Front Cover
 The clocks of Rondaine
 A dear little schemer
 The ballad of the blacksmith's...
 Sara Crewe; or, What happened at...
 The bear that had a bank accou...
 Santa Claus in the pulpit
 The belated barber - An Aztec...
 A winter elf
 How the Hart boys saw great salt...
 Nothing is easier
 Best of all
 The first Christmas tree in New...
 Going! Going!
 Three mile high in a balloon
 Child & poet
 The children's Christmas club of...
 A pincushion
 The cat's answer to the doll's...
 The letter-box
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00193
 Material Information
Title: St. Nicholas
Uniform Title: St. Nicholas (New York, N.Y.)
Alternate Title: Saint Nicholas
Physical Description: 68 v. : ill. ; 25-30 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Dodge, Mary Mapes, 1830-1905
Publisher: Scribner
Place of Publication: New York
Publication Date: -c1943
Frequency: monthly
Subject: Children's literature -- Periodicals   ( lcsh )
Genre: periodical   ( marcgt )
Dates or Sequential Designation: -v. 67, no. 4 (Feb. 1940) ; v. 70, no. 1 (Mar. 1943)-v. 70, no. 4 (June 1943).
Dates or Sequential Designation: Began with: Vol. 1, no. 1, Nov. 1873.
Numbering Peculiarities: Suspended Mar. 1940-Feb. 1943; vols. 68-69 omitted.
Issuing Body: Published by: Century, Aug. 1881- ; by Educational Pub. Corp. -1940; by St. Nicholas Magazine, 1943.
General Note: Description based on: Vol. 2, no. 12 (Oct. 1875); title from cover.
General Note: Conducted by Mary Mapes Dodge.
Funding: Preservation and Access for American and British Children's Literature, 1870-1889 (NEH PA-50860-00).
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00065513
Volume ID: VID00193
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: oclc - 01764817
lccn - 04012675
 Related Items
Preceded by: Our young folks
Preceded by: Children's hour (Philadelphia, Penn.)
Preceded by: Little corporal
Preceded by: Schoolday magazine
Preceded by: Wide awake

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
    The clocks of Rondaine
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
    A dear little schemer
        Page 88
        Page 89
    The ballad of the blacksmith's sons
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
    Sara Crewe; or, What happened at Miss Munchin's
        Page 97
        Page 98
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
    The bear that had a bank account
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
    Santa Claus in the pulpit
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
    The belated barber - An Aztec fragment
        Page 119
    A winter elf
        Page 120
    How the Hart boys saw great salt lake
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
    Nothing is easier
        Page 128
    Best of all
        Page 129
    The first Christmas tree in New England
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
    Going! Going!
        Page 134
    Three mile high in a balloon
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
    Child & poet
        Page 144
        Page 145
    The children's Christmas club of Washington city
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
    A pincushion
        Page 150
        Page 151
    The cat's answer to the doll's question
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
    The letter-box
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
    The riddle-box
        Page 159
        Page 160
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

.. ... .. ... ..

. .. ....








/ENTURIES ago, there
S stood on the banks
I. ':f a river a little town
I .' .:-lled Rondaine. The
,'" i erwas alongandwind-
;. i'r stream which ran
through different
I-. countries, and was
ne'-" metimes narrow and
S,'- :' ift, and sometimes
l:. oad and placid; some-
A. : l i t11. 1 1 though mountain-passes,
i .-'i :i. r1 1.: ;:. dj..ring quietly through
S .:rrit,.: .-- ]ii :ome places of a blue
color and almost transparent, and in others
of a dark and somber hue ; and so it
changed until it threw itself into a warm,
far-spreading sea.
But it was quite otherwise with the little town.
As far back as anybody could remember, it had
always been the same that it was at the time of our
story; and the people who lived there could see no
reason to suppose that it would ever be different
from what it was then. It was a pleasant little
town, its citizens were very happy; and why there
should be any change in it, the most-astute old
man in all Rondaine could not have told you.
If Rondaine had been famed for anything at all,
it would have been for the number of its clocks.
It had niany churches, some little ones in dark side
streets, and some larger ones in wider thorough-
fares, besides here and there a very good-sized
church fronting on a park or open square; and in
Copyright, 1887, by THE CENs

the steeple of each of these churches there was a
clock. There were town buildings, very old ones,
which stood upon the great central square. Each
of these had a tower, and in each tower was a
clock. Then there were clocks at street corners,
and two clocks in the market-place, and clocks
over shop doors, a clock at each end of the bridge,
and several large clocks a little way out of town.
Many of these clocks were fashioned in some quaint
and curious way. In one of the largest a stone man
came out and struck the hours with a stone ham-
mer, while a stone woman struck the half-hours
with a stone broom; and in another an iron donkey
kicked the hours on a bell behind him. It would
be impossible to tell all the odd ways in which the
clocks of Rondaine struck; but in one respect they
were alike: they all did strike. The good people
of the town would not have tolerated a clock which
did not strike.
SIt was very interesting to lie awake in the night
and hear the clocks of Rondaine strike. First
would come a faint striking from one of the
churches in the by-streets, a modest sound, as
if the clock was not sure whether it was too early
or not; then from another quarter would be
heard a more confident clock striking the hour
clearly and distinctly. When they were quite
ready, but not a moment before, the seven bells of
the large church on the square would chime the
hour; after which, at a respectful interval of time,
the other church clocks of the town would strike.
After the lapse of three or four minutes, the sound
of all these bells seemed to wake up the stone man
TURY Co. All rights reserved.


No. 2.


in the tower of the town-building, and he struck
the hour with his hammer. When this had been
done, the other municipal clocks felt at liberty to
strike, and they did so. And when every sound
had died away, so that he would be certain to be
heard if there was any one awake to hear, it would
be very likely that the iron donkey would kick out
the hour on his bell. But there were times when
he kicked before any of the clocks began to strike,
One by one the clocks on the street corners struck,
the uptown ones first, and afterward those near
the river. These were followed by the two clocks
on the bridge, the one at the country end waiting
until it was quite sure that the one at the town
end had finished. Somewhat later would be heard
the clock of Vougereau, an old country house in
the suburbs. This clock, a very large one, was on
the top of a great square stone tower, and from its
age it had acquired a habit of deliberation; and
when it began to strike, people were very apt to
think that it was one o'clock, until after a consider-
able interval another stroke would assure them
that it was later or earlier than that, and if they
really wanted to know what hour the old clock was
striking, they.must give themselves time enough
to listen until they were entirely certain that it had
The very last clock to strike in Rondaine was
one belonging to a little old lady with white hair,
who lived in a little white house in one of the pret-
tiest and cleanest streets in the town. .Her clock
was in a little white tower at the corner of her
house, and was the only strictly private clock which
was in the habit of making itself publicly heard.
Long after every other clock had struck, and when
there was every reason to believe that for a consid-
erable time nothing but half-hours would be heard
in Rondaine, the old lady's clock would strike
quickly and decisively, and with a confident tone,
as if it knew it was right, and wished everybody
to know that it knew.
In an unpretentious house which stood on corner
of two of the smaller streets in the town lived a
young girl named Arla. For a year or more, Arla
had been in the habit of waking up very early in
the morning, sometimes long before daylight, and
it had become a habit with her to lie and listen to
the clocks. Her room was at the top of the house,
and one of its windows opened to the west and
another to the south, so that sounds entered from
different quarters. Arla liked to leave these win-
dows open so that the sounds of the clocks might
come in.
Arla knew every clock by its. tone, and she
always made it a point to lie awake until she was
positively sure that the last stroke of the clock at
Vougereau had sounded; but it often happened

that sleep overcame her before she heard the clock
of the little old lady with white hair. It was so
very long to wait for that!
It was not because she wanted to know the hour
that Arla used to lie and listen to the clocks. She
had a little clock of her own, which stood in her
room and on which she depended for correct
information regarding the time of day or night.
This little clock, which had been given to her when
she was a small girl, not only struck the hours
and half-hours and quarter-hours, but there was
attached to it a very pretty piece of mechanism
which also indicated the time. On the front of the
clock, just below the dial, was a sprig of a rosebush
beautifully made of metal, and on this, just after
the hour had sounded, there was a large green
bud; at a quarter past the hour, this bud opened a
little, so that the red petals could be seen; fifteen
minutes later, it was a half-blown rose; and at a
quarter of an hour more, it was nearly full blown;
just before the hour, the rose opened to its fullest
extent, and so remained until the clock had
finished striking, when it immediately shut up into
a great green bud. This clock was a great delight
to Arla; for not only was it a very pleasant thing

to watch the unfolding of the rose, but it was a con-
tinual satisfaction to her to think that her little
clock always told her exactly what time it was, no
matter what the other clocks of Rondaine might
Arla's father and mother were thrifty, industri-
ous people, who were very fond of their daughter.
They not only taught her how usefully to employ
herself, but insisted that she should take the recre-
ation and exercise that a young girl ought to have.
All day she was so occupied with work or play that
she had little opportunity of thinking for herself;
but even if they had considered the matter, this
fact would not have troubled her parents, as they
looked upon Arla as entirely too young for that
sort of thing. In the very early morning, however,
listening to the clocks of Rondaine or waiting for
them, Arla did a great deal of thinking; and it so
happened, on the morning of the. day before
Christmas, when the stars were bright and the air
frosty, and every outside sound very clear and dis-
tinct, that Arla began to think of something which
had never entered her mind before.
"How in the world," she said to herself, "do
the people of Rondaine know when it is really
Christmas ? Christmas begins as soon as it is
twelve o'clock on Christmas Eve; but as some of the
people depend for the time upon one clock and some
upon others, a great many of them can not truly
know when Christmas Day has really begun. Even
some of the church clocks make people think that
Christmas has come, when in reality it is yet the


day before. And not one of them strikes at the
right time As for that iron donkey, I believe
he kicks whenever he feels like it. And yet there
are people who go by him I know this, for they
have told me so. But the little old lady with
white hair is worse off than anybody else. Christ-
mas must always come ever so long before she
knows it."
With these important thoughts on her mind
Arla could not go to sleep again. She heard all the
clocks strike, and lay awake until her own little
clock told her that she ought to get up. During
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day. As she was a good girl, and never neglected
either her lessons or her tasks, her mother was
quite willing to give her the day before Christ-
mas in which she could do as she pleased, and
she did not think it necessary to ask if she in-
tended to spend it in any particular way.
The day was cool, but the sun
shone brightly and the air was
pleasant. In the country around ;
about Rondaine Christmas-time
was not a very cold season. Arla
put on a warm jacket and a pretty -

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hand she carried a small covered basket in which
she had placed her rose clock. The works of this
little clock were regulated by a balance-wheel, like
those of a watch, and therefore it could be carried
about without stopping it.

tell you that, so that you might change it, and
make it strike properly."
The sacristan's eyes began to twinkle. He was
a man of merry mood. "That is very good of
you, little Arla; very good indeed. And, now that


The first place she visited was the church at which
she and her parents always attended service. It
was a small building in a little square at the bot-
tom of a hill, and, to reach it, one had to go down a
long flight of stone steps. When. she entered the
dimly lighted church, Arla soon saw the sacristan,
a pleasant-faced little old man whom she knew
very well.
Good-morning, sir," saidshe. "Do you take

J. '

said Arla, "I think you ought
clock is eleven minutes too fasi

care of the church
clock ? "
The sacristan
was sweeping the
stone pavements
of the church, just
inside the door.
He stopped and
leaned upon his
broom. "Yes, my
little friend," he
said, I take care
of everything here
except the souls of
the people."
"Well, then,"
to know that your
t. I came here to

we are about it, is n't there something else you
would like to change? What do you say to having
these stone pillars put to one side, so that they
may be out of the way of the people when they
come in? Or those great beams in the roof-
they might be turned over, and perhaps we might
find that the upper side would look fresher than
this lower part, which is somewhat time-stained,
as you see? Or, for the matter of that, what
do you say to having our clock-tower taken down
and set out there in the square before the church
door? Then short-sighted people could see the
time much better, don't you think ? NIow tell me,
shall we do all these things together, wise little
friend ?"
A tear or two came into Arla's eyes, but she
made no answer.
Good-morning, sir," she said; and went
"I suppose," she said to herself as she ran up the
stone steps, "that he thought it would be too much
trouble to climb to the top of the tower to set the
clock right. But that was no reason why he should
make fun of me. I don't like him as much as I
used to."
The next church to which Arla went was a large
one, and it was some time before she could find the


sacristan. At last she saw him in a side chapel at
the upper end of the church, engaged in dusting
some old books. He was a large man, with a red
face, and he turned around quickly, with a stern
expression, as she entered.
"Please, sir," said Aria, I came to tell you that
your church clock is wrong. It strikes from four
to six minutes before it ought to; sometimes the
one and sometimes the other. It shouldbe changed
so that it will be sure to strike at the right time."
The face of the sacristan grew redder, and
twitched visibly at her remark.
"Do you know what I a-
wish ? he almost shouted in
No, sir," answered Arla.
I wish," he said, that '
you were a boy, so that I .
might take you by the collar
and soundly cuff your ears for .
coming here to insult an offi-
cer of the church in the midst --
of his duties! But, as you are S
a girl, I can only tell you to E OF THE CLOCKS.
go away from here as rapidly
and as quietly as you can, or I shall have to put
you in the hands of the ecclesiastical authorities! "
Arla was truly frightened, and although she did
not run,- for she knew that would not be proper


*^ "
/ S


in a church,- she walked as fast as she could
into the outer air.
"What a bad man," she then said to herself

" to be employed in a church It surely is not
known what sort of person he is, or he would not
be allowed to stay there a day "
Arla thought she would not go to any more
churches at present, for she did not know what
sort of sacristans she might find in them.
When the other clocks in the town all strike
properly," she thought, it is most likely they will
see for themselves that their clocks are wrong, and
they will have them changed."
She now made her way to the great square of
the town, and entered the building at the top of
which stood the stone man with his hammer. She
found the concierge, or door-keeper, in a little room
by the side of the entrance. She knew where to
go, for she had been there with her mother to ask
permission to go up and see the stone man strike
the hour with his hammer, and the stone woman
strike the half-hour with her broom.
The concierge was a grave middle-aged man
with spectacles; and, remembering what had just
happened, Arla thought she would be careful how
she spoke to him.
"If you please, sir," she said, with a courtesy,
"I should like to say something to you. And I
hope you will not be offended when I tell you that
your clock is not quite right. Your stone man and
your stone woman are both too slow; they some-
times strike as much as seven minutes after they
ought to strike."
The grave middle-aged man looked steadily at
her through his spectacles.
"Ithought,"continuedArla, "that if this should
be made known to you, you would have the works
of the stone man and the stone woman altered so
that they might strike at the right time. They
can be heard so far, you know, that it is very nec-
essary they should not make mistakes."
Child," said the man, with his spectacles still
steadily fixed on her, for one hundred and fifty-
seven years the open tower
on this building has stood
there. For one hundred' .
and fifty-seven years the -
thunder and the lightning '
in time of storm have roar- '
ed and flashed around it, -
and the sun in time of fair -_-'
weather has shone upon it.
In that century and a half -
and seven years men and
women have lived and have THE STONE NAN STRUCK
died, and their children MER, AND THE STONE WOMAN
and their grand-children HER STRUC OOM."W
and their great-grandchild-
ren, and even the children of these, have lived
and died after them. Kings and queens have


passed away, one after another; and all things
living have grown old and died, one generation
after another, many times. And yet, through all
these years, that stone man and that stone woman
have stood there, and in storm and in fair weather
by daylight or in the darkness of night, they have
struck the hours and the half-hours. Of all
things that one hundred and fifty-seven years ago
were able to lift an arm to strike, they alone are
left. And now you, a child of thirteen, or perhaps
fourteen years, come to me and ask me to change
that which has not been changed for a century
and a half and seven years "
Aria could answer nothing with those spectacles

fixed upon her. They seemed to glare more and
more as she looked at them. Good-morning,
sir," she said, dropping a courtesy as she moved
backward toward the door. Reaching it, she
turned and hurried into the street.
"If those stone people," she thought, "have
not been altered in all these years, it is likely
they would now be striking two or three hours
out of the way! But I don't know. If they
kept on going slow for more than a century,
they must have come around to the right hour
sometimes. But they will have to strike ever and
ever so much longer before they come around
there again "

(To be concluded.)


BY M. M. D.

THERE was a little daughter once, whose feet were oh, so small!
That when the Christmas Eve came 'round, they would n't do at all.
At least she said they would n't do, and so she tried another's,
And folding her wee stocking up, she slyly took her mother's.

" I 'il pin this big one here," she said,- then sat before the fire,
Watching the supple, dancing flames, and shadows darting by her,
Till silently she drifted off to that queer land, you know,
Of Nowhere in particular," where sleepy children go.

She never knew the tumult rare that came upon the roof!
She never heard the patter of a single reindeer hoof;
She never knew how Some One came and looked his shrewd surprise
At the wee foot and the stocking so different in size !

She only knew, when morning dawned, that she was safe in bed.
" It's Christmas Ho and merrily she raised her pretty head;
Then, wild with glee, she saw what dear Old Santa Claus had done,
And ran to tell the joyful news to each and every one:

" Mamma Papa Please come and look a lovely doll, and all! "
And See how full the stocking is! Mine would have been too small.
I.borrowed this for Santa Claus. It is n't fair, you know,
To make him wait forever for a little girl to grow."



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CLING, clang,- "Whoa, my bonny gray mare!
Whoa," cling, clang,- my bay !
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While the blacksmith spake, his fair sons came,
And stood in the smithy door -
"Now where have ye been, my two fair sons,
For your father has missed ye sore ? "

Then his brother twinkled his gay black eyes,
And he spake up merry and bold :
Hey, Father, we've been in the fairy land,
Where the horses are shod wi' gold "

An' what did ye there in Fairy-land,
O my two fair sons, I pray? "
?-h.d f-.r them, Father, their fairy steeds,
.'*ill i .A i... rhi an' a day.

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Then pleasantly spake the younger son,
With the eyes of dreamy blue :
" O Father, we 've been in a land as bright
As the glint o' the morning dew "

S .-.', Father, we shod them wi' virgin

r i.: nail had a diamond head;
.Ii rt,- steeds were as white as the clear
I ...:...: light,
S- :n' .. fields o' lilies they fed."

.,r '. i he sum o' the fairy hire,
i,,, I !. I :1 -ons, I pray? "
I ,!. .. ...i- -i wonderful fairy flower,
Th.:, : .-. u.s each for pay !"

"An' what will ye do wi' the seeds, fair sons ? "
"We will sow i' the light, green spring,
An' may be, a golden rose will toss,
Or a silver lily will swing."


"Now," cling, clang,- "whoa, my bonny gray
mare !
Whoa," cling, clang,- my bay !
An' the sorrel an' black, now my sons are back,
Can be shod cling, clang,- to-day."

Then the white rains wove with the long light-
Till a stalk, like a slim green flame,
Pierced the garden mold; a leaf unrolled :
And another beside it came.

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Oh, the smith's sons plantedthe fairy seeds,
When the light, green spring came round,
Through the sunlit hours, twixtt the April
In the best of the garden ground !

Then the brothers tended their fairy plants
'Fill they shot up, brave and tall,
And the leaves grew thick. Now soon shall
we pick
A rose like a golden ball;


" Or else, we shall see a lily, maybe,
With a bell o' bright silver cast,"
They thought; and they cried with joy and pride,
When the blossom-buds shaped at last.

" Heyday I will buy me a brave gold chain,
An' a waistcoat o' satin fine,
A ruff o' lace, an' a pony an' chaise,
An' a bottle o' red old wine !"



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Now, heyday shouted the elder son,
And he danced in the garden walk,
"A hat I will buy, as a steeple high,
An' the neighbors will stare an' talk.

But his brother looked up in the blue spring sky,
And his yellow curls shone in the sun -
" 0 joy! If I hold but my fairy gold,
My father's toil is done !


I f


"He shall hammer no more with his tired old hands,
He shall shoe not the bay nor the gray;
But shall live as he please, an' sit at his ease,
A-resting the livelong day."

Then angrily hurried the elder son,
And hustled his up by the root;
And it gave out a sound, as it left the ground,
Like the shriek of a fairy flute.


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Alas, and alas When it came to pass
That the bud to a flower was grown,
It was pallid and green,-- no blossom so mean
In the country side was known.

But he flung it over the garden wall,
And he cried, with a scowling brow :
"No waistcoat fine, an' no bottle o' wine-
I have labored for naught, I trow "



"Now," cling, clang,-" whoa, my bonny But the frost came forth from the still blue
gray mare! North,
Cling, clang,-" whoa, my bay And one morning he found it dead;
But the sorrel an' white must wait to-night, The leaves were black in the white frost-light,
For one son sulks all day." And the stalk was a shriveled shred.

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He.-w-_'' 'a wte ._ "and kl tg B. e. I' i I ,sr /%
W o l -"tsde. .te' ,e -es or. M g., .f I-- --k-' kn w"

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XXII. XXIV. ... '

But the blue-eyed son till the summer was done Now, neve a rose like a golden ball,

=- -- -- =- i^ --- ^
He weeded and watered, and killed the grub But never I mind, for I m sure to find
Would its delicate leaves devour. More gold, if I work, .I kn.

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But the blue-eyed son till the summer was done Now, never a rose like a golden ball,

He weeded and watered, and killed the grub But never I 'll mind, for I 'm sure to find
Would its delicate leaves devour. More gold, if I work, I know."


Then he tenderly pulled up the fairy plant,
And, lo, in the frosty mold,
Like a star from the skies to his dazzled eyes,
Was blazing a bulb of gold !


t ~~"' i

" Now,"- cling, clang,-"whoa, my bonny gray
Or gallop or trot, as ye may [mare !
This happy old smith will shoe ye no more,
For he sits at his ease, all day "

1 7wi
^^^ 'ii^jl



DECEMBER 'S come, and with her brought
A world in whitest marble wrought;
The trees and fence and all the posts
Stand motionless and white as ghosts,
And all the paths we used to know
Are hidden in the drifts of snow.
December brings the longest night
And cheats the day of half its light.
No bird-song breaks the perfect hush;
No meadow-brook with liquid gush
Runs telling tales in babbling rhyme
Of liberty and summer-time,
But frozen in its icy cell
Awaits the sun to break the spell.
Breathe once upon the window-glass
And see the mimic mists that pass,-

Fantastic shapes that go and come
Forever silvery and dumb.

December Santa Claus shall bring,-
Of happy children happy king,
Who with his sleigh and rein-deer stops
At all good people's chimney-tops.

Then let the holly red be hung,
And sweetest carols all be sung,
While we with joy remember them,-
The journeyers to Bethlehem,
Who followed trusting from afar
The guidance of that happy star
Which marked the spot where Christ was born
Long years ago one Christmas morn !


IN the first place, Miss Minchin lived in London.
Her home was a large, dull, tall one, in a large,
dull square, where all the houses were alike, and
all the sparrows were alike, and where all the door-
knockers made the same heavy sound, and on still
days- and nearly all the days were still- seemed
to resound through the entire row in which the
knock was knocked. On Miss Minchin's door there
was a brass plate. On the brass plate there was
inscribed in black letters,


Little Sara Crewe never went in or out of the
house without reading that door-plate and reflect-
ing upon it. By the time she was twelve, she had
decided that all her trouble arose because, in the
first place, she was not Select," and in the
second, she was not a Young Lady." When she
was eight years old, she had been brought to Miss
Minchin as a pupil, and left with her. Her papa
had brought her all the way from India. Her
mamma had died when she was a baby, and her
papa had kept her with him as long as he could.
And then, finding the hot climate was making her
very delicate, he had brought her to England and
left her with Miss Minchin, to be part of the Select
Seminary for Young Ladies. Sara, who had al-
ways been a sharp little child, who remembered
things, recollected hearing him say that he had not
a relative in the world whom he knew of, and so he
was obliged to place her at a boarding-school, and
he had heard Miss Minchin's establishment spoken
of very highly. The same day, he took Sara out
and bought her a great many beautiful clothes,-
clothes so grand and rich that only a very young
and inexperienced man would have bought them
for a mite of a child who was to be brought up in
a boarding-school. But the fact was that he was a
rash, innocent young man, and very sad at the
thought of parting with his little girl, who was all
he had left to remind him of her beautiful mother,

whom he had dearly loved. And he wished her
to have everything the most fortunate little girl
could have; and so, when the polite saleswomen in
the shops said, "Here is our very latest thing in
hats, the plumes are exactly the same as those we
sold to Lady Diana Sinclair yesterday," he imme-
diately bought what was offered to him, and paid
whatever was asked. The consequence was that
Sara had a most extraordinary wardrobe. Her
dresses were silk and velvet and India cashmere,
her hats and bonnets were covered with bows and
plumes, her small undergarments were adorned
with real lace, and she returned in the cab to Miss
Minchin's with a doll almost as large as herself,
dressed quite as grandly as herself, too.
Then her papa gave Miss Minchin some money
and went away, and for several days Sara would
neither touch the doll, nor her breakfast, nor her
dinner, nor her tea, and would do nothing but
crouch in a small corner by the window and cry.
She cried so much, indeed, that she made herself
ill. She was a queer little child, with old-fashioned
ways and strong feelings, and she had adored her
papa, and could not be made to think that India
and an interesting bungalow were not better for
her than London and Miss Minchin's Select Semi-
nary. The instant she had entered the house, she
had begun promptly to hate Miss Minchin, and
to think little of Miss Amelia Minchin, who was
smooth and dumpy, and lisped, and was evidently
afraid of her older sister. Miss Minchin was tall,
and had large, cold, fishy eyes, and large, cold
hands, which seemed fishy, too, because they were
damp and made chills run down Sara's back when
they touched her, as Miss Minchin pushed her hair
off her forehead and said :
"A most beautiful and promising little girl,
Captain Crewe. She will be a favorite pupil;
quite a favorite pupil, I see."
For the first year she was a favorite pupil; at
least she was indulged a great deal more than was
good for her. And when the Select Seminary
went walking, two by two, she was always decked
out in her grandest clothes, and led by the hand,
at the head of the genteel procession, by Miss

* Copyrighted, 1887, by Frances Hodgson Burnett. All rights reserved.

VOL. XV.-7.


Minchin herself. And when the parents of any
of the pupils came, she was always dressed and
called into the parlor with her doll; and she used
to hear Miss Minchin say that her father was a
distinguished Indian officer, and she' would be
heiress to a great fortune. That her father had
inherited a great deal of money, Sara had heard
before; and also that some day it would be hers,
and that he would not remain long in the army,
but would come to live in London. And every
time a letter came, she hoped it would say he was
coming, and they were to live together again.
But about the middle of the third year a letter
came bringing very different news. Because he
was not a business man himself, her papa had
given his affairs into the hands of a friend he
trusted. The friend had deceived and robbed
him. All the money was gone, no one knew exactly
where, and the shock was so great to the poor,
rash young officer, that, being attacked by jungle
fever shortly afterward, he had no strength to rally,
and so died, leaving Sara with no one to take care
of her.
Miss Minchin's cold and fishy eyes had never
looked so cold and fishy as they did when Sara
went into the parlor, on being sent for, a few days
after the letter was received.
No one had said anything to the child about
mourning, so, in her old-fashioned way, she had
decided to find a black dress for herself, and had
picked out a black velvet she had outgrown, and
came into the room in it, looking the queerest
little figure in the world, and a sad little figure, too.
The dress was too short and too tight, her face
was white, her eyes had dark rings around them,
and her doll, wrapped in a piece of old black crape,
was held under her arm. She was not a pretty
child. She was thin, and had a weird, interesting
little face, short black hair, and very large green-
gray eyes fringed all around with heavy blacklashes.
I am the ugliest child in the school," she had
said once, after staring at herself in the glass for
some minutes.
But there had been a clever, good-natured little
French teacher who had said to the music-master:
"Zat leetle Crewe. Vat a child! A so ogly
beauty Ze so large eyes; ze so little spirituelle
face. Waid till she grow up. You shall see !"
This morning, however, in the tight, small black
frock, she looked thinner and odder than ever, and
her eyes were fixed on Miss Minchin with a queer
steadiness as she slowly advanced into the parlor,
clutching her doll.
Put your doll down !" said Miss Minchin.
No," said the child, I won't put her down; I
want her with me. She is all I have. She has
stayed with me all the time since my papa died."

She had never been an obedient child. She had
had her own way ever since she was born, and
there was about her an air of silent determination
under which Miss Minchin had always felt secretly
uncomfortable. And that lady felt even now that
perhaps it would be as well not to insist on her point.
So she looked at her as severely as possible.
You will have no time for dolls in future," she
said; you will have to work and improve yourself,
and make yourself useful."
Sara kept the big odd eyes fixed on her teacher
and said nothing.
"Everything will be very different now," Miss
Minchin went on. "I sent for you to talk to you
and make you understand. Your father is dead.
You have no friends. You have no money. You
have no home and no one to take care of you."
The little pale olive face twitched nervously, but
the green-gray eyes did not move from Miss
Minchin's, and still Sara said nothing.
What are you staring at?" demanded Miss
Minchin sharply. "Are you so stupid you don't
understand what I mean ? I tell you that you are
quite alone in the world, and have no one to do
anything for you, unless I choose to keep you here."
The truth was, Miss Minchin was in her worst
mood. To be suddenly deprived of a large sum of
money yearly and a show pupil, and to find herself
with a little beggar on her hands, was more than
she could bear with any degree of calmness.
Now listen to me," she went on, "and remem-
ber what I say. If you work hard and prepare to
make yourself useful in a few years, I shall let you
stay here. You are only a child, but you are a sharp
child, and you pick up things almost without being
taught. You speak French very well, and in a year
or so you can begin to help with the younger pupils.
By the time you are fifteen you ought to be able to
do that much at least."
I can speak French better than you, now," said
Sara; "I always spoke it with my papa in India."
Which was not at all polite, but was painfully true;
because Miss Minchin could not speak French at
all, and, indeed, was not in the least a clever per-
son. But she was a hard, grasping business woman,
and, after the first shock of disappointment, had
seen that at very little expense to herself she might
prepare this clever, determined child to be very use-
ful to her and save her the necessity of paying large
salaries to teachers of languages.
Don't be impudent, or you will be punished,"
she said. You will have to improve your man-
ners if you expect to earn your bread. You are not
a parlor boarder now. Remember, that if you don't
please me, and I send you away, you have no home
but the street. You can go now."
Sara turned away.


Stay," commanded Miss Minchin, don't you
intend to thank me ?"
Sara turned toward her. The nervous twitch was
to be seen again in her face, and she seemed to be
trying to control it.
I What for?" she said.
"For my kindness to you," replied Miss Min-
chin. "For my kindness in giving you a home."
Sara went two or three steps nearer to her. Her
thin little chest was heaving up and down, and she
spoke in a strange, unchildish voice.
You are not kind," she said. You are not
kind." And she turned again and went out of
the room, leaving Miss Minchin staring after her
strange, small figure in stony anger.
The child walked up the staircase, holding
tightly to her doll; she meant to go to her bed-
room, but at the door she was met by Miss Amelia.
You are not to go in there," she said. That
is not your room now."
"Where is my room?" asked Sara.
You are to sleep in the attic next to the cook."
Sara walked on. She mounted two flights more,
and reached the door of the attic room, opened it
and went in, shutting it behind her. She stood
against it and looked aboutbher. The room was
slanting-roofed and whitewashed; there was a
rusty grate, an iron bedstead, and some odd
articles of furniture, sent up from better rooms
below, where they had been used until they were
considered to be worn out. Under the skylight
in the roof, which showed nothing but an oblong
piece of dull gray sky, there was a battered old red
Sara went to it and sat down. She was a queer
child, as I have said before, and quite unlike
other children. She seldom cried. She did not
cry now. She laid her doll, Emily, across her
knees, and put her face down upon her, and her
arms around her, and sat there, her little black
head resting on the black crape, not saying one
word, not making one sound.

From that day her life changed entirely. Some-
times she used to feel as if it must be another life
altogether, the life of some other child. She was a
little drudge and outcast; she was given her lessons
at odd times and expected to learn without being
taught; she was sent on errands by Miss Minchin,
Miss Amelia, and the cook. Nobody took any
notice of her except when they ordered her about.
She was often kept busy all day and then sent into
the deserted school-room with a pile of books to
learn her lessons or practice at night. She had
never been intimate with the other pupils, and soon
she became so shabby that, taking her queer.clothes
together with her queer little ways, they began to



look upon her as a being of another world than
their own. The fact was that, as a rule, Miss Min-
chin's pupils were rather dull, matter-of-fact young
people, accustomed to being rich and comfortable;
and Sara, with her elfish cleverness, her desolate
life, and her odd habit of fixing her eyes upon
them and staring them out of countenance, was
too much for them.
She always looks as if she was finding you out,"
said one girl, who was sly and given to making
mischief. I am," said Sara, promptly, when she
heard of it. That's what I look at them for. I
like to know about people. I think them over after-
She never made any mischief herself or interfered
with any one. She talked very little, did as she was
told, and thought a great deal. Nobody knew, and
in fact nobody cared, whether she was unhappy or
happy, unless, perhaps, it was Emily, who lived in
the attic and slept on the iron bedstead at night.
Sara thought Emily understood her feelings, though
she was only wax and had a habit of staring her-
self. Sara used to talk to her at night.
"You are the only friend I have in the world,"
she would say to her. Why don't you say some-
thing? Why don't you speak? Sometimes I 'm
sure you could, if you would try. It ought to make
you try, to know you are the only thing I have.
If I were you, I should try. Why don't you try ? "
It really was a very strange feeling she had about
Emily. It arose from her being so desolate. She
did not like to own to herself that her only friend,
her only companion, could feel and hear nothing.
She wanted to believe, or to pretend to believe, that
Emily understood and sympathized with her, that
she heard her even though she did not speak in
answer. She used to put her in a chair sometimes
and sit opposite to her on the old red footstool,
and stare at her and think and pretend about her
until her own eyes would grow large with some-
thing which was almost like fear, particularly at
night, when the garret was so still, when the only
sound that was to be heard was the occasional
squeak and skurry of rats in the wainscot. There
were rat-holes in the garret, and Sara detested rats,
and was always glad Emily was with her when she
heard their hateful squeak and rush and scratch-
ing. One of her pretends" was that Emily was a
kind of good witch and could protect her. Poor lit-
tle Sara! everything was "pretend" with her. She
had a strong imagination; there was almost more
imagination than there was Sara, and her whole
forlorn, uncared-for child-life was made up of imag-
inings. She imagined and pretended things until
she almost believed them, and she would scarcely
have been surprised at any remarkable thing that
could have happened. So she insisted to herself


was really her friend. help it. When people are insulting you, there is
As to answering," she used to say, I don't nothing so good for them as not to say a word -



just to look at them and think. Miss Minchin
turns pale with rage when I do it, Miss Amelia
looks frightened, so do the girls. They know you
are stronger than they are, because you are strong
enough to hold in your rage and they are not, and
they say stupid things they wish they had n't said,
afterward. There 's nothing so strong as rage,
except what makes you hold it in that's stronger.
It's a good thing not to answer your enemies. I
scarcely ever do. Perhaps Emily is more like me
than I am like myself. Perhaps she would rather not
answer her friends, even. She keeps it all in her
But though she tried to satisfy herself with these
arguments, Sara did not find it easy. When, after
along, hard day, in which she had been sent here
and there, sometimes on long errands, through
wind and cold and rain; and, when she came in
wet and hungry, had been sent out again because
nobody chose to remember that she was only a child,
and that her thin little legs might be tired, and her
small body, clad in its forlorn too small finery, all
too short and too tight, might be chilled; when she
had been given only harsh words and cold, slighting
looks for thanks; when the cook had been vulgar
and insolent; when Miss Minchin had been in her
worst moods, and when she had seen the girls
sneering at her among themselves and making fun
of her poor, outgrown clothes,- then Sara did not
find Emily quite all that her sore, proud, desolate
little heart needed as the doll sat in her old chair
and stared.
One of these nights, when she came up to the
garret cold, hungry, tired, and with a tempest
raging in her small breast, Emily's stare seemed
so vacant, her sawdust legs and arms so limp and
inexpressive, that Sara lost all control over herself.
I shall die presently she said at first.
Emily stared.
I can't bear this said the poor child, tremb-
ling. I know Ishalldie. I'mcold, I'm wet, I'm
starving to death. I've walked a thousand miles
to-day, and they have done nothing but scold me
from morning until night. And because I could
not find that last thing they sent me for, they
would not give me any supper. Some men laughed
at me because my old shoes made me slip down in
the mud. I'm covered with mud now. And they
laughed! Do you hear? "
She looked at the staring glass eyes and com-
placent wax face, and suddenly a sort of heart-
broken rage seized her. She lifted her little savage
hand and knocked Emily off the chair, bursting
into a passion of sobbing.
"You are nothing but a Doll! she cried.
Nothing but a Doll Doll- Doll! You care for
nothing. You are stuffed with sawdust. You never

had a heart. Nothing could ever make you feel.
You are a Doll!" Emily lay upon the floor, with
her legs ignominiously doubled up over her head,
and a new flat place on the end of her nose; but
she was still calm, even dignified.
Sara hid her face on her arms and sobbed.
Some rats in the wall began to fight and bite each
other, and squeak and scramble. But, as I have
already intimated, Sara was not in the habit of
crying. After a while she stopped, and when she
stopped, she looked at Emily, who seemed to be
gazing at her around the side of one ankle, and
actually with a kind of glassy-eyed sympathy. Sara
bent and picked her up. Remorse overtook her.
You can't help being a doll," she said, with a
resigned sigh, "any more than those girls down-
stairs can help not having any sense. We are
not all alike. Perhaps you do your sawdust best."
None of Miss Minchin's young ladies were very
remarkable for being brilliant; they were Select,
but some of them were very dull, and some of them
were fond of applying themselves to their lessons.
Sara, who snatched her lessons at all sorts of un-
timely hours from tattered and discarded books,
and who had a hungry craving for everything read-
able, was often severe upon them in her small
mind. They had books they never read; she had
no books at all. If she had always had something
to read, she would not have been so lonely. She
liked romances and history and poetry; she would
read anything. There was a sentimental house-
maid in the establishment who bought the weekly
penny papers, and subscribed to a circulating
library, from which she got greasy volumes con-
taining stories of marquises and dukes who invari-
ably fell in love with orange-girls and gypsies and
servant-maids, and made them the proud brides
of coronets; and Sara often did parts of this maid's
work, so that she might earn the privilege of
reading these romantic histories. There was also
a fat, dull pupil, whose name was Ermengarde St.
John, who was one of her resources. Ermengarde
had an intellectual father who, in his despairing
desire to encourage his daughter, constantly sent
her valuable and interesting books, which were a
continual source of grief to her. Sara had once
actually found her crying over a big package of
What is the matter with you? she asked her,
perhaps rather disdainfully.
And it is just possible she would not have spoken
to her, if she had not seen the books. The sight
of books always gave Sara a hungry feeling, and
she could not help drawing near to them if only
to read their titles.
What is the matter with you ?" she asked.
"My papa has sent me some more books,"


answered Ermengarde wofully, and he expects
me to read them."
"Don't you like reading? said Sara.
I hate it!" replied Miss Ermengarde St. John.
" And he will ask me questions when he sees me;
he will want to know how much I remember;
how would you like to have to read all those ? "
I'd like it better than anything else in the
world," said Sara.
Ermengarde wiped her eyes to look at such a
Oh, gracious! she exclaimed.
Sara returned the look with interest. A sudden
plan formed itself in her sharp mind.
"Look here!" she said. "If you'11 lend me those
books, I'11 read them and tell you everything that's
in them afterward, and I'll tell it to you so that
you will remember it. I know I can. The ABC
children always remember what I tell them."
"Oh, goodness!" said Ermengarde. "Do you
think you could? "
I know I could," answered Sara. "I like to
read, and I always remember. I'll take care of the
books, too; they will look just as new as they do
now, when I give them back to you."
Ermengarde put her handkerchief in her pocket.
"If you'll do that," she said, and if you'll
make me remember, I'11 give you I'11 give you
some money."
I don't want your money," said Sara, I want
your books I want them." And her eyes grew
big and queer, and her chest heaved once.
Take them, then," said Ermengarde; "I wish
I wanted them, but I am not clever, and my father
is, and he thinks I ought to be."
Sara picked up the books and marched off with
them. But when she was at the door, she stopped
and turned round.
What are you going to tell your father ? she
"Oh," said Ermengarde, he need n't know;
he '11 think I've read them."
Sara looked down at the books; her heart really
began to beat fast.
I won't do it," she said rather slowly, if you
are going to tell him lies about it -I don't like
lies. Why can't you tell him I read them and
then told you about them? "
But he wants me to read them," said Ermen-
He wants you to know what is in them," said
Sara; "and if I can tell it to you in an easy way and
make you remember,.I should think he would like
He would like it better if I read them myself,"
replied Ermengarde.
He will like it, I dare say, if you learn any-

thing in any way," said Sara. "I should, if I
were your father."
And though this was not a flattering way of
stating the case, Ermengarde was obliged to admit
it was true, and, after a little more argument, gave
in. And so she used afterward always to hand
over her books to Sara, and Sara would carry them
to her garret and devour them; and after she had
read each volume, she would return it and tell
Ermengarde about it in a way of her own. She
had a gift for making things interesting. Her
imagination helped her to make everything rather
like a story, and she managed this matter so well
that Miss St. John gained more information from
her books than she would have gained if she had
read them three times over by her poor stupid little
self. When Sara sat down by her and began to
tell some story of travel or history, she made
the travelers and historical people seem real; and
Ermengarde used to sit and regard her dramatic
gesticulations, her thin little flushed cheeks and
her shining odd eyes, with amazement.
"It sounds nicer than it seems in the book,"
she would say. I never cared about Mary, Queen
of Scots, before, and I always hated the French Rev-
olution, but you make it seem like a story."
It is a story," Sara would answer. They are
all stories. Everything is a story -everything in
this world. You are a story--I am a story-
Miss Minchin is a story. You can make a story
out of anything."
I can't," said Ermengarde.
Sara stared at her a minute reflectively.
"No," she said at last. "I suppose you could n't.
You are a little like Emily."
Who is Emily ? "
Sara recollected herself. She knew she was
sometimes rather impolite in the candor of her re-
marks, and she did not want to be impolite to a
girl who was not unkind only stupid. Notwith-
standing all her sharp little ways, she had the
sense to wish to be just to everybody. In the hours
she spent alone, she used to argue out a great
many curious questions with herself. One thing she
had decided upon was, that a person who was
clever ought to be clever enough not to be unjust
or deliberately unkind to any one. Miss Minchin
was unjust and cruel, Miss Amelia was unkind and
spiteful, the cook was malicious and hasty-tem-
pered-they all were stupid, and made her despise
them, and she desired to be as unlike them as pos-
sible. So she would be as polite as she could to
people who in the least deserved politeness.
"Emily is a person I know," she replied.
Do you like her? asked Ermengarde.
Yes, I do," said Sara.
Ermengarde examined her queer little face and


figure again. She did look odd. She had on, that
day, a faded blue plush skirt, which barely covered
her knees, a brown cloth sacque, and a pair of
olive-green stockings which Miss Minchin had
made her piece out with black ones, so that they
would be long enough to be kept on. And yet
Ermengarde was beginning slowly to admire her.
Such a forlorn, thin, neglected little thing as that,
who could read and read and remember and tell
you things so that they did not tire you all out! A
child who could speak French, and who had learned
German, no one knew how!. One could not help
staring at her and feeling interested, particularly
one to whom the simplest lesson was a trouble
and a woe.
Do you like me ?" said Ermengarde, finally, at
the end of her scrutiny.
Sara hesitated one second, then she answered:
I like you because you are not ill-natured-
I like you for letting me read your books -I like
you because you don't make spiteful fun of me for
what I can't help. It's not your fault that- "
She pulled herself up quickly. She had been
going to say, that you are stupid."
That what?" asked Ermengarde.
"That you can't learn things quickly. If you
can't, you can't. If I can, why, I can--that's
all." She paused a minute, looking at the plump
face before her, and then, rather slowly, one of
her wise, old-fashioned thoughts came to her.
Perhaps," she said, "to be able to learn things
quickly, is n't everything. To be kind is worth a
good deal to other people. If Miss Minchin knew
everything on earth, which she does n't, and if she
was like what she is now, she 'd still be a detestable
thing, and everybody would hate her. Lots of
clever people have done harm and been wicked.
Look at Robespierre "
She stopped again, and examined her compan-
ion's countenance.
Do you remember about him ?" she demanded.
"I believe you 've forgotten."
Well, I don't remember all of it," admitted
"Well," said Sara with courage and determi-
nation, I '11 tell it to you over again."
And she plunged once more into the gory
records of the French Revolution, and told such
stories of it, and made such vivid pictures of its
horrors, that Miss St. John was afraid to go to bed
afterward, and hid her head under the blankets
when she did go, and shivered until she fell asleep.
But afterward she preserved lively recollections of
the character of Robespierre, and did not even
forget Marie Antoinette and the Princess de Lam-
"You know they put her head on a pike and

danced around it," Sara had said; "and she had
beautiful blonde hair; and when 1 think of her, I
never see her head on her body, but always on a
pike, with those furious people dancing and howl-
Yes, it was true, to this imaginative child every-
thing was a story; and the more books she read,
the more imaginative she became. One of her
chief entertainments was to sit in her garret, or
walk about it, and "suppose" things. On a cold
night, when she had not had enough to eat, she
would draw the red footstool up before the empty
grate, and say in the most intense voice:
Suppose there was a great, wide steel grate
here, and a great glowing fire a glowing fire -
with beds of red-hot coal and lots of little dancing,
flickering flames. Suppose there was a soft, deep
rug, and this was a comfortable chair, all cushions
and crimson velvet; and suppose I had a crimson
velvet frock on, and a deep lace collar, like a child
in a picture; and suppose all the rest of the room
was furnished in lovely colors, and there were book-
shelves full of books, which changed by magic as
soon as you had read them; and suppose there
was a little table here, with a snow-white cover on
it, and little silver dishes, and in one there was hot,
hot soup, and in another a roast chicken, and in
another some raspberry-jam tarts with criss-cross
on them, and in another some grapes; and sup-
pose Emily could speak, and we could sit and eat
our supper, and then talk and read; and then
suppose there was a soft, warm bed in the corner,
and when we were tired, we could go to sleep, and
sleep as long as we liked."
Sometimes, after she had supposed things like
these for half an hour, she would feel almost warm,
and would creep into bed with Emily and fall asleep
with a smile on her face.
What large, downy pillows she would whis-
per. What white sheets and fleecy blankets "
And she almost forgot that her real pillows had
scarcely any feathers in them at all, and smelled
musty, and that her blankets and coverlid were
thin and full of holes.
At another time she would suppose she was
a princess, and then she would go about the house
with an expression on her face which was a source
of great secret annoyance to Miss Minchin, because
it seemed as if the child scarcely heard the spiteful,
insulting things said to her, or, if she heard them,
did not care for them at all. Sometimes, while she
was in the midst of some harsh and cruel-speech,
Miss Minchin would find the odd, unchildish eyes
fixed upon her with something like a proud smile
in them. At such times she did not know that
Sara was saying to herself:
You don't know that you are saying these


E I.

;*~ "",

71 ""



*:: Z. j


~' : ~ ~~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ I ;

-1. ..!y!;;P`:
'4 `7


things to a princess, and that if I chose, I could
wave my hand and order you to execution. I only
spare you because I am a princess, and you are a
poor, stupid, old, vulgar thing, and don't know
any better."
This used to please and amuse her more than
anything else; and, queer and fanciful as it was, she
found comfort in it, and it was not a bad thing for
her. It really kept her from being made rude and
malicious by the rudeness and malice of those
about her.
A princess must be polite," she said to her-
self. And so when the servants, who took their
tone from their mistress, were insolent and ordered
her about, she would hold her head erect, and
reply to them sometimes in a way which made
them stare at her, it was so quaintly civil.
I am a princess in rags and tatters," she would
think, '"but I am a princess, inside. It would be
easy to be a princess if I were dressed in cloth-of-
gold; it is a great deal more of a triumph to be
one all the time when no one knows it. There
was Marie Antoinette: when she was in prison,
and her throne was gone, and she had only a black
gown on, and her hair was white, and they insulted
her and called her the Widow Capet,-she was a
great deal more like a queen then than when she
was so gay and had everything grand. I like her
best then. Those howling mobs of people did not
frighten her. She was stronger than they were,
even when they cut her head off."
Once when such thoughts were passing through
her mind, the look in her eyes so enraged Miss
Minchin that she flew at Sara and boxed her ears.
Sara wakened from her dream, started a little,
and then broke into a laugh.
What are you laughing at, you bold, impu-
dent child exclaimed Miss Minchin.
It took Sara a few seconds to remember she was
a princess. Her cheeks were red and smarting
from the blows she had received.
"I was thinking," she said.
"Beg my pardon immediately," said Miss Min-
"I will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was

rude," said Sara; "but I won't beg your pardon
for thinking."
"What were you thinking?" demanded Miss
Minchin. "How dare you think? What were you
thinking? "
This occurred in the school-room, and all the
girls looked up from their books to listen. It
always interested them when Miss Minchin flew at
Sara, because Sara always said something queer,
and never seemed in the least frightened. She was
not in the least frightened now, though her boxed
ears were scarlet, and her eyes were as bright as
"I was thinking," she answered gravely and
quite politely, that you did not know what you
were doing."
"That I did not know what I was doing!" Miss
Minchin fairly gasped.
"Yes," said Sara, "and I was thinking what
would happen, if I were a princess and you boxed
my ears -what I should do to you. And I was
thinking that if I were one, you would never dare
to do it, whatever I said or did. And I was thinking
how surprised and frightened you would be if you
suddenly found out --"
She had the imagined picture so clearly before
her eyes, that she spoke in a manner which had an
effect even on Miss Minchin. It almost seemed for
the moment to her narrow unimaginative mind that
there must be some real power behind this candid
"What?" she exclaimed; "found out what ?"
That I really was a princess," said Sara, and
could do anything-anything I liked."
Go to your room," cried Miss Minchin breath-
lessly, this instant. Leave the school-room. At-
tend to your lessons, young ladies."
Sara made a little bow.
"Excuse me for laughing, if it was impolite,"
she said, and walked out of the room, leaving Miss
Minchin in a rage and the girls whispering over
their books.
I should n't be at all surprised if she did turn
out to be something," said one of them. Sup-
pose she should "

(To be continued.)

0- -. -
.....i" , ".. k1- - "- " ":C :2. .. .


OU may not believe it, but the
bear I am going to tell you
about really had a bank ac-
count! Helivedinthewoods,
as most bears do; but he had
a reputation which extended
over all Norway and more
than half of England. Earls
and baronets came every summer, with repeating
guns of the latest patent, and plaids and fi eld-glasses
and portable cooking-stoves, intent upon killing
him. But Mr. Bruin, whose only weapons were a
pair of paws and a pair of jaws, both uncommonly
good of their kind, though not patented, always
managed to get away unscathed; and that was
sometimes more than the earls and the baronets did.
One summer the Crown Prince of Germany came
to Norway. He also heard of the famous bear that
no one could kill, and made up his mind that he
was the man to kill it. He trudged for two days
through bogs and climbed through glens and
ravines, before he came on the scent of the bear,-
and a bear's scent, you may know, is strong, and
quite unmistakable. Finally he discovered some
tracks in the moss, like those of a barefooted man,
or, I should rather say, perhaps, a man-footed bear.
The Prince was just turning the corner of a pro-
jecting rock, when he saw a huge, shaggy beast
standing on its hind legs, examining in a leisurely
manner the inside of a hollow tree, while a swarm
of bees were buzzing about its ears. It was just
hauling out a handful of honey, and was smiling
with a gruesome mirth, when His Royal Highness
sent it a bullet right in the breast, where its heart
must have been,-if it had one. But, instead of
falling down flat, as it ought to have done out of
deference to the Prince, it coolly turned its back,
and gave its assailant a disgusted nod over its
shoulder as it trudged away through the under-
brush. The attendants ranged through the woods
and beat the bushes in all directions, but Mr.

Bruin was no more to be seen that afternoon. It
was as if he had sunk into the earth; not a trace of
him was to be found by either dogs or men.
From that time forth the rumor spread abroad
that this Gausdale Bruin (for that was the name
by which he became known) was enchanted. It
was said that he shook off bullets as a duck does
water; that he had the evil eye, and could bring
misfortune to whomsoever he looked upon. The
peasants dreaded to meet him, and ceased to hunt
him. His size was described as something enor-
mous,-his teeth, his claws, and his eyes as being
diabolical beyond human conception. In the
meanwhile Mr. Bruin had it all his own way in the
mountains, killed a young bull or a fat heifer for
his dinner every day or two, chased in pure sport
a herd of sheep over a precipice; and as for
Lars Moe's bay mare Stella, he nearly finished her,
leaving his claw-marks on her flank in a way that
spoiled her beauty forever.
Now Lars Moe himself was too old to hunt;
and his nephew was well, he was not'old enough.
There was, in fact, no one in the valley who was
of the right age to hunt this Gausdale Bruin. It
was of no use that Lars Moe egged on the young
lads to try their luck, shaming them, or offering
them rewards, according as his mood might hap-
pen to be. He was the wealthiest man in the
valley, and his mare Stella had been the apple
of his eye. He felt it as a personal insult that
the bear should have dared to molest what be-
longed to him, especially the most precious of all
his possessions. It cut him to the heart to see the
poor wounded beauty, with those cruel scratches
on her thigh, and one stiff, aching leg done up in
oil and cotton. When he opened the stable door,
and was greeted by Stella's low, friendly neighing,
or when she limped forward in her box-stall and
put her small, clean-shaped head on his shoulder,
then Lars Moe's heart swelled until it seemed on
the point of breaking. And so it came to pass that


he added a codicil to his will, setting aside five hun-
dred dollars of his estate as a reward to the man
who, withinsixyears, shouldkillthe GausdaleBruin.
Soon after that, Lars Moe died, as some said,
from grief and chagrin; though the physician
affirmed that it was of rheumatism of the heart.
At any rate, the codicil relating to the enchanted
bear was duly read before the church door, and
pasted, among other legal notices, in the vestibules
of the judge's and the sheriff's offices. When the
executors had settled up the estate, the question
arose in whose name or to whose credit should
be deposited the money which was to be set
aside for the benefit of the bear-slayer. No one
knew who would kill the bear, or if any one would
kill it. It was a puzzling question.
"Why, deposit it to the credit of the bear,"
said a jocose executor; then, in the absence
of other heirs, his slayer will inherit it. That is
good old Norwegian practice, though I don't know
whether it has ever been the law."
All right," said the other executors, "so long
as it is understood who is to have the money, it
does not matter."
And so an amount equal to $500 was deposited
in the county bank to the credit of the Gausdale
Bruin. Sir Barry Worthington, Bart., who came
abroad the following summer for the shooting, heard
the story, and thought it a good one. So, after
having vainly tried to earn the prize himself, he
added another $500 to the deposit, with the stipu-
lation that he was to have the skin.
But his rival for parliamentary honors, Robert
Stapleton, Esq., the great iron-master, who had
come to Norway chiefly to outshine Sir Barry,
determined that he was to have the skin of that
famous bear, if any one was to have it, and that,
at all events, Sir Barry should not have it. So Mr.
Stapleton added $750 to the bear's bank account,
with the stipulation that the skin should come to
Mr. Bruin, in the meanwhile, as if to resent this
unseemly contention about his pelt, made worse
havoc among the herds than ever, and compelled
several peasants to move their dairies to other parts
of the mountains, where the pastures were poorer,
but where they would be free from his depreda-
tions. If the $1750 in the bank had been meant
as a bribe or a stipend for good behavior, such
as was formerly paid to Italian brigands, it cer-
tainly could not have been more demoralizing in
its effect; for all agreed that, since Lars Moe's
death, Bruin misbehaved worse than ever.

THERE was an odd clause in Lars Moe's will
besides the codicil relating to the bear. It read :

"I hereby give and bequeath to my daughter Unna, or, in case
of her decease, to her oldest living issue, my bay mare Stella, as a
token that I have forgiven her the sorrow she caused me by her

It seemed incredible that Lars Moe should wish
to play a practical joke (and a bad one at that) on
his only child, his daughter Unna, because she had
displeased him by her marriage. Yet that was
the common opinion in the valley when this sin-
gular clause became known. Unna had married
Thorkel Tomlevold, a poor tenant's son, and had
refused her cousin, the great lumber-dealer, Mor-
ten Janson, whom her father had selected for a son-
She dwelt now in a tenant's cottage, northward
in the parish; and her husband, who was a sturdy
and fine-looking fellow, eked out a living by hunt-
ing and fishing. But they surely had no accom-
modations for a broken-down, wounded trotting
mare, which could not even draw a plow. It is
true Unna in the days of her girlhood had been
very fond of the mare, and it is only charitable to
suppose that the clause, which was in the body of
the will, was written while Stella was in her prime,
and before she had suffered at the paws of the
Gausdale Bruin. But even granting that, one could
scarcely help suspecting malice aforethought in the
curious provision. To Unna the gift was meant to
say, as plainly as possible, There, you see what
you have lost by disobeying your father If you
had married according to his wishes, you would
have been able to accept the gift, while now you
are obliged to decline it like a beggar."
But if it was Lars Moe's intention to convey such
a message to his daughter, he failed to take into
account his daughter's spirit. She appeared plainly
but decently dressed at the reading of the will, and
carried her head not a whit less haughtily than was
her wont in her maiden days. She exhibited no
chagrin when she found that Janson was her fa-
ther's heir and that she was disinherited. She even
listened with perfect composure to the reading of
the clause which bequeathed to her the broken-
down mare.
It at once became a matter of pride with her to
accept her girlhood's favorite, and accept it she
did And having borrowed a side-saddle, she rode
home apparently quite contented. A little shed,
or lean-to, was built in the rear of the house,
and Stella became a member of Thorkel Tomle-
vold's family. Odd as it may seem, the fortunes of
the family took a turn for the better from the day
she arrived; Thorkel rarely came home without
big game, and in his traps he caught more than
any three other men in all the parish.
The mare has brought us luck," he said to his
wife. "If she can't plow, she can at all events pull


the sleigh to church; and you have as good a right
as any one to put on airs, if you choose."
"Yes, she has brought us blessing," replied
Unna, quietly; "and we are going to keep her
till she dies of old age."
To the children Stella became a pet, as much
as if she had been a dog or a cat. The little boy
Lars climbed all over her, and kissed her regularly
good-morning when she put her handsome head
in through the kitchen door to get her lump of
sugar. She was as gentle as a lamb and as in-
telligent as a dog. Her great brown eyes, with
their soft, liquid look, spoke as plainly as words
could speak, expressing pleasure when she was
patted; and the low neighing with which she
greeted the little boy, when she heard his footsteps
in the door, was to him like the voice of a friend.
He grew to love this. handsome and noble animal
as he had loved nothing on earth except his father
and mother.
As a matter of course, he heard a hundred
times the story of Stella's adventure with the ter-
rible Gausdale bear. It was a story that never
lost its interest, that seemed to grow more exciting,
the oftener it was told. The deep scars of the
bear's claws in Stella's thigh were curiously ex-
amined, and each time gave rise to new questions.
The mare became quite a heroic character, and
the suggestion was frequently discussed between
Lars and his little sister Marit, whether Stella
might not be an enchanted princess who was wait-
ing for some one to cut off her head, so that she
might show herself in her glory. Marit thought
the' experiment well worth trying, but Lars had
his doubts, and was unwilling to take the risk; yet
if she brought luck, as his mother said, then she
certainly must be something more than an ordi-
nary horse.
Stella had dragged little Lars out of the river
when he fell overboard from the pier; and that,
too, showed more sense than he had ever known a
horse to have.
There could be no doubt in his mind that Stella
was an enchanted princess. And instantly the
thought occurred to him that the dreadful en-
chanted bear with the evil eye was the sorcerer,
and that when he was killed, Stella would resume
her human guise. It soon became clear to him
that he was the boy to accomplish this heroic
deed; and it was equally plain to him that he
must keep his purpose secret from all except
Marit, as his mother would surely discourage
him from engaging in so perilous an enterprise.
First of all, he had to learn to shoot; and his father,
who was the best shot in the valley, was very will-
ing to teach him. It seemed quite natural to
Thorkel that a hunter's son should take readily to

the rifle; and it gave him great satisfaction to see
how true his boy's aim was, and how steady his
"Father," said Lars one day, "you shoot so
well, why have n't you ever tried to kill the Gaus-
dale Bruin that hurt Stella so badly? "
"Hush, child! you don't know what you are
talking about," answered his father; "no leaden
bullet will harm that wicked beast."
"Why not?"
"I don't like to talk about it,--but it is well
known that he is enchanted."
"But will he then live for ever? Is there no
sort of bullet that will kill him ?" asked the boy.
I don't know. I don't want to have anything
to do with witchcraft," said Thorkel.
The word witchcraft set the boy to thinking,
and he suddenly remembered that he had .been
warned not to speak to an old woman named
Martha Pladsen, because she was a witch. Now,
she was probably the very one who could tell him
what he wanted to know. Her cottage lay close
up under the mountain-side, about two miles from
his home. He did not deliberate long before going
to seek this mysterious person, about whom the
most remarkable stories were told in the valley. To
his astonishment, she received him kindly, gave
him a cup of coffee with rock candy, and declared
that she had long expected him. The bullet which
was to slay the enchanted bear had long been in
her possession; and she would give it to him if he
would promise to give her the beast's heart. He
did not have to be asked twice for that; and off he
started gayly with his prize in his pocket. It was
rather an odd-looking bullet, made of silver,
marked with a cross on one side and with a lot of
queer illegible figures on the other. It seemed to
burn in his pocket, so anxious was he to start out
at once to release the beloved Stella from the cruel
enchantment. But Martha had said that the bear
could only be killed when the moon was full; and
until the moon was full, he accordingly had to
bridle his impatience.

IT was a bright morning in January, and, as it
happened, Lars's fourteenth birthday. To his great
delight, his mother had gone down to the judge's
to sell some ptarmigans, and his father had gone
to fell some timber up in the glen. Accordingly
he could secure the rifle without being observed.
He took an affectionate good-bye of Stella, who
rubbed her soft nose against his own, playfully
pulled at his coat-collar, and blew her sweet, warm
breath into his face. Lars was a simple-hearted
boy, in spite of his age, and quite a child at heart.
He had lived so secluded from all society, and


breathed so long the atmosphere of fairy tales,
that he could see nothing at all absurd in what he
was about to undertake. The youngest son in the
story-book always did just that sort of thing, and
everybody praised and admired him for it. Lars
meant, for once, to put the story-book hero into
the shade. He engaged little Marit to watch over

I. ,,, _

ing surface of the snow, for the mountain was
steep, and he had to zigzag in long lines before he
reached the upper heights, where the bear was said
to have his haunts. The place where Bruin had
his winter den had once been pointed out to him,
and he remembered yet how pale his father was,
when he found that he had strayed by chance

' .

o _

.4 1




Stella while he was gone, and under no circum- into so dangerous a neighborhood. Lars's heart,
stances to betray him-all of which Marit solemnly too, beat rather uneasily as he saw the two heaps
promised. of stones, called "The Parson," and The Dea-
With his rifle on his shoulder and his skees* on con," and the two huge fir-trees which marked
his feet, Lars glided slowly along over the glitter- the dreaded spot. It had been customary from
Norwegian snowshoes.




immemorial time for each person who passed along
the road to throw a large stone on the Parson's
heap, and a small one on the Deacon's; but since
the Gausdale Bruin had gone into winter quarters
there, the stone heaps had ceased to grow.
Under the great knotted roots of the fir-trees
there was a hole, which was more than half-covered
with snow; and it was noticeable that there was not
a track of bird or beast to be seen anywhere around
it. Lars, who on the way had been buoyed up by the
sense of his heroism, began now to feel strangely
uncomfortable. It was so awfully hushed and
still round about him; not the scream of a bird
-not even the falling of a broken bough was to
be heard. The pines stood in lines and in clumps,
solemn, like a funeral procession, shrouded in sepul-
chral white. Even if a crow had cawed it would
have been a relief to the frightened boy,-for it
must be confessed that he was a trifle frightened,-
if only a little shower of snow had fallen upon his
head from the heavily-laden branches, he would
have been grateful for it, for it would have broken
the spell of this oppressive silence.
There could be no doubt of it; inside, under
those tree-roots slept Stella's foe,- the dreaded
enchanted beast who had put the boldest of hunters
to flight, and set lords and baronets by the ears for
the privilege of possessing his skin. Lars became
suddenly aware that it was a foolhardy thing he
had undertaken, and that he would better betake
himself home. But then, again, had not Witch-
Martha said that she had been waiting for him;
that he was destined by fate to accomplish this
deed, just as the youngest son had been in the story-
book. Yes, to be sure, she had said that; and it
was a comforting thought.
Accordingly, having again examined his rifle,
which he had carefully loaded with the silver bul-
let before leaving home, he started boldly forward,
climbed upon the little hillock between the two
trees, and began to pound it lustily with the butt-
end of his gun. He listened for a moment tremu-
lously, and heard distinctly long, heavy sighs from
His heart stood still. The bear was awake !
Soon he would have to face it! A minute more
elapsed; Lars's heart shot up into his throat. He
leaped down, placed himself in front of the en-
trance to the den, and cocked his rifle. Three
long minutes passed. Bruin had evidently gone
to sleep again. Wild with excitement, the boy
rushed forward and drove his skee-staff straight
into the den with all his might. A sullen growl
was heard, like a deep and menacing thunder.
There could be no doubt that now the monster.
would take him to task for his impertinence.
Again the boy seized his rifle; and his nerves,

though tense as stretched bow-strings, seemed
suddenly calm and steady. He lifted the rifle
to his cheek, and resolved not to shoot until he
had a clear aim at heart or brain. Bruin, though
Lars could hear him rummaging within, was in
no hurry to come out. But he sighed and growled
uproariously, and presently showed a terrible,
long-clawed paw, which he thrust out through his
door and then again withdrew. But apparently
it took him a long while to get his mind clear about
the cause of the disturbance; for fully five minutes
had elapsed when suddenly a big tuft of moss was
tossed out upon the snow, followed by a cloud of
dust and an angry creaking of the tree-roots.
Great masses of snow were shaken from the sway-
ing tops of the firs, and fell with light thuds upon
the ground. In the face of this unexpected shower,
which entirely hid the entrance to the den, Lars
was obliged to fall back a dozen paces; but, as the
glittering drizzle cleared away, he saw an'enormous
brown beast standing upon its hind legs, with wide-
distended jaws. He was conscious of no fear, but
of a curious numbness in his limbs, and strange
noises, as of warning shouts and cries, filling his
ears. Fortunately, the great glare of the sun-
smitten snow dazzled Bruin; he advanced slowly,
roaring savagely, but staring rather blindly before
him out of his small, evil-looking eyes. Suddenly,
when he was but a few yards distant, he raised his
great paw, as if to rub away the cobwebs that ob-
scured his sight. It was the moment for which
the boy had waited. Now he had a clear aim!
Quickly he pulled the trigger; the shot reverberated
from mountain to mountain, and in the same in-
stant the huge brown bulk rolled in the snow, gave
a gasp, and was dead The spell was broken The
silver bullet had pierced his heart. There was a
curious unreality about the whole thing to Lars. He
scarcely knew whether he was really himself or the
hero of the fairy-tale. All that was left for him
to do now was to go home and marry Stella, the
delivered princess.
The noises about him seemed to come nearer
and nearer; and now they sounded like human
voices. He looked about him, and to his amaze-
ment saw his father and Marit, followed by two
wood-cutters, who, with raised axes, were running
toward him. Then he did not know exactly what
happened; but he felt himself lifted up by two
strong arms, and tears fell hot and fast upon his
My boy my boy said the voice in his ears,
I expected to find you dead."
No, but the bear is dead," said Lars, inno-
I did n't mean to tell on you Lars," cried Marit,
but I was so afraid, and then I had to."



The rumor soon filled the whole valley that the
great Gausdale Bruin was dead, and that the boy
Lars Tomlevold had killed him. It is needless to
say that Lars Tomlevold became the parish hero
from that day. He did not dare to confess in the
presence of all this praise and wonder that at heart
he was bitterly disappointed; for when he came
home, throbbing with wild expectancy, there stood
Stella before the kitchen door, munching a piece
of bread; and when she hailed him with a low
whinny, he burst into tears. But he dared not tell
any one why he was weeping.
This story might have ended here, but it has a
little sequel. The $1750 which Bruin had to his

credit in the bank had increased to $2290; and
it was all paid to Lars. A few years later, Marten
Janson, who had inherited the estate of Moe from
old Lars, failed in consequence of his daring forest
speculations, and young Lars was enabled to buy the
farm at auction at less than half its value. Thus
he had the happiness to bring his mother back to
the place of her birth, of which she had been
wrongfully deprived; and Stella, who was now
twenty-one years old, occupied once more her
handsome box-stall, as in the days of her glory.
And although she never proved to be a princess,
she was treated as if she were one, during the few
years that remained to her.



S'NE and a half
\ I l for Billing-
z ton !"
I --Thespeak-
er was stand-
ing at the
ticket window
1 ..' in the station of
S' the Great West-
S.I. idway. Evidently
Si ,; ; r-lking about tick-
S., :: "" .-.ne was for him-
I._'l i l'.. ,- half" for the boy
ii i .:h,,ging to the small
SI.. l and looking
"..' ,, .: :I apily at the ticket-

A '-' ... .l1o you wish to go
I r.:. i .1.!lgton? inquired
a .:.r, cial
S a On the next train:
eleven o'clock, is n't it ?" asked the traveler.
That train does not run Saturday nights;
no train leaves here for Billington until to-morrow,
at midnight "
But this train is marked 'daily in the guide."
It was a daily train until last month."
Well, here's a how-d'ye-do !" said the tall gen-
tleman, slowly; only three hours' ride from home,
on the night before Christmas; and here we are,
with no help for it but to stay in Chicago all Christ-
mas Day. How's that, my son ?"

It's bad luck with a vengeance," answered the
lad, now thoroughly awake, and almost ready to
cry. "I wish we had staid at Uncle Jack's."
So do I," answered his father. But there is
no use in fretting. We are in for it, and we must
make the best of it. Run and call that cabman
who brought us over from the other station. I
will send a message to your mother; and we will
find a place to spend our Sunday."
This was the way it had happened: Mr. Murray
had taken Mortimer with him on a short business
trip to Michigan, for a visit to his cousins, and they
were on their return trip; they had arrived at Chi-
cago, Saturday evening, fully expecting to reach
home during the night. The ticket-agent has ex-
plained the rest.
Take us to the Pilgrim House," said Mr. Mur-
ray, as he shut the double door of the hansom;
and they were soon jolting away over the block
pavements, across the bridges, and through the
gayly lighted streets. It was now only ten o'clock,
and the Christmas buyers were still thronging the
shops, and the streets were alive with heavily-
laden pedestrians who had added their holiday pur-
chases to the Saturday night's marketing, and were
suffering from the embarrassment of riches. Soon
the carriage stopped at the entrance of the hotel,
and the travelers were speedily settled in a second
story front room, from the windows of which the
bright pageant of the street was plainly visible.
While Mortimer Murray is watching the throngs
below, we will learn a little more about him. He



is a fairly good boy, as boys average ; not a perfect
character, but bright and capable, and reasonably
industrious, with no positively mean streaks in his
make-up. He will not lie; and he is never posi-
tively disobedient to his father and mother; though
he sometimes does what he knows to be displeas-
ing to them, and thinks it rather hard to be re-
proved for such misconduct. In short, he is
somewhat self-willed, and a little too much inclined
to do the things that he likes to do, no matter what
pain he may give to others. The want of consider-
ation for the wishes and feelings of others is his
greatestfault. If others fail in any duty toward him,
he sees it quickly and feels it keenly; if he fails in
any duty toward others, he thinks it a matter of
small consequence, and wonders why they are mean
enough to make such a fuss about it.
This is not a very uncommon fault in a boy, I
fear; and boys who, like Mortimer, are often in-
dulged quite as much as is good for them, have
great need to be on their guard against it.
Before many moments Mortimer wearied of the
bewildering panorama of the street, and drew a
rocker up to the grate near which his father was
"Tough luck, is n't it?" were the words with
which he broke silence.
"For whom, my son ?"
For you and me.".
I was thinking of your mother and of Charley
and Mabel; it is their disappointment that troubles
me most."
"Yes," said Mortimer, rather dubiously. In
his regret at not being able to spend his Christmas
day at home, he of course had thought of the
pleasure of seeing his mother and his brother and
sister and the baby; but any idea of their feelings in
the matter had not entered his mind. Only a few
hours before, in the Murray's home, Nurse with
the happy baby in her arms had said to Charley
and Mabel:
Cheer up, children, and eat your supper.
Your papa and Master Mortimer will surely be
here by to-morrow."
But Mortimer so many miles away had not heard
this. Now he glanced up at his father and spoke
"When shall we have our Christmas?"
On Monday, probably. We can reach home
very early Monday morning. We should not have
spent Sunday as a holiday if we had gone home
to-night. Our Christmas dinner and our Christ-
mas-tree must have waited for Monday."
Do you suppose that Mother will have the tree
ready ?"
"I have no doubt of it."
My I 'd like to know what 's on it ?"

"Don't you know of anything that will be
on it?"
N-no, sir..
Mortimer's cheeks reddened at the questioning
glance of his father. He had thus suddenly faced
the fact that he had come up to the very Eve of
Christmas without making any preparation to
bestow gifts upon others. He had wondered much
what he should receive; he had taken no thought
about what he could give. Christmas, in his
calendar, was a day for receiving, not for giving.
Every year his father and mother had prompted
him to make some little preparation, but he had
not entered into the plan very heartily; this year
they had determined to say nothing to him about
it, and to let him find out for himself how it
seemed to be only a receiver on the day when all
the world finds its chief joy in giving.
Mortimer had plenty of time to think about it,
for his father saw the blush upon his face, and
knew that there was no need of further words.
They sat there silent before the fire for some time;
and the boy's face grew more and more sober and
What a pig I have been!" he was saying to
himself. Never thought about getting anything
ready to hang on the tree Been so busy in school
all last term! But then I 've had lots of time for
skates and tobogganing, and all that sort of thing.
Wonder why they did n't put me up to think about
it! P'raps they 'd say I 'm big enough to think
about it myself. Guess I am. I 'd like to kick
myself, anyhow! "
With such discomforting meditations, Mortimer
peered into the glowing coals; and while he mused,
the fire burned not only before his feet but within
his breast as well the fire of self-reproof that gave
the baser elements in his nature a wholesome
scorching. At length he found his pillow, and
slept, if not the sleep of the just, at least the sleep
of the healthy twelve-year-old boy, which is gener-
ally quite as good.
The next morning, Mortimer and his father rose
leisurely, and after a late breakfast walked slowly
down the avenue. The air was clear and crisp,
arid the streets were almost as full of worshipers as
they.had been of shoppers the night before; the
Christmas services in all the churches were calling
out great congregations. The Minnesota Avenue
Presbygational Church, which the travelers sought,
welcomed them to a seat in the middle aisle; and
Mortimer listened with great pleasure to the beau-
tiful music of the choir, and the hearty singing of
the congregation, and tried to follow the minister
in the reading and in the prayer, though his
thoughts wandered more than once to that uncom-
fortable subject of which he had been thinking the


night before; and he wondered whether his father he could. The text was those words of the Lord
and mother and the friends who knew him best Jesus that Paul remembered and reported for us,
did really think him a mean and selfish fellow. It is more blessed to give than to receive." And
When the sermon began, Mortimer fully deter- Doctor Burrows began by saying that everybody
mined to hear and remember just as much of it as believed that, at Christmas-time ; in fact, they
VOL. XV.-8.
a iBs ~,'"reA;~

a ~


0ih eoe n ewnee hte i ahrh ol.Tetx a hs od fteLr
andmte n h red h nwhmbs eu htPu eebrdadrpre o s
d rall hn i enadslihflo. "I smr lse ogv hnt eev. n
ahntesro eaMrie ul ee-DotrBrosbgnb aigta vrbd
aie oha n ee~rjs smc fi sblee /aa hita-ie nfcte



knew it; they found it out by experience; and
that was what made Christmas the happiest day of
the year. Mortimer blushed again, and glanced
up at his father; but there was no answering
glance; his father's eyes were fixed upon the
preacher. The argument of the sermon was a
little too deep for Mortimer, though he under-
stood parts of it, and tried hard to understand it all;
but there was a register in the aisle nera by, and
the church was very warm, and he began looking
down, and after awhile the voice of the preacher
ceased, and he looked up to see what was the
matter, and there, in the pulpit, was-who was it?
Could it be ? It was a very small man, with long
white hair and beard, and ruddy cheeks, and
sparkling eyes, and brisk motions. Yes; Mortimer

had quite made up his own mind that it must be he,
when a boy by his side, whom he had not noticed
before, whispered.:
"Santa Claus "
This was very queer indeed. At least it seemed
so at first; but when Mortimer began to reason
about it, he saw at once that Santa Claus, being a
saint, had a perfect right to be in the pulpit. But
soon this did not seem, after all, very much like a
pulpit; it had changed to a broad platform, and
the rear was a white screen against the wall; and in
place of a desk was a curious instrument, on a
tripod, looking something like a photographer's
camera and something like a stereopticon.
Santa Claus was standing by the side of this

instrument, and was just beginning to speak when
Mortimer looked up. This was what lie heard:
Never heard me preach before, did you ? No.
Talking is not my trade. But the wise man says
there's a time to speak as well as a time to keep
silence. I 've kept my mouth shut tight for several
hundred years; now I 'm going to open it. But
my sermon will be illustrated. See this curious
machine?" and he laid his hand on the instru-
ment by his side; "it's a wonder-box; it will
show you some.queer pictures queerest you ever
Let's see 'em piped out a youngster from
the front seats. The congregation smiled and
rustled, and Santa Claus went on:
Wait a bit, my little man. You '11 see all you
want to see very soon, and may be more. I've been
in this Christmas business now for a great many
years, and I've been watching the way people take
their presents, and what they do with them, and
what effect the giving and the taking has upon the
givers and takers; and I have come to the conclu-
sion that Christmas certainly is not a blessing
to everybody. Of course it is n't. Nothing in the
world is so pure and good that somebody does not
pervert it. Here is father-love and mother-love,
the best things outside of heaven; but some of
you youngsters abuse it by becoming selfish and
greedy, and learning to think that your fathers
and mothers ought to do all the work and make all
the sacrifices, and leave you nothing to do but to
have a good time."
Just here Mortimer felt his cheeks reddening
again, and he coughed a little, and opened a hymn-
book and held it up before his face to hide his
So the fact that Christmas proves a damage to
many is nothing against Christmas," Santa Claus
continued; but the fact that some people are hurt
by it more than they are helped is a fact that you
all ought to know. And as Christmas came this
year on Sunday, it was my chance to give the
world the benefit of my observations, and there
could n't be a better place to begin than Chicago,
so here I am."
This last statement touched the local pride of
the audience, and there was a slight movement of
applause; at which the small boys in front, who
had begun to grow sleepy, rubbed their eyes and
pricked up their ears.
There is one thing more," said the preacher,
that I want distinctly understood. I am not the
bringer of all the Christmas gifts." Here a little
girl over in the corner under the gallery looked up
to her mother and nodded, as if to say, "I told
you so No; there are plenty of presents that

people say were brought by Santa Claus, with which


Santa Claus had nothing at all to do. There are
some givers whose presents I would n't touch; they
would soil my fingers or burn them. There are
some takers to whom I would give nothing, because
they don't deserve it, and because everything that
is given to them makes them a little meaner than
they were before. Oh, no! You must n't believe
all you hear about Santa Claus He does n't do
all the things that are laid to him. He is n't a
"And now I'm going to show you on this
screen some samples of different kinds of presents.
I have pictures of them here, a funny kind of
pictures, as you will see. Do you know how I got
rthe pictures ? Well, I have one of those little
,detective cameras did you ever see one ? that
will take your portrait a great deal quicker than
you can pronounce the first syllable of Jack Robin-
son. It is a little box with a hole in it, and a slide,
that is worked with a spring, covering the hole.
You point the nozzle of it at anybody, or anything,
and touch the spring with your thumb, and, click I
you have it -the ripple of the water, the flying
feet of the racer, the gesture of the talker, the
puff of steam from the locomotive, the unfinished
bark of the dog. I've been about with this detec-
tive, collecting my samples of presents, and now
I 'm going to exhibit them to you here by means
.of my Grand Stereoscopic Moral Tester, an instru-
ment that brings out the good or the bad in any-
thing, and sets it before your eyes as plain as
day. You will first see on the screen the thing
itself, just as it looks to ordinary eyesight; then I
shall turn on my aeonian light through my ethical
'lens, and you will see how the same thing looks
'when one knows all about it, where it came from,
and why it was given, and how it was received.
"First, I shall show you one or two of those
-presents that I said I would n't touch. Here, for
,example, is an elegant necklace that I saw a man
buying for his wife in a jewelry store yesterday;
I caught it as he held it in his hands. There !
lis n't it a beauty ? Links of solid gold, clasp set
with diamonds; would you like it, girls?"
H'm My! Is n't it a daisy murmured
the delighted children, as they gazed on the bright
"Don't be too sure!" cried the preacher.
Things are not always what they seem. Look "
A new light of strange brilliance now lit up the
pictures, and every link of that golden chain was
transformed into an iron fetter that fastened
a woman's wrist,- a woman's wrist that vainly
strove to release from its imprisonment a woman's
hand. The chain itself was a great circle of
women's hands,-wan, cramped, emaciated, piti-
ful hands,- each one holding a needle, each one

clutching helplessly the empty air. Within this
circle suddenly sprung to view a little group-
a woman, bending by the dim light of a winter
afternoon over a garment in her hands, and two
pale children lying near her on a pallet covered
with rags, while the scanty furniture of the room
betokened the most bitter poverty. It was evident
enough that the poor creatures were famishing;
the hopeless look on the mother's face, as she
plied her needle with fierce and anxious speed,
glancing now and then at the sleeping children,
was enough to touch the hardest heart; a low
murmur of pitiful exclamation ran around the room,
and there were tears in many eyes.
She is only one of them," cried Santa Claus.
"There are four hundred just like her, working
for the man who bought this necklace for his wife
yesterday; it is out of their life-blood that he is
coining his gold. And to think that such a man
should take the money that he makes in this way
to buy a Christmas present. Ugh What has
such a man to do with Christmas?" And the
good saint shook his fist and stamped his feet in
holy wrath. Then the group faded, leaving what
looked like a great blood-stain in its place; but
that, in its turn, shortly disappeared, and the white
screen waited for another picture.
"I have many pictures that are even more pain-
ful than this," said the preacher, "but I am not
going to let you see any more of them. I only
want you to know how the rewards of iniquity look
in the maonian light. There are a few more pict-
ures, less terrible to see, but some of them will be
a little unpleasant for some of you, I fear. Here
is a basket of fruit; it looks very tempting, at
first; but let the true light strike it. There now
you see that it is all decayed and withered. It is
really as bitter and disgusting as it now looks. It
was given, this morning, by a young man to a
politician. The young man wants an office. That
was why he made this present. A great many
so-called Christmas presents are made for some
such reason. Not a particle of love goes with
them. They are smeared all over with selfish-
ness. Christmas presents Bah Is this the spirit
of Christmas ?
But here is one of a different sort."
A pretty crimson toilet-case now appeared upon
the screen.
Elegant, is it not? Now see how it looks to
those who live in the eonian light."
The crimson plush slowly changed to what
looked like rather soiled canton flannel, and the
carved ivory to clumsily whittled bass-wood.
What is the matter with this ? I shall not tell
you who gave it, nor to whom it was given; it is
no real wrong-doing on the part of the giver that



makes the gift poor; it is only because the gift
represents no effort, no sacrifice, no thoughtful
love. In fact, the one who gave it got the money
to buy it with from the one who received it. There
are a great many Christmas presents of this sort;

with painstaking labor and self-denial. Now I 'm
going to show you another, which will enable you
to get the idea."
It was a little picture-frame of cherry wood rather
rudely carved, that now appeared upon the screen.


it is n't best to say any hard words about them; The boy who made this for his mother works.
but you see that they are not, really, quite so hard every day in school and carries the evening
handsome as they look. Nothing is really beauti- papers to help with the family expenses'; he carved.
ful, for a Christmas present, that does not prove a this at night,when he could gain a little time from
personal affection, and a readiness to express it his lessons, because he could n't afford the money-


to buy anything, and because he thought his
mother would be better pleased with something
that he himself had made. You think it does n't
amount to much, don't you ? Well, now look !"
The transfiguring light flashed upon the screen,
and the little cherry frame expanded to a great and
richly ornamented frame of rosewood and gold, fit
to hang upon the walls of a king's palace; and
there, in the space that before was vacant, sur-
rounded by all that beautiful handiwork, was the
smiling face of a handsome boy.
The people, old and young, forgot that they were
in church and clapped their hands vigorously,
Santa Claus himself joining in the applause and
moving about the platform with great glee.
Yes!" he cried, "that's the boy, andthat's the
beauty of this little frame of his; the boy is in it;
he put his love into it, he put himself into it, when
he made it; and when you see it as it really is, you
see him in it. And that's what makes any Christ-
mas present precious, you know; it comes from
your heart and life, and it touches the heart and
quickens the love of the one to whom it is given.
I have a great number of presents of this sort
that I should like to show you if I had time. Here,
for instance, is a small glass inkstand that a little
boy gave his father. It is one of half a dozen
presents that he made ; it cost only a dime or two,
and you think it is not worth much; but now, when
I turn the truth-telling light upon it, you see what
it is-a vase of solid crystal, most wonderfully
engraved with the richest designs. The boy did
not make this with his own hands, but he gained
every cent that it cost by patient, faithful, un-
complaining labor. He begged the privilege of
earning his Christmas money in this way, and
right honestly he earned it; leaving his play,
whenever he was summoned for any service, with-
out a word of grumbling, and taking upon him-
self many little labors and cares that would have
burdened his father and mother. When he took
his money and went out to spend it the day before
Christmas, he was happy and proud, because he
could fairly call it his own money; and the presents
that he bought with it represented him.
And now there is only one thing more that I
shall show you, but that is a kind of thing that is
common, only too common I 'm afraid. It is a
present that was all beautiful and good enough till
it left the hands of the giver, but was spoiled by
the receiver. Here it is."
A silver cup, beautifully chased and lined with
gold, now came into view.
"A boy whom I knowfound this in his stocking
this morning. He was up bright and early; he
pulled the presents out of his stocking rather
greedily; he wanted ,to see whether they had

bought for him the things he had been wishing
for and hinting about. Some of them were there
and some were not; he was almost inclined to
scold, but concluded that he might better hold his
tongue. But this boy had made no presents at
all. He is one of the sort that takes all he can
get, but never gives anything. This is what
Christmas means to him. It is a time for getting,
not for giving. And I want you to see how this
dainty cup looked, as soon as it got into his greedy
Again the revealing light fell upon the cup and
its beauty and shapeliness disappeared, and it was
nothing but a common pewter mug, all tarnished
and marred, and bent out of form.
There cried the preacher; that is the
kind of thing that is most hateful to me. It hurts
me to see lovely things fall into the hands of selfish
people, for such people can see no real loveliness
in them. It is love that makes all things lovely;
and he who has no love in his own heart can dis-
cern no love in anything that comes into his hands.
What does Christmas mean to such a one ? What
good does it do him ? It does him no good; it
does him harm, every time. Every gift that he
gets makes him a little greedier than he was before.
That is the way it works with a certain kind of
Sunday-school children. They come in, every
year, just before Christmas, only because they hope
to get something; they take what they can get,
and grumble because it is n't more, and go away,
and that's the last of them till Christmas comes
around again. That's what they think of Christ-
mas. They think it is a pig's feast. Precious
little they know about it. I know them, thous-
ands of them But they never get anything from
me,-never They think they do, but that's a
mistake I don't like to see my pretty things
marred and spoiled like this cup. I 'm not going
to give to those who are made worse by receiving.
No I can do better. I can find people
enough to whom it is worth while to give Christ-
mas gifts because there is love in their hearts ; and
the gift of love awakens more love. Those who
know the joy of giving are made better by receiv-
ing. And there are hosts of them, too, millions
of them; tens of millions, I believe; more this
Christmas than ever before since the Babe was
born in Bethlehem ; people whose pleasure it is to
give pleasure to others; good-willers, cheerful
workers, loving helpers, generous hearts, who
have learned and remembered the words of the
Lord Jesus, how he said, 'It is more blessed to
give than to receive.' "
Through all this part of Santa Claus's sermon
Mortimer had known that his face was growing
redder and redder; he was sure that the eyes of



all the people in the church were being fixed on
him; he felt that he could not endure it another
moment, and he caught up his hat and was going
to rush out of the building, when suddenly the voice
was silent, and he looked up to see what it meant-
and Santa Claus was not there; it was Doctor Bur-
rows again, and he was just closing the Bible and
taking up the hymn-book. Mortimer glanced about
him and drew a long breath of relief.
As they walked back to the hotel, Mr. Murray
asked Mortimer how he liked the sermon.
Which sermon? asked Mortimer.
"Why, Dr. Burrows's sermon, of course."
Oh, yes; I forgot. It was a good sermon,
was n't it ? "
"Excellent. What was the text ? "
'It is more blessed to give than to receive.'
Was n't that the way he ended up ?" asked Morti-
mer, brightening.
It was."
"I thought so."
Thought so; did n't you hear it ?"
"Yes, I heard that. But-I was hearing--
something else about that time, and I was n't sure."

What else did you hear ?"
"Lots. P'raps I'll tell you some time," replied
the lad.
Mr. Murray did not press the question, and
Mortimer was silent. All that day and the next
Mortimer seemed to have much serious thinking to,
do; he was a little reluctant to take his Christmas
presents, and he received them at last with a ten-
der gratitude that he had never shown before.
It must have been Dr. Burrows's sermon," said.
Mr. Murray to his wife as they were talking it over
the next night. "I did n't think Mortimer could
get much out of it; in fact I thought he was asleep
part of the time, but it seems to have taken hold of
him in the right way. It was a good sermon and
a practical one. I 'm going to ask our minister to,
exchange some time with Dr. Burrows."
I wish he would," said Mrs. Murray.
That was the way Mr. and Mrs. Murray looked
at it. But I think that if they had asked Mortimer,
Mortimer could have told them that it would be a
much better idea to suggest to their minister that
he exchange some time with the Reverend Doctor
Santa Claus.

(Verses sent with bluets to a little girl.)


AFIELD I met a darling crowd
Of blossom-children sweet;
(Dear Mother Nature must be proud,
These children keep so neat,)
So thick they stood, I cried aloud,
"I dare not move my feet! "

Their dresses all were like the sky
When light clouds film the blue;
And each one had a sunny eye,
And Heaven-secrets knew;
But some, not wide awake, or shy.
Their heads bent down from view.

I touched the tallest in a row:
"Dear heart! your name I 'd call,
If you your name would please to show."
A voice came faint and small:
"My name I truly do not know;
I 'm Innocence,- that 's all! "

Now, there 's a child-flower soft and bright,
And Innocence is she ;
I thought these blossom-children might
Her very sisters be;
And so I sent them, blue and white,
To Dorothea G.

cc related Barber -o

-This Bcarber wiLt the plne-Lry coal 0
Has jus miss-cd Eh2 7:50 morning bocDt. Oi-

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wvill despair,
F eoss he.annot cut or

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A,'~ LIL ~

Too cold it was to ride or walk;
A little elf swung on a marigold stalk,
The marigold flowers were fallen and dead,
The marigold flowers were shrouded in snow,
A bitter wind rushed to and fro,
And all the violets were a-bed.
The little elf's nose was sorry and blue,
But the little elf's self was jolly all through;
And as he swung from side to side,
He sang this song with an air of pride:

SOut o' the wool o' the chestnut-buds
My Minnie spun my hose and jerkin;
Of a bat's wing made my cloak,
Warm enough to wrap a Turk in;
Lined them all with thistle-down,
Gathered when the pods were brown;
Trimmed them with a rabbit's fur,
Left upon a cockle-bur;

SYet, in spite o' everything,
Much I fear that cold I be.
Ha ha the Spring Ho ho the Spring!
The merry, merry Spring for me!"

T" '. .-. ,.




IGHT had set in when
the Hart boys arrived
S with their tutor at
SSalt Lake City, and
they went to their
beds immediately-
'-in an old, rambling
S''and rather dilapi-
e- -Y dated hotel, with
anything but agreea-
-1H-L-B ble first impressions
of the famous Mormon town of Utah.
Their opinion of it changed, however, when the
light, shining in at their windows, awoke them the
next morning; and they looked out from the midst
of the beautiful valley in which the city rests, over
the roofs, and the rows of trees that shade its
streets, and saw the sunshine on the glittering
peaks of the snow-capped mountains around.
I had no idea that the Mormons could get up
anything so fine as this t" exclaimed Roland,
breathing the fresh air at the open casement, and
gazing with delight at the thin, vapory clouds
floating along the mountain-sides, the gorges full
of purple mists, and the snowy summits gleaming
over all.
The Mormons know a good thing when they
see it," replied his cousin Dean, as he slipped his
suspenders upon his shoulders. "When the old
leaders discovered this valley in the desert, I don't
know how many years ago, at the time when they
were looking for a new seat of empire, where they
could build up a great nation, outside of our
civilization- "
"Bah don'tbe eloquent now!" Roland laughed.
"Or is it poetry you 're making?
'Where they could build up a nation
Outside of our civilization! '
Why, I did n't think you were capable of that."

"I felt that I was wading in rather deep lan-
guage," said Dean. If I made a rhyme, put it in
your note-book; for I shall probably never make
another. To tell the truth, I was thinking what
the Duke would say on the occasion; I was speak-
ing as his proxy."
The Duke was the title, or nickname which
the boys had bestowed in boy-fashion upon their
tutor, "plain Mr." Wellington, whom they now
heard stirring in the next room.
In five minutes they were knocking at his door,
before which the hotel porter had lately set down
a pair of dapper boots in the highest state of
"Well, young gentlemen," the tutor said, as
they entered, speaking under the flapping folds of
a damp towel, with which he was making the bald
top of his head shine, "you're stirring early;
what are you going to do with yourselves before
breakfast ?"
"We thought we would go out and take a little
stroll," replied Roland.
See the town," his cousin Dean added, "and
perhaps chuck a stone or two into the famous Great
Salt Lake."
The Duke stopped polishing his head, with his
thin side-locks straggling all over it, and the towel
in his two hands, and looked at the boy with a sort
of mournful astonishment.
Permit me to ask," he said, with a smile of sad
humor, in which he was apt to indulge when either
of his pupils blundered, about how far can you
'chuck' a stone,-as you term the simple act, I
suppose, of throwing? "
Dean knew at once that he had said some-
thing ridiculous, but could n't conceive what. He
laughed as he looked around in a questioning way
for a hint from Roland; but his cousin's ruddy
face gave no sign.


I don't know; I never measured the distance,"
he replied.
Eighteen yards ?" inquired the tutor.
Oh, more than that! "
Eighteen miles?"
Well! hardly so far," Dean answered, blush-
ing and laughing.
I thought not," remarked the tutor quietly.
" But allow me to say that you will have to throw
a stone that distance if you expect to make a plash
with it in the lake before breakfast this morning."
What! said Roland, with a disappointed
look, "I thought the lake was one of the things
we came here to see."
"That is true," the tutor replied. But to
visit it we have to take a little journey of some-

Not before breakfast this morning," replied
the tutor. Go and enjoy your walk now, and
get an appetite. You may stroll on the banks of
the Jordan, if not on the shores of this Mormon
Dead Sea."
The Jordan? queried Dean.
That is the name the saints have given to the
river which flows from Utah Lake into Great Salt
Lake from the south. You 'd better read up
about it in the guide-books. Bear River flows into
it from the north, and other streams contribute
their fresh waters to this great inland sea."
''How about those that flow out of it ?" Dean
asked, turning the pages of a little railroad guide-
book which he picked up from the table.
"The lake has no outlet; the waters of the

,-.*.*".*. .*. .. o. <..._..._. ..


thing like eighteen miles. Though I suppose it mountain streams fall into that great basin and
is n't so far as that to the nearest shore, as a bird are at rest; they sleep the sleep of death," said
flies." the tutor, "or ascend to heaven by evaporation,"
Or as you chuck a stone," said Roland mer- he added with a touch of poetry, with which he
rily, nudging his cousin. "When shall we take sometimes liked to adorn his discourse. "There's
the little journey to the lake, sir ? he inquired, a thought for you, boys; consider it."



The lake must be very much larger than I
thought, to take in the rivers without overflowing
its banks," observed Roland.
In spring, when the mountain snows are melt-
ing, the lake sometimes spreads over the plains
that border its shores. But it is a large lake at
any time; about ninety miles in length, I believe,
and forty miles wide. An immense sheet of water !
And no living thing can exist in it. Not a fish in
all that silent sea! It is the heaviest sort of brine,
charged with salt and other mineral substances.
Leave a stick in it a few hours, and when you take
it out it will appear covered with crystals. Put a
live trout in it, and it will turn over on its back
and die in about three or four gasps. It is a won-
derful lake," added the tutor, before the glass,
arranging his hair so as to conceal the bald spot
on his crown.
I should say so," cried Dean, with his eyes
fixed with keen interest on the pages of the guide-
book. And he read aloud:
'And the lake itself! Always mysterious, it
appeals to the imagination of every traveler. It
sleeps forever. No waves dance over it, no surf
ever breaks the stillness of its melancholy shores.'
I am going to have a bath in that lake he ex-
claimed, giving the page an enthusiastic slap.
They say a person can't sink in it, owing to
the heaviness of the water," said Roland, who
was not a good swimmer. So there 's no danger
of drowning."
Danger there is, nevertheless," said the tutor.
"The water is so buoyant that it is hard to keep
the limbs submerged. Up they come to the sur-
face, in spite of you, and down go your features
into the brine, if you are not careful. Then
strangulation--the liquid (you can hardly call
it water), taken into the throat or nostrils, pro-
duces most painful results. A friend of mine, a
lady, nearly perished in it once, and was distress-
ingly ill for several days from the effect of an
involuntary plunge."
We 'll have a bath in the mysterious lake,
anyhow exclaimed Dean. And going out with
his cousin he kicked over something at the door.
"Is that my boots?" called out the usually
quiet Mr. Wellington, in sudden alarm. Oh "
he growled, seeing that his foot-gear had been
upset upon the dusty floor; "just after they had
been beautifully polished "
If there was anything he was extremely particu-
lar about, it was those slender, dainty, dapper
little French boots; and if the Hart boys ever
had any fun at his expense, it was chiefly on
account of them.
Dean picked up the boots, and tried to atone for
his carelessness by dusting them with a towel.

Don't, for the world !" ejaculated the Duke,
springing to the rescue. That towel is damp !"
he added in a sort of horror. He took the boots.
with as much tenderness as if they had been a pair
of human twins, and carefully removed the dust
with asoft hat-brush, while the boys smothered their
laughter as they hurried from the room.
There were actually five specks of dust on one
of His Grace's boots said Dean, and three
specks, besides a small dog's hair, on the other "
A small hair, or the hair of a small dog ? asked
Roland. Dean, do express yourself with clearness
and precision," he added, very much in the tone of
the worthy tutor.
The boys returned in about half an hour with
radiant faces. They had not seen the River Jordan,
but they had strolled through the shady streets, by
the banks of irrigating streams of clear, cold water
brought from the mountains; they had rambled
about the renowned Mormon Tabernacle and the-
great unfinished Temple; and they had picked up
a pleasant bit of news.
There was to be a great excursion to the lake in
the afternoon; and they named a noted swimmer
who was to give an exhibition of his skill, free to all
spectators at six o'clock.
We will go out in time to have our bath first,"
said Dean, and then see the Captain's perform-
And enjoy the fine sunset on the lake," added
To this the tutor agreed. This was on Saturday,
the twelfth day of June, 1886; a day which will
long be remembered at Salt Lake City, and
especially by those tourists who went to witness
the Captain's feats of swimming.
The morning was bright and full of promise;
the boys passed the forenoon very pleasantly in
riding about the city and visiting the principal
places of interest with their tutor. Then a wind
arose, the sky became overcast, and Mr. Welling-
ton, looking down anxiously at his boots, predicted
a storm.
After dinner the weather became still more
threatening, and the tutor said the trip to the lake
would have to be postponed. At this the boys set
up a cry of disappointment.
How can we postpone it? said Dean. To-
morrow is Sunday; and we leave here Monday
morning. I am going to see Salt Lake, storm or
no storm."
The tutor, however, persuaded them to wait over
one train, and see how the weather looked after-
ward. The wind continued to increase, but there
were no more decided indications of rain an hour
later than there had been since noon. And the
boys, who had been interviewing some of the oldest :



inhabitants, returned to the hotel with happy faces.
They say the wind is sure to go down before
night; and there 's never rain here to amount to
anything, at this time of year. This, you know, is
their dry season."
Yes, I know," the tutor reluctantly admitted;
"but the lake will be too rough for you to take a
bath in it, or for the Captain to give his perform-
"Rough?" echoed Dean. "What does your
little guide-book say ? It sleeps forever; no waves
dance over it, no surf ever-' and all that. It will
be all the more interesting to see a lake almost
half as long as the State of Massachusetts-that
sleeps forever, no matter how the wind blows."
Yes," added Roland, a lake that never gets
its back up, even when it is stroked the wrong way
by a heavy gale "
Mr. Wellington allowed himself to be persuaded,
and set out with the boys to walk to the station of
the Western & Nevada Railroad, where the excur-
sion trains to the lake were made up. But they
had not gone far, when he looked up again at the
sky, and down at his boots, and paused.
"Boys!" said he, "I lack faith in this Utah
weather. I am going back for my overcoat, and
I advise you to take yours."
They scoffed at the idea, and proposed to walk
on to the station, and wait for him there. So he
returned to the hotel alone, to find that Dean,
whom he had sent to the office with their door-
keys, had not left them there, but probably still
had them in his pocket. The result was that the
tutor was so long finding any one who could un-
lock the door for him, and in getting his overcoat,
that the boys at the station became exasperated
with impatience when they saw the train about to
start without them.
But the train was a remarkably long one, heav-
ily laden with passengers;. and though it was
hauled by two locomotives, it was not easily put in
motion. The engines were panting and struggling,
when the boys, who had jumped upon the platform
of a car, having determined to make the trip
whether their tutor joined them or not, saw him
coming down the street in full chase, with his over-
coat and umbrella under his arm.
It was great fun for them to see "His Grace,
the Duke of Wellington," running for a train in
his tight boots; and they waved their handker-
chiefs at him cheeringly. The cars, even after
they had made a start, moved so slowly that they
were easily overtaken; and the tutor was soon on
the platform with the boys.
The car was crowded, however, and not a seat
in it was to be had. The boys proposed that they
should go back to one of the long string of open

cars, which made up the rear of the train. But
Mr. Wellington declared that nothing would
tempt him to do that, in such a wind as was blow-
ing; beyond the sheltering limits of the city it was
almost a gale, and it was growing cold.
The car was crowded, mostly with Mormons, a
rather rough and outlandish-looking company,
with a few tourists or other Gentiles mixed in.
But everybody was good-natured, nobody seemed
to heed the unfavorable weather, and soon the car
was filled with the loud talk and laughter of the
many excursionists.
This is a mortifying position for a gentleman "
murmured the tutor, crowding into the aisle to get
out of the wind, and trying to keep his boots from
coming in contact with those of his fellow-travelers.
And for a moment he contemplated jumping from
the slow-running train and walking back to the
A stout Mormon woman, who occupied a seat
with a little girl, kindly took the child in her lap
and made room for him; and after that he was
more comfortable. But the sky grew blacker as
they advanced, the wind increased, and, in spite of
closed doors and windows, circulated through the
loosely constructed car.
"And these people fondly imagine they are enjoy-
ing themselves said the tutor, with a melancholy
smile. He even seemed inclined to pity his pupils
standing in the aisle beside him, because they were
still able to keep up their courage and take a cheer-
ful view of things.
The journey itself was uninteresting as possible.
Soon after the River Jordan was crossed (a stream
with low, flat shores), they came to desolate plains
where not much else grew besides clumps of sage-
bush; and afterward they passed long, level, abso-
lutely barren tracts, covered with a whitish scum.
These were alkali plains. Then, after what seemed
an interminable while to our tourists, the slowly
moving train ran by a stretch of half-overflowed
land which proved to be the borders of the lake
Approached by the Central Pacific Railroad from
the northwest, Great Salt Lake, with its distant
hazy levels broken by mountainous islands and
blue promontories, is singularly beautiful. But
seen as our boys saw it, from the railroad that
skirts its southeast shore, particularly on such a
day as that memorable Saturday, it is dreary in the
"What is that white, out there ? asked Dean,
stooping to look through the car window across the
half-submerged plain.
That's the lake itself," said the Mormbn woman
with the child in her lap.
"Breakers!" exclaimed Roland in astonishment.



"It can't be said Dean. "But it is White-
caps, as far as you can see "
"The lake that 'sleeps forever' cried Dean
excitedly. "'No waves dance over it, no surf ever
breaks the stillness -' Where 's your 'Journey
Across the Continent by the Scenic Route ? he
asked, calling upon the tutor for his little railroad
guide-book in which that highly romantic descrip-
tion had been found.
I don't believe the writer of that ever saw the
lake Roland declared.
I am sure he never did in a gale of wind," said
the tutor. But he may have seen it in calm
weather. This shows you, boys, how careful we
must be in accepting the testimony of the traveler
who has seen only one phase of natural objects
which he attempts to describe. There's a thought
for your consideration."
Passing the wet lands, the train ran slowly beside
the actual shore of the lake, and the boys could
see better what that dense and inert mass of water
was in a storm. Its surface was lashed into foam
as far as the eye could reach. Not simply white-
caps tumbled, but regular breakers formed at least
half a mile out, much farther from shore, the tutor
said, than he had ever seen breakers form, except on
shoals or reefs. They swept in slow, heavily rolling
surges, one after another, like breakers of white
cream, to dash high upon the shore, which there
rose eight or ten feet above the level of the lake.
Black Rock, a solitary, wave-worn ledge which
rises steeply from the water a little way out from
the beach, was enveloped in spray from the bil-
lows dashing about it. Not far beyond was the
station at Garfield, where the Captain's swimming
exhibition was to take place. It was almost time
for it now.
The cars stopped near a large open shed or
pavilion; this was the railroad station, which ap-
peared crowded with excursionists who had gone
out on previous trains. The cold tempestuous
wind from the lake swept through it, and a flight
of steps that led down from it to the beach was
buffeted by the breaking waves.
"We shall have to give up our bath," said
Roland, ruefully, seeing that even the descent of
the stairs would be dangerous. But I am going
to see what the Captain will do."
The Captain, if he is wise, will do nothing,"
said the tutor. It would be the height of folly
for him to undertake to give an exhibition in so
mad a sea. It is beginning to rain."
A fine, swift drizzle was in fact flying horizon-
tally into the pavilion, and spattering the car win-
dows. The clouds over the lake were thick and
dark, the whitened waves were veiled in mist, and
a night of furious storm was about shutting down.

Boys said the tutor, as his companions were
leaving the car with the crowd of passengers, take
my advice, and stay where you are. This will be
the first train back to the city, and, don't you see,
there are hundreds of people waiting to crowd into
it, and take the places of those who are foolish
enough to vacate them. That open shed affords
no one any protection. The wind and even the
rain sweep through it. I am going to remain just
where I am."
What! come to see Salt Lake, and never leave
your seat in the car?" said Roland. "That is
too absurd.".
Absurd or not, that is the only rational thing
to do. Many others, you see, are doing the same."
Indeed, many who had started to leave the car
were now rushing back with the incoming crowd,
and scrambling to regain their seats.
Be quick, or you will lose your chance! "
called the tutor. "I can see all I want to of the
lake through a pane of glass "
But the windows were becoming misty with the
drizzle; and, determined to see more, even if they
had to stand in the aisle again all the way to town,
the boys pressed forward to the platform of the car.
Cries from the lake shore attracted them,
"There he is! there he goes! "-and Roland
eagerly asked, Who goes? "
The Captain! he is in the water."
The two boys waited to hear no more, but
leaped from the car, and, running along the level
bank above the beach, among the scattered spec-
tators, did not stop until they had reached a good
spot to see the show," as Dean said.
Below them, a few rods out from the shore, was
moored a small excursion steamboat, which was to
have made two or three pleasure trips on the lake
that afternoon. But pleasure trips in such weather
were out of the question. Indeed, the little steam-
boat appeared to be in imminent danger of being
swamped by the waves, or of parting its cable and
dashing upon the beach. It was tossing and
plunging fearfully, and no sooner was its stern lifted
high by one breaker, than the bow plunged into
the next, which half-buried it, and swept the deck.
What added intense interest to the scene was
the sight of two men standing on the stern, now
heaved high by a wave, and then dropped suddenly
by the receding surf.
Why don't they come ashore ? cried Roland,
My dear sir," answered a gray-headed spec-
tator, who stood with his hat pulled over his face,
and his coat-collar turned up against the rain,
"they would thankfully come ashore if they could."
Who are they ? Dean inquired.
The captain of the boat, and, I believe, his



-son. They were getting ready for a trip; but as
the weather grew bad, they waited for it to grow
better. But it grew worse so fast, they could n't
-get ashore at all. They had a small boat fastened
-to the stern, and as a last resort they were to use
,that; but it broke loose, and there they are."
If the storm increases, or continues all night,
what will they do? said Roland.
That is more than man can say," replied the
-stranger. "The steamer has no cabin. -They
are where there is n't much danger of the

Didn't he succeed?" the boys inquired.
Succeed? No! A wave tumbled him over and
brought him ashore, as if he had been made of
cork. He started into the water again a minute
ago, as if he were going to make another attempt,
but there was something wrong about the rope he
had tied to his waist, and he went back to arrange it. "
Is n't such a storm on this lake something un-
usual? Dean innocently wished to know.
Unusual! exclaimed the man. "There has
been nothing like it known here for twenty years!"

- 1 A S E :4,


waves washing them off; but the spray, you see,
is flying over them, and anybody who ever got any
of that into his eyes or nostrils can judge some-
thing of what those poor fellows must suffer."
The boys had been so much absorbed in watch-
ing the endangered steamboat and her small crew
of two, that they had not noticed some movements
taking place on the beach. Dean now asked what
they meant.
"Don't you know?" replied the man. "The
chap in a rubber suit is the great swimming
captain, who was to have given an exhibition here
this afternoon. He has just made an attempt to
carry a line out to the men on the steamer."

As the rain was coming in hurried volleys,
dashing into the boys' faces, they regretted not
having borrowed the Duke's umbrella; yet they
noticed that the few spectators who had um-
brellas were unable to hold them in the face of the
tempest; more than one was wrecked and had to
be furled. So they, like their gray-headed ac-
quaintance on the bank, turned up the collars of
their tightly buttoned coats and pulled their hats
over their eyes. And this is the way they saw
Great Salt Lake.
But how was His Grace the Duke seeing it?
The train had started again, and his car, with its
storm-pelted windows, was running off with the


rest on a side track, at a distance from the shore
and half a mile farther on. There it was left in
the midst of a desolate plain, and enveloped by a
blinding storm!
"He is going to try it again Dean cried, and
he and Roland winked the water from their eyes,
the better to see the famous swimmer put his art
to a practical use by carrying a line to the dis-
tressed men on the steamboat.
He waded out, cased from head to foot in his
rubber suit, but unfortunately with his features ex-
posed. He passed the tumbling surf of the first
breaker without being taken off his feet. He en-
countered the second with a brave leap at its crest,
and, strongly swimming, using his paddle, passed
that successfully also. Then came the third roller,
tossing, toppling forward, already crushing into
foam with its own weight.
This the Captain took valiantly, making a plunge
to dive through it, which he could have done
easily enough had the wave been any ordinary
sea-water. But its extraordinary buoying power
and great momentum were too much even for the
great swimmer. Besides, the poisonous brine got
into his eyes and nostrils. He was scarcely visible
for a moment, then he was seen tumbling like a
rubber ball, as light and almost as helpless, in the
midst of the breaking surge. He had lost his pad-
dle, and he seemed also to have lost all power of
governing his motions, in the dashing waves.
Merciful heavens! the man will drown ex-
claimed the gray-headed spectator.
With one impulse the cousins rushed down to
the beach, in order to assist in the rescue of the
gallant Captain. Fortunately his friends on the
shore had hold of the rope he was carrying to the
steamer; and, seeing it was impossible for him to
proceed, they hauled him back to land. He was
taken out and lifted upon his feet, blinded for the
moment, coughing and strangling terribly, and
even unable to stand without support. The boys
scrambled back up the bank, with wet feet and a
taste of spray from the lake on their lips. There
they remained awhile longer, watching with great
anxiety the two men on the plunging steamboat,
and waiting to see if the Captain would make an-
other attempt to rescue them. He was soon taken
by his friends to the bathing-house, where his
drooping attitude, as he stood on the platform,
did not give promise of further efforts on his part.
There 's no hope for those men, except in the
wind's going down," said Dean. We can't wait
to see that."
And the two boys hastened to find what poor
shelter they could at the open shed of the station.
Their feet were splashed with the brine of the
lake, and the rain was fast drenching them.

What a lovely sunset laughed Roland.
"We shall have had our bath anyhow," re-
plied Dean ; though not just as we anticipated."
And we have seen the Captain's performance,"
added Roland.
The situation under the pavilion roof was not
comfortable, but the huddled crowd afforded them
a slight protection from the driving storm.
Though chilled and wet, waiting for the train,
they kept up their spirits by an exchange of jokes,
by listening to the talk of their fellow-sufferers, or,
when their patience was nearly exhausted, by
thinking how much better off they were, at the
worst, than the two men whom they could still see
tossing on the stern of the little steamboat.
Meanwhile the tutor adhered to his resolution to
remain in his seat, whatever happened, until
something happened which caused even him to
spring up and rush out of the car. The train had
run on to Lake Point, where the conductor, pass-
ing through, announced that passengers for Salt
Lake City must take another set of cars, standing
on an adjacent track.
A distance of only two or three rods intervened
between the two trains; but the wet grass and
bushes, bowing to the storm, caused the Duke,
after he had reached the platform of his car, to
recoil in dismay, and look at his precious boots.
There was no time to hesitate, however; if he
wished to get a seat in the returning train, the
plunge must be made, and made at once. With
his umbrella spread, taking long strides, and step-
ping high, he crossed from one car to another,
and succeeded in getting a place as good as the
one he had left. But his boots !
The newly made-up train, after many hitches
and delays, moved slowly back to Garfield, where
there was a final rush for the few places left in the
close car, and for the long string of open cars
which were the last to be filled. The boys were
fortunate enough to get into the same car with
their tutor, but again they had to stand, which
they did without complaint, resolutely declining
his repeated offers to them of his seat. They
were very jolly, as healthy and good-tempered
boys have the gift of being under adverse circum-
stances; and while their teeth almost chattered
with the cold, they assured His Grace that they
were having a splendid time."
It took the heavily laden train a long time to
start, the driving-wheels of the two engines whirl-
ing on the wet and slippery rails. Night had
closed in, when at last it moved; and the boys
took their last look at the plunging steamer and
the two solitary men standing on the stern, in the
rain and tempest and gloom.
For some time longer they could see the white


breakers, through the darkness and storm; and
Roland, nudging his cousin, remarked:
Rather lively for a dead sea, is n't it? "
And again Dean quoted the misleading guide-
It sleeps forever No waves dance over it, no
surf ever breaks the stillness-' and I suppose no
rain ever falls here either! he added, stepping
aside to avoid the drip from a leak in the roof of
the car.
The night ride back to the city was exceedingly
dismal. The little rickety, narrow-gauge car was
dimly lighted, the hurricane howled about it and
drove into it, the rain fell upon it in torrents and
beat in at every crevice. The Duke spread his
umbrella to protect himself from a leak directly
over his head; and others, who were lucky enough
to have umbrellas, followed his example. Clouds
buried the mountains, and the darkness outside
the car windows became intense.
It was half-past nine when the train approached
the city, and to the great joy of the chilled, weary,
and hungry boys, came to a stop. They supposed
it had reached the station, and were not pleased
to learn that it had stopped on an up-grade two
blocks away, from the utter failure of the engines
to haul it farther. Five, ten minutes elapsed, and
no progress was made, the locomotives puffing and
jerking in vain. The rain was still pouring, and
the streets were but dimly lighted by far-away
lamps. Suddenly Dean exclaimed:
"Only two blocks away I am going to walk to
the station."
The tutor remonstrated in vain; any adventure
seemed better to the boys than standing there on
their weary feet, in their damp clothes.. Roland
followed Dean, and stepping from the car went
with a splash into a pool of water that covered the
ground beside the track.
A brisk run through wind and rain and mud and
water brought them to the station, where long lines
of coaches, horse-cars, and omnibuses were wait-
ing. Into one of these last the boys threw them-

selves, along with a number of other dripping
excursionists.; and, the vehicle being nearly full,
called upon the conductor to start.
But he said he couldn't start until the train
arrived ; and now the boys seemed worse off than
if they had remained in the car. There was no
knowing how long they would have to wait. They
were already about as wet as they could be; but
the run had warmed them, and a longer run might
warm them still more.
"Come on!" cried Dean. And once more
leaping.out into the storm and flood, they started
for the hotel.
They were the first of the excursionists to reach
it. All in a glow from their exercise, they hurried
to their rooms, put on dry clothes and slippers,
and walked comfortably and cheerfully down into
the dining-room, just as the coaches and omni-
buses began to arrive.
It was twenty minutes later when His Grace the
Duke walked into the hotel, almost as wet as the
boys had been, notwithstanding his overcoat and
umbrella. He had been one of the last to leave
his place in the car, and when he did so, not a seat
in coach, horse-car or omnibus was to be had; and
he had been obliged to walk through the flooded
streets in those boots !
The next day the boys saw the Captain at the
hotel; and walking up to him with a polite I
beg your pardon, Captain Dean inquired what
became of the two men on the little storm-tossed
They staid there all night," replied the Cap-
tain; "and I was one of those who remained to
encourage them by keeping lights burning on the
shore. Fortunately for them, the storm lulled, but
the lake continued so rough that we could n't get
to them in a boat and take them off before, this
morning. They were more dead than alive."
"And, Captain," said Roland, "allow me to
ask you how you like Salt Lake to swim in? "
With a grim smile the Captain turned and
walked away.


VERY soon the candy slips
In between your open lips -
Let sweet thoughts into your mind
Just such ready entrance find.


7 I -7-7

'- : .l rt : ._IL .- % 4

lI, THE baby grasps at the empty air,
And sees a wonderful sight;
For the great old sideboard over there
Is shining with silver bright.

The grandfather dangles his watch of gold,
And she hears the wheels go click,
And she tries in her pincushion hands to hold
That "bull's-eye round and thick.

They are wonderful things that the baby sees;
But, when she is tired of all,

And they wrap her up from the evening breeze,
When the shadows begin to fall,

She is tired of the noisy and busy world,
Too tired to go to sleep,
And she won't sit up, and she won't stay curled,
And she only wakes to weep;

And she 's suddenly caught in a tender hold
Where she even forgets to stir-
And what to baby are silver and gold,
When her mother smiles down at her?

*~~~ '54 b iift

0.. :-

A .*7

M_ v


VOL. XV.-9.



-WAS in the year 1635. that all the Puritan matrons wore, and hurried
On a November aft- over the hill, as fast as the drifting snow would
ernoon Mrs. Rachel permit, to the house of her nearest neighbor,
Olcott was spinning Master John Hawley.
Sflax in the cheerful As she drew the latch and walked in with im-
kitchen of a small petuous haste, up sprung John Hawley and stalked
house not far from to the corner, where, ever ready, stood his trusty
Plymouth Rock, in musket.
Massachusetts. East- "Indians, Rachel? shrieked Mrs. Hawley,
ward from the house, the ocean broke with a sullen springing to drop the curtain that hung above the
roar on the rocks of the coast below; northward one window of the room.
lay the few homes of the few Pilgrims who were "Put up your musket, friend," gasped Mrs.
Mrs. Olcott's neighbors. Olcott. It is myboys who are in danger. They
Captain Olcott's ship had sailed from Boston went to the mill with grist. Lucy is with them.
for England, in the year 1632, and had not been Oh, save them she pleaded.
heard from. They're young and tough; they 'll weather it
The little band of Pilgrims had ceased to look through, and be home by supper-time," said John
for news from the captain or his ship. Hawley, the stanch Puritan, dropping his musket
Mrs. Olcott kept up a brave heart and a cheer- to its corner. I 'll step over after supper and see.
ful face for the sake of her four children, Robert, Go home, and don't worry."
Rupert, Lucy, and poor, crippled little Roger; To him, nothingless than Indians seemed worth
but this November afternoon anxiety filled her a moment's uneasiness.
heart. Day by day her little store of provisions When he turned, Rachel Olcott was gone, and
had lessened under the stress of hunger until even his wife was at the door, watching the red cloak
the corn-meal had vanished, and it became neces- as its wearer urged it through the snow.
sary to send corn to be ground at the only mill in "A woman has no business to look as she does,"
all that region. Early in the day, Robert and exclaimed Mrs. Hawley, closing the door.
Rupert with their sister Lucy had been sent to She 's had trouble enough in Plymouth, good-
the miller's, for it was well understood that each ness knows !-her husband lost, and that crippled
comer must await his turn at the mill. This grind- child to care for night and day, those boys to bring
ing in those early days was slow work, and much up, and hardly enough money to keep soul and
of the day had passed before Mrs. Olcott expected body together. And there she goes this minute
them to return. with a face like a sweet-brier rose"; and John
But when the sky grew dark and the snow began Hawley demanded his supper at once.
to fall, the loving mother grew anxious. She drew He had it, his wife looking as stern as any Puri-
the great arm-chair, in the cushioned depths of tan of them all, as he put on his greatcoat and went
which poor, pale-faced little Roger lay curled, far out, saying:
into the fireplace; and then, when anxiety grew to "If those youngsters have come home, I 'll be
fear, she threw over her head the hooded red cloak right back."


But he was not "right back." Midnight came
down on all the Atlantic coast, and he had not
The supper for the young Olcotts was baked at
the hearth, and set back to await their coming.
The blazing logs filled the long, low kitchen with
light. There was no need of a candle, as the
mother sat, to sing her poor boy to sleep. But
Roger could not sleep.
"Tell me ...-.:,l-;.' more about England,

to sleep, while I tell you something about Christ-
mas the way we used to keep it- before Mamma
was a Puritan, you know."
Then she told the boy of old-time customs in
her native land; of her father's house, and the
great rejoicings that came at Christmas-time, and
lastly, with a vague feeling of regret in her heart,
she came to the story of the great green bough
that was lighted with tapers and hung with gifts
for the good children.


Mother," he pleaded, again and again. It keeps
me from thinking of Lucy and the boys, when you
The firelight illumined the white face and made
the blue eyes of the boy more pitiful tharf ever in
their plaintive asking that night.
The mother's thoughts and her heart were out in
the snowdrifts searching with her neighbors for her
bright, rosy darlings, but her words and her hands
were ministering to this child, bereft of almost
everything belonging to the outside world of work
and endeavor.
Well, then, Roger, shut your eyes and try to go

"What made you be a Puritan, Mother? Why
did n't you stay at home," asked Roger.
"Don't ask me, my boy," she said, touching
the shining face with a kiss. Remember that
heaven is a much finer place than England."
"Do they have any Christmas-boughs there,
Something better than boughs, my boy "
Mother, I'd like it, if God would let me, to
go to heaven around by the way of dear England,
so that I could see a Christmas-bough just for once
before I die."
At that moment the door was-thrust in, and the


boys, Robert and Rupert, clad in snow, entered
the room. The mother, dropping Roger's mite of
a hand, sprung to meet them with untold gladness
in her eyes, that still looked beyond them in search
of something more.
Lucy's all right, Mother!" cried Robert. "If it
had n't been for Mr. Hawley, though, and Richard
Cooper, and the rest, we'd have had a night of it
in the old cedar-tree. We could n't get a bit far-
ther with the meal and Lucy; so we scooped out
the snow in the big hollow, put Lucy in first, when
we had made sure there was n't a fox or any thing
inside; crawled in ourselves, with a big stick apiece
to keep off enemies, and were getting very hungry
and sleepy, when a light flashed in our eyes."
"But where is Lucy? interrupted Mrs. Olcott.
Oh, they are bringing her And Mother, Mr.
Hawley has been scolding us half the way home
for going to mill on such a day. And we never
told him that we had n't meal enough in the house
to last till to-morrow. We took it brave."
That's right, my good boys; but how did they
find you? Mrs. Olcott demanded.
They did n't; we found them," cried Rupert.
They had a lantern, and we saw it; and then we
made a dash after the light, and brought them
back to the hollow. When they drew Lucy out,
she was fast asleep, and as warm as toast, 'cause
Robert gave her his jacket, and I tied my muffler
on her, too."
And she 's fast asleep this minute, I do be-
lieve added Robert, as two vigorous young men
entered,--one drawing the sled-load of meal and
the other bearing Lucy in his arms.
From that night in November little Roger grew
more and more away from the bleak New England
life. It was evident to every one who saw the
lad that he was going to the Shining Shore,-al-
though the little Puritan boy had never heard
much of its being a shining shore,--and I think
that was the reason he fell to thinking so much of
the beautiful Christmas-bough. He talked of it
when awake, he dreamed of it when he slept; and
he told his dreams and said, with tears on his
cheeks, how sorry he was to awake and find that
he had n't seen it after all- and, oh, he wanted
to so much !
The time of Christmas in that far, far-away year
drew near, and in all the land there was not a
Christmas-bell, a Christmas-tree, nor even a
Beautiful Mrs. Olcott felt that her little Roger
was getting very near to the heavenly land. A
physician from Boston had come down, and told
her that the lad must die. This bright little
mother wished, oh, so much! to make her child.
happy, and his little heart was set on seeing a

Christmas-bough before he died. She could not
withstand his wishes, and she said to herself, If
I am punished for it as long as I live, Roger shall
see a Christmas-bough." So she took her boys,
Robert and Rupert, and little Lucy, outside the
house one day, just a week before Christmas, and
told them what she was going to do.
"O Mother! exclaimed Robert, the eldest son.
"They '11 persecute you to death; they '11 drive us
into the wilderness; we shall lose our home and
Remember, boys, your mother has been into
the wilderness once, and she is n't afraid of that.
We shall have the Christmas-bough! I am going
up to Boston to-morrow, if the day is fine, and I '11
fetch back some nice little trinkets for poor Roger.
May be a ship has come in lately; one is expected."
On the morrow, clad in the scarlet cloak, Mrs.
Olcott set forth for Boston. She had not been
there since the day she went up to see the ship
sail, with her husband on it-the ship that never
had been heard from. But that was more than
three years before, and it was in going home from
Boston that Roger had been so hurt and maimed
that his little life was spoiled.
Great was the astonishment in Plymouth when
it was learned that the Widow Olcott had gone to
Boston. Why had she to go to Boston? She had
no folk living there to go to see; and what had
she been buying, they wondered, when she came
back. Mrs. Hawley went down the hill that same
day to make inquiry, and found out very little.
As soon as Mrs. Olcott was well rid of Mrs.
Hawley, she called her boys, and bade them go
to the pine-woods and get the finest, handsomest
young hemlock-tree that they could find.
"Get one that is straight and tall, with well-
boughed branches on it, and put it where you can
draw it under the wood-shed, after dark," she
The boys went to Pine Hill, and there they
picked out the finest young tree on all the hill,
and said, We will take this one." So, with their
hatchets they hewed it down and brought it safely
home the next night when all was dark. And
when Roger was quietly sleeping in the adjoining
room, they dragged the tree into the kitchen. It
was too tall, so they took it out again and cut off
two or three feet at the base. Then they propped
it up, and the curtains being down over the win-
dows, and blankets being fastened over the curtains
to prevent any one looking in, and the door being
doubly barred to prevent any one coming in, they
all went to bed.
Very early the next morning, while the stars
shone on the snow-covered hills,- the same stars
that shone sixteen hundred years before on the hills


when Christ was born in Bethlehem,-the little
Puritan mother in New England arose very softly.
She went out and lit the kitchen fire anew from the
ash-covered embers. She fastened upon the twigs
of the tree the gifts she had bought in Boston for
her boys and girl. Then she took as many as
twenty pieces of candle and fixed them upon the
branches. After that, she softly called Rupert,
Robert, and Lucy, and told them to get up and
dress and come into the kitchen.
Hurrying back, she began, with a bit of a burn-
ing stick, to light the candles. Just as the last one
was set aflame, in trooped the three children.


"0 Mother! he cried. "0 Lucy! Is it really,
really true, and no dream at all? Yes, I see! I
see 0 Mother it is so beautiful! Were all the
trees on all the hills lighted up that way when
Christ was born ? And, Mother," he added, clap-
ping his little hands with joy at the thought,
" why yes, the stars did sing when Christ was
born They must be glad, then, and keep Christ-
mas, too, in Heaven. I know they must, and there
will be good times there."
"Yes," said his mother; "there will be good
times there, Roger."
"Then," said the boy, I shan't mind going,


Before they had time to say a word, they were
silenced by their mother's warning.
"I wish to fetch Roger in and wake him up
before it," she said. "Keep still until I come
back !"
The little lad, fast asleep, was lifted in a blanket
and gently carried by his mother into the beautiful
See! Roger, my boy, see! she said, arousing
him. "It is Christmas morning now! In Eng-
land they only have Christmas-boughs, but here
in New England we have a whole Christmas-tree."

now that I 've seen the Christmas-bough. I -
What is that, Mother? "
What was it that they heard? The little Olcott
home had never before seemed to tremble so.
There were taps at the window, there were knocks
at the door-and it was as yet scarcely the break
of day There were voices also, shouting some-
thing to somebody.
Shall I put out the candles, Mother ? whis-
pered Robert.
What will they do to us for having the tree?
I wish we had n't it," regretted Rupert; while Lucy


clung to her mother's gown and shrieked with all
her strength, It's Indians "
Pale and white and still, ready to meet her fate,
stood Mrs. Olcott, until, out of the knocking and
the tapping at her door, her heart caught a
sound. It was a voice calling, "Rachel! Rachel!
Rachel! "
Unbar the door! she cried back to her boys;
"It's your father calling!" Down came the blank-
ets; up went the curtain; open flew the door, and
in walked Captain Olcott, followed by every man
and woman in Plymouth who had heard at break
of day the glorious news that the expected ship
had arrived at Boston, and with it the long-lost
Captain Olcott. For an instant nothing was
thought of except the joyous welcoming of the
captain in his own home.
"What 's this? What is it? What does this
mean? was asked again and again, when the first
excitement was past, as the tall young pine stood
aloft, its candles ablaze, its gifts still hanging.
It's welcome home to Father! said Lucy, her
only thought to screen her mother.
"No, child, no!" sternly spoke Mrs. Olcott.
Tell the truth !"
"It 's-a-Christmas-tree!" faltered poor Lucy.
One and another and another, Pilgrims and
Puritans all, drew near with faces stern and for-
bidding, and gazed and gazed, until one and
another and yet another softened slowly into a
smile as little Roger's piping voice sung out:
She made it for me, Mother did. But you
may have it now, and all the pretty things that
are on it, too, because you 've brought my father
back again; if Mother will let you," he added.

Neither Pilgrim nor Puritan frowned at the gift.
One man, the sternest there, broke off a little twig
and said:
I '11 take it for the sake of the good old times
at home."
Then every one wanted to take a bit for the same
sweet sake, until the young pine was bereft of half
its branches. But still it stood, like a hero at his
post, candles burning and gifts hanging, "until all
but the little household had departed; and even
then, the last candle was permitted to burn low
and flicker out before a gift was distributed, so
glad were the Olcotts in the presence of the one
great gift of that Christmas morn; so eager were
they to be told every bit of the story, the wonder-
ful story, of their father's long, long voyage in a
poor, little, storm-beaten and disabled ship which,
at last, he had been able to guide safely into port.
His return voyage had been made in the very ship
that Mrs. Olcott had hoped would arrive in time
for her Christmas-tree.
That morning brought to Roger something bet-
ter than Chrismas-trees, better, if such a thing
were possible, than the home-coming of the hero-
captain-renewed life. It may have been the
glad surprise, the sudden awaking in the bright
presence of a real, live Christmas-tree; it may
have been the shock of joy that followed the
knocking and the shouts at door and window, or
the more generous living that came into the little
house near Plymouth. Certain it was, that Roger
began to mend in many ways, to grow satisfied
with bleak New England wind and weather, and
to rejoice the heart of all the Olcotts by his glad
presence with them.



TTENTION, good people! A baby I'm selling.
His folks are all tired of his crowing and yelling.
If a price that's at all within reason you '11 pay,
You may have the young rascal, and take him away.
The Mountains have bid every gem in their store;
The Ocean has bid every pearl on its floor;
By the Land we are offered ten million of sheep,-
But we have no intention of selling so cheap!
Compared with his value our price is not high -
How much for a baby? what offer? who '11 buy?



LET me tell the readers of ST. NICHOLAS what
I may recall of a trip into the sky, last summer,
on board the big New-York World air-ship.
There were four of us.
Alfred E. Moore, of Winsted, Conn., wh\ built
the balloon, had charge of it during our voyage;
John G. Doughty, a photographer, also of Wins\ed,
took views of the earth and the clouds. Prof.
H. Alien Hazen, of the United States Signal Ser-
vice Station at Washington, made records of
moisture and temperature, and other phenomena
of the upper regions, which have most value to those
who study that special branch of science. I was
one of the party simply as a reporter. The World
balloon was the fruit of a plan whereby it was hoped
to attain two objects. One was to enable the Gov-
ernment Signal Service to obtain certain facts about
the upper currents of air which might be of value
to the Weather Bureau. The other object was
to excel the greatest balloon voyage ever made.
Prof. John Wise, a world-famed aeronaut, sailed
through the air in July, 1859, from St. Louis, Mo.,
to Henderson, Jefferson County, N. Y.-a distance
in a straight line of 835 miles. He laid claim to
o150 miles, by reason of the many turns taken
during the trip, which took his balloon out of a
direct course intq circles and curves. This voyage
is the longest recorded in balloon history.
The balloon was in the air over night- a period
of about twenty hours. Prof. Wise tried more than
once, but without success, to equal or exceed the
famous trip mentioned. Finally, a few years ago,
he left St. Louis in a balloon on a long trip, for
the last time. He has never been heard from. A

reporter who went with him was found dead some
weeks later on the shore of Lake Michigan. By rea-
son of this and other disasters, the suggestion of a
long air-voyage gives rise in the public mind to a
keen sense of the perils which attend every attempt
to stay in the sky over night.
It is only about one hundred and four years since
balloons were first thought of, or first used to convey
man into the upper air. But I can not here spare
the space wherein to speak of any air-ship other
than that which is the topic of this paper.
Now, let me, if I can, give you an idea of the
shape and great size of the World balloon.
Fancy, if you please, a ripe Bartlett pear which
exceeds the usual size millions of times ; think of
it floating in the air, stem down, with its top 124
feet high and its bulb 65 feet wide. Or, imagine a
giant plum-pudding rising into the air higher than
many a church-steeple, and occupying as great
a space as does a large city store or a country
hotel. Then you may have a fair notion of the
size of our great air-ship. Mr. Moore, who built
it, had made nearly a dozen air-trips, and was able,
from a special study of the science of ballooning,
to draw exact plans for the weight to be borne,
which was, in all, more than two tons. In order
to exceed Prof. Wise's record, our balloon would
need to stay in the air longer than a day and
a night, or nearly thirty hours. Prof. Wise, by
chance, rose into a rapid current of air, which took
his balloon feather-like along at the rate of a mile
a minute. But the usual speed of balloons is
less than thirty miles an hour, except when they
happen to be caught in a strong gale.


As early as November, 1886, Mr. Moore began
work upon his plans. Fine white muslin, a yard
wide, and in a strip a mile and a quarter long, or
about twenty-two hundred yards, was used to make
the gas-bag. This cloth alone was half a ton or
more in weight.
Over it, on both sides, were spread four coats of
varnish of a special kind,-in all, about three full
barrels. This varnish was used to fill up the pores
of the cloth, through which the gas would other-
wise escape into the air. The big net which
covered the vast bulb was made from a fine quality
of shoe-thread.

the gas-dome was fastened to a large hickory hoop
which hung above the car, so near that the voy-
agers' hands might grasp it. To this hoop were
fixed the cords which held the car.
Set into the top of the balloon was a valve, two
and a half feet across the center. The cord from
this hung down the inside of the bag, and through
the open neck into the car, so that our captain
might open the valve when he wished to descend.
Another rope, called the rip-cord, was also at hand.
This, with a strong pull, would tear the gas-bag'
from top to bottom almost in an instant, and would
bring the balloon to the ground in a jiffy. But


Of this, four hundred pounds were used.
Next the car was made.
Most balloons have baskets of willow, wherein
to carry voyagers and ballast. But ours was a
strong, large car, made of matched pine and water-
tight. It was nine feet long, six feet wide, and a
trifle more than four feet deep. On each side was
a cushioned seat; and on the bottom of the car
lay a rug. This car was hung from the balloon
by thirty slender cords,--each about as thick as a
lead pencil. To the eye these were far too slight
to be safe; yet they were very strong, and in a test
each cord had held up a greater weight than would
ever again be fixed to it. The net which covered

this was only as a last resort, to be used when about
to come down in water, or in a storm.
Now, let us consider the weight:
As I have said, the strength of the balloon was
made equal to three tons. The gas-bag, and its
ropes, and the car,- in short, the whole air-ship,-
when ready, made up a ton in weight of itself. Its
four passengers weighed about 600 pounds; there
were 200 pounds of provisions, and fully three-
quarters of a ton of paper and sand; also camera
and plate cases, and other traps,-making a total
weight of two and a quarter tons! Now, I hope
you have a nearly correct idea of the size and
power of the big World balloon, which, by the



- 'A. lIjl.. B
-. _ ,


way, was next to the largest, if it was not actually
the largest, air-ship ever made. After several
delays, we made a start from Sportsman's Park, St.
Louis, at 4:28 P. M., on the I7th of June, 1887.
The date first set was the Iith of June, but it was
thought best to wait for a strong air-current from
the west which might waft us to the Atlantic coast
or some part of New England or Canada. Prior

to the 17th, the wind had been from east to west,
or from south to north. The latter course would
have taken us to Lake Michigan or Lake Superior.
This would have rendered the chance of the suc-
cess of our trip very slight; and would have added
thereto the extreme peril of our being blown about
at night like a mere straw over one of those vast
bodies of water.



You may wonder why St. Louis was chosen as
the point from which to make a start. All of the
great long-distance balloon trips attempted in this
country have been begun at that place. And the
reason is that St. Louis, besides having an ample
gas supply, stands nearly in the center of our
vast country. Going from that city, the aeronaut
may be sure of plenty of land-room, let the wind
bear him where it may. He may sail for hundreds
of miles, at least, before he comes to any great
sheet of water.
There is no need for me to describe to you all
that took place before our flight from St. Louis.
The big balloon lay in Armory Hall in that city
for more than a week, half filled with air, which
was forced in by a hand-pump. During these
days it was, you may be sure, the chief object of
interest to many mixed crowds of sight-seers. As
the time drew near for the great trip, the public
pulse ran high. A little before midnight of June
16, the balloon, which had been taken to the
Park, was made ready for filling. The gas was
let in; and for about sixteen hours the neck of the
bag was kept on the supply-pipe.
At about 7 A. M. on the 17th, a stiff breeze
sprang up, which some hours later was a source
of serious trouble to those in charge of the balloon.
At I P. M., the hour set for sailing, the huge yellow
cloth dome was less than three-quarters full.
It inflated slowly.
In the strong wind, it now and then tore away,
as if about to fly to cloud-land without its crew.
It was a constant menace to the nervous ladies
present; even men of stout heart did not repress a
shudder as they thought of the perils of a trip
among the clouds, at the mercy of so ugly and
restive an ogre. Pitch and roll and twist and
sway and tug; this it did all through the day. To
the netting were fixed a hundred bags of sand,-
some of them more than eighty pounds in weight.
And added thereto were hundreds of stout men;
yet the gusty wind caught our giant under the
arms, as it were, and despite all the weight he
bore, jerked him off his feet. The bags swung
in the air like mere tassels; and the men were
often brought upon tip-toe, as they grimly held
on. At last the gas was shut off; the car was
hitched on. The car had been made ready for its
voyage, and was fairly full of the ballast and the
various other things to be taken by the voyagers.
I had on board big envelopes wherewith to drop
dispatches from the sky ; also twelve carrier-
pigeons to bear messages to their homes during our
flight above the clouds. I had also put on board
my winter overcoat; but my comrades had donned
instead some extra under-flannels to protect them
from the chill air of the upper regions.

Now, behold us, ready for the start!
It is 4 P. M.
Crowds and crowds of people are present.
The seats of the large grand-stand fairly groan
under their overweight of eager sight-seers-all
in gay attire. Despite the stiff breeze, which is
almost a gale, the sun beams with fervor, and the
mercury stands at 960 in the shade.
Soon the giant ship rises,-up, up, a foot at a
time; the sand-bags which held it to the earth
drop away; one here, and one there; in their places
hundreds of men stand and strain and tug at the
monster bag which turns and twists above them.
The west wind comes in fitful gusts around the grand-
stand, and slyly strikes our ship with such vigor that
for an instant it lays over almost to the grass-plat,
like a boat's sail thrown upon the waves in a fierce
squall. Then it rights again, and once more
towers aloft and erect more than a hundred feet.
Now Moore directs the work; he orders the voya-
gers aboard the car. The men who hold the guy-
ropes walk in toward the balloon a foot at a time,
and the circle grows smaller. Up, up stretches
the huge dome; higher and higher it ascends, till
at last all hands let go, and every cord is drawn
But we do not stir.
There is more sand aboard than the balloon can
lift. And so Doughty puts out one bag, then two,
then three.
The car begins to quiver.
Out goes the fourth bag; a crowd of men hold
the car, with all their strength, until they get the
word from Moore. They hold the car to the turf,
and drag us by dint of severe labor back into the
center of the park. Here, just as Moore is about
to give the word, a seventy-pound sand-bag slips
over the edge of the car ; its sharp hook catches
the middle finger of Moore's right hand, and lays
it open to the bone, and severs an artery.
It is an ugly wound.
But a doctor quickly binds a wet handkerchief
about the cut finger, and once again Moore, our
captain, bends his thoughts to the work at hand.
The last bag is set upon the edge of the car. Over
it goes.
Now! Let go!"
As Moore shouts this, the men release the car.
Like a huge bird, our ship, at 4.28 P. M., rises from
the ground,- so quickly, indeed, that amid the
tumult about us, I do not clearly recall the exact
As we clear the park fence our ship dips before
the strong wind.
There is, for the instant, extreme peril.
Moore shouts, Throw out sand! Quick "
Hazen and Doughty, each dumps over what he




may. Our ship at once rights itself; the car springs
under the gas-bag, and the : ..i.*qp of some trees
brush its sides as we J;.i.- ...-.:! them. We clear
a brick house by a .. !.-.(- only, then sail away
toward the blue vault overhead.
The park begins to sink away beneath us. We
have no sense of going up-no, not at all.
All things else go down, down.
The crowds as they cheer, and swing their hats,
and wave handkerchiefs and parasols -'it is they
who fall away below us, and fast fade into a mass

of tiny specks of life and color, until ere long the
whole city is but a spot upon the wide view of the
This is my first flight.
Moore has been aloft nearly a dozen times,
Doughty twice, and Hazen once. My head begins
to pain me; my ears ring, and my thoughts grow
as thick as in a trip through a boiler-shop or other
noisy place. I stand and gaze over the edge of
the car at the unique picture below, which slowly
changes its forms and tints. The big smoky city

___ I__IC___ ___


-fN '' = ~ -. .... -

.- ---- --- z --: ._x_ ', '' -


of St. Louis lies there like a set of toy houses,
with tiny strings for streets, in the shade of
trees that seem mere weeds from where we gaze
at them. On all sides is a flat mass of earth and
tree. We are half a mile high, and fast rising.
Slowly the car turns, and thereby tends to con-
fuse our sense of place. Now the city lies on our
left,- the great Mississippi on our right. A minute
later, town and stream have shifted sides. Now
Doughty, aided by me, runs over the edge of the
car the long drag-r'ope, which hangs, hundreds of
feet below us, not unlike a straw or thread from a
robin's nest. We approach the great, broad, murky
stream that flows from north to south through our
country into the Gulf of Mexico. You know of it
as "The Father of Waters." It is now in full
view for many miles- its dark, sinuous surface
dotted with busy tugs and steamers. We soon
come to it; now we move across it; now we leave
it to the rear.
A mile and a half high and still going up.
Hazen is busy with his records; and Doughty,
with seventy-five photographic plates on board,
holds his camera in hand, and turns it -first
upon the earth, then upon the white clouds that,
like a mass of snow, lie off to the east. With pad
and pencil in hand I rapidly jot down what I may
about our voyage, hoping to send my messages
by the pigeons, which under a seat near by rustle
uneasily in their cages.
I glance up.
Moore sits in his corner, a mere heap his face
a waxy white, his lips blue, his eyes half shut.

We hastily give him some brandy and water; this
revives him a little. His wound has made him
faint. We get him into my overcoat; for the air
is now quite thin and cool. Our ship, with no
captain to guide it, goes softly on its way -higher
and higher, the earth seems bigger and bigger, as
the circular line it makes with the sky grows larger
and larger. With two and a quarter tons' weight,
still our bird mounts rapidly upward,-now two
miles, now two and a half. We sail far above the
fields of yellow wheat and dark green corn of Illi-
nois. Rivers are mere white threads ; and lakes
are patches of silver set into a carpet of many hues.
The forest trees are bushes, that look as if a small
scythe might easily mow them down. The thin
air and our rapid upward flight make my head
roar, as if with the sounds of noisy drums; I feel
dizzy- like one about to faint away.
Now we are 15,000 feet high-nearly three miles.
Our ship has not yet come to the extreme top
of her flight. We are far above the clouds. Over
the edges of the thick white vapor we gaze at the
earth, spread out below like a map, with green
and gray, and brown and yellow spots thereon.
From the discomforts of ninety-six degrees of heat
in the shade when we left the earth, we have come
to the chilly comfort of thirty-seven a drop of
nearly sixty degrees in less than an hour. This is a
quick turn one that never comes to man or beast
below. Yet up here, where we are sailing softly,
the air is so dry that the cold affects us much less
than would the same temperature on the earth's


Now we are 15,840 feet high.
At last we are more than three miles above the
great ball of dried mud which rolls below, from
west to east, for days, and years, and ages. Over
head the huge pear-shaped bag stands erect; its
neck and mouth wide open, through which the
gas escapes into the car, where it assails our nos-
trils with its vile odor.
Very soon our ship touches nearly 16,ooo feet,
a point which is said to be above that ever made
by any other balloon this side of Europe. 0
Then we come to a pause. An instant later
the balloon begins to descend at the rate of fifteen
feet per second, which is only one foot less than
the distance a heavy stone falls the first second.
A few seconds more, and our ship drops so fast
that the car seems to fall away from us.
Moore, sick and faint though he is, springs to
his feet.
Over with ballast, boys Quick "
Doughty drops his camera and Hazen his in-
struments; each dumps over the sand as he grabs
it-bag and all. But the sand shoots up instead
of down; it hits the bag above, then settles like a

I ]

our fall.

Down, own we go! We are in extreme peril.

We all but tumble through the air.

ward us up, up it comes; the fields and woods
above us with a speed which shows how rapid is
our fall.
Down, down we go We are in extreme peril.
We all but tumble through the air.
I gaze over the car. The earth seems to fly to-
ward us up, up it comes; the fields and woods

grow large, and hamlets and cities spring into
sight on every hand. At last, after nearly a quarter
of a ton of weight is thrown out, our rate of descent
slows a little; a third of our drag-rope trails among
the tall forest trees, and we are distant from the
earth but 400 feet And now our balloon comes at
last to a pause, and we are safe! It goes up again
lazily, a mile high; then descends to less than
half a mile, and rises again above 6000 feet -
falling always as the gas escapes, and rising as a
part of the weight is thrown over the side of the
car. Moore shouts to a farm-hand at work in a
field with horse and plow, when we are half a
mile up :
How-far-are-we-from-St.-Louis? "
The reply faintly rises at last to where we are:
"Twenty-five miles "
We now see that our trip must come to an end
before dark. We have been but an hour upon the
wing. Our gas has spent its strength, our sand has
almost run out. We dare not, if we may, stay in
the sky at night and run the risk of death among
the giant forest trees. And so while the sun is
yet more than an hour high, Moore casts out
the anchor, or grapnel; with its four sharp prongs
of bright steel, it truly has an ugly, hungry look.
As we come to a wide stretch of open prairie
land, our ship, left to itself, slyly sinks lower and
lower, and nearer and nearer, to the bright green
and yellow fields, over which we float as gently as
a piece of thistle-down. About this time I let fly
two pigeons with notes of tissue-paper tied to their
legs, and also cast over a big envelope with a heavy
buckshot inside to quicken its fall.
Before long we come so close to the earth that
all objects thereon take on their true shape. We
perceive farmers at labor in the fields of golden
wheat; we catch the hoarse shouts of men, and
the sharp treble voices of excited boys who watch
us now with open mouth and eager eyes. We are
yet half a mile from earth; but each mile we pass
brings us lower down. Now we are down to two
thousand feet; now down to less than the half of
that. By and by, the end of the long cable, or
drag-rope, touches the ground at intervals as we
gently float along at fifteen miles an hour. Now
it trails a few feet, then fifty, then a hundred. At
last half of it, like a huge reptile, crawls over
meadow, and fence, and field of corn and wheat.
It leaves behind, to mark its swift course, a deep
crease, two inches wide in soil and grain.
Now look out !
The sharp anchor catches hold for the first time.
With its greedy prongs it grips the turf, lets go,
bounds twenty feet in the air, and lands again;
it once more tries its teeth in the fresh ground.
Again the dirt flies, and the anchor bounds ahead


and takes another bite. Moore shouts: "Steady,
boys; here 's a stout fence and a stone wall."
The anchor comes to it and takes hold greedily.
For an instant only does it hold; it jerks our car
upon its end, so that water-keg, pigeons, food-
cans, and passengers tumble together in one corner.
But then away come twenty feet of the rail-fence,
and the stones scatter; and we sail on as before.
A house lies straight in our path As we come
to the little story and a half cottage, our anchor
bounds around a corner, grazes the pump in the
front yard, then springs at the fancy fence, and
comes away with its teeth full of palings. An
old man and woman who stand in the front door
stare at us, with terror in their eyes. They see
how close they were just now to death and ruin,
had their cozy home been pulled about their ears.

-U --
( I ' -~="a "'"

again. At last a German farmer's wife, as we sail
past her house, gives the long drag-rope a quick
turn about the trunk of a stout apple-tree in her
dooryard. This fetches us up with a vicious jerk,
and nearly spills us out of the car. Here, tied
fast to the tree, we are still two hours in coming to
the ground, although aided by a crowd of strong
active men.
Moore pulls the valve-cord.
As the gas escapes, the sides of the bag come
together, and form a big kite, which catches the
stiff breeze; then we sail aloft nearly over the
tree. Down settles the car to within fifty feet of
the corn-field under us; then the wind sends us
aloft again. Doughty seizes the rip-cord to split
the bag at the top, so that it may the faster lose
its power to ascend. With surprise he finds that
our balloon is already torn, and rips at the merest


Our anchor keeps to its work, and though it lets go,
as it snatches this thing and that, it yet lessens the
speed of our air-ship. For more than ten miles we
go on in this way. We are now but a few hundred
feet high, and our speed has lessened to eight
miles, or less, an hour. A dozen farm-hands chase
us for the last mile. They seize the anchor rope,
are lifted off their feet, but eagerly take hold

touch This is a clew to the strange and sud-
den loss of gas while on our way.
It is about 9:20 P. M. when we again set foot
upon the ground outside our car.
We find the place to be Hoffman, Illinois, fifty-
five miles east of St. Louis.
Next day the balloon is sent back to that city by
rail, and we plan to start again within a week.





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',""'" 7.

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But the severe injury to Moore's finger, and the
many repairs and changes which it is thought
best to make in the balloon, lead us to delay our
second trip until later in the season.
Expecting a long trip, we had taken food and
water for three days. We had chicken, corned
beef, beans, bread, crackers, hard-tack, sal-
mon, lobsters, pickles, salt, vinegar, mixed nuts,
oranges, and bananas. So you see that we were
not likely to starve, had we gone, as we thought we
might, into the deep wilds of Michigan or Canada.
We also had hooks and lines for fish, and a keen
ax, to aid us in the woods, or wherewith to chop
our way out of the wreck had we been cast away on
one of the great lakes. And we had an electric light
for use at night. Our plans had been well laid; and
had not Moore been hurt, or had not the balloon
been torn at the start, our voyage would perhaps
have been more to our liking.
A few final details may interest you.
The last and first sound to reach us, while we
were above a mile high, was the sharp shriek of a
locomotive. I saw one express train as we soared
above its tiny track; and it looked like a mere
toy train a few inches long, which did not
seem to move faster than a snail. Yet we knew

that it was on its way with all its usual speed -
thirty miles an hour at least.
During our voyage we ate and drank just as we
might have done at a picnic.
Truly, we lived "high." A luncheon above the
clouds was to me a very novel affair. I threw over
the peel of an orange. Down, straight down, it
shot, a flash of gold in the sun, a hundred feet-a
thousand feet a mile. Long before it struck the
earth, it had gone out of sight. But, before it
disappeared, it came to a point where it seemed
to stand still in mid-air.
I dropped a big World envelope.
It went down at first upon its edge; then
it began to turn, and now and again the sun's rays
caught it full upon its broad side. It became at
last as small as a postage-stamp, or the nail of
your thumb.
I wish I had the space to tell you more.
From my mind's eye our World balloon trip
will never fade. I may truly say that I then saw
more of the earth than I am likely to see until I go
aloft again. Within a few hours, more novel
sounds and scenes met my senses with surprise
and delight than in years of prosy life upon the



OH, the child a poet is !
Poet's pleasures too are his:
Would he had the art to tell
What he sees and hears so well,-
How the hills so love the sky
In its tender haze they lie;
How the sky so loves the streams,
Every pool has heavenly dreams.
He can guess what says the breeze,
Sighing, singing, through the trees;
What the sunbeam, what the rain,
Or the smoke's slow-mounting train;
All the meaning of the birds,
Which they will not put in words;
And the tree-toad's mystic trill
Heard from far at evening still;
And the beckoning ways and looks.
Of the flowers in dewy nooks -
Yes! and of the dewdrops fine,
In the early morning-shine !
He has friends where ye have none;
Fellows in a rush or stone;
Palace-royal in the clouds,
Sunset barge with sails and shrouds.
Oh, the child a poet is,
Though unskilled in harmonies;
Would he had the art to tell
What he hears and sees so well,


Ere his senses, grown less keen,
Say they have not heard nor seen.
(Let him not too quickly lose
These rare pleasures, gracious Muse.)

Now the poet is a child,
Whom the years have not beguiled
To forget the magic lore
That is childhood's careless store.

Oh, the poet is a child!
And he loves the new and wild;
But the old to him is new,
And what seems but tame to you
He with kind delight can see
Laugh in its sweet liberty !
He is foiled and cheated never,-
Poet's truth is truth forever !

Though his song you may not heed,
Though his rhyme you will not read,
Song and rhyme true records hold
Of your morning age of gold.
What you saw in that fair time,
Wild, or lovely, or sublime
In the mountains, groves, or streams,
Clear upon his vision gleams.
What you heard of strange report
Throughout Nature's fields and court,
Told of man or dreamt of God,
Still he hears spread all abroad.

If you do not see and hear,
'T is for time-worn eye and ear:
Child and poet shall not sever -
Poet's truth is truth forever!

VOL. XV.- 10.



A COL, December day,
five years ago, marks the
beginning of the story I
am asked to write. It was
Sunday morning, just two
S weeks and a day before
Christmas. The wintry
windwas scudding through
the streets of Portland, Maine,
whistling andwhirling the snow
before it as it went. A lady sat
in her pleasant room thinking
of the cheerless houses of the
poor, of pale women and weak
Smen and delicate little ones,
without food, without fire, with-
out clothing. She thought of
Christmas and the homes of the rich,
of stockings distending with their loads, of fair faces
rosy with delight, of turkeys and plum puddings, and
mistletoe boughs and holly, and blazing logs and
ringinglaughter. And as she thought of these happy
things her heart went out in pity to those hungry
little faces and shivering little frames, to whom
Christmas was but a day of want and misery -and
Santa Claus unknown. And then a noble impulse
seized her: "Oh they must, they shall know San-
ta Claus! Christmas shall be to them a day of
gladness !" But it was more easily said than done.
Alone she could do but little. Hundreds of hands
would be needed. In this dilemma a beautiful
thought came to her: "The hands of children !
The happy, loving boys and girls of Portland-
they will do it "
Before the end of the week a host of children,
in answer to her written call, assembled at the
lady's house. The result of that meeting, as re-
corded in history, was: To form a club which
should last "forever"; to call it "The Children's
Christmas Club "; to have for its motto: Freely
ye have received, freely give"; to place the mem-
bership fee at ten cents, so that no child should
be prevented from joining because he was not
"rich"; to make no distinctions in regard to
sect or nationality; to permit to join the club
any girl or boy under eighteen years of age who
accepted its principles, which were: To be ready
at all times with kind words to assist children
less fortunate than themselves; to make .every
year, in Christmas week, a festival of some kind
for them; to save through the year toys, books,

and games, instead of carelessly destroying them;
to save, and, whenever practicable, put in good
repair all out-grown clothing; to beg nothing
from any source, but to keep as the key-stone df
the club the word "GIVE"; to pay every year a
tax of ten cents; and to make their first festival
in the City Hall on Thursday, December 28, 1882.
Officers were chosen and the day's session came
to an end. The news spread over the town. At
the hour and place of re-assembling three hun-
dred children were on hand, all eager to be
enrolled as members of the club. Old folk, also,
came along to give encouragement and advice.
The organization was perfected; the enthusiastic
children entered upon their work; and, true to the
programme which they had arranged, when Holy
Innocents' Day appeared, they served a Christmas
dinner to six hundred little guests, and introduced
to Santa Claus six hundred grateful, joyful little
About eleven months after this banquet in the
City Hall, at Portland, ST. NICHOLAS put forth
its Christmas number for 1883. The entire con-
tents of that number none of you may now
remember, but one feature you can scarcely for-
get. It was an open letter to yourselves- to all
the boys and girls in the world. It told in tender,
loving words, the story of the Portland club; and
the writer of the letter -a lady, of course closed
with an appeal to ST. NICHOLAS to ask its readers
if there should not be other Christmas clubs that
year? if all the children in every city, every town,
and every village, should not have one good din-
ner, one happy day, every year ? And then, down
at the end of the letter, in large capital letters,
appeared the command of the Master, added by
And so ST. NICHOLAS, faithful courier that it
is, carried that open letter to the girls and boys of
North America, South America, Europe, Asia,
Africa, and Australia," just as it was asked; nor
did it neglect, in its great conti-
nental trip, the islands of the sea.
Exactly what was done by I... "',
young folk of New Zealand
when they read that letter '
and the injunction of ST.
NICHOLAS, I have __-
not yet heard, 7; ; '
and I also await-


full particulars of its effect upon young people in
other parts of the two hemispheres.
.But that communication reached the city of
Washington, in the District of Columbia, on or
about the 25th day of November. Furthermore, it
was read. It was read by the young folk to whom
it was addressed; it was read by
the mothers and fathers to whom it
was not addressed, but who exer-
cised the right, as guardians, of over-
looking the correspondence of the
young folk; and it was read by other
grown-up people who claimed that
privilege as lovers of good literature
and good deeds. And when that
letter had been read the mothers -
and the fathers and the other grown-
up folk thus answered for the boys
and girls: "The Cityof Washington
shall have a Christmas Club this
year "
The letter was published in full 1' '
in one of the evening papers of the .
city, and the editor, in vigorous lines
of his own, aroused the community
to action. Two days after that
a call for gentlemen volunteers ap-
peared in the same journal; the
gentlemen promptly came forward, V!,'i
they united with the ladies who '
were assisting the young folk, and .'
soon the Children's Christmas
Club of Washington" became an
institution and a fact.
The principles and methods of
the original Christmas Club, as
described in ST. NICHOLAS, were
closely adhered to, only minor de-
partures, or those demanded by the
situation, being made. Owing to
its large population the city was
divided into four districts; one,
known as District II., embraced the
central and northern part of Wash-
ington, and the other districts were
located to the east, to the south, "THE FEA
and to the west. Each district had
a separate organization of children, with sepa-
rate officers and committees. In District II., for
instance, the President of the club was Miss Nellie
Arthur, the daughter of the President of the
United States; and the older folk formed them-
selves into a Ladies' Committee and a Gentle-
men's Committee, and good-naturedly stood in the
background prepared to help when needed, but
not to interfere. And thus it came to pass that on
Holy Innocents' Day, in 1883, the Portland scene of

1882 was reproduced, and eighteen hundred chil-
dren, gathered in four different sections of the
Federal City, enjoyed the hospitality of their more
prosperous friends. To the banquet hall of Dis-
trict II. came plants and evergreens from the
White House, and from the same old mansion



came the small President of the club escorting the
big President of the Republic; and to that hall
came also the Chief Justice of the United States,
and Washington's white-haired philanthropist;
and thither came also the Marine Band, and Punch
and Judy, and Santa Claus, and a number of other
important personages anxious to see five hundred
little people eat, and to hear five hundred little
people laugh. And they were not disappointed.
For it was a scene of fullness and a day of joy.


But the children of Washington, like their com-
rades of Portland, were resolved that their club
should last "forever"; and so, the following
year, a second festival was made. The number of
district clubs, by a misfortune to one of them, had
been reduced to three, but the number of guests
was undiminished. In District II. 750 were enter-
tained, and, as before, came the little and the big
Presidents, the Chief Justice and the Philanthro-
pist, and the Marine Band with its big bass drum
and clashing cymbals, and Santa Claus with his
jingling bells. And the children in the other dis-
tricts did their part of the noble work, and swelled
the number of the entertained to nearly two thou-
As concerns the number of beneficiaries in

the prestige of all these Presidents, the club spread
out its feast of '85; and, in the presence of the
Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and of the wife
of the Secretary of State, and of the venerable
philanthropist, and of the Marine Band, and of
all the rest, the guests of that club demolished
the feast.
With the advent of December, 1886, came again
the sound of preparations. The club got itself
together, and the members paid in their fees of
ten cents each. The advisory board of ladies and
gentlemen took charge of administrative details.
The donations began to pour in-money, cloth-
ing, toys, picture-cards, and offers of omnibuses to
carry guests too small to walk.
The feast given by District II. was held on the



the three districts, the festival of 1885 did not dif-
fer from that of 1884. President Arthur had,
however, surrendered the White House to another
gentleman, and had taken to her home in New
York the little President of District II. But the
residents of Washington would not allow so good
an institution as the Christmas Club to perish, and
the new Administration was only too glad to lend a
hand. So, in the choice of new officers, caused
by the turn in political affairs, Miss Mollie Vilas,
the daughter of the Postmaster-General of the
United States, was elected President of the club,
in place of Miss Nellie Arthur, who was made a
Vice-President; the sister of the President of the
United States became President of the Ladies'
Committee, and the President of the Board of
Commissioners of the District of Columbia became
President of the Gentlemen's Committee. With

28th day of December, at the National Rifles'
armory, and began at two o'clock in the after-
noon. The club had sent out six hundred cards
of invitation, and these had been judiciously dis-
tributed among the children of the poor. Long
before the hour, the guests began to arrive. Those
who came armed with invitations, formed in line
on the pavement facing east; those without cards
formed an opposing line facing west. Both lines
rapidly grew in length, and by two o'clock, when
the last omnibus discharged its numerous freight,
the lines extended an entire block, two, three, and
four children deep. It required the efforts of sev-
eral stalwart lieutenants and sergeants of police, and
of about a dozen privates, to prevent those lines from
blending into a great and shapeless mob.
Within the drill-room on the entrance floor, six
long tables had been spread, each with a hundred


plates. Turkey, cranberry sauce, apples, oranges,
graced each plate; and back in the distance stood
the caterer, with his ice-cream freezers and stores of
cake. At the various tables, twenty boys with
pretty badges, and twenty girls with natty caps and
aprons,--all members of the club,-were stationed
as waiters; while the ladies and gentlemen stood,
some at tables, others about the room, to render
general assistance.
Everything being ready, the doors were opened,
and the guests were admitted in single file, a little
girl on crutches -leading. Around and about
the great wide room the long procession passed,
leaving a child at every plate. When every plate
had been accommodated with a child, silence
was requested. Every little tongue was stilled,
every little head bent low, and a minister offered
prayer. Then the gentleman in charge took the
floor. The guests looked eagerly at their plates
and imploringly at the gentleman. His speech
was practical and brief: "Now, children, eat
your Christmas dinner."
The opening shout, the rattle of knives and
forks, the hum of children talking between the
bites, the exclamations, the laughter, and all the
other little details which punctuated the scene, the
imagination must supply. The dinner lasted
nearly an hour- an hour of bliss to those within
the room, and an hour of terrible suspense to
those who still stood on the pavement without, a
remnant of the "uninvited" line, and late arri-
vals, waiting for their turn. Of course it came.
The dinner was only the first and substantial
part of the exercises. Above the drill-room was
the armory hall. Upon the floor hundreds of
empty chairs awaited the guests below; in the
gallery were gathered the Marine Band and mem-
bers of the club. The noise of ascending foot-
steps reached the leader; he waved his baton,
and to the majestic air of Three Blind Mice,"
the children, replete and beaming, marched in and
down the center aisle, and took their seats. The
spokesman of the club arose and clapped his
hands. The children thought he was cheering
something, so they did the same. Finally, he got
a chance to make his second speech: "All that I
have to do is, in the name of the Children's
Christmas Club of this district, to wish you all a
very happy Christmas "
The first thing on the programme" was the
magic lantern. The lights were turned down, and
a white disk was shot upon the canvas. Then

came a magnified spider. It was greeted with an'
" oh that lasted, if I mistake not, a full minute.
Then came the head of the same spider, as a
second picture; the claw, as a third. It was diffi-
cult for the spectators to understand the vagaries
of the microscope. They took the word of the
" magic-lanternman," as far as possible, but when
he showed them a great, big bird that looked like
a crane, and said that it was a flea," and then an-
other chunkier" bird; and called it a "mosquito,"
and then presented a large honey-comb, the cells
of which he said were but a few of two thousand
eyes owned by the common house-fly, the specta-
tors broke into a laugh. It was a severe tax on
their faith. So the lanterner abandoned science,
and regained their confidence by pictures of rivers
and steamboats, and dogs, and humorous people
and things.
Following the magic lantern, came "Old Joe,"
who got upon the stage and did some funny act-
ing; and then--I forget what the band played
when he entered, for I was watching the door -
in from the street came Santa Claus. The distri-
bution of gifts was to follow. I knew that no one
would be forgotten. So, while Miss Mollie Vilas
and her companion, Miss May Huddlestone, and
the assisting ladies and gentlemen, were giving to
each child an appropriate present, in addition to a
bag of candy and a picture, I went below to view
the field of carnage and gather some statistics. The
drill-room was deserted. Seven hundred and six-
teen little mortals had gone to battle with sixty-
four big turkeys, weighing five hundred and fifty
pounds. The mortals were alive and, at that
moment, well and in the hall above. I looked
around to see what they had left. The plates were
there and so were the knives and forks.
"Does anything else remain?" I asked.
The caterer shook his head, and answered:
"Nothing but the bones!"

So ends my sketch-a fragment of unfinished,
universal history. For even as I write, thousands
of miles from home, and Christmas,'87, scarcely yet
in sight, I picture to myself the clubs of Portland
and of Washington re-assembling for their annual
work, and hosts of other busy, emulous little bodies
organizing in our own and foreign lands, viewing to
outdo the past. Let the national and international
rivalries of old folk be what they may- the histor-
ian of the young shall recount their rivalry only
in good deeds.




-.- __ -B -----13 K- PARRISH.


HE sentiment of the above lines, like
Sa great many others, handed down
S to us from that venerated school-
ma'am, Mother Goose, is in the
last degree sensible, and it has a fine
point, as pins and sentiments ought
to have. It means, in a wide sense, strike while
the iron is hot," which is a homely version of
" whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with
thy might."
Did you ever live through a pin famine? I did,
once. It was during the war. The head of our
family, kind provider and sympathizer, was "at
the front," and ways and means of living were
sometimes precarious. Pins cost a great deal in
those days-I don't remember how much. Our
family's stock of pins was reduced to two; those
were carried by Mother, who lent them to us when
imperatively needed. Naturally, our thoughts
dwelt much upon the subject of pins, and we felt
many vague and useless longings for a good sup-
ply. How were we to get any? There was no
money to spare for such luxuries. I often wondered,
in those days, how the stately and gracefully looped
ancients managed without those very useful little
.articles, and I decided that they either used thorns
,nd fish-hooks or glued their clothes together.
While the famine was at its height, my mother
devised a plan. Mother declared there must be
'thousands of lost pins lying about the streets, if in
our little household we had made way with
upward of five hundred within the year. Acting
upon this idea, she made two little cushions, which
she gathered daintily upon the tops of two empty
spools, finishing them with a tiny valance with pink-
ed edges. Mother gave one of these to each of us,
telling us to use our eyes, and see which of us could
first fill her cushion.
It is surprising how many pins you can see
when you have pins in your eye. John Burroughs
tells how to find rare plants, the walking fern,
nests of shy birds, and many other hidden things.
He says we must go abroad with these things in
our eye, determined to find them. My sister

declared that she saw pins in her sleep; that if
there was one on the street, a block away, she
caught its glitter. Straight pins, crooked pins,
shawl-pins, needles, all were found, in surprising
numbers,--on the stairs at school, on the floor of
the recitation-room, on the sidewalk, in the yard,
and even in our own pin-famished house.
In a few days we had over a hundred pins on
each of our little cushions, and we might have
rolled in pins, if we had so wished, all of them
"nobody's pins until we discovered and captured
Don't imagine that you 're going to be let off
without a moral. I pointed one for myself from
this episode, a long time ago. It was on this
wise: Sometimes, while washing the dishes or
sweeping a floor, a thought would strike me,- that
event is likely to happen to people. A great many
persons speak out their thought, and then forget
all about it. But being reticent, and, moreover,
having an idea that my thoughts might at some
time be of literary value, I wished to save them.
So, when some fancied bright idea would occur to
me, I would say, Ha! I '11 jot that down; it will
be useful some day." But alas! I never jotted, or
very rarely; because I was sweeping the front
hall, or mixing the dough, or sewing on a button;
and by the time those things were done, and my
pen was in my hand, my idea was gone. Some-
times, with hard trying, I could recall it; but more
often it had joined the forces of tle invisible. This
caused some bitterness of heart, and repinings at
enforced labor, also repeated admonitions to my-
self to be more careful. But I seldom 'was more
careful, and it grew to be my opinion that I was
letting my not too powerful faculties run to waste.
Perhaps, like the study of Greek, it was good
mental discipline. Still, one can't help feeling
that to remember Greek is a long way ahead of
merely studying it; and to have preserved those
little thinks" would have pleased me much bet-
ter than only to have thought them.
About that time I read somewhere of a com-
monplace book," and knew at once it was the


thing I needed. I procured a blank book, and
waited for an idea. The first idea that came
trotting into the trap of my brain was such a fool-
ish little one, that it seemed silly to set it down;
but I thought, If I don't make a beginning,
when will I begin? So I took the little stray and
fastened it into my book. Well, that little idea
was the herd-leader, so to speak; and so many
ideas ambled along after it, that I was quite busy
for a little while jotting them down.
Not all of those thoughts, as written then, were
directly useful in a literary way; but there is no
doubt that the mere writing of them helped me to
think. If you are going to walk a mile, you can
never do it unless you put your foot down and go !
If you want bodily strength, you must use your
muscles often and systematically. If you want
mental strength, you must use the muscles of
your mind.
When we were children, it pleased us to be told
that we were growing. The mind should grow
every day of its life.
A commonplace book is very like the pin-
cushion my mother gave me. Before I owned
the cushion, I saw very few pins. After I set
it up for use, pins appeared at every corner. Be-
fore my book was opened, ideas were scarce;

I l4

:2' '4'.;



afterward they were abundant. It is true, they
were not great and lofty thoughts; but I do
not lay claim to a great and lofty order of mind,
and they were decent, wholesome, nourishing
thoughts, and much better than no thoughts at
all. Not that one would wish to put his or her
every thought into a book to be printed, or into
an essay to be read before a literary club. You
don't make every new dress or buy every new suit
with the intention of having your photograph
taken in it. Your intention with most of them, I
hope, is to please yourself, your parents, your
friends, to be neat and comfortable. And you
do not care most of all, I hope, to be great, or
famous; but to grow and improve and elevate your
minds till you can appreciate the thoughts of
the great, improve and elevate the thoughts of
the little, and enjoy the thoughts of the middle-
Keen, bright, thoughtful girls and boys who can
say bright, kind and thoughtful things, on any
occasion, and to all classes of people, and can
appreciate everything good that is said, are most
desirable members of society. They can perpet-
uate sunshine and music in their own homes, and
can lend a ray to brighten and beautify all other
homes into which they enter.

Hr AU"1



tress's name is Daisy, too, and
I think it must have been her _
/ '.. ,-' ,
doll that wrote the letter to you ,
in ST. NICHOLAS, last March. :
She is a very selfish doll, for she
never wants Daisy to pet me I "
i '' . -I
at all. ,' -
Cats can't help being cats, -
cause they are born kittens,
and then grow to be cats. If
I could have been born a doll,
I think I would be a better doll than Lucy. Cats catch mice and rats,
but dolls don't do anything. Daisy is good to me and I am good to Daisy.
I never scratched her or bit her in my life. Isn't that a sign of a good cat ?
You can see Lucy is a bad doll. If she was good she would n't say that
her mother doesn't know any better than to like me. I don't believe your
dolls talk about you in that way.
My name is Tillie. Is n't that a pretty name for a cat? I like children
and I like good dolls; but I don't like Lucy, and you would n't like her
either, if you knew her. I can purr poetry and Lucy can't. Here is
some poetry that Daisy made for me.

I'm a little kitten cat. Little children with me play,
Tillie is my name; And they love me, too;
Mistress Daisy called me that, This is all I have to say,
'Cause I'm very tame. Good-bye, now, to you.
To the Very Little Folk, Yours purringly,











..' ..


^'c*. ..r.'1 ...... vi 1'


BEFORE long, my friends, the very air will be
blithe with "Merry Christmas!" brisk young
hemlocks will rustle their way into the sunny
homes of Christendom, and millions of tiny flames
will bud on the branches, and all because the best
and holiest of holidays has come. Peace, joy and
gratitude be with you, my happy ones! And may
your hearts be full of kindness, and your hands
busy with.good deeds I
Now you shall hear about
DEAR JACK: I suppose all of your boys and girls have read the
old ditty, telling how once four and twentyblackbirds were baked in
a pie, and how, when the pie was opened, the birds began to sing,-
and they have wisely considered the story a very impossible one,
but it is not without some foundation, after all. A common dish
on Queen Elizabeth's table, at Christmas and other great festivities,
was, we are told, a monster pie, from which, when opened, there
flew a number of birds that, lighting in various parts of the dining-
room, used to sing sweetly to the guests at table.
Another famous pie made its appearance at an entertainment
given by the Duke of Buckingham to Queen Henrietta, the wife of
Charles the First, of England. When the crust was removed, one
Geoffrey Hudson, a tiny dwarf dressed to represent Santa Claus,
stood revealed to the astonished company.
Still another celebrated Christmas pie was made in 1769, for Sir
Henry Grey. It was "composed of two bushels of flour, twenty
pounds of butter, four geese, two turkeys, two rabbits, two wild
ducks, two woodcocks, six snipes, four partridges, two neats' tongues,
two curlews, seven blackbirds, and seven pigeons."
This culinary marvel, as one may well call it, was about nine feet in
circumference; it weighed two hundred pounds, and several strong
men were required to bear it safely to the table. E. M. C.
I AM requested by my birds to say that during
the winter season their favorite brands of crumb
are the bread and cracker varieties.
DON'T you think so, girls? Your Jack knows
very little about it, but he thinks it must be queer

or the little girl would n't say so; or, at least our
friend Maria I. Hammond would n't say in these
verses that the little girl says so.

I HEARD a little girl say, Well, really, it is queer,
But making Christmas presents keeps me busy
all the year !
In January I begin, and long before I 'm through
Here comes December, round again, and Christ-
mas with it, too !
It was the last of February, I remember well,
When I finished Mother's scarlet shawl in crazy
stitch and shell;
In March I made a skate-bag, and Tot's reins of
In April worked a cushion bright, with here and
there a spray !
In May, it was, I made a plaque of gay and glitter-
ing brass-
I'11 never make another, for it hurt my eyes, alas!
In June I worked a splasher full of blue wild roses,
Was very much admired it was done in outline
In July (the heat was frightful!) let me see -
what did I do ?
Oh, I tied a gilt scrap-basket with bows of peacock
And in August, at Bar Harbor I collected pine
To make two lovely pillows of this what-d'-you-call-
it stuff !
In September I was painting on a set of dessert
The first one had a seckel pear the last a bunch
of dates;
In October they were finished, and when Novem-
ber came,
I made of daintiest cretonne a sort of album frame
And in December, quickly flew the short and busy
With making newsboys candy bags, and paper
bonbon flowers.
So really," said this little girl, "I must say, though
't is queer,
This making Christmas presents keeps me busy
all the year."

SHOULD you like to hear a true story, written by
a little city girl as a composition? The dear
Little School-ma'am sends it to you with her com-

I WAS two years younger two years ago than I
am now. This makes me seven years old when I
had an adventure.
I went with my father and mother to a nice farm-
house in the country to spend Thanksgiving. It
had n't come yet when we got there, for it was
two days off. I had great fun, and I learned to
ride a pretty little donkey. He was named Saffo,
and he was so gentle that he would let you pull
his ears. Well, the farmer was a kind man, and


I asked him if he was going to get a turkey for
Thanksgiving dinner. He said: Now I '11 tell you
what I '11 do, little Miss. If you will take Saffo
and ride over the bridge to the barn-yard, and
if you can count the turkeys you see there, I'll give
you one on purpose for Thanksgiving, but you
must count every turkey there is."
So Mamma said I might try; and Papa put me
on Saffo, and I started to count all the turkeys
over in the barn-yard. I knew then how to count
up as high as a hundred. But when we came to
the bridge Saffo and I got such a fright! A mon-
strous bird, making more noise than he could,
came running to meet us, and he stopped right
on the bridge as mad as he could be, and his tail

and all his feathers stuck out, and he would n't
let us pass him at all. He was awful! So we
had to turn back and gallop as fast as we could.
I knew what he was, because his noise sounded
like gobble, gobble, gobble "
Well, the farmer would have laughed at us for
being afraid to cross the bridge to the barn-yard,
so I told him I only counted one, and he need n't
mind about having turkey for Thanksgiving. But
he said he would see about it. And what do you
think ? We did have one, all the same, when the
day came, and doughnuts and mince pie afterward.
I was sorry for any poor bird to be roasted; but
I think that turkeys are a great deal too fierce
when they are not cooked.



DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl, ten years old. I live in a
beautiful castle near the River Seine. I have a pet dog called Mahdi.
We sit together under the trees, and I read your nice magazine quite
alone. I like "The Brownies" best.
I hope very, very much you will print this letter. And I remain,
your constant reader and faithful admirator,
P. S.-Mamma says this letter is badly written, but I don't want
to copy it.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never written you before. I hope
you will print this. The stories I like best are Litte Lord Faunt-
leroy and The Story of Prince Fairyfoot." I will not write much
more, for I know some other little boy or girl is just as eager to have
his or her letter printed. I just wish to say, I think your stories are
lovely (which is very mild praise), and I hope you will never stop
them. So, good-bye, BESSIE S- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A friend gave me, a short time ago, some
Korean stamps forsome little boy at home; and as I know of no one
who is making a collection, it occurs to me that among your many
little subscribers there must be a few who would be glad of these
stamps; since, because of their rarity, they bring a dollar a stamp at
home. As the Korean post-office existed but a day,- its projectors
being killed or exiled in the riot of '86,- the stamps are no longer in
print. If you will not consider it a trouble, please let the little fellows
know this, and bid them send their names and addresses to me, and I
will send each, one Korean and perhaps a Japanese stamp. They
need not, of course, send a stamp for reply."
We all, young and old, enjoy your very delightful magazine; and
when my little daughter reaches the letter-writing age, she will send
Jack-in-the-Pulpit a letter about this queer country.
Sincerely yours, LOULIE SCRANTON.
P.S.-The boys may address, Mrs.Wm. B. Scranton, S6ul, Korea.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : I am ten years old, and five feet two inches
tall. My older sister, Edie, or rather Edith, takes ST. NICHOLAS,
and I like "Juan and Juanita." Very many things the writer
speaks about in the last chapter I know about, as we lived six years
in San Antonio, Texas, and I have seen the old missions, San
Jos6 and Concepcion, and have tasted tortillas. The Mexicans are
mostly all "half-breeds." When they have a norther," the Mexican
men go to bed and stay there, and their wives stay up and cook the
food, and do all the work. When it is fair weather, the women cook
candy with nuts in it, called pepetoria, and a sort of molasses
candy called malecocke, and the men go out and sell it. I have
seen the old Alamo. There is a man there who says he can show
you the exact place where Davy Crockett fell.
I have a brother who is sixteen years old, and six feet tall.
I am, your interested reader, AMY B- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Ever since I was six years old (and now I
am more than twelve) I have looked forward with pleasure, every
month, to the coming of your delightful magazine. We have been
in Europe for a year and more, and it has always reached me safely,
although we have been traveling about in a great many different
countries. Just nowwe are in Carlsbad,rand in afew days we expect
to go to Prague; it is in the palace there that the two imperial
counselors were thrown out of the window, which was the immedi-
ate cause of the thirty years' war. There are a great many curious
customs here, which I suppose might be called Bohemian.
Several bands play every morning at the different springs, from
six o'clock to eight, and then all the world goes to drink the waters.
As soon as the music stops, the people all disperse in different direc-
tions to the numerous caf6s for their breakfast, and stop on the
way to buy their bread, which they carry in red paper bags; and it
really looks very odd to see all the people walking with these red
paper bags.
The principal street here is called the "Alte Wiese," and it is lined
with attractive shops.

There are nineteen springs in all; the oldest and hottest of which
is the Sprudel, which is 167 degrees Fahrenheit.
Baskets of flowers are often put in the Sprudel, and left there for
ten days; and when they are taken out again, they are changed into
stone of a very ugly color.
I am very much interested in Historic Girls." I have been reading
Carlyle's History of Frederick the Great" ; and I think Frederick's
sister Wilhelmina would make a very interesting subject.
Your devoted reader, S. C. C-.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Having just returned from Greenland, I
thought I would write to you about it. I spent the winter there with
my cousin, and had a very nice time.
The morning just before I went away, the snow was far above our
door. Whenever I went out, I always wore snow-shoes. I felt very
queer when I first put them on. I could hardly walk. I like it in
Los Angeles better than in Greenland, because it is not so cold. It is
just like a cool summer here in winter, with all the flowers bloom-
ing, and everything green.
Your loving reader, HELEN S- .

DEAR ST.NICHOLAS: We have been taking you for about four
years, and we like you very much. I am very much interested in
the paper canoes and Nantucket sinks. They are rather hard to
make at first, but we have made them both. I hope you will have
some more.
We like the Brownies" very much, and we have great fun with
each new number of the magazine, in finding the Chinaman and
several others, especially the Irishman. I will be sixteen years old
on the sist of October, and my sister Kathleen will be fifteen on the
4th of October.
We spent last summer in County Wicklow, which is one of the
prettiest counties in Ireland. The scenery is beautiful. We had a
little pony and phaeton, and we drove out every day.
With best wishes for ST. NICHOLAS, yours,
M. A. D-.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been in Brussels only three days,
but have seen a great deal, as there is not so much to see as one finds-
in most European cities.
Yesterday we went to the famous field of Waterloo. A great
many people go out in four-horse stage-coaches, but it takes about
two hours, so we decided to go in the train to a small town where we
got on a stage, and rode to the field; they have built a large monu-
ment of earth, like a pyramid (which took four years to build, with
the Belgian lion on top), where the Duke of Wellington held his
army. There were steps to the top of themonument,-two hundred
and twenty-five; I was ready to drop when I reached the top. We
had a splendid view of the surrounding country. The guide pointed
out the different places of interest,-where Napoleon held his army,
and how he had nearly made Wellington surrender when those both-
ersome Prussians came up.
At the little hotel at the foot of the monument called the Mus6e,
we saw the different things picked up after the battle. I bought one
of the bullets that were found; they had swords and cannon-balls,
and skulls pierced by bullets, etc.
Wewere told that when Wellington went there some years after
the battle, he said he would not come again, for the monument had
spoiled his battle-field.
Brussels is considered a small Paris; but what I hate are the hills;
the carriages tear down hill and around corners in (to me) a horri-
ble way. I would rather have Rome with its seven hills. As for the
stores, they can not be compared with Paris; on a tight squeeze you
could see Brussels, Waterloo, and all in about two days, but for me it is
two too many. Papa says I am a very hard judge, so you must make
allowances. Some of the street-cars run by electricity here; it looks
too funny to see them going along without horses.
We came here from Homburg, where we have spent the month of
August. The place is crowded in that month with English and Amer-
icans; it is half an hour in the train from Frankfort-on-the-Main;
there are five springs, and between half-past six and nine, before


breakfast, every morning, you will find the Elizabeth-brunnen and the
park surrounding the spring, crowded with people, a band playing,
and people walking up and down the long avenue of trees, after tak-
ing the waters; it is a pretty sight. English is spoken on every side.
I like it much better than either Wiesbaden or Baden Baden. In the
afternoon the people flock to the music; after that to the tennis, where
in the season I have seen twenty-five courts going at once; two days
before I came away, they had a tournament, and the Prince of Wales
gave the winners gold scarf-pins. I sat right behind the Prince and his
sister, the Princess Christian. I was introduced to Mr. Blaine, while I
was there; and often saw the Empress of Germany.
We are going to Egypt this winter, and I will write you from
among the pyramids. LouIE C-- .

ST. Louis, Mo.
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We wrote to you once before, but our letter
was not printed, so Mamma said we might try again and perhaps
it would be this time. We told you how much we enjoyed all the
nice stories, especially "Juan and Juanita."
We both take lessons on the violin, and the other evening we
played a duetat some private theatricals given bya friend. At first
we felt rather frightened, but when it was over, every one said we
had played it very well.
Our uncle gave Mamma a parrot that talks French, and when-
ever a stranger comes into the room, he always says, "Bonoumr" and
"Parlez vousfransfais ?" in such a funny tone of voice that he makes
us all laugh. His name is Jacquot, and he is awfully pretty, with
green, white and scarlet feathers, and a funny top-knot.
Mamma says we would better close now, as she is afraid you won't
print such a long letter. With love from your little friends,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for a great many years,
but have never written you a letter before.
I go to school in New York in the winter, for I am an American
* girl. I take French, Latin, and all English subjects. In the summer
I lear Latin atand arithmetic with my father, and this summer I
have commenced Greek.
In your September number there is an article on The First Paper
Canoe," by H. E., who saidthat he (or she) had never seen an Ameri-
can child who could fold it all the way through to the end. My broth-
ers and I used to make them, but we always called them "Chinese
Junks," so I thought perhaps H. E. would like to know about
it. Of your stories, I like "Juan and Juanita," and "Jenny's
Boarding-house" the best, although "Fiddle-John's Family" is
very nice.
Yours sincerely, SHEILA. W (Aged '1.)
P. S.-When I am sufficiently proficientin Greek, I will write you
a letter in that language.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAs: As you are known by reputation to be a
jolly old Saint, interested in the pleasures and occupations of the
children all over the globe, and, as from your age I should suppose
you to be stuffed with knowledge on every subject, I should like to
ask you a few questions, upon a subject in which I am deeply inter-
ested, but which nobody seems to know anything about.
My brother and I think we should like to try amateur photog-
raphy, but prefer trying tintyping first, as the process is more
simple and easier to understand.
I have read the articles on photography in ST. NICHOLAS and
other magazines, but they say nothing about intypintg, and the
catalogue of prices I sent for did not mention such a thing as a tin-
type camera.
Now, dear ST. NICHOLAS can you enlighten me on the subject?
I should like to know where I can get an apparatus for taking tin-
types, how much it is likely to cost, whether the baths can be
obtained ready mixed, and if directions for taking the pictures come
with the camera. Yours respectfully, H. W. T-- .
The apparatus required for making tintypes, or ferrotypes, need'
be little different from the apparatus required for making dry-plate
photographs, and may be procured through any dealer in photo-
graphic materials. If" H. W. T." wishes to make ferrotypes by
the old method, common until within a few years, he will require a
special plate-holder; but any camera will answer. This process is
rather "mussy" for an amateur working at home, and the silver
from the silver bath is certain to blacken the fingers in an annoying
manner. The plate of japanned iron (for it is not tin, but the iron
from which sheet tin is made) must be flowed with collodion, which is
sold in bottles, ready for use. When the collodion has set, or dried, to
a certain degree-which occurs very shortly after flowing-the plate
is immersed in a silver bath which has been rendered slightly acid.
The exposure must be made while the plate is wet, yet not too soon
after the immersion. After the exposure has been made, the plate is

ER-BOX. 157

flowed with a developing solution, the main ingredient of which is sul-
phate of iron; when, if the exposure has been correctly made, the
image will gradually appear. At the moment when the image has
reached a proper degree of clearness, the development is checked "
by placing the plate under the water-tap. The plate is then to be
"fixed" with cyanide of potassium, after which it may at once be
dried and varnished.
Ferrotype plates are, however, now to be had ready prepared,
like glass dry-plates for negatives. This does away with the col-
lodion and the silver bath, and renders the hurry, and the nearness to
the dark-room unnecessary. The Argentic Dry Plates may be had
from the Phoenix Plate Company of Worcester, Mass., together
with instructions for developing. These plates work quicker than the
"wet" plates, and are developed with a pyroo" developer. They
can be used in an ordinary plate-holder with a piece of glass of the
same size behind them; so that H. W. T." may begin his "tin-
typing" with any photographic camera outfit.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl twelve years old; I have
never written to you before. I used to live in America, and now I
live in Ireland. I do not think it is so nice as it is in America, but
therearepretty mountains here. They are called the Carlingford
Hills, and are right across Dundalk bay. The little houses are very
funny; they are thatched, and very small and dark. There is a market
every Monday, and the town is crowded with country people. They
come in with their pigs and cattle, and send them away to Liverpool
in a boat. Father sends the ST. NICHOLAS every month to us, and
we like it because there is not such a nice book over here. There are
five of us altogether, and we all look forward to the ST. NICHOLAS
coming. Nelly was only three when she came over and soon she
will be four. Thereis a place called a cromlech near here; it is three
large stones standing on the ground about three or four yards apart,
and one immense one on the top. They say these stones were placed
thus by men to mark where the dead were buried, and those men
lived long, long ago, before the Druids. There are other curious
things around here,-an old grave-yard where William Bruce is
buried (he was Robert Bruce's brother),- and there are also some
old towers.
Good-bye, dear ST. NICHOLAS. Your little friend,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Although I have been a constant and
devoted reader of Sr. NICHOLAS ever since I have been a reader of
anything, I think, I have never made so bold as to contribute to the
Letter-box my mite." Now that I have done so, I hope it will be
regarded with a benignant "she hath done what she could," and
allowed to pass the dread waste-basket."
ST. NICHOLAS has been sent to our family by some dear cousins
in Illinois, ever since it was first published. It has descended from
one member of the family to the next younger until it has reached me.
I do not think I shall ever outgrow it.
I think I will be ranked among the older children. I have just
passed my sixteenth birthday, but I am a "school-ma'am" with
three months' experience.
I read the Letter-box with the deepest interest, especially those
letters from "far-away lands." I read books of travel and am very
fond of them, but I think that it would be more like seeing things
myself to have them written of to me.
Thanking you many times for what you have been to me, and
with my best wishes for your future success, I remain,
Yours devotedly, ANNIE S--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: 1 am very much interested in "Juan and
Juanita." We camp here all the summer vacation. We have a very
nice tent with three rooms in it. There are many other boys and
girls in the camp. We have very nice times. My little brother and
the other children and I go in bathing. I can swim a few strokes.
We have a row-boat, and I go out on the lake very often. I have a
baby mud-turtle, and it is just as cunning as it can be. He is a little
larger than a silver half-dollar. He has a pointed tail, and his head is
yellow and black. He has very small eyes. I made him a nice
home in a wooden pail.-This is a very beautiful lake, nine miles
long and three and a half miles wide. There are many parks around
the lake. There are sixteen private steamers and four public ones.
This used to be a great resort for Indians. Black Hawk used to
have his council-house here. Some of the cedar pole is still in the
ground where the council-house stood. There have been many In-
dian arrow-heads picked up around here. I think the Indians must
have felt very badly to have left their beautiful hunting-grounds.


DEAREST OF SAINTS: I have taken you for four years for a Christ-
mas present from mamma and papa, and I am not willing to give
you up yet. Mamma thought I was getting too old for ST. NICH-
OLAS, and would enjoy an older magazine better; but nothing could
induce me to give you up. I like all of your stories, especially those
written by Frank Stockton; but Historic Boys and Girls," and the
articles that have a bit of history or travels in them, are my favorites.
A few summers ago I spent a few weeks at Barnegat, N. J.,
which is famous for its lighthouse. It is indeed wonderful; and
its light is so large that it can be seen for many miles around. At
the base the wall is four feet thick, but gradually grows thinner as
you ascend. Believe there are two hundred and seventy-four wind-
mg steps, and when you get to the top you are indeed ready to sit
down; but itis still harder to go down. While I was there it was a
very warm day, but a heavy gale came up and shook the top so that
it swayed, and I was very glad to go down. After visiting the light,
we went out in a small yacht to see the steamer Guadaloupe, which
had been wrecked the previous winter. On the way our skipper told
us the story of the wreck, for he helped save the lives of the people.
I am fourteen years old, and papa calls me Brownie for a pet name.
(I wonder if any of Palmer Cox's brownies ever reach that age.)
Your fascinated reader, GRACE OR BROWNIE."

OUR thanks are due to the young friends named below, for pleas-
ant letters which we have not space to print:
James Fay, Willie L. Taver, Louise Clawson, Claire Herrick,
Eunice Stivers, Peggy and Kitty, M. G. H., Lulu Gulliver, Ethel
Crocker, Kate H. R., Cornelia M. T., Winifred Reed, Fennimore
R., Jack Wilson, Ella M. Fischer, Daisy V. W., Marion Clothier,
Susie Inloes, Lucy M. D., Alma St. C. S., Grace S., Mina L.,
L. S. C., M. A. and M. O. P., Annie and Kathleen, Frederick W.,
Annie M., Margaret Dabney, Bessie and Hettie R., Alston Deas,
Ida, Hulda and Rheta, Bertha E. W., Hattie Rose, Wenefride and
Rosalie Kelly, Burt Harrison, Mary L. C., Rose and Daisy, Elsie
Wilson, Marcia Lee, Flossy B., Frances D. L., M. O. W., A. C. M.,
Blanche C., Rene Carrillo, Daisy McDowell, Lyda M., Helene
M. K., Helen R. B., "Gray Eyes and Blue Eyes," Lizzie Willey,
Mamie S. B., Abba Kellogg, Louise F. H., Sybil B., Maud O.,
Florence L. B., Josie S., Edna L. Erwin, John Warren, Emma G.,
Mac. Douglas, Leon A. P., Alta V., Robert L. N., Edith C. and
Ada B., Ivy, Ruth and Hallie H., Lolo K., Lily G., A. L. R.,
Ada A. H., Bertha and Elsie, Claire and Lavinia, Louise R., Stella
Wood, R. Marion Cameron, Bertha L. S., Eleanor B. E., Hugh
Barr, Annie Graves, Michael and Frank, Avis M. M., Queen G.,
Delia H., Minnie F., Alva E. P., Julia C. G., Annette A. G.,
" The Bookworm," M. W., M. A. W., and Julia B. H.


Csb iji1

ut% Wf
fsno uet



No. I.



NUMERICAL ENIGMA, "Every man is the architect of his own OCTAcoNS. I. 1. Sad. e. Strip. 3. Stripes. 4. Ariette. 5,
fortune." Diptera. 6. Petre. 7. Sea. II. i. Did.2.2. Homer. Domi-
CUBE. From i to 2, quintette; 2 to 4, earthlin to 4to 4, Easter- cal. 4. Imitate. 5. Decades. 6. Rates. 7. Les(sen).
egg; I to 3, quadruple; 5 to 6, rearguard; 6 to 8, dictation; 7 to 8, GREEK CROSS. I. i. Scans. 2. Carol. 3. Arise 4. Nosle.
elocution; 5 to 7, reanimate; i to 5, quaver; 2 to 6, erased; 4 to 8, 5. Sleep. II. i. Press. 2. Ravel. 3. Evade. 4. Sedge. 5.
gammon; 3 to 7, enable. Sleep. III. i. Sleep. 2. Larva. 3. Ernes. 4. Event 5. Pasty.
PI. Gone hath the Spring, with allits flowers, IV. i. Pasty. 2. Afire. 3. Sires. 4. Treat. 5 Yest. V. i.
And gone the Summer's pomp and show, Pasty. 2. Adore. 3. Solar. 4. Train. 5. Yerns.
And Autumn, in his leafless bowers, WORD-SQUARE. I. Katie. 2. Abhor. 3. Thane. 4. Ionic. 5.
Is waiting for the Winter's snow. Erect.
Auttumn Thoughts, by J. G. Whittier. A CLASSICAL SQUARE. From i to 2, Argiva; 2 to 4, Albula; i
NOVEL ACROSTICS. Third row, Heartfelt thanks: sixth row, to 3, Apulia; 3 to 4, Athena; i to 4; Atossa; 2 to 3, Attica.
Thanksgiving Day. Cross-words: i. Athletic. 2. Wreathed. 3. DOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals, Richard; finals, Blondel Cross-
Standard. 4. Strained. 5. Attacked. 6. Diffuses. 7. Presages. 8. words: I. RoB (Roy). 2. IdoL. 3. ComO. 4. HeleN. 5. Al-
Religion. 9. Outlives. xo. Catering. I. Schooner. z1. Ana- freD. 6. RhymE. 7. DulL.
logue. 13. Consider. x4. Inkstand. 15. Unstayed. HOUR-GLAss. Centralletters, Lilliputian. Cross-words: s. Cis-
A LETTER PUZZLE. Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel atlantic. 2. Stability. 3. Phyllis. 4. Valid. 5. Big. 6. P. 7.
just." King Henry VI. Part lI. Act3. Scene 2. Dun. 8. Mitre. 9. Ionians. ao. Imitation. ia. Nationality.
To OUR PUzzL.PRS : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the i5th of each month, and
should be addressed to ST. NICHOLAS Riddle-box," care of THE CENTURY Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City.
ANSWERS TO ALL THE PUZZLES IN THE SEPTEMBER NUMBER were received, before September z5th, from K. G. S Grace Kupfer-
Maud E. Palmer-Katie, Jamie, and Mamma-Nellie and Reggie- Blithedale "- Kanuck and Yank"-" Hikeydum"- Maggie
T. Turrill Sadie Mabelle Sherman Francis W. Islip.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE SEPTEMBER NUMBER were received, before September 15th, from K. P. Ward, i Alice Hirsch, 4 -
" I. Diot," 2 -" Rufa" and Brownie," 4- Bertha, I S. C. P., I- F. F. W., i -~" Kitty Clover," 3-" Cricket," i -" The Three
Graces," I Edward E. Jungerich," i -J. A., 1o "Puss," 2 Calamity Jane and Cliptknockky," 3 Grace and Bertha, i -Ade-
line and Agnes, 3 -Bacon and Tarr, i Bertie Brush, I "St. Olafs Kirk," io "Skipper," I Sphinx," i Hattie Taylor and
Mary Dexter, i -" A Yachting Party," 5 -" Giddy Sinclair," 4- "Dombey and Son," 3 "Rose," 3-" Annie L.A.'s Admirer," 4 -
H. H. C., 2 B. and M. Dixon, i Nellie B. McCarter, i Anastatia, Celestine, and Marie Kane, 4 M.Angela Diller, 2- Mary M.
Rittrich, I--D. D. and M. M., 4 No Name, Gardner, 7- Sadie and Bessie Rhodes, 6-Annie M. and Susie R. Bingham, 2- Martin
Chuzzlewit," 2 Grace Scoville, --A. and M. Fries, 0o- Elsie A. Patchen, i Rudolph G. Ward, M. Flurscheim, Paul
Reese, 13 Papa and Mary Farr, 3 May W. Elmslie, I Peace and Happiness, io- L. M., i Marion Strong, r Midge, i -
" Mooney," 8 -Shumway Hen and Chickens, 13 -" The Oaks," i Florence L. Beeckman, 2 "Tommy Traddles," 2 Louise F.
H., I Three Graces," Newark, 3 Pokey," 8- Edith Woodward, 6 N. L. Howes, o -Jo and I," 12- Effie K. Talboys, 8 -
Alpha Alpha, B. C., 8 W.K. C., 2- Lou and Bert, 4 Mona and Euna, 4 Jennie S. Liebmann, 8 A. H. R., and M. G. R., 13 -
Margaret C. Made, x Polly, I Buttercup and Daisy, 2 We Two," 7 -Jennie, 7 Aliena," 6 W.R.M., 12 ?," 7- May
Shaughnessy, i Juan and Juanita," 5 Annie Floyd, 7- "Beth and Amy," 6- Laura, ro-- No Name, Newport," 6- Emerald
Green," 4 "Solomon Quill," 0o Fanatic," Ir -" May and 79," 5--" Teddy," i- Fox and Geese," 9 -" Junket," 4 -R.A.M.,
xi Kate L. Oglebay, i Idle Bee," i--E. Muriel Grundy, 13.


_- ----- -- _, .-"- "- I
I -
-- i-

-- -

_~ -.

THIs puzzle is based upon one of the Mother Goose rhymes. The
pictures represent the last word of the six lines of the verse. What
is the verse?


AcRoss: In Diogenes. 2. To perform. 3. A name of the daugh-
ter of Proserpina. 4. Consumed. In Diogenes.
DOWNWARD: i. In Diogenes. 2. Another name for Colchis. 3.
An ancient people of Scotland. 4. To knot. 5. In Diogenes.


In gallm so jolly;
In bwclt of holly;
In sprig of green;
In water clean;
In/aces bright:
I.-, .' 4.

hifignire nine;
In booAand shoe;
In zebra too.

What am I? You surely will remember
A famous battle fought in bleak December.


I. EACH of the cross-words contains seven letters. The primals
and finals each name a festal time which occurs in December.
CROSS-WORDns: A mean, despicable person. 2. A character
in Shakspere's play of "Hamlet." 3. A historian. 4. To infuse
into. 5. The title of the chief magistrate of Mecca. 6. A fine
smooth stuff of silk. 7. A plant now used in the manufacture of sap-
sago cheese. B. Agony. 9. To shut out. o1. One who nettles. 1o.
Twists. 12. Coveted. 13. An invocation of blessings. 14. A
dramatic poem having a fatal issue.
II. Each of the cross-words contains ten letters. The primals
name articles pleasant to give or to receive; the finals name a pleas-
ant song to listen to.
CROSS-WORnu S: i. Pertaining to the cabala. 2. The picture-writ-
ing of theancient Egyptian priests. 3. A combat. 4. A name
given to persons in the early church who had received baptism. 5.
Whippings. 6. Equivalent in value or signification. 7. A narra-
tion of mere fable. 8. A city in Egypt. 9. Insensibility. ao. Geo-
logical. io. A class of plants. 12. One who constructs or makes.
13. A place in Bolivia, 14. Pertaining-to a seraph. F. s. v.


-- I .i; ../,, ,* t ,, ,. :.l .,- ^ -'-,-f -
^... ,-',L" -- ,: ,' ,' ," ,i ,, 'r ^ ;^ -.,- ,,-/ ,;- 1

l__ I .
., 1 ,. .-
_- ,, ,'. -PT -- ,,.., c -- .,.1
-i" '' .. '/ : "" 1'. "
-' "" . ? r" r ,. ,
. I-_ -" ,! .

I rE numbers on ball number i rep-
.: :,, certain letters which form a boy's
.. number 2, to use with effort; num-
.:. one given in pledge as security for
Si..: ( : formance of certain conditions; num-
i.- a relative; number 5, the circum-
i: :- of anything; number 6, obsequious;
number 7, interlaced; number 8, an exploit;
number 9, a morsel; number io, to wander.
The answer, consisting of fifty-one letters,
is what the Rabbi Jechiel says all should do.

BREDMECE clesos no eth ceens
Dan hwta prapea het mothsn noge stap ?
Stagmerfn fo meti wichh cone heavy bene l
Desucingce lowlys, Ifed oto fats !
Thire mienuts, shour, dan sayd pareap
Livewess ni hatt malls tinop, a ryea.

I. EFFICACIOUs. 2. Apart. 3. To lam-
poon. 4. Imaginary. 5. Ravines.
G. A. S.
THE central letters, reading downward,
spell the name of the rider of Pegasus.
CROSS-WORDs: i. Pertaining to a very
northern region. 2. The brother of Mene-
laus. 3. The most celebrated of Grecian
painters. 4. One of the Harpies. 5. A
name for Colchis. 6. In Harpy. 7. A per-
sonification of night. 8. The father of
Anchises. 9. The husband of Niobe. 0o.
Pertaining to an Amazon. ii. A name for
Polydorus. LITTLE ONE."


AcRoss : Depressed with fear. 2. A
city in Massachusetts. 3. A masculine
name. 4.' A city in Italy. 5. A fruit.
DOWNWARD: I. In accent. 2. A bone.

3. To stuff. 4. A Scriptural name. 5. An evil spirit. 6. A meas-
ure of length. 7. A bank to confine water. 8. A negative answer.
9. In accent.
UPwARD: I. In accent. 2. In this manner. 3. A bird. 4. Mas-
culine. 5. Existed. 6. A Scriptural name. 7. Enraged. 8. For-
ward. 9. In accent. CYRIL DEANE.

5 6

7 8
FROM i to 2, a President of the United States; from a to 4, leav-
ing; from I to 3, a Roman emperor whose real name was Bassianus;
from 3 to 4, affirming positively; from 5 to 6, the act of painting or
drawing the likeness of; from 6 to 8, generously; from 5 to father-
hood; from 7 to 8, what Shakspere tells us King Richard II.
wished to call back; from I to 5, to move slavly; from 2 to 6, com-
ical; from 3 to 7, to quiet; from 4 to 8, fame.

4 ..... 5

FROM I to 2, to distinguish; from I to 3, traced; from a to 3,
knotted; from 4 to 5, longed for; from 4 to 6, feared; from 5 to 6,
EACH of the words described contains the same number of letters.
When these are rightly guessed and placed
... .one below another, in the order here given,
Sthe central row of letters will spell the
G name of a party which took place on the
x6th of a certain December, to which no
reader of ST. NICHOLAS was invited.
I. A wooden shoe worn by peasants.
S 2. A declivity. 3. A wild animal. 4. A
pretty fabric. 5. A color. 6. A musical
instrument. 7. Measure. 8. A hard out-
side covering. 9. To invent. 1o. More
mature. Ii. A series of things linked to-
gether. I2. Pale. 13. Complete. 14.
Magnificent. "LOU c. LEE,



'1 9
( .c




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