Front Cover
 The boyhood of Thackeray
 A Christmas letter
 The last cricket
 The white and the red
 The story of the iceberg
 Little Alvilda
 May Bartlett's stepmother
 The professor and the patagonian...
 Intercollegiate foot-ball...
 How the emperor goes
 Autumn revel
 If the babes were the bards
 Daisy's calendar
 For Christmas day
 The letter-box
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00221
 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: VID00221
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 boyhood of Thackeray
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
    A Christmas letter
        Page 113
    The last cricket
        Page 113
    The white and the red
        Page 114
        Page 115
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 127
    The story of the iceberg
        Page 128
        Page 129
    Little Alvilda
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
        Page 143
    May Bartlett's stepmother
        Page 144
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
    The professor and the patagonian giant
        Page 161
        Page 162
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
    Intercollegiate foot-ball in America
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
        Page 172
    How the emperor goes
        Page 173
        Page 174
        Page 175
    Autumn revel
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
    If the babes were the bards
        Page 183
        Page 184
    Daisy's calendar
        Page 185
    For Christmas day
        Page 186
        Page 187
    The letter-box
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
    The riddle-box
        Page 191
        Page 192
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text









THERE is a picture we used to look at as chil-
dren in the nursery at home, and which my own
children look at now, as it hangs upon the wall.
It is a water-color sketch, delicately penciled and
tinted, done in India some three-quarters of a
century ago by Chinnery, a well-known artist of
those days, who went to Calcutta and depicted
the people there with charming skill.
This picture represents a family group,- father,
mother, infant child,--a subject which has been
popular with painters ever since they first began
their craft. Long before Raphael's wondrous
art was known, this particular composition was
a favorite with artists and spectators, as I think it
will ever be, from generation to generation, while
mothers continue to clasp their little ones in
their arms. This special group of Thackerays is
almost the only glimpse we have of my father's
earliest childhood, but it gives a vivid passing
impression of his first home, which lasted for so
short a time. My long, lean, young grandfather
sits at such ease as people allowed themselves
in those classic days, propped in a stiff chair, in
tight white ducks and pumps, and with a kind,
grave face. He was Mr. Richmond Thackeray,
of the Bengal Civil Service, the then revenue

collector of the districts called the twenty-four
Perganas." My grandmother, a beautiful young
woman of some two and twenty summers, stands,
draped in white, with a certain nymph-like aspect,
and beside her, perched upon half a dozen big
piledbooks, with his arms round his mother's neck,
is her little son, William Makepeace Thackeray,
a round-eyed boy of three years old, dressed in a
white muslin frock. He has curly, dark hair, an
innocent face, and a very sweet look and smile.
This look was almost the same indeed after a life-
time; neither long years of work and trouble, nor
pain, nor chill winters of anxiety ever dimmed
its clear simplicity, though his spectacles may
have sometimes come between his eyes and
those who did not know him very well.
He used to take his spectacles off when he
looked at this old water-color. "It is a pretty
drawing," he used to say, but if his father, in
the picture, could have risen from the chair
he would have been about nine feet high, ac-
cording to the length of the legs there depicted.
My own father used to tell us he could just re-
member our grandfather, a very tall, thin man,
rising out of a bath. He could also remember
the crocodiles floating on the Ganges, and that
was almost all he ever described of India, though
in his later writings there are many allusions to

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

No. 2.



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East Indian life. In The Tremendous Ad-
ventures of Major Gahagan," for instance, there
is enough meaning and intention in the names
and Hindustanee to show that he still retained
something of his early impressions.
A year after the sketch in question was painted,

the peaceful home in India was broken up for-
ever. The poor young collector of the twenty-
four Perganas died of a fever on board a ship,
where he had been carried from the shore for
fresher air; this was about I816, when my father
was five years old.

. .


Richmond Thackeray was himself little over
thirty when he died. His young widow re-
mained in India with her mother, and married
a second time. Two years after her first hus-
band's death, her little son came back to Eng-
land with a cousin of the same age, both return-
ing under the care of an Indian civilian, Mr.
James McNabb, who had promised to befriend
the children on the journey home, and of whose
kindness we were often told in our childhood.
In the Roundabout Paper, on Letts's Diary,"
my father mentions this very coming home. He
is speaking of this cousin, Sir Richmond Shake-
spear, who had been his little playmate and
friend from the time of their birth. In one of
the stories by the present writer," he says, "a
man is described tottering up the steps of the
Ghaut, having just parted with his child whom
he is dispatching to England from India. I
wrote this, remembering in long, long distant
days such a Ghaut, or river-stair, at Calcutta;
and a day when down those steps, to a boat
which was in waiting, came two children whose
mothers remained on the shore. One of these
ladies was never to see her boy more." (So he
says speaking of his aunt Mrs. Shakespear.)
My grandmother's was a happier fate, and
she returned to make a home for her son, and to
see him grow up and prosper and set his mark
upon his time.

BEFORE going any further the writer must
explain how it has come about that these few
papers and drawings are now for the first time
given to the public.
A little more than a year ago an American
gentleman came to see us at Southmead, where
we were then living, with a letter of introduc-
tion from a friend, and at his request I showed
him some letters and drawings, and the picture
of my father which I have been describing, and
some of my father's MSS., in all of which
he took the same warm and responsive interest
which has so often been shown by the American
as well as the English readers of Vanity Fair "
and Pendennis." Among the letters were two
or three very early epistles I had lately found;
written at the time of my father's first coming
home to England, when all our present race of

elders, statesmen, poets, and philosophers were
also little boys and girls, shall we say?--play-
ing in their nurseries, spinning their hoops and
tops, peacefully awaiting the coming whirligigs
of life. I had found the letters by chance one
day, in a packet which had been preserved by
my grandmother for half a century. It had then
lain undisturbed for nearly twenty years after her
death, for so much time had passed since they
were first written by the little boy in the quiet
Hampshire village to his mother in India.
I showed these childish letters, among other
things, to my American visitor, as I have said,
and, not long afterward, he wrote to me con-
veying the request of the Editor of ST. NICHO-
LAS, that I would let the magazine have them
for the benefit of its young readers. I had
some hesitation at first in complying with the
request,- for it is difficult to go against a life-
long habit, and I have always felt bound by
my father's objections. After a time I spoke to
my old friend Mr. George Smith, to whom my
father's copyrights belong. He willingly con-
sented and saw no real hindrance to the publi-
cation. And, as I looked again at the child's
writing, I felt that even the most fastidious could
not find any breach of confidence in printing the
simple lines; and, apart from all other reasons,
it would be a pleasure to us and to our own chil-
dren to see them reproduced. I was sure, too,
that many American boys and girls and their
elders would be interested to see how the writer
of "Vanity Fair" began his life-long work.
And so it happened that one summer's day
this year a little cart drew up at our garden
gate, a photographer and a camera were landed
on the doorstep, the camera was set up in a
corner of the garden, the sun came out from be-
hind a cloud, and in an hour or two the letters
were copied, the pictures and the bust were
reproduced, the picture went back to its nail,
and the letters to their drawers, and the cart
rumbled off with the negatives, of which the
proofs have now reached me from America.


"WHEN I first saw England," my father writes
in his lecture upon George III., she was in
mourning for the young Princess Charlotte, the


hope of the Empire. I came from India as a
child, and our ship touched at an island on the
way home, where my black servant took me a
long walk over rocks and hills until we reached
a garden where we saw a man walking. That
is he,' said the black man, that is Bonaparte;
he eats three sheep every day and all the little
children he can lay hands on!'"
The little traveler must have been about six
years old when he landed in England. He was
sent to Fareham, in Hampshire, to the care of
his mother's aunt and grandmother, where she
had also lived as a child in the same quiet old
house. "Trix's house" it was called in those
days, and still may be for all I know. It stood
in Fareham High street, with pretty, old-fash-
ioned airs and graces, and a high sloping roof
and narrow porch. The low front windows
looked across a flower garden into the village
roadway, the back windows opened into a pleas-
ant fruit garden sloping to the river. When I
myself the other day read in Praeterita" Rus-
kin's exquisite description of the fruit-bearing
trees and bushes in his own childish Garden of
Eden," straightway came to my mind a remem-
brance, a vision, of the gooseberry and currant
bushes at our Aunt Becher's, and of my little
curly-haired sister sitting on the ground and
filling her pinafore with fruit. We in turn,
children of a fourth generation, were brought
for a time to the old house. I can see it all as
plain before me as if I was eight years old once
more; and I can remember hearing my grand-
mother say that, according to her own remem-
brance, nothing was changed from the time
when she too had returned thither from India
as a fatherless child to dwell in the quiet vil-
lage for a decade of years, until she went back
to India again at sixteen, dressed for the jour-
ney in a green cloth riding-habit so she used
to tell us to be married, and to be a mother,
and widowed, and married again before another
decade had gone by. She never had any other
child than my father.
My sister and I, coming so long after, suc-
ceeded to all her old traditions: to the oak
stools standing in the window; to the little
white bed in the upper room; to the garden
leading to the river-bank. We made cowslip
balls in the meadows (how often we had heard

of them before we came to Fareham!). All our
grandmother's stories came to life for us. We
too had pattens to wear when it rained, we too
had "willow" plates of our own, and cherry-pie
on Sunday, and dry bread on week days; we
too were forbidden butter by our old great-
great-aunt as a pernicious luxury for children.
We were afraid of the old aunt, but very fond
of her, for she used to give us half-sovereigns,
and send us charming letters in her beautiful
handwriting. The little old house was as pleas-
ant within as without; big blue china pots stood
in the corners of the sitting-rooms and of the
carved staircase with its low steps. In the low-
pitched front parlor hung the pictures (a Sir
Joshua Reynolds among them) of generations
not so far removed in my childish days as they
are at present, being now buried away by suc-
ceeding lives-" oi sous son pere on retrouve
encore son pere comme l'onde sous Ponde dans
une mer sans fond."
My father's great-grandmother, Mrs. Becher,
had sat to Sir Joshua in her youth she died
in 1825 at eighty-nine years of age. Her name,
which the writer has inherited, was Anne Hays-
ham before she married, and we have a copy
of the Sir Joshua portrait, representing a stately
dame in the flowing draperies of the period.
She lived in the old house at Fareham, after
her husband's death; she was the mother of
many daughters and tempestuous sons. The
sterner rule of those Spartan times did not al-
ways quell the wild spirits of their rising gen-
erations. My grandmother has often told me
that Mrs. Becher never called her eldest daugh-
ter anything but Miss Becher"; her little
granddaughter was "Miss Nancy." She used
to come and go leaning on a beautiful tortoise-
shell-headed cane. I have played with the
cane, though its owner died long before I was
born; as for the great-aunt, I remember her
perfectly well, a little old lady in a flaxen front
with apple cheeks and a blue shawl, holding
out her welcoming arms to the third generation
of her brother John's descendants. When she
died, she left her brother's picture out of the
parlor to my grandmother, his only surviving
daughter, and now in turn it hangs with its red
coat upon our parlor wall. We are all very fond
of our great-grandfather, with his nice coat and



lace ruffles. He is, in the portrait, a young man
of some twenty-five years of age, with an oddly
familiar face, impulsive, inquisitive,- so he
strikes me at least. His name was John
Harman Becher, and he too went out to India
and did good work there, and died young, as
did so many others--in those adventurous
days. He was born in April, 1764, and died
about 1800.
Fareham itself, with its tall church spire and
its peal of Sunday bells across the cowslip mead-
ows, was a Miss-Austen-like village, peopled by
retired naval officers and spirited old ladies who
played whist every night of their lives and kept
up the traditions of England, not without some
asperity, as I well remember. Among other
things which my grandmother has often de-
scribed to us was the disastrous news of Nelson's
death, coming to them all, in that same little
parlor where, a few years after, little William
Makepeace Thackeray sat, laboriously writing
to his mother in India.
This letter, the earliest we have, is addressed to
Mrs. R. Thackeray, care of Messrs. Palmer's.
per P. of Orange, Calcutta." It took six months
to reach its journey's end.

MY DEAR MAMA I hope you are quite well. I have
given my dear Grandmama a kiss my Aunt Ritchie is
very good to me I like Chiswick there are so many
good Boys to play with. St. James's Park is a very fine
place. St. Pauls Church too I like very much it is a
finer place than I expected. I hope Captain Smyth is
well give my love to him and tell him he must bring you
home to your affectionate little son

"William got so tired of his pen he could not
write longer with it," says his great-aunt in a
postscript to this Indian letter, so he hopes you
will be able to read his pencil He drew
me your house in Calcutta [she continues], not
omitting his monkey looking out of the window
and black Betty at the top drying the towels,
and he told us of the number you collected on
his birthday in that large room he pointed out
to us! There are also a few words from an
uncle written under the seal. My dear Sister
Anne, I have seen my dear little nephew and
am delighted with him."
Besides all these postscripts there is a faint
pencil sketch representing, as I imagine, Captain

Carmichael-Smyth on horseback. That gentle-
man was then just engaged to my grandmother,
and was ever after the kindest of friends and
parents to my father and to all of us.
We have an interesting book compiled by a
member of the family for private circulation, in
which there is an account of my father as a
child. His habit of observation began very
early," says Mrs. Bayne in this volume. His
mother told me that once when only three or
four years old, and while sitting on her knee at
the evening hour, she observed him gazing up-
ward and lost in admiration. 'Ecco,' he ex-
claimed, pointing to the evening star, which
was shining like a diamond over the crescent
moon. This struck her the more as she had
herself noticed the same beautiful combination
on the night of his birth. Ecco' was probably
decco, which is Hindustanee for 'look!' I
have often heard that when he first came to
London and was driving through the city he
called out, 'That is St. Paul's!' He had rec-
ognized it from a picture. He was with his
father's sister, Mrs. Ritchie, at the time, and
she was alarmed by noticing that his uncle's
hat, which he had put on in play, quite fitted
him. She took him to Sir Charles Clarke, the
great physician of the day, who examined him,
and said,' Don't be afraid; he has a large head,
but there is a great deal in it.' "
The second of these early letters is addressed
to Mrs. Carmichael-Smyth, Agra. It is written
in a painstaking copperplate hand, but it is so
evidently under superintendence that it is of
much less interest than the others. He was
then barely seven years old.
April 24, 81S8.
MY DEAR MTAMA: I received your kind letter which
Mrs. -- was so good as to read to me as I am not
able to read your letters yet but hope I shall soon. I
have been twice with George and Richmond to dine with
Mr. Shakespear he was very kind and gave me a great
many pretty books to read and promised I should go
every time George and Richmond went. I wrote a long
letter in February and sent it to Aunt Becher to send to
you. I have learnt Geography a long time, and have
begun latin and cyphering which I like very much, pray
give my love to Papa, I remain dear Mama yr dutiful son

Looking over some of my grandmother's
early letters I find more than one mention of


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my father. "I have had a delightful letter
from my man," the mother writes from India,
and then quoting from her own home corre-
spondence she continues: "The day Charles
[Col. Carmichael-Smyth] arrived, he [the boy]
was in high spirits all day, but when he went
to bed he could restrain no longer and burst
into tears. The servant asked him why he
cried. He said,' I can't help it, to see one who
has so lately seen my dear mother and to see
her picture and the dear purse she has made
for me !' "


MY father never spoke with any pleasure
of his early school-days. As we drove to Rich-
mond with him sometimes, he used to show
us the corner of the lane at Chiswick which
led to the school where all the "good boys"
were learning their lessons. To this corner,
soon after he entered school as a very little
fellow, he ran away, and then was so fright-
ened by the sight of the Hammersmith High
Road that he ran back again, and no one was



the wiser. Before he was sent to Chiswick,
I believe he stayed, for some months only,
at a school in Hampshire, where his cousins
also were pupils. "I can remember George
coming and flinging himself down upon my
bed the first night," he wrote long after to his
cousin, Mrs. Irvine, sister of George and Rich-
mond Shakespear. This was that school of
which he speaks in the Roundabout Paper,
"A school of which our deluded parents had
heard a favorable report, but which was gov-
erned by a horrible little tyrant who made our

young lives so miserable that I remember kneel-
ing by my little bed of a night, and saying, Pray
God I may dream of my mother."
The next letter was written from Fareham:
pleasure in writing to you again from Fareham to tell how
happy I am. I went to Roche Court to see Mr. and Mrs.
Thresher. I saw a birds nest with young ones in it, in
a beautiful honeysuccle bush and a robbin's in another
place. This has been Neptune day with me I call it so
because I go into the water & am like Neptune. Your
old acquaintances are very kind to me and give me a
great many cakes and great many kisses but I do not let

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Charles Becher kiss meI only take those from the ladies -
I don't have many from Grandmama. Miss English gives
her very kind love to you and begs you will soon come
home. Pray give my kindest love to Pappa. Aunt Becher
bought me a Caliduscope it is a very nice one I have
spent a very pleasant day at Catesfield. Miss O'Bryen
gave me a very pretty jest book I should like you to have
such another pretty house as Mrs. O'Bryen's, there is such
a beautiful garden. I am grown a great boy I am three feet
eleven inches and a quarter high I have got a nice boat,
I learn some poems which you was very fond of such as
the Ode on Music &c. I shall go on Monday to Chiswick
to see my Aunt Turner and hear the boys speak. I in-

tend to be one of those heroes in time, I am very glad I
am not to go to Mr. Arthur's. I have lost my cough
and am quite well, strong, saucy, and hearty; and can
eat Granmama's goosberry pyes famously after which I
drink yours & my Papas good health & a speedy return.
believe me my dear Mama your dutiful son

My father must have been a sensitive little
boy, quick to feel, not over strong, though well
grown. He was always very short-sighted, and
this in his school-days was a great trouble to




him, for he could not join in the games with
any comfort or pleasure, nor even see the balls
which he was set to stop at cricket. In those
days schools were not what they are now; they
were rough and ready places. He used to de-
scribe dreadful arrangements of zinc, with oily
streaks of soap floating on the black waters,
which always sickened him, and which were all
the materials that the little boys were allowed

a perfect recollection of me; he could not speak,
but kissed me and looked at me again and again.
I could almost have said, 'Lord, now lettest
thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes
have seen thy salvation.' He is the living image
of his father, and God in heaven send he may
resemble him in all but his too short life. He
is tall, stout, and sturdy, his eyes are become
darker, but there is still the same dear expres-


for their morning's ablutions. He suffered in
health as well as in spirits, and he was often
laid up. And it seems to be after one of these
passing illnesses that the letter reproduced in
fac-simile on pages og5 and io6 was written
from Fareham, where he must have been sent
to recover. But his troubles were almost at
an end, for his mother was even then on her
way home and he had no need to dream of her
dear presence any more.
This is her account of the meeting: He was
not at Chatham when we arrived, but Mr.
Langslow brought him from Chiswick the next
morning, for Mrs. Turner would not part with
him till we came, that I might see him in full
bloom; and truly he is so, dear soul. He had

sion. He remembers you all perfectly. Aunt
Maria, I think, is his favorite still. The moment
he saw the gold knife, he said, Oh, my grand-
mamma gave me this, and I poked Dash with
it.' His drawing is wonderful."


AFTER drawing Captain Smyth, the house in
Calcutta, and Betty hanging out the clothes, as
he did on his first arrival, the little boy went on
to draw everything else that struck his fancy.
He liked to draw, not so much the things he
saw as the things he thought about: knights
with heraldic shields, soldiers, brigands, drag-
ons, and demons; his school-books were all orna-


,, \ .\\


mented with funny fanciful designs, his papers
were covered with them. When he was still
quite a little fellow, he used to manufacture small
postilions out of wafers, with the top-boots in
ink and red coats neatly stuck on. As he got
older, he took to a flourishing style, with split
pens for his instruments, sketching gentlemen
with magnificent wreaths of hair and flaps to
their coats, ladies with wonderful eyes and lips,
in style all curly and flourishing; but these ex-
periments were in later years, after his mother's
return from India.
I gladly acceded to the request of the Editor
of ST. NICHOLAS, who asked me to forward
with the rest of the papers two or three speci-
mens of my father's childish drawings. They
are taken at hazard from those in our posses-
sion. Here is one of the drawings which by
the writing underneath should belong to these
very early days when the young designer was
but nine or ten years old. We must not fail
to observe that the brave captain, kneeling for
mercy, is poking out his companion's eye with
his sword, while the gallant warrior in a cocked
hat, standing up, is delivering two heavy purses
to the constable (or highwayman ?) with his club.

Here are one or two more quotations from
the mother's letters which run on about so
many unknown things and people, and then
here and there comes a little phrase or sen-
tence belonging to one's own present world and
dearest interests:
"August, 1821.
My Billy-Man is quite well. I must tres-
pass and give him a day or two of holidays.
You would laugh to hear what a grammarian
he is. We were talking about odd characters,
some one was mentioned, I forget who. Billy
said,' Undoubtedly he is a Noun Substantive.'
' Why, my dear?' Because he stands by him-
Here is the history of a relapse:
My poor Billy-Boy was getting better of his
cough, and he was going into school when
Henry unfortunately went to see him and gave
him half-a-crown, with which my little Gentle-
man must buy a lump of cheese, which of all
things you know was the very worst, and brought
back the enemy."
Then comes an account by the Mamma of
the school of which the little scholar's impres-
sions were so different.

* See page 107.




I don't think there could be a better school
for young boys. My William is now 6th in the
school, though out of the 26 there are only four
that are not older than himself. He promises
to fag hard till Midsummer that he may obtain
a medal, and after that I: think of placing him
at the Charter House. .
He tells me he has seen the Prince Regent's
Yacht in Southampton Water and the bed in
which his Royal Highness breathes his royal
Billy-Man says, give my love to them all,
I wish they would come over.' Here is the


little figure he has done in a few
minutes of Captain Bobadil; it was
a thick pencil and he could not
make a good outline. He painted
a little theater for young Forrest, or
rather a scene with sides entirely
from his own imagination, which
Mrs. Forrest says was capital.
S Our time is limited to the i9th,
when I must be at Chiswick to hear
my little hero hold forth I don't know how I
shall go through with it. They have not selected
an interesting speech- Hannibal's address to
his soldiers which you must all read and
fancy me and Billy-Boy-but you can't fancy
such a great fellow."
Can the picture on page io8 be Captain Bob-
adil, or one of the scenes for the theater ? On
this page is a thrilling incident from the Spanish
Inquisition carefully painted and finished up by
the little artist.
THE letter which follows is the last of the
early letters, and is dated in 1822, when its

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writer was eleven years old. His stepfather
had been appointed Governor of Addiscombe,
and his own life at Grey-Friars had begun.

CHARTER HOUSE, Jan. 20, 1822.
I am now going to begin bothering you
that letter I wrote to Butler was only a bit of a preface I
dare say you are surprised to see me use a whole sheet
of paper but I have laid in a stock for the quarter pens

ink and all I hope you will write to me soon at least
oftener than you did last quarter & tell me all about
Addiscombe & the Gentlemen Cadets and tell me if Papa
has got a hat that will fit him. My hands are so cold
that I can hardly write. I have made a vow not spend
that five shilling piece you gave me till I get into the
8th form which I mean to ask for tomorrow. The holi-
days begin on the 23rd of April but it wants 13 weeks
to them it will be your time to ask me out in three
weeks two more Saturdays must pafs and then it will be
the time for me to go out. Is Butler gone to Addis-

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combe with you ? We have got a new master his name
is Dickin-Dickins or Dickinson. Give my love to
Papa and I remain Yours truly
Write again as quick as you can.

Eventually, Major and Mrs. Carmichael-
Smyth settled at Fairoaks, near Ottery St.
Mary, whither the little schoolboy used to

travel on the stage-coach when the long-ex-
pected holidays came round at last.*
The frontispiece of the present number of ST.
NICHOLAS is engraved from the photograph of
a bust of little William Makepeace Thackeray
which was made in the same year as that to
which this last letter belongs. A foreigner called
Devile, or Delile, came over with an ingenious

One of the very earliest of my memories is that of an old servant, a toothless old John," in knee-breeches,
who had followed the family fortunes from Devonshire to Coram street, where my father and mother lived in
London. His picture is to be seen in Pendennis, with a coal-scuttle.

process for taking people's portraits by casts
which he afterwards worked up and put to-
gether, and, thanks to his skill, we possess this
really admirable portrait of the boy as he was
on the ist of June, 1822, which is the date upon
the pedestal. The letter, it will be seen, is dated
in January of 1822.
I am glad to be able to add to these glimpses
and mementos of his early life a picture that
represents my father as I remember him best.
The frontispiece shows him as a boy; the en-

graving on this page is from the last photograph
ever taken of him. All a lifetime lies between
the two portraits, all its sorrows and successes,
its work and its endurance. No words of mine
are needed to point out the story. As a boy, as
a man, my father held to the truth as he felt it
to be, to the duties and courageous things of
life. He bore much trouble with a brave, cheer-
ful heart, and he made all who belonged to him
happy by his generous trust in them, and his
unchanging tenderness and affection.




ALL the folks that live out here,
Wish you Merry Christmas, dear !
Funny, furry little hares,
After dark, when no one cares,
Come to dance upon the snow,
Glad it's Christmas time, you know.

And the little chickadees,-
You would think their feet would freeze,-
They sit chirping, gay enough,
With their feathers in a fluff,
"Merry Christmas, when it comes,
Gives us all a lot of crumbs "

And your dear old friend, the crow,
He and all his brothers go
Teetering across the snow,
Two-and-twenty in a row;
Every crow with one keen eye
For the changes in the sky,
And another for the ground
And whatever 's to be found.
Oh! the crows look sly and queer
Just about this time of year!
If they 'd only tell in sleep
All the secrets that they keep!
Don't you s'pose they know it 's right
To hang a stocking up at night ?
Don't you s'pose they know this minute
Everything there will be in it ?

People used to half-believe
Cows could talk on Christmas eve,
Standing patient in the stall,
When the night began to fall;
That they talked of that strange sight

In a stable Christmas night.
Don't you wonder if they do ?
Don't you wish that it was true ?
Stars at Christmas, don't you think,
Have a sort of knowing wink ?
And the flowers underground
Asleep when Christmas comes around,-
Don't you think it really seems
As if they must have Christmas dreams ?

Happy dreams be yours, my dear,
Christmas night, and all the year!


TRILL, trill, trill,
Sweet and shrill,
From the dark side of a stone;
Summer is flown away,
Clover is made into hay,
Autumn nights are chill;
Trill away, little Cricket!
Out in the dark alone.

Trill, trill, trill,
The tree-tops are still,
Never a katydid about
And the firefly's torches are burned out.
Trill away, little Cricket!
The stars listen, no doubt.

Trill! trill! trill!
A summer tune
Makes not November June.
Everything has an end,
And so has thy song, little friend!
Tweak! the frost nips thou art still!

VOL. XVII.--4.




ALL the folks that live out here,
Wish you Merry Christmas, dear !
Funny, furry little hares,
After dark, when no one cares,
Come to dance upon the snow,
Glad it's Christmas time, you know.

And the little chickadees,-
You would think their feet would freeze,-
They sit chirping, gay enough,
With their feathers in a fluff,
"Merry Christmas, when it comes,
Gives us all a lot of crumbs "

And your dear old friend, the crow,
He and all his brothers go
Teetering across the snow,
Two-and-twenty in a row;
Every crow with one keen eye
For the changes in the sky,
And another for the ground
And whatever 's to be found.
Oh! the crows look sly and queer
Just about this time of year!
If they 'd only tell in sleep
All the secrets that they keep!
Don't you s'pose they know it 's right
To hang a stocking up at night ?
Don't you s'pose they know this minute
Everything there will be in it ?

People used to half-believe
Cows could talk on Christmas eve,
Standing patient in the stall,
When the night began to fall;
That they talked of that strange sight

In a stable Christmas night.
Don't you wonder if they do ?
Don't you wish that it was true ?
Stars at Christmas, don't you think,
Have a sort of knowing wink ?
And the flowers underground
Asleep when Christmas comes around,-
Don't you think it really seems
As if they must have Christmas dreams ?

Happy dreams be yours, my dear,
Christmas night, and all the year!


TRILL, trill, trill,
Sweet and shrill,
From the dark side of a stone;
Summer is flown away,
Clover is made into hay,
Autumn nights are chill;
Trill away, little Cricket!
Out in the dark alone.

Trill, trill, trill,
The tree-tops are still,
Never a katydid about
And the firefly's torches are burned out.
Trill away, little Cricket!
The stars listen, no doubt.

Trill! trill! trill!
A summer tune
Makes not November June.
Everything has an end,
And so has thy song, little friend!
Tweak! the frost nips thou art still!

VOL. XVII.--4.

: F;--I-

0, by 1 I

: '

[Dame Gillian Fenn tells the tale to her chil-
dren, and others of her household,- all seated
round a blazing fire,- on Christmas eve, of the
Year of Grace 1652, in olden-time Virginia]:

WELL, well! all's ready for the morrow, thank
patience! with making and baking, roasting
and toasting, fairly done. And what will ye be
having to-night, pray? That same old tale of
Indian Simon that I did tell you once afore?
Welladay! if it pleased you so rarely at first
time o' hearing, I '11 e'en tell 't again. 'T is no
such smooth-tripping a merry-go-round as some
folk like best this season, nor hath it merry end-
ing, neither for all some lives were saved by
the turn o't; but 't is only fair, I 'm thinking,
that you young ones should be made acquaint
with what your forebears did suffer and adventure
a-planting this New World. Ye may set your-
selves up to do great things, mayhap, i' the days
to come -but if e'er ye 've a mind to go brag-
ging, why, look ye first behind. 'T will do you
no harm, I warrant. Folk should set proper
store by homes so hard-won from the wilder-
ness, nor grudge honest tilling o' the ground
that was so well watered with fathers' blood.
Aye, aye; 't is peace and good will, this Christ-
mas eve, an' good cheer a plenty, to boot; but
as for the winning o't all, that was no such peace-
ful a matter, as ye may reckon. Howsoever,
bless God we need fear no Indian screechery
breaking in, like on that time, to spoil talk to-

night. There 's naught worse than the wind
outside, or maybe a wolf or two, now and again.
Stir ye the coals and pile on the logs,-Dickon,
Jacky. We '11 tell it all once more -and he
shall have most cakes an' beer at the end, with
nuts to crack no less, that proveth the keenest
Now, 't was after a right strange manner of
happening that the lad Simon Peter did first
come to dwell amongst us; which same (for
that ye may the better understand mine own
proper tale i' the telling) I will now in brief
relate the ins and outs of. Truly, his descent
was from none too good nor too happy a stock,
as nobody might deny. 'T was of that heady
and high-stomached tribe called Pianketank,
who rose up to their own undoing againstt the
old cruel king, Powhatan, not long afore the
coming of the English into Virginia. So that
tribe did he swiftly and most furiously fall upon
and slay to the last man (as he then purposed
and believed), with all the rest of his several
under-tribes helping him thereto in vengeance.
And when they were all so bloodily done to
death, he did cause to be cut off and stringed on
a string, all a-row, the ears of men, women, and
children -and there were they hanged up be-
twixt two trees in front of his palace door. A
brave sweet sight, i' faith, and a most pleasant for
his royal eyes to gaze on, and also a signal warn-
ing againstt such like rebellious offense. There
were they seen by no less than Captain John
Smith himself, with others of his company,- to


their great mislike and amazement,- as was
aftertime writ down by him in his True Rela-
tion" of Virginia matters, and may to this day
be read. Howsoever, it happened that, despite
this murtherous and savage disposal, there
remained yet a very little remnant of the tribe
Pianketank, being scarce one score souls in all,
who got them away, at the first alarm, in swift
flight from the slayers and hid in the dark wil-
derness till after King Powhatan, in passage of
years, died and was buried. E'en then, 't was
said, they durst hardly venture out save in a
very secret way. But seeing that none molested
them, and also that their persecutors' minds had
changed with vastly changing times all o'er the
land, they came at last boldly forth as any, and
settled them upon the woody waste that even
to this day lieth uncleared, northward of the
road to James City. So there they builded their
wigwams on a hillock not far from the way, and
no man hindered or anywise denied them need-
ful range for hunting, fishing, and such like get-
ting of wherewithal to live. As for the white
men thereabout, they were the rather overkind,
I do reckon, as, to such marked unfortunates,
one naturally disposeth. Yet, as folk soon 'gan
to say, 't was like enough that fault o' the former
quarrel with Prince Powhatan was not all on
one side. "What's bred i' the bone will out i'
the flesh," as the old saw runneth, and so it came
to pass full soon with these poor down-trod and
distrest Pianketanks. 'T was not alone an ell
they 'd be content with, being given an inch, but
a thousand miles, more like. In greedy tricks,
malice, pride, laziness, and fierce-mouthed brags,
they, waxing ever more insolent, grew daily worse
and worse and as for Jack o' the Feather, he
was of them all the most past Christian bearing.
Now his sure-enough Indian name was not
Jack, but Nemattanow; only the English called
him Jack o' the Feather, because of his saucy
tongue, an' because of his being always so finely
rigged up with feathers in the wild fashion of
his sort. For tho' 't was naught uncommon to
see those foolish heathen creatures so bedeckt
and set off with plumage of birds by them
caught or killed, yet never another one was seen
to match this Jack in such outlandish bravery
and ornamentation. One day 't would be an
eagle's plume, mayhap, the next a turkey-wing

- or goodness knoweth what new thing or
t' other! There be wiser folk than he in this
world that think fine feathers make fine birds,
but this same Jack was an ill bird, I do reckon,
for all his royal blood. He was next of kin to
the chieftain, or king, as they called him (after
their high and mighty way), who was killed in
the former massacre, that time-so being by
blood, as in natural humor, the leader and ruler
o' his crew, in mischief as in all else. A king
well-nigh without subjects, good sooth! and in
right make-a-shift case; yet the lacking in pomp
was out-doubled in pride, I trow, and so his fall
came round.
Now, it did so chance one day in a busy time
of harvest, that Master Thomas Godkyn, his
nighest neighbor, would have Jack o' the
Feather go an errand for him to Jamestown
for one bushel of corn in payment thereof. It
was easy earning of good bread, but my royal
red gentleman having no mind for such honest
humble service, not he, and giving a short and
saucy back-answer, No, with some brag of his
kingly blood, moreover,-why, then, Master
Godkyn, mightily put about and vext by the
denial, did burst out scornfully a-laughing at
that, saying, "I pray your High Majesty's
pardon. I' faith, I did forget your High Majes-
tical state," quoth he, fine king o' beggars
in a palace o' poles Whereupon he laughed
again, Ho, ho! a-turning on his heel; but
as for Jack o' the Feather, he looked a most
black an' devilish look, as who would fain
strike that other dead with 's tomahawk for very
rage, and (crying out fiercely in his Indian
speech) said, Paleface fool! Thou laughest
loud to-day, but I will laugh louder to-morrow."
So then Master Godkyn, making that out
shrewdly to be threat of evil, did bethink him
that he would look keenly to any such risk.
But malice hath many ways to creep as well as
run,- an' who may guard him againstt the cruel
cunning of that murtherous red people ? 'T was
the very next morn, just afore day-breaking, that
he, being waked up from sleep by a most fear-
some bellowing and groaning, as of some great
brute-beast in death pain, went out and found--
lo and behold! -his brave bull, that had cost
a pretty price in England, besides the fetching
of it hither, there was it, a-lying i' the meadow,


ham-stringed, and in such a case as might not
be anywise holpen save with a bullet through
the heart for pity's sake.
Now, small need was there for guessing (as
everybody said) whose wicked deviltry this
might be. And some of the neighboring white
people would be for shooting Jack o' the Feather
with the same gun wherewith they had dis-
patched the bull. Kill him kill him! cried
these hot-blooded ones, and had well-nigh set
off furiously so to do, without judge or trial,
only my father- Master Barrow- said nay to
that. "We will not so bring blood-guiltiness
on us, neighbors," saith he, "for all that such
mischief may no longer lodge amongst us. We
will but give him fair warning to quit these parts
straightway, on pain o' death. Then, if he do
prove contrary and resist, his blood be on his
head." So, that being agreed on, the warning
was given accordingly; and as for that villain,
though he did bitterly deny the bloody fact, he
durst not tarry long to prove him innocent, in
sooth, for by next daybreak he was clean gone,
with all his fellows and belongings (as was first
supposed), nobody knew which way or whither.
'T was on the even of that same day that my
father, a-passing nigh those wigwams, so left
standing lonesome and empty, did hear a very
little wailing voice right piteously crying. So
he stopped and listened, and being distrest
thereby (for the sound of it, as I have heard
him say a-many a time, would touch heart of
stone) he went to find what that might be.
And there, lo! what doth he come across, weep-
ing 'mongst the cold ashes all frighted and alone,
but Jack o' the Feather's own child,- and a
mere baby lad, at that,- by those most wicked
creatures left behind to perish, with neither fire
nor victual.
Now, whether he had hid himself away (after
the roguish trickery of such very little ones) and
so could not be found at time of their hasty set-
ting off, or whether he was so left a-purpose in
cold blood from the notion of their flight being by
him hampered, Heaven knoweth, not I! Yet
there was he, to a certainty, and piteously fam-
ished withal; and so my father, being a feeling-
hearted man, did fetch him home that night to
our house. For mine own self, I was but a lit-
tle babe in arms that time, but afterward heard

tell enough concerning the surprise and wonder-
ment of it and the vexedness of my poor
mother at this turn. Truly she was ever set
againstt this outside stranger, e'en from the first,
but as for Dickon and Francis, they were right
'well joyed with a new playfellow. Mayhap about
three year old did he seem, and nigh Francis in
tallness, though not so bigly set. Words had
he, a plenty, when that his tears were dried an'
he fairly warmed and fed, but all in the barbar-
ous Indian tongue, such as not even my father
might make head or tail of, save only here and
there. And being asked his name, as was made
shift to do, he cried out loud and proudly, a-
clapping his two hands together, "Totapota-
moi! Totapotamoi Totapotamoi! Whereat
our lads laughed, for the right strange, curious
sound thereof. And my mother, she cried,
"Lord ha' mercy upon the wild heathen crea-
ture! But my father said, right soberly, "'T is
good enow for a savage, an' hath a pretty ring
i' the sound on 't- an' that's truth. Notwith-
standing," saith he on, "'t is no proper title for
any decent tame creature in Christian house-
hold." So he named him Simon Peter from
that hour -by which name he was soon after
brought to christening; and that did we ever
call him.
And thus it did hap that he first came to
dwell amongst us.
Now, as I have afore said, my mother was
ever misliking of it from the very first thereof.
Sore vext was she, poor soul, because that my
father would have the likes o' such brought up
'mongst his own; for she was high-notioned in
the matter of our company-keeping, as is but
natural to the gentle-born;--yet as to my father,
he was but a yeoman's son i' the old country
and had been a rough fighter againstt ill fortune
most o' his days, so set small store by such com-
parisons i' quality. And when my mother would
be sending Simon to the kitchen in a servant's
place (for we had a fair sizable house, builded
all of stone, with kitchen and offices thereto,
separate and orderly as any in old land or new),
why, then the master said stoutly nay to that
measure. "What, wife," quoth he, a-smiling so
plaguingly withal, shall we so serve this prince?
Is he not of the king's blood, forsooth ? an' to
be so packed off in kitchen 'mongst common


serving men an' maids! Fie, fie! saith he;
whereat the mistress crieth, A pretty prince,
indeed! and tossed her head, a-looking but
scornfully upon the poor Indian finery (with
beads, gewgaws, an' such like, all tarnished an'
meanly make-a-shift as 't was) of the dark little
lad. Then saith she, "What! wilt thou even
such a swarth-skin with thine own children, at
bed an' board? As well buy them a blacka-
moor brother from the Dutch ship, forsooth!
I 'm thinking 't would be all of a piece." Yet
my father spake in a right grave way, saying,
"Nay, wife, if thou canst not see the difference
betwixt a blackamoor an' such as this one, I pity
thy poor sight. I see God's hand i' this matter,"
quoth he, "and, if the child is let alone by his
own people to bide peaceably amongst us, it shall
be share an' share alike. Nay, nay; my young
ones shall have no slaves to their ordering, red-
skinned or black, to make them saucy an' master-
ful. I like the look of this Simon Peter right
well, for all the father of him being Jack o' the
Feather. He shall have fair chance, by St.
George -for I 've a mind to play a game with
nature in this business. Aye, we will see where
Dame Nature endeth and breeding doth begin--
and if his father cometh to claim him some day
(for all 't is not likely he '11 be taking any such
pains), why, we '11 e'en give the boy his choice,
to go or stay, an' see how then."
"Aye, aye!" saith my mother, "we will
see." Still, notwithstanding, she made no more
ado that time, save to make sure of Simon Peter
being shrewdly stript of his outlandish rags and
cleaner-washen than e'er he 'd been in his life
before, I reckon, for all he did most irefully
resist the same with howling. And after that
he was drest in a fair change of Francis's
clothes, the while his own new ones were a-
So this way did it continue as my father said.
And we four children, being Dickon and Francis
and Simon Peter, with little poor me, that was
the one girl to herself 'mongst the lads' game-
some roughness we four did grow up together
as brothers an' sister; scarce anywise remem-
bering (for all we might daily see in outside
looks) the difference in blood. Nay, I will tell
true an' say out-howe'er some do think it
shameth nature that I loved Simon the best

o' the three. He was the kindest and the lov-
ingest to me, I trow; not that the other ones
durst be contrariwise,- or would,--but't was
Simon that ever tarried behind with me if I
fell back a-weary by hard following after the
rest. Sometimes he bore me on his back 'cross
the stony ground or thro' the running water-
a-holding on for dear life round his neck. And
when I 'd a mind to be playing with my doll
Queen Bess at a brave feast, with wine in acorn
cups and the like child's play-acting foolery,
why, 't was ever Frank an' Dicky that mocked
and would fain turn all naughtily upside down,
to plague me, had not Simon so stoutly stood
my part against them.
Now, as to the color of his skin (that some
amongst you listening would so mislike, may-
hap),I being used to it life-long, in a manner,
was nowise frighted at that. For the rest, he
was comely enough. His eyes, they were of a
very dark blackness, but piercing keen and
bright; his hair was black and straight down-
hanging, and not soft to touch, tho' he would be
oft a-laying his head beside me to be stroked with
my two hands. Slim-shapen as a maid was he
and fair-featured, like to the pictures of Princess
Pocahontas herself, whom some accounted beau-
tiful and his hands and feet were scarce big-
ger than mine own. Yet, for all thus lightsomely
builded, his strength was to the strength of
Francis an' Dickon as steel to wood, be it never
so hard wood and heavy, or a silken cord, hard
twisted, to a rude hempen string. There was
never a horse that could throw him after that
he was big enough to sit well astride its back -
not even the wildest colt of all on that land
-when the lads would be riding them to water
morn and even, or mayhap (for the learning
of horsemanship) around i' the pasture field.
Francis an' Dick had many a tumble, I promise
you, but Simon never a one. At running, wrest-
ling, and all such, who but he ? Then surely, I
do reckon, there was never another so wondrous
quick at book-learning, so knowledgeable and
cunning skillful in all ways. Nay, time would
fail me to tell you the half of his ingenious de-
visings. Such curious things as he would oft
be cutting with his knife, to be sure!- as beasts,
birds, fishes, and what not,- aye! even human
likenesses no less, out of slate, stone, or wood, or


maybe naught but a handful of damson seeds;
and for snaring of wildwood game or catching
of fish, his match was never seen.
Howsoever, despite of these advantagements,
and despite of general good behavior in decent
Christian manner o' life, yet, crost in humor, was
he still (as my mother scrupled not to say out,
when by him displeasured) the son o' his father
and true child of lawless race. Can one be
holden guilty of his birth-shame, good sooth,
or cast out the blood that naturally runneth in's
veins? Nay, not so meseemeth. Therefore
it did sorely hurt me to hear my mother ever
blaming Simon with all that went amiss twixtt
him and Francis. She was a good woman,
Heaven rest her! and true lover of them she
did love, but yet they were precious few so
favored, and Simon not one amongst them.
Now, with Dickon (he being of a rare sweet
humor) did Simon carry it peaceably enow;
but with Francis, who was heady and stubborn-
tempered as Simon himself,-aye, quicker to
make mad, tho' not so fierce i' the end as for
those two, they would be often at odds. And
one day, when she did come upon these twain,
a-fighting tooth and nail, with Francis under-
most an' like to get the worst on 't, then she
cried out on Simon, for a heathenish beggar's
brat, who would come to hanging or shooting
yet, as 't was to be hoped his father had 'fore
now. 'T was a right cruel word, there 's no
denying; yet was she sorely vext, for her excuse.
However, he turned upon her with so tiger-
fierce a look that she, stepping back, cried out,
" What, snake-eye wilt thou murther me as I
stand ? "
And so he looked a'most ready to do, in
sooth; but up cometh my father then, who
was a just man to see the rights and wrongs of
such quarrels, and quoth he, "Foolish woman,
wilt thou put thought o' such evil into him
that 's but a passionate child ? Was 't not fair
fight betwixt them till thou didst stir up this ?
Look well to thine own willful young one, an'
leave the lad to me."
So, after that time my mother was carefuller
of such vexing speech; yet she liked Simon
Peter no whit more in her heart.
Aye, aye; he was no gentle lamb, in truth,
nor neither was our Francis for the matter o'

that-but Simon was ever kind and loving
enough unto me.
But yet ye must not be thinking that this was
ever the way o't with us. We'd a happy home
as any, for all such quarrelings now and again.
There was work to be done, a plenty, on the
new rugged land, and no negro slaves to tempt
white folk into idly looking on the while they be
driven as brute-beasts to toil an' moil. Some
few had the Dutch ships fetched, e'en then, for
trial, but my father would none of them. So
when that the lads were grown big enough, they
must needs be a-working i' the corn-fields and
tobacco ground, whilst I, with my mother and
the maids indoors, was learning of house matters,
as becometh a proper girl. Yet we 'd no stint
of sports, in due season. 'T was gayly and free
we were i' the summer evens, I promise you;
yet the best of all came round on winter nights,
when, the work being all foredone, we might
sit us down by the fire so curiously a-listening
to our father's talk an' telling of former times.
A many fine tales we heard then, concerning the
first comers-over to Virginia, their hardships,
trials, and very dreadful sufferings in every sort;
and of the great Captain John Smith, that was
so bold a fighter, and likewise of the most gentle
Princess Pocahontas, who did risk her life for
the saving of his, and was afterward, in her lov-
ing-kindness, the savior of this whole Virginia
from destruction; also concerning the old poli-
tic King Powhatan, his state and majestical be-
havior- and I promise you that Simon would
be always keenly hearkening to that. Also, my
father told us about the dark time of the famine
at Jamestown, when our people did, for very
starving hunger, horridly eat the carcasses of
such amongst them as had of hunger died; and
that was what Dickon liked best of all to hear;
but, for my part, I would the rather choose the
wreck of the ship "Sea-Venture," that was
casted away on the Bermuda Isles, a-com-
ing to Virginia, and how one Master William
Shakspere, 'way off in England, hearing o't
afterwhile, did make it into an acting play called
"The Tempest "- that is oft played i' London
Town to this very day.
So time passed, year after year, till our Dickon
was a great lad, with Francis and Simon turned
thirteen year old, and me 'most counting ten;


and then came to pass those strange, curious
happenings whereof I will now relate.
Now, all this while that Simon so dwelt con-
tentedly amongst us we did never hear aught to
a certainty of Nemattanow, called Jack o' the
Feather. One time, or twice, came a bruit from
'way off yonder, as how such an one had espied
him here, or another there; and once somebody
told it that he had been catched sight of in the
great Indian town to northward, on York River,
a-ruffling it with the other braves and in high
favor with the king, Opechancanough. How-
soever, he troubled us not, all this so long while,
and well-nigh had we forgot him, in sooth, till
on a luckless day at last we 'd a pretty prick o'
the memory!
Now, 't was one fair even in May-month o'
the year 1622, when this turn on a sudden came
to pass.
I mind me right well, as 't were but yester
eve, how the sky did shine all of a rosy golden
color, and the little winds did blow so softly,
with smell o' May-blooms and sound o' bird-
songs every which-a-way. 'T was milking-time,
a bit past sundown, and all of us out nigh the
cow-pen down i' the meadow. And my father
and mother so leisurely looked on whilst the
maids milked; yet we children did care naught
how much went dairy-way so we 'd only our fill
o' the syllabub and our sport with the youngling
calves. And there were we, so merrily together,
when who doth come walking out of the wood's
edge hard by and so boldly into our very midst
but an Indian man that I 'd never before set
eyes on.
Now, he was of a tall stature, and fierce-ap-
pearing withal. His skin was mighty dark and
weather-worn. His quiver for arrows was fash-
ioned out of a wolf's hide, with the natural head
right grisly hanging down, having a sort of wild
terror i' the look o't. In his right hand he did
carry a great bow, and also in the way of war-
like arms a tomahawk set in 's leather girdle.
Upon his shoulders, breast, and legs, that were
naked and sunburnt to blackness, were painted
stripes and rings in divers colors commingled.
Round his neck and wrists did hang great strings
o' beads, right gaudily colored and for all his
fierce aspect he 'd earrings, like any woman,
a-dangling from his ears. Atop of his head the

hair stood up bristling in a narrow ridge, after
the way of a cockscomb, from brow to nape,
but 't was clean shaven away on both sides;
and out-topping all- being someway outland-
ishly stuck i' the very crown o' the ridge was
a prodigiously great and long eagle's feather.
Then all of us stopped short our doings as he
drew nigh, for gazing curiously upon him. And
in answer to mannerly good-even of us all, he
did give, as 't were, a grunt, after the fashion of
his people, belike; yet when my father saith to
him then, Sir, what is your business here this
even ? he said not a word, only he stood stead-
fastly looking upon Simon.
So then we did all turn the same way, and
behold! Simon had gone ashen-white under
his natural brownness; and he stood stone-still,
a-staring at that other, like, mayhap, as when
one doth see on a sudden the ghost of somebody
long dead, and well-nigh forgot, beck to him out
o' the darkness. And whiles we all so stood, in
wonder, the Indian man, pointing to his own
breast, did say, in a harsh voice, "Me father,
me father and then, pointing to Simon straight,
said, "He son, he son!" Which spoken he
waved his hand back that way he had come
and cried in a louder voice right fiercely, saying,
"Son go with father "
Then Simon answered ne'er a word, but my
father spoke up, crying, Ha! Jack o' the
Feather! I thought I had seen thy rascally face
before. Darest thou set foot in these parts again ?
A pretty father thou art, that didst leave thy son
to starve 'T is no thanks to thee, I trow, that
he is 'live an' well to-day, an' by right and might
I swear he shall not go with thee, fellow, except
he himself do so choose!"
Then saith he to the lad, "Simon Peter, this
is in truth thy father, of whose kindness to thee
thou 'st often heard tell. Wilt thou willingly go
with him ? "
But yet Simon was as one dumb, speaking no
word; only he shook in every limb as struck by
a shaking ague. And Jack o' the Feather, see-
ing that, saith unto him a few words, right low,
-i' the Indian tongue, I reckon, for they were
such as none among us sensed the meaning of.
Now 't was little of that speech that Simon did
by this while remember, save a word o't here
an' there, half lost in's mind. Howsoe'er, when



that he did hear it now spoken, he looked in a
wild way, as when one heareth in dreams a very
strange back-drawing voice of witchery that he
may scarce resist but is yet death-frighted to fol-
low. In faith, I was like to cry out loud that
moment-for I did think by the look o' his
eyes then that he was going sure enow. "Never-
theless was there no need for such fear, for he
on a sudden put his two hands over his face and
cried out with a loud voice, No! no! no! I
will not go with thee! "
Now, that hearing, the Indian looked a very
black, murtherous look, and laid hand on his
tomahawk, but my father, stepping quick afore
the lad, saith unto him, Begone! in such voice
as e'en Jack o' the Feather dare not brook, I
ween. Go he did, of a truth, an' that straight-
way, yet stept he slow and proudly, as in very
vexing scorn; and at the wood's edge he turned
him round and waved his bow in threating way,
as half in mind to shoot. Howbeit, that he did
not, but passed into the dark forest, and we saw
him no more. And, I promise you, e'en my
mother did carry it right lovingly to Simon
that night.
Now the chance that did befall Jack o' the
Feather that same even, aye, within the very
same hour, was none of our fault, thank Heaven!
yet truly scarce more than his fair desert and no
just cause of grieving to anybody. 'T was as he
was making so hardily, and in a swaggering
manner o' boldness, along the open highway,
that whom doth he meet, face to face, but Mas-
ter Thomas Godkyn! Small wonder (as was
commonly said by all) that Master Godkyn
waxed right mad at that sight. Be that as may,
he was ever a passionate man, besides that time
somewhat in liquor, no less, an' there passed
sharp words betwixt 'em on that old matter o'
the maimed bull. 'T was Jack o' the Feather
that struck first blow (as Master Godkyn did after-
time solemnly swear) and 't was Master Godkyn
that slew him in the fight that so followed. And
all the neighbors said 't was no harm, but the
rather a safe riddance o' mischief. As to the
manner of that fight, I do remember it well,
having oft with mine own ears heard him, our
neighbor, relate the same. A shrewd tussle it
was, he did use to say, an' betwixt two that were
o'erwell matched to make one the easy master;

and so a-saying would he shake head right so-
berly thereupon, at mere after calling o't to mind.
'T was the red man that struck first blow, as I
said afore. "Mayhap the gallows will be high
enow, Sir Jack, for even your top notions," quoth
Master Godkyn, and, hearing this spoken, lo!
that other gave a very brutish, fierce cry, and
flinging behind him his great bow (which same
was no ready weapon in such sudden encounter),
he made at Master Godkyn with his tomahawk.
Howsoever, that stroke, for all it did start the
blood (and that from no mere skin-scratch,
neither), fell somewhat short, belike,-and e'en
whilst he raised the murtherous thing aloft for
another down-come, why, then did Master God-
kyn with a swift cunning dash o' the fist, that he
had learnt long agone when a young sporting
lad in England, strike it clean out of his hand.
So there was Jack o' the Feather fairly disarmed;
but yet, in sooth, the worst o't was still to come
for Master Godkyn; for when he would essay to
draw his good knife from his belt, why, what doth
that savage but clip him on a sudden in 's arms
as who would then and there squeeze very heart
and life out of his body. He was a strong proper
man as the most, was Master Godkyn, and stoutly
builded, to give blow or withstand, but a many
a time have I heard him say how on the first
amaze of this besetment he was but as little chick
in the coil of a black whip-snake. Truly this
weakness did in a moment pass-for the fear
of a sudden death maketh strong-and even as
Master Godkyn did feel his breath going from
him he made shift to catch it again. Whereupon
'gan the struggle in good earnest. For that Indian,
his arms were as iron hard, and cruel strong, and
his ribs were as brass; yet was the white man
he had thus laid hold on, not one to stand still
an' be crushed in any such devil's-trap. There
they had it, for sure, this way, that, an' t' other,
- a-straining and a-tugging for dear life againstt
foul death. 'T was a right curious turn o' the
mind (so Master Godkyn said afterward), and
such as the like of had ne'er before come unto
him, but 't was sure-enough truth, no less, that
he did remember and see plain, 'fore his senses
in a moment, nay, in the twinkling of an eye, that
time, all things he had ever done and said of good
or ill, life-long. Also it came to him in a sharp,
raging way, as 't were a dagger struck through


the heart, how many perils he had 'scapen, by
land and sea, to fall now, mayhap, by such base
means at last. So ran this thought within him,
lightning-quick and furious: What! was 't for
this he did over-live the sweating-sickness in
London Town, and the fight with pirates a-com-
ing 'cross the ocean
(wherein so many ,
bold fellows were i -
bloodily cut down), .
and the wreck of the
' Sea-Venture (for
he was one o' that 'i
company), an' all
the starving-time at
Jamestown with\
many other notable
dangers, past men-
tion to die not
Christianly in his \,
bed at last, but in '
sudden unbeknown i
fight with a red In-
dian knave, and he '4
not even accounted
own people. Then
that was a bitter- .
black thought, for- -
sooth, but yet, may-
be, the saving o' his -
life, no less; for e'en
in the swift passing
rage thereof, he be-
thought him of a --_
wrestling trick well- __
nigh forgot in 's -
mind that might
avail him at this -
pinch. Now, by this --
trick it was that he
tripped up and over- \
threwhis adversary, "SOMETIMES HE BORE
who, falling right
heavily undermost upon the stony highway, did
perforce somewhat loosen that fell grip; and so
it came to pass that Master Godkyn did make
out at last to draw his knife, and then, as Jack
o' the Feather started up again (like any fierce
beast that's brought to its last bay), why, then
VOL. XVII.--5.

did Master Godkyn, for defending of his own life,
stab him to the very heart so that he fell back
an' died.
So that was the end of that encounter. And
all the neighbors said 't was no harm, but the
rather a safe riddance o' mischief. And the dead



sd, / I,


-- .. -_
-- -- -


body was given o'er to two of his kin, who did
hap to come a-seeking him, and bore it back
with them that way they came-nor did any
man at that time call Master Godkyn to account
for the same; only it seemeth to me always a
fearsome thing to have man's blood on one's



hands; neither was I anywise astonished at
Simon's taking of the news when my father told
it him. Was 't not his natural born father, in
sooth, flesh o' his flesh, blood o' his blood-de-
spite of opposing misbehavior? So it seemed as
naught strange to me, as to the rest, that he hid
himself away from sight of all, that day of hear-
ing it, and for many days afterward had few
words to speak to anybody.
Well, well! a right wonderful thing is nature,
truly, and it taketh its own way despite of law
and gospel and all contrary custom. Now,
whether 't was the killing o' his father at that
time, or whether the natural turn o' his mind to
work darksomely upon itself, that did bring
round such change in Simon, God knoweth!
but a change there was, for certain. He had
ne'er been given to chatter overmuch, but 't was
fairly as one tongue-tied he did now appear.
As for the daily tasks, them did he do as afore-
time, only in a sullen and grievous way, like to
any driven slave; yet he sported no more at all,
the rather choosing that time to himself for lone-
somely walking abroad or brooding in some
corner apart. Alackaday! The poor lad! my
heart doth ache for him now. 'T was a strange
case to be so situate betwixt one's natural race
and kindred and such as were bounden enemies
(and that past control of will) againstt them and
theirs forever. Aye, aye; for all I was but a
child then, and too little to sense aright the ins
and outs thereof, it hath come to me since, I
trow; an' small wonder 't is that the blackness
of his eyes i' those days was as night without
moon or star.
Now, as to his own Indian race and nation, he
had ne'er aforetime been curious in asking of
questions, for all ever keenly a-listening to aught
about them spoken. Neither did he inquire
anything by word of mouth in these days
whereof I tell, only he would be now always
secretly spelling o'er in my father's books what
was there writ down concerning the same, by
Captain John Smith and others. Also many 's
the time I did see him pick up an Indian arrow-
head from the ground (for there were many
thereabout scattered) and so stand gazing upon
it, goodness knoweth how long by the clock! as
thinking strange thoughts inside of him, may-
hap, and clean forgetting all else in this world.

Also, would he oft be walking solitarily and spy-
ing 'mongst some two or three ancient ruined
wigwams left long empty i' the wood hard by;
yet, I promise you, if our lads durst ever any-
wise plague him concerning this so strange be-
havior he was as tow to fire. So it passed, day
in and out, weeks and months one after t' other,
till the summer season o' that year was gone
and autumn did come round.
Now, concerning the very dreadful thing that
then befell in Virginia, 't was even as a thunder-
bolt out of a fair even sky, with not the merest
little small cloud for a warning aforetime. Nay,
whoever would in reason have foredreamt it or
supposed it as anywise possible, e'en of that most
subtle, secret, and murtherous Indian people,
after so long peace and friendly commingling
together! Surely never in this world was so
cruel and barbarous assault so unprovoken; for
as to the killing of Jack o' the Feather, which
same mishap, 't was afterward told, had been
made a handle of by the King Opechancanough
in stirring up of wrath againstt the English-as
to that, but little store did the red people truly
set by him, I do reckon, nor was any white man
but the one (being Master Godkyn himself) con-
cerned in that business. Neither could those
Indians anywise justly complain how the whites
had them in a manner dispossest, seeing that
themselves had willingly consented thereto.
Was 't they, or their forefathers, that did establishh
boundaries, dig foundations, or make any proper
decent settlements? Nay, not so; nor doth
he set overmuch value on God's earth, I 'm
thinking, who will sell the same to first-comer
for a string o' beads or gaudy garment. A full
ten year and more had peace continued, with
kindness and good neighboring on both sides.
And many of the Indians had removed 'way off
to northward into the great woods on York
River, but yet a many more were still tarrying
amongst us, aye, not a few in fair houses builded
for them, English fashion, by the settlers. More-
over, not a few, again, had been taken in, even as
Simon, by the whites as children or dear favored
servants; and thus, lo and behold! did it come
to pass that these vipers for the most part, being
warmed and filled, did in very natural poisonous
malice strike the hand that fed them, or the
rather as under-sappers and miners of the walls


that sheltered them seek to fetch all down-
e'en tho' to their own crushing destruction-by
the fell blow of this bloody vengeance. So was
the foul plot laid in secret for that massacre, the
dreadfulest thing that did ever hap in all Vir-
ginia, and such as I pray God will never be
again-and of it, as I said before, was no
littlest warning given. There be sometimes
signs an' signals in nature foretelling such ca-
lamity, as have oftentimes been proven. Yea,
a-many a one have I myself taken note of for
lesser trouble than that. Howsoever, for all
our dairy-wench, Dolly Shaw, would be telling
afterward about a death-watch ticking in her
ear nine nights a-running, and a bloody red
sunrise on the Friday morn next afore that
woful Christmas day-why, it was all too late,
as my mother said, for any such talk then.
And it came to pass, one even in December
month, that I did follow Simon on one of his
lonesome goings unto those old crumbling wig-
wams i' the woods, whereof I have told. 'T was
little note he had taken of me an' my plays
for many a long day, sure enough, but I was
a-wearying of mine own company that time, with
Francis an' Dick gone a-hunting and my mother
and all the maids too busy o'er house matters to
speak me even a word. So running after Simon
(afar off, yet ever keeping him in sight) I did go
along into the dark, thick forest; yet when he
reached that place I hardly durst fetch up unto
him, but stopped and hid me behind a little
cedar bush hard by the path to screw up my
courage. And behold! whiles I was standing
there a-peeping thro', what did I see but a very
tall and fierce-appearing Indian man come out
o' the nighest wigwam and fall a-talking with
So there stood they, face to face; and there
stood I-a-looking frightedly-'most ready to
run back that way I 'd come, only I durst not,
any more than go on. Ne'er a word that they
said could I hear, but I saw that the tall Indian
spake as 't were earnestly, and with right fierce,
uncouth gestures did enforce the same. Also I
saw that, at the first of it, Simon did shake head
an' turn away-as who mayhap doth say, "No,
no, no!" to somewhat or other and will scarce
hearken thereto. Whereupon the man, waxing
still more vehement, stamped upon the ground

and pointed fiercely with 's long cruel-shapen
fingers, this way, that, an' t' other till presently
I, making sure that he pointed once straight at
me, fell down for very terror where I stood. So
I lay a-quaking. And after a while (goodness
knoweth how long but it did seem monstrous
long to me) came Simon himself, a-running
back,-yet heavily and stumbling as one half-
blind,-and so espied me there.
Then he stood as one amazed, looking first
at me, then back o'er his shoulder fearsomely;
but I perceived that the strange Indian had
turned away, making off swiftly into the wood.
And Simon cried out to me, Gillian i Gillian i
didst thou hear what he said ? Didst hear?"
And I said truly, nay; but that I saw the man.
Whereupon I fell a-crying for very fear of I
knew not what. And I said, "Oh, Simon!
what hast thou to do with the dreadful dark
man? Oh, prythee take me home, Simon, lest
he should come again!" For truly I was
frighted 'most to death at the very thought o'
that, and I held him tight, a-weeping. But he
cried out loud, vehemently, "No! no! he will
not come. He shall not hurt thee! He shall
not! he shall not! They shall ne'er hurt thee
in this world, my little sister Gillian! "
So with that he comforted me, saying those
same words o'er and o'er again, Gillian! Gil-
lian 1 my little sister, Gillian! And so drying
my tears right kindly, as my brother might, he
did carry me home (when that I had ceased to
weep) afore him in his arms. But he straightly
charged me to tell nobody that which I had seen;
and I, knowing naught of the harm thereof, did
promise to keep it secret.
Now, that was nigh a week before Christmas,
which same was the secretly appointed time.
Never before had his mood been so black, I
trow, e'en at worst. 'T was as if an ill disease
had him fast, for truly the flesh wasted off his
bones from one day to next, and scarce a mor-
sel of victual would he be eating. I do think
that e'en my mother had more pitied than
blamed him that while, but for his darksome
scowls and downcast shunning o' the looks of us
all. But as it was, in sooth, she cried, "He
surely hath a devil! Alackaday!" quoth she,
" that such an one, so possest in evil, did ever
come into this house! Aye, even my father



turned againstt him then, for saith he, "Is this
how he doth repay my kindness to him, life-long !
'T is an ill-conditioned lad," quoth he, "an' my
wife hath been wiser than I, all along, in this
matter. Let none either chide or coax, but all
leave him alone in his foul sulking humor till
I find place for him otherwhere than in my
So by that command did all abide. In sooth,
I do reckon, I was the only one of all i' the
house that did anywise yearn to the contrary.
But I durst not bespeak Simon a word, and thus
was he left to his own thoughts an' devices till
the very day came round.
I mind well that Christmas eve, an' for the
matter o' that there be few a-living in this Vir-
ginia, from then till now, who have forgot the
same, I do reck. Such a baking and brewing,
such roasting and boiling, such a garnishing an'
making ready for next day's feast, as there was
with us, to be sure for howsoever times might
pinch in common, my father and mother needs
must be making shift to keep Christmas holi-
day i' the good old English fashion of their
young days. I mind how we had a brave pasty
that day for dinner, in foretaste o' the morrow,
and when we sat down at table, at about one
o' the clock, all were there already to eat but
Simon. Whereupon my father saith, "Where
is Master Doleful Dumps, I pray? And my
mother cried, "Dear heart, I do neither know
nor care! But Dolly Shaw, who stood behind
her chair, spake up, saying, He is in the top
loft o' the house, where he hath e'en been well-
nigh all day, a-sulking." Then Dickon would
be asking (for he had e'er a rare sweet humor,
had our Dick), "Shall I run tell him o' the
pasty ? Howsoever, the master made answer,
No. Let him wait till he be hungry," quoth
he, "for I warrant empty stomach needs no
coaxing. He will be high in place tho' low in
spirit, it doth seem. Fetch him not down."
So then all did go on to eat without more ado;
but, for mine own part, the victual seemed to
go against me that day.
Now, when that the meal was o'er, some went
one way, some another, about their several mat-
ters; yet I could do naught in pleasure for think-
ing of Simon, 'way up yonder, so lonesome and
without cheer. In faith, I was always a loving

little lass, an' tender-true to them that had
showed me kindness; nor could I then deck my
doll in holiday fashion, nor look on at the maids
i' the kitchen, nor sport with my tame deer, nor
anywise content me with this trouble on my
mind. Wherefore, as hour after hour did pass,
I bethought me how thirsty he must be by that
time. 'T was not of hunger I would be think-
ing, for truly he seemed to have forgot the feel
o' that in those days; but all must surely drink
to live. 'T was a green Christmas, that (and
such as old folk say maketh a fat graveyard),
and mighty warm for the season; and I had
noted well, at time of breakfast that morn, how
Simon, eating no single mouthful, drank scarce
one cup o' milk. Moreover, I also bethought
me how folk would oft be talking of peace an'
good will at Christmas-tide, even as the Bible
telleth that angels sang unto those shepherds
a-listening on the hill-top; yet, in sooth, that
saying did then appear but an idle mock to me,
and no peace in mine heart at all, with Simon
left out a-cold. And so I said within myself,
"'T is surely no harm nor naughty disobedience,
nor will my father 'count it any such, if I carry
him a drink." Then I took from the mantel-
shelf mine own silver cup, that my grandmother
Griffin had sent unto me for a christening gift,
all the way from England, and fetched it brim-
ming full o' fresh fair water from the spring,
unseen by anybody. And I went with it in my
two hands so softly (for fear of spilling) up the
big stair an' the little steep stair into the great
loft room.
Now, 't was the first time that I did ever go
alone, of mine own accord, into that room, for
it had ever seemed to me a strange and awe-
some place, mayhap resembling some such as
we hear tell of in old enchanted houses or the
like. Not that our house had been builded
long, or was aught like a grand big castle.
Nay! But in this top room that spread all o'er
the bigness o't, it was ever half dark as twilight,
having only one little small window for the
whole, and the great beams o' the roof so heav-
ily sloping down, with cobwebs hanging there-
from. Then a-many strange things were there
stored away for safe-keeping that no place might
be found for i' the house below, such as the
skins of divers beasts, tanned with the fur on,





'": -,

~~ .:~!i~-


lii Ii '' I.
II, 'I

,''* ~


* *I C9;'I



as they had been killed from time to time, and
hanged up for some-day use; or weapons of
warfare, as swords, pikes, bludgeons, and so on,
laid by againstt troublous times. Also, was there
a great bedstead that my mother would be
keeping for the fitting of a guest-chamber after-
while, with the tall carven posts bewrapt in white
linen an' looking like any four ghosts i' their
shrouds; with ancient storage-chests, broken
tables, chairs, and what not of relics from the
Old World, mingled together disorderly with
trophies of the New.
Now, at first I saw nothing at all of Simon,
and 'gan to think he was there no longer, when
presently I did espy him. There was he, sure
enough, in a far dim corner, a-sitting dolefully,
as 't were, all huddled up on one o' the big chests.
Only, his face and hands I could not see, for they
were hid in a wolfskin there hanging from a
beam o'erhead, even as a child doth cling and
hide face in his mother's skirt, mayhap -as I
bethought me then and afterward. So I waited
a little space, but yet he did not look up nor stir;
and then I went softly 'cross the floor, till being
come nigh I did hold up the cup an' say, Simon,
I have fetched thee a drink! Then he let go
of the wolfskin and looked up, a-shuddering all
o'er his body and appearing, mayhap, like one
on a sudden half waken from a very dark, horrid
dream, whereby he is still holden an' distrest,
not knowing false from true. Yet never a word
he spake; only stared so strangely at me as I
stood. Whereupon I said again,-for all a bit
quaking at the woful blackness o' his gaze,-
"Art thou not thirsty, Simon ? Dost thou not
know 't is Christmas-tide ? An' wilt thou not
drink this fair water in mine own silver cup -
for peace an' good will ? "
Still he looked at me in a wild way, and all
round the room, shaking like as if I had struck
him with those words. Yet did he not take the
water; and all o' the instant, e'en as I so stood
reaching it out unto him lo! he gave a very
dreadful sharp cry, like somewhat had broke
within him, and flung him face down on the
floor betwixt us.
Now, at that I stood frighted and trembling,
till the water was spilled and the cup nigh
fell from my hand. And naught durst I say, or
could, but Simon! Simon!" o'er and o'er again.

And to that he made no answer, only so a-lying
i' the dust did strike on the floor with his hand-
most dreadfully a-weeping and moaning, for
some space; till presently he, looking up, said
unto me, Call the master! "
Then I went down, as fast as I might for legs
a-trembling underneath me, and called my father,
who did come up hastily and wondering at that
summons. Also my mother came a-running
behind, and the maids from their cookery, and
the lads from cleaning of their guns i' the hall -
all in haste and amazedly to see what was toward
now. And when my father was come into the
room (for those others did but listen on the
stair) there was Simon, a-standing straight up,
yet shaking as who doth face death.
Then, 'fore ever my father might ask e'en,
How 's this ? he cried out loud, saying, There
is yet time There is yet time! Strike me dead
when I have told it," crieth he, but listen to me
first!" Then saith he on, "They have whetted
their knives. They have sharpened their toma-
hawks for blood, blood, blood, this night t
Opechancanough, the king, hath planned it-
all the red men have sworn together. This
night by darkfall will the killing begin all o'er
Virginia the killing o' the white people! "
And he, throwing himself down on 's knees
afore my father, said in a wild way, Master!
Master! They did promise me not to slay thee,
or Gillian, or Dick. I did vow at first to tell,
'less they promised me that. Yet have I seen it
'fore mine eyes, day an' night the blood and
the killing and the crying was in mine ears.
Then Gillian came with the water-and now I
prythee strike me dead, for I am false to both
sides! I am neither white nor red -an' not
anywise worth to live!"
Now, that hearing, my mother and the maids
cried out for fear, "God ha' mercy! What
will become of us and thete came a white-
ness even o'er my father's face, for 't was a fear-
some dreadful thing to think of, an' the sun nigh
going down as from the little window we
might see. Howsoever, he laid not his hand
on the lad, but, after that he had bidden the
woman take heart o' grace, he said unto him,
"Up, boy, an' get thee down with me. Thou
hast been bad enow, God knoweth;-but 't is
our part to save, an' not to kill, this night. I



will give thee chance a plenty, by St. George!
to prove thee yet worthy living."
'T was well we had good horses and strong -
aye, an' well-fed -in our stable, for 't was both
fast and far they needs must go that even.
Good twenty miles were we from Jamestown,
as the crow flieth; eighteen miles the way lay
to Wyanoke on one hand, nineteen or so was it
to Falling Creek on t' other--through wood
and swamp, with scarce road or track at all. As
for my father, he must needs stay for our defense
at home; but on the three fleetest horses the
three lads did go to warn and save such as
might be. I mind how my mother wept over
an' kissed Francis and Dickon as 't were death-
parting to see them go and sooth, poor soul!
I reckon she guessed full well how 't would be
with them both, if they made not good speed ere
sundown. But unto Simon 't was only my father
that said good-bye, when he started the James-
town way, on wild Blackamoor a-riding. "Now,
if thou wouldst show human good inside thee,"
saith he, I charge thee ride thy best." And
Simon's face was as any stone set when he heard
that word and started forth.
Well, well! 't is over an' done, bless Heaven!
this many a year agone, and may we never
see the like of such a Christmas e'er again in
Virginia, I do pray! Good speed the three
lads made in their several ways. 'T was Simon
that did first win to the end o' his, for all it was
the longest. So was Jamestown saved, and so
likewise did those two other settlements 'scape
from fire and bloody slaughter. I promise you,
those murtherous yelling knaves that came
againstt our house that night did find my father
ready with warmer welcome than they looked
for. Yet alas and alas for them who had no
such a warning as ours and alas for all Virginia
that bitter, cruel night! Right bloodily the white
people wrought vengeance for 't in aftertime.
Aye, aye; 't was said they did hunt the Indians
like wild beasts, in some parts, with bloodhounds

fetched o'er from England a purpose for the busi-
ness; yet it brought not the dead ones to life
again, so killed in sudden horrid massacre. At
Warrasqueake, an' Flower de Hundred, and
Martin's Brandon, and Westover nay, where
not elsewhere, i' faith, save the three places that
our three lads did save! All o'er the land, to
tell truth, was foul murther done; with hundreds
o' dead corpses that were live and warm at sun-
down left a-cold ere daybreak, and that unhu-
manly hacked to bits in a manner not befitting
civil ears to hear tell of. I trow the Christmas
viands were but funeral meats that woful time,
an' Christmas hymns of cheer all turned to
dirges. Yea, lads an' lasses here a-listening, ye
may e'en thank God on bended knees this night
for that these days be not like them agone!
Now as to Totapotamoi, or Simon Peter, as we
always called him, we never saw that lad more,
nor heard to any certainty what did become
o' him. My father found the horse Blackamoor
safe enough in James City next morn, but 'mongst
all the townsfolk none might know how it had
gone with the rider when his message was told.
And whether he slew himself in dark despairing
mood; or was slain by the Indians in wrath for
his betrayal of their wickedness; or whether
he doth still live with them, his natural kin and
race, in the great woods behind the mountains
(as was long aftertime rumored credibly to be
the way o't), God knoweth, not I; but it hath
always pleased me to think him still a-living, an'
that some day 'fore I died I might set eyes on
him again.
'T was many a long day ere my heart would
give o'er aching at the thought o' him, for all
the folk would oft be a-telling me that time and
after, with tears and kisses, that when God him-
self did put into my head to fetch the Indian lad
that water in my silver cup, 't was even (in the
saving o' precious lives) as the Bible saith con-
cerning them that so a-doing will not lose their
goodly reward.



i', ,

I I 11,. ,,,,

" Out from the dark, mysterious North,
With all its glamour, every night
Tingling with forgotten dreams,
A nd every day flood-full of light."



How weary the ice-river grew
In those dark months of winter night,
And, poised upon his lofty cliff,
Longed, longed, for other worlds and flight.

What use was all his mighty mold,
With none to wonder and admire
The light and color that he held,
The moonstone gleam, the opal fire!

In vain the mother glacier showed
Pale altars answering with cold rites
The flashes of eternal stars,
The lances of the northern lights;

A band of sunbeams came that way,
Tempted, and touched, and lured him
Wild dreams of suns and southern skies,-
A wrench, a plunge, and he was gone.

With swift embrace the billows swelled
To meet him, leaping twice and thrice
In thunder, ere they led him forth,
King of a world of floating ice.

Down, down, by viewless currents drawn,
His huge mass underneath the sea,
His lofty tops enskyed, he moved
Like some vast fleet in majesty,-

Out from the dark, mysterious North,
With all its glamour, every night
Tingling with unforgotten dreams,
And every day flood-full of light.

The white bear slumbered in his caves;
The sunbeams played about his tips;
Down, down he bore to summer seas
And crashed his way through sinking ships.

And drowning sailors saw on high
Those icy walls where surges tossed,
Descended out of heaven, a pile
Of jeweled splendor fired in frost.
VOL. XVII.-i6.

Lapis and turquois pierced with light
To sapphire, emerald hollows paled
To beryl, topaz burning clear
In flames of chrysolite, he sailed.

Down, down to equatorial seas
Still slowly drifting,-ah, how sweet
These soft caresses of the tide
Far in the depths about his feet!

How tenderly this morning gleam
Saluted all his shining spires,
That far away the voyager saw
Tipped with the blaze of ruby fires!

How ardently through warm south winds
The stresses of the noontide beat,
Till brooks burst forth far up his sides,
Dissolving in a fervent heat.

Now plumed with streaming smoke he went,
Now but a cloud of amethyst,
The ghost of glory, weird and white,
Now wrapt within a world of mist.

The sweet and treacherous currents still
Around his weakening bases whirled,
The great throat of the hurricane
Tremendous blasts against him hurled.

Into blue air he crept; and now
Those sunbeams armed with javelins
A hostile legion, fierce and fain,
And all his awful beauty stormed.

Ah, for that dim dark home once more,
Those lances of the northern lights!
Then his tops bent them to their fall,
The wide seas rose and drowned his heights.

And, but a hulk of crumbling ice,
Within the deep he found his grave,
Stranded upon a hidden key,
And washed to nothing by a wave.

(A Norse Tale Freely Relold.*)


( e'-- HERE was once a cler-
6il i gyman who lived some-
where in the interior
mountain valleys of
Norway. He had five
children, all of whom
S were dear to him; but
there was one among
S l them who was nearer
to his heart than all
S the rest; and that was
a little girl, five years
old, named Alvilda. It
may have been because she was the youngest
of the five; and the youngest, especially if it
is a girl, is always likely to be the father's
pet; or it may have been because she was a
very sweet and lovable child who drew all
hearts toward her as the sun draws the flow-
ers. When her mother took her to church on
Sunday morning, she slipped like a sunbeam
among the somber congregation, and all faces
brightened and a softer look stole into the eyes
of old and young, when she passed by. In her
quaint little poke-bonnet and her old-fashioned
gown, and with her chubby little hands folded
over her mother's hymn-book, she did, indeed,
look so bewitching that it seemed a hardship
not to stop and kiss her. "Bless the child,"

said the matrons, with heartfelt unction, when
her bright smile beamed upon them. Bless
her dear little heart," ejaculated the young girls
admiringly, as they knelt down in the road to
pat Alvilda, to kiss her, or only to touch her
in passing.
When Alvilda's fifth birthday came it hap-
pened to be right in the middle of the berry
season; and it was determined to celebrate it
by a berrying party to which a dozen children
of the neighborhood were invited. Fritz, Al-
vilda's fourteen-year-old brother, whom she
abjectly admired, magnanimously undertook the
duty of sending out the invitations; and he con-
sulted his own sovereign fancy in inviting those
whom he liked and leaving out those who had
had the misfortune to incur his displeasure. It
was found when all the children gathered in
front of the parsonage, about nine o'clock in the
morning, that it was indeed Fritz's party rather
than Alvilda's. But Alvilda, who always thought
that whatever Fritz did was well done, was
perfectly content. She liked big boys, she said,
because they were not half the trouble that
little girls were. First, there was her brother
Charles, twelve years old, who was the proud
possessor of a drum which had been presented
to him at Christmas; the judge's Albert, thirteen
years old, who was, to be sure, a great tease, and

This story, or rather the principal incident in it, I heard as a child, and have an impression that it is found
in one of the Norwegian school-readers. I do not remember who is its author, if I ever knew; but it is known to
every Norwegian child, and is a kind of classic of the Norse nursery. H. H. B.


inclined to run off with Fritz on all sorts of mys-
terious errands; and there was the lawyer's Fred-
erick, who never spoke to girls in public for
fear of being thought frivolous. Of girls there
were but two: Sophy, Alvilda's fifteen-year-old,
sister, who was almost grown up, and carried
a novel in her pocket which she read at odd
moments in the garden, in the kitchen, and, most
of all, in the woods; and Albert's sister, Inge-
borg, who had so many delightful secrets which
she would never share with anybody except her
bosom friend Sophy.
Fritz, who had provided himself with a tin
trumpet, marshaled his forces in the yard, and,
having arranged them in rank and file like sol-
diers, gave the command, "Forward, march!"
The girls followed as best they could; the
two elder ones leading Alvilda by the hand be-
tween them. The father, who was reluctant to
send her into the woods, fearing that she might
become overtired, charged them not to leave her
for a moment, and to see that she had an oppor-
tunity to rest whenever she wished, all of which
Sophy and Ingeborg promised.
The weather was glorious: the sun was just
warm enough to be agreeable, and the light
clouds which sailed over the blue vault of the
sky seemed to be having a happy time of it.
The woods which grew in the rugged glens on
the slope of the mountain were filled with the
fragrance of birch and pine and lilies of the val-
ley; and the brooks, swollen by the melting ice
of the glaciers, danced gayly down through the
ravines, with a constant, gurgling rush which fell
pleasantly upon the ear.
When the boys left the highway for the moun-
tain-paths, they broke ranks, and each scrambled
up over the rocks as best he could. It was in
vain that Fritz blew his trumpet and Charles
beat his drum. To climb the great moss-grown
rocks was too inviting; and to stand on the top
of them and shout against the mountain wall,
which gave such a splendid echo, was a delight
which made the heart leap in one's bosom.
Fritz himself was not proof against such temp-
tations, and finding his commands ignored, he
gracefully surrendered his dignity and joined
with a will in the sports of the rest. There were
squirrels to be stoned,--not a very nice sport, I
admit,-and later Fritz was ashamed of having

engaged in it. But there was much of the
savage about him when he found himself in
the woods, and he' made it a point to act out
the character and suppress whatever gentle emo-
tions may have stirred in his bosom. Happily,
the squirrels were too nimble and alert for the
boys, and sat chattering at them from the upper
branches of the pines, where the stones, if they
reached at all, went wildly amiss. They then
found a toad, and would, I fear, have pitched it
heavenward from the end of a board, if the girls
with Alvilda had not caught up with them; and
the latter, in consideration of its being her birth-
day, was gallantly permitted to save the con-
demned miscreant. For these boys, whoever
and whatever they were, were never themselves.
They were by turns robbers, pirates, medieval
knights, Norse vikings, everything under the sun
they could think of, except nice, respectable
country boys,-sons, respectively, of a lawyer, a
judge, and a clergyman. A toad, in their hands,
became a captured merchant, or an enchanted
princess, or a thief condemned to death, as the
case might be. But it never by any possibility
remained a toad.
When they had climbed for an hour, Alvilda
began to grow tired; and Fritz, seeing that there
was no likelihood of reaching the enchanted ter-
ritory he had in view, without carrying her, un-
dertook with the aid of his comrades to make
a litter of soft pine branches which was quite
comfortable to repose upon. The boys then
took turns carrying Alvilda, addressing her all
the while as the Princess Kunigunde, who was
betrothed to the King of Andalusia, and was
now being borne by her faithful knights to meet
her royal adorer. Alvilda laughed heartily at
their absurd deferential speeches; and her clear
voice rang through the woods, startling now a
covey of partridges which broke with a frightened
hum through the underbrush, now a hare which
scooted away with long leaps over the heather,
now a wild duck which, with a great flapping of
wings, darted away in a straight line over the
water, leaving its young in the lurch among the
sedges. But, although she found it ridiculous,
Alvilda enjoyed immensely being a princess and
having her devoted knights kiss her hand and
bend their knees when they spoke to her.
It was about eleven o'clock when the party


reached Fritz's berrying-grounds, which he had
discovered a few days ago, when on an expedi-
tion with Albert in search of adventures. It was
just then toward the end of the strawberry sea-
son and the beginning of the blueberry season.
The sweet wild strawberry, than which there is
nothing more delicious under the sun, betrayed
itself by its fragrance under the heather, and
when the boys found an open patch, about the
roots of a tree, where the berries grew in big
bunches, they shouted aloud and danced an
Indian war-dance from excess of joy, before
beginning to fill their mouths, their pails, and
their baskets. Fritz and Albert, who were the
champion pickers, had soon filled the tin pails
they had brought with them, and set to work
with great dispatch to make baskets of birch-
bark wherewith to carry off their surplus. There
were the great blueberryfields still to be ravaged;
and it seemed a pity not to pick some of the
fragrant sweet-brier, and lilies of the valley that
grew so abundantly among the birches and
alders. Sophy and Ingeborg went into ecstasy
over the nodding clusters of pretty, bell-shaped
flowers which, in Norway, grow wild in the
woods, and they picked their aprons full, again
and again, emptying them into one of Fritz's
birch-bark baskets. Of sweet-brier, too, and
the delicate little wood-stars there was no lack;
and in the open glades they found some belated
violets with a shy little ghost of a fragrance that
stole into one's nostrils as a kind thought steals
into the heart.
Fritz and his manly comrades protested, of
course, against this "tomfoolery with the flow-
ers; but as some indulgence must be granted
to the foibles of girls, they consented to assist
in the undignified task. A big heap of varie-
gated color -pink, white, blue, and green -
was piled up under a large, wide-spreading
pine, where Alvilda sat, like a fairy queen, glory-
ing in her perishable treasures. It was then
Fritz lost his patience, and demanded to know
whether it was not time now to stop this non-
sense and go in quest of something worth
wearying one's limbs for. As he had brought
fishing tackle and bait, he would propose a
little fishing expedition on a tar, close by, and
if the girls did n't care to accompany him,
he would go alone with his trusty friends,

Robin Hood and the Gray Friar, and catch
enough to provide luncheon for the whole
army. This proposition was too tempting to be
resisted, and presently all the boys scampered
-away through the underbrush, leaving the three
girls under the pine tree. Sophy spread a shawl
upon the ground for Alvilda to lie down upon;
and herself drew a favorite novel from her pocket,
which she discussed in whispers with Ingeborg.
There were, indeed, the most delicious things in
this book: dreadful, black-hearted villains, with
black mustaches, who prowled about in all sorts
of disguises and lay in wait for unsuspecting
innocence; splendid, high-spirited heroes, with
blonde mustaches and nodding white plumes on
their helmets, who rescued guileless innocence
from the wiles of the villains, and subsequently
married it and no end of delightful things
besides. Sophy soon lost all thought of her sis-
ter during this absorbing discussion, and Alvilda,
finding herself neglected, pouted a little and
dozed away into a sweet sleep.
In the mean while the boys were having great
fun down on the tarn; and being seized with a
ravenous appetite as their usual hour for
luncheon passed, they resolved to have a little
impromptu feast all by themselves before re-
turning to the girls. They had caught a dozen
fine trout and no end of perch, and their mouths
watered to test the flavor of the former on the
spot. They accordingly built an improvised
stove of flat stones, made a fire in it, split the
fish, and broiled them over the fire.
The trout in particular proved to have a superb
flavor, and Fritz, as a generous and magnanimous
freebooter, was dispensing the hospitality of the
woods with a royal hand. He forgot all about his
dear little sister in whose honor he was feasting,
and he forgot, too, that he had promised to return
in half an hour with his catch of fish. Sophy
and Ingeborg, having exhausted the delights
of the novel, began to grow hungry, and when an
hour had passed, they became impatient and, at
last, angry. They could hear the boys' shouts of
laughter in the distance, and they began to sus-
pect that the boys were lunching without them.
Now and then the blare of Fritz's trumpet was
vaguely audible, and the rumble of Charles's
"I really think, Ingeborg," said Sophy, that



those wretched boys have forgotten all about
"I never could understand why boys were
created," observed Ingeborg.
Well, anyway, I am hungry," ejaculated
"And I am ravenous that is, I am not
averse to something to eat," echoed her friend.
"Suppose we go and find those graceless
scamps," suggested Sophy.
"Very well; but what shall we do with Al-
vilda ?"
Alvilda,- to be sure,- what were they to do
with her ? Sophy felt a little pang of guilt as
her eyes fell upon the sweet, chubby face of her
sleeping sister.
"She is sleeping so soundly. It would be a
pity to waken her," she remarked doubtfully.
"What do you say?"
"Why, nothing can happen to her here,"
said Ingeborg; "we shall only be gone fifteen
minutes, you know, and then we shall be back
with the boys."
"But suppose there were bears about here;
then it might be dangerous to leave her "
"Yes, and suppose there were lions and -
crocodiles," laughed Ingeborg.
This sally disposed of Sophy's scruples; and
having thrown a jacket over Alvilda's feet and
kissed her on the cheek, she flung one arm
about her friend's waist and wandered away
with her in the direction from which the boys'
laughter was heard. It was not difficult to
find those young gentlemen, for they were en-
gaged in a lively wrangle as to which was the
rightful possessor of the surplus quantity of fish
which they could not devour. Fritz main-
tained that he, as the chieftain, had a just claim
to the proceeds of the labor of his vassals and
slaves, and the vassals and slaves loudly rebelled
and declared that they would never submit to
such injustice; whereupon the chieftain mag-
nanimously declared that he would renounce
his rights and surrender the booty to be divided
by lot among his men-at-arms. It was at this
interesting point that the girls appeared upon
the scene, and the gallant freebooters dropped
their quarrel and undertook, somewhat shame-
facedly, to wait upon their fair guests. And as
the fair guests had rather unfashionable appe-

tites, after their long fast and vigorous exercise,
the fifteen minutes became half an hour and
the half hour began to round itself out to a
whole hour, before their consciences smote them
and they thought of Alvilda who was asleep
under the big pine tree.
And now let us see what befell little Alvilda.
She slept quietly for about twenty minutes after
her sister left her; and she would have slept
longer if something very extraordinary had not
happened. She was dreaming that the big
mastiff, Hector, at home in the parsonage, was
insisting upon kissing her, and she was struggling
to get away from his cold, wet nose, but could
not. A strange, wild odor was filling the air,
and it penetrated into Alvilda's dream and
made her toss uneasily. There was Hector
again, with his cold, wet nose, and he was blow-
ing his warm breath into her face. She tried
to scold him, but not a sound could she pro-
duce. In her annoyance she struck out with
her hand and hit something warm and furry.
But here consciousness broke through the filmy
webs of slumber; she opened her eyes wide
and raised herself on her elbow. There stood
Hector, indeed, and stared straight into her
eyes. But how big he was! And how his ears
had shrunk and his fur grown! Alvilda rubbed
her eyes to make sure that she was awake. She
stared once more with a dim apprehension, and
saw,-yes, there could be no doubt of it,-she
saw that it was not Hector. It was an enor-
mous, big brown beast, that stood snuffing at
her; it was, perhaps, even a dangerous beast,
which might take it into its head to hurt her.
It was,-yes, now she was quite sure of it,-it
was a big brown bear !
The little girl's first impulse was to cry out
for help. But it was so strangely still about her.
Where were her brothers and sister, Fritz and
his freebooters, Sophy and her friend Ingeborg?
Itcouldnotbe possible that they had left her alone
here in the forest. She threw frightened glances
about her; but wherever she looked she saw
nothing but the long, solemn colonnades of
brown pine trunks. And there, right in front of
her, stood the bear, staring at her with his small
black eyes. It occurred to her, even amid
her fright, that she must try to make friends
with this bear, in which case, perhaps, he might


consent not to eat her. She knew from her fairy-
tales that there were good bears and bad bears,
and she devoutly hoped that her new acquain-
tance might prove to belong to the order of good
bears. So, with a quaking heart and a voice that
shook, she arose, and putting her hand on the
bear's neck, she exclaimed with pathetic friend-
liness: I know you very well, Mr. Bear, but
you don't know me. I know you from my
picture-book. You are the good bear who
carried the Princess on your back, away from
the Trold's castle."
The bear was apparently not displeased to
know that he had made so favorable an impres-
sion, though he wished to make it plain that he
couldn't be bamboozled by flattery. For he
shook his great shaggy head and gave a low,
good-natured grumble. And just at that mo-
ment he caught sight of the big basket of straw-
berries that stood under the tree. And turning
toward it, he slowly lifted his right fore paw,
and, putting it straight into the basket, deliber-
ately upset it.
"Why, Bear, what have you been doing? "
cried Alvilda, half forgetting her fear. "Why,
don't you know, those are Fritz's berries?-and
he will be so angry when he gets back. For
Fritz, you know, is quite high-tempered. Now,
if you '11 eat my berries, you may have them,
and welcome; but, dear Mr. Bear, do let Fritz's
It may be surmised that the bear was not
greatly moved by this argument. He calmly
went on eating Fritz's berries, which were scat-
tered all over the ground, and grumbled now
and then contentedly, as if to say that he found
the flavor of the berries excellent. He paid no
attention whatever to Alvilda's own little basket,
which she had placed invitingly before his
nose; but, when he had finished Fritz's berries,
he selected the next biggest basket and upset
that in the same deliberate fashion in which he
had upturned the first one.
Why, now, Mr. Bear, I don't think you are
good, after all," said Alvilda, when she saw her
friend make havoc among the berry-baskets.
" Don't you know you '11 get stomach-ache, if you
eat so many berries?-and then you '11 have to
go to bed in your den and take nasty medicine."
But, seeing that the bear was no more affected

by self-interest than he was by regard for other
people's property, Alvilda, in her zeal, put her
arms about his neck and tried to drag him away.
She found, however, that she was no match for
Bruin in strength, and therefore sorrowfully made
up her mind to abandon him to his own devices.
"Now, Bear," she said, seating herself again un-
der the tree, and quite forgetting that she had
once been frightened, "if you '11 behave your-
self, I am going to make you a pretty wreath of
flowers. Then, Mr. Bear, won't you look hand-
some when you get home to your family? "
And, delighted at this vision of the bear return-
ing to his astonished family decorated with a
wreath, she clapped her hands, emptied a basket
of wild flowers in her lap, and began to tie them
together. Lilies of the valley, she feared, Bruin
would scarcely appreciate; but brier-roses, vio-
lets, and columbines, she thought, would not be
beyond his taste; and adding here and there a
sprig of whortleberries and of flowering heather
to give solidity to her wreath, she tied it securely
about the bear's neck and laughed aloud with
joy at his appearance. Bruin had obviously a
notion that this was a kindly act, for he suddenly
rose up on his hind legs and with a pleased
grumble made an attempt to look at himself.
"Oh, my dear Bruin," cried Alvilda, "you
look perfectly lovely! Your family won't recog-
nize you when they see you again."
The bear lifted up his head and, as his eyes
met Alvilda's, there was a gleam in them of mild
astonishment, and, as the little girl imagined, of
gratitude. She laughed and talked on merrily
for some minutes, while her friend sat down on
his haunches and continued to gaze at her with
the same stolid wonder. But then, suddenly,
while Alvilda was making another wreath for
Bruin to take home to his wife, the blare of
a trumpet re-echoed through the woods, and
laughing voices were heard approaching. The
bear pricked up his ears, sniffed the air suspi-
ciously, and waddled slowly away between the
tree trunks.
"Why, no, Bear," Alvilda cried after him;
"why don't you stay and meet Fritz and Sophy
and the judge's Albert? "
But the bear, instead of returning, broke into
a gentle trot, and she heard the dry branches
creak beneath his tread as he vanished in the


underbrush. And just as she lost the last glimpse
of him, Fritz and Sophy and the whole party of
children came rushing up to her, excusing them-
selves for their absence, calling her all manner
of pet names, and saying that they had hoped
she had not been frightened. "Oh, no, not at
all," answered Alvilda; I have had such a
nice bear here, who has kept me company. But
I am so sorry he has eaten up all your berries."
The children thought at first that she must be
joking; but seeing all the baskets upset, and
smelling the strong, wild odor that was yet linger-
ing in the air, they turned pale and stood gazing
at each other in speechless fright. But Sophy
burst into tears, hugged her little sister to her
bosom, and cried:
"Oh, how can you ever forgive me, Alvilda ?
It is all my fault! I promised Papa not to
leave you."
It was of no use that Alvilda kept repeating:
"But, Sophy, he was not a bad bear. He was
a nice bear, and he did n't hurt me at all."
There could be no more berrying after that.
The girls were in haste to be gone, and the val-
iant freebooters had no desire to detain them.
They picked up their belongings as fast as.they
could and hurried down through the forest, each
taking his turn, as before, in carrying Alvilda.
But they were neither knights nor princesses nor
freebooters any more. They were only fright-
ened boys and girls.
When they arrived at the parsonage about
five o'clock in the afternoon, they were too tired,
breathless, and demoralized to care much what
became of them. Sophy took upon herself to
tell her father what had happened. She was
prepared for the worst, and in her remorse would
have accepted cheerfully any punishment. But
imagine her astonishment when her father ut-
tered no word of reproach but folded Alvilda
in his arms and thanked God that he had his
little girl once more safe and sound.
Now, if my story had ended here, nobody
would have been astonished; but the most as-
tonishing part of it is what remains to be told.
Six months after Alvilda's encounter with the

good bear, when a foot of snow covered the
ground, two of the parson's lumbermen, who
were famous hunters, returned from a week's so-
journ in the woods. Fritz, Albert, and Alvilda,
'bundled up to their ears in scarfs and overcoats,
were sliding down the hill behind the stables,
when they saw the two lumbermen, sitting
astride of some big, dark object, coasting down
toward them. Hurrah! cried Fritz, waving
his cap to them, "there are Nils and Thorsten!
And they have killed something too."
Nils and Thorsten, returning the greeting of
the young master, slackened their speed and
stopped beside the children. It was a big, brown
he-bear they had on their sled a regular
monster; and they were not a little proud of
having killed him. His tongue was hanging
out of his mouth, and there was a small hole in
his breast from which the blood was trickling
down on the snow.
"Je-miny," exclaimed Fritz admiringly, plun-
ging his fist into the beast's dense fur, ain't he
a stunner ? But what is this ?- I declare if he
has n't a wreath of withered flowers about his
Alvilda, who had timidly drawn near, started
forward at these words and, letting her sled go,
stared at the dead animal.
Why, it is my bear! she cried, bursting into
tears, it is my dear, good bear! "
And before any one could prevent her, she
had flung her arms about the bear's neck and
buried her face in his fur; and there she lay
weeping as if her heart would break.
Oh, they have been bad to you," she sobbed;
"and you were so good to me; and you have
worn my wreath all this time."
The two hunters pulled the sled down into
the court-yard, Alvilda still weeping over her
dead playmate. And when her father came
out and lifted her up in his arms, she yet re-
mained inconsolable, lamenting the fate of her
good bear. But from the animal's neck the
pastor cut the withered wreath, and it hangs
now on the wall in Alvilda's room as a memento
of her ursine friend and the love she bore him.


?HEN Independence
Swas declared, in 1776,
S \/and the United States
S 'i of America appeared
S among the powers of
S the earth, the con-
SI' tinent beyond the
"r"') ii' Alleghanies was one
S, '' unbroken wilderness;
.- and the buffaloes, the
S' first animals to vanish
..i^-"--.' when the wilderness
is settled, roved up to
the crests of the mountains which mark the
western boundaries of Pennsylvania, Virginia,
and the Carolinas. They were plentiful in
what are now the States of Ohio, Kentucky,
and Tennessee. But by the beginning of the
present century they had been driven beyond
the Mississippi; and for the next eighty years
they formed one of the most distinctive and
characteristic features of existence on the great
plains. Their numbers were countless--incred-
ible. In vast herds of hundreds of thousands of
individuals, they roamed from the Saskatchewan
to the Rio Grande and westward to the Rocky
Mountains. They furnished all the means of
livelihood to the tribes of Horse Indians, and
to the curious population of French Metis, or
Half-breeds, on the Red River, as well as those
dauntless and archtypical wanderers, the white
hunters and trappers. Their numbers slowly
diminished; but the decrease was very gradual
until after the Civil War. They were not de-
stroyed by the settlers, but by the railways and
by the skin hunters.
After the ending of the Civil War, the work of
constructing transcontinental railway lines was

pushed forward with the utmost vigor. These
supplied cheap and indispensable, but hitherto
wholly lacking, means of transportation to the
hunters; and at the same time the demand for
buffalo robes and hides became very great,
while the enormous numbers of the beasts, and
the comparative ease with which they were
slaughtered, attracted throngs of adventurers.
The result was such a slaughter of big game as
the world had never before seen; never before
were so many large animals of one species de-
stroyed in so short a time. Several million buf-
faloes were slain. In fifteen years from the
time the destruction fairly began, the great
herds were exterminated. In all probability
there are not now, all told, a thousand head of
wild buffaloes on the American continent; and
no herd of a hundred individuals has been in
existence since 1884.
The first great break followed the building of
the Union Pacific Railway. All the buffaloes
of the middle region were then destroyed, and
the others were then split into two vast sets of
herds, the northern and the southern. The
latter were destroyed first, about 1878; the
former not until 1883. My own experience
with buffaloes was obtained in the latter year,
among small bands and scattered individuals,
near my ranch on the Little Missouri; I have
related it elsewhere. But two of my relatives
were more fortunate, and took part in the chase
of these lordly beasts when the herds still dark-
ened the prairie as far as the eye could see.
During the first two months of 1877, my
brother Elliott, then a lad not seventeen years
old, made a buffalo-hunt toward the edge of
the Staked Plains in northern Texas. He was
thus in at the death of the southern herds, for


all, save a few scattering bands, were destroyed
within two years of this time.
My brother was with my cousin, John Roose-
velt, and they went out on the range with six
other adventurers a German-American, a
Scotchman who had been in the Confederate
cavalry and afterward in Maximilian's Mexican
body-guard, and four Irishmen. It was a party
of just such young men as frequently drift to the
frontier. All were short of cash, and all were
hardy, vigorous fellows eager for excitement
and adventure. My brother was much the
youngest of the party, and the least experi-
enced; but he was well-grown, strong and
healthy, and very fond of boxing, wrestling, run-
ning, riding, and shooting; moreover, he had
served an apprenticeship in hunting deer and
turkeys. Their mess-kit, ammunition, bedding,
and provisions were carried in two prairie
wagons, each drawn by four horses. In addition
to the teams they had six saddle-animals-all
of them shaggy, unkempt mustangs. Three or
four dogs, setters and half-bred greyhounds,
trotted along behind the wagons. Each man
took his turn for two days as teamster and cook;
and there were always two with the wagons,
or camp, as the case might be, while the other
six were off hunting, usually in couples. The
expedition was undertaken partly for sport and
partly with the hope of profit; for, after pur-
chasing the horses and wagons, none of the
party had any money left, and they were forced
to rely upon selling skins and hides and, when
near the forts, meat.
They started on January 2d, and shaped their
course for the head-waters of the Salt Fork of
the Brazos, the center of abundance for the
great buffalo herds. During the first few days
they were in the outskirts of the settled country,
and shot only small game-quail and prairie
fowl; then they began to kill turkey, deer, and
antelope. These they "swapped for flour and
feed, at the ranches or squalid, straggling fron-
tier towns. On several occasions the hunters
were lost, spending the night out in the open, or
sleeping at a ranch if one was found. Both
towns and ranches were filled with rough cus-
tomers; all of my brother's companions were
muscular, hot-headed fellows; and as a con-
sequence they were involved in several savage
VOL. XVII.- 17.

"free fights," in which, fortunately, nobody was
seriously hurt. My brother kept a very brief
diary, the entries being fairly startling from their
conciseness. A number of times, the mention
of their arrival, either at a halting-place, a little
village, or a rival buffalo-camp is followed by
the laconic remark, "big fight," or "big row ";
but once they evidently concluded discretion to
be the better part of valor, the entry for January
2oth being, "On the road-passed through Bel-
knap-too lively, so kept on to the Brazos-
very late." The buffalo-camps in particular
were very jealous of one another, each party
regarding itself as having exclusive right to the
range it was the first to find; and on several
occasions this feeling came near involving my
brother and his companions in serious trouble.
While slowly driving the heavy wagons to
the hunting-grounds they suffered the usual
hardships of plains travel. The weather, as in
most Texas winters, alternated between the ex-
tremes of heat and cold. There had been little
rain; in consequence water was scarce. Twice
they were forced to cross wild, barren wastes,
where the pools had dried up, and they suffered
terribly from thirst. On the first occasion the
horses were in good condition, and they traveled
steadily, with only occasional short halts, for over
thirty-six hours, by which time they were across
the waterless country. The journal reads: "Jan-
uary 29th.-Big hunt-no water and we left
Quinn's blockhouse this morning 3 A. M.-
on the go all night-hot. January 28th.-No
water-hot-at seven we struck water and by
eight Stinking Creek-grand 'hurrah.'" On
the second occasion, the horses were weak and
traveled slowly, so the .party went forty-eight
hours without drinking. "February z9th.-Pulled
on twenty-one miles-trail bad-freezing night,
no water, and wolves after our fresh meat. 2oth.
-Made nineteen miles over prairie; again only
mud, no water, freezing hard-frightful thirst.
2ist.-Thirty miles to Clear Fork, fresh water."
These entries were hurriedly jotted down at the
time, by a boy who deemed it unmanly to make
any especial note of hardship or suffering; but
every plainsman will understand the real agony
implied in working hard for two nights, one day,
and portions of two others, without water, even
in cool weather. During the last few miles the


staggering horses were only just able to drag
the lightly loaded wagon,-for they had but
one with them at the time,-while the men
plodded along in sullen silence, their mouths
so parched that they could hardly utter a word.
My own hunting and ranching were done in the
North where there is more water; so I have
never had a similar experience. Once I took
a team in thirty-six hours across a country
where there was no water; but by good luck it
rained heavily in the night, so that the horses
had plenty of wet grass, and I caught the rain
in my slicker, and so had enough water for my-
self. Personally, I have but once been as long
as twenty-six hours without water.
The party pitched their permanent camp in a
caiion of the Brazos known as Cation Blanco.
The last few days of their journey they traveled
beside the river through a veritable hunter's
paradise. The drought had forced all the ani-
mals to come to the larger watercourses, and
the country was literally swarming with game.
Every day, and all day long, the wagons trav-
eled through the herds of antelopes that grazed
on every side, while, whenever they approached
the cafion brink, bands of deer started from
the timber that fringed the river's course; often,
even the deer wandered out on the prairie with
the antelopes. Nor was the game shy; for the
hunters, both red and white, followed only the
buffaloes until the huge, shaggy herds were de-
stroyed, and the smaller beasts were in conse-
quence but little molested.
Once my brother shot five antelopes from a
single stand, when the party were short of fresh
venison; he was out of sight and to leeward,
and the antelopes seemed confused rather than
alarmed at the rifle-reports and the fall of their
companions. As was to be expected where game
was so plenty, wolves and coyotes also abounded.
At night they surrounded the camp, wailing and
howling in a kind of shrieking chorus through-
out the hours of darkness; one night they came
up so close that the frightened horses had to be
hobbled and guarded. On another occasion a
large wolf actually crept into camp, where he
was seized by the dogs, and the yelling, writh-
ing knot of combatants rolled over one of the
sleepers; finally, the long-toothed prowler man-
aged to shake himself loose, and vanished in the

gloom. One evening they were almost as much
startled by a visit of a different kind. They were
just finishing supper when an Indian stalked
suddenly and silently out of the surrounding
darkness, squatted down in the circle of fire-
light, remarked gravely, Me Tonk," and began
helping himself from the stew. He belonged to
the friendly tribe of Tonkaways, so his hosts
speedily recovered their equanimity; as for him,
he had never lost his, and he sat eating by the
fire until there was literally nothing left to eat.
The panic caused by his appearance was natural;
for at that time the Comanches were a scourge
to the buffalo-hunters, ambushing them and
raiding their camps; and several bloody fights
had taken place.
Their camp had been pitched near a deep
pool or water-hole. On both sides the bluffs
rose like walls, and where they had crumbled
and lost their sheerness, the vast buffalo herds,
passing and repassing for countless genera-
tions, had worn furrowed trails so deep that
the backs of the beasts were but little above
the surrounding soil. In the bottom, and in
places along the crests of the cliffs that hemmed
in the caiion-like valley, there were groves of
tangled trees, tenanted by great flocks of wild
turkeys. Once my brother made two really
remarkable shots at a pair of these great birds.
It was at dusk, and they were flying directly
overhead from one cliff to the other. He had
in his hand a thirty-eight-caliber Ballard rifle,
and, as the gobblers winged their way heavily
by, he brought them both down with two suc-
cessive bullets. This was of course mainly a
piece of mere luck; but it meant good shooting,
too. The Ballard was a very accurate, handy
little weapon; it belonged to me, and was the
first rifle I ever owned or used. With it I had
once killed a deer, the only specimen of large
game I had then shot; and I presented the
rifle to my brother when he went to Texas. In
our happy ignorance we deemed it quite good
enough for buffalo or anything else; but out on
the plains my brother soon found himself forced
to procure a heavier and more deadly weapon.
When camp was pitched the horses were
turned loose to graze and refresh themselves
after their trying journey, during which they
had lost flesh wofully. They were watched



and tended by the two men who were always
left in camp, and, save on rare occasions, were
only used to haul in the buffalo-hides. The
camp-guards for the time being acted as cooks;
and, though coffee and flour both ran short
and finally gave out, fresh meat of every kind
was abundant. The camp was never without
buffalo-beef, deer and antelope venison, wild
turkeys, prairie-chickens, quails, ducks, and rab-
bits. The birds were simply "potted," as occa-
sion required; when the quarry was deer or
antelope, the hunters took the dogs with them
to run down the wounded animals. But almost
the entire attention of the hunters was given
to the buffalo. After an evening spent in loung-
ing round the camp-fire, and a sound night's
sleep, wrapped in robes and blankets, they
would get up before daybreak, snatch a hurried
breakfast, and start off in couples through the
chilly dawn. The great beasts were very plenti-
ful; in the first day's hunt, twenty were slain;
but the herds were restless and ever on the
move. Sometimes they would be seen right by
the camp, and again it would need an all-day's
tramp to find them. There was no difficulty in
spying them--the chief trouble with forest
game; for on the prairie a buffalo makes no
effort to hide, and its black, shaggy bulk looms
up as far as the eye can see. Sometimes they
were found in small parties of three or four
individuals, sometimes in bands of about two
hundred, and again in great herds of many
thousand; and solitary old bulls, expelled from
the herds, were common. If on broken land,
among hills and ravines, there was not much
difficulty in approaching from the leeward; for,
though the sense of smell in the buffalo is very
acute, they do not see well at a distance through
their overhanging frontlets of coarse and matted
hair. If, as was generally the case, they were
out on the open, rolling prairie, the stalking was
far more difficult. Every hollow, every earth
hummock and sagebush had to be used as
cover. The hunter wriggled through the grass
fiat on his face, pushing himself along for per-
haps a quarter of a mile by his toes and fingers,
heedless of the spiny cactus. When near enough
to the huge, unconscious quarry the hunter
began firing, still keeping himself carefully con-
cealed. If the smoke was blown away by the

wind, and if the buffaloes caught no glimpse of
the assailant, they would often stand motionless
and stupid until many of their number had been
slain; the hunter being careful not to fire too
high, aiming just behind the shoulder, about a
third of the way up the body, that his bullet might
go through the lungs. Sometimes, even after
they saw the man, they would act as if confused
and panic-struck, huddling up together and
staring at the smoke puffs but generally they
were off at a lumbering gallop as soon as they
had an idea of the point of danger. When
once started, they ran for many miles before
halting, and their pursuit on foot was extremely
One morning my cousin and brother had
been left in camp as guards. They were sitting,
idly warming themselves in the first sunbeams,
when their attention was sharply drawn to four
buffaloes who were coming to the pool to drink.
The beasts came down a game trail, a deep rut
in the bluff, fronting where they were sitting, and
they did not dare stir for fear of being discov-
ered. The buffaloes walked into the pool, and,
after drinking their fill, stood for some time with
the water running out of their mouths, idly lash-
ing their sides with their short tails, enjoying the
bright warmth of the early sunshine; then, with
much splashing and the gurgling of soft mud,
they left the pool and clambered up the bluff
with unwieldy agility. As soon as they turned,
my brother and cousin ran for their rifles; but
before they got back the buffaloes had crossed
the bluff crest. Climbing after them, the two
hunters found, when they reached the sum-
mit, that their game, instead of halting, had
struck straight off across the prairie at a slow
lope, doubtless intending to rejoin the herd they
had left. After a moment's consultation, the
men went in pursuit, excitement overcoming
their knowledge that they ought not, by rights,
to leave the camp. They struck a steady trot,
following the animals by sight until they passed
over a knoll, and then trailing them. Where
the grass was long, as it was for the first four or
five miles, this was a work of no difficulty, and
they did not break their gait, only glancing now
and then at the trail. As the sun rose and the
day became warm, their breathing grew quicker;
and the sweat rolled off their faces as they ran


across the rough prairie sward, up and down the
long inclines, now and then shifting their heavy
rifles from one shoulder to the other. But they
were in good training, and they did not have
to halt. At last they reached stretches of bare

taken by a vast herd of stampeded buffaloes. All
animals that go in herds are subject to these
instantaneous attacks of uncontrollable terror,
under the influence of which they become per-
fectly mad, and rush headlong in dense masses
on any form of death.
Horses, and more
especially cattle, often
suffer from stampedes;
it is a danger against
which the cowboys
r are compelled to be
perpetually on guard.
A band of stampeded
horses, sweeping in
Smad terror up a val-
ley, will dash against
a rock or tree with
Such violence as to
leave several dead ani-
mals at its base, while
the survivors race on

ground, sun-baked and grassless, where the trail will overturn ai
grew dim; and here they had to go very slowly, a man on foot
carefully examining the faint dents and marks chance for his 1
made in the soil by the heavy hoofs, and unrav- worse-or rat
eling the trail from the mass of old foot-marks. days because
It was tedious work, but it enabled them to mense number
completely recover their breath by the time that of heedless ter
they again struck the grass land; and but a rivers, and bor
few hundred yards from its edge, in a slight hol- path. On the
low, they saw the four buffaloes just entering a and cousin wer
herd of fifty or sixty that were scattered out were just moun
grazing. The herd paid no attention to the new- into which the
comers, and these immediately began to feed heard a low,
greedily. After a whispered consultation, the far-off thunder
two hunters crept back, and made a long circle not knowing w
that brought them well to leeward of the herd, ward to the top:
in line with a slight rise in the ground. They they stopped sl-
then crawled up to this rise and, peering through before them ti
the tufts of tall, rank grass, saw the unconscious madly rushing
beasts a hundred and twenty-five or fifty yards Afterward tl
away. They fired together, each mortally wound- of hunters, foul
ing his animal, and then, rushing in as the herd and stampeded
halted in confusion, and following them as they rush, gathered
ran, impeded by numbers, hurry, and panic, gether in unco
they eventually got three more. The surprise
On another occasion, the same two hunters any broken gr
nearly met with a frightful death, being over- while the vast h

without halting; they
nd destroy tents and wagons, and
caught in the rush has but a small
ife. A buffalo stampede is much
her was much worse, in the old
of the great weight and im-
s of the beasts, who, in a fury
ror, plunged over cliffs and into
*e down whatever was in their
occasion in question, my brother
e on their way homeward. They
ting one of the long, low swells
prairie was broken when they
muttering, rumbling noise, like
. It grew steadily louder, and,
hat it meant, they hurried for-
of the rise. As they reached it,
iort in terror and amazement, for
Le whole prairie was black with
ley learned that another couple
r or five miles off, had fired into
Sa large herd. This herd, in its
others, all thundering along to-
ntrollable and increasing panic.
d hunters were far away from
found or other place of refuge;
erd of huge, plunging, maddened


beasts was charging straight down on them not
a quarter of a mile distant. Down they came!-
thousands upon thousands, their front extending
a mile in breadth, while the earth shook beneath
their thunderous gallop, and as they came
closer, their shaggy frontlets loomed dimly
through the columns of dust thrown up from
the dry soil. The two hunters knew that their
only hope for life was to split the herd, which,
though it had so broad a front, was not very
deep. If they failed they would inevitably be
trampled to death.
Waiting until the beasts were in close range,
they opened a rapid fire from their heavy
breech-loading rifles, yelling at the top of their
voices. For a moment the result seemed doubt-
ful. The line thundered steadily down on them;

W 4g
-"- j!1


from their foes in front, strove desperately to
edge away from the dangerous neighborhood;
the shouts and shots were redoubled; the hunt-
,ers were almost choked by the cloud of dust
through which they could see the stream of dark
huge bodies passing within rifle-length on either
side; and in a moment the peril was over, and
the two men were left alone on the plain,
unharmed, though with their nerves terribly
shaken. The herd careered on toward the
horizon, save five individuals who had been
killed or disabled by the shots.
On another occasion, when my brother was
out with one of his Irish friends, they fired at
a small herd containing an old bull; the bull
charged the smoke, and the whole herd followed
him. Probably they were simply stampeded,

f- -_ -Z
:7,--- *" .. -. ''.-'s .s^ ? f -^" : ~ _-~ L s. .y "s3 ^" jp;:S- '-._: .'*


then it swayed violently, as two or three of the
brutes immediately in their front fell beneath the
bullets, while the neighbors made violent efforts
to press off sideways. Then a narrow wedge-
shaped rift appeared in the line, and widened
as it came up closer, and the buffaloes, shrinking

and had no hostile intention; at any rate, after
the death of their leader, they rushed by without
doing any damage.
But buffaloes sometimes charged with the
utmost determination, and were then dangerous
antagonists. My cousin, a very hardy and


resolu te !., .i .;r, i -. 1 -i n i .i,-,, :, 1 !-'i 'i i
wounded vuvv ~ial ci lie fuiloved up ta ICpIJ
bluff or sand cliff. Just as he reached the sum-
mit, he was charged, and was only saved by the
sudden appearance of his dog, which distracted

2---~- 1

*-~ 'I"

r." '.'. '


the cow's attention. He thus escaped with only
a tumble and a few bruises.
My brother also came in for a charge, while
killing the biggest bull that was slain by any of

the party. He was out alone, and saw a small
herd of cows and calves at some distance, with
a huge bull among them, towering above them
like a giant. There was
no break in the ground,
,-i '. _-_ nor any tree nor bush
,-- near them, but by mak-
.; "i -":' ^ing a half-circle, my
brother managed to
-creep up against the
.d wind behind a slight
roll in the prairie sur-
face, until he was within
S---, seventy-five yards of the
--- grazing and unconsci-
ous beasts. There were
some cows and calves
between him and the
S bull, and he had to wait
some moments before
they shifted position as
the herd grazed onward
and gave him a fair shot;
in the interval they had
moved so far forward that he was in plain
view. His first bullet struck just behind the
shoulder; the herd started and looked around,
but the bull merely lifted his head and took a


3_ 1e.



step forward, his tail curled up over his back.
The next bullet likewise struck fair, nearly in
the same place, telling with a loud "pack!"
against the thick hide, and making the dust fly
up from the matted hair. Instantly the great
bull wheeled and charged in headlong anger,
while the herd fled in the opposite direction.
On the bare prairie, with no spot of refuge, it
was useless to try to escape, and the hunter,
with reloaded rifle, waited until the bull was
not far off, then drew up his weapon and fired.
Either he was nervous, or the bull at the moment
bounded over some obstacle, for the ball went
a little wild; nevertheless, by good luck, it broke
a fore leg, and the great beast came crashing to
the earth, and was slain before it could struggle
to its feet.
Two days after this event, a war
party of Comanches swept down ,.
along the river. They "jumped" i

a neighboring camp, killing one man and wound-
ing two more, and at the same time ran off all
but three of the horses belonging to our eight
adventurers. With the remaining three horses
and one wagon they set out homeward. The
march was hard and tedious; they lost their
way and were in jeopardy from quicksands
and cloudbursts; they suffered from thirst and
cold, their shoes gave out and their feet were
lamed by cactus spines. At last they reached
Fort Sniffin in safety, and great was their raven-
ous rejoicing when they procured some bread
- for during the final fortnight of the hunt they
had been without flour or vegetables of any kind,
or even coffee, and had subsisted on fresh meat
" straight." Nevertheless, it was a very healthy,
as well as a very pleasant and exciting experi-
ence; and I doubt if any of those who took
part in it will ever forget their great buffalo-hunt
on the Brazos.

:- k t'"
... ? _
...,-. .





-(-~ C-


"A STEPMOTHER ? How horrid "
Horrid !-I should think so."
"What is it that is horrid, girls ?" asked an-
other girl, who, in passing, had caught only the
last sentence.
"Why, about May Bartlett, you know."
No, I don't know; what is it? "
She has a stepmother."
"Yes, yes," cried the first two speakers,- the
Macy sisters,-Joanna and Elsie.
"But when, when did it happen, this step-
mother business ?" exclaimed the girl to whom
they were telling the news. "I saw May in
vacation, and she did n't lisp a word of it."
But you have n't seen her since you came
back ? "
Well, no; as this is my first hozr back, almost.
But tell me when the stepmother was brought
on the scene ? "
"A week ago; that is, Mr. Bartlett was mar-

ried to her then; but he has n't brought her
home yet; they are traveling."
"Who told you ?"
"Mrs. Marks, the housekeeper. I went round
yesterday to see if May was at home."
"And you saw May? "
"No; she was n't expected until the late
afternoon train."
"And she did n't know anything about the
stepmother until a week ago ? "
"Two weeks ago; a weekbeforethe marriage."
Well, I call that downright cruel. If it was
my father! And Cathy Bond stamped a little
foot on the floor with an emphasis that spoke
unutterable things. Two or three more girls
who had just entered the school-room came up
at this demonstration with a What's the matter,
Cathy ? And the matter was told over again
with a new chorus of ohs and ahs and
"poor Mays." There was only one disagreeing
voice- a soft little voice that broke into the
" ohs and "ahs," saying: "Stepmothers are
very nice sometimes. I have a cousin "

;- )_

II ii

1 I


Nice!" cried Cathy, and then directly went
off in a flow of wild talk, a string of stories all
going to show that stepmothers were anything
but nice.
At the first hint of a pause, the little soft voice
began again:
I have a cousin -" but Cathy had mounted
her hobby-horse of prejudice, and flashed out:
"Oh, bother your cousin, Susy Morris; I know
two girls intimately, who have stepmothers, and
they can't do anything, not anything, they want
to do!"
"Who, the stepmothers ?" asked Joanna
"No; the girls, of course," answered Cathy
rather crossly; "and they used to have every-
thing, and do just exactly as they pleased. Oh,
you need n't talk to me about stepmothers; they
interfere between the fathers and children, and
are a meddling, selfish set."
As Cathy paused to take breath, Susy promptly
struck in with, "I have a cousin-" But a
shout of laughter interrupted, and Joanna Macy
repeated, with merry mockery," I have a cousin ";
then, turning and clutching Susy in a swift em-
brace, she cried out:
Oh, you dear, queer, funny little thing with
your running chorus, 'I have a cousin.' But
tell us about her; come, Susy has the floor -
Susy 's going to tell us about the cousin. If
Cathy interrupts, we '11 put her out. Now, Susy,
begin- I have a cousin.' "
Susy blushed a little, but without any sign of
annoyance unhesitatingly took up the words,
"I have a cousin," and went on with her
It was a sweet little story of kindness and
comfort and happiness brought into a lonely
home to a lonely child, by a sweet, kind, good
But it did not make the impression it ought
to have made upon the girl listeners, for Cathy's
stormy talk of injustice and cruelty had blown
into their minds a tangle of wild thoughts, just
as a storm in nature blows all the wild weeds
and sticks and stones into a tangle of dust and
dirt that confuses and blinds one.
Susy, who appeared so slow and placid, had a
keen perception of some things. Her mind was
like a little clear lake through which she seemed
VOL. XVII.--8.

to look and see the truth. Through this clear
little lake she now looked and saw that not one
of these girls, not even Joanna whom she spe-
cially loved, received her story with much belief.
It was not that they thought she was willfully
telling what was not true, but they were saying
to themselves:
Oh, that is only Susy's easy, pleasant way of
taking people. Susy does n't understand." But
Susy did understand more than they imagined,
and it was out of this understanding that she
started up suddenly with a quicker motion than
was common with her, and in a quicker tone
cried out:
My father says that prejudice makes people
deaf and blind." She paused a second, gave a
short sigh, and dropping into her ordinary man-
ner, and in her little, soft, drawling voice, she
added, If 't would only make 'em dumb 't
would be all right."
The girls were used to Susy's wise speeches,
spoken in that soft voice of hers, and with a curi-
ous twist to the letter r, which she could n't pro-
nounce without giving to it a half sound of w,
and they generally laughed, not at the speeches
alone, but at the quaint combination of the
speeches and Susy together. As a matter of
habit they laughed now, but Joanna had caught
the spirit of the speech, and she followed the
laugh by saying:
Susy is right; prejudice does make us deaf
and blind, and it is a pity we could n't be dumb
too, instead of talking such stuff! What do we
know really about stepmothers ? "
We know what everybody has always said,"
struck in Cathy.
Everybody is always saying everything."
"But there are the Longley girls-my two
friends I told you of."
"And there is Susy's cousin that's the other
side. I '11 set that against the Longlegs, or what-
ever is their name."
Well, I sha'n't. I shall never believe in step-
mothers; I know-"
A quick "hush from Joanna arrested Cathy's
sentence. She looked up. They all looked up,
and there was May Bartlett, not three feet away!
How long had she been there? How much had
she heard ? Perhaps she had just come in and
had heard nothing. But she was standing at her


desk, and her books were unstrapped and set in
order. She must have heard something in this
time. Joanna could have stamped with vex-
ation at herself, and at the others. Oh, why,
why, had she-had they all-been so careless ?
But something must be done. Somebody must
go forward and speak as if nothing had hap-
pened. Joanna started on this errand, but
Cathy was before her, and in the next moment,
flinging her arms about May, was saying in an
impressive, pitying accent:
Oh, May, we have heard all about it, and
we are so sorry."
May Bartlett was a proud girl, who generally
held her private affairs in a good deal of reserve,
but this sudden demonstration at this time was
too much for her self-control, and she burst into
tears. Joanna could have beaten Cathy. Why
could n't she have greeted May as if nothing
had happened ? But that was just like Cathy
to make a scene.
The girls came forward awkwardly after this,
and there was a general uncomfortable time,
until Susy suddenly burst out in her odd little
Oh, May's got a straight bang "
The girls giggled, Joanna caught Susy in a
little hug, and the tragic atmosphere was re-

A WEEK later, May Bartlett was standing at
the parlor window waiting for her father and his
new wife, her stepmother.
"Why don't you go to the depot to meet
them?" asked Mrs. Marks.
May had colored up angrily at this question,
and a hot rush of tears had blinded her eyes as
she turned away without answering. But it was a
natural question for Mrs. Marks to ask, for May
had been in the habit of meeting her father at
the pretty little suburban station almost every
afternoon on his return from the city. "But
meet them at the depot! How could Mrs.
Marks speak of such a thing," the girl thought
Tick, tack, tick, tack, went the little cathedral
clock on the mantel. In fifteen minutes the
train would be in, and in five, ten minutes more
the carriage would be at the door, and then-

and then-the tears that May had tried to keep
under control suddenly overflowed, as she im-
agined the change that was coming. Eight
weeks ago, when she had gone away with her
Aunt Mary to the sea-shore to spend her vaca-
tion, May had planned what she would do in
the autumn. In the first place she would have
a party-a garden-party, for September was a
lovely month at Hillside, and her father had
promised her a garden-party ever since they
had taken possession of their new house there,
three years ago. She would invite all the girls
of her set at the Hillside seminary, and as many
of her friends in town-and by "town" she
meant Boston, which was only six miles away
- as had returned from their summer jaunts.
Then she would persuade her father to buy her
a village wagon. She could drive very well, as
he himself had said, and she could bring him
from the station quite as well in a village wagon
as in the shabby old phaeton which she was per-
mitted to use, when Patrick was too busy to go
with the dog-cart. Yes, a party and a dear little
duck of a wagon like Marion Grant's, and then,
and then,-but at this point of her recollection
her tears flowed afresh, for of course all these
pretty plans must go, with the coming of the new
mother-no, the stepmother; she would never,
never call her mother! Her mother!- she looked
up at the portrait that hung above the little clock
-the portrait of a fair sweet-faced woman with
pleasant eyes that seemed to follow you about
with a laugh in them. She died five years ago,
when May was nine years old, but May could
almost fancy she heard her mother saying as
those laughing eyes met her daughter's:
"What's the matter with the little daughter
now ? "
A sob caught in the daughter's throat here,
and she cried aloud, Oh, Mamma, Mamma,
it 's no small thing that 's the matter now, but
a very, very great thing. It 's somebody com-
ing to take your place-your place and mine,
Mamma." But if May had a half fancy that
the eyes would look different, would change
their merry expression at this, she was mistaken.
As the yellow afternoon sun sent a bright dan-
cing ray across the canvas, the eyes seemed to
dance with it, in the happiest possible way, and
tick, tack, tick, tack, the little clock sent its



yellow pendulum back and forth in the sun-
shine. From the portrait, May glanced at the
clock-face. Why, why, why! the fifteen min-
utes had passed, and so absorbed had she been
in her thoughts, she had not heard the locomo-
tive whistle. How very odd. She ran out of
the room, and out of the hall upon the piazza.
The train must have arrived, and in five min-
utes more she would hear the carriage. From
end to end she paced slowly up and down.
How sweet the honeysuckle smelled, and the
late lilies were all red and gold bloom. Lean-
ing over the railing she broke one from its stem
and pinned it in her dress; as she did so she
could see the clock through the open window.
Not only five, but .ten minutes had gone. She
stopped and listened. Was that the carriage ?
No. Five minutes more. The train could n't
have arrived. What was the matter? Tick,
tack, tick, tack, another five minutes went by
and Mrs. Marks came out on the piazza.
My dear, I never knew this train to be
late," she said anxiously. Then May's endur-
ance gave way, and catching her hat from the
hall stand she ran down the steps, calling back
as she went:
I 'm going to the depot, Mrs. Marks, to see
if anything has been heard. I can't wait here."
That 's right, dearie; you '11 feel better to
go, but I would n't worry there 's been some
delay somewhere, that's all."
Some delay somewhere May thought of
the delay that had occurred on the Boston and
Providence road the year before, when the Ros-
lindale bridge had given way, and hundreds of
people had gone down with it. Her heart
seemed to beat up into her throat, to stop her
voice, and almost her breath. She could not
frame the words to ask a question when she en-
tered the depot, but she heard some one say,
"There 's been an accident." She lost the
next sentence, and caught only the last words,
"-but the track is clear now, and the train has'
Walking to the further end of the platform,
away from all the people, poor May sat down
upon a baggage-truck to watch and wait. As
she sat there she imagined the worst that could
have happened. Perhaps her father was badly
hurt, perhaps he was killed, and she would

never see him again; and at the very time,
when he had been suffering, perhaps dying, she
had been having hard thoughts of him, had
blamed him for what he had done, and what he
had not done for marrying again, and for not
telling her of his plans until the last moment.
She grew hot, then cold, as she thought of the
words she had said to Cathy Bond--of how
she had joined her in calling him unkind, and
even cruel. Oh, if only he came back alive, so
that she could show him how she loved him! If
only he came back she would not do any of the
disagreeable things she had declared to Cathy
Bond that she would do. She would -yes,
she would even kiss her stepmother when she
met her. She had said to Cathy only yester-
day, I shall not kiss her, and I shall be very
stiff and cold to both of them." To both of
them! Perhaps, perhaps--
In another moment May would have lost all
control of herself and burst out crying, if the
sound of a long shrill whistle had not roused
her to the immediate present. As she heard
it, she jumped to her feet and ran up the plat-
Yes, there was the train rounding the curve.
In a minute she would know -what? She
crowded her way through the throng of people
to the front. Swiftly, then slackening in speed,
the cars roll in and come to a full stop. There
are faces at the windows, there are voices say-
ing, I am so glad to see you "; but not the face,
not the voice she is longing for. She turns sick,
cold, and dizzy, and staggers backward with an
attempt to get away out of this eager throng
that seems so happy. Then it is that somebody
Why, here she is, now!"
She lifts her head, and there he is-her hand-
some, young-looking father, sound and well and
smiling down upon her.
O Papa, Papa! I thought you were killed
-the train was so late, and they said-they
My dear child! There, there, don't-don't
cry. It's all right you see. Here, Margaret,
here's this little girl has been frightened half out
of her wits at the delay-thought I was killed."
May made a great effort to be calm, but the
reaction was so swift it was hard work, and her


pale face and tremulous lips were expressive of
her nervousness as she looked up to meet her
stepmother's glance. It was not a smiling
glance like her father's, but May found it easier
to meet for that reason. She knew her father
always dreaded what he called a scene," and
had always discouraged any outbreaks either of
tears or excited laughter; and with this knowl-
edge she was perfectly well aware that her
twitching lips and pallid face were annoying
him at that moment. But this serious glance
that met her, and the quiet remark, "I don't
wonder that you were frightened at such a de-
lay; Ishould have been very much frightened
in your place," gave May a little time to re-
cover herself, and then the quiet voice went on,
asking no questions, but speaking of the causes
of the delay, that did not, it seemed, involve
much danger, being merely an accident of ob-
struction by the breaking down of a freight-car,
of which warning was duly given from station
to station.
Oh, I thought it was something dreadful,"
May broke forth at this. "I heard some one
say something about an accident, and I was too
frightened to ask a question myself."
"And so worked yourself up into a fever
with your imagination as usual, my dear," her
father responded, half laughing.
She did the most natural thing in the world
for a girl. I think I should have done the same
thing," the quiet voice here said, with an easy
tone of bright decision.
Oh, you! I dare say. I 've a pair of you, I
May looked at her father in surprise. He
looked back at her with a funny little grimace.
Yes, May, she 's just such another goose as
you are in some things."
May caught the smile upon her stepmother's
face. Her stepmother! In the excitement she
had for the moment forgotten the stepmother.
She regarded her now for the first time with ob-
serving eyes. What did she see ?
A tall slender young woman, with brunette
coloring, and an air of ease and elegance about
her. May glanced across at her father. How
happy he seemed, and how young he appeared!
But he must be a great deal older than this new
wife -this Margaret." He had gray hairs,

and there was no gray in that dark coil and
fluff under the small stylish bonnet. May took
in all these details and said to herself, Why did
she marry him, I wonder? Then a mischiev-
ous little spirit whispered that her father was a
rich man, and she remembered what Cathy Bond
had said about girls marrying for money. Alas!
for May's good resolutions, as she sat waiting for
the train a few minutes before. If her father
only came back! And here he was, full of life
and strength, and she had forgotten already.
If he only came back, she would show him how
she loved him, she would even -kiss her step-
mother when she met her! But as the girl
thought of this last duty which she had meant
to perform, it suddenly came over her that she
had really not been called upon to perform it-
that nobody in fact, neither her father nor her
stepmother, had seemed to expect it. Of course
everything was to be accounted for by the ex-
citement of the occasion, but, nevertheless, a
feeling of chagrin sent a flush to May's cheek at
the recollection, and then a swift sharp question
stung her, Was this the way she was to be for-
gotten by them ? "


"A GARDEN-party ? Why yes, so I did prom-
ise you a garden-party some time. I remember,
but it seems to me-it's rather late in the year,
is n't it ? "
Oh, no; not if I set it for next week. Hill-
side is lovely in September."
"Yes, but next week is the fourth week in
September pretty late in the month to count
on the weather. Margaret," and Mr. Bartlett's
voice rose a little louder in tone as he called to
his wife, who was coming down one of the gar-
den walks to the piazza where he and May were
Yes," responded Margaret, looking up from
the flowers she carried.
Don't you think the fourth week in Septem-
ber is rather late for a garden-party ? "
"Decidedly late. Why, I hope you are not
thinking of giving a garden-party, are you ? "
I ? Oh, no; it was May's idea. There, you
see--you '11 have to wait until next year, my
dear," turning to May.


Margaret lifted her head quickly, and saw a
rebellious expression on her stepdaughter's face.
It was a still, cold expression, that she had seen
several times before in the three days she had
been at Hillside. Coming forward more rapidly,
she said easily and pleasantly:
It is very nice of you to think of a garden-
party for me, but it is rather late, you know."
Mr. Bartlett had taken up his newspaper, and
paid no heed to these words. May sat silent,
her chin dropped against her breast, all kinds
of mutinous little thoughts in her mind, first and
foremost of which was, "She thinks everything
is to be for her!/"
Mrs. Bartlett meanwhile stood regarding the
downbent face with a look of great perplexity,
and with a slight flush on her cheek. The flush
deepened, as May suddenly jumped from her
chair and, catching up her school-satchel, started
off down the walk with a Good-bye, Papa."
Her father glanced over his paper with a look
of surprise. It was not May's habit to go away
like this, without a good-bye kiss. He was about
to call her back, when he saw her join one of
her school friends just outside the gate. In a
few moments the matter slipped from his mind,
in the absorbing interest of the political news he
was reading.
It was Cathy Bond whom May had joined.
Cathy was full of a lively interest in the new
stepmother. She had found May rather re-
served in what she had said within the last three
days, and was greatly desirous of discovering
the "reason why," of seeing for herself what sort
of a person the stepmother was, and "how things
were going;" but her little plan of calling for
May was foiled by May's joining her outside the
gate. In a moment, however, she saw, with
those sharp eyes of hers, that something was
very much amiss, and in a sympathetic tone
"What is it, Maisie, what is the matter? "
"Matter With a catch in her breath, May
repeated the brief conversation about the garden-
party. The reserve of the last few days had
vanished. Her good resolutions had blown to
the winds. But it was only to Cathy that she
spoke directly. Whether Cathy would have had
the strength to have been silent if May had asked
her, it is impossible to tell. But May did not

ask her,--perhaps in her resentment she did n't
care, perhaps she did n't think; at any rate Cathy
did not keep silent, and by the afternoon recess
all the girls knew the story of the garden-party
as they had heard it from Cathy Bond.
Even Joanna Macy was stirred to indignation
by this story.
"She must be conceited to think the party
could only be for her. What had May to do
with getting up a garden-party for her step-
mother? "
Susy Morris, who heard the indignant tone of
Joanna's voice, wanted to know what it meant.
Oh, it means," cried Joanna, "that Cathy
was n't far wrong about the stepmother"; and
then Joanna repeated the story, as she had
heard it from Cathy, that May had asked her
father that morning if she might have the garden-
party he had promised her, and that her step-
mother had interfered and said that, though she
was much obliged to May for thinking of giving
a garden-party for her, that it was decidedly too
late for it, and that she hoped it would not be
thought of any more! "The idea," concluded
Joanna, of her taking it for granted that the
party must be for her-that May, a girl of four-
teen, would think of getting up any kind of a
party for her! I never heard anything so con-
ceited. Well ?" as Susy's small face began to
wrinkle up with a puzzled frown, "say it out,
Susy, whatever it is "
"My cousin-"
Joanna shouted with laughter.
"Oh, Susy, that cousin of yours!"
But Susy went on: My cousin was n't but
fifteen, and she asked her father to make a sail-
ing party for her stepmother. Perhaps May's
stepmother thought that May was just asking
for the party in the same way, as a kind of
welcome, you know. She might have misun-
derstood, or she might not have heard the
whole,-don't you see?"
"No, I don't see. They were all on the
piazza talking; and May had distinctly asked
her father if she might give to the school-girls
the garden-party that he had promised that she
might. Now, Miss Susy, what have you to
say ?"
Nothing, only it does seem queer, if all
this was said right out before the stepmother,



that she should have thought the party was for
her, and should have thanked May. When she
did that, why did n't May tell her how it was
-or why didn't Mr. Bartlett ? "
Oh, Susy, you will make a first-class lawyer
if you live to grow up," was Joanna's laughing
reply to this. But, though Joanna laughed,
Susy's words set her to thinking that perhaps
there was a mistake somewhere, and suddenly
she thought of something her mother had said
to her once when she had repeated an unkind
story to her: "My dear, a story twice told is
two stories; and three times told, the truth is
pretty well lost sight of."
But when Joanna tried to take this ground
with the girls, she could get no hearing, for
Cathy Bond was a power at the Hillside school,
with her quick sympathies, and her quick, glib
way of expressing them. To May, this quick,
glib way had always been attractive; it was still
more so now, when she found it ranged so
warmly on her side. Yet if she had heard
Cathy's repetition of her account of the garden-
party conversation, I think she would have been
a little startled, but she did not hear it, and so
matters went on from bad to worse; that is, the
story grew and grew, and one girl and another
took up what they called poor May's cause,
and looked, if they did not speak, their pity,
until May became such a center of interest that
she could not but be affected by it, could not
but feel that she had reason to be very un-
happy. Yet, in spite of this feeling, there was
n't so much outward indication of it as one
might have expected.
Joanna remarked upon this one day to Cathy,
declaring that, for her part, she thought that
May seemed to look very cheerful under the
"Cheerful!" exclaimed Cathy t::,i.: illy.
"Why she's just wretched, but she's keeping
up; you know they are having no end of giddy
goings-on up there."
Up where ? "
"Why, at the Bartletts'. Lots of people are
calling, and it seems that Mrs. Bartlett has any
quantity of friends and relatives in Boston, and
they are driving out to see her and having five
o'clock tea with her, and all that sort of thing."
And May is in it all ? "

"Why, to be sure. It's a trial to her, of course,
and it's as much as she can do to keep up."
A trial to her. Why is it a trial to her ?"
asked Joanna, imitating Cathy's grown-up words
and ways.
Cathy flamed up.
"You don't seem to have any feeling, Joanna.
Don't you suppose she thinks of her own mother
while these things are going on ? "
This was too much for Joanna's keen common
sense, and she laughed outright.
"Things going on! Calling, and drinking
tea! Oh, Cathy!"
Well, but but it is n't just ordinary call-
ing; it's like -like parties," answered Cathy,
flushing and stammering.
"And has n't Mr. Bartlett had whist-parties
and dinner-parties many a time ?"
"They were gentlemen's parties."
"Well, did n't May's Aunt Mary--her
mother's own sister--have parties when she
was staying there, and," triumphantly, "has n't
May herself had a birthday-party every year
since her mother died ? "
Yes; but that's different. This is a stranger
who comes to take her mother's place."
She 's a stranger to May; but Mr. Bartlett
has married this stranger just as he married
May's mother."
Yes, and I think it was horrid for him to
do so."
Oh, Cathy, lots of people marry again the
nicest and best of people."
Well, I think it is perfectly dreadful, when
there are children, to give them a strange woman
in the place of their mother. It is just as selfish
as it can be."
But, Cathy, there are good stepmothers as
well as bad ones. Why, stepmothers are just
like other people."
"Yes, before they are stepmothers; but when
they step into-own mothers' places, they -
they- "
As Cathy hesitated, Joanna laughingly broke
in with, "They become wicked wolves, who are
all ready to worry and devour their poor vic-
tims Cathy could not help joining a little in
Joanna's laugh; but she said, almost in the next
Oh, you can make fun, Joanna, as much as



you like, but you '11 never make me believe in
stepmothers "
Just when Cathy was saying this, just when
Joanna was wrinkling up her forehead and want-
ing to say impatiently, Oh, you little pig of
prejudice! around the corner, where they stood
talking, there suddenly appeared a big open car-
riage, full of gayly dressed people.
There she is whispered Cathy, pointing
with a nod of her head to a lady who was smil-
ingly speaking to the gentleman sitting next to
Joanna craned her neck forward eagerly.
This was her first glimpse of the stepmother.
"Why, she 's a beauty! she cried out to
Cathy; "and she looks like a girl! But
where 's May, I wonder ? "
"Oh, yes; where 's May? You see she
is n't there. I suppose she was n't wanted -
there was n't room for her," answered Cathy
But presently round the corner they heard
again a light roll of wheels on the smooth road,
and there appeared another carriage. It was a

little yellow wagon,- a village wagon,- and in
it were May Bartlett and a young girl about her
own age. May was driving. She looked more
than cheerful; she looked as if she was enjoying
herself very much, and she was so occupied that
she failed to see her two school friends as she
drove by.
Joanna laughed.
"That 's what you call keeping up,' I sup-
pose, Cathy," she said slyly.
Cathy did n't answer.
"And she has got the village wagon, after all.
You were perfectly sure she would n't get it,
you know."
Well, May told me that when she asked her
father for it, he said he did n't believe he could
afford it now, and her stepmother flushed up
and looked at him so queerly, as if she did n't
like it, and so, of course, May thought that was
the end of it. But I suppose when he came to
think it over he was ashamed not to get it for
Joanna wrinkled up her forehead again, but
she kept her thoughts to herself.

(To be continuedd)



OME tiny elves, one evening, grew
mischievous, it seems,
And broke into the store-room where
the Sand-man keeps his dreams,
And gathered up whole armfuls of
dreams all bright and sweet,
And started forth to peddle them
a-down the village street.

Oh, you would never, never guess how queerly these dreams sold;
Why, nearly all the youngest folk bought dreams of being old;
And one wee chap in curls and kilts, a gentle little thing,
Invested in a dream about an awful pirate king;



A maid, who thought her pretty name old-fashioned and absurd,
Bought dreams of names the longest and the queerest ever heard;
And, strange to say, a lad, who owned all sorts of costly toys,
Bought dreams of selling papers with the raggedest of boys.

And then a dream of summer and a barefoot boy at play
Was bought up very quickly by a gentleman quite gray;
And one old lady- smiling through the grief she tried to hide-
Bought bright and tender visions of a little girl who died.

A ragged little beggar girl, with weary, wistful gaze,
Soon chose a Cinderella dream, with jewels all ablaze-
Well, it was n't many minutes from the time they came in sight
Before the dreams were all sold out and the elves had taken flight.


As eve r eworic- co Id -
covered r4 rne~c~o
T-kecovered Ike e Jy ea.
Yu couldd erhfer. i~c a. w IrIdc
you flirft TT~ cfir\ i cobweb
Like a tihrea a


ow tke deareot a;zl cc,-;

A her Iltle hovCcon0"
Nad bri~hed I
/ w polii~ed ad rubbedcl -
ii 5 e q r~o 7rnorc- -

JAI,' ;'

VOL. XVII.- 19.

1 e Szt dowr\ to rest on the door-51ore,
WAt hker to0'-handled broom. ;R heq hzand,
er ye4 werxt t6oh~fzJ~y wYnder(F
over ( anoL land
w s the webs ;r\ the rneacolow,
akxe noted the vveb5 on the Se 6qe
Zi~-'dct the. 4og5am~e~r threact that jlo&led
tweeM e. 0( the hce -

e )eat d woman 5$boQk Jherkeado
And 5adly raijed her eyes
t5 oJ~r;ers! s. 1w4 ~chcittd but cobvebs u-n the skies i
iKet- r Oj lace I ,'.1I 1"
q -t(,~a~r of evenly> bILL ilk

Till everxte
COUI ry tahe ase yniyht -
%lr 1Y thr-ujc A n9'' <

-\M Ske. 2a,-tht dear COU
3/ kr~ey er keell Clark>
~ ide. aw: nly tirre. on. eart
Wittk cobwe-Ls ;t te- skyj j

[ke wer\t to tRe, ^e of l~:o-iam,
SThree wie mer\ were they v
T ey were autezLra l tke circle every one
1V/tK tr loo r\ / .
-- .. .... -

S -- "- -' -
'^ -, \ ,-- .. -

^f,^%er, ofothav
S0 onmite Mel
Ye wko are cl(ecd the wiSe .
Helrp me I pray
To travel fo-da.y
Up to tej/ear /O si 5e- .

hey looked t teir trc looed t/oe dame-
.Ard wild was eack junker\ eye,
i.^j )ut never a word 1
STke ld Woman keard
bSve a matter of Sy-ad.

'W -- on thke (tle
t sit fkere and smile,
C ome ohow me the way to theky ,
I '' ute an on thke ,,,,e
Corxtirjned to m le
.". A,,n.d answered -er y-and-y i

Ow PC ter, 5ood AiPer Iyour pickl eI re set
Artct011,4 -4 1Upto t--e -R1)
But ke looked at is peppers there waj At apec~k
e anir ere'd her _a d- 3g Y!

-- -1 ." -----


(5 to 14w D)ID Zke ClOWr\ urxoer tke till
she cz',n help rIc. I know ske wl
13Lt tetrLL{~ful Old Wom~an wa5 irnadpq ar1'
An~d 5kc roJ fed otit Ike CrUS t, ai-ld )d,)y-8xnd y

-'fhere r~or\e f tken-xdll, the Old arne 51ed
-7 0 Wh will help Ycup to the .k'
They re all too busy or I-ay bosa,.
U ", I~7 -(

A Word save":By-an~d-Ay!
1. 0o to my rxc'*Ykor d-ke Bramrble -uhni
-S cc m-)-am jo worxctrouj v/tse V
14c, Knows YYC.we~l
'~Anac kel!f 5u.Pdy te!l ',
Me Lke v~y, et lca,:t to tk-e skiec! s

o pke put orn Ker beaut a green cal-a&
Anrd started, broon i ar\ nd,
for the houte of her neikgbor the ,ramrnble-
A miie away vc the atnd ush -

~~5 ~ ~ -s~ -
"" '< --*: ._ 92

I. t'L ^ .'i
/ .. .* -- -,- -A y

,,,- -/o tke r mbler 5 '
i 0 O ramble- busk <^ .an -
0) ^ -an so woRndrouLs wVe I
w\All you tell me the way
J nmust tr-avel to-day /
To reaci\ te avfa ox skies ?

itle,tcll me Wkxy
T~pLou Sce.e5t tce 5ky,
i For tke rir\ iS Comind 3.pacc
N ~Jow ag rl-xhlbj-rna yNuSSN
IS O to bruSV
~e cobweb.from frsfkce

k UtP anc tw y', zd over, rand or\
T tk0ou tke place /xastfoixd
bhere thekjainbow ladder tkat rcachge tIe skies
Rset witk it5 encd oa tJ-ejroLrxd
~Aoxd climb by day and climb by rb 5ht
ia, Slippery Scvet.\fold M oLndC.

''Iy >Kj7:.. 5k Da-"I a ~ S
)- .-

CX-Me -rozd is Loo long,~ aict rnyjfect &re too 5low
I rnu~t Seek. Some otker wvay to.Vo *"

c w1 omyarOcw ma)0o ,na Womran! qLcotN e
1WJVOu're bour..dt to have your owyx way I See
raojf-you dlon't likde it~you. need Vyt blamre me.
Do if

'T }\Ten Ahe put t\Ee Dame in a basket
ISinod rope> to tde handles h.e hed,
And on\e. he made~ast t-o tLe old ckh-cr tower
And or\e to a tree be5ide .
,/Anrd t-hen witl: a pole he ptdLed eer
i_ 'll se swanc out far and wide.

e 5wu.no" her all day ncad e swvLurg her all niht
A)-dc te men in- t tctown came rcut to help
- thx e,"o heave 'and a Heave away .
wile the little doors atitered around toyelp
/And the xrarnble-1uaan cri'Oed gy-and-by
', L khave her swung up as fa~r tke sky

l],,. '.''-, .I.. .
,,, l {'t, { ... -

4,-, I'


el fa t ac o-c

(I Woman anrd ba,~kct arnct broomwterc eIt -

LU te rope5-rnd aayke\v/.yx

Miely times as i atkmon

I'Wornan!~ ~ $0 84ban 0o4,orar L

TYo brti5k LJ.e. cobwebs Ou~tpf J~)heK&/
d!~ -. /~




EARLY one morning during my third visit to
Patagonia, as I was strolling upon the banks of
the River Chico, keeping a sharp lookout for a
choice specimen of the Rutabaga Tremeindosa,
I saw what, at the time, I supposed to be a
large and isolated cliff. It looked blue, and
consequently I supposed it to be at some dis-
tance. Resuming my search for the beautiful
saffron blossom which I have already named,
my attention was for some moments abstracted.
After pulling the plant up by the roots, how-
ever, I happened to cast my eyes again toward

the supposed cliff, and you can conceive my ex-
treme mortification and regret when I saw that
it was not a cliff at all, but a giant, and, so far
as I could see, one of the most virulent species.
He was advancing at a run, and although not
exerting himself overmuch seemed to be going
at a rate of some five kilometers a minute. Much
annoyed at the interruption to my researches, I
paused only long enough to deposit the Ruta-
baga securely in my botany box and then broke
into an accelerated trot. Do me the justice to
acquit me of any intention of entering into a


contest of speed with the pursuing monster. I
am not so conceited as to imagine I can cover five
or even three kilometers a minute. No; I relied,
rather, on the well-established scientific proba-
bility that the giant was stupid. I expected,
therefore, that my head would have an oppor-
tunity to save my heels.
It was not long before I saw the need of tak-
ing immediate steps to secure my specimens
from destruction and myself from being eaten.
He was certainly gaining upon me. As he
foolishly ran with his mouth open, I noticed
that his canine teeth were very well developed
-not a proof, but strong evidence, that he was
a cannibal. I redoubled my speed, keeping an
eager eye upon the topography in the hope
that I might find some cave or crevice into
which I could creep and thus obtain time
enough to elaborate a plan of escape. I had
not run more than six or eight kilometers, I
think (for distances are small in that part of
Patagonia-or were, when I was there), when
I saw a most convenient cretaceous cave.
To ensconce myself within its mineral recesses
was the work of but a moment, and it was fort-
unate for me that it took no longer. Indeed,
as I rolled myself deftly beneath a shelving
rock, the giant was so near that he pulled off
one of my boots.
He sat down at the entrance and breathed
with astonishing force and rapidity.
"Now, if he is as stupid as one of his race
normally should be," I said to myself, "he will
stay there for several hours, and I shall lose a
great part of this beautiful day." The thought
made me restless, and I looked about to see
whether my surroundings would hint a solution
of the situation.
I was rewarded by discovering an outlet far
above me. I could see through a cleft in the
rocks portions of a cirro-cumulus cloud. Fixing
my hat more firmly upon my head, I began the
ascent. It did not take long. Indeed, my
progress was, if anything, rather accelerated by
the efforts of the attentive giant, who had secured
a long and flexible switch,-a young India-
rubber tree, I think, though I did not notice its
foliage closely,- and was poking it with con-
siderable violence into the cave. In fact, he
lifted me some decameters at every thrust.

It may easily be understood, therefore, that I
was not long upon the way. When I emerged,
I was much pleased with the situation. Speak-
ing as a military expert, it was perfect. Stand-
ing upon a commodious ledge, which seemed
to have been made for the purpose, my head
and shoulders projected from an opening in the
cliff, which was just conveniently out of the giant's
reach. As my head rose over the edge of the
opening, the giant spoke:
"Aha, you 're there, are you ?"
"I won't deny it," I answered.
"You think you're safe, don't you ? he went
on tauntingly.
"I know I 'm safe," I answered, with an easy
confidence which was calculated to please.
"Well," he replied, "to-night I am going to
eat you for supper! "
"What, then," I asked, with some curiosity,
"are you going to do for dinner ? "
"Oh, if that troubles you," said he, "all you
have to do is to come out at dinner-time and I
will eat you then."
Evidently the giant was not a witling. His
answers were apt. After a moment's reflection
I concluded it was worth the effort to make an
appeal to his better nature- his over-soul.
Don't you know that it is wrong to eat your
fellow-beings ? I asked, with a happy mingling
of austere reproach and sympathetic pain.
"Do you mean to come out soon? asked
the giant, seating himself upon an adjacent cliff,
after tearing off such of the taller and stiffer
trees as were in his way.
"It depends somewhat upon whether you
remain where you are," I answered.
"Oh, I shall stay," said the giant, pleasantly.
"Game is rare, and I have n't eaten a white
man for two weeks."
This remark brought me back to my appeal
to his higher being. Then I shall remain here,
too, for the present," I answered, "though I
should like to get away before sunset. It 's
likely to be humid here after the sun sets.
But, to return to my question, have you never
thought that it was immoral and selfish to
eat your fellow-creatures?"
Why, certainly," said the giant, with a hearty
frankness that was truly refreshing. "That is
why," he went on, "I asked you whether you


were coming out soon. If not, I would be glad
to while the time away by explaining to you
exactly how I feel about these matters. Of
course I could smoke you out" (here he
showed me an enormous boulder of flint and a
long steel rod, the latter evidently a propeller-
shaft from some wrecked ocean-steamer), "but
I make it a rule seldom to eat a fellow-mortal
until he is fully convinced that, all things con-
sidered, I am justified in so doing."
The allusion to the smoking-out process con-
vinced me that this was no hulking ignoramus
of a giant, and for a moment I began to fear
that my Ruzabaga Tremendosa was lost to the
world forever. But the latter part of his speech
re-assured me.
If you can convince me that I ought to be
eaten," I said, willing to be reasonable, "I shall

found employment upon a farm. I stayed there
three days. Then I was told that it cost more
to keep me than I was worth; which was true.
So I left. Then I went to work on a railroad.
Here I did as much as twenty men. The result
was a strike, and I was discharged."
"Is there much more autobiography ?" I
asked as politely as I could, for I was not at all
interested in this unscientific memoir.
"Very little," he answered. "I can sum it
up in a few words. Wherever I tried to get
work, I was discharged, because my board was
too expensive. If I tried to do more work to
make up for it, the other men were dissatisfied,
because it took the bread out of their mouths.
Now, I put it to you, what was I to do ? "
Evidently, you were forced out of civiliza-
tion," I answered, and compelled to rely upon


certainly offer no objection. But I confess I
have little fear that you will succeed."
"I first discovered that I was a giant," he
said, absently chewing the stem of the India-
rubber tree, at a very early age. I could not
get enough to eat. I then lived in New York
City, for I am an American, like yourself."
We bowed with mutual pleasure.
"I tried various sorts of work, but found I
could not earn enough at any of them to pay
my board-bills. I even exhibited myself in a
museum, but found there the same trouble.
I consulted my grandfather, who was a man
of matured judgment and excellent sense. His
advice was to leave the city and try for work in
the country. I did so, and after some little trouble

nature for your sustenance. That is," I went
on, to forestall another question, "you had to
become a hunter, trapper, or fisherman,--for of
course, in your case, agriculture was out of the
question, as you could n't easily get down
to the ground, and would crush with your feet
more crops than you could raise with your
His eyes sparkled with joy at being so thor-
oughly understood. "Exactly," he said. "But
the same trouble followed me there. Wherever
I settled, the inhabitants complained that what
I ate would support hundreds of other people."
Very true," I answered; but, excuse me,
could you hand me a small rock to sit upon ? -
it is tiresome to stand here."


Come out," he said. "You have my word

Si lr : j i.. i v .: 1 1.' i I i ti ..id,
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i e ...

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,, I ,I,,,

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came to me, and I sug-
gested that if he should
allow himself to die of
starvation the demand
for subsistence would be -
still more reduced.
He shook his head '
sadly. "I used to hope "-'
so myself. But the ex- ;. ^
perience of some years, if'ir .
tabulated and reduced '" 1-4 4
to most accurate statis-
tics, has convinced me
beyond a doubt that I -
can catch and eat enough .
men, in a year, to more
than make up for what
would be saved if I ':
should allow my own
organism to cease its '
active exertions in the
cause of humanity."
I thought very care- .
fully over these argu-
ments and was unable
to pick a flaw in them.
"As aman of science," '
I said, after a pause, I I
could wish that this in- .'
terview might be re-
ported to the world." ,F.
"Give yourself no .
uneasiness. It shall be
done," said the giant.
And I should also be
glad to have the Ruta- THE GIANT
baga 'Temendosa forwarded very soon to the
Metropolitan Museum," I said thoughtfully.
With pleasure," said the giant.
There was no excuse for further delay.

-y .. ~

And are you convinced ? asked the giant,
speaking with much kindly consideration.
Perfectly," I said, and kicked off the other

[Note, by the giant.- In accordance with Professor Muddlehed's last wishes I have reported
our full conversation verbatim. In fact, much of the foregoing account was revised by the Pro-
fessor himself, before supper. He would have been glad, I have no doubt, to have gone over the
paper again, but the bell rang and he was too considerate to keep the table waiting. He had
many excellent tastes, and there was a flavor of originality about the man a flavor I like. I
enjoyed meeting him very much, and regret that my principles were such as to preclude a longer
and less intimate acquaintance. I forwarded the specimen to the museum as directed, and
received in return an invitation to visit the building in New York. Though I can not accept the
kind invitation, I should find it gratifying to have the trustees at my own table.]







"WHAT makes a good foot-ball player?" is a
question asked over and over again. Many are
the answers given, but no answer is correct that
does not contain the word "pluck." The same
elements that go to make up excellence in any
of the other field sports are requisite in foot-ball;
but while in certain of the others that peculiar
type of courage called pluck is only required in
a moderate degree, in foot-ball it is absolutely
indispensable. Many a man has said: Oh I
am too small to play foot-ball; I could n't get
on the team." Such a man makes a mistake.

Look at the records of our players and see how
full they are of the names of small men. With-
ington, Cushing, Harding, Hodge, Beecher, and
twenty others, have played weighing under a
hundred and forty Nor has it been that their
deeds have been remembered because performed
by such small men. These men made points as
well as reputations. There is a place on the foot-
ball field for a man, no matter what he weighs;
and that brings to mind a remarkable pair of boys
and what they did for a Yale team at one time.
One was the son of a United States Senator


from Massachusetts, and the other a younger
brother of a well-known Brooklyn lawyer. They
were classmates at Yale, and had done more or
less foot-ball work during the course. These
two men weighed about a hundred and twenty-
five pounds apiece, or together a little over the
weight of the 'varsity snap-back. In that year
the 'varsity team was suffering from a combina-
tion of two disorders over-confidence and lack
of strong practice. None knew this better than
these two little chaps, for they understood the
game thoroughly. One day, then, they appeared
at the field in their foot-ball toggery, and without
assistance from the 'varsity captain set at once
to work upon organizing the "scrub side," as the
outside or irregular players are called. One of
them played center and the other quarter, and
it was not many days before the scrub side be-
gan to have a game and a way of its own. The
overfed, underworked university players began
to find that they could n't have things all their
own way. Such tricks were played upon them
that they were forced to wake from their apathy.
These two boys began to show them the way to
make use of brains against weight and strength,
and the scrub side, that a week or two before had
been unable to hold the 'varsity even enough
to make the contest interesting, actually had the
audacity to score against them once or twice
every afternoon. How those two ever got such
work out of the rabble they had to handle, no
one knows to this day; but it was the making of
the 'varsity team, for it speedily developed
under this experience into one of Yale's strong-
est teams, and I have often heard one of that
team remark since that he 'd rather play against
any team in the Association than against the
"scrubs" led by "Pop" Jenks and "Timmy"
This brings us to another quality: the brains
of a team. That team is the best which has the
most brains. Foot-ball is, even now, an unde-
veloped sport. There is room for an almost
infinite number of as yet unthought-of plays.
Every season brings forward many new ones.
If a player wishes to devote a little of his spare
time to a fascinating amusement, let him take
pencil and paper and plan out combinations in
the evening, and try them the next day. He
will soon find that he is bringing out not only

new but successful plays. Some think that the
captain of the 'varsity team is the only one who
has an opportunity to try this; but if two or three
on the scrub side will make the attempt they will
find that a 'varsity team is no more proof against
a new scheme than the veriest scrub team in ex-
istence. In fact, oftentimes the 'varsity players
are so sublime in their own consciousness of
superiority that they are the simplest men on
the field to lead into traps and defeat by a little
exercise of ingenuity. If a boy at school is n't
on the first team, he can get together a few men
of the second team and have the satisfaction of
actually showing his betters how to play.
"Play not for gain but sport," is thoroughly
sound; but it means play honestly and hard, not
listlessly and carelessly, and make it your sport
to win. Then if you lose, put a good face on
it; but go home and think out a way to win next
time. Brains will beat brute strength every time
if you give them fair play.
Endurance is another element of success.
Plenty of dash when it is necessary, but behind
it there must be the steady, even, staying quali-
ties. For these, good training is chiefly responsi-
ble; because, although natural endurance does
exist in some men, it is not common, while the
endurance of well-trained men is a thing that
can be relied upon with confidence.
A direct case in point was a victory of Prince-
ton over Yale, in 1878. Upon the Yale team
were some three or four men, upper class men,
who thought that they had done enough training
in former years, and they therefore made but a
pretense of following out the rules of strict
training. The example of these men affected
several of the other players to such an extent
that there was great laxity. Up to the time of
the final contest, this team had performed well,
and it was generally believed that they would
have no great difficulty in defeating Princeton.
In the first half of the game they pressed the
Orange men hard, and several times all but
scored. In the dressing-room at intermission
there was a generalimpression that, with the wind,
which would be in Yale's favor the second half,
they must surely win. The second half began,
and it was not many minutes before the Yale
men found themselves steadily losing ground.
There was in the Princeton runners a resistless



force that kept Yale retreating nearer and nearer ton had come to New Haven after a long
to her own goal. At last, by a brilliant play, wrangle about the place of playing, and had
Princeton succeeded in making a touch-down brought a team supposed by experts through-



from which a goal was kicked. During the re-
mainder of the game, Princeton, although mak-
ing no further score, held Yale fast down inside
the twenty-five-yard line, and the Blue went
back to New Haven with a very salutary lesson
on the evil of neglecting the laws of training.
These are laws which no foot-ball player can
afford to ignore.


ONE of the most magnificent dashes ever
made on an American foot-ball field was the
run made by Lamar, of Princeton, in the game
with Yale, which was played upon the Yale
field, November 21, 1885. The game had
been an unusual one in many respects. Prince-


out the country to be sure winners. The Yale
team was a green one, and none of her parti-
sans hoped for more than a respectable show-
ing against the Princeton veterans. But Peters,
the Yale captain, had done wonders with his
recruits, as the game soon showed. His team
opened with a rush and actually forced the
fight for the entire first half. They scored a
goal from the field upon the astonished Prince-
tonians, and, in spite of the valiant efforts put
forth against them, seemed certain of victory.
The feeling of the Princeton team and her sym-
pathizers can easily be imagined. The sun was
low in the horizon, nearly forty minutes of the
second half were gone, and no one dared to
hope such failing fortunes could be retrieved in
the few remaining minutes. The ball was in



Yale's hands, half-way down the field and on
the northern edge. For a moment Captain
Peters hesitated, and consulted with another of
his players as to whether he should continue the
running game and thus make scoring against
him impossible and victory certain, or send the
ball by a kick down in front of his enemy's goal
and trust to a fumble to increase his score. Per-
haps not a dozen men knew what was in his
mind. A kick was surely the more generous
play in the eyes of the crowd. He settled the
ball under his foot, gave the signal, and shot it
back. The quarter sent it to Watkinson, who
drove it with a low, swinging punt across the

attempted to catch it, but it shot off his breast to-
ward the southern touch-line. Lamar, who had
been slightly behind this man, was just starting
up to his assistance from that particular spot. As
the ball slid off with its force hardly diminished
he made a most difficult short-bound catch of
it on the run, and sped away along the south-
ern boundary. The Yale forwards had all gone
past the ball, in their expectation of getting
it, as they saw the missed catch. Lamar,
therefore, went straight along toward the half-
back and back. Watkinson, the kicker, had
hardly stirred from his tracks, as the entire play
had occupied but a few seconds, and he was




twenty-five-yard line and toward the farther therefore too near the northern side of the field
goal post. It was a perfect kick for Yale's to have even a chance to cut off the runner.
purposes, difficult to catch and about to land Lamar, with the true instinct of the born run-
close to the enemy's posts. A Princeton man ner, saw in a moment his opportunity, and ran
VOL. XVII.-2o.



straight along the southern edge as if he in-
tended to get by there. Bull and his comrade
(who then were inexperienced tacklers) were the
two men in his pathway, and they both bunched


over by the line as the Princeton runner came
flying down upon them. Just as he was almost
upon them, Lamar made a swerve to the right,
and was by them like lightning before either
could recover. By this time two or three of the
Yale forwards, Peters among them, had turned
and were desperately speeding up the field after
Lamar, who was but a few yards in advance,
having given up several yards of his advantage
to the well-executed maneuver by which he
had cleared his field of the half-back and back.
Then began the race for victory. Lamar had
nearly forty yards to go, and, while he was run-
ning well, had had a sharp breather" already,
not only in his run thus far, but in his superb
dodging of the backs. Peters, a strong, untiring,
thoroughly trained runner, was but a few yards
behind him, and in addition to this he was the
captain of a team which but a moment before
had been sure of victory. How he ran! But
Lamar-did he not too know full well what the
beat of those footsteps behind him meant ? The
white five-yard lines fairly flew under his feet;

past the broad twenty-five-yard line he goes,
still with three or four yards to spare. Now he
throws his head back with that familiar motion
of the sprinter who is almost to the tape, and
who will run his heart
out in the last few
strides, and, almost be-
i: fore one can breathe,
-"; .. he is over the white
goal-line and panting
on the ground, with
the ball under him,
\ a touch-down made,
from which a goal was
kicked, and the day
S i saved for Princeton.


THE season of 1888
had opened with a veri-
table foot-ball boom.
The previous season
had ended with a close
contest between Har-
vard and Yale, while
ERS. Princeton, although oc-
cupying third place, had had by no means a
weak team. Reports of the preliminary work of
the three great teams, while conflicting, pointed
in a general way to an increased strength at each
university. The Boston papers were lauding the
work of the Harvard team, and the New York
papers returning the compliment with tales of
large scores by the Princeton men. Advices from
New Haven showed that Yale had a far greater
wealth of material from which to draw players
than either of the others, so that although the
actual strength of the team could not be learned,
it was certain that the lugubrious reports from
the City of Elms had little foundation. In
this state of affairs, the first game, which was
scheduled to be between the Crimson and the
Orange and Black, was eagerly awaited. The
game was played at Princeton, and an enor-
mous crowd assembled to witness the match.
Both sides were confident of victory, and
Princeton was also determined to avenge the
defeat of the former season. The day was per-
fect, and the game a thoroughly scientific one.



Although Harvard battled manfully up to the
very last moment, she could not overcome the
lead which Princeton had obtained early in the
game, and was at last forced to return to Cam-
bridge defeated. The hopes of Princeton soared
up that afternoon to the highest pitch, and those
who were well posted on the relative merits of
foot-ball players agreed with them that their
prospects were indeed of the brightest. Had it
not been for news which came over the wires
that evening from New Haven, it would have
been concluded that Princeton would find an
easy prey in Yale. But that news was some-
thing startling. It seems that the Yale-Wes-
leyan championship game had been played that
same day. Harvard and Princeton had each
already met Wesleyan,
but neither had scored
over fifty points against
them. The astonish-
ment of all foot-ball ,
men was great, then,
when the news came
that Yale had made k
the almost unprece-
dented score of 105
againstthe Middletown
men. This, then, was
the state of affairs pre-
vious to the Yale-
Princeton match. Har-
vard was now out of
the question, owing to
her defeat by Prince-
ton, and all interest
centered in this final
contest. The day, while
not very promising in
its morning aspect, LAMAR T
turned out propitious toward noon, and fully fif-
teen thousand people crowded the Polo Grounds
before the players stepped out on the field. A
perfect roar of applause greeted the entrance
of the rival teams, and as they lined out facing
one another not even the most indifferent could
help feeling the thrill of suppressed excitement
that trembled through the vast throng. The
game began, and for twenty-five minutes first
one side gained a slight advantage, then the
other, but neither had been able to score. The

Yale men had a slight advantage in position,
having forced the ball into Princeton's territory.
So manfully were they held from advancing
closer to the coveted goal, that people were be-
ginning to think that the game might result in a
draw, neither side scoring. At this point Yale
had possession of the ball. That slight change
in position,- that massing of the forwards to-
ward the center and the closing up of the back,
- that surely means something! Yes, Princeton
sees it too, and eagerly her forwards press up in
the line with their eyes all centered on the back,
for it is evident he is to try a drop-kick for goal.
This bright-faced, boyish-looking fellow, with
a rather jaunty air, is Bull, Yale's famous drop-
kicker. He seems calm and quiet enough as

he gives a look of direction to the quarter and
with a smile steps up to the spot where he
wishes the ball thrown. There is a moment of
expectancy, and then the whole forward line
seems torn asunder, and through the gap comes
a mass of Princeton rushers with a furious dash,
but just ahead of them flies the ball, from the
quarter, straight and sure into Bull's outstretched
hands. It hardly seems to touch them, so
quickly does he turn the ball and drop it before
him, as with a swing of his body he brings him-


self into kicking attitude, and catching the ball
with his toe, as it rises from the ground, shoots it
like a bolt just over the heads of the Princeton
forwards, and--down he goes in the rush! The

and another desperate attempt to force the
blue back to the center of the field, but with
a maddening persistency, and with a steady
plunging not to be checked, the gray and blue
line fights its way, yard by yard, down upon the
Princeton territory. Captain Corbin glances
once more at the goal, sees that his line is
near enough, and again gives the signal. Bull
steps up for the third time, and his smile has
flown. He realizes that twice have his ten men
carried the ball for him up to the very door
of victory, only to see him close that door in
their faces. His lips are firmly set as his resolve
shows itself in every line of his ... .=l-i.nii frame.
He settles himself firmly on his feet and gives
the signal for the ball to come. For the third
time the little quarter hurls it from under the
very feet of the plunging mass, and this time Bull
sends it true as a bullet straight over the cross-

: .. :

ball, however, sails smoothly on, high in the air,
just missing by a few feet the wished-for goal.
A sigh of relief escapes from the troubled
breasts of Princeton sympathizers as they realize
that, for a time, at least, the danger is past.
The Orange and Black bring the ball out for a
kick-out, and work desperately to force it up
the field, having had too vivid a realization of
danger to desire a repetition. Again, however,
they are driven steadily back until the Yale
captain thinks he is near enough to give Bull a
second opportunity, and at a signal the forma-
tion for a kick is again made. Bull, a little less
smiling, a trifle less jaunty in his air, again takes
his position. Again Princeton opens up the
line and drives her forwards down upon him,
but again that deadly drop sails over their
heads; this time a foot nearer the black cross-
bar. Another kick-out by Princeton follows,

bar between the posts. With a yell of delight
the Yale men rush madly over the ropes and seize
the successful kicker. In the second half Bull
has but one opportunity; but he takes advantage
of that one to score another goal, and when the
game is over is borne off in triumph by the
rejoicing Yalensians, the hero of the day.


"' II- 'lv ,NT. LL I.N L..i ii

I r ..D I- lit -.

.. tit

And, 'Indeed it's quite true," he .i.
Fortheletterdescribedinwordsgo. Ik ,,,,:,. .:il..,.,
,*, i } (' ... -' "

Great Chnla glory h E r v i
It came from Japan, from the Emi. ..
-Lh. I.'. A '"",.'' ,iic .

7 ,i

Then he nodded his head, 'but perp u :.1 r_

care), '
And Indeed it's quite true," he f Nr,, ,-,' "' ,=
For the letter descrina, bewords glreen'' i.: ... : I "
Great Chinrland's glory, her Eml,: i. : _j. "i":-

It came from Japan, from the Erri: i .." i... '

From England, you see,,,
(I don't know hglis name, busent it perl. .-l:r'r .' -,
care), to m,,

The kindly barbarians tendered me two; And make the
And i can't went on to say, I no send one to you." way clear."

In"Pardon, Your Majestypleasantestway:
" Good Brother of China, best greerti,, r,,...i., ---_'S I',
I beg you '11 accept, as a very smi- l! t..I;. ii. ....... .
Of my regard, which can never b-That can noLt be;
This coach and four. The coach will not go through the doorway, yo
From England, you see, ."'
The Englishmen sent it ..." .,
A present to me. ,,"^" .-..'" .
The kindly barbarians tendered me two ; And make the .- i .- ....
As I can't use both, I now send one to you." way clear." .>-" .
Pardon, Your Majesty, *"
Well pleased was the Emperor. That can not be;
"Bring it up here. The coach will not go through the doorway, you
You fellows, stand back there -- see."




-- ..-- r .
_- ^ .~T--- ~ ~:

There came a dark frown on the Emperor's
" Then I '11 go down, for I must see it now."
So down the stairs the Emperor ran,
And the courtiers followed, every man;
As fast as they can they scuffle and run
After their master to see the fun.
After him, mind you, for you see,
The rule of the best society
Had been, for thousand of years and more:
" The Emperor always goes before."

The coach and four at the palace door
Was as large as life, or a size or two more.
With coachman and footman all complete,
And cushions of silk on the very best seat.
And round about in procession they walked,
And examined it all, and stared and talked.
And the Emperor rubbed his hands with pride -
SI '11 climb up in front there and take a ride."
But the coachman said, "Your Majesty,

.. .
r- -i 1 I ; ,' -l'' ^



The seat inside is for you, you see;
The one in front 's where the driver sits- "

" WHAT? This fellow is out of his wits.
Idiot Don't you know the rule ? -
Were n't manners taught when you went to
Remember this, if you know no more:
'The Emperor always goes before.'

" That highest seat
(Must I repeat?)
Is the one where the Emperor ought to go.
I can't ride aft,
And you must be daft,

eff~= )



1~1111.'.1 11



Ii I



.. ,- .-" ---- -- ---_ -- .
-- ... -

For a moment to have fancied so! "
And up on end each pigtail stood,
To think that the Emperor ever could,
Did, should, might or would
Ride behind. "Now, did you ever ? "
" No, really, upon my word, I never."

"But how shall I drive, Your
"Through the windows, or,- I don't
care," said he.
"That is your business, I should say, '
But hand those cushions up this
It could n't be helped, so off they
The Emperor rode to his heart's
But long did the Emperor rue that
Of course the horses ran away,


And the Emperor, as you may
Came to the ground on his royal
S His royal brow had a bump for a
And one of the royal legs was

," All he could do
(What more could you?)
Was to hang the coachman and
footman too.
And then the Emperor changed
the rule,
And now you would learn, if you
went to school
In Chinaland ('t is a proverb
We call itfirst when the Emperor's
S second."



THE shadows of night lie drifted over the valley and hill,
And earth is hushed and silent under the starlight still;
A low-voiced breeze is complaining among the willows and reeds,
Where the brook creeps stealthily onward away through the flowery meads;
The goldenrod 's drowsily nodding, heavy with dew and perfume,
The grasses are whispering tenderly their secrets in the gloom;
When hark thro' the hush and the starlight, a low sweet note is heard -
A low sweet note, like the call of a dreaming, half-wakened bird;
On the air it lingers a moment, then trembling passes away,
As a falling summer blossom floats down from the parent spray.
But again and again it rises, in tones ever stronger and stronger,
Calling, and calling, and calling, it grows ever louder and longer;
And see from behind a hill-top the ruddy-faced moon appears,
As if she paused to listen to the strange sweet sounds she hears;
While dark against the brilliant disk a boyish form is seen,
An elfish, wild-eyed lad is he, with hair of a golden sheen;
A bonny boy, most fair to see, and tucked beneath his chin
He holds, and plays with loving touch, a quaint old violin.
But what can bring him here to-night? For whom does he wait and call ?
For whom are they meant, those pleading strains that softly rise and fall ?
There 's a sudden rustle of little feet within the dusky shade -
With timid approach, and swift retreat, a rabbit comes over the glade;
Nearer, still nearer he comes, like stars are his eager eyes,
They glow thro' the gloom of the evening, filled with a shy surprise;
And soon on every side are seen, eager, but half afraid,
The rabbits young, and rabbits old, of every size and shade,




Drawn by the notes so wild and weird, they gather from far and near

CRE- EP." "

Drawn by the notes so wild and weird, they gather from far and near;
Advancing, retreating, on they come, pausing to listen, and peer,
And prick their silken, sensitive ears, and turn each little head,
Starting in fright if a withered leaf but crackles beneath their tread.
Soon, however, their fear departs, and under the magic spell,
Close to the feet of the player they creep, while higher the wild notes swell,
Until, like one who wakes from a trance, the player stays his hand,
And his large dark eyes look dreamily over the charmed band.
A faint smile curves his rosy lips, he flings back his golden hair,
And, slowly rising, forward moves, through the mellow moon-lit air.
The rabbits, grasping harebell wands, alert and upright stand,
And playing a merry elfin march, he leads them through the land.
Past fields where the yellow corn-husks whisper in drowsy surprise;
Past vagrant vines' detaining arms, red with the autumn dyes;



T !r,:.tg li r!,e t:,r:,,:k,:ii r,,l ,- ,' ,-v :I l .r:, ..,;, : I. -:,iii r l! ro ie r-.: l I
THE LAND." Deep in the heart of an odorous wood, where night has cast
its spell;
A mossy glade where the mounting moon but glances through clustering trees,
And there, on a stately cabbage throne, the leader sits at ease,
While thronged about on every side, his furry followers sing,
As sweetly from their chiming bells a blithe refrain they ring:

We come from the valley, we come from the hill,
At thy summons we rally to answer thy will.
We hail, we hail thee with joyous delight,
We '1 dance neathh the trees in the mystic moonlight,
For we come from the valley, we come from the hill,
At thy summons we rally to answer thy will."

With a madder, merrier peal of bells, they gayly end their song,
The violin takes up the strain, and soon the little throng
Is whirling o'er the dewy sward to a waltz's dizzy measure,
And not a rabbit of them all but joins the dance with pleasure.
As round and round they wildly fly, one slips upon the moss;
Her partner still whirls gayly on, unconscious of his loss.
Thus many couples come to grief; exhausted, down they sink,
Their heads spin round with giddiness the while they wink and blink.


At last, of all the jolly throng, one couple 's left alone,
And now an impish spirit seems to rule the music's tone.
Fast and furious flies the bow, the antics grow more mad;
Such flapping ears and twinkling feet,-'t would make a hermit glad;
Such leaps, and bounds, and capers queer, their comrades grow excited,
And ring their bells applaudingly, and cheer them on, delighted.




At length the willful measures cease, the weary dancers pause,
And answer with triumphant smiles the well-deserved applause.
The fiddler now advances, the lucky pair are crowned,
As King and Queen of Rabbitland they '11 reign the whole year round.
Then some, of course, are envious, and mutter, "Are n't they proud!"
As the new-made monarchs proudly turn to greet the cheering crowd.
But when a stately air is played, all march up two by two,



i- "

r i



The eager rabbits upward spring and each one grasps his bell,
And now begin the queerest games within the dim-lit dell.
One little bunny, long of ear, and with most roguish eyes,
Sits quite erect, while over him to leap each comrade tries;


Salute the royal couple, and for grace and favor sue.
A cheerful banquet now is served, composed of cabbage salad;
(The way that cabbage disappeared would make a gardener pallid!)
The kind old moon, upon the wane, looks down and smiles benign,
In low and mystic monotone murmur the oak and pine.
But see !- once more the elfish lad shakes back his golden hair,
Draws bow across the singing strings. His summons cleaves the air.

1889.] AN AUTUMN REVEL. 181
.: *, ., '.. ; : ".. .... ,:- ^'":

And lies a moment not quite sure if he 's alive or dead.
/' I

And finds pine-needles, as a bed, can not compare with clover.
.1 1

Another turnssmesaltjstah over

,i L, "-
"'i ,,,,,, ,,: [ .., ,, ',,, -- .



They play a royal game of tag," and hide-and-seek comes after,
While all the dusky woods resound with peals of rabbit laughter.
Some form a ring and dance about their harebells stacked together,
One dares to tickle the monarch's ear with downy bits of feather,
And shakes with mirth unbounded, as his Majesty flaps and twitches,-
No lover of fun would have missed the sight for all Golconda's riches!
But now the music changes, the strain grows weirdly wild,
Then sinks, and almost dies away, in cadence soft and mild;
A pause, and then an outburst so unrestrained and glad,
Each rabbit takes a partner and dashes off like mad.
And round and round, and to and fro, they gayly fly, until--
The tired old moon slips out of sight, and all is dark and still.



F the little toddling babies
Were the makers of our lays,
You 'd find verses very different
In a thousand startling ways.
The babes would be exalted,
SAnd the rest of us appear
As the secondary creatures
Of a very different sphere.
Just imagine that the baby
Wrote the songs we here have shown
And gave them to the world at large
From his little baby throne:

Be kind to the baby,
For when thou art old
Who '11 nurse thee so tender as he,-
Who 'll catch the first accents that fall from
thy tongue
Or laugh at thy innocent glee ?

Rock-a-bye, Papa,
On the tree-top,
When the wind blows
The cradle will rock;
When the bough bends
The cradle will fall-
Down will come Papa
And cradle and all.


f %OCl'1r\ .

Bye, Mamma Bunting,
Baby's gone a-hunting,
Gone to get a rabbit-skin
To wrap the Mamma Bunting in.

" N

~ -\

Oh, Baby, dear Baby, come home with me now,
The clock in the steeple strikes one;
You said you were coming right in from the yard,
As soon as your mud-pie was done.
The fire 's gone out; the house is all cold;
And Mother 's been watching since tea,
With poor Father Jimmy asleep by the fire,
And no one to help her but me.




ID you ever keep a
calendar? I have
kept one all this
year, and it has
given me so much
Pleasure that I
+s'_ have resolved to
7 keep one always
as long as I live.
r I will tell you
how I came to keep it. For three or four years
past, my sister has been in correspondence with
the secretary of a society in which we are both
very much interested; but she has been the
working member, for, although I am the elder,
I am never quite well.
One New Year's Eve I received a letter from
the secretary telling me that he wished me to
keep a calendar. "It does n't matter for us
older ones," he said, for our lives are tinted
with the sober grays of evening; but you others,
you young ones, who never know what is coming
to you, are as happy as the song-birds one min-
ute, and ready to break your hearts the next
because of sorrow and disappointment. Your
lives are like pictures with brilliant lights and
deep shadows contrasted.
"Now it is a fact that all of us have more
bright spots than shadows in our lives, especially
while we are young, but as we grow older we
do not believe it, perhaps because our sorrowful
moods are easier to remember than our joyful
ones; but if you keep a record of the gleams
of gladness that brighten your life, you will be
astonished, when you look back, to find how
much happiness you have enjoyed, and then, too,
it will always be a pleasure to recall the memory
of past joys.
The keeping of a calendar," he went on, is
a very easy matter. All that you need is the
.VOL. XVII.-21. rE

calendar, a clean pen, and a bottle of red ink.
Every evening you take out your calendar, and,
if the day has been a happy one, draw a red
line all around the date; if it brought you only
some gleams of gladness, make a red dot for
every gleam; and if it was a day of sorrow un-
relieved by any brightness, leave the date blank,
surrounded only by its own black line."
Well, of course I was delighted with the idea,
and also with the calendar and pen which ac-
companied the letter; and as New Year's Day
was a day of unalloyed gladness, although the
doctor kept me a close prisoner all the time, I
drew a red line all round the date.
Since then my brother has had a long illness,
and my mother broke down under the strain of
nursing him, and me, for I was ill too; but for
all that, if you could only see how my calendar is
illuminated with red all through, you would be
convinced that my life is a happy one; and I do
really believe that it is all the brighter for my
calendar. It forces me to notice the bright mo-
ments that come every day, and which would
otherwise be lost in the shadows.
The calendar I have, however, was not in-
tended for keeping." It does very well to
show which days were happy and which were
not, but there is no space for writing a word or
two to tell the cause of the pleasure or whT
some of the dates are left blank; but next year
there will, perhaps, be a calendar made expressly
for the use I have described. I suppose I am
the first who ever kept such a calendar. Keep-
ing a diary is quite another matter. There ought
to be a space with each date for a few words to
explain the causes of the brightness of some days,
and the colorlessness of others.
I hope that next year everybody will keep a
calendar, for I feel quite sure that all who do so
will find great pleasure in it.



anteroom or choir-gallery, this dialogue may be used
as a recitation, with musical accompaniment.

"WHERE have you come from, Mabel mine,
While the stars still shine, the stars still
With a happy dream in those eyes of thine,
Early, this Christmas morning ? "

SI 've just come back from Slumber-land;
I 've come from the night in Slumber-land;
I 've come from the stars in Slumber-land ;
I 've come from the music in Slumber-land,
Early, this Christmas morning."

"What did you see there in the night,
Mabel mine, Mabel mine ? "
I saw a stable and star-lamp's light,
Early, this Christmas morning.

I saw a stable in Slumber-land,
And a little Babe with a snow-white hand,
And 'round the Babe the dumb beasts stand,
Early, this Christmas morning."

/ "What did you hear in Slumber-land,
Mabel mine, Mabel mine? "
Music, Mother, a song divine,
"-'-:"-"' t Early, this Christmas morning." a


"What was the song that the voices sung,
When over the stable the low stars hung ?"
"I can almost hear it still in the sky,
Listen, listen,- the strain draws nigh!
Glory in the highest Glory!' "

" What else did you see in Slumber-land,
Mabel mine, Mabel mine? "
"I saw the shepherds listening stand,
Early, this Christmas morning."

"What said the shepherds there on the plain ?"
"They touched their reeds and answered the strain
Glory in the highest! Glory '
When the angels ceased, the shepherds sung
Glory in the highest! Glory!'
And the earth and sky with the anthem rung,
Glory in the highest! Glory!' "

0 Mabel, Mabel, your dream was sweet,
And sweet to my soul is your story;
Like the shepherd's songlet our lips repeat
Glory in the highest! Glory!' "


"PLEASE give us some more stories by Miss Alcott-
we want so much another long serial by Miss Alcott,"
was the request that came to us again and again from
hundreds of our young readers in the years lately flown;
and again and again their beloved author complied, striv-
ing to meet their demand-in heart and will devoted to
her faithful work. And now that she can tell them no
more, a truer story than them all has been sent out to
the world by Messrs. Roberts Brothers, of Boston-a
story told by her own earnest and inspiring life: Louisa
May Alcott: Her Life, Letters, and Journals. Edited by
Ednah D. Cheney."
The book will endearher more than ever to thousands of
boys and girls, for in some respects it is like a new part
of "Little Women," appealing also to the now grown-up
generation of early admirers of the brave and good

" March" family. The pages contain two excellent por-
traits of Miss Alcott, and fac-similes of some of her letters.

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT, who has, this month, given his
two pages to Mr. Butterworth's For Christmas Day,"
will greet his merry crowd again in the January number.
He bids us give you, all, his compliments and the
best wishes of the season. And he also asks us to correct
an error that slipped into his sermon last month. The
credit of those big Thanksgiving pumpkins, he says, be-
longs to Southern California, not to.Nebraska. The
photograph that came to him had, by some oversight,
been wrongly inscribed-and he says no one can judge
merely by the expression of a pumpkin's face where in
the world it comes from. Everything depends upon its
being properly presented.


MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: You will consider me a
pretty large "boy," I fancy, to write letters to the ST.
NICHOLAS, when I tell you that I am a full-grown man
of twenty, already in business. But I thought it might
interest your young readers to get a letter from this far
distant but most beautiful City of Destiny," as it is
called. We- my brother and myself--have taken your
magazine ever since the first number was issued, and we
have every volume complete, neatly bound. So much do
we value it, that we shall continue subscribers as long
as we live, and we hope our children and grandchildren
may enjoy it as much as we do. You published, some
years ago, a letter we sent to you, as having been the first
children to make the ascent of Mount Marcy, the highest
peak of the Adirondacks, in 1877. I wish you had space
to publish all I should like to write about this wonder-
fully thriving city on the shores of Puget Sound, not very
far from Alaska, and the region made famous by the
Arctic exploring expeditions. I should like to interest
the children of the East in the beautiful Pacific Coast
country in this section of the land, so wonderful in its
developments, so fertile in resources.
I hope to attempt the ascent of Mount Tacoma, over
fourteen thousand feet high and always snow-capped,
and, if I do, will give you my experience.
I will just mention that there are few, if any, birds
here; no cats except such as are brought from other
places, and a scarcity of dogs.
But I have taken up too much space already, although
there is much of absorbing interest to young and old that
I could write about from this distant part of our Union.
Very sincerely, your "old" boy, W. A. B- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Morristown is a very pretty
and healthy place, about thirty miles from New York;
and there are many beautiful places here. There is a
very fine girls' school, which I attend.
I will now tell you about my pets. I have one kitten
and three turtles. My kitten, "Bright Eyes," is a small,
gray-striped kitten. My turtles are "Apollo," Diana,"
and "Venus Apollo is an orange and black turtle.
I have not tamed him very well yet, and he is quite

cross. Diana is yellow and black, and exceedingly gentle,
and feeds out of my hands. Venus is my little water-
turtle. His back is black, with small, bright orange spots
on it, and underneath it has three stripes, two black and
one a sort of pinkish orange. He also feeds out of my
hands. Turtles like to eat all kinds of berries, meat, and
some vegetables. They sleep very soundly, and some-
times snore. Your constant reader, K- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl, eleven years
old, and I have been spending a month at these Springs
with my mother and father, and my three brothers and
my sister Grace. The Indians used to call the New
River "The River of Death." It is so dangerous, though
very beautiful. Here it flows through cliffs three hun-
dred feet high. They are of perpendicular gray rock,
and clothed with lovely vines, and, with dark cedars
springing up in every nook, are just like huge ruined
castles. At the foot of the cliffs the river runs so deep it
has never been sounded. Seven miles from here is Moun-
tain Lake-a salt lake three thousand feet above the
level of the sea-at the top of all the mountains, and from
the top of Bald Knob," one of them, you can see five
States. When ST. NICHOLAS came here this month, we
each of us were willing to take care of our two-year-old
brother three hours, for the sake of reading it. And
Mother said she wished it would come every day. She
did not think we would be like the little girl who became
so sick of Christmas. The presents this ST. NICHOLAS
brings of splendid stories are so much more durable than
those of the other ST. NICK.
Affectionately, your friend, ANNA C. S- .

for quite a long time to tell you about my "Mother
Goose" scrap-book. My first idea of it came when I
read the article in the August number, for 1883. It was
called Home-made Mother Goose," and proposed that
all who were weary of pasting their advertisement cards
in books, should make a book of linen, and use cards and


parts of them cut out, to illustrate the "Mother Goose"
melodies. Well, I concluded to try it, and only now, in
1889, is my book completed. To begin with, I made a
book out of paper-muslin, which had twenty-two leaves,
and I used but one side of the page. It was no easy
matter, for I often waited months for a particular part
I needed. My friends all remembered me, and looked
out for figures. I remember, in the rhyme, One, two,
buckle my shoe," when I came to Eleven, twelve, toil
and delve," I could find nothing that was suited for it.
At last I found a card, of some children playing on the
sea-shore. I put two rhymes on a page, except when
they were long. Now, I did not think that the book
would be very satisfactory without the words; so I
printed in the rhyme with water-colors. I soon found
that red and blue were the best to work with. It was
rather hard to use a brush on the muslin, for, unless great
care was taken, the letters would be dauby. The words
are printed right in with the picture, around it, and all
sides of it.
"Climbing up the Golden Stairs" was very popular at
that time, so here I used my darky cards. I illustrated
the first verse. The golden stairs are pieces of gilt
paper, pasted in like steps, which go up to the top of the
page. One of the darkies is stepping up, playing on a
tambourine. A little fellow is falling off the last step.
He looks exceedingly surprised; while "Aunt Dinah"
is traveling slowly and surely upward. The Dude" is
as dudish as one could wish, while "Old Peter" is ready
to hand you "the ticket," which happens to be a pass on
the D. L. and W. R. R., over Hoboken Ferry." I had
such a time to find any "half a dollar," but a friend pro-
cured a pictured one from a bank-book, which Sambo "
offers in his outstretched hand. At last, last winter I
finished it, and had it bound with a dark red, flexible
cover. I named it "Pluckings from Mother Goose, by
One of Her Goslings," and I dedicated it to my little
sister, Nan, and her large darky doll, "Topsy."
We children enjoy you so much, and never get tired
of reading over the old stories. I wish that Mrs. Dodge
would write us another story. Hers are so enjoyable.
We all liked the story that has just finished, "A Bit of
Color," and agree that Betty must have been a lovely
girl; one we should like to know.
The town of Dunmore is two miles from Scranton.
We have two different lines of electric cars running into
the town, which make it seem very near to Scranton.
Our ugly-looking culm piles are being utilized as
"plants" for the making of electricity. When we go
away, and see the "horse-cars," they seem very much
"behind the times."
I would like to know whether any one else tried the
" Mother Goose scrap-book, and with what success.
Well, good-bye, dear ST. NICHOLAS, and with many
wishes for a long and happy life to you, I am,
Your sincere friend, HELEN M--.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I would like to write a letter
to my dear and esteemed friend, ST. NICHOLAS, hoping
that its constant readers may see this in the Letter-
box." I am a man near fifty-eight years old, and its
readers may not think a man of my age should write a
letter to a magazine of its class. I like the story of
" Grandpapa's Coat," and "Laetitia and the Redcoats,"
which we understand to be the British of those times.
I shall always esteem it as my home friend. I have
several volumes andwill have them bound. I remain,
Your constant reader, JOSEPHUS P- .
P. S.-If proper, place this letter in "Letter-box."
I enjoyed the two stories above, and could n't help
reading them over and over again.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We-a family of six-are
spending the four summer months on the shore of
beautiful blue Ontario. It is a quiet place, about forty
miles from Niagara Falls, with a dozen or so cottages,
and a low, rambling hotel among the trees.
My mother, sister, and myself are very fond of walking,
and take long tramps, seeing the country and the people,
which latter we often find amusing. Our longest tramp
was to Albion, a town ten miles away, and back the same
day. We were only three and a half hours going in, but
longer coming back.
We went one day to see an old lady who still spins
and weaves her own linen and cotton. She was im-
mensely amused to learn where we lived, and said, To
think o' coming' all the way from Washington, to go to
the mouth o' Johnson's Creek! You must ha' been hard
up She thought the President lives in the Capitol.
Another old lady told Mother she had never been away
from the farm a day since she was married, but added,
proudly, that she "was born south of here." Inquiry
revealed the fact that she "had been born on a farm two
miles south of here," and only left it for her present
We have found several odd localisms, one of which is,
"quite a few," meaning a large number, and another,
"right smart and away of a walk," means a long distance.
In June, I made a study of tadpoles, putting several into
an improvised aquarium. They were almost black, about
an inch long, and it was very interesting to see first the
hind legs come out, then the fore legs, and, finally, the tail
dwindle to nothing. At that stage they were brown, with
dark spots, and barely half an inch long. I let them go,
and they hopped round the road and fields. Their com-
rades in the little pond had all developed, and were
likewise hopping in the fields.
Now, a few weeks ago, as I was watching the odd
water-animals there, I saw two gray-green tadpoles, or
pollywogs, nearly three inches long, with undeveloped
legs. And, recently, a brilliant green froglet, about an
inch and a half long, has come up to greet me. Can any
country boy or girl tell me whether the smaller ones were
toads? And which is the correct name -tadpoles or
pollywogs ?
If I have made my letter too long, dear ST. NICHOLAS,
as I fear, could you please find room for the last part ?
I was going to write to "Jack-in-the-Pulpit," and ask
him about the tads," but he seemed to be taking a
vacation with the rest of his congregation.
It is needless to tell you how much you are enjoyed,
from Grandpa to the youngest. With best wishes for

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have taken your charming
magazine for seven or eight years, since I was only four
years old. That was while we were in Germany. How
glad we were to see it every month, and how we did
enjoy Lord Fauntleroy "! Some of our German and
English friends enjoyed the magazine, too, very much,
and since we came back we sometimes send it over to
Munich. I studied drawing there, and I hope, some
day, to be able to illustrate for dear ST. NICHOLAS.
This spring we set a hen on ducks' eggs; only one
came out, and the mother took care of it as long as she
was shut up in a coop. When the mother was let out,
she left her little duck of three weeks. Another hen,
with seven chickens, at once went to the little duck's
coop and took care of it at night, and took it about with
her family all day. We thought she was so kind, but to
our surprise, after ten days, when she had taught the
duck to look after her chickens, she left them to the
entire care of the little orphan nurse. We found that it


was the duck that deserved praise, for, although she is
full-grown now, she never goes around with the other
ducks, but still takes care of these now large chickens,
and sleeps in their coop at night. Is that not a remark-
able duck?

Your devoted reader,

G. B. C--.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wonder if any of your little
readers ever had such a nice present as mine on my
ninth birthday,-a full set of ST. NICHOLAS, hand-
somely bound That was a year ago, and I think there
has not been a day since when they have not been used
by my brother or myself. It would be hard to tell what
we like best. We like it all.
I live fourteen hundred miles from my grandma's and
grandpa's, uncles' and aunties', but I go to see them nearly
every year. The boys and girls have great fun there in
the winter-time. We never think of staying in the house
here because it is cold. If we have an ice palace this
winter, I will send any of your subscribers, who will
send me a stamp, a good picture of the palace.
I hope to take you as long as I live, and then leave
you to my children.
Truly your friend, MARION W- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A little while ago I went to a
Greek christening, and I thought that perhaps you would
like to hear about it. Sometimes it takes place in a
house and sometimes in a church. The one I saw was
in the house. This is the way it was done:
First, two priests came in with a man, who carried a
large metal thing on his back which looked something
like a bath. This was the font. He put it down in the
middle of the room and filled it with warm water and
oil. While he was doing this, the priests let down their
hair and put on their robes. Then one took the baby,
which was quite naked, and dipped it three times in the
font, saying prayers at the same time. After that it was
taken out and put into a lot of clean, new linen and given
to the godfather, who walked three times round the
font with the child in his arms, while the priests scat-
tered incense about and said some more prayers. Then
the mother took the baby and bound it up tightlyin long
bands, tied a little muslin cap on its head, and put it to
bed. At the beginning each guest received a lighted
candle to hold; and when it was over they gave every
one a little piece of money which had a hole in it and a
piece of blue and white ribbon tied to it. You are ex-
pected to pin this upon your dress till you go away.
They gave the guests sweets. Sometimes instead of
money they have little silver crosses. The godfather or
godmother provides everything-the baby's dress and
clothes, the sweets and crosses, and also gives the baby
a present. The candles are rather dangerous, as they
give them to little children as well as grown people. A
little child behind me burned off some of her front hair.
She did not burn very much off, as I caught sight of her
just in time, and I told the mother, who was very much
disgusted. But she did not seem to mind the child's

having been in danger so much as she minded her hair
being burned off. Now, this is all I remember. So,
I remain, your affectionate reader,

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am twelve years old, and
have taken you for three years, and enjoy you very much.
To get to me, you have to ride on horseback six hundred
miles, for the post is brought by horses from Samsoon, on
the Black Sea, to Mardin, and takes them from nine to
ten days. From where our houses stand, we can see
the plain of Mesopotamia stretching away to the south,
as far as the eye can reach, and hundreds of miles far-
ther. A few months ago a party of us went down on the
plain to a village named Dara-supposed to have been
built by Darius, the great king. It is all in ruins now.
We saw the remains of immense buildings. One was
said to have been the palace of the king. Another was
entirely underground. It is thought it was a prison.
There was the ruin of a reservoir large enough to supply
the whole city with water during a long siege. The city
was surrounded by a great wall, high and wide, and out-
side of the wall was a large moat. Right through the
city is the bed of a large river, which is now but a small
stream. Across it is a bridge that has lasted to this time.
It has two tracks, as if they were worn by chariot wheels.
On the tops of many of the ruins were storks' nests. There
is a small village there now. The people that live in it
are all Moslems. It took us-or rather we took-two
days to ride there; it is only eighteen miles from here.
But we went out for a good time, and did not hurry.
I have an Arabian colt, only two years old, that I ride
nearly every day; his name, in Arabic, is Karrumful,"
meaning Cloves. My sister Minnie, four years younger
than myself, has a little white Bagdad donkey named
"Filfil," meaning Pepper.
Lest you get tired of me, I will bid you good-bye for
this time, always wishing, dear ST. NICHOLAS, the best
of success. I am ever your true friend,

WE thank the young friends whose names here follow
for pleasant letters received from them: Eunice O., Ella
G. S., Blanche Keat, John D. M., Adele and Jessie,
Alice Putnam, Marion Clothier, May N. H., Marguerite
B., Gertrude' C. P., Freddy R., Marion E. S., "Evie,"
Ernestine Robbins, Anna FitzGerald, Allan Moorfield,
C. L. Darling, Frank D. C., Sacka de T. Jones, Maria
de T. Jones, Allerton Cushman Crane, Daisy A. Sylla,
K. B., Lola Barrows, Fannie L. H., Matchie Willing-
ham, Etta Levy, Lillie Jacobs, Kathleen Howard, Mabel
Maynard, Patty Gregg, P. L. D., Isabel C., W. Palmer,
Olive Knibbs, L. L. W., Alta Fellows and Ruth Myers,
"Ethel," NoraWalker, E. C. Wood, Mary B. Tartt, Marie
Buchanan, Sadie F., Lionel Hein, Kate J., Anna N. H.,
Eloise and Lucienne, Maude D., Daisy S., Lizzie W.
Leary, Hattie S. Fitch, R. M. and A. F., Bessie Long-
bridge, Mary Caldwell, Raymond Buck, Maud C. Max-



RHOMBOID. Across: I. Porte. 2. Harms. 3. Games.
4. Peris. 5. Tenor.
PI. 'T is the time
When the chime
Of the season's choral band is ringing out.
Smoky brightness fills the air,
For the light winds everywhere
Censers full of flowery embers swing about.
There is sweetness that oppresses,
As a tender parting blesses;
There 's a softened glow of beauty,
As when Love is wreathing Duty;
There are melodies that seem
Weaving past and future into one fair dream.
Lucy Larcom, The Indian Summer."
QUADRUPLE ACROSTIC. First row, demeans; second,
oversee; fifth, accuses; sixth, leeside. Cross-words:
I. Dorsal. 2. Evince. 3. Menace. 4. Erebus. 5. Assisi.
6. Needed. 7. Setose.
WORD-SQUARE. I. Doses. 2. Obole. 3. Solid. 4. Eliza.
5. Sedan.-- CHARADE. Whole-some.

There 's not a flower on all the hills,
The frost is on the pane.
ILLUSTRATED ACROSTIC. Bryant. Cross-words:
I. caBbage. 2. haRness. 3. toYshop. 4. crAvats.
5. caNteen. 6. buTtons.-- RIDDLE. Pillow.
DIAGONAL PUZZLE. Thomson. I.Tempest. 2.tHroned.
3. moOrish. 4. diaMond. 5. modeSty. 6. kingdOm.
7. ruffiaN.
BROKEN WORDS. Thanksgiving, Old Homestead.
I. Turn Over. 2. Hire Ling. 3. Anti Dote. 4. Night
Hawk. 5. Keels On. 6. Sides Man. 7. Gods End.
8. Inter Scribe. 9. Vesper Tine. o1. Imp End. II. Not
Able. 12. Glad Den.
DOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals, Capratina; finals,
Dindymene. Cross-words: I. CarotiD. 2. AlfierI.
3. PenguiN. 4. RumoreD. 5. AbilitY. 6. TransoM.
7. ImpingE. 8. NankeeN. 9. AndantE.
May good digestion wait on appetite,
And health on both.

To OUR PUZZLERS : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the I5th
of each month, and should be addressed to ST. NICHOLAS "Riddle-box," care of THE CENTURY Co., 33 East
Seventeenth St., New York City.
ANSWERS TO ALL THE PUZZLES IN THE SEPTEMBER NUMBER were received, before September I5th, from
Arthur Gride-Paul Reese-Maude E. Palmer-J. Russell Davis-Pearl F. Stevens-A Family Affair-
Jamie and Mamma Mamma, Aunt Martha, and Sharley Nellie L. Howes Maxie and Jackspar -" Wit and
Humor "- Blanche and Fred-- Helen C. McCleary Jo and I Henry Guilford-- Ida C. Thallon-- Mathilde,
Ida, and Alice.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE SEPTEMBER NUMBER were received, before September 15th, from J. Norman
Carpenter, I- L. T., I Emma Sydney, 8 Arthur B. Lawrence, 4- M. E. W., I Clara and Emma, I M.
H., I--Papa and Honora, I--Susy I. Myers, 2-May Cadwallader, I--Guy H. Purdy, 3-Sadie and
Mary F., 2- M. H. V., 5-Kitty, Bessie, and Eugene, 3- R. M. and A. F., I--Elsie Rosenbaum, 2-
" Wamba, Prince Charming, and Molly Bawn," 5 -John W. Frothingham,Jr., 4-" Karl and Queen Elizabeth," 8-
Gita and Pink, 9-Clara and O., 4- Charlie Reta and Ernie Sharp, 4-" We Two," 8- B. F. R., 9- Sissie Hun-
ter, 3- Marion S. Dumont, 2- J. M. Wright, 5-" May and 79," 8- Irvin V. G. Gillis, io- Albert E. Clay,
io-" All of Us," 3 -Jim, Tom, and Charlie, io- Effie K. Talboys, 7- Carrie Holzman, 2-Gert and Fan, 6-
G. Goldfrank, 7 Adrienne Forrester, 5 Nagrom, 3 Katie Guthrie, 3 Eleuthera Smith, 5 A. A. Smith, I -
Three American Readers, 4- Kendrick Family, I No Name, Conn., 5- A. W. Bartlett, I- G. Harwood, 6.


I. IN muscular. 2. Reverence. 3. Songs or tunes.
4. A wooden instrument used for cleaning flax. 5. Gold
coins of the United States. 6. To become unconscious.
7. To discover. F. s. F.

THE letters in each of the following thirteen groups
may be transposed so as to form one word. When these
are rightly guessed they will answer to the following
definitions: I. Relating to color. 2. Half a poetic verse.
3. A name for buttercups, given them by Pliny, because
the aquatic species grow where frogs abound. 4. Just.
5. Benumbed. 6. Shaped like a top. 7. The summer

solstice, June 21. 8. Mineral pitch. 9. Layers of earth
lying under other layers. 10. The more volatile parts of
substances, separated by solvents. II. Accused. 12. The
goddess of discord. 13. The utmost point.

I. I match roc.
2. She hit mic.
3. I run clan U.
4. A limp rat, I.
5. Fed, I set up.
6. I run at Bet.
7. Rimm mused.
8. Put a sham L.
9. As tar tubs.
o1. I rust cent.
11. Dime peach.
12. Cari is odd.
13. Extry time.

When the above letters have been rightly transposed,
and the words placed one below the other, the primals
will spell a festal time, and the finals will spell an anni-
versary of the Church of England, held on the 28th of
December. F. S. F.


EACH of the six pictures in the above illustration may
be described by a word of five letters. When these are
rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in the
order here given, the letters from I to 20 (as indicated in
the accompanying diagram) will spell the name of an
eminent scholar and divine who was born December 13,
ACROSS: I. In Chinaman. 2. A pert townsman. 3.
An old word meaning the crown of the head. 4. The
Indian name for a lake. 5. A prize given at Harvard
University. 6. A masculine nickname. 7. In Chinaman.
DOWNWARD: I. In Chinaman. 2. A capsule of a
plant. 3. A printer's mark showing that something
is interlined. 4. Men enrolled for military discipline.
5. A fibrous product of Brazil. 6. The first half of a
word meaning very warm. 7. In Chinaman.
ALL of the cross-words are of equal length. When
they have been rightly guessed and placed one below the

S other, in the order here given, the
I / last row of letters, reading up-
ward, will spell something often
read at this time of the year; the
row next to the last, reading downward,
will spell something often overhead at this
time of the year.
CROSS-WORDS: I. Flourishing. 2. A
company of singers. 3. A rope with a
noose. 4. The "Wizard of the North."
5. Baffles. 6. Small, insect-eating mam-
mals. 7. A great artery of the body. 8.
A maxim or aphorism. 9. Silica.
YAUNJSAR sklapser dolc,
Erarubfy strigtel,
Charm mosce ni, a dydum clods,
Ripal boss nad stirett;
Crangtik does reh dribse-daim yam,
Slubseh nuje wiht seros stewe;
Neht teh sleml fo wen-monw yha,
Enth het sewva fo delgon hewta,
Tenh eth selentin fo lafl ;
Hent teh rawzid thmon fo lal;
Neth het seridfie swogl, dan enth
Cashstrim scome ot hater aniga.
THE diagonals, from the upper left-hand corner to the
lower right-hand corner, spell the surname of a famous
musician born in 1756.
CROSS-WORDS: i. Central. 2. A body of about five
hundred soldiers. 3. An enchanter. 4. A country of
North America. 5. To expand. 6. A parcel.


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