. The answer will be the name
of a Shakespearian play.

IN each of the following sentences find the letters necessary to
spell the implied word:
EXAMPLE: Generous, bountiful, enlarged. ANSWER: Liberal.
"Benevolent" would not answer the requirements, as the letter v is
not in the three words given.
i. To give leave. 2. Learning, knowledge. 3. Things useless
and cumbrous. 4. Lump, assemblage. 5. A strong leather thong.
6. To cause to slide into water, to dispatch. 7. To slip away
imperceptibly. 8. To work and mix with the hands. 9. A trans-
parent case for a light. AUNT SUE.

IN each of these examples, the problem is to arrange the grouped
letters so that they will form a word agreeing with the accompany-
ing definition.
I. Htaaccnnonii.-Loud laughter.
2. Ronnamiideett.-Resolution.
3. Cajoifusiintt.-Vindication.
4. Utooepnnass.-Voluntary.
5. Laeerttsirr.-Pertaining to the earth.
6. Taacenniipom.-Deliverance. ETHEL.

MY primals and finals form the name of a famous musician, now
living, who was born the twenty-second of October.
CROSS-WORDS: i. A festive celebration. 2. A Jewish title of
respect. 3. A collection of maps. 4. A city in Mississippi. 5. An
enthusiast. J. F. M.I

REPLACE the first dash by a word of four or more letters, which
may be successively beheaded to fill each dash following.
EXAMPLE: To tuneful warbler's merry- ,
And cheery sound of meadow -,
His heavy heart accordeth --
ANSWER, trill, rill, ill.
Pshaw 1" said the silly little ,
What need of making such a ,
If for a moment I peep ?

Why should I fear the angler's -?
I am not big enough to- ,
Nor care to borrow future-."

Why sit so silent on the---?
Give us some music, Birdie, -,
On all around the sun's bright -
Is gayly shining.
The gloomy shades of darkness -
Earth, with a flood of sunshine -,
Finds many a voice to welcome-- ;
Why, then, still pining? A. B. C.

THE initials, placed in the order here given, spell a city which
once belonged to the French, but now belongs to the English.
CROSS-WORDS (of equal length): i. Tranquillity. 2. Customary.
3. Achurch-officer. 4. Tied together. 5. Ashes. 6. A beverage.

MY first in evergreen, not in ash;
My second in money, but not in cash;
My third is in elder, but not in box;
My fourth is in rosebud, but not in phlox;
My fifth is in snow-drop, but not in rue;
My sixth is in orchid, but not in yew;
My seventh in nosegay, sweet to me,
And a poet's name in my whole you will see.

THE problem is to change one given word to another given word,
by altenng one letter at a time, each alteration making a new word,
the number of letters being always the same, and the letters remain-
ing always in the same order. Sometimes the metamorphosis may
be made in as many moves as there are letters in each given word,
but in other instances more moves are required.
EXAMPLE: Change LAMP to FIRE, in four moves. ANSWER,
i. Change FAIR to FOUL, in three moves. 2. Change JUTE to
SILK, in five moves. 3. Change FLOUR to BREAD, in six moves.
4. Change WET to DRY, in five moves. 5. Change CARDS to WHIST,
n ten moves. 6. Change HAR to WIGS, in eight moves. ESOR.






GERMAN CousINS. Ei; L 2. Feind; find. 3. Lohn; lone.
4. Noth; note. 5. Bild; build. 6. Lied; lead. 7. Mehl; mail.
8. Bauer; bower. 9. Ruhm; room. ro. Breit; bright
PI. Ah, soon on field and hill
The wind shall whistle chill,
And patriarch swallows call their flocks together
To fly from frost and snow,
And seek for lands where blow
The fairer blossoms of a balmier weather.
-" September," by George Arnold.
Two WORD-SQUARES. I. I. Which. 2. Hydra. 3. Idler. 4.
Creep. 5. Harpy. II. I. Royal. 2. Omega. 3. Yearn. 4. Agree.
5. Lanes.-- CROSS-WORD ENIGMA. Flag.
ST. ANDREW'S CROSS OF DIAMONDS. Upper Left-hand Diamond:
x E. 2. Sap. 3. Eagle. 4. Ply. 5. E. Upper Right-hand Dia-
mond: Arm. 3. Error. 4. Mow. 5. R. Central Dia-
mond: I E. 2. Yam. 3. Eager. 4. Met. 5. R. Lower Left-
hand Diamond: E. 2. Aim. 3. Eider. 4. Men. 5. R. Lower
Right-hand Diamond: x. R. 2. Top. 3. Roman. 4. Pan. 5. N.

THE answer to the accompanying rebus is a proverb describing
the fate which will overtake the headstrong.


3 4

7 .
FROM x to 2, a flood; from z to 6, to make more beloved; from 5
to 6, a racer; from I to 5, a physician; from 3 to 4, a church festi-
val; from 4 to 8, to release from captivity; from 7 to 8, any church
music adapted to passages of Scripture; from 3 to 7, a puzzle; from
I to 3, a cupola; from 2 to 4, a pitcher; from 5 to 7, a South Ameri-
can bird, similar to the ostrich; from 6 to 8, an apartment. M.

CENTRALS (reading downward): One of the United States.
ACROSS: i. Boastful or threatening behavior. 2. An article of
food. 3. Anger. 4. One thousand. 5. A bulky piece of timber.
6. A caprice. 7. To forebode. CLARA J. C.


ACRoss: i. Relating to a garrison, 2. Refreshing. 3. Eluding.
4. Goes sidewise. 5. Overgrown with ivy. 6. Stuns with noise.
7. Three-fourths of a word meaning monarch. 8. Two-fifths of a
word meaning nimble. 9. A letter. "ALCIBIADES."


3 3
READING ACROSS: I. A personal pronoun. 2. An animal 3.
A measure. Diagonals, from left to right, and from right to left,
give the initials of two illustrious poets who died recently.


BEHEADINGS AND FINAL ADDITIONS. I. Hare, area, rear, earn,
Arno. II. Spar, pare, area, ream, eame.
COMBINATION PUZZLE. Reading across. I. Adria. 2. Inane.
3. Niger. 4. Sleep. 5. Easel.
DOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals, Lalla; finals, Rookh. Cross-words:
i. LucifeR. 2. AllegrO. 3. LimbO. 4. LarK. 5. ArcH.
words: I. ParAsol. 2. BiRds. 3. ICe. 4. H. 5. WEb. 6. DaRts.
7. BicYcle.
NUMERICAL ENIGMA. A wise son maketh a glad father; but a
foolish man despiseth his mother.-Proverbs, chap. xv., verse 2o.
DIAMOND. I. L. 2. Cup. 3. Cocoa. 4. Lucerne. 5. Porgy.
6. Any. 7. E.-- PROGRESSIVE ENIGMA. Operated.
September. S-uccess E-xcites P-erseverance. T-he E-nergetic
M-ay B-ecome E-xcellent R-ebus-solvers. Knife Trick. See head-
piece for this month.
RHOMBOID. Across: I. Silas. 2. Sails. 3. Prate. 4. Steam.
5. Emmet (Robert).

ANSWERS TO ALL OF THE PUZZLES IN THE AUGUST NUMBER were received, before August 20, from Guy Faucit-John Pyne-
Two Subscribers-John C. and William Moses J. G. K.- Effie Banta.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE AUGUST NUMBER were received, before August 20, from Maude J. Lawrence, xo-Elizabeth, 6-
Fred L. Rhodes, 3- Mamma and I, 3--"Pewee," 5 -Anna J. Davison, 2-Mabel Thompson, 5-"The D.'s," 6- Ruth and Sam
Camp, 2-Albert L. Taylor, 6-Scrap, x Frederica and Andrew Davis, 12-" Jinks and Pops," 9-Mary C. Burnam, 4-Vera, 8-
Theodore H. Piser, I- J. S. Tennant, 12 Ed. U. Cation," 8- "We Four," 5 -Effie K. Talboys, lo- R. W. and L. F., 3- Fannie
L. Tunis, i Helen W. Merriam, 3 Laura Woodward and Maude Alston, 5 Aulino, 6 Nellie Caldwell, 5 Professor and Co., ii
Florence G. Lane, 2-Minnie B. Murray, 12-Patience, 7-" Sairey Gamp and Betsy Prig," 7-" Brookhouse Farm," io-Hallie
Ondley, 9- Helen's Mamma, ao-- Louise Gilman, 6- Clara and her Aunts. 1o- Three Robins, 7- Emma D. Andrews and Helen S.
Woodworth, 4- Gertrude Lansing and Julia Wallace, 8 -Amy Elliott, Edith and R. Townsend McKeever, 8- Sara, Eliza, and Anne
Blake, n Bessie C. Rogers, 5 Clara J. Child, ir -Daisy W. Bisland, x -Vin and Henry, 8- Sadie L. Rhodes, 2.





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