Front Cover
 The famous Tortugas bull-fight
 It really rained
 The lark's secret
 Two girls and a boy
 Strange corners of our country
 A year with Dolly
 Tom Paulding
 November in the cañon
 The cobbler magician
 The admiral's caravan
 The curious case of Ah-Top
 A story of the Swiss glacier
 A shocking affair
 When I was your age
 Reaching a great height with...
 Experiments in kite-flying
 Seven years without a birthday
 Bruno and Jim
 Editorial notes
 The letter box
 The riddle box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00253
 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: VID00253
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: oclc - 01764817
lccn - 04012675
 Related Items
Preceded by: Our young folks
Preceded by: Children's hour (Philadelphia, Penn.)
Preceded by: Little corporal
Preceded by: Schoolday magazine
Preceded by: Wide awake

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
        Front Cover 3
        Page 402
    The famous Tortugas bull-fight
        Page 403
        Page 404
        Page 405
        Page 406
        Page 407
    It really rained
        Page 408
        Page 409
    The lark's secret
        Page 410
        Page 411
    Two girls and a boy
        Page 412
        Page 413
        Page 414
        Page 415
        Page 416
        Page 417
        Page 418
        Page 419
        Page 420
    Strange corners of our country
        Page 421
        Page 422
        Page 423
        Page 424
        Page 425
        Page 426
        Page 427
        Page 428
    A year with Dolly
        Page 429
    Tom Paulding
        Page 430
        Page 431
        Page 432
        Page 433
        Page 434
        Page 435
        Page 436
        Page 437
        Page 438
    November in the cañon
        Page 439
        Page 440
        Page 441
        Page 442
    The cobbler magician
        Page 443
    The admiral's caravan
        Page 444
        Page 445
        Page 446
        Page 447
        Page 448
    The curious case of Ah-Top
        Page 449
        Page 450
    A story of the Swiss glacier
        Page 451
        Page 452
        Page 453
        Page 454
        Page 455
    A shocking affair
        Page 456
        Page 457
    When I was your age
        Page 458
        Page 459
        Page 460
        Page 461
        Page 462
        Page 463
    Reaching a great height with kites
        Page 464
        Page 465
    Experiments in kite-flying
        Page 466
        Page 467
        Page 468
    Seven years without a birthday
        Page 469
        Page 470
        Page 471
    Bruno and Jim
        Page 472
        Page 473
        Page 474
        Page 475
    Editorial notes
        Page 476
    The letter box
        Page 477
        Page 478
    The riddle box
        Page 479
        Page 480
        Page 481
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text



APRIL, 1892.



THERE was an air of mystery about a certain
house in Tortugas. For several days a num-
ber of boys had been coming and going, meet-
ing in the back yard, and arranging seats about
the sides (some of which they decorated with
green vines, and others with pots of flowers),
until finally the place bore the appearance of a
circus, with its central inclosed arena.
The secret finally made its escape, and a ru-
mor announced to the world that on the Fourth
of July there would be in the arena a bull-fight,
at which a celebrated matador would appear.
I remember it well, for I was the matador,
and the picadors and banderilleros were my fun-
loving companions. Our parents had recently
been on a visit to Havana, where they had
attended.a bull-fight, and the event was now
to be duly reproduced with all the splendor
I had been chosen matador. There was no
little competition, and well there might be: the
matador receives all the honors. He it is who,
with eagle eye, stands like a statue and receives
the terrific charge of the bull, slays him by a
thrust of his gleaming sword; and then, as the
animal is dragged off, accepts the homage of
the people.

I was matador not that I had experience,
but simply because I owned the "bull"--a
very extraordinary rabbit that had known me
as master for several years.
"Jack," as the rabbit was called, differed
from any of his kind that I have ever seen or
heard of. He was not only absolutely without
fear, but he never missed an opportunity to show
his courage. He stood not upon the order of
going, but promptly charged every person or
dog that dared to enter upon his ground.
This disposition upon Jack's part, I must con-
fess, was encouraged rather than otherwise. It
was a strong temptation to scale the fence of
the inclosure in which he was kept, jump in,
run across, and climb up the other side just
ahead of Jack, who would leap a foot into the
air in his disappointment.
It can readily be seen, then, that Jack pos-
sessed all the characteristics necessary to enable
him to perform as a first-class bull; and in no
sense did he disappoint the great expectations
we had of him.
On the day of the proposed bull-fight every-
thing was in readiness. The yard, which was
covered with grass, was about thirty feet wide
by sixty in length, and surrounded by a fence.

Copyright, x892, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved.


No. 6.




Boxes had been placed in the upper end,
against this fence; and here the young spec-
tators were seated, representing the Spanish
grandees and ladies, patrons of the sport.
As the matador, I was not to come in until
the bull had been driven to a frenzy by the
banderilleros or dart-throwers, and picadors or

/v'4- i -' .

spearmen. At an early moment I took my
place among the grandees. I was dressed in
an attempt at Spanish magnificence, with nu-
merous ribbons and a turban-like hat, and was
armed with a wooden sword; as, after all, it was
in fun, and at the last Jack was to be spared.
The picadors and banderilleros were also fan-
tastically arrayed. One was bare-legged and
had red ribbons bound about his sun-browned
limbs; another wore a yellow sash about his
waist and many-hued ribbons on shoulders and
elbows. The two picadors were supposed to

be on horseback, and were armed with long
spears made of old garden poles; while the
banderilleros only carried red bandanas, which
they were to wave in front of the enraged bull
to distract his attention if it so happened that
the picadors were in danger.
Finally everything was ready. A blast from
a bugle, and the slat
which took the place of
a gate was pulled up, the
Sbull darted from his box,
and with two or three
hops gained the center
of the arena.
Jack was a magnificent
fellow, large, and dark
gray except a white
stripe running down his
nose; his ears were long
and lopped heavily. He
was a native of the Brit-
ish Isles, and possessed
all the fighting qualities
that appertain to the
Evergreen Isle. For a
moment, the bull (mean-
ing Jack, of course)
looked about, amazed at
the unusual concourse;
then, perceiving a ban-
derillero waving a red
cloth, he started. His
long ears stood out
straight behind, and he
e went over the ground
like a flash. The ban-
derillero stepped nimbly
x." to one side after the usual
fashion, but Jack jumped for the scarlet cloth,
seized it with his teeth, and jerked it from the
hands of the banderillero, amid a roar of ap-
This was an unexpected move and not down
on the bills, and the banderillero stood irreso-
lute a moment. Not so the bull. Dropping the
bandana, he rushed at his enemy, who, panic-
stricken, leaped into the air to avoid him and
then dashed pell-mell for the fence. The bull
had gone by but a few feet, and, turning quickly,
he flew in pursuit with fire in his eye, and would



pon. Taken by surprise, the picador hesitated;
4 the audience, seeing his danger, screamed and
shouted encouragingly -then hooted and jeered
rN as he turned and fled at full speed. The bull
was not a foot behind, and the picador had no
'/ opportunity to climb the fence without being
caught unless he could first increase the distance
between them. So on he flew, once around,
& k then dodged, and amid a roar of applause
leaped his imaginary horse into the air, allowing
/ the bull to pass under him. Before the latter
could recover, he was half-way to the fence.
To increase his speed he threw down the spear.
e; ,, :,- A few steps more, and he reached the barrier-
/'"" his hands were on the top rail-up-almost
-. over, when a long-eared object shot into the
-'i .-'- air. A yell, a ripping, tearing sound, and the
V bull dropped back with a mouthful of gaudy
/ ribbons, while the defeated picador whisked
over the fence.
THE PICADOR EVADES THE "BULI.S" CHARGE. The bull looked at the ground, chewed the
have overtaken his victim had not a picador ribbons a moment or two, and boldly hopped
dropped the point of his long lance, and pre- into the middle of the arena. He smelled
pared to charge. Quick as a flash, the bull of the wooden lance, nosing it with contempt,
lowered his head and dashed under the wea- then deliberately sat up on his haunches and

.., '* .-
rr '
. -1 *j '
r -- i -
-7'.4 -. ,79 4,



looked around, with his great lop ears grace-
fully drooping.
This was undoubtedly a challenge; and the
grandees stood up in the private boxes and
cheered long and loud. In the mean while the
"physician" in attendance had been sent for
court-plaster; as on the brown legs of the pic-

* P '':


ador various red streaks were rapidly appear-
ing. After the bull had seized the gay ribbons
that had ornamented the short trousers of the
brave picador, he had used his hind legs vig-
orously as scratchers-" raking the picador fore
and aft," as was said by a young sailor who was
among the spectators. This was the first cas-
ualty, and inspired every one with no little re-
spect for the bull. He was lying stretched at
full length upon the grass, with one eye on the
boxes, where a loud talking was kept up.

The picadors and banderilleros decided that
they had done their duty, which was to enrage
the bull by feats of daring at the risk of their
legs. The horse of one picador had been terri-
bly gored, they said; a banderillero wounded
and his expensive costume ruined; and the bull
was not only not conquered, but seemed to be
enjoying it,- to prove
which they pointed to his
recumbent form. Shouts
now came from the grand
stand, and the grandees
rose en masse and clam-
ored for the matador.
For the benefit of ST.
NICHOLAS readers who
have never engaged in
a bull-fight, I should ex-
plain that the matador
is selected for personal
S prowess and skill. He
-- ----- must stand the charge of
---'- i the bull, and, as the in-
Sffuriated animal dashes
at him, step swiftly aside
Sand plunge his true and
gleaming blade into the
victim, killing him on
Es the spot. It was now
-" my turn; and, as I
stepped down from the
boxes and the grandees
cheered and waved their
sombreros, it was the
proudest day of my life.
My lath sword was
looked to, and, feeling
glad that I knew the bull,
I stepped into the arena.
Old Jack first raised one ear as I entered,
next raised his head and calmly eyed me; then
he dropped his big ears upon the grass again
and pretended to go to sleep !
This was unbearable; and an agile picador
sprang forward and fluttered' a red bandana
before him. Jack rose into the air with a single
bound, and away went the two for the fence,
the picador escaping, and the bull leaping half-
way, but falling back upon his haunches. For
a moment he stood looking up, hoping that his






enemy would reappear. Then, turning, he saw
the matador.
Jack evidently recognized me, and felt that
here was no common enemy, but one who
knew his tactics. And I did; numerous scars
upon my legs testifying to the fact. He did
not approach me, but loped slowly around the
circle-a scheme to gain time, I thought. A
picador now jumped after him, another met
him in front. Finally he turned, and, as they
fled, came at me upon a dead run. It was in
the nature of a surprise; but I stood firm, in-
tending to lunge at him, pretending to slay
him. Then, by successful dodging, I would
avoid a personal conflict, claiming a victory
upon the ground of skill. All eyes were upon
me; the grandees were spell-bound, and a blast
from the trumpet rent the air.
On came the bull, and raising my gleaming
lath I prepared to strike and jump; but the bull
forestalled me. Instead of coming close, as was
his rule, he jumped at me from a distance of
about three feet. Confused by the flying object,
I fell back, caught my foot in a piece of wire-
grass, and ignominiously went down with Jack
upon me. He seized my thin trousers with his

teeth, and with quick scratches of his sharp
hind claws gave the article as many serious
wounds. A shout-yes, a roar-arose as I
fell! I was aware of the derisive tone,.and
seizing Jack by one of his long ears, I wrenched
him from his hold and picked myself up. No
gaily caparisoned horses came in to drag out the
dead bull; no applause arose from the grandees;
no flowers or wreaths were thrown to the victor.
The matador had been fairly defeated, and
he was forced to acknowledge it.
This unlooked-for ending had somewhat
changed the program. It was expected that
the bull would be slain, or defeated, and a goat
in complete harness, with a garland of flowers
about his neck, was in waiting to drag out the
body. A compromise was finally effected, for the
grandees cheered the bull and demanded that
he receive the flowers. So the matador accepted
the situation, the goat-team was driven in, a
box placed on the cart, and the victorious bull
was perched upon it. He looked ready for
another fight, and as if he would enjoy it.
And so the cavalcade drove up to the boxes
of the grandees, and the wreath intended for
the matador was placed about the neck of tri-


umphant Jack. Chewing at the flowers, he picadors and banderilleros opened the gates,
was borne proudly around the arena, amid and he passed out.
shouts, and blasts from the trumpet! Then the So ended the famous Tortugas bull-fight.



IN the most violent shower of last summer,
when the rain fell as violently as we North
Americans ever see it descend, I could not
help but think how slight a rainfall it was as
compared with a shower that once overtook
me a shower that causes me to say that I
have only once seen it really rain."
It was in Cuba, and I was in a railway-car,
journeying from Matanzas to Havana. It was
springtime, and the beginning of the rainy sea-
son was at hand. The people were looking

forward to the first rain as-I was going to say,
as we do to the first snow; but that does not
parallel their expectation, for they know that
when it once begins to rain there is an end to
their liberty. After that it may (and it does) rain
at any moment on every day and several times
a day. But such rain! When you hear a descrip-
tion of the first shower of the season, you will
say that until we have been to the tropics we
shall not know what rain is, any more than we
know what a snow-storm is until we have lived




on the plains in winter, or what ice is without
going to the arctic regions. We live in what is
well termed the temperate zone; and grand as
nature is around us, she is seldom terrific.
The first intimation that I had of the likeli-
hood that something was going to happen, came
from my seeing a dense jet-black cloud over
against the southern horizon. All around me
lay a peaceful and prosperous scene. Beside the
track were some hut-like negro cabins, with
black women seated in the doorways, and
funny little half-naked piccaninnies playing in
the dirt. A long row of giant palms was be-
hind the huts, bordering a wide clearing, and
throwing great black patches of shade on the
sunlit earth. Beyond the clearing were woods
and a jungle. The train came to a standstill,
and I drank in the beautiful scene, all yellow
and green and hot. I noticed that not a breath
of air was stirring, and I envied the Cubans
around me in the car, dressed for the climate
in white duck and loose shirts and spreading
straw hats.
But the black cloud grew bigger and blacker.
It was advancing toward us with very great,
and evident, speed; and presently I saw that it
was all fretted with bolts of lightning, toothed
with white darts of fire. Never before or since
did I see such a dreadful display of the electrical
force. The bolts were so close together that
it seemed as if they must destroy every living
thing in the pathway of the cloud. When the
black and terrible mass in the sky came still
nearer, it seemed no longer toothed or fringed,
but it spat the lightning with vicious force
straight down upon the forest beneath it.
Next came a sucking, roaring sound of wind,
the sky grew black, and with the last glimmer of
daylight, before it vanished into night, I saw the
giant palm-trees throw up their huge fan-like
arms like mortal creatures that were hurt and
panic-stricken. Then the storm burst over the
train, and through its din I heard the crashing

of the falling palm-branches that had been
snapped off and thrown to the earth.
In another minute the worst of the darkness
was over, and in the half-light that remained I
saw such rain as I never had dreamed could
fall from the sky. It did not appear to fall in
drops, or in ropes," as I once heard an Eng-
lishman say of a severe downpour of rain, but
it descended in vast thick sheets, layer upon
layer. You could see one thickness tumbling
after the other as so many great plates of glass
might be thrown down. It grew lighter still,
and I saw that the beautiful palms were wrecked,
and were still writhing in their misery, tossing
up their broad hands and thick arms, many of
which were broken and disjointed, while others
had been snapped off.
At the feet of the palms there was no longer
any ground. The surface of the earth had be-
come a lake. The water stood high in the
doorways of the negro cabins. The litter of
palm-branches floated about on the rain-pelted
water. I remember waiting to see the train
demolished by the lightning, but it was not, nor
could I see that the fiery bolts had harmed any-
thing around us. Another minute passed,-
perhaps not more than five minutes had passed
since the shower began,-and the daylight
came back grandly, disclosing the great flood
A Cuban, sitting on the other side of the car
from me, passed me his cigarette-box; and as he
did so he said in a labored effort to be polite in
a foreign tongue: "I t'ink it will rain. W'at
you t'ink ? "
The cars moved on. The black cloud had
gone far to the north. The sun burst through
the sky, and the water began to sink into the
ground. Presently we were passing through a
region where millions of jewel-like raindrops
on the trees were all that told of the furious
shower which had ushered in the rainy season
of the year.




ELSA THORN was a dear, shy little English
girl, who lived with her grandmother and with
sister Betty in a pretty village near the sea.
Now, when Elsa was born, the kind fairies
who love all good children gave her a very
lovely gift a sweet, beautiful voice; so very
sweet, truly, that every one who heard it once
longed to hear it again. However, very few
besides Granny and sister Betty ever did hear
it, for, as I said, Elsa was shy.
But at last there came a time when she found
she must try to be brave. Something was
about to happen--something very grand in-
deed. A splendid musical service was to be held
at Easter in the beautiful new church; and it
had been announced that all the children might
come and have their voices tested by the great
master, with the chance of being chosen to
join the children's choir and have the best of
training for many weeks.
Ah, what a chance for Elsa! Surely she
must not lose it; and so it was decided that on
the morrow she should go with the rest.
Well," said Grandmother, it is indeed a
great opportunity, and I hope you will try to be
brave, dear, and sing well; for think of the train-
ing, my child, the valuable training. Perhaps
you may even sing like the sweet lark yonder,
should your voice but learn its use."
But my poor lark sings no more, now that
it is caged," said Elsa. Perhaps the seeds we
give it make it ill."
Early next day, even before the old sexton
had finished his dusting, little Elsa was at the
church door, and soon the flocks of children
came swarming in, all eager and impatient for
the great master to come.
And, when he did come, what a moment
was that, and how great the awe and excite-
ment of it all! No wonder shy little Elsa was
shaking with fear. It all seemed a dreadful
dream, the waiting for her turn to come. At

last, however, she stood alone, facing the stern
eyes of the great master.
I do not like to tell what happened next.
In spite of all her brave resolutions, the poor
child gave way. It was pitiful to see her;
even the stern master looked sorry when the
clear, sweet voice faltered, and the rare high
notes, which came so easily at home, failed
utterly, ending with a sob.
Lost, lost, all lost!
Elsa was on her way home now, smothering
her sobs as best she could, walking with her
eyes too blinded by tears to notice the hurry-
ing crowd about her. But who was this touch-
ing her shoulder ? What voice was speaking so
kindly at her side? Surely this could not be
the stem, terrible master Yet it was he. And,
listen, is he not saying that Elsa may try again
at the second test, next day? After all, the
chance is not lost then! But how should she
learn to be brave ?
Late into the night Elsa lay in her little bed,
thinking. Once the lark, in its cage at the
window, stirred in its sleep.
"Little bird," murmured Elsa, how is it
that you, too, cannot sing any more now ? "
Again the lark stirred. Elsa was growing
very sleepy. Was it the effect of the moon-
light, or was the little bird nodding its head at
her? More and more sleepy she grew, and
whether she dreamed it or whether it really
happened no one could ever be quite sure, but
after a while it seemed as if the lark were speak-
ing. Yes, surely she heard it plainly now, though
the voice was very low.
Dear mistress," it said, shall I tell you a
secret? You ask me why I cannot sing; but
have you never thought that one cannot sing
in prison ? Set me free, my little mistress, and
I will tell you my great secret. Yes, I will tell
you how I sing, and how you, too, may sing."
Oh, cried Elsa, starting up in bed, "that

will be splendid! Tell me, birdie, tell me, and Gazing straight up through the open window
you shall be free to-morrow, I promise you." to the far-off sky, she sang as it had sung:
The lark hopped to the side of the cage and sang for the very joy of singing, till her clear
looked down at Elsa. voice thrilled with a melody more exquisite
Did you never notice," it said, that when than ever before.
we sing we always look up into the beautiful All was still when she finished. The children
sky ? And we sing to the sun, and to the sweet stared in wonder; and as for the master well,
air, and most of all to the dear Father above, he wiped his eyes suspiciously, and, after some
Now, I cannot sing here to my cage bars, neither clearing of his throat, nearly took Elsa's breath
can you sing to the church walls or the crowd away by telling her that she-yes, she, little
within. But forget them, little mistress. Think Elsa Thorn- was chosen to sing the solo I
of the beautiful world without, and sing as the But about the lark? Well, that was the
birds sing. Then you will succeed." strangest part of all; for on reaching home
Elsa, much pleased, tried
to clap her hands, but with ,
the effort everything seemed ,.'"'. /
to change. There was the ., ,
bright sun shining in at the .'!
window, and Betty calling her- /
to breakfast. The lark still //'
looked very knowing, how-
ever, and Elsa found it hard \ -
to believe that she had but -
I promised, anyway," she
said gravely to the lark; and
soon after breakfast, having,
whispered the story to Betty,
they carried their precious '
bird out to the meadows and '
set it free. Then it was .
that Elsa felt surer than ever
that it was all no dream, for '
the little, lark, so long dumb,
no sooner passed the cage I '
bars than it burst into a song
so glorious, so rapturous, that ','
the children held their breath ,
and listened as it soared ,"'
up and up, straight toward ..' ', ,
the sun, singing till it van-
still came to them, far, far away, but exquisitely Elsa found it perched on a rose-bush in the
sweet, garden, and though it would not come very
Elsa went to the church, but all the way the near, it seemed extremely friendly, and Elsa
lark's song rang in her ears; and when she declared that if ever a bird looked as if it
herself stood up to sing, it was there still. wanted to say, "I told you so," the lark did.



[Begun in the January number.]

WHEN Charlie Morton so boldly declared that
he would write a play, he did not for a moment
doubt that he could do it. And when he fur-
ther announced that he would make the scenery
and design the costumes, he was quite confident
that he would succeed. To be sure, he never
had written a play, nor had he ever painted any
scenery, or designed costumes. Perhaps that
was one reason why he was so ready to enter
upon these tasks. But apart from his ignorance
of the amount of work in such an undertaking,
Charlie was a boy who took pleasure in engag-
ing in big enterprises. If he had lived in the
days of giants, he would have been a giant-
killer, and would have selected only the biggest
giants. If he had met Antaeus, he would have
begged him to lie on the ground until Mother
Earth had soaked him through with strength,
before he set about fighting him. He would
have promptly volunteered to tame Pegasus,
whip the Minotaur, or relieve Atlas of the strain
of holding up the world. As, however, there
were no fabled monsters for Charlie to overcome,
he took great pleasure in reading about desper-
ate adventures, such as seeking the discovery
of the North Pole, or penetrating to the inte-
rior of Africa. Even starting out to conquer
all the learning that there is in the world,
guarded as it is by algebra, geometry, trigo-
nometry, and calculus, was not without a cer-
tain charm to him because the conquest seemed
so impossible.
To be sure, it had often happened that Char-
lie found himself unable to complete what he
had taken in hand. He had tried to make all
sorts of things while at army-posts where his
father had been stationed, and where the car-
penters and wheelwrights, the blacksmiths and
saddlers, were good-natured enough to permit

him to work in their shops. He had attempted
to make a wagon, a windmill, a pair of bellows,
a set of harness, and various other things, at
various times, none of which had ever arrived
at a state where it could be used. Not that
he was daunted or disheartened in the least by
these failures; on the contrary, they spurred
him to new efforts.
Now, Charlie was particularly fond of private
theatricals and charades, for on the stage it is
much easier to do impossible things than it is
in actual life. He could be a pirate and scut-
tle whole navies, or a prairie scout and kill a
hundred Indians, or a king and confer royal
favors on everybody. This, together with the
amount of work involved in preparing a play,
the managing and directing, the authority and
responsibility-all made the amusement a favor-
ite one of his. So, after he had obtained a sort
of half consent from his mother, he promptly
went to work to write his play: that is to say,
he went around in a deep study, and every now
and then would slap his brow tragically and
mutter to himself, and then hurriedly take out
his pencil and note-book and scribble away at a
great rate. Sometimes, when Leslie went into
the library where Charlie was writing, he would
start up from the desk, brandishing the paper-
knife, and exclaim fiercely, "Ha! Villain! I
have thee now! whereupon Leslie would
turn and run for her life. At other times he
would hold out his arms and murmur patheti-
cally, It is! it is me long-lost sister At
which Leslie would say, Oh, Charlie, don't
be so silly!" and he would roll his eyes and
frown, and scrawl away in his note-book, with-
out minding her in the least.
Charlie assured Leslie that this was the way
that all great geniuses wrote plays. But at the
end of a week Charlie had not got much farther
than the title, and he was not quite sure of that.
It was, "A Woman's Heart; or, The Moor's


Revenge." Leslie thought that it was a nice
title, but his father, on being asked to admire it,
"But I understood that yours was to be an
American play."
"Well, so it is," said Charlie; "but I thought
that putting in the 'Moor' made it sound
"Humph! said his father; "that reminds
me of why the men in my troop called Private
Michael O'Shaughnessy the Italian.' "
"Why? said Charlie.
Because," replied his father, "he was an
At which Leslie laughed long and loud, and
Charlie looked a little discomfited.
The trouble is," he said, I don't have time
enough to work on this play. I don't get home
from school till four o'clock, and there are all
my lessons to be studied, and lots of things to
do. If I had more time I could do better."
Shall I tell you what I think is the trouble ?"
said his father.
"Yes, sir," said Charlie, a little doubtfully,
afraid of being laughed at again.
"Well," said his father, "my opinion is this:
You don't know whether you can write a play
or not. Now, the only way to find out whether
you can do a thing is to go to work and try;
and you 're not trying."
"Why, yes, I am, Pa," said Charlie, surprised
and somewhat indignant.
No, I think not," said his father; "you are
playing at it. You go maundering around, about
Arabs and women's hearts and all sorts of non-
sense, trailing off here and there, wherever your
fancy leads you, and never getting anywhere.
That's not going to work. It is your old fault of
not being practical. Now, I never wrote a play,
but I fancy that it's a good deal like everything
else in this world. You 've got to go at it in
a common-sense way, just the same as if you
were making a boat or building a house. First
of all, get the material together. You say that
the play is to be in America in the time of the
Revolution. All right, get a book and find out
how they talked and dressed in those days.
Then make your plot; you'd better get that out
of a book, too. Then cut it into lengths accord-
ing to the number of acts you are going to have.

Decide on your characters, and whom you will
have to play them, and what scenes are neces-
sary-the fewer the better. Now, knock the
whole thing together, put in the conversation,
and there you are."
Charlie smiled. It did seem easy, put in that
way. But whoever heard of setting about writ-
ing a play as if you were going to build a
house? With all due respect to his father, Char-
lie thought that he knew better. He gloried in
his father's soldierly qualities, and loved to hear
the old saying that "Morton's troop would fol-
low him from No Man's Land to Salt Creek."
But everybody knew that writing was a very
different matter from soldiering. Writing had
to be done by genius, by inspiration.
"You don't believe me, do you ? asked his
father, looking at him with his keen gray eyes.
"Well, sir," said Charlie, blushing a little
guiltily at having his thoughts read so easily,
"it seems to me rather different."
Exactly," said his father; you think that in
order to write a play a man must put on a vel-
veteen coat, and wear his hair long, and that
he must roll his eyes, and bite his finger-nails,
and all that tomfoolery. Well, there 's your
favorite, Sir Walter Scott." (Charlie was very
fond of Scott's novels, and could recite whole
pages of Marmion.") Do you suppose that
he ever put on any airs of that sort? Not
much! He worked like a gentleman and a
man of sense, and had no patience with yopr
affected people. However, Master Charlie, you
are in command of this expedition, not I."
And so saying, the Captain laughed under his
big blond mustache (it was easy to see from
whom Leslie got her sunny disposition), put on
his hat, and went striding freely down the street
with his back so straight, and his shoulders so
square, and his head so erect, that, in spite of
his civilian dress, every one knew him to be a
Charlie, however, did not readily give up his
cherished notions of how a play should be writ-
ten; and when his father left, he proceeded to
argue the matter with his mother, at some
length, apparently convincing her that his view
was the correct one, and at the same time try-
ing to convince himself. For, while he felt that
his father's theory was an insult to literary in-


spiration and genius, in his secret heart he knew
that his father must be right because, in the
first place, experience had shown that his father
always was right, and because in the second
place, Charlie could not deny that his father's
suggestions seemed suddenly to open a path
for him through the jungle of his confused ideas.
He thought over the matter during the day,
and at last determined to give the plan a trial.
The first point, where to locate the play, had
been easy enough to decide. The spinning-
wheel and the old furniture at the Fairleighs'
had, in fact, decided that. Mildred, too, with
her gentle ways and gestures,- Mildred, whom
Leslie often good-naturedly called "old-fash-
ioned,"-was one of the principal characters that
Charlie had in his mind. Perhaps he was un-
consciously thinking of the picture of Mistress
Barbara, whom Mildred was said to resemble;
and, indeed, as Mildred grew older, the picture
really did look, at times, as if it might be herself
masquerading in brocaded silk and high-dressed
hair. Yes, Mildred certainly must act in an
old-time play.
But the plot was not so easily secured. For-
tunately, while on his way to school, Charlie
remembered a story of Cooper's, full of adven-
tures, in which Washington and his soldiers
figured. As soon as school was out he went
to the library in the Capitol, and, quickly
scanning the various volumes of the Leather-
Stocking" series, soon found the one he desired.
Sitting down with this treasure, his elbows
planted on the table, and his head in both
hands, Charlie began reading.
At first he skipped about in search of a
good plot, and gravely considered the value
of the different adventures with an eye solely
to the play. But finally he became interested in
the story, which he had not read for a long time,
and before he was aware of it the afternoon
was gone, and the attendants were lighting the
gas in the reading-room. Arousing himself,
Charlie looked at his watch and found that he
would have to hurry home or he would be late
for dinner. At the same time he felt that he
had got material enough in his head to make
a dozen plays.
After dinner he sat down by the parlor fire to
sort out his material and select from it some-

thing that would serve his purpose. But the
more he thought the more confused he grew.
Just as he joyfully fancied that he had obtained
an episode that would make a capital scene, he
would discover that there was nothing to fit on
to it; while another, that seemed to suit the
purpose exactly, he would discover, later on,
had a frigate or a horse or some such impos-
sible thing in it, and was therefore useless. At
last, in desperation, Charlie groaned aloud, and
exclaimed, Oh, gracious! I don't believe I
can write a play!"
This remark, exploded, as it were, in the quiet
of the family circle, took every one by surprise.
His mother, lost in her own thoughts over her
sewing, started and exclaimed, "Why, Charlie!
How you frightened me! His father looked
up from his book, while Leslie, being more ac-
customed to Charlie's exclamations, promptly
replied, "I don't believe you can, either, Char-
lie. I never did think so. Don't you remem-
ber I told you that you could n't ? "
Well, you're very encouraging, are n't you ?"
said Charlie. Perhaps if you tried to help me
a little, instead of jumping on me like that,
we'd get along better."
Well, why don't you stop acting so silly,"
retorted Leslie, and do what pa said ? "
"I don't think it is proper for a little girl like
you to talk to her elder brother in that way,"
said Charlie, with dignity.
Oh, pooh !" said Leslie.
Now don't quarrel over it," said Mrs. Mor-
ton. "Though I do think that you are wrong,
Leslie, to talk to your brother in that way; and
I do think that you might try to help him in-
stead of discouraging him."
Oh, she did n't mean any harm, Ma," said
Charlie, taking his sister's part, as was his cus-
tom whenever any one else scolded her.

"And what is more," said his father, "I
don't see how any one can help you, Charlie,
excepfby advice, and I don't think that is of
much use."
"Well, Pa," protested Charlie, I did follow
your plan. I went to the library and read up
for a plot, and I found a whole lot of adven-
tures in the Revolution, but somehow or other
they don't seem to work out right."
"Maybe you are too ambitious," said his



father. "You expect too much. Why not take
some simple thing ? Suppose that you tell us
some of the stories you have read, and perhaps
we can find something that will do."
"Yes, Charlie," said Leslie, getting up and
sitting close to her brother, tell us some of the
stories," which was Leslie's way of saying that
she was sorry for having offended him.
"Well," said Charlie, taken somewhat aback
by this proposition, "let me see. I think the
first was where Washington came up to a house
on the Hudson one night, riding a big black
horse, and it was thundering, and lightening,
and raining like everything."
"I don't see how you could act that," said
Mrs. Morton.
Wait a moment, my dear," said the Captain.
Go ahead, Charlie."
"Well, Washington tied his horse to the
fence and rang the door-bell-no, it was a
knocker; he hammered on the knocker."
What is a knocker? said Leslie.
"If you interrupt me all the time," said
Charlie, "I can't tell the story."
I should think you might just tell me what
a knocker is," said Leslie.
It 's a thing made out of brass or iron, that
people used to hang on their front doors in
place of a bell; and when you wanted to get
in you pounded with it on the door."
Why could n't they knock with their knuck-
les, as we do in garrison ?" asked Leslie.
"Because," said Charlie, "how could they
hear you in a big house in a city, if they were
down in the kitchen, or up in the garret, with
all the noise in the street ?"
Oh! said Leslie.
"Well," continued Charlie, with a long sigh,
"where was I? Oh, yes. A black servant
opened the door and showed him into the par-
lor. There was a gentleman there with two
ladies. They did n't know who General Wash-
ington was, 'cause he did n't have on his uni-
form and they had never seen his face before.
The gentleman's name was-I 've forgotten
what his name was," said Charlie.
Call him Smith," said his father.
"All right," said Charlie, "the gentleman's
name was Smith. Now, you know his house
was right between the American and British

armies, and he was trying to be neutral;
only, he had a son in the British army, and he
was scared all the time for fear that he was go-
ing to get into trouble with one side or the
other. The eldest lady was his sister; she was
about forty, and she was n't married. The
other two were young and pretty, and were his
But you said there were only two ladies al-
together, Charlie," said Leslie.
Hush, Leslie! said her mother, frowning
at her, and shaking her head.
"Well, he did, Ma," whispered Leslie.
"But the stranger," continued Charlie, not
noticing these side remarks, "was evidently a
gentleman, and Mr.-ah-Mr.-"
"Smith," said his father, encouragingly.
"Mr. Smith introduced him to the ladies,
though he did n't know whether he was an
American or a Britisher. Washington, you know,
said his name was Harper."
"But that was a story," said Leslie, "and
General Washington never told a story."
Well, he did n't exactly tell a story about it,"
said Charlie; "only when Mr. Smith said,
Whose health have I the honor of drinking ?'
General Washington said, Mr. Harper.'"
I think that was just as bad as a story," said
"I don't at all," said Charlie, indignantly.
How could he go around telling everybody
who he was! He was just disguising himself,
that was all. Well, then they all sat down to
supper. And while they were at supper there
was another knock at the front door, and pretty
soon the black servant came into the room, look-
ing as white as a sheet. "
Oh! cried Leslie, beginning to laugh.
"I wish to goodness you'd hush, Les said
Charlie, angrily. How can I go on if you keep
interrupting me all the time ? "
Keep quiet, Leslie," said her father.
"Well," continued Charlie, the black man
whispered something to Mr. Smith, who got up
and excused himself and left the room. The
ladies seemed sort of worried, too, because, you
know, everybody was afraid of everybody in
those days. But Mr. Harper, that was General
Washington, he just kept right on eating his sup-
per. And by and by Mr. Smith returned with



another man-a man with red hair, and a red
beard, and a patch over his eye, and a rough
overcoat. The new man sat down to the table
and began eating, and Mr. Harper looked at
him pretty sharp, and they had a little conversa-
tion. They talked about the war, and one of
the young ladies was on the American side,
'cause she had a lover in the American army,
and the other was for the British, 'cause she had
a lover in the British army. And of course they
got to spatting a little bit about it; and the red-

surprised. And when he found that Mr. Harper
was really gone, he shut the door and came back
into the room in front of them all, and began to
take off his hair, and-"
Oh, Charlie," burst forth Leslie, "how could
he take off his hair? "
Because it was a wig, Les, don't you see ?"
said Charlie. "He was disguised, too. He took
off his red wig and beard, and the patch on his
eye, and it was the son of Mr. Smith -the young
man who was in the British army! He had


headed man soon showed he was for the British,
and the old man, Mr. Smith, who wanted to be
neutral, he was mighty uneasy, and tried to get
everybody to talk about the weather and the
crops. Then, pretty soon Mr. Harper that is,
General Washington finished supper, and Mr.
Smith called the negro to show him to his bed-
room. Then as soon as he was gone, the red-
headed man jumped up and went to the door
and listened; at which they were all very much

slipped into the American lines to see his father
and sisters. Well, then, of course there was a
great time. Mr. Smith, he says, 'Henry, my
son!' and the girls they all got around him,
crying, and hugging him, as girls do, and the
black servant came in to see his young master,
'cause he knew the secret all along on account
of young Smith's having told him when he
opened the door for him, and and -"
"And down comes the curtain on the end of





the first act," said Captain Morton. "Bravo !
Charlie, I don't see that you need look any
further. That will do first rate."
Do you really think so, Pa ?" said Charlie,
in great surprise.
Why, yes," said his father. What better do
you want? In the first place, here you have
a scene in a parlor; so there will be no trouble
about scenery. You need only put your spin-
ning-wheel and an old-fashioned table and chair
there, that is all. Then Leslie can be one of the
daughters, and Mildred the other, if her mother
will consent. We don't care about the aunt or
the lovers; let them go. When the curtain goes
up, Mildred can be sitting at the spinning-
Oh, Pa," interrupted Leslie, "why can't I
be sitting at the spinning-wheel ?"
Well, because it belongs to the Fairleighs,"
said her father, and it will be polite to offer
that place to Mildred, especially as she is your
guest. Now comes a little conversation to let
the audience know who Mr. Smith and the ladies
are, that the war of the Revolution is going on,
that there is a son and brother in the British
army whom they have not seen for a long time,
and so on. Then you hear the rumbling of
Oh," said Charlie, I know how to make it.
Yes," said his father, or a gong, or a drum
will do. Somebody says, 'We are going to have
a storm. Pray heaven Dick'- or Tom, or
whatever is the son's name -'is not out in it
to-night.' Then a flash of lightning."
"Calcium! cried Charlie.
"Yes," said his father. Then a dash of
rain. You do that by throwing a handful
of dried peas into a wooden box."
"Jupiter!" exclaimed Charlie, walking up
and down excitedly, I never thought of all
that. That's a fine scheme! "
When the lightning flashes," continued his
father, one of the girls cries Oh !' and the
other gets up and goes to the window. You
can have a good deal of what they call busi-
ness' out of the storm. Then comes the sound
of horses' hoofs heard at first in the distance,
and one of the young ladies says Hark!' and
they all listen. And the sound gets louder that
VOL. XIX.-27.

is done by drumming with the fingers on a card-
board box, or a book. At last it stops. There
is a knock at the door; the black servant an-
nounces the arrival of a stranger. The black
servant is the funny man of the play."
Oh, let me be the servant, won't you, Char-
lie, please ? said Leslie.
"What!" cried Charlie, "and wear boy's
clothes ? "
"Oh," said Leslie, faintly, I did n't think
of that."
No," said Charlie, I will either take that
myself, or give it to Will Baily. He is always
talking funny, like an Irishman or a darky.
Go on, Pa, please."
Well," said his father, General Washington
comes in, in a big military cloak and a three-
cornered hat dripping with rain."
"What, really ? said Charlie.
Of course," said his father. "All you have
to do is to sprinkle a little water on them
before he goes on. Then follows the conversa-
tion you told us. The youngest daughter wins
General Washington's friendship by her gentle
courtesy and her love of her country. They sit
down to supper. The black man brings in the
dishes, and makes one or two comical remarks
while polishing the glasses. Meantime the
storm gradually rumbles off in the distance.
Then comes another rapping on the door with
the knocker."
What shall we have for a knocker ? said
I don't know," said his father. "You must
arrange all those details yourself. I am merely
giving you suggestions. I don't propose to
make up the play for you."
Of course not," said Charlie. "We '11
contrive something."
I should think two pieces of wood might
do," said Mrs. Morton.
Or we might hammer with the poker on
the floor," said Leslie.
"Well," said the Captain, "your black man
comes in with his eyes popping out, because
the red-headed man at the door has told him
who he is. As for the rest of the act, that goes
on just as you related it. When General Wash-
ington departs to his bedroom the red-headed
man throws off his disguise; Mr. Smith cries,

--b na I- _~~



'Henry! My son!' the girls fall on his neck,
and down comes the curtain."
"Hurrah! cried Charlie; "that's fine, Pa!"
Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Morton; I think it
is quite exciting."
"How did you know how to make a play,
Pa ? said Leslie, sitting on her father's knee,
and looking into his face admiringly. "Did
you ever make one before ? "
"No," said her father. But I have acted in
them many a time in my day. You know it has
always been one of our amusements in garrison.
As for making them, as I told Charlie, a little
common sense goes a great way."
And the Captain's good-humored laugh was
joined in by Leslie, and finally by Charlie

THE next day, of course, Leslie told Mildred
on their way to school of the sudden progress
that the play had made, and of the part that
had been assigned to her. And Mildred, as
she listened, felt that to be like Mistress Bar-
bara, seated at the spinning-wheel, while the
sheet-iron thunder and the calcium lightning
rattled and flashed outside, would be as near
perfect joy as anything she knew of. The more
she thought of it, too, the more certain she be-
came that she could play the part well. Had
not her own great-grandmothers and her great-
grandaunts and her "great-grand-cousins" been
ladies like these ? Still she said nothing to her
mother about it, when she went home from
school. In fact neither Mildred nor her mother
had spoken of the matter since Mrs. Morton's
visit, ten days ago; partly, perhaps, because
they had heard nothing from Charlie.
Later during the afternoon, however, Charlie
himself made his appearance at the house, full
of enthusiasm.
"Has Les told you about the play ? he said
to Mildred.
Yes," said Mildred. Have you done any-
thing more to it ? "
No," he said; "not yet. But is n't it fine,
though ? "
Mildred agreed that it was fine.
I want to go up-stairs and look at the spin-
ning-wheel. May I ?" he asked.

Of course," said Mildred.
But they had scarcely started up the stairs
when Leslie came running after them to an-
nounce that her mother had just told her her
father had said-they might use his old campaign
overcoat and hat for the character General
"Ma says that she can pin up the sides of
the hat to make it look like a three-cornered
hat," said Leslie, and you can put some paper
or something in it to make it fit."
"Of course," said Charlie, "that's easily
enough fixed. I 'm glad pa lent us that coat,
though. I wanted to ask him, but I did n't
like to."
But won't it spoil it to put water on it? "
said Mildred.
"Spoil it! said Charlie. "You can't spoil
that coat. It has been out in the rain and the
snow and the sand-storms more times than I
could count. Pa has lain down in the mud or
the dust, and slept in it, many a night. No; it's
just the thing."
And so, all talking together, they trooped
into the attic, panting and out of breath.
Here 's the wheel," said Charlie, dragging
it from its corner. "Sit down by it, Mildred,
and let 's see how you look."
But it 's too dirty," said Mildred, drawing
"Well, here; wait," said Charlie, taking out
his handkerchief and slapping at the wheel
vigorously; "I '11 dust it off."
"Goodness gracious!" cried Leslie, as a
dense cloud arose. Charlie, stop that! "
Then they all began to sneeze violently, and
finally Leslie and Mildred ran out into the hall,
while Charlie tried to open one of the dormer-
windows. In this he finally succeeded, and
inducing the girls to return, Mildred sat down
on her great-granduncle's trunk, by the side of
the spinning-wheel, and worked the treadle with
her foot, much to Charlie's satisfaction. Then
they examined the spindle-legged table and
some high-backed chairs, that had stood long
undisturbed in their covering of dust. Soon
after, they went down-stairs, and Charlie, on
the plea of asking Mrs. Fairleigh if she was
quite sure he might use these things, proposed
that they all go in to see that lady. Then, of




course, he told her all about the play, even to
the part that Mildred was to take.
"You will let her do it, won't you, Mrs.
Fairleigh ? said Charlie, finally.
"We have not quite decided yet, Charlie,"
said Mrs. Fairleigh; and if you want to settle
about the characters now, don't delay on Mil-
dred's account."
Oh, we don't at all," replied Charlie hur-
riedly; there 's plenty of time. And when the
play is finished I will bring it over to you to
read. May I ? Pa told me that you would be
the best person to tell me whether it was all
right, only I was not to bother you."
It would not bother me
at all," said Mrs. Fairleigh. "
"While I do not think that '.
I am any better able to '- l
criticize the play than others, --
I shall be very glad to listen "
to it and to help you if I
can." -
"Thank you," answered
Charlie; "we are ever so
much obliged. Now I 've
got to go home and write
up the conversation."
And leaving Leslie with .
Mildred, he hurried off, full
of importance.

CHARLIE was quite clever
enough to "write up" the
conversation of his play, now
that he had the framework. The trouble was that
he found it difficult to stop writing. He had some
vague notion of making the entertainment moral
and instructive,with a view, particularly, to pleas-
ing Mrs. Fairleigh, and in that way of inducing
her to let Mildred take part. So he made the
personage whom they had dubbed Old Mr.
Smith" tell all about the War of Independence,
giving facts and figures which Charlie himself
obtained from a school history. That certainly
was instructive. And General Washington in
his talk uttered many good and wise sayings,
which the young author took bodily from other
books. When at last the act was finished,
Charlie was secretly delighted with his produc-

tion, and thought with pride of the effect it
would create when he read it aloud in the
family circle.
But the effect was different from what he an-
ticipated. He read his work to Leslie, first of
all. He generally tried his performances on his
sister before displaying them to the family at
large. So, making Leslie sit down in front of
him, one afternoon, in his very best manner and
voice he read the play aloud. But as he pro-
ceeded Leslie began to fidget. When he came
to the instructive part about the causes of
the Revolution, poor Leslie yawned-actually
yawned, although she tried hard to turn the

I ,


yawn into a cough as she caught Charlie's re-
proachful glance.
Then, when he became very much absorbed in
his reading, she got up and went to the window
and looked out. Of course that made Charlie
stop; but she said, Go on; I 'm listening. I can
hear better over here." And when he resumed
she did try to listen, but she became more in-
terested in what was taking place in the street,
and presently, just as General Washington was
saying in his most impressive manner, "A truly
virtuous man is he who prides himself upon
nothing," she burst out with, Oh, Charlie, come
and look at this funny old woman with a big



I won't read you another word! said Char-
lie indignantly.
Why," said Leslie, innocently, and looking
around at him, what 's the matter ? And then
suddenly remembering the play, she put her
hand to her mouth and exclaimed, Oh, I for-
got! and gazed at Charlie a moment, very
penitently. But, as usual, the humorous side of
the situation appealed to her most strongly, and
finally she began to laugh. Then she tried to
excuse herself by saying, But, Charlie, it's so
long !"
Is it?" said Charlie, looking down at his
manuscript doubtfully. Maybe it is. I had n't
thought of that." Evidently there was some-
thing wrong about it. It was a great disappoint-
ment to him. Then he added, hesitatingly,
Perhaps I had better cut it down a little."
Yes," said Leslie, promptly, "I would, if I
were you." And then, seeing the postman com-
ing up the steps, she ran out to the front door
to meet him.
Charlie sat down at the desk with a sigh, and
spread out his precious writing before him,
somewhat at a loss what to do. At last he began
to realize that an act which took so long to
read would be too long to play, so he set him-
self seriously to the task of "cutting it down."

But as he read each portion over, it seemed so
especially fine that he could not bring himself
to destroy it, and so passed on to something
else. Finally, after reading it all through, he was
unable to find any place that he had the heart
to omit. So he set the manuscript aside with
the intention of reading it to his father that
evening, hoping that he would prove a more
appreciative audience than Leslie.
But, on the contrary, his father interrupted
him before he had got half-way through. My
dear boy," said the Captain, that won't do at
all. As usual, you have gone wandering off into
all sorts of things that have nothing to do with
the action of the play. Why, your audience
would get up and go away before you were half
through with all that talk."
So poor Charlie had to set to work again,
with much of his enthusiasm taken out of him
by these successive showers of cold criticism.
Three times did he write that first act over,
each time squeezing it smaller and smaller, to
fit into the ten minutes' time allotted by his
father. Finally, on the fourth effort, when, as
he gloomily remarked, every bit of good writ-
ing had been knocked out of it, his father said
that, with a little more cutting at rehearsals, it
would do very well.

(To be continued.)




[Begun in ihe December number. ]

SIN and about the edges of
the Great American Desert are
Many of the strangest corners.
"i Those of which I have already
told you are but a few of the
wonders which cluster about that great waste.
It seems as if Nature has crowded her curiosi-
ties into that strangest and most forbidding
of museums, that they may not be too easily
A hundred miles north of the Petrified Forest,
and well into the edge of the Arizona desert,
are the seven strange and seldom visited Pueblo
cities of Moqui. They all have wildly unpro-
nounceable names, like Hualpi, A-hua-tu, and
Mishongop-avi; and all are built on the sum-
mits of almost inaccessible mesas-islands of
solid rock, whose generally perpendicular cliff-
walls rise high from the surrounding plain.
They are very remarkable towns in appear-
ance, set upon dizzy sites, with quaint terraced
houses of adobe, and queer little corrals for the
animals, in nooks and angles of the cliff, and
giving far outlook across the browns and yellows,
and the spectral peaks of that weird plain. But
they look not half so remarkable as they are.
The most remote from civilization of all the
Pueblos, the least affected by the Spanish in-

fluence which so wonderfully ruled over the
enormous area of the Southwest, and practically
untouched by the later Saxon influence, the
Indians of the Moqui towns retain almost en-
tirely their wonderful customs of before the
conquest. Their languages are different from
those of any other of the Pueblos;* and their
mode of life-though to a hasty glance the
same-is in many ways unlike that of their
brethren in New Mexico. They are the best
weavers in America, except the once remarkable
but now less skilful Navajos; and their mantas
(the characteristic black woolen dresses of Pueblo
women) and dancing-girdles are so famous that
the Indians of the Rio Grande valley often
travel three hundred miles or more, on foot or
on deliberate burros, simply to trade for the
long-wearing products of the rude, home-made
looms of Moqui. The Moquis also make valu-
able and very curious fur blankets by twisting
the skins of rabbits into ropes, and then sew-
ing these together a custom which Coronado
found among them three hundred and fifty
years ago, before there were any sheep to yield
wool for such fabrics as they now weave, and
when their only dress materials were skins and
the cotton they raised.
It is in these strange, cliff-perched little cities
of the Hipi ("the people of peace," as the
Moquis call themselves) that one of the most
astounding barbaric dances in the world is held;

* Except that the one Moqui village of Tehua speaks the language of the Tehuas on the Rio Grande,
whence its people came.


for it even yet exists. Africa has no savages
whose mystic performances are more wonderful
than the Moqui snake-dance, and as much may
be said for many of the other secret rites of the
The snake is an object of great respect among
all uncivilized peoples; and the deadlier his
power, the deeper the reverence for him. The
Pueblos often protect in their houses an es-
teemed and harmless serpent--about five or
six feet long--as a mouse-trap; and these
quiet mousers keep down the little pests much
more effectively than a cat, for they can fol-
low shee-id-deh to the ultimate corner of his
But while all snakes are to be treated well, the
Pueblo holds the rattlesnake actually sacred.
It is, except the pichucuite (a real asp), the only
venomous reptile in the Southwest, and the only
one dignified by a place among the Trues."
The ch'ahl--rai-rdh-deh is not really worshiped
by the Pueblos, but they believe it one of the
sacred animals which are useful to the Trues,
and ascribe to it wonderful powers. Up to a
generation ago it played in the marvelous and
difficult superstitions of this people a much
more important part than it does now; and
every Pueblo town used to maintain a huge
rattlesnake, which was kept in a sacred room,
and with great solemnity fed once a year. My
own Pueblo of Isleta used to support a sacred
rattler in the volcanic caves of the Cerro del
Aire, f but it escaped five years ago, and the
patient search of the officials failed to recover
it. Very truthful old men here have told me
that it was nearly as large around as my body;
and I can believe it with just a little allowance,
for I myself have seen one here as large as the
thickest part of my leg.
This snake-tending has died out in nearly-
and now, perhaps, in quite-all the New Mexi-
can pueblos; but the curious trait still survives
in the towns of Moqui. Every second year,
when the August moon reaches a certain stage
(in 1891 it occurred on the 21st), the wonder-
ful ceremony of the snake-dance is performed;
and the few white men who have witnessed these
weird rites will never forget them.

For sixteen days beforehand the professional
"Snake-men have been in solemn preparation
for the great event, sitting in their sacred rooms,
which are carved in the solid rock. For many
days before the dance (as before nearly all such
ceremonies with the Pueblos) no food must pass
their lips, and they can drink only a bitter tea,"
called mdh-que-be, made from a secret herb which
gives them security against snake-poison. They
also rub their bodies with prepared herbs.
Six days before the date of the dance the
Snake-men go down the mesa into the plain and
hunt eastward for rattlesnakes. Upon finding
one, the hunter tickles the angry reptile with the
"snake-whip"-a sacred bunch of eagle fea-
thers-until it tries to run. Then he snatches
it up and puts it into a bag. On the next day
the hunt is to the north; the third day to the
west; the fourth day to the south--which is,
you must know, the only possible order in
which a Pueblo dares to "box the compass."
To start first south or north would be a dread-
ful impiety in his eyes. The captured snakes
are then kept in the kibva (sacred room), where
they crawl about in dangerous freedom among
the solemn deliberators. The night before the
dance the snakes are all cleansed with great
solemnity at an altar which the Snake-captain
has made of colored sands drawn in a strange
The place where the dance is held is a small
open court, with the three-story houses crowd-
ing it on the west, and the brink of the cliff
bounding it on the east. Several sacred rooms,
hollowed from the rock, are along this court,
and the tall ladders which lead into them are
visible in the picture. At the south end of the
court stands the sacred Dance-rock -a natural
pillar, about fourteen feet high, left by water
wearing upon the rock floor of the mesa's top.
Midway from this to the north end of the court
has been constructed the ked-si, or sacred booth
of cottonwood branches, its opening closed by
a curtain. Just in front of this a shallow cavity
has been dug, and then covered with a strong
and ancient plank with a hole in one side. This
covered cavity represents Shi-pa-pi, the Great
Black Lake of Tears,- a name so sacred that

* The Tee-wahn name is imitative, resembling the rattling. The Moquis call the
rattlesnake chii-ah. t Hill of the wind.




few Indians will speak it aloud,-whence, ac-
cording to the common belief of all southwest-
ern Indians, the human race first came.
On the day of the dance the Captain of the
Snake-men places all the snakes in a large bag,
and deposits this in the booth. All the other
active participants are still in their room, going
through their mysterious preparations. Just be-
fore sunset is the invariable time for the dance.
Long before the hour, the housetops and the
edges of the court are lined with an expectant
throng of spectators: the earnest Moquis, a goodly
representation of the Navajos, whose reservation
lies just east, and a few white men. At about
half-past five in the afternoon the twenty men
of the Antelope Order emerge from their own
special room in single file, march thrice around
the court, and go through certain sacred cere-
monies in front of the booth. Here their cap-
tain sprinkles them with a consecrated fluid from
the tip of an eagle feather. For a few moments
they dance and shake their guajes (ceremonial
rattles made of gourds) in front of the booth;
and then they are ranged beside it, with their
backs against the wall of the houses. Among

them are the youngsters that day admitted to
the order in which they will thenceforward
receive lifelong training- dimpled tots of from
four to seven years old.
Now all is ready; and in a moment a buzz in
the crowd announces the coming of the seven-
teen priests of the Snake Order through the
roofed alley just south of the Dance-rock.
These seventeen enter the court in single file at
a rapid gait, and make the circuit of the court
four times, stamping hard with the right foot
upon the sacred plank that covers Shi-pa-pi as
they pass in front of the booth. This is to let
the Cachinas (spirits, or divinities) know that the
dancers are now presenting their prayers.
When the Captain of the Snake Order reaches
the booth, on the fourth circuit, the procession
halts. The captain kneels in front of the booth,
thrusts his right arm behind the curtain, unties
the sack, and in a moment draws out a huge,
squirming rattlesnake. This he holds with his
teeth about six inches back of the ugly triangu-
lar head, and then he rises erect. The Captain
of the Antelope Order steps forward and puts
his left arm around the Snake-captain's neck,
while with the snake-whip in his right hand he
" smooths" the writhing reptile. The two start
forward in the peculiar hippety-hop, hop, hippety-
hop of all Pueblo dances; the next Snake-priest
draws forth a snake from the booth, and is joined





by the next Antelope-man as a partner; and so
on, until each of the Snake-men is dancing with
a deadly snake in his mouth, and an equal num-
ber of Antelope-men are accompanying them.
The dancers hop in pairs thus from the booth
to the Dance-rock, thence north, and circle
toward the booth again. When they reach a cer-
tain point, which completes about three quarters
of the circle, each Snake-man gives his head a
sharp snap to the right, and thereby throws his
snake to the rock floor of the court, inside the
ring of dancers, and dances on to the booth
again, to extract a fresh snake and make another
There are three more Antelope-men than
Snake-men, and these three have no partners in
the dance, and are intrusted with the duty of
gathering up the stakes thus set free and put-
ting them back into the booth. The snakes
sometimes run to the crowd -a ticklish affair for
those jammed upon the brink of the precipice.
In case they run, the three official gatherers
snatch them up without ado; but if they coil
and show fight, these Antelope-men tickle them
with the snake-whips until they uncoil and try
to glide away, and then seize them with the

rapidity of lightning. Frequently these gather-
ers have five or six snakes in their hands at
once. The reptiles are as deadly as ever -not
one has had its fangs extracted!
In the 1891 dance, over one hundred snakes
were used. Of these about sixty-five were rattle-
snakes. I stood within six feet of the circle; and
one man (a dancer) who came close to me was
bitten. The snake which he held in his mouth
suddenly turned and struck him upon the right
cheek. His Antelope companion threw the
snake upon the ground; and the pair continued
the dance as if nothing had happened! An-
other man a little farther from me, but plainly
seen, was bitten on the hand.
I never knew one of them to be seriously af-
fected by a rattlesnake's bite. They pay no at-
tention to the (to others) deadly stroke of that
hideous mouth, which opens flat as a palm and
smites exactly like one, but dance and sing in
earnest unconcern. There is in existence one
photograph which clearly shows the dancers
with the snakes-and only one. Beginning so
late, and in the deep shadow of the tall houses,
it is almost impossible for the dance to be photo-
graphed at all; but one year a lucky reflector



1892.] Oi flfl~nis UU\~tINThIn

of white cloud came up and threw a light into
that dark corner, and Mr. Wittick got the
only perfect picture extant of the snake-dance.
I have made pictures which do show the
snakes; but they are not handsome pictures
of the dance. The make-up of the dancers
makes photography still harder. The

nir:urh., Ainid l i- e Il,-t L. ial [t:,
tl-i.t ', c ri t-lI.r b ii r.. A i. c M '

n':,l.liili h*: n taltir le hls e .ra .sk" -a
.oo:. rtlg .- a nd or f '-r. a 'm n
sacred t in- ant u if I. .
" *the o,. ['l l-

At last all rush together at the foot of the
Dance-rock and throw all their snakes into
a horrid heap of threatening heads and buzzing
tails. I have seen that hillock of rattlesnakes a
foot high and four feet across. For a moment
the dancers leap about the writhing pile, while
the sacred corn-meal is sprinkled. Then they
thrust each an arm into that squirming mass,
grasp a number of snakes, and go running at
top speed to the four points of the compass.


would take too long to tell the supposed mean-
ing of the dance.
It is interesting to notice that


who are the nearest neighbors of the Moquis,
have superstitions widely different though quite
as benighted. They will not touch a snake
under any circumstances. So extreme are their
prejudices that one of their skilled silversmiths


Reaching the bottom of the great mesa, Hu-
alpi, where the chief snake-dance is held, six
hundred and sixty feet above the plain, they
release the unharmed serpents.
These astounding rites last from half an hour
to an hour, and end only when the hot sun has
fallen behind the bald western des-
c[. Ti.r,n the djn,:ers
S t l,,L I t:heil .-. red
0 I e .l ri ,i n-th

7- .it e 1rlu t I,,.m es,

rjl:,(icitig at the SLIC-

,tie m n*t i[ir,.i tarn t of
" .- .ll the jil ,:tereno-
--, M ui. It


was beaten nearly to death by his fellows for
making me a silver bracelet which represented
a rattlesnake, and the obnoxious emblem was
promptly destroyed by the raiders,- along with
the offender's hut.
Living almost wholly upon game as they do,
the Navajos cannot be prevailed upon to taste
either fish or rabbit. I have known some very
ludicrous things to happen when meanly mis-
chievous Americans deluded Navajos into eat-
ing either of these forbidden dishes; and
sometimes there have been very serious retalia-
tions for the ill-mannered joke. Rabbits are
wonderfully numerous in the Navajo country,
being molested only by feathered and four-
footed enemies; but the Indian who would fight
to the death sooner than touch a delicious rab-
bit-stew, is greedily fond of the fat and queru-
lous prairie-dog. That whole region abounds in
" dog-towns," and they are frequently besieged
by their swarthy foes. A Navajo will stick a
bit of mirror in the entrance of a burrow, and
lie behind the little mound all day, if need be,
to secure the coveted prize. When Mr. Tusa
ventures from his bedroom, deep underground,
he sees a familiar image mocking him at the
front door; and when he hurries out to confront
this impudent intruder, whiz! goes a chalcedony-
tipped arrow through him, pinning him to the
ground so that he cannot tumble back into his
home, as he has a wonderful faculty for doing
even in death; or a dark hand darts from
behind like lightning, seizes his chunky neck,
safely beyond the reach of his chisel-shaped
teeth, and breaks his spine with one swift snap.
But when the summer rains come, then is woe
indeed to the populous communities of these
ludicrous little rodents. As soon as the down-
pour begins, every adjacent Navajo between
the ages of three and ninety repairs to the tusa
village. They bring rude hoes, sharpened sticks,
and knives, and every one who is able to dig at
all falls to work, unmindful of the drenching.
In a very short time a lot of little trenches are
dug, so as to lead the storm-water to the mouths
of as many burrows as possible; and soon a
little stream is pouring down each.
Mercy! says Mr. Tusa to his fat wife and
dozen chubby youngsters; "I wish we could
elect aldermen that would attend to the drain-

age of this town! It 's a shame to have our
cellars flooded like this! "-and out he pops to
see what can be done. The only thing he can
do is to swell the sad heap of his fellow-citizens,
over which strange two-footed babies, far bigger
than his, are shouting in wild glee. Such a
rain-hunt often nets the Navajos many hundred
pounds of prairie-dogs; and then there is feast-
ing for many a day in the rude, cold hogans, or
huts of sticks and dirt which are the only habi-
tation of these Indians.
With the Pueblos, the mountain-lion or cou-
gar is the king of beasts -following our civilized
idea very closely; but with the Navajos the
bear holds first rank. He is.not only the greatest,
wisest, and most powerful of brutes, but even
surpasses man! The Navajo is a brave and
skilled warrior, and would not fear the bear for
its deadly teeth and claws, but of its supposed
supernatural powers he is in mortal dread. I
have offered a Navajo shepherd, who had acci-
dentally discovered a bear's cave, twenty dollars
to show it to me, or even to tell me in what
caion it lay; but he refused, in a manner and
with words which showed that if I found the
cave I would be in danger from more than the
bear. The Indian was a very good friend of
mine, too; but he was sure that if he were even
the indirect cause of any harm to the bear, the
bear would know it and kill him and all his
family! So even my princely offer was no
inducement to a man who was working hard
for five dollars a month.
There is only one case in which the Navajos
will meddle with a bear. That is when he has
killed a Navajo, and the Indians know exactly
which bear was the murderer. Then a strong,
armed party, headed by the proper religious
officers (medicine-men), proceed to the cave
of the bear. Halting a short distance in front
of the den, they go through a strange service
of apology, which to us would seem entirely
ludicrous, but to them is unutterably solemn.
The praises of the bear, commander of beasts,
are loudly sung, and his pardon is humbly in-
voked for the unpleasant deed to which they
are now driven! Having duly apologized be-
forehand, they proceed as best they may to kill
the bear, and then go home to fast and purify
themselves. This aboriginal greeting: "I beg




,your pardon, and hope you will bear no re-
sentment against me, but I have come to kill
you," is quite as funny as the old farmer I used
to know in New Hampshire, who was none
too polite to his wife, but always addressed his
oxen thus: Now, if you please, whoa hish,
Bary! Also Bonny! There! Thank you! "
Under no circumstances will a Navajo touch
even the skin of a bear. The equally danger-
ous mountain-lion he hunts eagerly, and its
beautiful, tawny hide is his proudest trophy
outside of war, and the costliest material for
his quivers, bow-cases, and rifle-sheaths. Nor
will he touch a coyote.
A Navajo will never enter a house in which
death has been; and his wild domain is full of
huts abandoned forever. Nor after he is mar-
ried dare he ever see his wife's mother; and
if by any evil chance he happens to catch a
glimpse of her, it takes a vast amount of fast-
ing and prayer before he feels secure from dan-
gerous results. The grayest and most dignified
chief is not above walking backward, running
like a scared boy, or hiding his head in his
blanket, to avoid the dreaded sight.
Feathers figure very prominently in the re-
ligious customs of most aborigines, and remark-
ably so in the Southwest. Among Navajos and
Pueblos alike these plume-symbols are of the
utmost efficacy for good or bad. They are
part of almost every ceremonial of the infinite
superstitions of these tribes. Any white or
bright-hued plume is of good omen-" good
medicine," as the Indian would put it. The
gay feathers of the parrot are particularly valu-
able, and some dances cannot be held without
them, though the Indians have to travel hun-
dreds of miles into Mexico to get them. A
peacock is harder to keep in the vicinity of In-
dians than the finest horse-those brilliant
plumes are too tempting.
Eagle feathers are of sovereign value; and
in most of the pueblos great, dark, captive
eagles are kept to furnish the coveted articles
for most important occasions. If the bird
of freedom were suddenly exterminated now,
the whole Indian economy would come to a
standstill. No witches could be exorcised, nor
sickness cured, nor much of anything else

Dark feathers, and those in particular of the
owl, buzzard, woodpecker, and raven, are un-
speakably accursed. No one will touch them
except those who have the evil road,"-
that is, are witches,--and any Indian found
with them in his or her possession would be
officially tried and officially put to death Such
feathers are used only in secret by those who
wish to kill or harm an enemy, in whose path
they are laid with wicked wishes that ill-fortune
may follow.
How many of my young countrymen who
have read of the "prayer-wheels of Burmah,
and the paper prayers of the Chinese, know
that there is a mechanical prayer used by thou-
sands of people in the United States? The
Pueblo "prayer-stick" is quite as curious a
device as those of the heathen Orient; and
the feather is the chief part of it.
Prowling in sheltered ravines about any Pueblo
town, the curiosity-seeker will find, stuck in the
ground, carefully whittled sticks, each with a tuft
of downy feathers (generally white) bound at
the top.
Each of these sticks is a prayer--and
none the less earnest and sincere because so
misguided. Around the remote pueblo of
Zufii I have counted over three thousand
of these strange invocations in one day's ram-
ble; but never a tithe as many by any other
According to the nature of the prayer, the
stick, the feathers, and the manner of tying
them vary. The Indian who has a favor to
ask of the Trues prepares his feather-prayer with
great solemnity and secrecy, takes it to a proper
spot, prays to all those above, and plants the
prayer-stick that it may continue his petition
after he has gone home.
This use of the feather is also shared by the
Navajos; and so is what may be called the
smoke-prayer, in which the smoke of the sacred
cigarette is blown east, north, west, south, up
and down, to scare away the evil spirits and
please the good ones.
The Navajos weave the finest and most dura-
ble blankets in the world. Civilized looms turn
out no such iron-like weaving as these bar-
barians make with no better loom than two
straight sticks hung from the limb of a tree by



ropes, and connected by the cords of the woof.
Their brilliant colors and barbaric patterns, as
well as the close texture which enables them to
hold water perfectly, or to stand use as a carpet
on an earth floor for fifty years, render them
very valuable. I have in my collection Na-
vajo blankets upon each of which the weaver
worked thirteen solid months. One weighs
twelve pounds; and every red thread was rav-
eled from an imported Turkish serge' which
cost the Indian six dollars a pound.
These bolleta blankets, however, are no more
made now, and are seldom seen, for the fine
Germantown yarns make a blanket which sells
more readily at far less, though not nearly so
In a corner of the Navajo country, too, is
another curiosity of which few Americans are
aware -a catacomb of genuine mummies! This
is in the grim Caion de Tsay-ee,-ignorantly
called du Chelle,"- which is lined along the
ledges of its dizzy cliffs with the prehistoric
houses of the so-called Cliff-dwellers. These
were not an unknown race at all, but our own
Pueblo Indians of the old days when defense

against savage neighbors was the first object in
These stone houses, clinging far up the
gloomy precipice, were inaccessible enough at
best, and are doubly so now that their ladders
have crumbled to dust. In them are many
strange relics of prehistoric times, and in some
the embalmed bodies of their long-forgotten
occupants. There is a still larger deposit," so
to speak, of American mummies in the wildly
picturesque San Juan country, in the extreme
northwestern corner of New Mexico and adja-
cent parts of Colorado. They are in similar
cliff-built ruins, and belong to the same strange
race. So we have one of Egypt's famous won-
ders here at home.
The largest Indian tribes of the Colorado
desert have from time immemorial cremated
their dead on funeral pyres, after the fashion of
the classic ancients and of modern India. All
the property of the deceased is burned in the
same flames, and the mourners add their own
treasures to the pile. So property does not
accumulate among the Mojaves, and there is
no contesting of wills.

(To be continued.)


A Year with bolly

Bg 6(udora S. 1Bumstead,

We O ent for a promenade today,
|-- l^ My Dolly and I together ;
The sun came out and, 'm sorry to say,
SX We were April-fooled by the weather;
For while ,)e Walked to the end of the lane
The clouds were quietly slipping
Over the sky, and they poured the-ain
Until We tiere cold and dripping.
Ah -;'n--

" -- "A-

Mama zwas ready to change my clothes.
'And set poor Dolly a-blrying;
But the drops ran down her cheers a.nc nose
Ti]] it seemed as if she voere crying;
And her feet -ere iWet, and her hair vas dowvn.
_And blown in every direction;
And it nearly ruined her nicest gown
And her delicate WOax complexionr .


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


[Begun in the November number.]
\ / ITHIN forty-
eight hours
/ after Mr. Rich-
ard Rapallo's
arrival at Mrs.
house, he had
made himself
quite at home
o. there. Hetook
his place in the family circle easily and unob-
trusively, and before he had been in the house
more than a week, Pauline found herself won-
dering how they had ever got on without Uncle
Dick; Tom recognized in his uncle the wise
friend for whom he had been longing of late;
Mrs. Paulding was very glad to have her brother
with her again; and even the Careful Katie was
It 's a sight for sore eyes," she said, to see
Mrs. Paulding so cheerful! And Mr. Richard
was always a lively boy and kept the pot
In the Careful Katie Uncle Dick took amused
interest. Her willingness to enter now and then
into the talk at the dinner-table afforded him
unending entertainment. He usually called her
the Brilliant Conversationalist"; and as he
knew that this was a nickname she would not
understand, he did not hesitate to allude to
the Brilliant Conversationalist even when Katie
was actually present.
He delighted in drawing her out and in get-
ting at the strange superstitions in which she
believed, for they came up in the most unex-
pected ways. He would set Pauline to lead her
on about signs and warnings. Having been

told that the dropping of a knife meant the
coming of a "beau" or of "some other gen-
tleman," and that the dropping of a fork indi-
cated the visit of a lady, he was greatly puzzled
to know what the dropping of a spoon could
portend. Pauline agreed to find out for him.
Pauline and her uncle were great friends. He
had become interested in her and in her doings
at once, and he had the art of seeing things
as she did. In time she wholly forgot that
there was a great difference of years between
them, and she came to talk with her uncle as
with a comrade of her own age.
She reported that the fall of a spoon foretold
that "it" was coming -" it" being something
vague, unknown, impossible to predict with
I see," said Uncle Dick, when Polly told him
this. "I see it all now. The scheme is as sim-
ple and as logical as one could wish. The knife
indicates that the coming visitor is masculine,
while the fork is the feminine of this prediction,
and the spoon is the neuter."
So it is!" Polly declared with surprise. It's
just like the grammar, then, is n't it ? And I
think grammar is horrid! "
There is n't much English grammar left now-
adays," Uncle Dick returned. We have shaken
off most of the unnecessary distinctions of more
complicated languages. In French, now, the
sun is masculine, while in German it is feminine."
"Then, if I was a French-and-German girl I
should n't know whether the sun was a man or a
woman?" asked Polly. I think that would be
terrible !"
It would be terrible indeed," Uncle Dick
answered gravely; but perhaps the sun would
still shine, even if you did n't know its gender."
Grammar's bad enough," continued the little
girl, "but sometimes I think joggraphy 's worse."
Oh, it 's joggraphy still, is it ? asked her


uncle. "It used to be when I was a boy at
Of course it's joggraphy," she returned in
surprise. "What could it be? "
I did n't know," Uncle Dick responded. I
thought that perhaps it might now be geog-
"Oh, Uncle Dick!" said Polly,.blushing, "I
think it 's real mean of you to catch me like
that." Then, after a little pause, she added,
"We do say joggraphy, I know -that is, we
generally shorten it to jog. We shorten every-
thing we can. We say Am. hist. for American
history, and comp. for compositions, and rith.
for arithmetic."
I suppose that you have to condense a great
deal," Uncle Dick remarked gravely, "because
you have so little time before you."
Pauline did not see the irony of this. She
went on gaily. I don't like jog. any more; we
are in Africa now "
I should n't have thought it, from the weather
here," Uncle Dick interrupted, glancing at the

window, through which he could see the falling
flakes of the first snow-storm of the winter.
"I mean we are in Africa in our jog.," she
"I see," he answered sedately.

"And I don't like it at all. It's all so hard
and so-so dry."
"I 've found Africa very dry myself," ad-
mitted her uncle.
"Have you been there ? she asked. Then
she added hastily, "Why, of course you have.
You were at the diamond-fields. Now, is n't
that funny? I read about the diamond-fields
in my jog., and it never struck me that they were
real places, you know, where real people might
be, as you were."
Uncle Dick laughed a little. I can under-
stand that," he remarked. They were simply
a name on the map-simply something that
you had to study out of a book-not something
interesting, and alive, where there are men and
women and children. Well, I '11 try and make
you take a little more interest in that name on
the map."
Then he lifted her on his knee and told -her
about the diamond-fields. He described the
country thereabouts and the difficulties of the
journey there. He explained how the mines
were worked, and he showed her
that the laborers there were hu-
man beings with good qualities
,and bad qualities of their own.
llHe set before her in a few
graphic words the different na-
tionalities that are to be found in
South Africa-the English colo-
nists, the Dutch settlers, and the
native Africans.
When he had come to an end
of his description, Pauline kissed
him and said, Uncle, I shall
never hate jog. again. I had no
idea it was so interesting. And
besides, when we have a review
now, I shall know ever so much
more than any of the other girls.
I shall surprise them so! "
Uncle Dick smiled again.
"I 've had that feeling myself,"
ELDS. he confessed. When I went back
to school after I 'd been on a voyage, ge-
ography was my favorite lesson, because I 'd
seen so many of the places. I remember to
this day how conceited I was when I told them
all that it was n't necessary to go around Cape


Horn if you could get into the Strait of Le-
I '11 remember that, too," Polly declared
"As long as we were at work on South Amer-
ica," continued Uncle Dick, "I was all right.
I 'd been around it, and I thought I knew all
about it; and of course I had seen more than
any of the others. But pride had a fall at last,
and conceit got knocked on the head as soon
as we finished America and began on Europe."
Had n't you been to Europe? she inquired.
Not then; I did n't cross the Atlantic un-
til '67, at the time of the Paris Exposition. And
as I knew, or thought I knew, all about South
America, I 'd got into the habit of not studying
my geography lesson. There were times when
I did n't even open the book. So one day,-I
can remember now how the school looked when
the teacher asked me the question,-it was
late in June, and we were all restless. I think
the teacher saw this and wished to make it as
easy for us as she could, so she called on me.
She had found out that I liked to talk, and that
the other boys liked to hear me because I used
to bring in words and phrases I 'd picked up
from the sailor-men during our long voyage.
So she called,' Rapallo,' and I stood up. And
she asked, Which way does the Nile flow?'
Now, I did n't know anything at all about the
Nile or about Africa, and I was at a loss. I
hesitated, and I tried to remember how the
Nile looked on the map. But I had n't really
studied the map, and I could n't remember any-
thing at all. So I did n't know what to say. I
stood there foolishly, thinking as hard as I could.
Then I tried to get out of it by luck or else by
sheer guessing. So when she repeated the
question, What is the course of the Nile?' I
answered boldly, Southwest by south.' And
you should have heard how the boys laughed!
The teacher had to join in too."
And Uncle Dick himself laughed heartily at
the recollection of his blunder.
Pauline smiled, a little doubtfully.
"I think I'11 go out and get a taste of that
snow-storm," said her uncle, rising. "It is the
first I 've seen in three years."
As soon as Uncle Dick had left the house,
Pauline went to her own room and got down her

geography and turned to the map of Africa. She
wished to make sure of her own knowledge as
to the course of the Nile, so that she could enjoy
her uncle's blunder.


HE snow-storm kept
up all night, and in
the morning there
was no denying
that winter had
come at last. The
steep slopes of the
Riverside Park
w were covered three
"- inches deep. The
boys got out their sleds and began to coast. A
sharp frost followed the snow-storm and froze
the water out of the snow, so that it was too dry
to make into balls.
Before the Christmas vacation began, the as-
pect of the landscape had undergone its winter
change. The skies were dull and gray, though
the frosty sunset glowed ruddy over the Jersey
hills. Ice began to form in the river; the night-
boats had ceased running weeks before; and now
the long tows of canal-boats were seen no more.
Even the heavy freight-boats and the impu-
dent little tugs became infrequent, as if they
feared to be caught in the ice. The long freight-
trains stood still on the tracks of the railroad
down by the water's edge, or moved slowly past
as the powerful locomotives puffed their white
steam into the clear cold air.
Uncle Dick was in and out of the house in the
most irregular way. Generally he went out early
in the morning, and sometimes he did not return
till late at night. Mrs. Paulding never delayed
dinner in the hope of his coming back in time
for it. He had told her not to expect him until
she saw him.
"I 've many things to do," he explained,
"and I 've many people to see, and sometimes
I have to catch them on the jump, when I get
the chance."
Just what his business was he never explained.
He did not tell any one in the house whether or
not he had succeeded in securing the situation


for which he had applied to Joshua Hoffman. gentlemen got out, and the carriage drove
Pauline was very curious, and she wanted to ask around the corner to the stable. One of these
her uncle about this; but she thought it would gentlemen was tall, thin, white-haired, and evi-
not be polite. She was always glad when Uncle dently very old, although he still carried himself
Dick took an afternoon off, as he phrased it, erect. The other was Tom's Uncle Dick.
for then he was likely to spend a good part of it The old gentleman apparently asked Mr.
talking to her. Rapallo to enter the house, and Uncle Dick
Tom had been busy with the examinations at declined, shaking hands and bidding good-by.
school and with the preparations for Christmas The elderly man went up the few steps which
at home, so that it was not until the vacation took him inside his own grounds; then he paused
began that he found an opportunity to consult and called Mr. Rapallo back. Leaning over
his uncle about the lost guineas, the low stone wall which surrounded his lawn,
On the afternoon before Christmas, Tom went the old gentleman had a brief talk with Uncle
out to give an order for the supplies his mother Dick- a talk which ended a little before
needed to meet an unexpected demand for Tom came opposite to them.
several kinds of cake which a tardy customer of Then the elderly man again shook hands with
the Woman's Exchange had called for. Having Mr. Rapallo and went into the house.
As Uncle Dick turned
'i" / he caught sight of Tom
P---s I Paulding.
-- A "--.- ',-- --- .- --i'- H ullo, youngster! "
-' .- he cried across the road.
--, I- ... .-- ---" --'"- -i < '- "Don't you want to go
I :-~'l 'il-- for a walk ?
S'', It seemed as if Uncle
.' .l.'.1 -- Dick could never have
-- enough walking. Tom
-thought sometimes that
his uncle took long tramps
01.1. just to humor his restless-
Sness to "let off steam,"
'. i'' .- '' as Tom expressed it.
-rii Mr. Rapallo crossed
;".ITI the road and joined Tom.
!. ... .l :"l '' "Where shall we go?"
,-'YI ,'",f '"1] 1 he asked.
lIi 'L;j.' ... '"Are you in a hurry?"
.111 ''.1 Tom inquired.
S"i iii "I 'm never in a
A, .*j/i, hurryy" he answered.
J". _:,i, .:i "I mean, have you
-i lt',ll I time for a long talk with
me?" was Tom's next
done his errand, he turned into the Riverside he replied. "We 've all the time there is."
Park and began to walk along the parapet. "Then I '11 take you up and show you the
When he came near the handsome house place where my great-grandfather was robbed,"
which Mr. Joshua Hoffman had recently built, said Tom, as they dropped into the steady pace
he saw a carriage stop before the door. Two at which Mr. Rapallo always walked. "I 've
VOL. XIX.--8,




been wanting to tell you all about it and to get
your advice."
"Advice is inexpensive," laughed his uncle;
" there is n't anything I can afford to give more
freely. But I 'm afraid you '11 not find it a very
substantial Christmas present."
You see, Uncle," Tom pursued eagerly,
"I 've worked on this now till I 've done all
I can. I 've got to the end of my rope, and I
thought that you could help me out with your
I 've had plenty of experience, too," returned
Uncle Dick. If experience was an available
stock in trade, I could fit up a store and sell off
my surplus supply. I 've more than I need for
my own use. I 've been pretty nearly every-
where, and I 've seen all sorts of things, and

I 'm richer than anybody I ever met," Un-
cle Dick declared seriously.
Tom looked at him in surprise.
"I don't mean in mere money," he went on.
" Money is only one of the standards by which
you measure riches -and it is n't a very good
one, either. I 'm rich because I have all I
want. I 've met wealthy men in all parts of the
world-in New York and in New Zealand,
among the Eskimos and among the Arabs; they
had different ideas of wealth, of course, but they
were all alike in one thing--they all wanted
more. I 've never met a very wealthy man.
who did n't want more than he had. Now, I
don't. I 'm content. And that 's 'the best gift
of heaven to man'- contentment. It takes
few things to give it. Health, first, of course;


I 've met all sorts of people, and I've nothing
to show for it now but experience."
Your not having money does n't make you
miserable, anyway," said Tom.

then freedom; then food and clothing; after
that, a roof over one's head and a fire if it is
cold. I 've been in places where clothing and
fire and shelter were not needed, and where




the food grew wild for the picking. In those
places a man can get the essentials of life very
easily. But however he may get them, the main
thing is to be content with little. After all, I
believe contentment is a habit. So I advise you
to get accustomed to being content as soon as
you can. Then you will never long to change
places with a wealthy man. With most of
them, the more they have the more they want.
I was talking just now with a very wealthy
man -"
"The Old Gentleman who leaned over the
Wall? Tom inquired.
"The Old Gentleman who leaned over the
Wall," his uncle assented. "He has money,
houses, lands, mines, ships; but though he is old
and has now earned his rest, and though the
care of all these things wears on him, still he
wants more. He is a good man, too,-one of
the best men in the world to-day,-and prob-
ably he wishes for more money only that he may
do more good with it. But he does wish for it,
all the same."
I 'm afraid I 'm not so content as you,
Uncle Dick," said Tom. I want more than
I have. You know mother is troubled about
that mortgage, and I 'd like to go to the School
of Mines, and I think Pauline ought to have a
chance, too; so that's why I 'm trying to find
the gold which was stolen from my great-grand-
It 's a boy's habit to be hopeful and striv-
ing," Uncle Dick replied. I should not wish
you to look at the world with my eyes yet
a while. But even when you are trying for what
you think would better you--even then you
can be content with what you actually have.
Now tell me all about this gold which vanished
suddenly and was seen no more."
Tom began at the beginning and told Uncle
Dick the whole story. He took Mr. Rapallo
over the ground, and showed the exact position
of the two armies on the night of the robbery.
He had in his pocket the map Nicholas Paul-
ding had roughly outlined. With the aid of
this he traced for Uncle Dick the course of
the little stream which had separated the hostile
camps the night before the battle, and he pointed
out the stepping-stones by means of which a
passage might have been had from one bank to

the other. He gave Mr. Rapallo all the infor-
mation he had been able to extract from the
papers gathered by Wyllys Paulding. He ex-
plained all the circumstances of Jeffrey Kerr's
taking the bags containing the two thousand
guineas, and of his escape with them. He
dwelt on the fact that after the second sentinel
had fired on Kerr, the thief had never been
seen again, so far as anybody knew.
In other words," said Uncle Dick, "this
man Kerr took the money, ran outside our
lines, and then vanished."
"That 's it exactly," Tom replied.
"And when he vanished, the gold disappeared
too," Mr. Rapallo continued. "You are right
in calling this a puzzle. It is a puzzle of the
most puzzling kind."
And there is one question which puzzles me
quite as much as the fate of the thief or the dis-
appearance of the gold," Tom declared; "and
that 's why it was that my grandfather suddenly
gave up the search."
"That is odd," Uncle Dick confessed; very
odd, indeed. It will bear a good deal of think-
ing over."
"And I want you to help me, Uncle Dick,"
pleaded Tom.
"Of course I will," replied Mr. Rapallo
heartily. "I '11 do what I can-that is, if I
can do anything. Have you told any of the
boys here about this?"
"They know I 'm going to try to find it,"
Tom replied, "but that's all they do know. I
thought at first of consulting Harry Zachary,-
he has such good ideas. He 's just been read-
ing a book called the Last Days of Pompeii,'
and he wants us to make a big volcano for the
Fourth of July and have an eruption of Vesu-
vius after it gets dark, and then by the light of
the burning mountain two of us will fight a duel
with stilettos-that 's a kind of Italian bowie-
knife, is n't it? "
"Yes," answered Uncle Dick, smiling. "I
think that is a good scheme. This young friend
of yours seems to have excellent ideas, as you
say. Why did n't you consult him ? "
Well," Tom answered, "his head 's all right,
but he is n't very strong, and he gets scared
easily. Besides, his father thinks he 's delicate,
and he won't always let him out. His father 's



a tailor that is, he manufactures clothes.
Harry says he has more than a hundred hands."
Quite a Briareus," said Mr. Rapallo. And is
he the only one you could take into confidence? "
Oh, no," Tom responded; there 's Cissy
"I don't think I would advise you to consult
a girl," said his uncle.
Cissy is n't a girl," Tom explained. "'Cissy'
is simply short for Cicero. His full name is
Marcus Cicero Smith, Junior."
"Then I think I must know his father," Mr.
Rapallo declared; "that is, if he 's a doctor,
and if he used to live in Denver."
He did," said Tom.
And why did n't you consult him ? asked
his uncle.
"Well," Tom explained a little hesitatingly,
"I don't know that I can tell, for sure. I like
Cissy. He 's my best friend. But he 's so sharp,
and he sits down on one so hard. And besides
I thought I 'd rather do all the work myself."
They were then walking along the upper ter-
race of Morningside Park.
Mr. Rapallo glanced down into the park be-
low and said, Is n't that boy making signals
to you?"
Tom leaned over and caught sight of Cork-
screw Lott, who was waving his hands as if
As Tom came to the edge of the parapet, Lott

Tom promptly answered: _

"That sounds like a rallying-call," said Mr.
Rapallo, smiling.
We've got a secret society, called the Black
Band, and that 's our signal," Tom explained.
They walked a little way down toward Lott,
and stood still until he came up. Then Tom
presented him to Mr. Rapallo.
Lott hardly waited for this introduction, he
was so anxious to communicate his intelligence.
"Have you heard the news?" he asked,
twisting with impatience.
"What news? Tom returned.

"Then you have n't heard it," Lott went on
gleefully. "It was found only this forenoon,
and I was almost the first to see it."
"What was found ? asked Tom, with a sud-
den chill as he feared that possibly some one
else had discovered the treasure he was after.
It's the skeleton of a soldier who was killed
during the Revolutionary War," Lott explained.
Uncle Dick and Tom looked at each other
with the same thought in their minds.
"Where was this discovered? Mr. Rapallo
Over there," Corkscrew answered, pointing
toward the Hudson River behind them. The
men at work there on the new aqueduct, dug
up the bones. It was the skeleton of a British
"A British soldier?" echoed Mr. Rapallo.
"How do you know that?"
Oh, everybody says so," Lott answered.
"Besides, they found things with him that prove
"Did they find any money?" cried Tom
Did n't they though ?" Corkscrew replied.
Again Tom and Uncle Dick exchanged
glances and their faces fell.
Do you know how much they found ? in-
quired Mr. Rapallo.
Of course I do, Corkscrew answered. I
went up at once, and I asked all about it, and
I've seen all the money. There are two silver
shillings and a silver sixpence and a copper
penny-a great big one with the head of George
the Second on it."
Is that all? Tom demanded.
Is n't that enough ? Lott returned. "How
much do you think a British soldier ought to
have had ? "
Tom drew a breath of relief. If that is all,"
he began-
How do you know it was a British soldier ?"
Mr. Rapallo repeated. "An American soldier
might have had two-and-six in silver and a penny
in copper."
"The money was n't all that was found,"
Lott explained.
I thought you said it was," Tom inter-
I did n't say anything of the sort, Lott re-





plied. I said that was all the money; but they
found something else the buttons of his uni-
form; and Dr. Smith, who has collected but-
tons I 'm going to begin a collection at once;
I can get one from a sparrow' policeman, and
I 've a cousin in the fire department at Boston,
Never mind about the collection you are
going to begin," said Mr. Rapallo; "tell us
about these buttons now."
Well," Lott returned, Dr. Smith recognized
them at once; he said that they were worn in
1776 by the Seventeenth Light Dragoons; and
that they were one of the British regiments which
took part in the Battle of Harlem Heights."
And what did Dr. Smith say about the death
of the poor fellow whose bones have been
found? asked Uncle Dick.
He said it was easy to see how the man had
been killed, and he took a big musket-ball out of
the skull," said Lott. He thinks that in the
hurry of the fighting some of the other soldiers
must have thrown a little earth hastily over the
body, and left it where it fell; and so, in time,
with the washing of the rain and the settling of
the dust and the growing of the grass, somehow
the skeleton got to be well under ground. Why,
it was at least six feet down, where they dug it
Are you sure that they did not find anything
else with it ? Mr. Rapallo inquired.
Certain sure! said Corkscrew. "I asked
every one of them all about it. Oh, that's all
right: if there'd been anything else, I'd have
found out all about it. Maybe the men are there
still; you can go and ask them yourself, and I
can show you exactly where the bones were."
Mr. Rapallo and Tom Paulding walked with
Lott to the place where the men were yet at
work sinking a deep ditch for one of the huge
pipes of the new aqueduct. The laborers had
advanced at least ten feet beyond the spot in
which the skeleton had been discovered, but
Corkscrew pointed out the place.
Uncle Dick asked the foreman a few ques-
tions, and then he and Tom started for home.
I don't see how that can be the skeleton of
your thief, Tom," said Mr. Rapallo, as they
walked on after parting with Lott.
"I 'm sure that Kerr could n't have got to

the place where those bones were found," Tom
declared. Kerr did n't reach the British
camp, and that place is well inside their lines.
Besides, he could n't have had on the uni-
form of the Seventeenth Light Dragoons, you
know; he was an assistant paymaster in our
army. And then those two shillings, and that
sixpence, and that penny-there was more
than that in my great-grandfather's money-bags!
No; this can't be the man we 're after."
"Then you are no nearer the solution of
your problem," said Uncle Dick. I 'm afraid
it will take you a long while to work it out.
I 'd help you if I could, but I don't see how
I can."
It helps me just to have some one to talk
to about it," Tom urged.
Oh, you can talk to me till you are tired,"
Uncle Dick laughed. The mystery. of the
thing fascinates me, and I shall be glad to talk
about it. But you will have to do the hard
thinking yourself. Be sure you 're right--
then go ahead!' That was a good motto for
Davy Crockett, and it is n't a bad one for any
other American."
I wish I only knew which way .o go," said
Tom; "I 'd go ahead with all my might."
Put on your thinking-cap," remarked Mr.
Rapallo, as they mounted the flight of steps
leading from the street to the knoll on which
stood Mrs. Paulding's house. Sleep on it.
To-morrow is Christmas, you know; perhaps
in the morning you will find an idea in your

Generally Tom was a late sleeper, like most
boys, and it was not easy to rouse him from his
slumbers. But on Christmas morning, by some
strange chance, he waked very early. Despite
his utmost endeavor he could not go to sleep
again. He lay there wide awake, and he re-
called the events of the preceding day. Soon
he began to turn over in his mind the circum-
stances connected with Jeffrey Kerr's mysterious
Suddenly he sprang from his bed and lighted
the gas. Without waiting to dress, he pulled
out the box of papers and searched among
them for a certain newspaper. When he had
found this he read a marked paragraph with



almost feverish eagerness. Then he put the
paper away again in the box, and dressed him-
self as rapidly as he could.
By the time he got down-stairs, creeping
softly that he might not disturb his mother, it
was just daybreak.
At the foot of the stairs he met the Careful
Katie, who was just back from early mass.
"Holy Saints defend us! she cried. Is
that the boy, or his banshee?"
Merry Christmas, Katie!" he said, as he
put on his overcoat.
An' is it goin' out ye are ?" she asked in
astonishment. For why? Ye can't buy no
more Christmas presents-the stores is n't open,
even them that ain't closed the day."
"I 've got to go out to see about some-
thing," he explained. I shall be back in half
an hour."
It '11 bring no luck this goin' out in the

night, an' not to church either," said the Care-
ful Katie, as she opened the door for him.
An hour or so later, when Mr. Richard Rapallo
was dressing leisurely, there came a tap at his door.
"Who's there ? he cried.
"Merry Christmas, Uncle Dick! Tom an-
swered. You were right, and Santa Claus has
given me a suggestion."
"What do you mean?" asked his uncle,
opening the door.
"I have found an idea in my stocking," Tom
explained; or at least it came to me this morn-
ing early, and I 've been out to see about it.
And I think I 've made a discovery."
Produce your discovery I" Uncle Dick re-
sponded, noting the excitement in the boy's
voice and the light in his eyes.
"I think I know what became of Jeffrey
Kerr," said Tom; "and if I 'm right, then I
know where the stolen gold is!"

(To be continued.)




THE long season of fair autumn weather was
drawing to a close. Everybody was tired of
sunshine; there had been nearly six months of
it, and the face of nature in southern Idaho was
gray with dust. A dark morning or a cloudy
sunset was welcome, even to the children, who
were glad of the prospect of any new kind of
But no rain came. The river had sunk so
low in its bed it barely murmured on the rocks,
like a sleeper disturbed in his dream. When the
children were indoors, with windows shut and
fire crackling, they could hear no sound of
water; and this cessation of a voice inseparable
from the life of the cafnon added to the effect
of waiting which belonged to these still fall
The talk of the men was of matters suited to
the season. It was said the Chinamen's wood-
drive had got lodged in Moor's Creek on its
way to the river, there being so little water in
the creek this year; and might not get down at
all, which would be almost a total loss to the
Chinamen. Charley Moy, the cook at the cailon,
knew the boss Chinaman of the "drive," and
said that he had had bad luck now two seasons
The river was the common carrier between
the lumber-camps in the mountains and the con-
sumers of wood in the towns and ranches below.
Purchasers who lived on the river-bank were ac-
customed to stop their winter's supply of fire-
wood as it floated by. It was taken account of
and paid for when the owners of the drive
came to look up their property.
Every year three drives came down the
river. Goodwin's log-drive came first, at high
water, early in the summer. The logs were from
twelve to twenty feet long. Each one was
marked with the letters M, H. These were the
first two of Mr. Goodwin's initials, and were
easily cut with an ax; the final initial, G, being

difficult to cut in this rude way, was omitted;
but everybody knew that saw-logs marked M. H.
belonged to Goodwin's drive. They looked
like torpedo-boats as they came nosing along,
with an ugly rolling motion, through the heavy
The men who followed this first drive were
rather a picked lot for strength and endurance;
but they made slow progress past the bend in
the caion. Here a swift current and an eddy
together combined to create what is called a
jam. The loggers were often seen up to their
waists in water for hours, breaking up the
jam, and working the logs out into the cur-
rent. When the last one was off the men would
get into their boat a black, flat-bottomed
boat, high at stem and stern like a whale-boat
-and go whooping down in mid-current like
a mob of school-boys upon some dangerous
sort of lark. These brief voyages between the
jams must have been the most exciting and
agreeable part of log-driving.
After Goodwin's drive came the French-
men's cord-wood drive; and last of all, when
the river was lowest, came the Chinamen's
drive, making the best of what water was
There is a law of the United States which
forbids that an alien shall cut timber on the
public domain. A Chinaman, being an alien
unmistakably, and doubly held as such in the
West, cannot therefore cut the public timber
for his own immediate profit or use; but he
can take a contract to furnish it to a white
dealer in wood, at a price contingent upon the
safe delivery of the wood. But if the river
should fail to bring it in time for sale, the cost
of cutting and driving, for as far as he succeeds
in getting it down, is a dead loss to the Chinese
contractor, and the wood belongs to whoever
may pick it out of the water when the first rise
of the creek in spring carries it out.

- e-


The Chinese wood-drivers are singular, wild-
looking beings. Often at twilight, when they
camped on the shore below the house, the chil-
dren would hover within sight of the curious
group the men made around their fire-an

the water, no male or female of the white race
could show anything in the way of costume to
approach them.
The cloudy weather continued. The nights
grew sharper, and the men said it was too


economical bit of fire, sufficient merely to cook
the supper of fish and rice.
All is silence before supper, in a camp of
hungry, wet white men; but the Chinamen
were always chattering. The children were
amused to see them "doing" their hair like
women-combing out the long, black, witch-
locks in the light of the fire, and braiding them
into pigtails, or twisting them into "Psyche
knots." They wore several layers of shirts, and
sleeveless vests, one over another, long water-
proof boots drawn up over their knees, and al-
ways the most unfitting of hats perched on top
of the coiled braids or above the Psyche knots.
Altogether, take them wet or dry, on land or in

cold for rain; if a storm came now it would
bring snow. There was snow already upon
the mountains and the high pastures, for the
deer were seeking feeding-grounds in the lower,
warmer gulches, and the stock had been driven
down from the summer range to winter in the
One afternoon an old man, a stranger, was
seen coming down the gulch back of the house,
followed by a pack-horse bearing a load. The
gulch was now all yellow and brown, and the
man's figure was conspicuous for the light, army-
blue coat he wore--the overcoat of a private
soldier. He "hitched" at the post near the
kitchen door, and uncovering his load showed




two fat haunches of young venison which he
had brought to sell.
No peddler of the olden time, unstrapping his
pack in the lonely farm-house kitchen, could
have been more welcome than this stranger with
his wild merchandise, to the children of the
camp. They stood around so as not to miss a
word of the conversation, while Charley Moy
entertained him with the remnants of the camp
lunch. The old buckskin-colored horse seemed
as much of a character as his master. Both his
ears were cropped half-off, giving a sullen and
pugilistic expression to his bony head. There
was no more arch to his neck than to the han-
dle of a hammer. His faded yellow coat was dry,

his master were caught out too late in the season,
and the old horse had both his ears frozen.
The children were surprised, to learn that their
new acquaintance was a neighbor, residing in a
dugout in Cottonwood Gulch, only three miles
away. They knew the place well, had picnicked
there one summer day, and had played in the
dugout. Had not Daisy, the pet fawn, when
they had barred him out of the dugout because
he filled up the whole place, jumped upon the
roof and nearly stamped it in ? -like Samson
pulling down the pillars of the temple ? But no
one had been living there then. The old man
said he used the dugout only in winter. It was
his town house. In summer he and the old
.. t ~- s- -- -& __._..


matted, and dusty, as the hair of a tramp who
sleeps in haymows. He followed his master,
without bit or bridle, like a dog. In the course
of conversation it appeared that the cropped
ears were not scars of battle, nor marks of pun-
ishment, but the record of a journey when he and

horse took their freedom on the hills, hunting
and prospecting for mineral-not so much in
the expectation of a fortune as from love of the
chances and risks of the life. Was it not lonely
in Cottonwood Gulch when the snows came ?
the children asked. Sometimes it was lonely,

--; --1~-1


but he had good neighbors: the boys at Alex-
ander's (the horse-ranch) were down from the
summer range, and they came over to his place
of an evening for a little game of cards, or he
went over to their place. He would be very
glad, however, of any old newspapers or novels
that might be lying around camp; for he was
short of reading-matter in the dugout.
There was always a pile of old periodicals and
"picture-papers" on Charley Moy's ironing-
table; he was proud to contribute his entire
stock on hand to the evening company in the
dugout. The visitor then modestly hinted that
he was pretty tired of wild meat: had Charley
such a thing as the rough end of a slab of bacon
lying around, or a ham-bone, to spare ? A little
mite of lard would come handy, and if he could
let him have about five pounds of flour, it would
be an accommodation, and save a journey to
town. These trifles he desired to pay for with
his venison; but that was not permitted, under
the circumstances.
Before taking his leave the old hunter per-
suaded Polly to take a little tour on his horse,
up and down the poplar walk at a slow and
courteous pace. Polly had been greatly inter-
ested in her new friend at a distance, but this
was rather a formidable step toward intimacy.
However, she allowed herself to be lifted upon
the back of the old crop-eared barbarian, and
with his master walking beside her she paced
sedately up and down between the leafless
The old man's face was pale, notwithstanding
the exposure of his life; the blood in his cheek
no longer fired up at the touch of the sun. His
blue coat and the yellow-gray light of the pop-
lar walk gave an added pallor to his face.
Polly was a pink beside him, perched aloft, in
her white bonnet and ruffled pinafore.
The old sway-backed horse sulked along,
refusing to "take any hand" in such a trifling
performance. He must have felt the insult
of Polly's babyish heels dangling against his
weather-beaten ribs that were wont to be deco-
rated with the pendent hoofs and horns of his
master's vanquished game.
Relations between the family and their
neighbor in the dugout continued to be friendly
and mutually profitable. The old ex-soldier's

venison was better than could be purchased in
town. Charley Moy saved the picture-papers for
him, and seldom failed to find the half of a pie,
a cup of cold coffee, or a dish of sweets for him
to discuss" on the bench by the kitchen door.
Discovering that antlers were prized in camp, he
brought his very best pair as a present, bearing
them upon his shoulders, the furry skull of the
deer against his own, back to back, so that in pro-
file he was double-headed, man in front and deer
But the young men of the camp were am-
bitious to kill their own venison. The first
light dry snow had fallen, and deer-tracks were
discovered on the trails leading to the river.
A deer was seen by John Brown and Mr. Kane,
standing on the beach on the further side, in a
sort of cul-de-sac formed by the walls of the lava
bluffs as they approached the shore. They fired
at and wounded him, but he was not disabled
from running. His only way of escape was by
the river, in the face of the enemy's fire. He
swam in a diagonal line down stream, and, as-
sisted by the current, gained the shore at a
point some distance below, which his pursu-
ers were unable to reach in time to head him
They followed him over the hills as far and
fast as legs and wind could carry them, but lost
him finally, owing to the dog Cole's injudicious
barking, when the policy of the men would
have been to lie quiet and let the deer rest
from his wound. By his track in the snow they
saw that his left hind foot touched the ground
only now and then. If Cole had pressed him
less hard the deer would have lain down
to ease his hurt, the wound would have stiff-
ened and rendered it difficult for him to run,
and so he might have met his end shortly, in-
stead of getting away to die a slow and painful
They lost him, and were reproached for it,
needlessly, by the women of the family. One
Saturday morning, when Mr. Kane was busy in
the office over his note-books, and Jack's mother
was darning stockings by the fire, Jack came
plunging in to say that John Brown was trying
to head off a deer that was swimming down the
river-and would Mr. Kane come with his rifle,
quick ?




Below the house a wire-rope suspension-bridge,
for foot-passengers only, spanned the river at its
narrowest point, from rock to rock of the steep
shore. Mr. Kane looked out and saw John
Brown running to and fro on this bridge, wav-
ing his arms, shouting, and firing stones at some
object above the bridge, that was heading down
stream. Mr. Kane could just see the small
black spot upon the water which he knew was
the deer's head. He seized his gun and ran
down the shore path. Discouraged in his at-
tempt to pass the bridge, the deer was making
for the shore, when Mr. Kane began firing at
him. A stranger now arrived upon the scene,
breathless with running: he was the hunter who
had started the game and chased it till it had
taken to the river. The deer was struggling with
the current in mid-stream, uncertain which way

to turn. Headed off from the bridge and from
the nearest shore, he turned and swam slowly
toward the opposite bank. The women on the
hill were nearly crying, the hunt seemed so
hopeless for the deer and so unfair: three men,
two of them with guns, combined against him,
and the current so swift and strong! It was
Mr. Kane's bullet that ended it. It struck the
deer as he lifted himself out of the water on the
rocks across the river.
The venison was divided between the stranger
who started the game and the men of the
camp who cut off its flight and prevented its
The women did not refuse to eat of it; but
they continued to protest that the hunt was
not fair"; or, in the phrase of the country,
that the deer "had no show at all."



HIS is the cobbler, a curious toy
Behind the glass he lives,
And he sticks out his tongue and rol
his eyes
For every stitch he gives.

A mischievous cross-grained toy he
And he dearly loves to fright
S And worry the toys, as he rolls l
C< Up almost out of sight.

And over the little tin lamb on wheels
A wicked spell he has cast;
When they try to draw it about the floor
It falls, and its wheels stick fast.


And the children think that the lamb 's worn out;
They would find he went quite well,
If they sent the cobbler toy away,
And broke his magic spell.




[Begun in tle December number.]

DOROTHY ran along until she thought she
was quite safe, and then stopped to look back
and listen. There was a confused sound of
shouts and cries in the distance, but nothing
seemed to be coming after her, so she walked
quietly away through the wood.
What a scene of turmoil it was! she said
to herself. (You see, she was trying to express
herself in a very dignified and composed man-
ner, as if she had n't been in the least disturbed
by what had happened.) "I presume," she
went on, "--I presume it was something like a
riot, although I really don't see what it was all
about. Of course I 've never been in a riot,
but if it's anything like that, I shall never have
anything to do with one";-which certainly
was a very wise resolution for a little girl to
make; but as Dorothy was always making wise
resolutions about things that were never going
to happen, I really don't think that this particu-
lar one was a matter of any consequence.
She was so much pleased with these re-
marks that she was going on to say a number
of very fine things, when she came suddenly
upon the Caravan hiding behind a large tree.
They were sitting in a little bunch on the grass,
and, as Dorothy appeared, they all put on an
appearance of great unconcern, and began
staring up at the branches of the tree, as if they
had n't seen her.
"They 've certainly been doing something
they 're ashamed of," she said to herself; and
just then the Admiral pretended to catch sight
of her and said, with a patronizing air, "Ah!
How d' ye do? How d' ye do? as if they
had n't met for quite a while.
"You know perfectly well how I do," re-
plied Dorothy, speaking in a very dignified

manner, and not feeling at all pleased with this
reception; and then noticing that Humphrey
was nowhere to be seen, she said severely,
"Where 's your Camel ? "
Camels is no good," said the Admiral, eva-
sively. Leastwise he was n't."
"Why not ?" said Dorothy. She said this
very sternly, for she felt morally certain that the
Admiral was trying to conceal something from
"Well, you see," said the Admiral un-
easily, "he talked too much. He was always
Grumbling about what? said Dorothy.
"Oh, about a variety of things," said the Ad-
miral. Meals and lodgings and all that, you
know. I used to try to stop him. 'Cammy,'
I says-"
"' Cammy' is short for camel," explained Sir
Walter, and Dorothy laughed and nodded, and
the Admiral went on-
"'Cammy,' I says, 'don't scold so much';
but lor! I might as well have talked to a turn-
Better," put in Sir Walter. "That shuts up
sometimes, and he never did."
Oh, jummy! said the Highlander, with a
chuckle, "that 's a good one! "
"But what was it all about? persisted
You tell her, Ruffles," said the Admiral.
Well," said Sir Walter, it was all the same
thing, over and over again. He had it all
in verses so he would n't forget any of it. It
went like this:
Canary-birds feed on sugar and seed,
Parrots have crackers to crunch;
And, as for the oodles, they tell me the noodles
Have chickens and cream for their lunch.
But there 's never a question
About MY digestion-
ANYTHING does for me /


" Cats, you 're aware, can repose in a chair,
Chickens can roost upon rails;
Puppies are able to sleep in a stable,
And oysters can slumber in pails.
But no one supposes
A poor Camel dozes-
ANY PLACE does for me /

"Lambs are enclosed where it 's never exposed,
Coops are constructed for hens;
Kittens are treated to houses well heated,
And pigs are protected by pens.
But a Camel comes handy
Wherever it 's Jandy -
ANYWHERE does for me /

"People would laugh if you rode a giraffe,
Or mounted the back of an ox;
It 's nobody's habit to ride on a rabbit,
Or try to bestraddle a fox.
But as for a Camel, he 's
Ridden by families--
ANY LOAD does for me /

"A snake is as round as a hole in the ground,
And weasels are wavy and sleek ;
And no alligator could ever be straighter
Than lizards that live in a creek.
But a Camel's all lumpy
And bumny and humpy-
ANY SHAPE does for me !"

Now, Dorothy was a very tender-hearted lit-
tle child, and by the time these verses were fin-
ished she hardly knew whether to laugh or
to cry. "Poor old feeble-minded thing! she
said compassionately. "And what became of
him at last ?"
There was a dead silence for a moment, and
then the Admiral said solemnly:
"We put him in a pond."
"Why, that's the most unhuman thing I ever
heard of!" exclaimed Dorothy, greatly shocked
at this news.
"Well," said the Admiral, in a shamefaced
sort of way, we thought it was a good thing
to do -for us, you know."




"And I call it proud and unforgiving," said
Dorothy, indignantly. Did the poor creature
say anything ?"
Not at first," said the Admiral; "but after
he got in he said things."
"Such as what ? said Dorothy.
Oh, we could n't make out what he said,"
replied the Admiral, peevishly. "It was per-
fectly unintellijibbergibble."
"Kind of gurgly," put in the Highlander.
Did he go right down ?" inquired Dorothy
very anxiously.
Not abit of it," said the Admiral, flippantly.
" He never went down at all. He floated, just
like a cork, you know."
"Round and round and round," added Sir
"Like a turnip," put in the Highlander.
"What do you mean by that 9 said Dorothy,
Nothing," said the Highlander, looking very
much abashed; only I thought turnips turned
Dorothy was greatly provoked at all this, and
felt that she really ought.to say something
very severe; but the fact was that the Caravan
looked so innocent, sitting on the grass with
their sunbonnets all crooked on their heads,
that it was as much as she could do to keep
from laughing outright. You know," she
said to herself, "if it was n't for the High-
lander's whiskers, it 'd be precisely like a infant
class having a picnic; and after all, they 're
really nothing but graven images" -so she con-
tented herself by saying, as severely as she
could :
"Well, I 'm extremely displeased, and I 'm
very much ashamed of all of you."
The Caravan received this reproof with great
cheerfulness, especially the Admiral, who took a
look at Dorothy through his spy-glass and then
said with much satisfaction: Now we 're each
being ashamed of by three people "; but Doro-
thy very properly took no notice of this remark,
and walked away in a dignified manner.
As Dorothy walked along, wondering what
would happen to her next, she felt something

tugging at her frock, and looking around she
saw that it was the Highlander running along
beside her, quite breathless, and trying very
hard to attract her attention. Oh, it 's you,
is it ? she said, stopping short and looking at
him pleasantly.
"Yes, it's me," said the Highlander, sitting
down on the ground as if he were very much
fatigued. "I 've been wanting to speak to you
privately for a very long time."
"What about?" said Dorothy, wondering
what was coming now.
Well," said the Highlander, blushing vio-
lently and appearing to be greatly embar-
rassed, "you seem to be a very kind-hearted
person, and I wanted to show you some poetry
I 've written."
"Did you compose it ?" said Dorothy, kindly.
"No," said the Highlander; "I only made
it up. Would you like to hear it? "
Oh, yes, indeed," said Dorothy, as gravely
as she could; I should like to hear it very
It 's called," said the Highlander, lower-
ing his voice confidentially and looking cau-
tiously about, "-it 's called 'The Pickle and
the Policeman'; and taking a little paper out
of his pocket, he began:

There was a little pickle and his name was
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Dorothy, "I don't
think that will do at all."
Suppose I call him George 9 said the High-
lander, gazing reflectively at his paper. It 's
got to be something short, you know."
But you must n't call him anything," said
Dorothy, laughing. "Pickles don't have any
"All right," said the Highlander; and taking
out a pencil, he began repairing his poetry with
great industry. He did a great deal of writing
and a good deal of rubbing out with his thumb,
and finally said triumphantly:
There was a little pickle and he had n't any

Yes, that will do very nicely," said Dorothy;
and the Highlander, clearing his voice, read off
his poetry with a great flourish:


There was a little pickle and he had n't any
In this respect, I 'i just informed, all pickles
are the same.
A large policeman came along, a-swinging of
his club,
And took that little pickle up and put him in
a tub.

"That 's rather good about taking him up,"
said the Highlander, chuckling to himself; "so
exactly like a policeman, you know."
Oh, yes, indeed," said Dorothy, who was
ready to scream with laughter. What 's the
rest of it ? "
"There is n't any more," said the High-
lander, rather confusedly. "There was going
to be another verse, but I could n't think of
anything more to say."
Oh, well, it 's very nice as
it is," said Dorothy consol-
ingly; and then, as the High-
lander put up his paper and
went away, she laughed till her
eyes were full of tears. They
are all funny," she said at last
as she walked away through
the wood, "but I think he 's '
funnier than all of 'em put to- '.
gether"- which, by the way, / ', \"
was not a very sensible remark ()f qj
for her to make, as you will i
see if you '11 take the trouble 'I /
to think it over.
But presently, as she strolled
along, she made a discovery
that quite drove the High-
lander and his ridiculous poetry
out of her head. It was a
tower in the wood; not an -
ordinary tower, of course, for
there would have been nothing
remarkable about that, but a
tower of shining brass, and "'THERE IS N'T
so high that the top of it was
quite out of sight among the branches of the
trees. But the strangest thing about it was that
there seemed to be no possible way of getting
into it, and Dorothy was very cautiously walk-
ing around it to see if she could find any door

when she came suddenly upon the Caravan
standing huddled together, and apparently in a
state of great excitement.
"What is it?" asked Dorothy, eagerly.
Hush!" said the Admiral, in an agitated
whisper. "We think it 's where Bob Scarlet
changes himself"- and as he said this there
was a tremendous flapping of wings, and down
came Bob Scarlet through the branches and
landed with a thump a little way from where
they were standing. He was as big as a goose
again, and his appearance was so extremely for-
midable that the Caravan as one man threw
themselves flat on their faces in a perfect frenzy
of terror, and Dorothy herself hid in the grass,
with her heart beating like a little eight-day
But Bob Scarlet fortunately paid no more


attention to any of them than if they had been
so many flies, and hurried away in the direction
of the toy-shop.
Now what do you make of that? said the
Admiral, lifting up his head. He went in at a


little door not five minutes ago, and he was n't
any bigger than an every-day bird."
Where 's the door ? said Dorothy, running
around the tower and looking at it on all sides.
It went- up after him," said the Admiral,
"like a corkscrew."
"And it 's coming down again, like a gim-
let! shouted the Highlander; and, as they all
looked up, sure enough there was the little door
slowly coming down, around and around, as
if it were descending an invisible staircase on
the outside of the tower. As it touched the
ground it opened, and, to Dorothy's amazement,
out came the little field-mouse.
"What is it ? cried Dorothy, as they all
crowded around the little creature. "Do tell
us what it all means."
"It 's a Sizing Tower," said the Mouse, its
little voice trembling with agitation. "You get
big at the top, and little at the bottom. I
would n't go up there again not for a bushel
of nuts."
Were you pretty big ? inquired Sir Walter.
Monstrous! said the Mouse, with a little
shudder; "I was as big as a squirrel; and while
I was up there Bob Scarlet flew up and came
down with the door, and there I was."
That was a precious mess! remarked the
"Was n't it now said the Mouse. "And
if he had n't taken it into his head to come up
again andfly down, I 'd 'a' been there yet."
"Why, it's the very thing for us! cried Dor-
othy, clapping her hands with delight. Let's
all go up and get back our regular selves."

You go first," said the Admiral suspiciously,
"and call down to us how it feels." But Dor-
othy would n't hear of this; and after a great
deal of arguing and pushing and saying You
go in first," the whole party at last got squeezed
in through the little doorway. Then the Mouse
sat up on its hind legs and waved a little fare-
well with its paws, and the door softly closed.
"If we begin to grow now," said the Admi-
ral's voice in the dark, we '11 all be squeegeed,
sure! "

"What an extraordinary thing! exclaimed
Dorothy; for they had come out into a street
full of houses.
What I want to know is what 's become of
the door," said Sir Walter indignantly, staring at
a high wall where the door had been, which was
now perfectly blank.
"I 'm sure I don't know," said Dorothy,
quite bewildered. It 's really mysterious,
is n't it ? "
It makes my stomach tickle like anything,"
said the Highlander, in a quavering voice.
"What shall we do ?" said Dorothy, looking
about uneasily.
"Run away!" said the Admiral promptly;
and without another word the Caravan took to
their heels and disappeared around a corner.
Dorothy hurried after them, but by the time
she turned the corner they were quite out of
sight; and as she stopped and looked about her
she discovered that she was once more in the
Ferryman's street, and, to her great delight,
quite as large as she ever had been.

(To be concluded.)



IF I had a trunk like a big elephant,
'T would be lovely; for then I 'd be able
To reach all the sugar and things that I can't
Reach now, when I eat at the table!



(A Chinese Legend.)

THE slant-eyed maidens, when they spied
The cue of Ah-Top, gaily cried,
"It is some mandarin! "
The street-boys followed in a crowd;
No wonder that Ah-Top was proud
And wore a conscious grin!

But one day Ah-Top's heart grew sad.
" My fate," he said, "is quite too bad!
My cue will hang behind me.
While others may its beauty know,
To me there 's naught its grace to show,
And nothing to remind me."

VOL. XIX.-29.



At length he hit upon a plan,
Exclaiming, "I 'm a clever man!
I know what I will do:
I '11 simply wheel myself around,
And then the pigtail will be found
Where I can see it, too."

He spun himself upon his toes,
He almost fell upon his nose,
He grew red in the face.
But when Ah-Top could whirl no more,
He found the pigtail as before,
Resolved to keep its place.

SAha! he cried, I turned too slow.
Next time, you see, I '11 faster go.
Besides, I stopped too soon.
Now for a good one! Ah, but stay-
I '11 turn myself the other way!"
'- He looked like a balloon!

So fast he whirled, his cue flew out
And carried Ah-Top round about.
An awful moment came--
The helpless spinner could not
stop !
The poor man had become a
This gave the toy its name.







"SEE, mother, dear, what a good report I
have brought from school," cried Rudi,* as he
burst into the room where his mother sat at her
spinning-wheel. I have tried to do my best
all the week."
I am very glad, my boy," said his mother,
as she gave him a hearty' kiss; "and, as a
reward, you may go up to the pasture to see
your grandfather this afternoon, and you can
bring me back a crock of butter."
Rudi was delighted; a visit to his grand-
father was one of his greatest pleasures, for,
aside from the cordial reception which he
always received, he enjoyed the climb. Then,
too, he was greatly interested in the herd of
cattle which was sent to the pasture early in
the spring, not to return till the autumn.
For Rudi was a merry Swiss boy," born and
bred in a little village high up in the moun-
tains, which, though not built on quite as steep
a slope as that where, it is said, even the chick-
ens need to wear spikes on their feet to keep
them from slipping,f could yet be reached from
the valley, a thousand feet below, only by steep
and narrow paths. Those leading to the pas-
tures above were still more difficult-that is,
they would have been so to any one unaccus-
tomed to climbing them; but to the mountain-
eers it made no difference how rough the track,
how steep the ascent or descent, for all, men or
women, young or old, were as nimble and sure-
footed as their own goats, and trod these moun-
tain-paths, even with heavy loads on their backs
or heads, with as much ease as if they had been
good and level roads.
So Rudi hailed with joy every occasion which
offered a climb up to the Alm (as these moun-
tain-pastures are called) where his grandfather,
with two or three younger herdsmen, or Senners,

had charge of the herd and made the cheese,
which was sent to the cities, or even out of the
country, to be sold. Like all the Swiss, Rudi
loved his mountains passionately, and often his
little heart swelled within him when he looked
around upon the craggy rocks and snowy peaks
which towered above the village. The higher
he climbed the lighter and happier he felt; and
he was looking forward impatiently to the time
when he should be old enough to accompany
his father on an expedition to a neighboring
glacier, or, better still, join him in a chamois-
hunt, which would take them to the region of
eternal snow.
But to do this he would have to wait some
time, for as yet he was but a little fellow, hardly
nine years old; a bright, handsome boy, with
fair curly hair, honest blue eyes, rosy cheeks,
and sturdy, well-knit limbs. His costume was
that worn since time immemorial by the boys of
his canton -- knee-breeches and jacket of brown,
with a red vest, gray ribbed stockings, heavy
mountain shoes, and a peaked, gray felt hat,
trimmed with green ribbon and a cock's feather.
He was a good boy, too; and, being an only
child, was idolized by his parents, who, however,
were wise enough not to spoil him. His father,
Ulric Werner, was the bailiff and chief man of
the village, and both the honest bailiff and his
wife, Lisbeth, were generally beloved and re-
After a hasty dinner, Rudi started forth, his
alpine staff in his hand, and carrying some
dainties for his grandfather in a bag slung over
his shoulder.
Be sure," said his mother, as he bade her
good-by, to be back before dark; and promise
me one thing that you will not venture upon
the glacier; for after the warm rains we have had

Diminutive of" Rudolph." t The village of Emd, in the valley of the Visp, on the road to Zermatt.
I One of the departments into which Switzerland is divided, each one of which, in former times, had its dis-
tinct costume, though of late years this has no longer been the case.


this week, no one can know what changes there
may be, even at the edge."
"Never fear, mother," replied Rudi; I
should not think of going on the glacier all by
"I know I can trust you, my son, and so I
shall feel easy. Perhaps you can persuade your
grandfather to come back with you, and stay
with us over Sunday. Do your best; it seems
a long time since we have seen the dear old
That's a capital idea !" cried Rudi. I'll be
sure to bring him. But now good-by; I must
hurry, or my time will be too short. I'll bring
you the prettiest flowers I can find. Good-by,"
and away he ran at full speed.
The glacier in question was about half a mile
from the village; and from the path leading to
it that to the Aim branched off, and ascended
along its high bank for some distance. There
was a track across the glacier, and another lead-
ing up it, both marked, as far as possible, by
stakes; but they were traveled by experienced
mountaineers alone, and even by these only with
the greatest caution. The changes in the sur-
face of these huge bodies of ice are so frequent
and so great that in place of a smooth track
which you have trodden one day, you may find
on the next a huge fissure or crevasse," or a
tall hillock or peak, and be obliged to go far
out of your way to get around the unexpected
The glacier had a wonderful fascination for
Rudi, who was a very thoughtful child. He
would often sit on the bank above it, gazing
down upon its frozen waves and glittering
"needles," or peaks, and think of all that his
father had told him about these wonderful ice
rivers," as they might be called. How they
came down from the snow always lying on the
mountains above, and were constantly bearing
away a portion of it as they melted and changed,
and, in the course of years, crept slowly and si-
lently downward. He knew that they carried
with them rocks, logs, trees, or any object that
lay upon their surface or obstructed their course,
and that the moraines," or walls, on either side
of them or in their middle were formed by their

casting out the rocks after bearing them along
for a while. And, not long before, there had
been found on the edge of the glacier near the
village a knapsack which had been lost ten years
before by a guide who was taking a party up
into the mountains. Having slipped partially
into a crevasse, he was rescued by his compan-
ions; but his knapsack, the strap of which broke,
had fallen to such a depth that it could not be
reached unless some one went down for it. And
this happened 4300 feet above the place where
the knapsack afterward was found, quite well
preserved. *
Rudi knew, too, that under the surface of
the glacier there is a constant flowing and gur-
gling of water, and that countless tiny rivulets
unite in its heart to a stream which, growing
larger and larger, finally issues from the lower
end, often through a perfect arch of beautiful
blue ice, in a wild, rushing, milky torrent, thus
forming the source of some river, such as the
Rhone, or the Reuss.
There was to Rudi something very mysterious
about all this, and the short expeditions along
the edge of the glacier, which he sometimes
made with his father, only increased his interest,
by giving him a nearer view of the deep blue
crevasses or the sharp needles like huge inverted
icicles which towered above him. But they also
showed him how much danger there was of slip-
ping into one of the crevasses, or of getting lost
among the hillocks which rose up on every side,
especially in one of the sudden fogs which would
sometimes come up and hide the whole glacier
from sight. He was therefore quite content to
wait until he was older and stronger before ven-
turing upon a lengthy glacier trip.
The long summer afternoon was nearly gone
when Rudi's father returned from a hunting
expedition on which he had started early in
the morning. After greeting his wife, his first
question was, as usual, Where is the boy? "
"I let him go to the Alm after dinner, as he
brought home an excellent report from school,"
replied Lisbeth. He was very happy about it."
Looking up, she saw a troubled expression
in her husband's face. "Why, what is the mat-
ter ? she asked.

SA similar incident, with names and dates given, is mentioned in H. A. Berlepsch's work The Alps; or, Sketches
of Life and Nature in the Mountains," translated by the Rev. Leslie Stephen.



"Oh, nothing serious," answered Ulric; I
dare say I am over-anxious. But I heard last
night that a party of tourists was coming up
from below, to-day, to go over the pass, and the
men have been clearing the track across the
glacier. I hope Rudi's curiosity will not have
led him to go near them- "
"Oh, Ulric! cried his wife, excitedly, "why
did I let him go just to-day! He promised me,
indeed, that he would not set foot on the gla-
cier; but he may have thought there would be
no danger when the men were working there.
Oh, why did you not tell.me of this ? "
"I forgot it last night, and this morning
you were still asleep when I left. But calm
yourself, dear wife; there is really no cause for
fear. And here comes Heinrich, who was at
work with the rest. He certainly does not
look as if he were the bearer of evil tidings. I
dare say he can tell us all we wish to know.
Did you see anything of our boy while you
were working on the glacier ?" he asked a
young villager, who just then entered the room.
"No; nothing," was the. reply. "Yet he
might have been on it at this end while I was
at work at the other; that could easily happen.
But, master, they sent me up here to see if you
had got home, and to ask you to come down
there. The party crossed the glacier about
two hours ago, and Hans, the guide, told us that
another party of tourists was coming up to-mor-
row. So we want your advice about keeping
the track open."
I will go with you," said the bailiff. "Did
you find it hard work to clear the track ? "
Yes, in some parts," answered Heinrich;
" and in one place, not far from the edge on
this side, we found an immense crevasse, which
must have opened within a day or two; for it
was not there when I crossed the glacier on
Wednesday. And what do you think ?" he
added, laughing, Niclas Spyri's wallet fell into
it, and on our way back he declared he must
have it again, and had himself let down into the
crevasse with ropes, and he had n't yet corr
up again when I left."
"What foolhardiness! exclaimed Ulric, "so
to risk his life only for a wallet! "
Oh, well, sir, there was a keepsake in it that
his sweetheart had. given him; and, most of all,


I think he was curious to see the inside of a
"Well, I hope he will come up again safe
and sound. I will go with you, and then we
will hear what he has to say."
As they reached the cottage door they saw
the curd, or village priest, approaching the house,
and by his side two men solemnly bearing a
litter made of branches, covered with a cloth.
A troop of villagers followed. The men were
grave and sad, and the women and children
were weeping.
Ulric staggered back. Rudi ?" he cried.
"Yes, my son," said the cur6, compassionately;
"God has laid his hand heavily upon you."
"What has happened ? gasped the poor
"In the crevasse," was the reply, "Niclas
discovered him and brought him out." The
cur6 motioned to the bearers to carry their
burden into the house. At this moment Lis-
beth, who had gone to the back of the cottage
and had neither seen nor heard what had oc-
curred in front, reentered the room. With a
shriek, she tore the covering from the litter as
the men set it down, and threw herself upon the
little form that lay there before her. Ulric stood
as if stunned, gazing on the sweet childish face
now still in death and bearing no trace of pain.
The cur6, himself deeply moved, spoke gentle
words of consolation to the poor parents. Many
of the crowd were sobbing and weeping, for
little Rudi had been a general favorite.
One of the bearers was Niclas, the young man
who had been lowered into the crevasse.
"I found him," he said in a broken voice,
"at the bottom of the crevasse, lying face
downward in some water which had gathered
there. He cannot have suffered; we could find
no hurt on his body; he was probably stunned
by the fall and then suffocated by the water, so
that he died without a struggle."
He must have fallen in while we were at our
dinners," said the other bearer, an older man,
who lived at the end of the village nearest the
glacier. "I saw him running past my house a
short time before I went back to work."

The sun had set; the twilight was deepening,
and one by one the neighbors sadly stole away


to return to their own homes, leaving only a few
intimate friends with the heartbroken parents.
The cur6, too, remained to administer comfort
by his presence rather than by words. Nothing
was heard but the sobs of the women and the
deep sighs of Ulric.

"1 V A- .

Suddenly a murmur arose outside at a distance.
It drew nearer and nearer, and sounded so
utterly out of place near that house of mourning
that one of the men left the room to see what
could be the cause of such a disturbance. His
astonished eyes beheld a little fellow, with a
huge bunch of flowers in his hand, running
swiftly toward the house. The next moment
the boy dashed past him, with a cry of Here
I am, Mother dear; I am not dead! See what
lovely flowers I have brought you!"t and he threw
himself into Lisbeth's arms. They were closely
surrounded by a crowd of villagers, shouting,
laughing, crying, and talking excitedly.
laughing, crying, and talking excitedly.

Words cannot paint the scene that ensued.
All was confusion. Ulric and Lisbeth at first
could hardly comprehend what had happened,
and for a moment looked in dumb amazement
alternately at the living and at the dead.
When quiet was at last restored, and the
happy parents were able to realize fully the
joy into which their mourning had been turned,
Niclas asked:
But who can this poor little boy be, whom
I found in the crevasse ? He is not one of the
village children, nor does he belong in the
neighborhood, for I know all the boys in these
mountains as if they were my own."
His likeness to Rudi is indeed striking,"
said the cur6, bending over the little body and
examining it more closely in the dim light.
Suddenly he started. "My friends," he ex-
claimed in excited tones, "this is no child that
has died recently; it is a frozen little body
which has been embedded in the glacier, for
how long no one can tell. There can be no
doubt of this; and it has been brought to light
in a wonderful way. But how can we account
for this strange resemblance, which deceived
even a mother's eye?"
Oh, Father," cried Lisbeth, "that was only
because I was quite beside myself with grief.
Now I can see a great difference; though, in-
deed, the likeness to my son Rudi-not only
in features, but also in size and figure-is most
All were still discussing this new source of
wonder and speculation, when Rudi, who had
been examining his double with deep interest,
looked up, and cried joyfully:
"Oh, here is grandfather! He came down
the mountain with me, but when we heard up at
the glacier what had happened, I rushed ahead,
so as to get to you, Mother, as soon as I could;
and I left grandfather to follow me."
A hale and hearty old man, alpine staff in
hand, now entered the room, accompanied by
the cur6, who had gone to meet him with a few
'-ords of explanation. He seemed much agi-
ted, and, after greeting his daughter and her
husband, he turned to the litter, saying:
"Let me see this poor dead boy; I have a
suspicion as to who he may be. Yes, I am
right," he exclaimed, as he fell on his knees



beside the little form, and tears gushed from his
eyes; "it is as I thought- this is my brother
Seppi,* who, as some of you may know, disap-
peared suddenly one day, more than sixty years
ago. No trace of him could be found. Who
would have thought that I should ever see him
again in this world! "
Here was fresh cause for amazement. It was
touching to see the old man gazing upon the
little brother who had been dead so long. After
a while he grew calmer, and, rising from his
knees, said:
When all search for Seppi proved fruitless,
my parents could no longer doubt that he
had met with some accident among the
mountains. Young as he was,-just
Rudi's age,-he was very fond of
rambling and climbing
aboutby himself, and even
going upon the glacier,
although he had been
strictly forbidden to do
so. No one knew in what
direction he had gone
that day; and, even if
there had been reason to
suppose that he had been
lost upon the glacier, it
would have been useless
to look for him there ex-
cept in the nearest neigh-
borhood. I think now
that he must either have -
followed some chamois- .-
hunter's tracks leading up-
ward or have gone upon
the ice much higher up;
perhaps, poor boy, he
wanted to see the eternal "A LITTLE FELLOW, WITH A
snow at the head of the SWIFTLY TOWARD THE
glacier. Rudi has often reminded me of him.
Seppi was somewhat older than I was, and I
missed him sadly for along time. Now, when I am
old and gray, I see him here as a beautiful child." t
Poor little boy," said Lisbeth, "his own
mother's tears did not fall upon him, but she
surely mourned for him as I would have done
for my Rudi. Let us thank God with all our
hearts that the sorrow which fell upon her has
been spared me. And may Ulric and I, dear
Diminutive of "Joseph."

father," she added, turning to the old man,
"bring up our boy to be as good a man as
your brother would surely have been, had he
grown up like you."
The next day little Seppi, covered with the
flowers which Rudi had brought from the Aim,



__ A,,

was laid in his last resting-place
HUGE BUNCH OF in the village churchyard. On
HOUSE." searching the village records, the
cur6 found an official notice, of about sixty
years before, giving an account of the disap-
pearance of little Seppi, and a personal descrip-
tion of him which corresponded exactly with
the little body found in the crevasse.
To Rudi the sea of ice now became more
mysterious than ever, for having yielded up,
after all those years, his young granduncle,
the little boy who so very long before had
ventured upon the forbidden glacier.
t See Letter-box, page 476.













[Begw in ts e January number.
THERE is SO much to tell about our father
that I hardly know where to begin. First, you
must know something of his appearance. He
was tall and very erect, with the carriage and
walk of a soldier. His hair was black, with sil-
ver threads in it; his eyes of the deepest and
brightest blue I ever saw. They were eyes full
of light: to us it was the soft, beaming light of
love and tenderness, but sometimes to others it
was the flash of a sword. He was very hand-
some; in his youth he had been thought one
of the handsomest men of his day. It was a
gallant time, this youth of our father. When
hardly more than a lad, he went out to help
the brave Greeks who were fighting to free their
country from the cruel yoke of the Turks. At
an age when most young men were thinking how
they could earn most money, and how they could
best advance themselves in the world, our father
thought only how he could do most good, be
of most help to others. So he went out to
Greece, and fought in many a battle beside the
brave mountaineers. Dressed like them in the
"snowy chemise and the shaggy capote," he
shared their toils and their hardships; slept,
rolled in his cloak, under the open stars, or sat
over the camp-fire, roasting wasps strung on a
stick like dried cherries. The old Greek chief-
tains called him "the beautiful youth," and
loved him. Once he saved the life of a
wounded Greek, at the risk of his own, as you
shall read by and by in Whittier's beautiful
words; and the rescued man followed him af-
terward like a dog, not wishing to lose sight of
him for an hour, and would even sleep at his
feet at night.
Once he and his comrades lay hidden for

hours in the hollow of an ancient wall (built
thousands of years ago, perhaps in Homer's
day), while the Turks, simitar in hand, scoured
the fields in search of them. Many years
after, he showed this hollow to Julia and Laura,
who went with him on his fourth journey
to Grdece, and told them the story. When
our father saw the terrible sufferings of the
Greek women and children, who were starving
while their husbands and fathers were fighting
for life and freedom, he thought that he could
help best by helping them; so, though I know
he loved the fighting, for he was a born soldier,
he came back to this country, and told all that
he had seen, and asked for money and clothes
and food for the perishing wives and mothers
and children.
He told the story well, and put his whole
heart into it; and people listen to a story so
told. Many hearts beat in answer to his, and
in a short time he sailed for Greece again, with
a good ship full of rice and flour, and cloth to
make into garments, and money to buy what-
ever else might be needed.
When he landed in Greece, the women came
flocking about him by thousands, crying for
bread, and praying God to bless him. He felt
blessed enough when he saw the children eat-
ing bread, and saw the naked backs covered,
and the sad, hungry faces smiling again. So he
went about doing good, and helping whenever
he saw need. Perhaps many a poor woman
may have thought that the beautiful youth was
almost like an angel sent by God to relieve her;
and she may not have been far wrong.
When the war was over, and Greece was a
free country, our father came home, and looked
about him again to see what he could do to
help others. He talked with a friend of his,
Dr. Fisher, and they decided that they would
give their time to helping the blind, who needed
help greatly. There were no schools for them


in those days, and if a child was blind, it must
sit with folded hands and learn nothing.
Our father found several blind children, and
took them to his home and taught them. By
and by some kind friends gave money, and one,
Colonel Perkins, gave a fine house to be a school
for these children and others; and that was the
beginning of the Perkins Institution for the
Blind, now a great school where many, many
blind boys and girls learn to read and study,
and to play on various instruments, and to help
themselves and others in the world.
Our father always said, Help people to
help themselves; don't accustom them to being
helped by others." But I hope you will all
read, some day, a life of our father, and learn
about all the things he did, for it needs a whole
volume to tell them.
You have heard about Laura Bridgman,*
whom he found a little child, deaf, dumb, and
blind, knowing no more than an animal, and
how he taught her to read and write, to talk
with her fingers, and to become an earnest,
thoughtful, industrious woman.
But it is especially as our father that I want
to describe this great and good man. I sup-
pose there never was a tenderer or kinder father.
He liked to make companions of his children,
and was never weary of having us tagging "
at his heels. We followed him about the garden
like so many little dogs, watching the pruning
or grafting which were his special tasks. We
followed him up into the wonderful pear-room,
where were many chests of drawers, every drawer
full of pears lying on cotton-wool. Our father
watched their ripening with careful heed, and told
us many things about their growth and habits.
We seldom left the pear-room empty-handed.
Then there was his own room, where we
could examine the wonderful drawers of his
great bureau, and play with the "picknickles "
and "bucknickles." I believe our father invented
these words. They were-well, all kinds of
pleasant little things: amber mouthpieces, and
buckles, and bits of enamel, and a wonderful
Turkish pipe, and seals, and wax, and some
large pins two inches long which were great
treasures. On his writing-table were many
clean pens in boxes, which you could lay out

in patterns; and a sand-box-very delightful!
We were never tired of pouring the fine black
sand into our hands, where it felt so cool and
smooth, and then back again into the box with
its holes arranged star-fashion. And to see
him shake sand over his paper when he wrote
a letter, and then pour it back in a smooth
stream, while the written lines sparkled and
seemed to stand up from the page Ah, blot-
ting-paper is no doubt very convenient, but I
should like to have a sand-box, nevertheless !
I cannot remember that our father was ever
out of patience when we pulled his things
about. He had many delightful stories: one
of "Jacky Nory," which had no end, and went
on and on, through many a walk and garden
prowl. Often, too, he would tell us of his own
pranks when he was a little boy: How they
used to tease an old Portuguese sailor with a
wooden leg, and how the old man would get
very angry, and cry out, Calabash me rompe
you! meaning, I '11 break your head!"
How, when he was a student in college, and
ought to have known better, he led the presi-
dent's old horse up-stairs and left him in an
upper room of one of the college buildings,
where he astonished the passers-by by putting
his head out of the windows and neighing.
And then our father would shake his head and
say he was a very naughty boy, and Harry
must never do such things. (But Harry did!)
He loved to play and romp with us. Some-
times he would put on his great fur coat, and
come into the dining-room at dancing-time, on
all-fours, growling horribly, and pursue us into
corners, we shrieking with delighted terror.
Or he would sing for us, sending us into fits
of laughter, for he had absolutely no ear for
music. There was one tune which he was
quite sure he sang correctly, but no one could
recognize it. At last he'd say, "O--Su-san-
na!" and then we 'd all know what the tune was.
"Hail to the Chief!" was his favorite song,
and he sang it with great spirit and fervor,
though the air was strictly original, and very
peculiar. When he was tired of romping or
carrying us on his shoulder, he would say,
" No; no more! I have a bone in my leg!"
which excuse was accepted by us little ones

* An account of Laura Bridgman was published in ST. NICHOLAS for August, 1889.



in perfect good faith, as we thought it some
mysterious but painful malady.
If our father had no ear for music, he had a
fine one for meter, and read poetry aloud very
beautifully. His voice was melodious and ring-
ing, and we were thrilled with his own enthusi-
asm as he read to us from Scott or Byron, his
favorite poets. I never can read "The As-
syrian came down," without hearing the ring
of his voice and seeing the flash of his blue

Or if war or fighting were mentioned, he would
often cry:
"Ay me what perils do environ
The man that meddles with cold iron "

I must not leave the subject of reading without
speaking of his reading of the Bible, which was
most impressive. No one who ever heard him
read morning prayers at the Institution (which
he always did until his health failed in later

-.. '_..$*-- .-.-, .

,' .' .I' .


eyes as he read, or rather recited, the splendid
lines. He had a great liking for Pope, too (as
I wish more people had nowadays), and for
Butler's Hudibras," which he was constantly
quoting. He commonly, when riding, wore
but one spur, giving Hudibras's reason, that if
one side of the horse went, the other must per-
force go with it; and how often, on some early
morning walk or ride, have I heard him say:
"And, like a lobster boiled, the morn
From black to red began to turn."

years) can have forgotten the grave, melodious
*voice, the reverent tone, the majestic head bent
above the sacred book. Nor was it less im-
pressive when on Sunday afternoons he read to
us, his children. He would make us read, too,
allowing us to choose our favorite psalms or
other passages.
He was an early riser, and often shared our
morning walks. Each child, as soon as old
enough, was taught to ride, and the rides be-
fore breakfast with him are things never to be





forgotten. He took one child at a time, so that
all in turn might have the pleasure. It seems
hardly longer ago than yesterday-the coming
down-stairs in the cool, dewy morning; nib-
bling a cracker for fear of hunger; springing
into the saddle, the little black mare shaking
her head, impatient to be off; the canter
through the quiet streets, where only an early
milkman or baker was to be seen, though on
our return we should find them full of boys
who pointed the finger and shouted:

"Lady on a hossback,
Row, row, row! "

then out into the pleasant country, galloping
over the smooth road, or pacing quietly under
shady trees. Our father was a superb rider;
indeed, he never seemed so absolutely at home
as in the saddle. He was very particular about
our holding whip and reins in the right way.
Speaking of his riding reminds me of a story
our mother used to tell us. When Julia was
a baby, they were traveling in Italy, driving
in a "vettura," an old-fashioned kind of car-
riage. One day they stopped at the door
of an inn, and our father went in to make
some inquiries. While he was gone, the ras-
cally driver thought it would be a good oppor-
tunity for him to slip off and in at the side door
to get a draught of wine; and, the driver gone,
the horses saw that here was their opportunity,
so they took it, and ran away with our mother,
the baby, and nurse in the carriage.
Our father, hearing the sound of wheels, came
out, caught sight of the driver's guilty face peer-
ing round the corner in affright, and at once saw
what had happened. He ran at full speed
along the road in the direction in which the
horses were headed. Rounding a corner of
the mountain which,the road skirted, he saw
at a little distance a country wagon coming
slowly toward him, drawn by a stout horse,
the wagoner half asleep on the seat. Instantly
our father's resolve was taken. He ran up,
stopped the horse, unhitched him in the twin-
kling of an eye, leaped upon his back, and was
off like a flash, before the astonished driver,
who was not used to two-legged whirlwinds,
could utter a word.
Probably the horse was equally astonished;

but he felt a master on his back, and, urged
by hand and voice, he sprang to his topmost
speed, galloped bravely on, and soon over-
took the lumbering carriage-horses, which were
easily stopped. No one was hurt, though
our mother and the nurse had of course been
sadly frightened. The horses were turned, and
soon they came in sight of the unhappy coun-
tryman, still sitting on his wagon, petrified with
astonishment. He received a liberal reward,
and probably regretted that there were no more
mad Americans to steal a ride," and pay for it.
This presence of mind, this power of acting
on the instant, was one of our father's great
qualities. It was this that made him, when
the wounded Greek sank down before him,
"-fling him from his saddle
And place the stranger there."

It was this, when arrested and imprisoned by the
Prussian government on suspicion of befriend-
ing unhappy Poland, that taught him what to
do with the important papers he carried. In
the minute during which he was left alone, be-
fore the official came to search him, he thrust
the documents up into the hollow head of a
bust of the King of Prussia which stood on a
shelf; then tore some unimportant papers into
the smallest possible fragments and threw them
into a basin of water which stood close at hand.
Next day the fragments carefully pasted to-
gether were shown to him, hours having been
spent in the painful and laborious task; but
nobody thought of looking for more papers in
the head of King Friedrich Wilhelm.
Our father, though nothing could be proved
against him, might have languished long in that
Prussian prison, had it not been for the exer-
tions of a fellow-countryman. This gentleman
had met him in the street the day before, had
asked his address, and promised to call on him.
Inquiring for him next day, at the hotel,,he was
told that no such person was or had been there.
Instantly suspecting foul play, this good friend
went to the American minister, and told his
story. The minister took up the matter warmly,
and called upon the Prussian officials to give
up his countryman. This, after repeated denials
of any knowledge of the affair, they at length
reluctantly consented to do. Our father was



taken out of prison at night, placed in a car-
riage, and driven across the border into France,
where he was dismissed with a warning never
to set foot in Prussia again.
One day, I remember, we were sitting at the
dinner-table, when a messenger came flying, all
wild with haste and fear," to say that a fire had
broken out at the Institution. Now in those days
there lay between Green Peace and the Insti-
tution a remnant of the famous Washington
Heights, where Washington and his staff had
once made their camp, if I remember right.


Much of the high ground had already been dug
away, but there still remained a great hill, slop-
ing back and up from the garden wall, and ter-
minating on the side toward the Institution in
an abrupt precipice, some sixty feet high. The
bearer of the bad news had been forced to come
round by way of several streets, thus losing pre-
cious minutes; but the Doctor did not know
what it was to lose a minute. Before any one
could speak or ask what he would do, he was out
of the house, ran through the garden, climbed
the slope at the back, rushed like a flame across
the green hilltop, and slid down the almost per-

pendicular face of the precipice! Bruised and
panting, he reached the Institution and saw at
a glance that the fire was in the upper story.
Take time to go round to the door and up the
stairs? Not he! He "swarmed" up the gutter-
spout, and, in less time than it takes to tell it,
was on the roof, and cutting away at the burn-
ing timbers with an ax, which he had got hold
of, no one knows how. That fire was put
out, as were several others at which our father
Fire is swift, but it could not get ahead
of the Doctor.
These are a few of the stories; but, as I said,
it needs a volume to tell all about our father's
life. I cannot tell in this short space how he
worked with the friends of liberty to free the
slave; how he raised the poor and needy, and
"helped them to help themselves"; how he
was a light to the blind, and, first of all men
(in this country, at least), brought light also
into the darkened mind of the unhappy idiot.
Many a great man, absorbed in such high
works as these, would have found scant lei-
sure for family life and communion; but no
finger-ache of his smallest child ever escaped
his loving care, no childish thought or wish
ever failed to win his sympathy. We, who
had this high privilege of being his children,
love to think of him as the brave soldier, the
wise physician, the great philanthropist; but
dearest of all is the thought of him as our
loving and tender father.
And now, to end this chapter, you shall
hear what Mr. Whittier, the noble and hon-
ored poet, thought of this friend of his.*

0 FOR a knight like Bayard,
Without reproach or fear;
My light glove on his casque of steel,
My love-knot on his spear!

0 for the white plume floating
Sad Zutphen's field above,-
The lion heart in battle,
The woman's heart in love!

"0 that man once more were manly,
Woman's pride and not her scorn:
That once more the pale young mother
Dared to boast 'a man is born'!

* See Letter-box, page 476.




" Bt now life's slumberous current
No sun-bowed cascade wakes;
No tall, heroic manhood
The level dullness breaks.

0 for a knight like Bayard,
Without reproach or fear!
My light glove on his casque of steel,
My love-knot on his spear!"

Then I said, my own heart throbbing
To the time her proud pulse beat,
Life hath its regal natures yet,-
True, tender, brave, and sweet!

Smile not, fair unbeliever!
One man at least I know
Who might wear the crest of Bayard,
Or Sidney's plume of snow.

"Once, when over purple mountains
Died away the Grecian sun,
And the far Cyllenian ranges
Paled and darkened, one by one,-

"Fell the Turk, a bolt of thunder
Cleaving all the quiet sky,
And against his sharp steel lightning
Stood the Suliote but to die.

"Woe for the weak and halting!
The crescent blazed behind
A curving line of sabers,
Like fire before the wind!

Last to fly and first to rally,
Rode lie of whom I speak,
When, groaning in his bridle-path,
Sank down a wounded Greek,

"With the rich Albanian costume
Wet with many a ghastly stain,
Gazing on earth and sky as one
Who might not gaze again!

He looked forward to the mountains,
Back on foes that never spare,
Then flung him from his saddle,
And placed the stranger there.

"'Allah hu Through flashing sabers,
Through a stormy hail of lead,
The good Thessalian charger
Up the slopes of olives sped.

Hot spurred the turbaned riders;
He almost felt their breath,

Where a mountain stream rolled darkly down
Between the hills and death.

" One brave and manful struggle,
He gained the solid land,
And the cover of the mountains,
And the carbines of his band."

It was very brave and noble,"
Said the moist-eyed listener then,
"But one brave deed makes no hero;
Tell me what he since hath been? "

"Still a brave and generous manhood,
Still an honor without stain,
In the prison of the Kaiser,
By the barricades of Seine.

But dream not helm and harness
The sign of valor true;
Peace hath higher tests of manhood
Than battle ever knew.

"Wouldst know him now? Behold him,
The Cadmus of the blind,
Giving the dumb lip language,
The idiot clay a mind.

Walking his round of duty
Serenely day by day,
With the strong man's hand of labor
And childhood's heart of play.

"True as the knights of story,
Sir Lancelot and his peers,
Brave in his calm endurance
As they in tilt of spears.

" As waves in stillest waters,
As stars in noonday skies,
All that wakes to noble action
In his noon of calmness lies.

"Wherever outraged Nature
Asks word or action brave,
Wherever struggles labor,
Wherever groans a slave,-

"Wherever rise the peoples,
Wherever sinks a throne,
The throbbing heart of Freedom finds
An answer in his own.

" Knight of a better era,
Without reproach or fear!
Said I not well that Bayards
And Sidneys still are here ? "

(To be continued.)




THE movement of a flying kite downward
in circles may be caused by a sudden increase
of the wind's force. A square iron plate (some-
thing like a kite, but having springs behind it)
with which Professor C. F. Marvin carried out
experiments on the summit of Mount Washing-
ton showed that the wind may vary in strength
more than one third within a few minutes. It
is thus clear that even after long experience a
boy may be unable to prevent his kite from
diving into a tree-top, because the wind may
so suddenly increase.
Constant watchfulness and quick action are
necessary while flying a kite after sunset, be-
cause the air a few hundred feet above the
earth generally has at night a swifter motion
than in the daytime. The darkness also is a
source of peril, for, in case of a sudden down-
ward movement, the position of the kite as re-
lated to the tree-tops and roofs cannot be made
out unless Japanese or other lanterns are tied to
the kite's tail, or to the string holding the kite.
The shape of a kite controls its ascending
power. One having six sides (resembling a star
kite with the points filled in) flies much higher
than any other. It is trustworthy, moves stead-
ily, and at times carries up a very steep string.
I call it the hexagon kite." While in the air
it resembles a six-sided open umbrella, and at
a great distance it looks like a balloon with
no basket, especially when the tail is thin and
scarcely visible. In a brisk wind it pulls hard,
and so can carry upward a long string, and
reach great heights.
The actual height of kites above the earth is
difficult to measure, because an object floating
alone in the air looks farther away than it
really is. When a kite is flying at a height of
18oo feet, it has reached about as high a point
as is possible without the assistance of other kites.
Such a kite will seem to have reached an altitude
of half a mile; yet a careful measurement of the

string and its steepness will show that the kite is
not over one third of a mile above the ground.
Ordinarily the kite will go no higher even if
more string is let out, because the wind presses
against the great length of string with increas-
ing force as the kite recedes and rises.
If more than one kite be used, remarkable
heights are attainable. The kites can be fas-
tened along a single string, but this method
requires quickness in attaching the right amount
of tail to each kite; otherwise so much time may
be wasted in preparing the successive kites for
flight that the daylight will wane before the
experiment can be concluded. However, when
one kite is up and the amount of tail for it is
determined, it becomes possible, after long ex-
perience, to at once estimate the amount of tail
necessary for each additional kite, according to
its size.
We will now suppose that a blue-paper kite
has been let out until it has reached a height
of about 1800 feet. The string will then slacken,
owing to its great weight. If a red kite with
its own string be subsequently let out to a height
of about 300 feet, from another part of the
open space from which the kites are to be
flown, then the string holding the red kite can
be carried to the long, gradually slanting string
of the blue kite, which, as we have seen, is very
high and very far off. The string holding the
red kite is fastened to the string holding the
distant blue one, in such a manner that the two
kite-strings then branch upward from the main
string by which both are held. The inner kite
-the one with about 300 feet of string will
fly with so steep a string that it will not inter-
fere with the movement of the blue kite first
sent up.
In this way each kite is fastened to the string
of the kite sent up ahead of it, thus lifting the
first kite-the blue one-several hundred feet
higher as each kite is added. The kites should


be larger as the earth is approached, because
the increasing pull of all the kites calls for
greater lifting force nearer the ground.
On May 9, 1891, at Bergen Point, New
Jersey, I thus sent up five kites, from two to
four feet in diameter, all held by one string at
the surface of the earth. The altitude of the
highest kite was probably nearly a mile, as
roughly calculated from the slant and length
of the strings. It is therefore clear that the
number of kites to be flown is limited only by
the strength of the string, its length, and the
force and steadiness of the wind. The vari-
ously colored kites fly one above another with a
very pretty effect. They look like colored disks
floating irregularly at a great height, because
each kite is held at a slightly different angle
from every other, making differences of position
in the sky.

I s -, -
.\ \



-. I,, -. L -',.- --- -- -- ------

-, -
...; ...,, .- -4 .E .

'-- .' '' ,..... "
At the same place, two kites were flying from
one string which broke near the ground, the
severed end careering across a field. It was
VOL. XIX. 30. 46

caused by increasing strain due
to an approaching storm. The
kites, which were at a great
height, wavered, turned partly
aside, and started down rapidly.
But they were so very high that
the length and weight of the
twine which they were drag-
ging delayed their descent.
They caught the wind again
just as the broken end of the
twine was drawn up into a line
of telegraph-wires, becom-
ing fastened to them at
a height of about fifty
feet above the ground.
Then the kites came
up and flew per-
fectly, held by

~~F -r

.^ ------- -
7> V

I ~-T7


the telegraph-wire in which the twine yet
remained entangled and out of reach.
A stone to which a light string was fastened
was thrown upward and over the twine leading
up to the kites, but this rescuing string gave
way. The kites then broke loose again, and



away they went toward the shore of the Kill
von Kull. The long string, which soon began
to trail through the water some distance off
the shore, was broken by a passing boat, thus
throwing the lower of the two kites into the
water. It sank and was not recovered. Mean-
time the farther kite had again risen in the air,
the string holding it having caught on the
Staten Island side of the Kill von Kull, which
at this point is nearly half a mile in width.
This distant kite appeared above the opposite
shore as a dim black dot, darting to and fro in
the high wind. It was never brought back,
because it could be regained only by taking a
ferry-boat and a railroad. The sun was setting,
and the coming on of night probably would
have made it impossible to find it.
It is shown in this case that if the kites are
very high in the air, and the string holding
Them breaks near the ground, they may still
fly. At another time the end of the string,
which had been released by mistake, dragged
rapidly along over fences, sidewalks, trees, and
telegraph-wires; yet, after an uncontrolled flight
of about a quarter of a mile, the kites rose again
and flew as well as ever. It was then difficult
to find where the string was held from which
the two kites were flying. After considerable
searching it was found that the string had be-
come fastened in a tree-top, and that none of
it reached the ground. The limbs of the tree
appeared too small to be climbed, and no boy
was permitted to make the attempt. It was
impossible to throw upward a stone tied to a
string, because the spreading branches of other
trees were too near. Not far from the tree to
which the kites were fastened was an open lot.
But there the string slanting up to the kites
was so far above the ground that it could not
easily be seen, and the position of it had to be
guessed at from the position of the kites. It
became necessary to send up another kite after
the two fugitives. This was easily done. The
rescuing kite, when well up, was guided until
it became entangled with the string reaching
to the others, and in that way all were pulled
down to the ground. But it was impossible to
control in the air such a confused mass of kites
and strings. One kite hung head downward,
held high in the air by the string running on

up to the higher kites, and soon the increased
weight of this disabled and hanging kite rapidly
carried down both the others. They came to
the ground in good condition, but it was a long
time before the various strings could be untan-
gled and wound up.



DID you ever fly a kite ? Of course you did,
so I will not weary you with further questions.
We, young and old, in Nutley, a pretty little
New Jersey town, enjoy kite-flying; and you
may be interested in reading how we came to
build a big kite a monster, about the size
of it, how it was constructed, and whether it
was a success.
On the next page is a drawing of this kite
from a photograph which I took some weeks
after it was built.
Note how small my little girl, eight years
old, is in comparison with the height and width
of the kite. The drawing will show how the cords
are attached to the frame, and on the ground
you will see the kind of reel we used to hold our
cord. In fact, it is a double reel, and will hold
twice the quantity of cord we wound upon it.
Having tried the new tailless kites with in-
different success, as the adjustment must be just
so, my children begged me to make them a kite-
" a large one, as tall as a man if possible." The
idea rather caught my fancy, so I said, You
shall have a kite no baby affair, either, but a
real, grown-up kite."
The kite was made of cross-sticks six feet
long, the middle stick four feet long, of five-
eighths-inch clear pine, tapering to five sixteenths
of an inch at the ends; and the frame was
covered with four yards of twenty-six inch
cherry-colored cambric. The tail was fifty feet
long, having a quarter-page of newspaper rolled
and knotted into the cord at every twelve
inches, and a whole page rolled and tied to the
end as a tassel.
We wound half a mile of "No. 24 hard-
wound fish-net cord upon a large multiplying-
reel, and were ready for business.




At the first trial the
kite would not fly.
This was due to lack
of sufficient wind for
so large an affair, as
we afterward dis-
covered. A second
attempt was entirely
In a moderate
breeze the kite rose
from the ground (I
had runwith it about
sixty feet), shook
the long tail loose
from the dry grass,
and mountedrapidly
toward the clouds.
We checked the
quick flight of this
aErial machine by
giving the cord a

%I~ .;

S / ./ kite in
the cor

*. y. -, .- -- ,

L .' ? .r /
^ 3f )^<*. ,/ *** ** T

, with
d over
wing a

S \..'l I .

turn round a piece of broomstick. Becoming
excited, we paid out the cord more rapidly, and
a smell of burning wood and a glance at the
broomstick showed that our "brake" was cut
half-way through!
We were now curious to know how much the
pull really was, as we had all taken turns in
holding the kite, and had made various wild esti-
mates as to how much it pulled in pounds. Hay-

Our third trial was made while a strong, high
wind was blowing. No trouble about going
up quickly, this time! The kite seemed fairly
bewitched and mounted skyward like an im-
mense bird, as if the few pine sticks and
piece of cambric had suddenly become alive.
The broomstick brake smoked, our gloves were
torn, and our fingers burned. We paid out
about one half the cord (a quarter of a mile),
just past a knot in the line. No attempt was
made to measure the tension, but no doubt the
pull was about all the cord could stand.
Flying the kite for the first time, and noting
the great tension on the cord, I concluded
that some method of lessening the strain must
be provided. I decided to put spiral springs,
of about five pounds tension each, on the lower

ing made the
kite fast to a
fence, while
we rested, we
brought out a
large spring-
balance, and
hooked it to
a loop in the
cord. The bal-
ance showed
a strain on
the cord of
over twenty
We found
it hard to
get the kite
in; one child
turned the
crank on the
reel, while I
"walked" the


stay-cords. These allow the lower edge of the
kite to tip up as the wind increases, which pre-
sents less resistance to the air. The springs
relieved the strain, but I have since" concluded
that they should have been weaker.
The children wanted to ride in their cart,
making the kite pull them. So the kite-cord
was tied to the pole of the cart, the children
sprang in (I held the slack cord behind), and
away they went along a soft, muddy road, at a
lively rate. We found that, like coasting, this
sport had its drawbacks. In fact, to draw the
kite to the starting-point each time was hard
work. A straightaway course of a few miles
would be great fun, with a horse to assist in
the return trip.
As there seemed to be much more power than
was necessary to pull a small cart with two
children in it (Margery was eight and Fred ten),
I got into the cart, with my legs hanging out-
side. The kite pulled me over the same soft

road, at a fair speed, the cord, tight as a
fiddle-string, singing an airy accompaniment to
the children's merry shouts and laughter.
Not to make top long a story, I must begin
to reel in. We could not succeed in pulling
down our aerial pet. The cord parted near
the knot, and the kite sailed away toward the
Passaic River, which flows about one mile east
of Nutley. Half an hour later it was discovered
in a field, three quarters of a mile from where it
started, but none the worse for its trip to the
clouds and fall to earth again.
We are now talking of a kite to be twelve
feet high and about eight feet across, but it
seems doubtful whether such a monster could
be controlled without a number of springs and
trap-doors that will open easily to let the stronger
puffs of wind through.
Perhaps Kite Clubs will be a feature of the
near future. Kite-flying is certainly a healthy,
elevating amusement.

- 1


W401-- ,



A SCOTTISH clergyman who died nearly thirty
years ago, Mr. Leishman of Kinross, used to tell
that he had once been seven years without a
birthday. The statement puzzled most who
heard it. They could see that, if he had been
born on the 29th of February, he would have
no birthday except in a leap-year. But leap-
year comes once in four years, and this accounts
for a gap of three years only; their first thought
would therefore naturally be that the old man,
who in fact was fond of a harmless jest, was
somehow jesting about the seven. There was,
however, no joke or trick in his assertion. At
the present time there can be very few, if there
are any, who have this tale to tell of themselves,
for one who can tell it must have been born on
the 29th of February at least ninety-six years
ago. But a similar line of missing dates is now
soon to return; and indeed there are no doubt
some readers of this page who will have only
one birthday to celebrate for nearly twelve years
to come.
The solution of the puzzle is to be found in
the fact, which does not appear to be very
widely known, that the year 18oo was not a
leap-year and 1900 will not be. The February
of the present year had twenty-nine days; but
in all the seven yedrs intervening between 1896
and 1904, as well as in the three between 1892
and 1896, that month will have only twenty-
This explanation, however, like many others,
itself needs to be explained; and the purpose of
this short paper is to give a plain account of the
leap-years and of the reasons for them. And
the reader who casts his eye in advance over
what follows has no cause to be alarmed at the
sprinkling of figures he sees. There are here
only a few of the simplest facts of astronomy
and a few fragments of somewhat interesting
history,, put together by the aid of a little arith-
metic which any young reader may figure out.

It will be convenient to speak of 180o, 1900,
etc., as "century years"; and here there is
another thing that puzzles many people--the
question, When does the century end ? It is well
known that the century in which an event occurs
is not ordinarily that which figures of the year
suggest: thus 1616, the date of Shakspere's
death, is not in the sixteenth century but in the
seventeenth, and this century in which we now
live, in 1892, is the nineteenth. The rash guesser
therefore jumps to the conclusion that the
century ends when the line of eighteens is com-
pleted; that is, at the close of 1899. But this is
not the case. A century is a group of a hundred
years; the first century, beginning with the year
i, must end with the year ioo, the second cen-
tury with 200, and so on-each century taking
its name from the year which completes it. The
nineteenth century, then, ends with the year
19oo, and the twentieth begins with the ist day
of January, 1901.
But, to return to our leap-years, why is it that
there have to be such years-that all our years
are not of the same length ? It arises from the
fact that the year does not consist of an exact
number of days. The length of the day and
that of the year are the measures of the motions
of the earth. The globe we live on moves in
two ways. It turns itself round like a spinning
top, and at the same time it goes steadily for-
ward like a bullet shot from a gun. It turns
itself once completely round in twenty-four of
our hours as shown by the clock: this amount
of time we call a day. Its forward or onward
motion carries it round the sun in a path that is
nearly a circle: the time it takes to go com-
pletely round we call a year. The first motion
gives us day and night following each other in
turn (the word "day here having now a dif-
ferent meaning-namely, not twenty-four hours,
but the time of daylight). The second motion
gives us days (that is, periods of daylight) grow-


ing gradually longer and then gradually shorter,
one end of the earth turning more toward the
sun for half the time and the other end for the
other half; and this brings us summer and win-
ter and the other seasons. Now the length of
the year is found to be nearly 365 times the
length of the day of twenty-four hours; that is,
the year is 365 days long and nearly 6 hours
more. It is these 6 hours that give us our
leap-years, and it is in the "nearly" that we
find the reason for 1900 not being one of their
To understand the whole matter, we have to
go back to about half a century before the birth
of Christ, and have to halt at the fourth and
sixteenth centuries on our return. Down to the
time of that great warrior, and writer about his
wars, Julius Caesar, there had been no little con-
fusion in the modes of reckoning the months
and days of the year--a state of things which
he, with the assistance of an astronomer named
Sosigenes, set himself to remedy.
The scheme which Caesar adopted has been
called from him the Julian Calendar; with a
very few changes, it regulated the reckoning of
time for fully sixteen hundred years from its
introduction, on the ist of January of the year
45 before Christ.
The length of the year was fixed at 3654
days, and the odd quarters were gathered up into
a day at the end of every four years; after three
years of 365 days there was always one of 366.
This is just our leap-year.
Our next stopping-place is in the year 325
after Christ, when a great church council was
held at Nicaea, or Nice, in Asia Minor. The
Council of Nice was largely occupied with the
question of the proper time for observing Eas-
ter, and laid down regulations by which the date
of that festival is still determined. Easter falls
on the Sunday after the full moon which is on
or comes next after the 2 ist of March; only it
is to be noticed that the "full moon" of the
church is not in every case the full moon of our
As time passed on, it was seen that there was
an error in the calendar, which was gradually
increasing. The year had been made too long,
for it was really not quite so much as 365Y4
days; and occurrences depending on the earth's

movement round the sun, such as the solstices
(when the length of the daylight is greatest or
least) and the equinoxes (when the days and
nights are of equal length), were returning at
dates that were becoming earlier and earlier.
The date of the spring equinox was of particular
importance because the celebration of Easter
had been made to depend upon it. This equi-
nox came round with perfect regularity, and as-
tronomers could tell the time of it exactly; but
according to the calendar the date of it was
changing. When Julius Casar arranged the
months in his calendar the equinox was on the
25th of March; but it had fallen back to the
21st of March at the time of the Council of
Nice, and to the i th in the sixteenth century.
The reason of this was not in the equinoxes,
but in the length that had been assigned to the
year. The leap-year day had been added too
often-once too often in about 128 years.
When a clock has for a time been going too
fast or too slow, two things have to be done: it
has to be altered, first, so that it may go at the
proper speed, and, secondly, so that it may show
the correct time; it has to be regulated, and it
has to be set right. With regard to what might
be called the clock of the year, or rather of the
calendar or the almanac, the first of these cor-
rections is by far the more important; but both
were attended to in the sixteenth century. This
supposed clock of the year had been going too
slow, but it was made go faster by the year
which it measured off being made a very little
shorter; and the clock was at the same time set
All this was done by Pope Gregory XIII.,
or under his direction, and the result is the
calendar now in almost universal use, named
from him the Gregorian Calendar.
The shortening of the year, so that the equi-
noxes, etc., might no longer fall back, was
brought about in a very ingenious way. The
number of years having 366 days had to be
reduced somehow, for the dates had been going
back at the rate of about one day in. 128 years.
It was observed that this made a very little more
than three days in 400 years; and then it was
further seen that these three days could be got
by grouping the century years in fours-like the
years in general and making only one in every




four of them a leap-year. In ordinary course
these years were all leap-years; but, by a decree
which Pope Gregory issued in 1582, it was
ordered that after the year 1600 there should be
three of the century years with 365 days and
the fourth with 366. The well-known rule for
finding what years are leap-years applies to the
century years only after their two ciphers are
cut off. 9 It may be stated thus: Divide the
date-number of the year by 4; if there is no re-
mainder it is a leap-year. Should the date-num-
her end with two ciphers, these are to be struck
off before dividing. As the groups of four years
ending with a leap-year always start afresh after
.each century year, the division of the last two
figures by 4 will be sufficient (as 92 instead of
1892); and the rule may be given thus: Divide
by 4 the last two figures of the date-number, but
the first two when the last two are ciphers; if
there is no remainder the year is a leap-year. It
will be seen that, as I8 and 19 are not divisible
by 4 without remainder, 1800 and 1900 are not
leap-years, but, as 20 is so divisible, 2000 is one.
Our leap-years have thus been accounted for,
as well as that interruption of their occurrence
which leaves some persons for seven years with-
out a birthday. The change that was thus in-
troduced does not secure absolute exactness,
but it approaches this so nearly that the clock
of the year will not need to be regulated again
for something like thirty centuries. Astrono-
mers tell us (and their computations are won-
derfully precise) that the length of the year is
about 365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, and 46
seconds. To add an extra day every four years,
which is the uninterrupted leap-year method, is
to make the year 365 days and 6 hours long;
but this is ii minutes and 14 seconds too
much. The correction by omitting three leap-
year days in four centuries, as has just been ex-
plained, reduced this by the four-hundredth
part of three days, that is, by 1o minutes and
48 seconds. The year is thus still left too long
by 26 seconds; but that surplus will barely
amount to a day of 24 hours, or 86,400 seconds,
in 3323 years; so the need for any further
meddling with our leap-years is a very long way
in the future.
The second of Gregory's alterations of the
calendar has still to be described. He did

more than regulate the clock of the calendar;
he also set it forward. This was, except in one
respect, a change of little importance. The ar-
rangement of the months is entirely arbitrary.
There is nothing in nature to fix their order or
to determine when any one should begin. The
Roman year in the earliest times began with
March, so that the months from September
to December were the seventh to the tenth
months, as appears in the names they still bear;
and down to 1752 the legal year in England
began with the 25th of March. (And this, by
the way, explains to us why before that time
dates from January to March were sometimes
written as of two years--as, the 8th of Feb-
ruary, 1728-29, or 1721, in what would now
be called the year 1729.) There is no astro-
nomical reason why the spring equinox should
fall on the 21st of Marqh any more than on the
Iith or on the 25th. But there were ecclesias-
tical reasons. The Council of Nice had made
Easter depend on the 21st of March, and it
was thought advisable to make the equinox re-
turn to that date. This meant the dropping out
of ten days from the calendar. Accordingly,
Pope Gregory, in his decree already mentioned,
ruled that the day coming after the 4th of Octo-
ber in 1582 should be the r5th and not the 5th of
that month- there being in that year no 5th or
I4th of October or any one of the days between.
This New Style" at once took the place of the
"Old Style" in most of the Catholic countries
and states, but was not adopted in England till
1752. By that time there had been two more
century years, of which 1600 had been a leap-
year and 1700 had not, and the difference be-
tween the styles had thus increased from ten
days to eleven. In 1751 the British Parliament
passed a law enacting that the day coming after
the 2d of September, 1752, was to be not the
3d but the I4th. Notwithstanding the great ad-
vantages of this change, especially in facilitat-
ing intercourse with other countries, it met with
not a little opposition, and some of its oppo-
nents kept for a time to the old mode of reck-
oning; indeed, even in the early part of the
present century, O. S. dates were not uncom-
mon. The New Style is that now in use in
all so-called civilized countries except Russia,
which, on account of 1800, is now in this re-



spect twelve days behind the rest of the world,
and is likely to be thirteen days behind eight
years hence.
An addition to the calendar such as is made
in a leap-year is called an intercalation";
the added day is said to be intercalatedd,"
and is known as an intercalaryy" day. The
month in which the intercalary day of the leap-
years has been placed has all along been Feb-
ruary. Throughout its whole history this has
been the most unstable of the months. It has
formed a kind of quarry from which materials
have been dug for repairing the rest of the
calendar. January and February found their
way into the calendar together-January at
the beginning and February at the end of the
year. Then February was put after Janu-
ary, as the second month instead of the last.
Julius Caesar gave the alternatee months, Janu-
ary, March, May, July, September, and No-
vember, thirty-one days each and the others
thirty, except February, which had its thirty in
leap-years of 366 days and only twenty-nine
in ordinary years of 365. This arrangement,
which is greatly better than our present irregu-
lar scheme of months, was upset to gratify the
vanity of Augustus. Caesar had called the
month Quintilis by his name Julius-our July;
and so Augustus, though he had done nothing

to reform the calendar, must have his month
as well, and he must have it as long, too, as
that of Julius. The month Sextilis was accord-
ingly named Augustus,-our August,-and its
thirty days were increased by one, of which
poor February had, of-course, to suffer the loss.
This brought that month's twenty-nine or
thirty days down to the twenty-eight or twenty-
nine it has now. And the change anade by
Augustus, or at least in his interest, did not end
there; it affected all the following months,
September and November being reduced to
thirty and October and December increased to
thirty-one-possibly because it seemed awk-
ward to have three months of thirty-one days.
(July, August, and September) together.
To the inquiry why the leap-years are so
called there appears to be no satisfactory an-
swer. What connection, it may be asked and
has been asked, was the year or the added day
supposed to have with a leap or with leaping ?
Were these years regarded as coming with
leaps or bounds, as contrasted with the steps or
paces of other years ? Did days or years leap
over something, or were they themselves some-
how leaped over ? All this seems matter for con-
jecture; and there is nothing left for us but to fall
back on The Century Dictionary's statement,
" The exact reason of the name is unknown."


By M. F. J.

WHEN Bruno's dinner was brought to him
by Susan, the cook, he was not hungry. She
was going out, and so fetched it earlier than
"There," she said to herself; "it's quite a step
to the end of the garden, and if I forgot the
poor dog, no one else would take the trouble
to feed him, so I '11 go while I think of it."
You see, Susan was kind to animals, and
could not bear to have them neglected.
So she put down the plate with the big bone

beside Bruno's little house, and gently patted
his head. Bruno jumped up on his hind legs,
and tugged at his chain, wishing he might go
with Susan. But she said:
"No, old fellow; Susan cannot take you to-
day, for she has to go to town, so take care of
the house, and eat your nice dinner."
But the cook did not know what was going
to happen.
It was a hot afternoon, and Bruno lay down
in front of his little house and thought.



He thought how pleasant it would be to go
to town with Susan-there was so much to
amuse one in town. He thought how dull it
was to have to stay at the end of the garden.
There was nothing to see but some stupid
flowers, and trees, and blue sky. "I '11 take
a nap," he thought; "nothing happens here."
For Bruno did not know that something
would happen, any more than the cook did.
So he stretched out his paws, and putting
his head on them, he was soon fast asleep.
Now. all this time a pair of bright eyes were
W i .- i-i '. h [ I.,.:.k i l -. ., I. i ,:ii,' i,

hiari .,, lI te I,.__i .l' i.. r L,-. .- .t : ..:,r.
t Hl j ,t ir, ...' :l'-.i .. j -,ir, ., i. if i,^ ...:,_ l.;l

an .. r -.!n rai! i,. ;i -i!... 0It l.-t, tk r1'0.w thJ li ,,,.i l

been broken, where he thought he could get
through. But it had been nicely mended. He
ran wildly back and forth until he found a place
where he could just squeeze through.
Then, very slowly and quietly he came, glid-
ing along, nearer and nearer, until he was
within reach of the bone. He made a wild
leap, and snatched the bone, but in his hurry, it


fell with a rattling sound against the plate.
Bruno woke and jumped up, barking loudly.
But Jim did not intend to lose the bone, for
which he had taken so much trouble, and
snatching it, this time firmly, he bounded away.
Poor Bruno rattled his chain, barking fiercely.
He made so much noise that the children
who were playing in the garden heard him,
and came to see what was the matter. You
may be sure that Jim was by this time out of
sight on the other side of the fence.

The children could not see anything wrong,.
and thought Bruno was barking at some one-
who had passed in the road.
But, as they were going away, Paul, the old-
est boy, saw the empty plate, and said:
I believe no one has given Bruno his din-
ner, for Susan is out. I will run and get it.'"
So, after all, Bruno had his dinner.



BLESS me! How this earth travels The dear
Little Schoolma'am wonders it does not have
nervous prostration. For thousands of years it has
been spinning around, day and night, and at the
same time journeying unceasingly around the sun,
giving us season after season, month after month.
Lately, we had winter, now we have spring; last
time it was March, now it is April, welcome and
true as any of the twelve.
My friends, the poets, are fond of calling April
fickle, changeable, easily upset, so to speak;
but that is not quite the way to look at her. Now
what I like about April is her constancy, her
faithful steadiness of purpose. She is always to be
depended upon- always ready to give us the benefit
of variety. Besides, she never sulks, as, for instance,
November and February too often do. No, she
either smiles or she weeps outright, and often
she indulges in both performances at the same
moment. At one time I thought her rather trifling,
but I was wrong.
Learn of her, my children! April's kindergarten
is always open. Every boy and girl, even the
youngest, can understand her pretty object-les-
sons, She shows plainly that she expects them
never to lose temper, never to hold a cloud any
longer than is necessary, and, above all, to be
always on the alert for every sunbeam that comes

HERE is an account of a beautiful creature which
was found last August, and ever since seems to
have been
DEAR JACK: On August 16th of last year I found a
caterpillar. It was about four inches long and very fat.
It had a small head, twelve rings, and eight pairs of legs.
It had eight knobs on each ring. Its colors were beauti-
ful: the body was light blue-green, and five pairs of legs
were yellow and blue, and three pairs were yellow. Two

of the knobs on each ring were yellow, with black points;
the others were a beautiful blue. I put it into a basket
with some maple leaves, and the caterpillar began to
weave its cocoon right away. The cocoon is over three
inches long, and light brown. I do not know of which
moth this is the caterpillar. Will you please tell me ?
I like to study insects very much, and will be glad to
know more about this caterpillar. Yours truly,

WELL, the dear Little Schoolma'am, being inter-
ested by this letter, sent a copy of it to Mrs. Ballard,
who knows a great deal about insects of all sorts,
and here is that lady's reply. Let me say, right
here, that Jack and the Little Schoolma'am thank
her very much, and so doubtless will you and many
another member of this congregation.
DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: The caterpillar so
well and minutely described by Miriam C.," of
St. Louis, is doubtless that of the Attacus cecropia.
The large brown cocoon holds a secret which
will give Miriam a delightful surprise at its spring
opening,"- this large and elegantly ornamented
moth. While the blue and the green do not
appear in its new dress, the exquisite figures and
shading of richest brown and gray make ample
amends for their loss. A full description of this
moth from egg to imago is to be found in "Moths
and Butterflies," published in New York.
Very sincerely,

I TOLD you last month that I might show you
some of the budget of letters about counting an
English billion. So now you shall have a few of
their well-considered arguments. The Little School-
ma'am says the Deacon had a reason for saying
English billion, for that is one million millions,
or one thousand times the French or the American
billion, which is only one thousand millions.

DEAR JACK: You ask in the Christmas number why
no man could count an English billion. It would take a
man over 3I,C00 years to do so, if he counted day and
night at the rate of sixty a minute, and did not stop to
eat or drink. That, of course, is impossible, as no one
could do it. JOSEPHINE I-.

DEAR JACK: By figuring it all out, I came to the
following conclusion: By counting as fast as I can, I
managed to count Io a second; and, as there are 60 sec-
onds in a minute, 10 has to be multiplied by 60, which
makes 600; and, as there are 60 minutes in an hour, 6co
has to be multiplied by 60, which makes it 36,000; and,
if the man counts 14 hours a day, it would be 14 times
36,000, or 504,000; and, as there are 365 days in a year,
504,000 has to be multiplied by 365, which makes it 183,-
960,000; and, if the man lives even 90 years, it will but
make it 16,556,400,000, which is not by any means an
English billion; which proves that the Deacon is right.
Your interested reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In the December number the
Deacon says: "TIhe man does not live who can count a
billion." Say a man lives Ico years. In these years




there are 3,183,600,ooo seconds. But to say 999,999,999
would require about ten seconds or more, and nearly
every other number up to one billion would require more
than one second in which to say it. Then there are a
few years at the beginning of his life in which he couldn't
count, even if he lived longer than loo years.
Yours truly,
C. MAY S-.
DEAR JACK: I counted up to a thousand, and found
that it took ten minutes. I then found that a person
could count 15,024,000 in one year, counting eight hours
a day and not counting Sundays. And it would take
sixty-six years to count a billion; and papa says that a
person could not count more than two years without go-
ing crazy; so that it would be impossible for a person to
count even an American billion. From
M. E. B.
DEAR JACK: It would take a man over nine years to
count Iooo,ooo,ooo, without stopping for meals or sleep.
I send you my figures.
Your faithful follower, JULIAN V. B-.

HERE is an indignant letter that came many
weeks ago :
DEAR JACK: I have just read with interest, though
not with approval, Laura Price's letter.* I don't agree
with her at all, for it seems to me that you was is an ugly
and entirely unreasonable form.
If the "real learned grown-up folks" Laura speaks
of think it proper to go back to the old thou art, thou
wert, etc., I shall not mind using this form to my inti-
mate friends, as the French and Germans do. But to say
you was is another story.
I suppose that, strictly speaking, it is wrong to say you,
meaning one person. For, in the beginning, I am sure
you was the plural form only. But of course after it has
been accepted for hundreds of years, it becomes right
through long usage, and nobody questions it. Neverthe-
less, it has never been used with a singular verb, and it
seems to me that to use it so now is acting on the princi-
ple that two wrongs make a right, which, as you know,
they never can.
Besides, was is not the form for the second person, at
all. It is used only with the first and third persons, and
there seems to me no possible reason in favor of using
ft for the second. Also, I should like to ask Laura
whether, in the present tense of the same verb, it is proper
to say you am or you is?
Yours sincerely, BERTHA BROOKS R-

THE Little Schoolma'am tells me that they are
now making ladies' purses and gentlemen's cigar-
cases and other articles out of snakeskin !
Well, well! I am astonished. Snakes can squirm
themselves into almost anything, but, beautiful
though they are, I never dreamed that they would
work their way into human fashions.
By the way, I doubt if any of you ever have
learned by observation that

THIS would be a very obliging act on the part of
the snake, considering the purses and cigar-cases,
if the cast-off skin were not too thin to be good for
anything. A friend of the dear Little Schoolma'am,
who has been reading an account of this operation,

tells me that on the 18th of last March one of the
common sort of New Jersey snakes known as
Eutenia sirtalis was caught and placed in the
vivarium of the Philadelphia Academy of Natural
Sciences. Here it was observed by a learned doc-
tor, who saw it come out of the water and shrug
itself an instant on the grassy sod; then the skin
parted at the jaws, and the creature soon crawled
out of it, leaving the skin inside out.

Really think that it is time
Some one sent a scientific
Item, couched in jingling rime?
I do. I 've just read a paper
By John Lubbock (whose odd name
Will sound queer as Amos Cottle's
When it fills the Trump of Fame).
It was from The Senses, Instincts,
And Intelligence of An-
Imals," a book just written
By this widely learned man.
Here he tells of a Photichthys,"
Swimming near the ocean's bed,
Carrying a bull's-eye lantern
Neatly mounted in its head.

We might call this fish, "Policeman,"
Were it not that all its prey
When 't is caught at once is eaten
In a most illegal way!
There 's another deep-sea "Angler,"
Which hangs out a danger-light,
A red lantern in the ocean
Shining softly, glowing bright.

Should some curious fish approach it,
Wondering what it 's all about,
Grins Ceratias bispinosus,
And the stranger soon finds out.
With this verse I send two drawings -
Merely sketches, meant to show
What these lantern-bearers look like.
Should you meet them, now you '11 know.

See ST. NICHOLAS for November, 1891, page 74.



WHITTIER'S stirring lines, "The Hero," at the end of
Mrs. Richards's interesting account of her father, Dr.
Samuel Gridley Howe, who was the subject of the poem,
are given to our readers in this number by the kind per-
mission of Mr. Whittier's publishers, Messrs. Houghton,
Mifflin & Co.

IN regard to the Story of the Swiss Glacier," in the
present number, the author sends the following note,
giving the facts upon which it is based:

-The story of the glacier is founded on an inci-
dent mentioned by Gruner, one of the first writers on
Switzerland. In his Eisgebirge des Schweizerlandes"
(Ice Mountains of Switzerland), published in 1760, he
says (Vol. III., p. 208): "About thirty years ago the dead
body of a boy was washed out from under the glacier at
the Grimsel, without there having been the slightest
mention of any one having been lost there for many
years. At last a very old man remembered that, eighty
years before, a boy of the same size, a relative of his, had
fallen into a glacier-crevasse somewhere in this region.
Upon this, the corpse was in fact identified as that of
the boy in question; but in spite of his having been
buried beneath the ice for eighty years, he looked as
fresh as if he had lost his life only a few days before."
Gruner also declares that "there are still living many
witnesses to the truth of the story."
A more recent similar case is that of the three
guides of Dr. Hamel, who, in 1820, were lost in a cre-
vasse near the summit of Mont Blanc. Their bodies
appeared forty-one years later (in 1861) near the foot
of the Glacier des Boissons (which comes down from
Mont Blanc), about ten thousand feet lower than the spot
where they were lost, and a little over five miles distant
from it. All three of the men were positively recog-
nized from the color of their hair. Some of the articles
found, although of a fragile nature, were preserved quite
perfectly. These were a silk veil, a cotton cravat, the
face of a compass, even a leg of mutton, which still
retained something of its original appearance.
This case is perfectly authenticated in all its details, and
at Annecy the relics are preserved in the museum of the
village. Various accounts of the occurrence have been
published, but the best and fullest is that given by
Durier in Le Mont Blanc" (Paris, 1877), pp. 391-421.

SINCE the publication of the historical sketch, A Cu-
rious Relic," in the October number of ST. NICHOLAS,
we have received a letter from Mrs. Louisa B. Gaston,
of Boston, Massachusetts, stating that her father, Mr.

Laban S. Beecher, was undoubtedly the man who carved
the head of President Jackson described in Miss Bisland's
The fact is referred to also in the letter printed below:
EDITOR ST. NICHOLAS: In making some genealogical
researches undertaken to occupy my mind during a te-
dious illness, a short time since, I ran across the record,
published about eight years ago, of the man who carved
the image of General Jackson, referred to in your Oc-
tober number in the article, "A Curious Relic," and also
a note giving a brief account of the amputation of the
head, which, it seems, was a Fourth-of-July escapade of
one of a mischievous set, and had but little political sig-
nificance. One of the ears was cut off and sent to the
late Mordecai M. Noah, of New York City. But to re-
turn to the man who carved the image. He was Laban
Smith Beecher, a distant relative of the late Henry Ward
Beecher, and did an extensive and prosperous business
in figureheads and in wood-carving generally, and also
in leather. He made large investments in the West, but
was always a resident of Roxbury, now a part of Boston.
He died while on a visit in the West, in 1876, at the age
of seventy-one years. One of his daughters is the wife
of Ex-Governor Gaston, of Massachusetts; another is
the wife of General Henry W. Fuller, a distinguished
officer of the Union Army during the Rebellion, and now
a resident of Boston. The man Sewall, who, in Miss Bis-
land's interesting account, claimed the honor of carving
the image, was probably in Mr. Beecher's employ as a
carver. Very truly yours, H. W. C- .

ANOTHER letter about the same sketch gives an inter-
esting account of the man who sawed off the figurehead:
DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I cannot claim to be one of the
young subscribers, but please allow me a few words.
The delightful articles throughout the magazine have lost
none of their zest for me, and "A Curious Relic," by
Margaret Bisland, made me wish heartily that all the
readers of ST. NICHOLAS had enjoyed the privilege of
knowing well Captain Samuel W. Dewey, who sawed off
the figurehead of the frigate" Constitution." Never shall
I forget how we children enjoyed that tale,-as well as
many similar ones,-our bedtime hour being forgotten
by the elder members of the family, who, also, were
deeply interested. We know the thrilling story almost
by heart. Captain Dewey was alone when he rowed out to
the bow of the frigate, and the night was wild and stormy.
Duringthe summer ofi 89o, Captain Dewey,then eighty-
four years old, stayed a month with us, and we begged
again for the story. He read us a newspaper clipping,
much worn, describing his interview with Mahlon Dick-
erson, the Secretary of the Navy. He is also known for
the famous Dewey Diamond," found over thirty years
ago in Virginia. It was then the largest diamond ever
found in America. He is very fond of precious stones,
and used to have most mysterious little pockets, from
which, to our open-mouthed wonder, he would produce
his treasures, and we were allowed to examine them to
our hearts' content.
I wish, too, that you could see the so-called "flexible


sandstone," itacolumite. Mr. Dewey owns a place in
North Carolina where this sandstone is. He always car-
ries with him a long, narrow, flat piece, perhaps eight
inches long. Holding the extreme ends you can easily
bend it, making it bow at least half an inch. Very pretty
crystals are found in this sandstone.
When we last saw him he was a hale, hearty man, full
of vigor as well as brimming over with a delightful fund

of knowledge which he dearly loves to impart to others.
He declares he is not going to die for years to come.
Longfellow has written a beautiful poem, "The Iron
Pen," to "Beautiful Helen of Maine." The handle of
the pen he celebrates is made from the wood of the
frigate Constitution.
From an admirer of dear ST. NICHOLAS and brave
Captain Dewey. Sincerely, ZAIDEE S. D- .


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: This is the first letter any of us
has ever written you, although you have come to our house
from the very beginning. At Christmas my little sisters
and I (Norah is nine, Tina is seven, and I am twelve)
acted a little play, which we wrote ourselves, called The
Flower Fairies." After the play I recited Milton's L'Al-
legro," Norah recited "John Gilpin," and we finished up
with The Feast of Nations," from ST. NICHOLAS. Each
of us did the verses we could act best. We call our best
doll "Lady Jane." Your loving reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have taken you for a little
more than six years, and enjoy you more than ever. I
am nearly twelve years old. I have a sister who is six-
teen years of age. Mama reads to me every Sunday
afternoon. Chester Johnson, a chum of mine, takes you,
and enjoys reading you just as much as I do, and that's
saying a good deal, I can tell you. Good-by.
Your loving reader, CHARLES H. W--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little boy ten years old.
Last summer I went to Europe. While I was there I
saw the Queen of England in Hyde Park. She was go-
ing to the christening of her great-grandchild. She rode
in a splendid coach, with outriders before and behind
and on each side. She came back soon, so I saw her
twice. I enjoy the ST. NICHOLAS very much.
Yours sincerely, JOHN R- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken your magazine for
two years, and I like it very much. I have a Russian
horse. He was bred in the breeding-stables of the Grand
Duke Nicholas, near Moscow. His name is Leo; it
means lion. He belongs to the breed that Count Orloff
brought from Arabia, and he is the only one of his kind
in this country. He was brought over by a Russian
gentleman and given to my father. He can kneel down,
and march, and do other tricks. Yours truly,
T. G. T-

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We are two girls, and we live in
Richmond, Virginia.
Our names are Helena, and Evelyn, and, though I,
Helena, am a loyal British subject and Evelyn is a stanch
little Southerner, we rarely quarrel, and it is never about
our nationalities.

I have no brothers or sisters, but Evelyn has a very
sweet little brother, and one big one who throws cushions
at her when she primps before the looking-glass.
Your most devoted readers,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl almost eleven
years old. I want to tell you about a visit I made last
May to South Dakota. My mama and little sister went,
too. We visited my cousin, who owns a large farm of a
thousand acres, most of it planted in wheat and flax.
The barn, with its eighty stalls and big hay-loft where
we used to roll and tumble in the hay, was a jolly place
for us children to play, but I think we enjoyed most of
all the little chickens that were just hatched. They were
so soft and downy, just like little puffballs.
We saw a great many poor farmers who had only sod
houses for themselves, and still poorer shelter for their
stock. VIRGINIA B--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have traveled quite a good
deal. I have been south to Georgia, Florida, Alabama,
North Carolina, South Carolina, and all over the South.
I have been west to Minneapolis, St. Paul, Chicago, Lin-
coln (Nebraska), and a great many other places. I like
the West very much. But I think, of all the places, Wash-
ington is the nicest to live in. I like everything about it,
and there are so many different places of interest to visit.
While I was in Washington I shook hands with President
Harrison,- my president,"-and I think he is lovely.
I also visited General Grant not long before he died, and
went up to see him. He asked me my name, and I told
him, and he kissed me and said, "You 're a nice little
girl." I was quite young then, but it is something I will
never forget. Your faithful and loving reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: My last letter was sent from
Japan. I have now left Japan to return to the United
States vid Europe. When we were at Hong-Kong we
went to the top of Victoria Peak. Half-way we went in
a cable-car; the other part we walked. The cars are so
made that one car goes up and the other down at the
same time. The scenery from the top is beautiful. The
harbor and town on one side, with the ships; on the other
are small islands in the sea. It is cool up on the moun-
tain. We saw the house and garden of a rich Parsee.
There were statues in the garden. The public gardens
also are fine. At Singapore the street-cars are run by
steam. We are going to visit Palestine, Egypt, Italy,



France, and England. I am not now taking ST. NICH-
OLAS, because I am traveling about, but expect to when
I get to America. Yours truly,
W. J. H--.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: The more I read you the more
I like you, for I always find something splendid in each
number. Pretty often, when I am looking in the Letter-
box, I see some poetry written by some of your readers.
I love to make up poetry, and send you some verses
of my own. Your devoted reader,

PAPA, sitting in his chair,
Talking business to a friend,-
An old man, with beard and hair
White as snow-drifts in December,-
Scarcely noticed blue-eyed Ted,
In a cunning little dress,
Gold curls clustering round his head,
As did all the rest of us.

Teddie gazed in mild surprise
At the stranger sitting there.
Then-then brightly shone his eyes,
And soft gleamed his yellow hair,
As with dainty baby grace
O'er the carpet he did rush,
Gazed up in the old man's face,
And lisped out sweetly, Santa Cush! "

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have taken you ever since
1880, and we all agree that you are the nicest magazine
we have ever seen.
I have not written to you before, though you are so
old a friend. I am surprised that more children do not
write to you from Scotland, because quite a number there
take you. We have two dogs -one of them is a setter
named" Glen," the other a small mongrel. We also have
two canaries, and one funny, wee bird called a zebra
I go to school here, but Archie and Margaret have a
governess. They are my little brother and sister. The
boys do not play base-ball in Scotland, but they play
cricket, which is the same sort of game. We go north
every summer, and have a shooting," which is a great
piece of ground, either woodland or hills, to shoot grouse,
partridges, rabbits, etc., on. We play rounders and
others games in the gardens close to where we live. I
have never been abroad, out of the British Isles, but
perhaps I will go soon. My father and mother were in
America seven years ago, and what interested my mother
more than anything was Wellesley College, for girls,
near Boston,
I am twelve years old. I am your loving reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have had you in our family
for seventeen years, and I have taken you for seven. I
always enjoy your stories, and find one in this month's
number especially interesting to me, describing a man-
faced crab. I recognize the crab as like one that was
brought to me from the South Sea Islands. Mine has
quite an interesting history. I was told that this funny-
looking face was an exact likeness of the chief god of

the Chinese, hence it is considered holy and reverenced
by them. It is also believed to possess the charm of
preserving its owner from every misfortune. Armed
with his little crab, Ah Sing sailed from his homein China,
fully expecting it would protect him and land him safely
on the American coast, notwithstanding our laws forbid-
ding Chinese immigration. Regardless of his talisman,
however, the American authorities prevented his landing,
and placing him in a boat, he was taken to the South Sea
Islands, where my friend one day found him in a most
desolate condition, grieving over the crab. Ah Sing re-
lated his sad tale of woe, and felt that the gods had for-
saken him. My friend became interested in his story, and
tried to buy the crab; but under no consideration would
he part with it. Knowing the man needed money, my
friend offered him a five-dollar gold piece. The temptation
was too great to be resisted, the crab was sold, and my
friend gave it to me.
Your constant reader, CLARA B--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for six years.
I want to tell you about a funny thing that happened a
little while ago. An owl came down the chimney into a
fireplace which is never used, and began to flutter about.
My aunt went to see what it was, and saw two big yellow
eyes glaring through the iron grating. She thought it
must be a cat, but when she took away the grating, out
flew the owl. When it was caught, it stiffened out and
seemed to be dead; so we put it into a covered box and
went back into the parlor. In a little while we heard the
box-cover rattle; and on going to see what was the matter,
found the owl as lively as ever. He escaped from our
hands, and flew about the house all night. When he was
caught in the morning he again pretended to be dead.
We put him out of doors, and have not seen him since.
Your faithful reader, MARY G. 'P--.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have read your beautiful sto-
ries now for three years. I am only ten years old, and
have nothing interesting to tell you such as other lit-
tle girls have. But I can tell you this: I live in Lincoln;
it is named for President Lincoln; even the old hotel and
the court-house where he practised law are standing in
Postville, one of its suburbs.
The electric street-cars have just begun to go to and
fro, and we are very proud of them.
I remain, dear ST. NICHOLAS, your constant little
reader, EDITH T-

WE thank the young friends whose names follow for
pleasant letters received from them: Matie K. G., Bes-
sie H., Winifred S. S., Arthur F. S., G. A. K., Jennie
S., Charlotte R. L., Jeannette E. B., Annie W., Flor-
ence W., Adaline and Anita M., Virginia T. and Kath-
leen McM., Emily, Saidee H. K., Beatrice I., Burt G.,
Barry M., Eleanor W. M., Margaretta K., Harry G. E.,
H. L. D., Eva H., Ashley P. C., J. H. H., A. J. C.,
Bessie W., W. A. N., C. G., Willis G. J., Agnes E. S.,
Elsie B. B., John A. S., Jr., Henrietta M. H., Hortense
C., Herman W., Grace W. D., Carrie N., Georgette F.,
Cora M., Edith H. T., Flora and Edith, Sadie P., Roy
B., Annie K. P., Alice L. J., Eleanor G., Allie S. D.,
Helen M. L., Belle U. H., Willie M., Mary E. V.,
Edith I. P., R. A. W., Adelaide B., Harriet B., Helen
J. H., Floyd R. J., Susy L., Ruth T. T., V. E. R., Mar-
garet K., Elmer G. B., Jennie C. T., May T., Edna B.
and Allice D., C. H. P., Nellie K. S., Maurice M., Grace
B. F., B. S. M. and S. L., Beatrix E. L., Adelaide S.
D., Isabel B. T., and Victor E. S.


S"' NOVEL OCTAGON. Across: I. Breed. 2.
". 5 Rollo. 3. Ellen. 4. Elevator. 5. Donat-
'i>. ive. 6. Tires. 7. Overt. 8. Rests.
*ouDOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals, downward,
Martin Luther; finals, upward, Luther Martin.
Cross-words: I. Meridian. 2. Ai. 3. Repent.
4. Terror. 5. Idea. 6. Norm. 7. Loiter.
8. Umpire. 9. Through. 1o. Hamlet. a. Emu. 12. Recoil.
MARCH DIAMONDS. I. I. M. 2. Mab. 3. Model. 4. Madi-
son. 5. Beset. 6. Lot. 7. N. II. C. 2. Dam. 3. Delos.
4. Calhoun. 5. Moose. 6. Sue. 7. N.
ILLUSTRATED PUZZLE. I. Lady. 2. Mountain. 3. Wheat. 4. Fruit.
5. Hoe. 6. Pan. 7. Marble. 8. Nut. 9. Cup. o1. Plum. ii. Corn.
12. Sponge. 13. Angel. 14. Fish.
LETTER PUZZLE. Begin at T in slot. "The rougher March, the
fairer May."
AN URBAN PUZZLE. x. Adelaide. 2. Florence. 3. Sophia. 4. Rome.
5. Sydney. 6. Washington. 7. Fez. 8. Havana. 9. Panama.
i. Derby. z. Cork. 12. Toulouse. X3. Leghorn. 14. Astra-
khan. 15. Marseilles. I6. New Castle. 17. Brussels. r8. Not-
tingham. 19. Naples. 2o. Berne. 21. Columbus. 22. Bologna.
23. Rouen. 24. Malaga. 25. Lima. 26. Cayenne. 27. Turin.

28. Lyons. 29. Shanghai. 30. Lisle. 31. Morocco. 32. Belfast.
33. Lucknow. 34. Mandalay.
DICKENS PRIMAL ACROSTIC. Primals, Rogue Riderhood. Cross-
words: I. Roger. 2. Oliver. 3. Glubb. 4. Uncle. 5. Emily.
6. Rudge. 7. Isaac. 8. Drood. 9. Evans. o1. Roker. Ii. Hexam.
12. Orange. 13. Orlick. 14. Dumps.
WORD-BUILDIN. I, i, sin, sine, reins, singer, serving, severing,
reserving, preserving, persevering.
PI. Slayer of winter, art thou here again?
O, welcome, thou that bringest the summer nigh!
The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain,
Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky.
Welcome, O March! whose kindly days and dry
Make April ready for the throstle's song,
SThou first redresser of the winter's wrong !
WM. mORRIS -" The Earthly Paradise."
WoRD-SQUARES. I. I. Iliad. 2. Ladle. 3. Idiot. 4. Alone-
5. Deter. II. i. Decamp. 2. Editor. 3. Citole. 4. Atones.
5. Molest. 6. Presto.
CONNECTED WORD-SQUARES. I. I. Pose. 2. Open. 3. Send.
4. Ends. II. i. Rare. 2. Aloe. 3. Roll. 4. Eels. III. i. Spar.
2. Pace. 3. Acre. 4. Reed. IV. i. Scar. 2. Cage. 3. Ages.
4. Rest.

To OUR PUZZLERS: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the x5th 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 JANUARY NUMBER were received, before January i5th, from Maude E. Palmer-A. H. R.
and M. G. R.-Dodo and Doder-Paul Reese -Thphncom-Jo and I-" Uncle Mung"-"The Tivoli Gang"-" The McG.s"-
Annie M. Bingham--Rosalie S. Bloomingdale-"Alice Mildred Blanke and Co."-B. B. B.-C. W. Brown-Chester B. S.
-" Leather-stocking "-" Arthur Gride "-" A Family Affair "-" The Spencers"- Gertrude H. Husted -L. O. E.- Ida, Alice, and
Ollie-Josephine Sherwood-Hubert L. Bingay-"Adelante Villa"-Dad and Bill -E. M. G.-A. H. and R.- Aunt Kate, Mama, and.
Jamie- Effie K. Talboys Two of The Wise Five "-" Lehte"-" Kamesit Girls "- Papa and Ed -Jessie Chapman Harry Day
Brigham-" We Three."
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE JANUARY NUMBER were received, before January i5th, from Thomas Crabb, i Maud and Marga-
ret E., 2 A. A. Crane, 2 Helen N. Eckard, i -" Only I," i Crosby Miller, 2 Louise and Ethel, I Mabel S. West, i Florence
B. S., i Jas. R. Sharp, 5 Elaine S., i Matjorie, 4 No Name, Chicago, i Grace I. Shirley, i May C. Francis, 2 Grace and.
Nannie, 6-Nellie M. Archer, 6 Lucy W. H. Joel, r -Amanda E. T., 6- Esther L. Little. i -M. W., 6--Grandpa, Papa, Alice,
Clara, and Mary, 3 -Julian C. Smith, 6- Blanche and Fred, 6- Harrold R. Hastings, 4- Ludwig und Anna, 6 -" May and '79," 4-
Laura M. Zinser, 3- Harry and Mama, 5- Nellie L. Howes, 6- Carrie Thacher, 3- E. K., I -" We Girls," 4--No Name, Engle-
wood, Ill., 6- Esme Beauchamp, I Wilfred and Helen Jordan, x.


ALL of the words described contain the same number
of letters. When rightly guessed and placed one below
another, in the order here given, the initial letters will
spell a word often heard, and the central letters a day of
the week.
CROSS-WORDS : I. A support for a picture. 2. Invec-
tive. 3. Lays. 4. Periods. 5. A kind of antelope.
6. Superb. K. F. L.
I. A PUZZLE. 2. An English poet and artist. 3. To
disclose. 4. A letter. 5. A club. 6. Glossy. 7. Faculty.
The central letters, reading downward, will spell the
name of a famous artist who was born and who died in
the month of April. c. B.
WHEN the following words have been rightly guessed
and placed one below another, in the order here given,
the diagonals, from the upper left-hand letter to the
lower right-hand letter, will spell a much-loved name.
CROSS-WORDS: I. Ancient. 2. A sovereign. 3. Gen-
tleness. 4. Rumor. 5. To fancy. 6. A plant whose
virtues have been put in verse by Charles Lamb. 7. A
character in Shakspere's play of "The Tempest."

ALL of the words described contain the same number
of letters. When rightly guessed and placed one below

the other, the central letters, reading downward, will spell
a word which, through one of Dickens's stories, has come
to mean unreasonable self-sufficiency.
CROSS-WORDS: I. A kind of light shoe. 2. The chief
commander of a regiment of troops. 3. Proceeding by
degrees. 4. To confuse. 5. An error. 6. A person
affected by excessive enthusiasm. 7. The master of a
small trading-vessel. 8. A small anchor. 9. Service.
o1. A kind of puzzle. 1n. Sportive. D.




3 .


UPPER SQUARE : To support. 2. To overthrow.
3. A famous mountain. 4. A kind of turf.
LOWER SQUARE: I. A kiln to dry hops or malt. 2.
Surface. 3. To make fast. 4. Lofty.
From I to 2, ended; from 3 to 4, spoken; from I to
4, an idyl. "XELIS."


%- d-c C

llihl l" .. t


I. A LETTER. 2. A printer's measure. 3. A tree. 4. A
tree. 5. The hero of a tragic poem. 6. A destructive
wind that sometimes blows, in Turkey, from the desert.
7. Doth mail. 8. To pretend. 9. Cripples. o1. Ani-
mates. XELIS."

I. I. To fold. 2. The European throstle. 3. The
name of a church and palace in Rome. 4. Medial.
5. Published without the authors' permission. 6. Phi-
losophers. 7. A masculine nickname.
II. I. A grassy field. 2. A rapier. 3. Following the
exact words. 4. To raise. 5. Wasted away by friction.
6. Made of oats. 7. Induced. FRANK SNELLING.

A DISTINGUISHED man of letters:
W. S. R.
BY selecting the right word from each of the thirteen
sentences following, a proverb concerning April may be
I. Alexander was below a man when he affected to be
a god.
2. April showers bring forth May flowers.
3. It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.
4. Every-dog has his day, and every man his hour.
5. Corn and horn go together; when corn is cheap,
cattle are not dear.
6. It is better to do well than to say well.
7. It is very hard to share an egg.
8. A good life keeps off wrinkles.
9. For the rose, the thorn is often plucked.
o1. Hear both sides before you praise or condemn.
II. Make hay while the sun shines.
12. April and May are the key of the whole year.
13. Calm weather in June sets the corn in tune.
C. D.

I. ACROSS: I. Low hills of drifting sand. 2. To
separate. 3. Moderate warmth. 4. Pertaining to ships.
5. The fruit of a tropical tree.
DOWNWARD: I. In danger. 2. A pronoun. 3. To

gain as clear profit. 4. Level. 5. A division of the
calyx. 6. To wander. 7. To thrust with violence. 8. An
exclamation. 9. In danger.
II. ACRoss: I. The mountain daisy. 2. To indulge
without restraint. 3. The principal post at the foot of a
staircase. 4. To give new life to. 5. A masculine name.
DOWNWARD: I. In danger. 2. A conjunction. 3. A
small tumor. 4. To assert. 5. Fresher. 6. A kind of
cotton gauze. 7. Part of a sofa. 8. A pronoun. 9. In
danger. G. F.
RALEDAY solce yb rou sermum glenwild
Het tearse rowrasp sparete hre gosn;
A reymr brewlar, seh sedich het slomboss-
Het deil mossbols hatt plese os glon.
Het budibrel schant rofm het slem glon charbens
A myhn ot clewmeo het dingdub yare.
Eht thous dwin redswan romf difel ot fresot,
Dan flytos sperwish "Eht grispn si heer."
I. I. A FAMOUS fleet. 2. Erects. 3. Mistakes. 4. To
suppose as a fact. 5. One who deems. 6. To maintain.
II. I. A white metallic alloy. 2. Abandons. 3. Trun-
cheons. 4. The person who has a right to present to a
benefice. 5. Doctrines. 6. To estimate.
I .8
2 9
3 1
4 Ii .
5 12
6 3. 13
7 14

CROSS-WORDS: I. The river of forgetfulness. 2. Le-
gends. 3. A town of France, famous for its mineral
springs. 4. Passionate. 5. A tenth part. 6. Spiritless.
7. Foundation.
From I to 7 and from 8 to 14 each name a great elegy.
I 12
2 II
3 10 .
9 4
8 5
7 6

CROSS-WORDS: I. Disguised. 2. A narrow valley.
3. Encomium. 4. A soldier placed on guard. 5. A fabu-
lous animal. 6. Relating to the Muses.
From I to 6 and from 7 to 12, the two authors of the
elegies named in the foregoing zigzag. DYCIE.





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