Front Cover
 Front Matter
 A story of the flag
 The studio-boy
 Dorothy Hancocks breakfast-par...
 A dutiful parent
 Historic dwarfs
 The spare bedroom at grandfath...
 In ninety-three
 Two girls and a boy
 The day that never comes
 The voyage of Columbus
 The first to greet Columbus
 The scarlet thorn
 Cornwallis's men
 What things befell the Sovire's...
 The rendevous at East Gorge
 Tom Paulding
 My merrywater
 When I was your age
 Ben Ali the Egyptian
 Strange corners of our country
 On the Fourth of July
 A year with dolly
 The little barley-sugar vender
 The five-pointed star
 Developing dry plates
 The letter-box
 The riddle box
 Back Matter
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00257
 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: VID00257
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 Matter
        Front Matter
        Page 642
    A story of the flag
        Page 643
        Page 644
        Page 645
        Page 646
    The studio-boy
        Page 647
    Dorothy Hancocks breakfast-party
        Page 648
        Page 649
    A dutiful parent
        Page 650
    Historic dwarfs
        Page 651
        Page 652
        Page 653
        Page 654
        Page 655
    The spare bedroom at grandfather's
        Page 656
        Page 657
        Page 658
        Page 659
        Page 660
    In ninety-three
        Page 661
    Two girls and a boy
        Page 662
        Page 663
        Page 664
        Page 665
        Page 666
        Page 667
        Page 668
    The day that never comes
        Page 669
    The voyage of Columbus
        Page 670
        Page 671
        Page 672
    The first to greet Columbus
        Page 673
    The scarlet thorn
        Page 674
    Cornwallis's men
        Page 675
        Page 676
        Page 677
        Page 678
    What things befell the Sovire's house all on a friday morning
        Page 679
        Page 680
        Page 681
    The rendevous at East Gorge
        Page 682
        Page 683
        Page 684
    Tom Paulding
        Page 685
        Page 686
        Page 687
        Page 688
        Page 689
        Page 690
        Page 691
    My merrywater
        Page 692
    When I was your age
        Page 692
        Page 693
        Page 694
        Page 695
    Ben Ali the Egyptian
        Page 696
        Page 697
        Page 698
        Page 699
        Page 700
    Strange corners of our country
        Page 701
        Page 702
        Page 703
        Page 704
        Page 705
        Page 706
        Page 707
    On the Fourth of July
        Page 708
        Page 709
    A year with dolly
        Page 710
    The little barley-sugar vender
        Page 711
        Page 712
    The five-pointed star
        Page 713
    Developing dry plates
        Page 714
        Page 715
    The letter-box
        Page 716
        Page 717
        Page 718
    The riddle box
        Page 719
        Page 720
    Back Matter
        Page 722
    Back Cover
        Page 723
        Page 724
        Page 725
Full Text

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(SEE PAGE 646.)


JULY, 1892.



I DON'T know how you feel about an Ameri-
can flag, but it has often occurred to me that
most of us, to tell the truth, have very little feel-
ing about it. I don't mean by this that we are
not patriotic-that we would n't march up to
the cannon's mouth, if we were called upon to
do so, as quickly as the Englishman, the Ger-
man, or anybody else. But our country is so
peaceful, and we see so many flags, nearly every
day, drooping lazily from flagpoles on the tops
of big buildings, or carried on picnic parades, or
stuck in the collars of ice-cart horses or-where
not? that we are very apt to pass by a flag with-
out noticing it. If it does chance to engage our
attention, we remark, perhaps, that it is faded or
bright, large or small, of silk or of bunting, or
something of the sort; and that is as much feel-
ing as the sight of it ever inspires.
Of course, Americans who are old enough
to keep memories of the war in their hearts
are likely to feel a little differently about the
matter. For them the flag may call up rem-
iniscences of the old strong feelirig. But for
us who were squalling in those days, or not yet
admitted to the light of day, the flag too

often means only so much cloth made up of
red, white, and blue patches.
At any rate, that is what a little boy I know
thought about it when he started to go
abroad with me last May-or, to be more
accurate, would have thought, had an occa-
sion ever come up to make him think about
it at all.
But two little adventures this boy took part
in, some time after he arrived on the other side
of the ocean, have changed this feeling some-
what. He has been back in America a number
of months now, but it was only yesterday that
he said to me:
Do you know, Uncle Jack, every time I see
an American flag in the street, I can't help think-
ing that people who have never been abroad
really don't know what our flag means."
And I am half inclined to think the little boy
was right. For myself, at any rate, I must con-
fess I was never conscious that I had the slight-
est bit of patriotism in me, or any attachment
to the red, white, and blue flag, until I went to
the great Alhambra theater in London and saw
our flag brought upon the stage by a dancing-

Copyright, 1892, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.


No. 9.


girl who entered to the tune of The Star-Span-
gled Banner." Then I felt tears on my cheeks
and knew I was an American.
A great many of our countrymen, I fancy, on
going abroad, have experienced some such feel-
ing. But the two adventures that Frank, the
little boy I am talking of, had in Paris last
summer, were curious enough perhaps to be
worth while telling about.
When the Fourth of July came, we had been
abroad nearly two months, and during that time
I think we had not seen a single American flag.
On the morning of the Fourth, however, we
walked out on the Paris boulevards, and a num-
ber of flags were hanging out from the differ-
ent American shops, which are quite frequent
there. They looked strange to us; and the
idea occurred to Frank, for the first time, that
the United States was one of a great many
nations living next to one another in this world
- that it was his own nation, a kind of big
family he belonged to. The Fourth of July
was a sort of big, family birthday, and the
flags were out so as to tell the Frenchmen and
everybody else not to forget the fact.
A feeling of this nature came over Frank that
morning, and he called out, "There 's another!"
every time a new flag came in view. He stopped
two or three times to count the number of them
in sight, and showed in various ways that he,
America, and the American flag had come to
a new understanding with one another.
During the morning, Frank's cousin George,
a boy two or three years older than Frank, who
had been in Paris the preceding winter, came
to our hotel; and, as I had some matters to at-
tend to in the afternoon, they went off together
to see sights and to have a good time.
When Frank returned about dinner-time, and
came up to the room where I was writing let-
ters, I noticed a small American-flag pin stuck
in the lapel of his coat.
George had two," he said in answer to my
question; "and he gave me this one. He 's
been in Paris a year now, and he says we
ought to wear them or maybe people won't
know we 're Americans. But say, Uncle Jack,
where do you think I got that? He opened
a paper bundle he had under his arm and un-
rolled a weather-beaten American flag.

"Where ? asked I, naturally supposing it
came from George's house.
We took it off of Lafayette's tomb."
I opened my eyes in astonishment; while he
went on:
George says the American Consul, or the
American Consul-General, or somebody, put
it on the tomb last Fourth of July, for our
government, because Lafayette, don't you know,
helped us in the Revolution."
"They ought to put a new flag on every
year, George says," explained Frank, seeing
my amazement, "on Fourth of July morning.
But the American Consul, or whoever he is
that's here now, is a new man, George thinks;
anyhow, he forgot to do it. So we bought a
new flag and we did it.
"There were a lot of people at the tomb
when we went there, and we guessed they were
all waiting to see the new flag put on. We
waited, too, but no soldiers or anybody came;
and after a while the people all went away.
Then George said:
"'Somebody ought to put on a new flag -
let 's do it!'
We went to a store on the Boulevard, and
for twenty francs bought a new flag just like
this old one. George and I each paid half.
There were two women and a little girl at the
tomb when we got back, and we waited till
they went away. Then we unrolled the new
flag and took the old one off the tomb.
"We thought we ought to say something
when we put the new flag on, but we did n't
know what to say. George said they always
made a regular speech thanking Lafayette for
helping us in the Revolution, but we thought it
did n't matter much. So we just took off our
hats when we spread out the new flag on the
grave, and then we rolled up the old flag and
came away.
"We drew lots for it afterward, and I 'm
going to take it back home with me.
"Somebody ought to have done it, and as
we were both American boys, it was all right,
was n't it? "
Right or'wrong, the flag that travelers see
on Lafayette's tomb this year, as a mark of
the American nation's sentiment toward the
great Frenchman, is the one put there by two



small, self-appointed representatives. And the
flag put there the year before, with fitting
ceremony by the authorized official, Frank pre-
serves carefully hung up on the wall of his little
room in America.
If this reaches the notice of the American
Consul-General at Paris, or other official charged
with such ceremonies, it is to be hoped he will
take no offense. And perhaps he may be re-
minded that by next Fourth of July the flag
now on duty will have become weather-beaten
like its predecessor.
Ten days after this adventure came the four-
teenth of July, the great "Quatorze Juillet,"
which, I believe, was the day on which the
French people stormed the grim old Bastille
and cried, Down with the tyranny of kings! "
With the French people it is much the same
sort of a day as our Fourth of July is to us, only
they display a great deal more enthusiasm. The
little French boys don't shoot off fire-crackers
all day in the streets, to frighten horses, scorch
their fingers, and make mothers and people,
generally, nervous. But there is a great mili-
tary parade reviewed by the President, there
are music-pavilions built up on corners and
public places throughout Paris; and at night,
while gorgeous fireworks are being set off, men,
women, and children throng the streets and
dance and sing till daylight is about ready to
share the fun.
Well, the morning of that great day, George,
as usual, came round to the hotel; and I asked
the two boys if they would like to go after
lunch to see the great military review at Long-
champs, where President Carnot was going to
have some thirty thousand French soldiers
march past his stand and salute him.
But George thought it would be more fun to
take a carriage and drive about Paris to see all
the people celebrating. It would be hot and
crowded at Longchamps, and we could n't
hope to get a sight of President Carnot; so
Frank and I agreed with George.
Before we started out, Frank suggested that
we should get two big flags, of just the same
size-one American red, white, and blue, and
the other French red, white, and blue, and take
them along in the carriage with us. "Don't
you see," he explained, we '11 carry the Amer-

ican flag, to show we 're Americans, and the
French flag '11 be to show we 're glad they 're
So they brought the two flags,-fine large
ones they were,-and Frank with the Ameri-
can flag got up alongside the coachman on
the box, while George and I put the French
flag between us, to drag out behind.
In this way we drove about through the
crowded streets and saw the celebration. And
several times when the crowds of French peo-
ple around some music-stand saw us coming,
they cheered our flags- a mark of attention
that delighted Frank and George immensely.
After driving about from place to place in
different sections of the great city, we found
ourselves once more back on the boulevards,
and we were soon crossing the Place de la Con-
corde, to enter the Champs Elys6es, that beau-
tiful green avenue leading straight up to the
Arc de Triomphe, when suddenly Frank gave a
shout from the box.
"Look! he called out. "There come some
soldiers! "
Crowds of people were standing along the
walks on either side of the avenue, all gazing
up toward the Arc de Triomphe. Yes; there
were soldiers on horseback coming right down
toward us. Then far-away shouts reached our
ears from the crowds ahead, where the soldiers
were. We could see the people waving hats
and handkerchiefs.
Look at the pistols," cried Frank from the
box. "They 're holding them right up in the
air. What 's that for ? "
"They 're cuirassiers," George called back.
"They 're a body-guard. It must be some-
C'est le President de la Republique !" ejacu-
lated the coachman, as the soldiers drew down
upon us at a rapid pace.
We were within fifty yards of them now, and
could see everything plainly. There, in front,
were the two large cuirassiers, with shining
breastplates and helmets, each with a cocked
revolver held out in the air at arm's-length.
Behind came the President's carriage drawn by
four coal-black horses, with postilions in daz-
ling liveries, then two more cuirassiers with
drawn pistols followed by a troop of cavalry.



On they came. Our coachman stopped his
horses. The people were shouting and cheering
on all sides Le President !" Carnotl "
He was almost abreast of us and close by,
when suddenly I noticed that he was lookingin
our direction, and all eyes were turned toward
our carriage.
It was the American flag!
There it was, floating proudly aloft in the
hands of our little boy on the front seat. And
when Frank saw the President right abreast of
him, and everybody looking at his flag, with-
out a sign of hesitation he stood straight up,
held the flag as high in the air as he could, and
dipped a salute to the President of the French
Republic! The crowd was cheering wildly.
President Carnot moved forward a little in his

seat, lifted his hat, and bowed low to Frank
and the American flag.
And then in a second he had passed.

And this flag, I think, is prized by Frank even
more than the other. At least, whenever he
takes anybody up to his room, he always says
"This is the flag that was on Lafayette's
tomb;" and then in a more impressive voice,
"That's the one President Carnot took off
his hat to."
But those two flags are not the only ones
that mean anything to him. Every flag he sees
on the street, he realizes, might have been on
Lafayette's tomb, or might have been bowed to
by President Carnot.







"LOOK well at me as I pass by;
My sister's studio-boy am I.
She trusts me with her pots and pans,
Her brushes and her varnish-cans.
She lets me stand her easel up,
And pour queer mixtures in a cup.

I am her model, too, you see;
I helped her draw this sketch of me.
Papa thinks it 's too thin and tall;
Mama says it 's too fat and small;
But we two artists both agree
It 's just as good as it can be.




i '








QUOTH the governor to his dame,
When the French fleet sailing came
Into Massachusetts bay,
"We must make a feast straightway,
Spread a board of bounteous cheer
For the gallant admiral here."
Nothing loath, the three-years bride,
Fair Dame Dorothy, complied,
And with fine housewifely zeal
Planned at once a bounteous meal
Fit to set before a king,
Or a kingly following.

But, alas! when all 's complete
Comes this message from the fleet,-
Might the admiral dare to bring
To this goodly gathering
" 11 his officers, and then



Certain of his midshipmen?"
Who can paint the dire dismay
Of Dame Dorothy that day?
Thirty guests she 'd bidden there;
Now so late as this prepare
For a hundred more, at least?

There they milked the grazing herd,
At the fair young madam's word,
While the townsfolk stood and stared,
Wondering how she ever dared
Take such liberties as these
Without even "If you please."


Just a moment stood she there,
In irresolute despair,-
Just a breathless moment,-then,
She doth call her maids and men,
And herself doth lead them down
To the green mall of the town,
Where her neighbors' cattle graze
All along the grassy ways.

But straight on the milking went,
While the fair young housewife sent
Mounted messengers here and there,
Borrowing of her neighbors' fare.
Not a neighbor said her nay
On that memorable day.
Fruit, and sweets, and roasted game
From their larders freely came,-



Cakes and dainties of the best,
At Dame Dorothy's request.
Then triumphantly she flew,
Spread her tables all anew,
Whipt her foaming milk to cream,
While just down the harbor stream
She could see th' approaching guests,

With their starred and ribboned breasts.
Long before that day was done
All the townsfolk, every one,
Were they young or were they old,
Laughed applaudingly when told
How dame Hancock spread her feast
For a hundred more at least."





BESIDES Jeffrey Hudson, the royal house-
hold of Charles I. boasted of two other Lillipu-
tians in the persons of Richard Gibson and his
wee wife, Anne.
This wedded pair of midgets were of pre-
cisely the same height, each measuring three
feet two inches. Young Gibson was not quite
so symmetrical as Jeffrey, and he was not so
elegant in manner as the queen's favorite, but
he had the intellect of a man, a most lovable
disposition, and a talent for painting, which
last gave him a fame quite apart from the dis-
tinction enjoyed by the dwarf Hudson, as a
royal plaything.
Richard was more famed for his artistic abil-
ity than for his tiny stature. Jeffrey attached
himself particularly to Henrietta, and looked
with jealous eyes upon his more talented rival;
but Gibson found great favor with the king,
became his Majesty's portrait-painter, and was
made Page of the Back Stairs.
His little wife was in the service of the
queen, and was thoroughly disliked by Jeffrey,
who wished to be first and favorite in every-
thing; but Anne and Richard were friends from
the first time they met in the Palace of St.
Gibson, commonly called the Dwarf Artist,
was born in 1615 in the northwest corner of
England, where the picturesque crags and
peaks of Cumberland are mirrored in the beau-
tiful lakes at their feet. His parents were in
very humble circumstances, and his father
tended sheep and tilled a little farm.
In those days dwarfs were in such demand
among the nobility that poor people were in-
clined to regard the birth of one as a piece of
good luck for the family; and when it became
known that Dame Gibson's baby was a very
small specimen of humanity, all the kind neigh-

bors came in to congratulate and perhaps to
envy her on account of what the future might
have in store. "He 's a bonny wee bairn, in-
deed," exclaimed the mother, who was not al-
together of this way of thinking. "Many a
small babie has made a big man, and God
grant he may reach the height of his father;
but little or big, not a lord nor a lady in the
land shall take him fra' me-no, not even the
king hissel'"; and she clasped the infant tighter
to her heart.
"We '11 see about that when the time comes;
but little he is, and little he '11 be, and small
danger that anybody '11 want the boy, much
less his Majesty, God bless him!" replied an
old beldam who was blessed with a larger fam-
ily of grown-up children than she could well
care for.
The woman's prophecy as to the infant's size
proved quite true, for he was always Little
Gibson"; but she shot wide of the mark regard-
ing the royal favor. The child's intellect de-
veloped much faster than did his body; he
grew fond of outdoor sports, and archery and
drawing became his favorite amusements. His
bows and arrows were made of suitable size for
him by his father, and his pencils and crayons
were home-made.
In his own native Cumberland, close to his
birthplace, was the famous Borrowdale mine of
graphite or plumbago, which for many years
supplied the world with its best pencils. In-
deed, the first lead-pencils of which there is
any record were made of the graphite of this
mine, discovered some fifty years before our
little artist was born.
When Richard was a tiny, toddling boy his
hands and face were seldom free from the black
marks of the lead that he always carried about
with him. He used frequently to be found
roughly sketching on some piece of board or
plank any scene that pleased his fancy. Some-


times it would be a flock of sheep with their
shepherd, or again the outline of the lofty moun-
tain-peaks that surrounded his humble house.
For archery his eye was as true as for sketch-
ing, and that is saying a good deal.
At an early age, however, against the entreat-
ies of his fond mother, his father was persuaded

to take the little fellow away from his outdoor
sports and pastimes and to carry him up to
London town. Here he was known for a time
as the Cumberland pygmy, but he disliked be-
ing placed on exhibition and he missed the free
air of his native hills. The roses were leav-
ing his cheeks and he was beginning to droop,
when fortunately he attracted the notice of a
rich and noble lady, who lived at a place called
This kind dame took a great fancy to the
little dwarf, and wanted him for a page. His
father, by this time grown quite tired of London,
readily consented to allow the child to enter her

service. The old shepherd, who was out of
place in a big city, parted with genuine sorrow
from his son, and speedily returned to the sheep-
fold in the mountains, while Richard went with
his mistress to her fine house at Mortlake. His
duties were light, and his spirits revived in his
new home, which was close to the famous Mort-
lake tapestry-works, at that time under
the direct patronage of the king.
Of course, Gibson was subject to more
or less teasing from the domestics. The
servants of his patroness's household
were inclined to ridicule his small size;
but his chief tormentor was the lady's
butler. He was a very tall man, and
he used frequently to snatch up the
dwarf, place him on a high shelf, and
leave him there till some one chose to
Stake him down again. The big man
did this once too often; for one day
Richard, becoming tired of sitting on
this lofty perch, took a piece of graphite
from his pocket and drew on the wall
behind him a free and bold caricature
of the butler. When the latter saw this
he was both frightened and amazed.
He cuffed the young artist as he set
him on the floor, and attempted to erase
the picture. My Lady, hearing un-
usually loud talk, came to see what was
the matter, and was greatly astonished
as well as amused at Gibson's work.
To be sure, the beautiful wall was de-
faced, but she was an admirer and a
patron of art, and saw at once that the
artist of the caricature must possess no
ordinary talent. Accordingly the butler was
dismissed, Gibson was praised and encouraged,
and De Cleyn, master of the tapestry-works,
was invited to express an opinion on the work
of the tiny draftsman.
De Cleyn, too, was amused and impressed both
by the picture and the page, and, at the lady's
solicitation, readily agreed to give the pygmy
artist lessons in drawing. Gibson's joy was only
exceeded by his industry and perseverance, and
he made rapid progress in his art. About this
time it happened that the king, while visiting
the Mortlake works, came suddenly upon the
quaint little figure of the dwarf sitting upon a




high stool before an easel busily engaged in
copying a picture by Sir Peter Lely.
What have we here ?" exclaimed his Ma-
jesty, drawing nearer that he might examine the
work of this curiously small artist. Great was
the monarch's amazement when he saw how
successfully the mid-
get had imitated the
famous work of the
master, and greater yet
astonishment to find
himself praised and
flattered by his august
Henceforward Rich-
ard's success in life
was assured. Of course
the lady who had been
so kind to him was
compelled to part with
her little favorite when
the king intimated his
wish to secure the
young man for him-
self; and soon Gibson
was established at
court, where, although "
he was Page of the B
Back Stairs, he found
plenty of time to pur-
sue his artistic studies,
which were now di-
rected by no less a
person than Sir Peter
Lely himself.
While our tiny hero
was living at Mortlake,
little Anne Shepherd
was acting as a sort of PORTRAIT OF RICHARD GIBSON
diminutive lady-in-waiting to the Duchess of
Richmond. Her Grace was very fond of the
gentle Anne, but though kind, she was a very
silly old woman who loved to make a great
display of her wealth; and she was altogether
so vain and ostentatious that people made as
much fun of her as they dared to make of so
exalted a personage.
Before Anne was out of her teens it came
to pass that the baby prince, afterward King

Charles II., was to be christened. His grand-
mother, Marie de Medicis, had consented to
act as godmother, but only by proxy, as she
could not leave France; so the Duchess of
Richmond was chosen to take the place of the
French queen as sponsor to his infant Royal

Highness. The old dame was so elated at the
honor conferred upon her that she fairly outdid
herself in her efforts to shine as a great giver of
gifts. First, she presented to the infant, who
was the cause of so grand an occasion, a jewel
worth some thirty-five thousand dollars; then
she brought a nurse down from Wales in order
to keep up the tradition that a Welsh word
should be the first uttered by every Prince of
Wales, and she made the honest woman happy




by giving her a chain worth a thousand dollars
more. Indeed, I could not tell you all the silly
things this silly old woman did. She even went
so far as to make expensive presents to the
"royal rockers" engaged to jog the cradle of
the infant Charles, who, I* suppose, behaved
very much as other babies do, and in spite of
all his splendor was very fat and very ugly.
Upon the eventful day the queen sent her
own state carriage with ever so many lords and
knights, to bring the bountiful old godmama to
the christening. There were six footmen and
six horses with plumes all over them; and the
duchess was very proud of the equipage as
she stepped into the carriage. Little Anne
Shepherd, who had never seen so fine a sight in
her life, was lifted up by one of the tall footmen
and placed opposite to her mistress. There she
sat, looking very small and demure, till the gilt
coach reached the Palace of St. James.
At last, after fifty pounds each had been
given the knights, and all the coachmen had
received twenty pounds, and the footmen ten,
the ceremony was allowed to proceed, and the
royal baby was baptized. Then her Grace,
in a final burst of magnificence, wound up the
whole affair by presenting Anne to the queen;
and Henrietta was delighted to have another
dwarf in her retinue.
Little Gibson was at the christening, and saw
the small Anne decked out in great splendor;
and although he was still rather young to think
of matrimony, he fell in love with her then and
there. His affection was returned, and in due
course the king and queen gave their consent
to the marriage of the two dwarfs.
Great preparations were made for this wed-
ding, which was celebrated in the chapel of the
Palace of St. James; and everybody who was
anybody at all was bidden to the ceremony.
Henrietta Maria, who, in more senses than one,
was the reigning beauty of the British court,
took great interest in the festivities, and arrayed
herself in all her splendor and loveliness to be-
stow her blessing on the little pair. She or-
dered Jeffrey Hudson to be best man, a task
he was at first very unwilling to perform, for
Jeffrey wished himself to be the bright particu-
lar star on all occasions, and he was very jea-
lous of both Anne and Richard. The queen

appeased his vanity by ordering for him a gor-
geous new suit; the waistcoat was rose-colored
satin all sparkling with gold lace, and his little
breeches and stockings were of the same color.
Thus attired, he went through his part of the
ceremony with an air of courtly grace.
The little bride looked charming in a white
satin dress with a very long train, and the tiny
groom wore a white satin waistcoat with trim-
mings of satin. His hose and breeches were of
white silk, and diamond buckles sparkled in his
tiny shoes. The dwarfs were a dainty pair, and
created a sensation as they stood before the cler-
gyman exchanging their vows. King Charles,
very handsome, very graceful, and looking
every inch a king, gave away the bride.
The court poet, Sir Edmund Waller, wrote
about the wedding a poem called "The Mar-
riage of the Dwarfs." Part of it is as follows:

Design, or chance, make others wive,
But Nature did this match contrive;
Thrice happy is that humble pair,
Beneath the level of all care!
Over whose heads those arrows fly
Of sad mistrust and jealousy;
Secured in as high extreme,
As if the world held none but them !

For a time all went well. The little couple
dwelt together in harmony, and Richard went
on with his painting as industriously as ever.
He confined himself principally to portraits, but
some of his landscapes and animal-pieces were
much admired. One of them was the cause
of a truly sorrowful event. The painting in
question represented the parable of the Lost
Sheep," and was exceedingly well executed.
Sheepfolds and shepherds were common on
Gibson's native mountains, and it will be re-
membered that, when a child, some of his ear-
liest efforts had been attempts to draw pictures
of the pretty little lambs. It was executed with
so much spirit that Charles was delighted with
it, said it was a masterpiece, and prized it
so highly that he gave it into the hands of
Vandervort, the keeper of the royal pictures,
with strict orders to take the greatest care of it.
It happened that Vandervort was an absent-
minded man, but he was so anxious to please
the king that he carried out his instructions to
the letter. He placed the picture in a secure



place, but when, a short time afterward, the
king asked for it, the poor man could not re-
member what he had done with it. Not daring
to own this to his master, he worried about it
for several days and in his perplexity did not
know what to do. At last he gave up in de-
spair, and rather than endure his Majesty's dis-
pleasure, and not daring to say he had mislaid
it, he committed suicide. The death of the
keeper caused great sorrow at court, and a few
days after the unhappy event the picture was
found exactly where he had placed it.
Gibson's talent as a limner was really extra-
ordinary. His most admired portrait was one
of Queen Henrietta, which was in the collec-
tion of James I., and is now at Hampton
Court. The artist, although a dwarf, seems to
have shown much more discretion than many
people twice his size, for he never meddled
with politics or state affairs. During all the
troubles between Parliament and King he
busied himself with his art trying to support
his large family; and when the queen had fled
to France and Charles was dead Richard found
a much better staff in his pencil than his most
unfortunate patron had found in his scepter.
At heart little Gibson was a Royalist, and
he was greatly grieved when his kind benefac-
tor died; but he kept his small tongue quiet,
and was taken under the protection of the Earl
of Pembroke, and afterward painted the picture
of Oliver Cromwell more than once. In the
mean time, Sir Peter Lely had painted two por-
traits of the dwarf Gibsons; one was ordered
by my lord Pembroke, and the other by a no-
bleman of the opposite party; so it is very evi-
dent that the dwarf artist was favored both by
the Royalists and the Roundheads.
By the time Charles II. was ready to ascend
the throne, Richard Gibson was about fifty-
five years old, and was the father of several
children. The "Merry Monarch" considered
himself a patron of art, and soon his father's
portrait-painter was again established at court,
and after a time was appointed drawing-mas-
ter to the king's nieces, Princesses Mary and
Anne, who each in turn became Queen of
England. These two young ladies were not
very proficient in most of their studies, but it

is said they inherited from the house of Stuart
a taste for the fine arts. Although they at
first were inclined to ridicule the diminutive
size of their drawing-master, they soon learned
to respect him and his ability. Indeed, the
Princess Mary became so much attached to
the little pair that after she married William,
Prince of Orange, Richard was sent over to
Holland, that she might go on with her paint-
ing under his direction.
Calmly and peacefully the tiny couple pur-
sued the even tenor of their way, the father
making sufficient money to support his family,
and the small wife being happy in attending to
her domestic duties. They both lived to a good
old age, and one writer in speaking of them
says that nature recompensed them for short-
ness of stature by giving them length of years.
They had nine children, five of whom lived
and attained the usual stature of mankind.
Two of their children became portrait-painters,
like their father, and one of the daughters,
named Susan, became an artist of note. She
painted chiefly in water-colors, and with great
freedom. She afterward became the wife of
a jeweler named Rose. Mr. Rose was very
proud of being the possessor of a picture of the
dwarf artist painted on the same canvas with
his master, De Cleyri. Both were dressed in
green habits as archers and held bows and
arrows. Little Gibson's bow was carefully pre-
served and guarded by his daughter.
Both Richard and his wife were painted sev-
eral times, by Vandyck, by Dobson, and by
Lely. The dwarf artist was really a most su-
perior man, and he lived through many vicis-
situdes. He was born during the reign of
James I., saw the glories and troubles of
Charles I., Cromwell, Charles II., and James
II., withstood the horrors of the Great Plague
and the terrors of the London Fire, and passed
away early in the reign of William and Mary.
He died July 23, 1690, in the seventy-fifth
year of his age, and was buried at Covent
Garden. His little widow survived him nearly
twenty years. She died in 1709 in the nine-
tieth year of her age. The old chroniclers
speak of the Gibsons with a respect which not
all royal favorites have commanded.




IT was the hour for fireside
S talks in the cation: too early,
as dusk falls on a short
December day, for lamps
to be lighted; too late to
snatch a page or two more
of the last magazine, by
the low gleam that peered
in the western windows.
2, Jack had done his part in the
evening's wood-carrying, and now
was enjoying the fruits of honest toil, watching
the gay, red flames that becked and bowed
up the lava-rock chimney. The low-ceiled
room, with its rows of books, its guns and
pipes, and idols in Zufii pottery, darkled in
corners and glowed in spots, and all the faces
round the hearth were lit as by footlights, in
various attitudes of thoughtfulness.
"Now, what is that?" cried Jack's mama,
putting down the fan screen she held, and
turning her head to listen.
It was only the wind booming over the
housetop, but it had found a new plaything;
it was strumming with a free hand and mighty
on the long, taut wires that guyed the wash-
shed stovepipe. The wash-shed was a post-
cript in boards and shingles hastily added to
the main dwelling after the latter's completion.
It had no chimney, only four feet of pipe pro-
jecting from the roof; an item which would
have added to the insurance, had there been-
any insurance. The risk of fire was taken along
with the other risks; but the family was vigilant.
Mrs. Gilmour listened till she sighed again.
The wind, she said, reminded her of a sound
she had not thought of for years-the whirring
of swallow's wings in the spare bedroom chim-
ney at home.
Swallows in the chimney ? cried Jack, sud-
denly attentive. "How could they build fires
then, without roasting the birds ? "

"The chimneys were three stories high, and
the swallows built near the top, I suppose.
They had the sky and the stars for a ceiling to
their little dark bedrooms. In spring there was
never more than a blaze of sticks on the hearth
-not that unless we had visitors to stay. Some-
times a young swallow trying to fly fell out of
the nest and fluttered across the hearth into the
room. That was very exciting to us children.
But at house-cleaning time a great bag of straw
was stuffed up the chimney's throat to save the
hearth from falling soot and dried mud, and
the litter from the nests. It was a brick hearth
painted red, and washed always with milk to
make it shine. The andirons were such as you
will see in the garret of any good old house in
the East-fluted brass columns with brass cones
on top.
"It was in summer, when the bird colony was
liveliest, that we used to hear the beating of
wings in the chimney-a smothered sound like
the throbbing of a steamer's wheels far off in a
fog, or behind a neck of land."
Jack asked more questions; the men seemed
not inclined to talk; and the mother fell to
remembering aloud, speaking sometimes to
Jack, but often to the others. All the simple
features of her old, Eastern home had gained
a priceless value, as things of a past gone out
of her life, which she had scarcely prized at the
time. She was half jealous of her children's
attachment to the West, and longed to make
them know the place of the family's nativity
through such pictures of it as her memory could
But her words meant more to herself than to
any that listened.
"Did we ever sleep in that bedroom with
the chimney-swallows ? asked Jack. He was
thinking: what a mistake to stop up the chim-
ney and cut off communication with such jolly
neighbors as the swallows i


Yes, his mother said; he had slept there, but and beyond them were the solemn blue hills.
before he could remember. It was the winter Those hills, and the cedars, were as much a
he was three years old, when his father was at part of a winter's sunrise on the Hudson as the
Deadwood. sun himself.
There used to be such beautiful ice-pictures Jack used to lie in bed and listen for the train,


on the eastern window-panes; and when the sun a signal his mother did not care to hear, for
rose and the fire was lit and the pictures faded, it meant she must get up and set a match to
a group of little bronze-black cedars appeared, the fire, laid overnight in the big-bellied air-
half a mile away, topping the ridge by the river, tight stove that panted and roared on its four
VOL. XIX.-42.



short legs, shuddering in a transport of sudden
When the air of the room grew milder, Jack
would hop out in his wrapper and slippers, and
run to the north window to see what new shapes
the fountain had taken in the night.
The jet of water did not freeze, but the spray
of it froze and piled above the urn, changing
as the wind veered, and as the sun wasted
it. On some mornings it looked like a weep-
ing white lady in a crystal veil; sometimes a
Niobe group, children clinging to a white, sad
mother who clasped them and bowed her head.
When the sun peeped through the fir-trees, it
touched the fountain statuary with sea-tints of
emerald and pearl.
Had Jack been old enough to know the story
of Undine, he might have fancied that he saw
her on those winter mornings, and I am sure
he would have wanted to fetch her in and warm
her and dry her icy tears.
The spare-room mantelpiece was high; Jack
could see only the tops of things upon it, even
by walking far back into the room; but of a
morning, mounted on the pillows of the great
four-poster, he could explore the mantel's trea-
sures, which never varied nor changed places.
There was the whole length and pattern of the
tall silver-plated candlesticks, and the snuffers
in their tray; the Indian box of birch-bark over-
laid with porcupine quills, which held concealed
riches of shells and coral and dark sea-beans;
there was the center vase of Derbyshire spar,
two dolphins wreathing their tails to support a
bacchante's bowl crowned with grape-leaves.
In winter this vase held an arrangement of dried
immortelles, yellow and pink and crimson, and
some that verged upon magenta and should
have been cast out as an offense to the whole;
but grandmother had for flowers a charity which
embraced every sin of color they were capa-
ble of. When her daughters grew up and put
on airs of superior taste, they protested against
these stiff mementos; but she was mildly in-
flexible; she continued to gather and to dry her
" everlastings," with faithful recognition of their
prickly virtues. She was not one to slight old
friends for a trifling mistake in color, though
Art should put forth her edict and call them

In the northeast corner of the room stood
a great invalid chair, dressed, like a woman, in
white dimity that came down to the floor all
round. The plump feather cushion had an
apron, as little Jack called it, which fell in neat
gathers in front. The high stuffed sides pro-
jected, forming comfortable corners where a
languid head might rest.
Here the pale young mothers of the family
"sat up" for the first time to have their hair
done, or to receive the visits of friends; here, in
last illnesses, a wan face, sinking back, showed
the truth of the doctor's verdict.
White dimity, alternating with a dark-red
reps in winter, covered the seats of the fiddle-
backed mahogany chairs. White marseilles or
dimity covers were on the wash-stand, and the
tall bureau had a swinging glass that rocked
back against the wall and showed little Jack
himself walking into a picture of the back
part of the room-a small chap in kilts, with
a face somewhat out of drawing, and of a bluish
color; the floor, too, had a queer slant like the
deck of a rolling vessel. But with all its faults,
this presentation of himself in the glass was an
appearance much sought after by Jack, even to
the climbing on chairs to attain it.
When grandmother came to her home as a
bride, the four-poster was in its full panoply of
high puffed feather-bed, valance and canopy and
curtains of white dimity, "English" blankets,
quilted silk comforter, and counterpane of heavy
marseilles, in a bygone pattern. No pillow-
shams were seen in the house; its fashions
never changed. The best pillow-cases were
plain linen, hemstitched,--smooth as satin with
much use, as Jack's mother remembered them,
-and the slender initials, in an old-fashioned
hand, above the hem, had faded sympatheti-
cally to a pale yellow-brown.
Some of the house linen had come down from
great-grandmother's trousseau, and it bore her
maiden initials, E. B., in letters that were like
the marking on old silver of that time. The
gracious old Quaker names, sacred to the mem-
ory of gentle ,women and good housewives
whose virtues would read like the last chapter
of Proverbs, the words of King Lemuel, the
prophecy which his mother taught him.
It was only after the daughters of the house




grew up and were married, and came home on
visits with their children, that the spare bed-
room fell into common use, and new fashions
intruded as the old things wore out.
When Jack's mother was a child, it still kept
its solemn and festal character of birth and
marriage and death chamber; and in times less
vital it was set apart for such guests as the
family delighted to honor. Little girls were not
allowed to stray in there by themselves; even
when sent to the room on errands, they went
and came with a certain awe of the empty
room's cold dignity.
But at the semiannual house-cleaning, when
every closet and bureau-drawer resigned itself
to the season's intrusive spirit of research, the
spare room's kindly mysteries were given to the
light. The children could look on and touch
and handle and ask questions; and thus began
their acquaintance with such relics as had not
been consigned to the darker oblivion of the
garret, or suffered change through the family
passion for "making over."
In the bottom drawer of the bureau was the
"body" of grandmother's wedding-gown. The
narrow skirt had served for something useful,-
a cradle-quilt perhaps for one of the babies.
Jack could have put the tiny dress-waist into
one of his trousers' pockets, with less than their
customary distention. It was a mere scrap of
dove-colored silk, low neck, and laced in the
back. Grandmother must have worn over her
shoulders one of the embroidered India muslin
capes that were turning yellow in that same
The dress-sleeves were "leg o' mutton"; but
these, too, had been sacrificed in some impulse
of mistaken economy.
There was the high shell comb, not carved,
but a solid piece of shell which the children
used to hold up to the light to see the colors
glow like a church window. There were the
little square-toed satin slippers, heelless, with
flat laces that crossed over the instep; and
there were the flesh-colored silk stockings and
the white embroidered wedding-shawl.
Little grandmother must have been rather a
"gay" Friend; she never wore the dress as did
her mother, who put on the plain distinguish-
ing cap" before she was forty. She dressed as

one of the world's people," but always plainly,
with a little distance between herself and the
latest fashion. She had a conscientious scorn
of poor materials. Ordinary self-respect would
have prevented her wearing an edge of lade
that was not "real," or a stuff that was not all
wool, if wool it professed to be, or a print that
would not "wash"; and her contempt for linen
that was part cotton, for silk that was part linen,
or velvet with a cotton back," was of a piece
with her truthfulness and horror of pretense.
Among the frivolities in the lower drawer
was a very dainty little night-cap, embroidered
mull or some such frailness; the children used
to tie it on over their short hair, framing the
round cheeks of ten and twelve year olds. It
was the envelop for sundry odd pieces of lace,
old English thread," and yellow Valenciennes,
ripped from the necks and sleeves of little frocks
long outgrown.
The children learned these patterns by heart,
also the scrolls and garlands on certain broad
collars and cuffs of needlework, which always
looked as if something might be made of them;
but nothing was, although Jack's mama was con-
scious of a long felt want in doll's petticoats,
which those collars would have filled to ecstasy.
In that lower drawer were a few things be-
longing to grandmother's mother, E. B., of
gracious memory. There were her gauze neck-
handkerchiefs, and her long-armed silk mitts,
which reported her a "finer woman" than any
of her descendants of the third generation;
since not a girl of them all could show an arm
that would fill out these cast coverings hand-
somely from wrist to biceps.
And there was a bundle of her silk house-
shawls, done up in one of the E. B. towels:
lovely in color and texture as the fair, full grand-
motherly throat they once encircled. They
were plain, self-fringed, of every shade of white
that was not white.
There they lay and no one used them; and
after a while it began to seem a pity to the little
girls who had grown to be big girls; the light-
est-minded of them began to covet those sober
vanities for their own adornment. Mother's
scruples were easily smiled away; so the old
Quaker shawls came forth and took their part
in the young life of the house-a gayer part, it



would be safe to say, than was ever theirs upon
the blessed shoulders of E. B. One or two of
them were made into plaited waists to be worn
with skirts and belts of the world's fashion.
And one soft cream-white shawl wrapped little
Jack on his first journey in this world; and after-
ward on many journeys, much longer than that
first one, from the blue room to the brown."
No advertised perfumes were used in grand-
mother's house, yet the things in the drawers
had a faint sweet breath of their own; espe-
cially it lingered about those belongings of her
mother's time-the odor of seclusion, of by-
gone cleanliness and household purity.
The spare bedroom was at its gayest in
summer-time, when, after the daughters of the
house grew up, young company was expected.
Swept and dusted and soberly expectant it
waited, like a wise virgin, but with candles

.. i


0-- -


unlighted and shutters darkened. Its very
colors were cool and decorous, white and
green and dark mahogany polish, door-knobs
and candlesticks gleaming, andirons reflected
in the dull-red shine of the hearth.
After sundown, if friends were expected by
the evening boat, the shutters were fastened
back, and the green Venetian blinds raised, to
admit the breeze and a view of the garden and
the grass and the plashing fountain. Each
girl hostess visited the room in turn on a last,
characteristic errand: one with her hands full
of roses, new blown that morning; another to
remove the sacrificed leaves and broken stems
the rose-gatherer had forgotten; and the mother
last of all to look about her with modest pride,
peopling the room with the friends of her own
girlhood, to be welcomed there no more.
Then, when the wagon drove up, what a
joyous racket in the hall; and what content
for the future in the sound of heavy trunks
carried upstairs!
If only one girl guest had come, she must
have her particular friend of the house for a
bedfellow; and what in all the world did they
not talk of, lying awake half the summer night
in pure extravagance of joy-while the foun-
tain plashed and paused, and the soft wind
stirred in the cherry-trees, and in the moonlit
garden overblown roses dropped their petals
on the wet box-borders.
Visitors from the city brought with them--
besides new books and new songs and sumptu-
ous confectionery, and the latest ideas in dress-
an odor of the world, something complex and
rich and strange as the life of the city itself.
It spread its spell upon the cool, pure atmo-
sphere of the Quaker home, and set the light
hearts beating and the young heads dreaming.
In after years came the Far West, with its mas-
culine incense of camps and tobacco and In-
dian leather and soft-coal smoke. It arrived, in
company with several pieces of singularly dusty
male baggage, but it had not come to stay.
For a few days of confusion and bustle it
pervaded the house, and then departed on the
" Long Trail," taking little Jack and his mother
away. And in the chances and changes of the
years that followed, they were never again to
sleep in the spare bedroom at grandfather's.


~r-.A'5zz-- -



THIS is my birthday -I 'm 'most a man;
Exactly eight.
I 'm growing up, says my Uncle Van,
At an awful rate.
But I can't know everything quite clear--
Not quite, says he-
Before my birthday comes round next year,
In Ninety-Three.

What makes the moon grow thin and long
Like a paper boat?
How did they get the canary's song
In his little throat?
Why has n't the butterfly something to do?
Or why has the bee?
What will become of Ninety-Two
In Ninety-Three?

I 'm always thinking and wondering
As hard as I can;
But there is n't much good in questioning
My Uncle Van.
For he only says, with a funny look,
I shall probably see-
If I keep on growing and mind my book-
In Ninety-Three.

It 's long ahead till a fellow's nine,
When he 's only eight!
But the days keep passing, rain or shine,
And' I can wait.
For all these puzzles, that seem so queer
Just now to me,
I '11 understand by another year,
In Ninety-Three.

. L I. '



[Begun in the January number.]

THE next day Mildred felt tired and listless.
After all the excitement of the preceding days
she took pleasure in the simple, peaceful routine
of home. She had a late breakfast, and then went
up to the attic. Shutting the door, she felt a
sweet satisfaction in being alone in her old play-
room. She took out all of her dolls. These
were her only true friends and companions, she
told herself; they never misjudged her or said
unpleasant things of her. She had never been so
happy as when playing with them, and she ought
never to have abandoned them; she did not care
if she was twelve years old, she would always
love them; and to prove it she decided to make
them all new dresses for Christmas. With this
purpose in view, Mildred opened the old cowhide
trunk, and began to look over its contents for
suitable scraps of silk. While she was thus en-
gaged she heard a familiar footstep on the stairs.
At the sound she frowned, and when there was a
knock on the door and Leslie's voice called out,
" Can I come in? Mildred did not answer for a
moment, being tempted to let Leslie think she
was not there. Then changing her mind, she
threw all the scraps back into the trunk, and,
shutting it, said, "Yes, come in."
"Oh, Dreddy!" said Leslie, coming right up
to Mildred and going straight at the subject
that was on her mind, as was her way, "I hur-
ried over, just as soon as I had my breakfast,
to tell you that I 'm awfully sorry about what
those girls said last night; and it was n't true at
all. Everybody knows that you spoke my part
just because I got to laughing and could n't
say it; and they all thought it was just splendid
of you to do it, and Carrie Wilkins had no busi-
ness to say what she did, 'cause it was n't so!
And you did n't believe it, did you?"
At that moment,.as Leslie paused for breath

and fixed her honest blue eyes anxiously on
Mildred's, Mildred would have dearly liked to
have been able to say, "No, I did n't believe
it"; but, as it was, she made no answer and
looked away.
"Oh, you did believe it, did n't you?" said
Leslie, looking surprised and hurt. Charlie
said that you would, and I said that you would
not. I would n't have believed it if she had
said it of you. Is that what made you be-
have so funny last night, when you were going
"Well," said Mildred, driven into defending
herself, "you certainly acted as if you were
offended with me. I wanted to tell you how
it all happened, and you kept away from me
all the evening so that I could n't. Don't you
know that you did?"
"Well," admitted Leslie, "I was a little bit
mad at first, but that was because Charlie was
so cross with me. I forgot all about it after-
ward. And as for my saying that you spoke
my part just to make people look at you,
you know I never said that at all, and I never
thought it, and Carrie Wilkins had no business
to say so. She was just mad 'cause she was
not asked to take part in the play. And I 'm
going to tell her what I think of it, too, just
as soon as ever I see her!"
Oh, well," said Mildred, as long as I know
now that you did n't say it, it 's all right. It 's
not worth making any more fuss about."
"I 'm going to tell her, just the same," said
Leslie, decidedly. "I don't like any one to act
like that. Charlie was awfully mad when he
heard about it."
"How did he know?" said Mildred.
"Why," said Leslie, "he came up just as you
were talking to the girls, and he said that you
looked so queer, he knew something must have
happened. So after supper he danced with
Mabel, who was with them, though she did n't


say anything mean, and Charlie got her to tell
him all about it. And then he told ma and
me, and ma was awfully put out about it, and
I said I would come right over and tell you the
first thing in the morning. So it 's all right
now, is n't it?"
"Yes," said Mildred, "it's all right now."
"Did you have a good time?" said Leslie.
"Yes, indeed I did," replied Mildred; "it was
a lovely party."
And then they began talking over all that
had happened, with a great deal of interest.
While they were in the middle of their conver-
sation another step was heard on the stairs,
and Leslie, stopping to listen, exclaimed, "Well,
if there is n't Charlie coming up, too!" Sure
enough, there was a rap on the door, and Mas-
ter Charlie, putting his head in, said, "Anybody
at home?" He, too, had come to explain and
apologize for Miss Wilkins's remark, but, seeing
that Mildred was already quite pacified, he soon
dropped the subject and joined in the discus-
sion of the play. Going over the triumphs and
laughing at the blunders of the night before, the
time passed quickly, and the luncheon hour had
arrived before Leslie and Charlie took their de-
parture; and so the dolls once more had to go
without new dresses.
When Mildred accompanied her friends down
to the front door all ill feeling had disappeared,
and she was ready to agree with Charlie that the
play had been a great success. Leslie allowed
Charlie to go ahead of her as they started down
the street, and then, turning back, she whispered
to Mildred, "Do you remember that secret
Charlie had about you, a long time ago?"
"Yes," said Mildred, with great interest.
"Well," said Leslie, "you will know what it
is Christmas morning. 'S-sh!" she exclaimed,
as Charlie called her; don't tell him that I told
you." And so, running off, she left Mildred
meditating over what she had said.
"Undoubtedly," thought Mildred, "this must
mean that Charlie is going to give me a Christ-
mas present." The knowledge made her glad,
and she wondered what it would be. And yet,
at the same time, she remembered with sudden
regret that she had not thought of giving either
Charlie or Leslie a Christmas present. If they
gave her something and she gave them nothing

in return, that would be very awkward. And so
she immediately went in search of her mother,
whom she found in the kitchen helping Amanda
make mince-meat and other Christmas dainties,
and asked her advice on the subject.
"Don't you think, Mama," said Mildred,
"that I ought to give them something?"
"Well, no," said her mother; "I do not.
That is, I don't think you ought to make them
a present just because they are going to give
you one. That is not the sentiment of Christ-
mas at all."
If you had thought of it in time it would
have been a pretty attention to have made
Leslie something. But it is too late now."
"Could n't I buy her a present?" said
No," said her mother; because that would
not mean the same thing."
But, Mama," protested Mildred, I want to
do something. Don't you think I have time
to make just some little thing ? "
No, dear," said her mother; "I really do
not. Christmas is the day after to-morrow.
This afternoon we are going shopping, and to-
morrow we are going to help get the Christmas
dinner ready at the Orphans' Home. The best
suggestion I can make is for you to buy two
pretty Christmas cards; one for Charlie and one
for Leslie, and send them Christmas morning.
That, without making any pretensions to being
a gift, will show that you did not forget them,
which, after all, is what you want."
Mildred was not altogether contented with
this decision, but, seeing no way to remedy it,
she made the best of the matter. When she went
with her mother that afternoon to buy Amanda's
head-kerchief and Eliza's purse, she made a
selection of two pretty Christmas cards, and
when she found that they cost almost as much
as she had expected to pay for a "regular
present," she was much better satisfied; for
which her mother good-naturedly laughed at

CHRISTMAS morning dawned very gently and
very slowly on Washington city, because it came
in a snow-storm-a good old-fashioned snow-
storm everybody said, as they looked out of



their windows and saw the ledges softly rounded
up with two or three inches of snow, and the
roofs of the houses and the streets all smoothly
white. When Mildred looked out of her win-
dow, she danced up and down with delight; and
indeed the snow did make a beautiful sight.
There were the old familiar trees in the garden,

was in this fashion that Mildred received her
home presents. They were brought into her
room mysteriously in the night when she was
asleep, and when she awoke in the morning
there they were to greet her opening eyes. Of
course, since she had grown to be twelve years
old, Santa Claus had taken Mildred's name


looking 'quite strange, all covered with feathery
white blossoms; and on the top of the brick
wall was a long white bolster, and on each spike
of the iron railings a little white hood, and over
all the hush of the silently falling flakes.
But there were other things for Mildred to
look at beside the snow, this Christmas morn-
ing. There was a stocking hanging from the
mantel, all bulging out with knobs and sharp
covers, and a chair by the side of her bed
piled up with packages big and little. For it

off his regular visiting-list, but nevertheless she
could not give up the habit of hanging up her
stocking Christmas eve, and she never failed to
find it filled Christmas morning.
And now, wrapped in a blanket, seated with
her feet curled under her in a big chair before
the red, snapping fire, Mildred, assisted by
Eliza, began the delightful business of open-
ing her bundles. There were books from her
mother, a gold bead necklace from her father,
a huge cake from Amanda, with "Mildred"



written on the top in sugar, and a complete
doll's wardrobe from Eliza, besides all the quaint
and funny things in her stocking.
In this pleasant occupation they were inter-
rupted by the ringing of the first bell for break-
fast, which brought Eliza to her feet with the
exclamation, "The good plan's sake! W'at am I
thinking' 'bout, squand'rin' my time like this!"
And hurrying away, she left Mildred to finish
her toilet.
When Mildred bounded into the breakfast-
room a few minutes later, her arms filled with
her treasures, she found her mother there alone.
"Merry Christmas, Mama!" she cried, put-
ting down her bundles and throwing her arms
around her mother's neck. Here 's a kiss for
Christmas, and here are twenty for the books.
They 're just too lovely for anything!"
I 'm glad that you like them, dear," said
her mother, after returning her greeting.
Indeed I do," said Mildred; they are just
what I wanted, and I 'm so much obliged to
you. And here 's a little present that I made
for you," continued Mildred, bringing forth the
tidy. "I made it all myself."
"Why, how nicely you have done it! said
her mother. "It is very pretty, indeed."
"There are some parts that are not so good
as others," said Mildred, thinking about the work
she had done on that unfortunate Saturday after-
noon; "but I could n't help that."
"Well, I don't know," said her mother, look-
ing at the tidy critically; "it all seems to me
very well done. In fact, I did not know that
you could work so nicely. Thank you, sweet-
heart, very much"; and she gave Mildred an-
other kiss.
Quite satisfied with the result of her labors,
Mildred proceeded to show her mother her
other presents. "Amanda made me a great big
cake, Mama. And Eliza made me these doll's
clothes. See here! Are n't they nice? They
are made just like real persons' clothes, exactly."
And after her mother had admired these things,
Mildred at last put her hand in her pocket and,
drawing forth the bead necklace, exclaimed in
great triumph, "But now, what do you think
I 've got?" And hiding it mysteriously be-
tween the palms of her hands, she laid her
cheek against them and looked at her mother

with dancing eyes. See that! she cried, sud-
denly opening her hands. Is n't it beautiful ? "
"Are you very glad to have it ?" said her
mother, smiling at her enthusiasm.
Oh, indeed I am," said Mildred; "ever so
glad,--you don't know! But where is papa ? "
she continued. What makes him so late ? "
"He does not feel very well this morning,"
replied her mother; "and he is going to take
breakfast in his room."
"Oh! cried Mildred, her face lengthening
with disappointment, "I 'm so sorry. I wanted
to thank him, and I wanted to give him his
present, too."
"Well, never mind, dear," said her mother;
"you and I will breakfast together, and after
that we will go and pay papa a visit."
If Mildred's attention had not been taken up
at that moment by the entrance of Amanda,
she might have seen that her mother's cheer-
fulness was altogether assumed and that she
looked pale and careworn. The fact was, she
had been sitting up for many weary hours
with Major Fairleigh, who had been so sick in
the middle of the night that Eliza had to be
called up and sent for the doctor. But all
this had been concealed from Mildred, her
father himself having requested that her Christ-
mas joy might not be spoiled.
So, after Mildred had thanked Amanda for
the cake and presented the head-kerchief, her
mother called her attention to some more pack-
ages that had arrived that morning.
Two of the new packages were boxes that
had come by express, and they had to be
opened with a hatchet. One of them was
from Mrs. Fairleigh's sister who lived in Paris,
and it contained presents for all of the family.
To Mildred was sent a sealskin jacket and cap.
This very handsome gift was quite enough to send
Mildred dancing around the room again with
joy, and altogether created quite a sensation.
The other box was very rough-looking, and when
opened proved to be full of big yellow oranges.
This was a present from a cousin of Major Fair.
leigh's, who owned a ranch in California. With
the third package was a card upon which was
written, For Miss Mildred Fairleigh, with a
Merry Christmas, from Chas. G. Morton."
This, then, was Charlie's secret !



Mildred stood first on one foot, and then on
the other, in her impatience as Eliza opened the
bundle. "Why, it 's nothing but string! she
exclaimed, as the wrappers were taken off.
"What kind o' present 's that!" said Eliza,
"Open it out," said Mrs. Fairleigh, herself
somewhat puzzled. Oh, I see," she added;
"it is a hammock, and a very pretty one,
"But what is it for, Mama ? said Mildred.
"Why, to lie down in, dear," said her mother.
"Don't you remember they had them under the
trees at Sulphur Springs ?"
Oh, yes, I remember," said Mildred; "but
where can I hang it in my play-room ? ,
"Yes," said her mother, "that would be a
very good place for it. And now let us have
But although Amanda had cooked them a
royal breakfast, neither Mildred nor her mother
seemed very hungry. Mrs. Fairleigh made a
pretense of eating, but Mildred was too much
excited over her presents for even that. They
had almost finished, and Mildred was hurry-
ing that she might go up-stairs to see her father,
when the door-bell rang, and Mildred, clapping
her hands, looked up and exclaimed, "Another
present!" But no; Eliza went to the door,
and in a few minutes returned, announcing the
Show him in here," said Mrs. Fairleigh.
Dr. Strong was a surgeon in the army, and
a very old frieAd of the family. He was stout
and jolly, and came in from the snow-storm
looking like a red apple. Merry Christmas to
you all!" he cried, as he entered the room rub-
bing his hands. "Good morning, Mrs. Fair-
leigh. This is fine wintry weather. Aha! Miss
Mildred, Santa Claus has been here, I see. I
met him coming away, and he told me that he
had forgotten to give you this. And the doc-
tor handed Mildred a good-sized parcel which
proved to be a blue satin box filled with French
Won't you sit down and have some break-
fast, Doctor ?" said Mrs. Fairleigh, after Mil-
dred had thanked him.
No, no," he said; "don't mind me. I 've
had my breakfast, an hour ago. I don't know,

though; I believe I will have a cup of that
famous coffee of Amanda's. Bless my soul! "
he continued, "what's all this ? A hammock,
and oranges! Why, that 's quite tropical."
"Papa's cousin John sent me the oranges,"
said Mildred. He has a big ranch away out
in California."
"Has he so ?" said the doctor, looking at
Mildred in a thoughtful way. Cousin John
has a ranch in California, has he?" And, sit-
ting down, the doctor slowly stirred his coffee,
looking into it in the same meditative way, and
saying, Humph! A ranch in California; yes,
yes. Well," he added, finally looking up, and
how is the patient? "
Mrs. Fairleigh, catching the doctor's eye,
glanced meaningly at Mildred, as she answered,
"We hope he will do very well, Doctor."
"Ah, yes," replied the doctor, looking at
Mildred; "exactly."
"Can I go up now and see papa?" said
"So far as I am concerned, you may," said
the doctor.
"I think, perhaps, that you might go up,
dear," said her mother, and tell papa that the
doctor is here. But don't stay too long."
Taking a few of her presents with her to
show her father, Mildred left the room.
As soon as the door closed upon her the
doctor said, "Well, how is he ?"
I think he feels a little more comfortable,"
said Mrs. Fairleigh. But, oh, Doctor," she
added, her eyes filling with tears, "I am so
uneasy !"
Of course, of course," replied the doctor;
"it is natural that you should be. At the same
time I don't think that you have any cause for
immediate apprehension. The fact of the mat-
ter is, Washington at this time of the year is no
place for the Major. He ought to be out on
Cousin John's' ranch in California, where he
can stay out of doors all day long, and take life
easy in a hammock under the orange-trees. I
wish he were there now."
You really think that he ought to go away ?"
asked Mrs. Fairleigh, anxiously.
"Yes, my dear friend, I do," said the doctor.
As I have told you before, I think that some
day a surgical operation may relieve him of that




Gettysburg bullet, and bring about his recovery.
But there is no use talking of that until he is
strong enough to bear it. He is not gaining
strength in this most trying climate of Wash-
ington; on the contrary, he is losing it, and to
speak frankly I don't think that he can safely
live here in his present condition."
If you think that, Doctor," said Mrs. Fair-
leigh, gravely, "I shall try my best to induce
him to go away."
"I have no hesitation in saying, my dear
madam, that in my opinion it is the best thing
you can do. However, the first and most im-
portant point is to get the Major on his feet
At this moment Mildred returned.
"Papa says to give you his compliments,
Doctor," she said, "and he will be pleased to
have you come up-stairs."
Oh, he will," said the doctor. Trrs bien,
Ma'mselle; I will go immediately."
Don't you think that papa will be able to
come down to dinner, Mama ?" said Mildred,
mournfully, after the doctor had left. It won't
seem like Christmas unless he does."
"Maybe he will, dear," said her mother.
"These attacks don't last very long, you know.
Would n't you like to go out and take a run in
the snow? Why not go and see Leslie, and
then you can thank Charlie for the hammock."
"Oh, yes, I would like to do that," said
Mildred, brightening up. And a few moments
later, in her new sealskin cap and coat, she was
plowing her way through the snow.
Mildred found Leslie and her brother in their
yard making a snow fort. They set up a shout
when they saw her and called out, Merry
Christmas! At the same time Leslie let drive
a snowball which came very close to Mildred's
ear; and then she ran out and hugged her.
"Why, Dreddy!" she cried. "How cute you
look i Is that a Christmas present? Sealskin is
awfully becoming to you; is n't it, Charlie ? "
Charlie agreed. For Mildred's black curly
hair mingling with the fur of the cap, and her
black eyes, and red cheeks, and white teeth
appearing just above the dark fur of the coat
did make a pretty contrast.
Come in and see all the things I 've got,"
said Leslie, putting her arm around her. Then

she whispered, "Did you get Charlie's pres-
ent? He made it himself." And then she
giggled and looked around at Charlie.
But he happened to be close behind her
and overheard what was said. "Aha!" he
exclaimed, "I heard you talking about me,
Miss!" And scooping up a little snow he
threw it over her.
"Oo-oo-ooh!" exclaimed Leslie, squirming
around, half laughing, half scolding. "You
mean, hateful thing!" And then having brushed
off the snow as well as she could, she sud-
denly stooped and made a snow-ball which
she threw at Charlie with all her might. But
Charlie ducked his head in time to avoid it,
and picking up a handful of snow himself, he
made a great show of welding it together very
hard for Leslie's benefit; at which Leslie fled
into the house.
Mildred and Charlie followed, laughing.
But Leslie had her revenge, for she had let
down the latch of the front door so that
Charlie had to ring the bell and wait for the
servant to let him in, while Leslie stood at the
parlor window making fun of him. Mildred
took advantage of this opportunity to thank
Charlie for the hammock.
"Did you like it? he said.
"Yes, indeed," said Mildred. "And I was
so surprised. I never had a hammock before,
and this is such a pretty one. Did you really
make it yourself?"
"Yes," said Charlie, "I made it; but it has
been so long since I made one that I 'm afraid
this is n't first-class."
I 'm sure it is," said Mildred, enthusiasti-
cally. "It 's beautifully made. I don't see
how you could do it at all. I thought Leslie
was just in fun when she said that you made it."
"A Mexican packer taught me how," said
Charlie. "They make much prettier ones out
of colored grass."
I think it was very nice of you to do so
much for me," said Mildred, heartily.
"Oh, it 's nothing !" said Charlie, blushing
and stamping the snow off his feet.
At this moment Leslie consented to open the
door, and carried Mildred off to show her the
But Mildred did not stay long. She felt anx-



ious and restless on account of her father's ill-
ness. For although it was not at all unusual
for her father to be unwell enough to have to
take breakfast in his own room, somehow or
other it seemed to sadden Mildred more on

holly-berries out of the hall and out of my room
and put them in there, shall I ? "
"If you like, dear," said her mother. "I
think it would be very nice to make the dining-
room look as pretty as possible for papa."


i L.9I

,LSLEE T.I V' A S A-N H_ C CAM Y_- C A- .-.R.LS.


this Christmas morning. And so, despite Les-
lie's protests, she soon ran back through the
snow to her own house. And as she entered
her mother's sitting-room, with its cheerful fire
and dear, familiar objects, she felt that home
was the only place to spend Christmas in, after
Her mother came in as she stood warming
her feet, and Mildred instantly saw that there
was a happier expression on her face.
"Is papa better ? she asked.
"Yes, dear, much better," said her mother.
" He is sitting up now, and he thinks that per-
haps he will be able to come down-stairs for a
little while this evening, so that we may all have
our Christmas dinner together."
"I 'm so glad! cried Mildred, with a little
jamp. "That will be splendid! And I tell
you, Mama, the dining-room is n't decorated
half enough. I '11 get some of the greens and

And that evening the dining-room did look
as pretty as possible. The firelight and candle-
light flickered upon the burnished silver and
glassware set out on the massive mahogany
sideboard, and upon the pretty table-service;
while Mildred's evergreens and red berries,
wreathed around the chandelier and picture-
frames, and around the brass frame of the an-
tique mantel mirror, with its brass sconces each
side full of tall wax candles, gave the room a
jolly Christmas air that would have made any
one's heart glad.
Mrs. Fairleigh, dressed in a plain, black velvet
gown that had been made for her a great many
years ago, and yet that looked all the prettier
for being old-fashioned, with a sprig of mistle-
toe and red berries at her throat, assisted her
husband to his easy-chair at the head of the
table. In this affectionate ceremony she was
helped by Mildred. Then Eliza, arrayed in a




new dress, the gift of Mrs. Fairleigh, served the
soup and the fish and at last the turkey, a big,
fat bird, of a rich brown crispiness, the sight
of which caused Mildred to laugh aloud. But,
after all, this was as nothing compared to the
effect produced by the arrival of the plum-pud-
ding. For this luscious globe was borne in, all
aflame with brandy-sauce, by no less a person
than Amanda herself. Amanda was dressed in
a new gown also, with Mildred's head-kerchief
turbaned around her grizzled hair, and a white
cambric kerchief crossed upon her breast, pinned
with a gold pin, the gift of Major Fairleigh.
When she set the plum-pudding on the table,
and stood back, there may have been prouder
women than Amanda in Washington that night,
but it is doubtful.
Then, according to an old custom in the fam-
ily, Major Fairleigh poured a glass of wine for
each of the servants, and in a little speech
thanked them for their faithful labor and de-
votion to his family during the past year, and,

wishing them all prosperity, he drank their very
good health.
Amanda responded to this as she had al-
ways done ever since Mildred could remem-
ber, and in pretty much the same words. She
first took off her big silver spectacles and wiped
them, and then, putting them on again, said:
" Marse Will, I 'se served de Dwights an' de
Fairleighs nigh on to fifty year. I held Miss
Mary dere in my arms when she war a baby,
an' I raised her till she done got married to
you, Marse Will; an' den I come 'long wid her
an' helped to raise Miss Milly dere. An' I
doan' ax fer no mo' prosperity dan w'at comes to
me along wid de fambly naturally, a-sarvin' you
an' yourn" Here Amanda, for the first time
in Mildred's experience, hesitated a little and
then proceeded in a lower voice, "I doan' ax
fer no mo' prosperity dan to see you git well an'
strong ag'in, Marse Will. So yere 's you' very
good health an' Miss Mary's, an' Miss Milly's,
an' may de good Lord bress you all! Amen! "

(To be continued.)



I 'i tired of waiting for "some day."
Oh, when will it ever be here ?
I 'm sure I have waited and waited
A good deal more than a year.

Saturday, Sunday, and Monday,
And all the rest of the week,
Keep coming, and coming, and coming;
But at "some day" I don't get a peek.

I 've looked all the almanac over,
And showed every page to my doll;
And we 're sure (how I hope we're mistaken!)
" Some day" is not in it at all.

The things I 'm to have on "some day"
I could n't half tell in an age:
A tricycle, pony, a parrot,
A birdie that sings in a cage.

A cute little smutty-nosed pug-dog,
The prettiest tortoise-shell cat;
And papa says, maybe, the measles-
I 'm sure I don't care about that.

And mama is going to take me
To see lots of beautiful things;
And big brother Jack and Kitty
Will give me two lovely gold rings.

And "some day" I '11 find out the reason
Of things I can't now understand;
And "some day" I '11 have a big dolly
That can walk and hold on by my hand.

Oh, I 'm tired of waiting for "some day"-
It makes me just cross. I declare.
I 'm afraid, when it really does get here,
I '11 be a big girl and won't care.




FEW months ago I took
"a journey by sea. When
the steamer had passed quite out of sight of
land, a gentleman from Ohio remarked in rather
a nervous way:
"It seems to me as if I had left the whole
world behind me."
How," I asked, "would you feel if no one
had ever crossed the Atlantic before ? "
He laughingly replied, "In that event, noth-
ing could make me go on this voyage."
When he had gone, I fell to thinking of the
indomitable courage of the great Columbus,
who first sailed over the sea from Europe to
America, and of the honor all Americans ought
to render to his memory. Surely he must have
had visions of very beautiful lands to encourage
him, or, so great were the difficulties he had to
encounter, he would have given up in despair.
The one idea of his life, which has rendered
him the greatest discoverer in the annals of
history, was that the Indies could be reached
by sailing west from Europe. He was poor,
and needed money to test the truth of his
theory. He first had high hopes that his own
countrymen, the Genoese, would aid him; but
they took no interest in his scheme. He next


applied to the Portuguese, sustained by the
belief that these pioneers in discovery would
give him a favorable hearing. Again he was
disappointed; and he now turned to Spain,
arriving there in the year 1485. He met with
some encouragement from the Spanish sover-
eigns; and he spent five years in solicitation
at their court, hoping all the time they would
agree to relieve him of the financial difficulties
that barred his way. But Ferdinand and Isa-
bella were busy with their wars; and finally, in
1490, they indefinitely postponed the matter.
After this, there is evidence that Columbus laid
his plans before several Spanish noblemen, but
with no better success.
He now decided to ask aid from the King of
France, and he prepared to go to that country;
but, at the advice of Friar Juan Perez, one of
his most faithful friends, he resolved once more
to try the court of Spain. Juan Perez, who
had acted as Queen Isabella's confessor, wrote
to her indorsing the.great navigator's idea.
Columbus reached the Queen to make his last
appeal at a time when of all others he might
hope to find her in a gracious mood. It was
in 1492, just after the Spaniards had captured
Granada from the Moors, and had planted their


banners upon the red towers of its renowned
fortress, the Alhambra. The noble Isabella had
all the time been really interested in Columbus's
plan; and she now consented to help him.
But even after he had been fitted out for his
voyage under her patronage, his troubles were
by no means at an end. The three ships that
were furnished him, called the Santa Maria,"
the Pinta," and the Nifa," were small, light
craft, but poorly suited for a long and perilous
journey. The sailors who manned them had
been obtained with much difficulty. With few
exceptions, they had little appreciation of the
greatness of the enterprise.
When the expedition set sail from Palos, on
the 3d of August, 1492, not a single spectator
gave it a hearty" God-speed"; but, on all sides,
the gloomiest predictions were made as to the
fate of the men who were going to venture out
upon the Sea of Darkness, which was supposed
to surround the known world. The minds of the
sailors could not but be affected by the lack of
faith in the enterprise they had seen stamped
upon the faces of their friends; and so they
were ready to magnify real dangers, and to let
their minds run wild over imaginary ones..
Christopher Columbus alone had to quiet their
fears, answer their objections, and breathe into
them some of his own courage; and this, too,
when he himself sorely needed support.
The route from Palos to the Canary Isles
was not an unknown one; and this much of
the distance was easily passed over. Here Co-
lumbus stopped till the 6th of September to
repair the Pinta, whose rudder had been lost.
Upon one of these islands is situated Mount
Teneriffe, which was found to be in full erup-
tion. As the sailors saw this, they shuddered
and said: "This is an evil omen, and betokens
a disastrous end to our voyage." But Colum-
bus quieted their superstitions. He explained
the nature of volcanoes, and called to their minds
Mount Etna, with which they were familiar.
But when they looked back over the course
they had taken, and saw the last of the Canary
Isles grow dim in the distant offing and then
fade out of sight, tears trickled down their
bronzed faces, as the thought came to them
that their ships were now, indeed, plowing
through trackless seas. But they took heart

again as Columbus told them of the riches and
magnificence of India, which he assured them
lay directly to the west.
So the voyage progressed without further
incident worthy of remark till the i3th of Sep-
tember, when the magnetic needle, which was
then believed always to point to the pole-star,
stood some five degrees to the northwest. At
this the pilots lost courage. How," they
thought, was navigation possible in seas where
the compass, that unerring guide, had lost its
virtue ?" When they carried the matter to Co-
lumbus, he at once gave them an explanation
which, though not the correct one, was yet very
ingenious, and shows the philosophic turn of his
mind. The needle, he said, pointed not to the
North Star, but to a fixed place in the heavens.
The North Star had a motion around the pole,
and in following its course had moved from the
point to which the needle was always directed.
Hardly had the alarm caused by the varia-
tion of the needle passed away, when two days
later, after nightfall, the darkness that hung
over the water was lighted up by a great me-
teor, which shot down from the sky into the
sea. Signs in the heavens have always been a
source of terror to the uneducated; and this
"flame of fire," as Columbus called it, rendered
his men uneasy and apprehensive. Their vague
fears were much increased when, on the i6th
of September, they reached the Sargasso Sea, in
which floating weeds were so densely matted
that they impeded the progress of the ships.
Whispered tales now passed from one sailor
to another of legends they had heard of seas
full of shoals and treacherous quicksands upon
which ships had been found stranded with their
sails flapping idly in the wind, and manned by
skeleton crews. Columbus ever cheerful and
even-tempered, answered these idle tales by
sounding the ocean and showing that no bottom
could be reached.
As the ships were upon unknown seas, it was
natural that every unusual circumstance should
give the sailors alarm. Even the easterly trade-
winds, into the region of which they had en-
tered, and which were so favorable to their west-
ward progress, occasioned the gravest fears.
"In these seas," they reasoned, "the winds
always blow from the east. How, then, can we

. 671


ever go back to Spain?" But on September
22 the wind blew strongly from the west, which
proved a return to Spain was not impossible.
Still, the men thought they had gone far
enough, and daily grew more impatient and
distrustful of their commander, whom, after all,
they knew only as a foreign adventurer whose
ideas learned men had pronounced visionary.
They formed a plan to throw Columbus into the
sea. This done, they proposed, on their return
to Spain, to say he had fallen overboard as he
consulted his astronomical instruments.
Columbus, whose keen eye saw signs of ris-
ing mutiny, took steps to meet it. The men
who were timid he encouraged with kind words.
To the avaricious he spoke of the great wealth
they would find in the new countries. Those
who were openly rebellious he threatened with
the severest, punishment. Thus, by managing
the men with tact, he kept them at their posts of
duty till September 25, when, from certain favor-
able signs, every one grew hopeful that land was
near. The sea was now calm, and, as the ships
sailed close together, wafted westward by gen-
tle breezes, Martin Pinzon, who commanded the
Pinta, cried out, Land, land!" and forthwith
began to chant the Gloria in Excelsis." But
he had been deceived by a ridge of low-lying
cloud. For a week following, from many favor-
able indications, all on board were confident
that as each day drew to a close land would be
discovered on the next-and with each morn-
ing came bitter disappointment. This state
of feeling continued till October 7, when, as
the Nifia, the smallest of the vessels, was
breasting the waves ahead of the others, she
suddenly hoisted a flag and, as a signal that
land had been sighted, fired a gun, the first
ever heard upon those silent waters. But the
ships sailed on; and no land came in view.
The high hopes of the sailors now left
them. The golden countries promised them
seemed to recede as they approached. They
became firmly resolved that they would give up
the search after phantom lands and return to
their homes. Columbus had exhausted his pow-
ers of persuasion. He now boldly announced
that he would continue his voyage to the
Indies in spite of all dangers. Doubtless he
knew he could not much longer control his tur-

bulent, hot-tempered followers. But the i ith of
October, the day after he had come to an open
rupture with them, brought unmistakable signs
that land was near-such indications as fresh
weeds that grow near running water, fish that
were known to live about rocks, a limb of a tree
with berries on it, and a carved staff. Every eye
eagerly scanned the horizon. Night came on,
however, and land had not been discovered;
but the eager men were too happy to close their
eyes in sleep. About ten o'clock, Columbus saw
a light in the distance which moved to and fro
in the darkness; and, shortly after midnight,
a sailor on the Pinta made the welcome an-
nouncement that land could be seen. The
ships now took in sail, and waited for the morn-
ing. As the 12th of October dawned, and the
light of the rising sun dispelled the soft morn-
ing mists, Columbus's patience and unflagging
zeal had their reward. He could plainly see
land; and he tells us it looked "like a garden
full of trees." It was an island belonging to
what is now the Bahama group.
The ships soon cast anchor; and the boats
were let down and rowed rapidly to a landing-
place on the coast. Columbus, richly dressed
and wearing complete armor, sprang upon the
shore, bearing aloft the colors of Spain. He
was closely followed by the captains of the
Pinta and the Nifia and a number of sailors,
each captain carrying a banner upon which
were wrought a green cross and the initials of
Ferdinand and Isabella. They all, as soon as
their feet touched the land, "fell upon their
knees," and offered up their "immense thanks-
givings to Almighty God."
When Columbus arose he planted the flag of
Spain firmly in the soil. Who can properly ap-
preciate the feelings that must have stirred his
soul at this moment!
No wonder that Columbus was radiant with
joy as he looked around him. No wonder that
he wrote in his journal: "The beauty of the
new land far surpasses the Campifa de Cordova.
The trees are bright with an ever verdant foli-
age, and are always laden with fruit. The
plants on the ground are high and flowering.
The air is warm as that of April in Castile."
No wonder that he said: I felt as if I could
never leave so charming a spot, as if a thousand




tongues would fail to describe all these things,
and as if my hand were spellbound and refused
to write."
Joy filled his heart; for he regarded himself
as under the special guidance of God. Truly he
had cause for thankfulness. Heaven had given
him a high and noble purpose and had granted

WHEN the feast is spread in our country's
When the nations are gathered from far
and near,
When East and West send up the same
Glad shout, and call to the lands, "Good
When North and South shall give their
The fairest and best of the century born,
Oh, then for the king of the feast make room!
Make room, we pray, for the scarlet thorn!

Not the goldenrod from the hillsides blest,
Not the pale arbutus from pastures rare,
Not the waving wheat from the mighty West,
Nor the proud magnolia tall and fair
Shall Columbia unto the banquet bring.
They, willing of heart, shall stand and wait;
For the thorn, with his scarlet crown, is king.
Make room for him at the splendid f6te!

Do we not remember the olden tale?
And that terrible day of dark despair,
When Columbus, under the lowering sail,
VOL. XIX.-43.

him its fulfilment. He had reached the land
that lay west of Europe, and which he believed
to be a remote part of Asia; but he had really
found America. By his hand the veil of ob-
scurity had been lifted from the New World, and
soon it became known to civilized man in all its
matchless beauty.

Sent out to the hidden lands his prayer?
And was it not he of the scarlet bough
Who first went forth from shore to greet
That lone grand soul, at the vessel's prow,
Defying fate with his tiny fleet?

Grim treachery threatened, above, below,
And death stood close at the captain's side,
When he saw-oh, joy!- in the sunset glow,
The thorn-tree's branch o'er the waters
" Land! Land ahead! was the joyful shout;
The vesper hymn o'er the ocean swept;
The mutinous sailors faced about;
Together they fell on their knees and wept.

At dawn they landed with pennons white;
They kissed the sod of San Salvador;
But dearer than gems on his doublet bright
Were the scarlet berries their leader bore;
Thorny and sharp, like his future crown,
Blood-red, like the wounds in his great
heart made,
Yet an emblem true of his proud renown
Whose glorious colors shall never fade.


John B

ANM asked to tell the
Readers of b'r.Ni cHO-
S- LAS something about
the Scarlet Thorn."
S*.. But we have no scarlet
Sthorn; that is, no one
S ,i species to which this
t name is specially applied.
S ,/ When I was a boy I once
I' went into a store and
asked the merchant for
a piece of "flowered calico." Some girl had
asked me to contribute a "block" to her quilt.
My people laughed at me when I told them,
because they said all calico was "flowered."
So I may say that all or nearly all thorn-apples
are red, though I have occasionally seen a
yellow variety. Every country boy and girl
knows the thorn-tree, with its mass of white
bloom in May and its mass of red fruit in
the fall. Last September I spent some weeks
in a farm-house situated high up on one of the
pastoral slopes of the Catskills, and one of my
favorite walks was to a thorn-tree that grew in
a remote field on the mountain-side. It was
loaded with pale-red fruit, which, the latter part
of the month, was excellent. The mellower
ones fell to the ground. I used to pick out the
larger and fairer ones, and when I had eaten
enough would fill my pockets to give the peo-
ple at the house a treat. The cattle liked them,
too, and often I would find the ground cleaned
of them, but a little shake of the tree would
bring down more. There were several thorn-

had fruit that surpassed all others in its quality.
I had discovered when a boy that their fruit
differed in this respect as much as did that of
apple-trees. Nearer by the house were some
thorn-trees that had unusually large fruit, but it
was so hard and dry I could not eat it.
There are a great many species of the thorn
distributed throughout the United States. All
the northern species, so far as I know, have
white flowers. In the South they are more
inclined to be pink or roseate. If Columbus
picked up at sea a spray of the thorn, it was
doubtless some Southern species,- let us be-
lieve it was the Washington thorn, which grows
on the banks of streams from Virginia to the
Gulf, and loads heavily with small red fruit.
One species of thorn in the South is called the
apple-haw; its fruit is large, and is much used
for tarts and jellies. The commonest species
throughout New York and New England is
probably the white thorn; its thorns and
branches are of a whitish tinge, the fruit coral-
red. Our thorn-trees do not differ very much
from the English hawthorn.
The thorn belongs to the great family of trees
that includes the apple, peach, pear, raspberry,
strawberry, etc.,- namely, the rose family, or
Rosace. Hence the apple, pear, and plum are
often grafted on the white thorn.
A curious thing about the thorns is that they
are suppressed or abortive branches. The an-
cestor of this tree must have been terribly
abused some time, to have its branches turn to


thorns. Take a young apple-tree and use it
roughly enough, put it in hard, stony soil,
let the cattle browse it down and hook it and
bruise it, and it will develop thorns almost as
hard and quite as sharp as those of the thorn-
tree; its tender branches become so discour-
aged and embittered that they turn almost to
bone, and wound the hand that touches them.
The seedling pear-tree is usually very thorny
when young, much more so than the apple,
which makes one think it is more recently out
of the woods. As it grows older its manner in
this respect improves.
An apple-tree or a thorn-tree in the fields
where the cattle can come at it, has a pro-
longed struggle for existence, and they both
behave in about the same manner. They
spread out upon all sides and grow very dense,
crabbed, and thorny, till they have become so
broad upon the ground that the cattle cannot

reach their central shoots; then quickly from
the midst of this spiny mound up goes a stalk,
and the tree has won the victory. After this
stalk becomes a fully developed tree, in the case
of the apple, the thorns disappear and the bar-
rier of crabbed branches at its foot gradually
dies down. But the thorn-tree does not get over
its wrath so readily; it keeps its sharp, spiteful
weapons as if to guard its fruit against some
imaginary danger.
I have an idea that persistent cultivation and
good treatment would greatly mollify the sharp
temper of the thorn, if not change it completely.
The flower of the thorn would become us
well as the national flower. It belongs to such a
hardy, spunky, unconquerable tree, and to such
a numerous and useful family. Certainly, it
would be vastly better than the merely delicate
and pretty wild flowers that have been so gen-
erally named.



LAN, lad, hast thee
closed up the mill?"
"Ay, Mother;
'deed I have,"
laughed Alan, com-
ing into the living-
room from the mill-
place, and brushing
o-iWE i flour from his rosy
face as he spoke.
"Thou thinkest I have no head for care-
taking, Mother; but 'deed the sluices are shut
and the sacks bestowed; every bar is up and
weighted, and the place dark as a dungeon.
I 'm going to help Nancy fetch the milk."
Snuff the candles and jog poppet's cradle
yon," said the busy dame, stirring the porridge-
pot, with a thoughtful look in her eyes. "It
be a coldish night, Alan. Spy carefully up and
down the road as thee goest to Nancy. Hark!
what was that ? "
"Oh, nothing at all, Mother!" said Alan, put-
ting the wooden yoke for the milk-pails over his

shoulders. "Belike it was Sukey stamping in
her stall."
He tramped off to the barnyard, but the good-
wife was not satisfied.
She called the children from their romp in the
out-kitchen, and, putting their bowls of porridge
before them, took up a candle and entered the
dark mill to examine its fastenings herself.
It was a warm, sweet, musty place. The rafters
were half hidden by dusty festoons of cobwebs.
The hoppers, which whirred and purred all day
long for the family living, stood silent and dumb.
The wooden wheel shutting off the sluices
lay well fastened back, and high in a corner
was the pile of white bags, tied and billeted with
wooden tally-sticks, and awaiting their owners.
"There's a smitch of good corn there," said
the dame, leaning over to push her finger against
a bag lest it were not filled to hard pressure.
" Many a loaf of bread for Dale-Rill-side lies
there, and corn 's none too plenty with the war
and plundering all about us! She sighed and
went back to the living-room.



Nancy and Alan entered with the milk-pails.
"It's freezing a weeny," said Nancy, giving over
her pails to her mother. There 's a bit of ice
along the goose brook. The ground 's hard as
the ax-head, and oh, but there 's a bonny circle
round the moon! "
"Snow," commented Alan. "And then Squire
Mortimer cannot ride down to pay his tally and
give us the silver for winter shoon."
"You can ay foot it a bit longer as you
stand," said the dame, smiling. It 's not lack
of silver that fretteth me, nor the riding down
of the Squire. I pray we do not see the riding
down of Cornwallis's men."
"They raided Sandy Farm last week," re-
marked Alan, flinging a billet of wood on the
fire. "They took all the cattle."
"What would 'ee do, brever Alan, if Corn-
wallis came to 'ee mill ?" piped a wee towhead
over his porridge-bowl.
"Hark to Jackie! laughed Alan, catching
him up for a kiss. 'Deed, I would put spurs
to Sukey, and ride--ride--ride--over sticks
and stones and stubble, forsooth, to our camp
on the Raritan."
"Ay, lad, it's brave to say; but I would not
have the trial for thee,-that would I not!"
Nancy cleared away the 'supper and sang the
children to sleep, as they lay in their low trundle-
beds with the door of the living-room open.
"Sing Burned Byres,'" pleaded Jackie, sleepily.
The tall candles flared, and Nancy crooned,

Click clacket, click clacket,
They ride away,
Full forty brave men
At th' peep o' th' day;
But say was it brav'ry
Burned byres to see
O'er all the broad village
O' Stane-by-the-Lea?

"Thee 's a bit too gruesome in thy singing,"
sighed the dame, listening sharply. Hist!
Does thee no hear hoof-beats ? "
"Ay, do I," said Nancy, quietly; and going
to the lattice she turned its broad button and
looked out across the gray moonlit landscape
far northward to the line of woods. The brood-
ing stillness of coming snow lay over everything.
Through this stillness, sharp and distinct came
the even but distant beat of hoofs,- not the

light click of a single rider, but the sound of a
number of horses' feet.
"They be over the ridge yet," said Nancy,
taking down her saddle. "'T is windless, and
sound travels far. Which shall 't be that rides
Sukey, Mother-Alan or I ?"
Alan came in at the door.
Not thy saddle, Nancy," he cried. Let
me go!"
Nay, I am safe enough on Sukey! Bethink
thee of the rough soldiers! Stay to protect
mother, Alan!"
"But the road is dark and broken; soldier
bands are prowling hither and yon," he cried,
looking with terror at Nancy tying on her
Let Nancy go," said the dame. "We '11
have shift enough to hold the mill, I fear."
"Now ride!" cried Alan, as Sukey was
saddled, bitted, and bridled. Ride, Nancy,
and pray help from Dickinson's men."
Nancy caught up the bridle, and whispered
to Sukey. Then away she rode in the darkness,
humming half unconsciously the little song, as
Sukey's hoofs beat the time:
Click clacket, click clacket,
They ridet away;
Their roses were red,
An' their feathers streamed gay.
But redder than roses
Th' stains you may see
Of sword and long saber
At Stane-by-the-Lea!

Alan carried the babies up into the garret,
and snuggled them warm under blankets. They
barricaded the living-room doors, and then the
real difficulty arose in hiding the bags of flour.
"Where- where can they be stowed ? cried
the dame. But Alan answered in action. Squar-
ing his broad young shoulders for the task, he
dragged them one at a time, and flung them
down the well.
Thee's ruined them forever, so! wailed the
"No, Mother, only for the bottom few, and
e'en then Cornwallis's men shall not seize them
-perchance. One looks not for flour down
a well."
The soldiers were on the brow of the hill as
the last fat bag sank below the well-curb. The




squad had made a detour to plunder a poultry-
yard, and live chickens and geese squaked as
they rode up. Alan barred the mill door, the
mill being still full enough of corn and un-
ground grain for rich spoil; and they waited.

next attacked, the lattices shaken and beaten,
and splintering glass made holes in the diamond
panes which a fist might enter.
Open, open f-or we '11 burn ye,-mother
and child!"


Open in the name o' the King!" cried a
soldier's rough voice.
"Keep a still tongue, Mother," whispered
Alan. Let them ay batter and beat a while."
"Let us into your fire! 'T is snowing geese-
feathers! roared another.'
Come, give us your bacon flitches an' ropes
o' onions! "
Corn, corn! Open th' mill!"
Sharp spurs clinked on the garden stones,
while the white snow-storm showered down its
scurrying first flakes, and then the stout oak
doors of the mill shook with the battering force
of muskets and clubs. The house doors were

"There be Hessians there," said Alan,
A great fist was thrust through the lattice,
pushing the barricade backward, and then it
was overturned with a crash, the window flung
wide, and in another instant a soldier had
hurled himself into the room, followed by sev-
eral comrades, roaring and laughing.
By my faith, Mother, this fire burns well!
'T will take the frost from our bones! Who
owns this mill ? "
"One Robert Dale, a patriot," answered
Alan. "And he being in service, I, his son,
am in charge."


So ho, Sir Spratling? Come, then, show us
the corn-bins."
That will I not," he returned promptly.
Come, lad," said a tall soldier of fine mili-
tary bearing, who now appeared beyond the
barricades. "'T is the shortest shrift. You or
the dame must show us the bins, else my men
will find them, and that will be worse for you."
Mayhap," said Alan, firmly. "But I '11 not
have it said that Alan Dale was the coward to
show thieves how to steal the trusted goods.of
his neighbors! The bins be not hard for clever
robbers to find. My service is not necessary."
The lad says well," said the dame.
"Ye '11 no take my mother for guide either,"
continued Alan; "or I '11 give one of ye the
chance to knock me down, and only that, that
ye 've had the years to get the strength and
size I lack!"
Softly, softly! Go ahead, men," ordered
the tall officer; and keep a civil tongue, young
Jackanapes, lest the men do you a mischief. I
like you," he added, in a low quiet tone. Then
he sat wearily down by the fire, whilst the men
began the sack of the mill.
Thou hast the look of a gentleman, sire. I
would thy actions bore thee out," said the dame.
"Madam, war lays on the soldier commands
which the man abhors," he replied. Have
you not a baby here? as his.eyes fell on the
empty cradle.
"I left a little one three months old in Kent.
If I might be trusted, can I see the baby ? "
No, he shall not, Mother, while he lets them
carry on-bedlam yon in the mill-place! cried
Alan, tortured by the sounds he heard. "He
shall not cosset our baby while his soldiers steal
our corn!"
But the dame understood the look in the
young officer's face, and brought in the baby,
warm and rosy from her blanket nest under the
rafters. She laid her in the officer's arms.
Bonny, bonny baby! he said, touching the
tiny hands with reverent fingers and brushing
the little cheek with his lips.
I '11 no bide it! cried Alan. Put down
our baby and call off your men."
Soft, soft, son Alan! Hark !"
The officer started, too. Again the sounds of

hoof-beats approached, clear above the din in
cellar and mill,-nearer, nearer. The tender
look faded from the officer's face. "We are
surprised he said, and laid the baby back in
its mother's arms.
"Madam, for a space you have made me
happy. I thank you. What is the baby's name ?"
His hand was on his sword-hilt as he waited
for her reply.
"Ruth Dale," answered the dame. Then
with a call he sprang in among his men.
Tramp, tramp! clank, clank! The torches
flared, and the young officer helped at the lad-
ing of the horses with sacks of corn.
"Dickinson's men! cried Alan, joyfully.
"Hi, hurrah there! Dickinsori's men!"
Up they came in the falling snow, their horses
steaming; and Sukey came too, brave, noble lit-
tle Sukey with Nancy on her back.
In the sharp onset which followed, Alan took
a part, handling a musket with the heartier will
for his former helplessness. But Nancy out in
the dark barn quietly blanketed Sukey, and then
ran into the house to soothe the screaming
children, terrified by the musket-shots.
The corn was saved. Only a few bags were
gotten away with, and the flour in the well-
curb lay quite undiscovered. Then back into
the north rode Cornwallis's men.
But Nancy, when the confusion was over,
sobbed with her head in her mother's lap, while
Alan exulted. "That was a ride!" he cried.
"Mother, you should ay have let me take it! "
"'T was cold," said Nancy, and Sukey
liked not the icy water at the ford,- which
minds me of my wet shoon. And had I not
met the men at the forks, surely we could not
have ridden here in time."
If ever there was music in nags' hoof-beats,
't was when they rode up," said Alan.
That was the last raid of Cornwallis's men in
Dale-Rill-side. But when the war had been
over for several years, the postman stopped at
the mill one snowy Christmas eve, and out of his
bag came a gift from far over the seas. It was
a silver mug, and on it, beautifully graven in
quaint old English lettering, were the words:





1__ _

i-~ ,





" OH Mother Meg, come out, come out,
And hearken what I say!
There are strange happenings about
The Squire's house this day!
The mare is gone from out her stall,-
Alack, unlucky fate!-
Three crows did fly around the hall
As I ran out the gate!

"A bumblebee hath stung the Squire;
His face is twice its size.
My cake hath vanished off the fire,

Bewitched from neathh my eyes!
Old Goody Gay doth sore bemoan
Some spirit in the well,
Which makes the bucket weigh ten stone
And keeps it under spell!"

Then Buxom Bess, the Squire's maid,
Wrung her two hands, forlorning;
But simple Jake, who after sped,
Just stood and looked and wagged his head,-
All on this Friday Morning.

I .,1. I



So Mother Meg a charm
did brew
For Bess, the Squire's
A wondrous potion to
What things had come
to pass.
She drew three hairs, and
each one named,
From out her old cat's
And cast them in the fire
that flamed
Beneath her caldron


Took herbs which grew the well beside,
Each with its magic art,
A snake-tooth and a horsehair tied,
And earth a seventh part,
And these did brew and brew and brew,
'A Within the caldron there,
Then with her hazel rod she drew
Three circles in the air:

"Abra-cad-abra, cad-abra, ca-di!
Come, my cat with the gleaming
Abra-cad-abra, cad-abra, cad-
11 ay!
I"I ViBanish spell in this smoke

With this strange charm
went Bess the maid
SBackward, and slow
And three times around
the house she
And here and there the
potion laid,
Those mystic words re-


And lo before the morrow, Jake
Had caught that wandering mare;
And slyly from the well' did take
The stones he emptied there!
Old Goody, so rejoiced was she,
Drew water till nigh spent;
Then straightway o'er a cup o' tea
To tell her Gossip went.

No bees did sting the Squire, because
The bees he went not nigh.
And Buxom Bess so busy was
She saw no black crows fly.
But her good cake was gone, in truth;
Yet this thing I do say,
She lost not one again, forsooth, l
Until next baking-day!

Now, if such signs should come to you, -
Speed straight away, I beg,
And get a magic potion, too,
Brewed by old Mother Meg.
But of one Jake, with shambling "SO MOTHER MEG A CHARM DID BREW."
Ask not the road. Take warning!
For when these things %w ere done and

i ,-- H- iuH'- t t.:,d b\ and ,arg-

1If. L'" hisi heiat -
"ll '-thi Fn- a- NI' m-


S"AND- O B -- C T



WHAT 'S the matter with you now? asked
Will Grant.
"An ache or two, in my head," said I.
"Well, if I was goin' to have aches, I 'd
have them so they amounted to something .
That scar aches, where that cougar scratched
me last fall. So I know it 's goin' to storm."
"Is that scar your barometer ? asked I.
"I say nothing' about your barometers. It
always aches before a storm; I know that."
Well, if you 've finished skinning that bear,
we '11 come along," said I. "I actually feel
sort of shaky and feverish. I wish we might.
come upon some settler's cabin."
"I came on a felled tree jest now, over
there," answered Will, pointing over his right
shoulder. There 's a trail, too; but it has n't
been traveled of late, an' the chips are old."
It goes somewhere, though," said I; "and
if there is a storm brewing, as you say, why,
even a deserted cabin will be comfortable."
Will glanced at the sky, which was all of a dull
gray, strapped the bearskin behind the saddle, and
untethered his horse. I was already mounted.
Out this way, somewhere, it was," muttered
Will, leaning over his horse's neck, and scanning
the ground between the tall scattered trees.
We were no longer in the semi-tropical re-
gions of the South, but were hunting on a more
northern spur of the Rockies. We expected
that same week to rejoin our friends among
the solemn rocks of East Gorge."
"Here we are," said Will, at last; and he

followed the scarce discernible trail among
the thickening woods. I rode after. Rangoon
tossed his head now and then with a quick, sus-
picious motion, but I paid no attention to him.
Whether it was because I felt feverish and
unwell, I know not; but I took little note of
surroundings as I rode. I longed to find a shel-
ter from the coming storm where I could take
a dose of quinine and get a few hours' sleep.
"Goin' to be sick ?" asked Will Grant, with-
out looking round.
"Not if I can help it," I answered laconi-
cally; and the hunter rejoined:
"That's right; fight it off, if you can. A
man's will does a power of good sometimes."
The murmur of a mountain brook that broke
the stillness was drowned in a peal of thunder
that died rattling among the distant crags.
"It strikes me," said Will, still "trailing" over
his horse's neck, "that there 's tracks of some
animal. Put this an' that together, now."
"A panther," suggested I, as our horses
splashed through the stony shallows and I
noticed confused tracks in the soft mud of the
margin. "And fresh traces, too."
"Do you feel like huntin' ? he asked.
"No; I only want a few hours' quiet."
"I never remember," observed Will Grant,
turning to scrutinize me, of your feeling sick
in this fashion, except when you 've been
hurt or wounded some way."
"There 's your cabin," I said; "and a dis-
mal place it looks too. But I don't care."



"I hope you 're goin' to have no fever and
ague. I 've seen some folks have 'em when
they come West. They was mostly settlers,
though," ruminated Will, persistently.
"I 'm too well seasoned and too much on
the move for fever and ague," I said impa-
tiently. "Don't chatter so much about it. I
tell you I 'm not going to be sick."
Will shook all over with a suppressed laugh,
and we rode near to the deserted hut. Grass
grew rankly into the doorway, and the roof had
partly fallen in. Moss covered the interstices
between the logs. Both horses snuffed the air,
and seemed restless and uneasy.
"Some wild animals have been here," said
Will, flinging me the bridle as he dismounted.
" My horse won't stand. Hold on a minute."
He strode boldly forward, rifle
cocked and ready. He was not
three feet from the dark and
yawning doorway, when there
was a fearful, unearthly
screech, and a rush through ,.
the air. Will's rifle went
off; but without effect. The 6
next instant he and the larg-
est panther I ever saw were
rolling on the ground together! -:'
Will's horse jerked himself
free in one mad, terrified bound,
nearly dragging me from the sad-
dle, and fled. Rangoon stood straight
up in the air, trembling in every inmb.
In just those few seconds, and before I could
quiet my brave horse with a quick, stern com-
mand, and get on my feet to go to Will's rescue,
the panther had well nigh torn his hunting-shirt
to rags. I dared not fire except at close quarters,
for fear of hurting Will ; the two were tumbling
and writhing all over the ground. I got in a quick
blow with my knife behind the panther's shoul-
der, but he turned on me like a flash. I left
the knife in him and jumped back. Then I got
a chance at his head and I put a bullet through
it, and he loosened his claws with a gasp and
dropped. Then Will Grant sat exhausted on
the ground, and we stared at each other.
"You look to me as if you were going to be
the sick one," said I.
I guess I am pretty well scratched," said he.

Well," said I, turning about, are there any
more panthers in this place ? Because I should
like to make them a call! "
"No, I '11 warrant you," answered Will, rising
and stepping boldly within the door. "This
one 's all there was, and he 's enough. Now
where on earth is that horse?"
"I thought he was seasoned to 'most every-
thing," said I.
I 'm ashamed of him," said Will; "but I
don't think he 's run far. You see it came so
suddenly, and I was n't on him either."
We '11 hunt him up," said I.
"You '11 be good enough to stay where you
are, and start a fire," suggested Grant; "an'


I '11 find the horse and come back. He has n't
gone far. We may as well stay here to-night."
"Your wounds should be bandaged," said I.
"I have bandages in my case. Wait a bit."
Notwithstanding Will's assertions that the
wounds were "just scratches, not worth mind-
in'," I bound up his shoulder and right arm
with care, and fastened together, as best I
could, the strips of his leather shirt. Then he
set out after his horse, while I tethered mine
and gave my whole attention to building a fire.
After it was nicely burning, and Will had
returned with the runaway, and the bear-steaks
were sizzling over the coals, I took a dose of
quinine; for I feared I had a little touch of



malaria, caught in the swampy river lowlands
whence we had just come. I got into the most
sheltered corer of the cabin, rolled myself in
my rubber blanket, and went to sleep. In my
sleep I was dimly conscious of an awful storm.
It seemed to me that Will had taken both horses
inside the cabin, and was having much ado to
quiet them on account of the thunder and light-
ning I seemed to hear much trampling, much
loud talking. Or else I dreamed it.
When I woke it was broad daylight. The
sun slanted on the wet boughs before the door.
The horses were inside, sure enough; and there
sat Will, rifle in hand, nodding fast asleep.
"Hullo!" said I, sitting up.
"Hullo said Will, rising suddenly. "Well,
if I was n't asleep! Seems I 've been holding'
on to these horses nearly all night! How are
you ? Any better ? "
"I think so. Why did n't you wake me at
midnight? I meant to keep my watch."
"You ? I guess not! said Will. "I 'd rather
you 'd be in a condition to do a day's ridin'.
You were pretty shaky yesterday, though you
did n't say much. By to-night, if nothing' hap-
pens, we '11 get to East Gorge. To-day 's the
first of September."
"The others are probably there waiting,"
said I.
"Well, breakfast, and then saddle up. Dig
some dry wood out of the inside of this shanty,
if you will, while I straighten things out."
In half an hour we were riding briskly along
the faint trail. The trees grew thinner, and we
came out on a long, sparsely wooded mountain
slope that led gradually up to the higher, rocky
tablelands. The trail, faint enough at the best,
was here scarcely to be seen except by a prac-
tised woodsman; but Will Grant knew the
country well, and we pushed on at a rapid trot.
By noon the vegetation had undergone an en-
tire change. The trees were few and stunted,
the grass was sparse and short. The solemn
mountain-peaks seemed to close in around us.
Still we rode rapidly. Rangoon was sure-footed
and agile as a cat, and Will's roan was well
used to mountain travel. Neither of us thought
it out of the common to ride at full speed through
the mountain passes, on the brink of precipices,
where a stumble would have plunged us to de-

struction. We took it quite as a matter of
course that our horses would not stumble. We
were in a hurry,-that was all.
"Yonder, round that spur, lies East Gorge,"
said Will, reining in his roan to point. "We '11
be there in about a couple of hours and
they 're there before us."
"How do you know ?" said I, carelessly.
"Young man," remarked Will, with severity,
"are you losing your eyesight, or what ? Have
I got to teach you woodcraft all over again ? "
Somewhat mortified, I looked again, and
this time discerned plainly the thin column of
smoke that rose from beyond the spur.
"You 're right, Will. I was careless and
did n't half look," said I.
"Don't let me hear you sayin' that again,"
said Will. I 've known men's lives, here in
the wilderness, to hang on just such a thread."
He was right, and I knew it.
The last two hours of riding were rather
tedious. We could not go at any speed be-
cause of rocks and boulders.
"We '11 go down by the East Pass; that 's
better traveling, remarked the guide at the close
of the afternoon. "Look yonder!"
I looked. Five horses were tethered, grazing
on the short, unsatisfactory grass of a little open
mountain meadow. In the shelter of a huge
boulder burned a fire of stunted pine boughs.
The camp-kettle was on; we saw the smile on
a guide's swarthy face as he turned to wave
his hat to us. Herries and Hexam, my two
New York friends, started up at the shout;
Miner, the rough, jovial trapper, woke the
mountain echoes with his sturdy Hurrah! "
and the veteran scout, whose quick ears had
long ago caught the tramp of our horses' feet,
was already at our side, his gray hair wind-
swept from his tanned, beardless face, his hercu-
lean frame as upright and active as any boy's.
How are ye, Rafe, my boy ?" with a vice-
like grip of the hand. "I knew you'd come-
I knew the time was up. I 'm glad to see you.
This time I 'm quite at your service. We 'll go
down through the southern sierras if you like.
Wounded, Will?" he asked, with a quizzical
glance at my companion's hunting-shirt. And
Will, smiling, owned to a few scratches.
So we rode into camp.

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


[Begun in the November number.]
WO days after New
S Year's, little Jimmy
H // i \ wWigger was buried,
Sand all the boys of
Sthe Black Band at-
tended the funeral.
no, Eight of them, in-
cluding Tom Paul-
awE ding, Cissy Smith,
G. W. Lott, and
Harry Zachary, were asked to be pall-bearers.
Tom long remembered his silent walk by the
side of the coffin as one of the saddest duties
he had ever performed.
The next Monday school began again, and
Tom went back to work. Now that he believed
he knew where the stolen guineas were, and
now that he expected to recover them with his
uncle's assistance, his hope of being able to go
to the School of Mines increased, and he studied
harder than ever before that he might fit him-
self as soon as possible for this new undertak-
ing. Unless something happened to help Mrs.
Paulding, Tom knew that at the end of the
year he would have to give up his aspirations
and take a place in a store, that his earnings
might contribute to the support of the family.
If he could find the buried treasure, he felt sure
that the money would suffice to tide over the
difficulties of the household until after he had
been through the. School of Mines, and was
able to make his living as a man, and to sup-
port his mother and sister on hisincome as an
engineer. During the Christmas vacation, after
his uncle had gone, Tom had walked down
to Columbia College and had found out the
requirements for admission. He believed that
he could pass the examination the next year,
late in the spring, if he could keep on with his

studies until then. And whether he could do
this or not depended now absolutely on the
finding of the two thousand guineas stolen
from his great-grandfather.
At the house, they all missed Uncle Dick.
In the two months that Mr. Rapallo had spent
at Mrs. Paulding's he had made himself quite
at home, and they had come 'to look on him
as a permanent member of the family. Mrs.
Paulding had greatly enjoyed the long quiet
talks she had had with her brother after her
children were gone to bed. Pauline missed a
playfellow always ready to join in her sports and
always quick to devise a fresh game. Even
the Brilliant Conversationalist grieved over Mr.
Rapallo's departure. Certain little dishes of
which he had been especially fond she ceased
to serve, explaining that she would make these
again "after Mr. Richard do be back."
But Tom missed him most of all. He felt
lonely without Uncle Dick, who was older than
he by nearly thirty years, yet who was always
able to look at things from his point of view.
The man and the boy had been very compan-
ionable, one to the other. Until long afterward,
Tom did not know how much his character had
been influenced by the example of his Uncle
Dick, and how much Mr. Rapallo's shrewd and
pithy talks had affected his views of life.
What Tom most needed was some one with
whom he could discuss the buried treasure. He
was young, and youth is sanguine; and he felt
sure that the stolen guineas were really where
he thought they were. But he wanted to have
some one to whom he could talk about them,
so as to keep up his own enthusiasm. There
were days, during the absence of Uncle Dick,
when it was very difficult for Tom not to tell
Cissy Smith, despite Mr. Rapallo's warning.
The secret burned within him and sometimes
it almost burst forth of its own accord. 'Tom
was strong enough to resist the temptation. He
did not like to have to confess to his uncle


that he had disregarded the warning. Besides,
he was a little in doubt how Cissy would accept
the revelation; Cissy was a skeptical boy, with
a superabundance of cold common sense. In
imagination, when Tom told Cissy all about the
buried treasure, and when he came to the long
string of mere probabilities on which its dis-
covery depended, he shivered as he fancied
that he heard Cissy's frank opinion:
"Shucks! I don't take any stock in fairy-
stories like that."
So Tom told no one. Yet the effort to bottle
up his great secret must have been obvious at
times. Corkscrew Lott became aware of it, or
at least suspicious that something was on Tom's
mind. Corkscrew's curiosity was greater than
his pride, and he made up with Tom before
they had been back at school for a week. He
threw himself in Tom's way whenever Tom
went out for a walk. In some strange manner
he discovered that Tom was interested in the
vacant lot where the stepping-stones were; and
once, when Tom was drawn-as he often was-
to go and look at the bank of earth beneath
which he believed his treasure lay hidden, he
found Corkscrew prowling around in the lot,
and poking into its comers as if to spy out
Tom's secret.
Corkscrew's curiosity went so far that he
even stopped Pauline one day, as she was going
home from school, to ask a few questions about
Tom's doings, vainly endeavoring to entrap her
into some admission as to the cause of her
brother's change of manner.
"I did n't know he had changed at all,"
Polly answered simply.
Oh, I did n't know, either," explained Cork-
screw. I only thought that, maybe, you know,
he might have got on the track of that buried
treasure, or stolen money, or something of that
sort, that used to belong to his great-great-great-
grandfather, once upon a time."
When this was repeated to Tom, he regretted
that he had ever mentioned the loss of the two
thousand guineas to any of the Black Band,
and most of all that he had said anything in
Corkscrew's hearing. He resolved to keep away
from the stepping-stones until Uncle Dick re-
Then it struck him that it would be fun to

lead Corkscrew off on a false scent. So when-
ever he had part of an afternoon to spare, he
would start off to Morningside Park, and as he
took care to let Lott know where he was going,
he soon had the satisfaction of seeing Cork-
screw skulking along a block or so behind him.
Tom would go gravely down the stone steps of
Morningside Park, and he would pretend to
sound rocks with a stick and to peer into all
the crevices he could find. Sometimes he
would push on down to Central Park when he
was sure that Corkscrew was following; and
then he would go all over the old fort which is
still standing at the upper end of the park.

-- --


And so the winter passed. Early in January
there was a gentle thaw; and Tom hoped that
the cold weather was over and that the ground
would soon be soft enough for them. to begin
to dig. But on the day before Washington's
Birthday there came a terrific snow-storm, cov-
ering the earth with a white mantle nearly a
yard thick. The wind blew fiercely down the
Hudson, tossing the snow-wreaths high in the
air, and swirling them off down the hillside into
the river. Then there followed a hard frost,
and the thermometer fell day after day, and the
wind blew keener and keener.
All things come to an end in time, and the




winter was over before Tom or his mother had
any word from Richard Rapallo.
Don't expect to hear from me till you see
me," he had said to his sister just before he left
the house. "You know I 'm not 'The Com-
plete Letter-Writer.' If I get my work done,
I '11 drop in again when you least expect me."
As the season advanced, and after the final
thaw had come, the boys gave up coasting and
skating, and began kite-flying. The river was
open again, although huge fields of ice still
came floating past. There were signs of spring
at last. Across the river, up near the Palisades,
there began to be a hint of fresh verdure. The
long tows were once more to be seen moving
slowly up and down the river.
The trees on the hillside below the Riverside
drive and the few bushes about Mrs. Paulding's
house were green again before there was any
news of Uncle Dick. The hard part-or at
least so Tom thought it-was that they did
not know where Mr. Rapallo was. Sometimes
Tom saw the Old Gentleman who leaned over
the Wall walking slowly along the parapet of
the drive before his house, as if he were in-
haling the freshness of the spring; and Tom
wondered if this benevolent-looking old gen-
tleman knew where Uncle Dick was, and
whether he would be greatly offended if Tom
should go up and ask him.
One day when spring was well advanced,-
it was then about the middle of April,-Tom
determined to walk past the vacant lots where
the stepping-stones were, that he might at least
enjoy the sight of the outward covering of the
wealth he was seeking. To his dismay he found
that there was a cart standing on the tongue of
land projecting out to the stepping-stones, and
that this cart was but one of a dozen or more
engaged in emptying builder's rubbish.
Tom did not know what to do. If these lots
were to be filled up, then the difficulty of recov-
ering the buried treasure would be doubled.
Of course he saw that he could oppose no
resistance to the work; he had to suffer in
The next day, when he went to see how far
the filling had progressed, he was delighted to
find that the rubbish was now being emptied at
one of the upper corners of the block, and that

the fence had been replaced across the tongue
of land which led out to the stepping-stones.
About that time there came a week of warm
weather, and it seemed indisputable that there
would be no more frost till the fall. Still there
was no word fronr Uncle Dick. Tom thought
that the hour had come when an effort ought
to be made to get at the buried treasure; but
he himself did not know how to go to work.
He had relied on his uncle's help.
Suddenly the fear came to him that perhaps
Uncle Dick would not return to them until
too late. What would Tom do then ?
As the.days drew on, Tom became more and
more doubtful about his uncle's coming. At
last he determined to wait no longer, but to see
what he could do by himself.
He recalled what Mr. Rapallo had said about
hydraulic mining on the night of the fire, when
little Jimmy was run over. Uncle Dick had
declared that the stolen guineas could best be
got at by hydraulic mining. What that was
Tom did not know. He resolved to find out.
One Saturday afternoon he went down to the
Apprentices' Library, and took out a book which
the kindly librarian indicated as likely to give
him the best account of the process. The next
Saturday he got another volume; and a third
Saturday he spent in'looking up articles in the
cyclopedias and in the bound magazines where
the librarian had told him to search. From
these, some of which were fully illustrated, Tom
managed to get an understanding of the princi-
ples of hydraulic mining; and he thought he
saw how his uncle meant to apply them to the
getting out of the two thousand guineas buried
near the stepping-stones.
Hydraulic mining is the name given in the
West to the method of washing out a hillside
containing auriferous sands by the impact of a
stream of water, which carries down, into a pre-
pared channel in the valley below, the "pay
gravel" in the hill on both sides. After Tom had
mastered the suggestion, he saw that his uncle
meant in like manner to wash away the dirt and
sand which hid the remains of Jeffrey Kerr.
The stepping-stones were near the upper
end of the vacant block, and the ground sloped
sharply away below, where the brook had run
formerly. Tom saw that if a little channel


were dug around two projecting rocks, it would
then be easy to wash out the loose earth, partly
rubbish and partly sand, which formed the pro-
jecting point over the stepping-stones. If his
guess as to the present position of the stolen
money were-right, then he would have to wear
into the bank a hole fully twenty feet deep.
With the aid of the small canal Tom had
planned, lie thought he saw his way clear to a
most successful operation in hydraulic mining
-if he could only get plenty of water.
Where the water was to come from, was a
question for which he had no answer. Uncle
Dick had suggested that the buried treasure
could be got out by hydraulic mining, but he
had not hinted how he was to get the water.
While Tom was puzzling over this to no pur-
pose, one warm sunny day in May, when the
leaves were opening on the trees and the bushes,
Uncle Dick came back most unexpectedly.
He gave no account of his wanderings; he
offered no explanation of his long absence; but
from chance allusions in his conversation Tom
and Polly made out that he had been traveling
part of the time he had been away, and that he
had been to Boston, and to Chicago, and possi-
bly even as far as San Francisco.
After supper he asked Tom to come up to
his room.
When Tom had followed his uncle out of the
dining-room, Polly asked her mother anxiously,
Did Uncle Dick bring you that Christmas
present he owes you?"
He has not given it to me yet," Mrs. Paul-
ding answered; "but he will some day."
"I wish he would," said Pauline. "I do so
want to know what it is."


conference that
Ao evening in the
former's room.
i Tom told his uncle
the exact state of
affairs. He described how the dumping of rub-
bish had begun again just over the stepping-

stones, and how it had ceased the next day.
He set forth Lott's attempts to spy on him, and
his own success in throwing Corkscrew's curi-
osity off the scent. He gave a full account
of his own endeavors to discover the methods
of hydraulic mining.
I think I have found out how you mean to
go to work, Uncle Dick," he said; "but I con-
fess that I don't see where we are to get the
water to wash out all that dirt."
That will be easy enough," replied his uncle.
"We can have all the water we need-when
we need it. That will not be for some time yet."
Tom went on to tell Mr. Rapallo how very
difficult it had been for him to keep his secret
to himself.
"But I have done it! he concluded. I
have n't said a single, solitary word to any-
- I 'm not sure that the time has n't come
to take one or two of your friends into your
confidence," Uncle Dick responded.
Can I tell Cissy Smith ? cried Tom; and
Harry Zachary, too ? "
From what you have said to me about your
friends," his uncle answered, I should judge
that Cissy and Harry will be your safest allies
in this affair."
Cissy is my best friend," explained the boy,
and Harry is my next-best."
Do you think they would be willing to help
you?" asked Mr. Rapallo.
"Willing ? echoed Tom. "They 'd just be
delighted, both of them, to be let into a scheme
like this. What do you want them to do ? "
"I don't know yet, exactly," his uncle re-
sponded; "but there will be work enough of
one kind or another. We shall have to dig a
trench to carry off the water, for instance."
"They go to school with me, you know,
Uncle Dick," said Tom; "and they are free
only at the same time that I am,-Saturday
afternoons, mostly."
I think it will be better for you to have a
whole day before you-" began Mr. Rapallo.
"Then I don't see how we can come," Tom
interrupted, "unless we play hooky."
Don't you have Decoration Day as a holi-
day? asked his uncle.
Decoration Day?" Tom repeated, with a




little disappointment in his voice. "Oh, yes,
-but that 's more than a fortnight off!"
"I doubt if we '11 be ready for a fortnight
yet," Mr. Rapallo returned. There are va-
rious things to do before we can turn on the
water and wash out the gold-if there 's any
there to wash out."
Uncle Dick," cried Tom, piteously, "don't
say now that you don't think the gold is
there "
Oh, yes," Mr. Rapallo answered; I think
it is there-but I don't know. We have only
a 'working hypothesis,' you remember."
I remember," Tom repeated, dolefully; "but
I 've been so long thinking about those two
thousand guineas lying in the ground there by
the stepping-stones that it
seems as if I could see them, a
almost. I feel certain sure i
they are there!" \ '' '
"Let us hope so," his
uncle responded. "And
don't be down-hearted about '
it. If we are to get that gold,
we must all believe that it
is there until we know that
it is n't."
"I know it is," assev'erated
"To-morrow," Mr. Rapallo ,
continued, "you must take i ,
your friends into your con- 4N
fidence. I have business 4 ,
down-town and I '11 inquire ,,TO SAmI SOLEMNLY,
whether the lawyers have
found out yet to whom that vacant block be-
longs. If they have, I '11 try to get permission
for us to dig out your two thousand guineas."

So the next afternoon, when school was out,
Tom Paulding took Cissy Smith and Harry
Zachary off with him.
Corkscrew Lott was going to join them, but
Tom said to him frankly:
I 've got something particular to say to
Cissy and Harry, and so I don't want any-
body else to come with us, Lott."
Can't you tell me, too ? Lott pleaded.
"I can, of course," Tom answered, "if I
want to. But I don't."
VOL. XIX.-44.

Oh, very well!" said Corkscrew, gruffly;
"I don't want to know any of your old se-
Notwithstanding this disclaimer of all inter-
est in their affairs, Corkscrew lingered at school
until after the three other boys had gone on
ahead, and then he followed them from afar,
in the hope that something unforeseen might
reveal the matter of their discourse.
Harry Zachary gave a swift glance back
when they came to their first turning. He
caught sight of Lott, who stopped short when
he saw that he was detected.
"There 's Corkscrew on our trail," said
Harry. "Let's throw him off the track."
How are you going to do it ?" said Cissy.


I 've got a way," Harry explained. Fol-
low me."
And with that he turned into the side street,
and walked rapidly toward the elevated railroad
Corkscrew will be sure to follow us now,"
Harry declared; "and when we come to the sta-
tion, we '11 go up-stairs. He can't come up after
us because he knows we should see him then."
But we don't want to pay car-fare to no-
where just to get rid of Corkscrew Lott," re-
marked Cissy Smith, rolling along a little ahead
of the others.
"We need n't pay a cent," Harry Zachary
responded. "We can just wait on the outside


platform, out of sight from where he is, while
we can see him through the window. Then
when he goes, we '11 slip down again and run
to the Three Trees."
"All right," said Cissy; and Tom also agreed
to the plan.
The boys went up the steps of the elevated
railroad station; and through the window of
the covered platform they saw Corkscrew come
up and stare hard at the station and hesitate a
little, twisting about as usual. Then he set out
to cross the avenue to look at the inner plat-
forms; but, before he could do that, a train from
up-town and another from down-town arrived
and departed with much puffing and hissing,
and shrill squeaking of the brakes. So Cork-
screw gave up his effort to "shadow" the three
friends, and went on his way home.
As soon as he was gone, Tom, Cissy, and
Harry came out of hiding and started off for
the Riverside Park, where there was a favorite
spot of theirs, down by the railroad and the
river. Here three trees grew in a group, with
knotted and distorted branches, so that half a
dozen boys could find seats amid their limbs.
When the three friends had arrived at this
pleasant place, doubly delightful in the fresh
fairness of spring, Tom, who had refused to
open the subject before, said solemnly, Fel-
lows, can you keep a secret ? "
"Shucks!" cried Cissy Smith, forcibly. "Did
you bring us all the way down here just to tell
us a secret ? I thought you said you wanted
us to help you do something."
Is it about your lost treasure?" asked
Harry Zachary, sympathetically.
"How did you know? Tom inquired, in
I don't know; I guessed," Harry explained.
You told us once that you were going to
hunt for it, and you 've been so different since
then that I thought perhaps you had got a
notion where it was."
"I have found it!" said Tom, with intense
enjoyment of the surprise.
How much is it? asked the practical Cissy.
Where is it ? Harry cried.
It 's two thousand guineas," Tom replied;
"and it is now buried far from here. And I
want you two to help me get at it."

"Buried?" Cissy repeated. "Then you have
not seen it? "
No," Tom replied, "but I know it's there.
It must be there!"
"We '11 help you, of course," said Harry
Zachary, with a return of his shy and gentle
manner. But we shall have to kill the guards,
sha'n't we ? "
"What do you mean?" Tom asked in
I suppose there must be somebody guard-
ing this buried treasure, and they must be re-
moved, of course. 'Dead men tell no tales,'
you know," Harry explained. "And I have
been reading about a new way of getting rid
of an enemy; the Italians used to do it in the
Middle Ages. You have a glass stiletto,--that's
a sort of dagger made of glass, and you stab
the man in the back, and break off the blade,
and throw the handle into the Grand Canal;
then the man's dead and nobody knows you
had anything to do with it."
I 'm glad of that," said Cissy, dryly.
"But is it necessary to kill the guards?"
Harry went on. Would n't it do to give them
something to put them to sleep while we get at
the treasure? I reckon Cissy could coax his
father to give us a prescription for something
that would put a whole platoon of police to
sleep for the day."
"Shucks!" said Cissy vigorously. "I'm not
going to stab anybody in the back with a glass
dagger, nor are you either, Harry Zachary.
And I 'm not going to try to put a platoon of
police to sleep. It would be what my father
calls a dangerous experiment.' Suppose some
of them did n't wake up, and the rest of them
did, and they clubbed the life out of us, where
would the fun be then ? "
You need n't quarrel over the glass dagger
and the policemen," Tom declared, "because
there is n't any guard to kill, this time."
"A buried treasure without any guard ?"
Harry repeated. "I never heard of such a
"Well," said Tom, "you can hear of it now
if you want to listen. But first you have both
got to promise that never by thought, word, or
deed will you ever reveal any of the secret I am
now about to confide in you."




"That's all right," Cissy responded," I won't
say a word,- never. Perhaps this delayed
double negative served to make the declaration
doubly binding.
"I solemnly vow that I will never reveal
the secret Thomas Paulding is now about to
confide to me," said Harry Zachary, stiffening
his usual timid voice. In China they cut off a
chicken's head whenever a man takes an oath
before a priest, and that makes it binding, I
reckon. I wish we had a chicken here."
"I guess the priests in China are as fond of
chicken as anybody else," Cissy commented.
" Now, Tom, tell us the whole story."
So Tom began at the beginning, and gave
them all the particulars of his search for the
stolen guineas, of the suggestion Santa Claus
brought, of the stepping-stones, and of the pres-
ent situation of the buried treasure.
That's all very well, said Cissy. Per-
haps the money is there, and perhaps it is n't.
How are you to get at it ? That's the question."
Then Tom told them about hydraulic mining,
explaining briefly to them what he himself had
extracted laboriously from many books. He
informed them that his uncle was going to:ar-
range for a supply of water, and that Decoration
Day had been chosen as the date when the final
attack was to be made.
When Tom had finished, Cissy said, "Well,
that's a very interesting story, and, as I told you
before, maybe the money is there. Leastways,
it's worth trying for. I don't see where your
uncle is going to get the stream of water -but
your uncle is n't any fool, so I guess he knows.
And I don't see either where we come in-
Harry and I. What are we to do ?"
I don't know just what you will have to
do," Tom replied. "But Uncle Dick said to
ask you and Harry if you would help us."
Oh, yes," Cissy responded heartily. "I '11
help all I know how."
After a little further talk the boys started
homeward, Cissy lurching along with his usual
rolling gait.
"There's the Old Gentleman who leaned over
the Wall," said Tom, as they saw a tall, white-
haired man get out of a carriage before a hand-
some house.

"That's Mr. Joshua Hoffmann," explained
Harry Zachary. He 's so rich he has more
money than he knows what to do with."
And my father says there is n't a better man
in the United States, in spite of all his money,"
said Cissy.
My uncle knows him, too," Tom remarked,
unwilling to be left out of the conversation.
Is n't that your uncle now ?" asked Harry.
Tom looked across the roadway and saw his
uncle stop before the house; and again the old
gentleman leaned over the wall to talk to him.
"Yes," said Tom, "that's Uncle Dick."
As the boys went by Mr. Rapallo waved .his
hand to them; and when Tom glanced back a
minute later it seemed as if his uncle were talking
about him to the Old Gentleman who leaned
over the Wall, for the two men were both look-
ing after the three boys.
The next day, at school, Corkscrew came up
to Tom as Cissy and Harry had just joined
"Did you three have a nice ride on the
railroad, yesterday afternoon ?" asked Lott, in-
I was n't on the cars at all yesterday," said
Harry Zachary promptly, with a grave face.
"Neither was I," continued Tom Paulding.
"Nor .I," added Cissy Smith.
"I mean the elevated railroad," Corkscrew
I did n't ride on the elevated railroad yes-
terday," Harry declared.
I did n't, either," repeated both Tom and
Why, I saw you-" began Lott.
"Oh," said Tom Paulding, "if you know
what we 've been doing better than we do
ourselves, why do you ask questions?"
Corkscrew was a little confused at this. I
happened to be passing the station yesterday,"
he said, pulling up the tops of his high boots,
"and I saw you three go up-"
If you saw us, then we 've nothing to say,"
Tom interrupted. "But I can tell you that we
were none of us in an elevated train yesterday."
"Then why on earth did you-"
But what Corkscrew was going to ask they
never knew, as just then the bell rang for school.

(To be continued.)


I 'VE a little brown cricket. And oh! how he sings,
You 'd hardly believe it-he sings with his wings.
My waste-paper basket he seems to have found
As much to his taste as a hole in the ground.

,:i Kings had their court jesters
..' ; J. To fill them with glee--
^',,t 7 l / My little brown cricket's
,^ ._ =. J_ The jester for me!



[Begun in ite January number.]

I Do not know why we had.so many teachers.
No doubt it was partly because we were very
troublesome children. But I think it was also
partly owing to the fact that our father was con-
stantly overrun by needy foreigners seeking em-
ployment. He was a philanthropist; he had
been abroad, and spoke foreign languages. That
was enough! His office was besieged by "all
peoples, nations, and languages,"-all, as a rule,
hungry. Greeks, Germans, Poles, Hungarians,
occasionally a Frenchman or an Englishman,
though these last were rare. Many of them
were political exiles. Sometimes they brought
letters from friends in Europe, sometimes not.

Our father's heart never failed to respond
to any appeal of this kind, when the applicant
really wanted work; for sturdy beggars he had
no mercy. So it sometimes happened that, while
waiting for something else to turn up, the exile
of the day would be set to teaching us, partly
to give him employment, partly also by way of
finding out what he knew and was fit for. In
this way did Professor Feaster (this may not be
the correct spelling, but it was our way, and
suited him well) came to be our tutor for a time.
He was a very stout man, so stout that we consid-
ered him a second Daniel Lambert. He may
have been an excellent teacher, but almost my
only recollection of him is that he made the
most enchanting little paper houses, with green
doors and blinds that opened and shut. He
painted the inside of the houses in some myste-


I 'VE a little brown cricket. And oh! how he sings,
You 'd hardly believe it-he sings with his wings.
My waste-paper basket he seems to have found
As much to his taste as a hole in the ground.

,:i Kings had their court jesters
..' ; J. To fill them with glee--
^',,t 7 l / My little brown cricket's
,^ ._ =. J_ The jester for me!



[Begun in ite January number.]

I Do not know why we had.so many teachers.
No doubt it was partly because we were very
troublesome children. But I think it was also
partly owing to the fact that our father was con-
stantly overrun by needy foreigners seeking em-
ployment. He was a philanthropist; he had
been abroad, and spoke foreign languages. That
was enough! His office was besieged by "all
peoples, nations, and languages,"-all, as a rule,
hungry. Greeks, Germans, Poles, Hungarians,
occasionally a Frenchman or an Englishman,
though these last were rare. Many of them
were political exiles. Sometimes they brought
letters from friends in Europe, sometimes not.

Our father's heart never failed to respond
to any appeal of this kind, when the applicant
really wanted work; for sturdy beggars he had
no mercy. So it sometimes happened that, while
waiting for something else to turn up, the exile
of the day would be set to teaching us, partly
to give him employment, partly also by way of
finding out what he knew and was fit for. In
this way did Professor Feaster (this may not be
the correct spelling, but it was our way, and
suited him well) came to be our tutor for a time.
He was a very stout man, so stout that we consid-
ered him a second Daniel Lambert. He may
have been an excellent teacher, but almost my
only recollection of him is that he made the
most enchanting little paper houses, with green
doors and blinds that opened and shut. He
painted the inside of the houses in some myste-


rious way,- at least there were patterns on the
floor, like mosaic-work,- and the only draw-
back to our perfect happiness on receiving one
of them was that we were too big to get inside.
I.say this is almost my only recollection of
this worthy man; but candor compels me to
add that the other picture which his name
conjures up is of Harry and Laura marching
round the dining-room table, each shouldering
a log of wood, and shouting,
"We '11 kill old Feaster !
We '11 kill old Feaster! "
This was very naughty indeed, but, as I have
said before, we were often naughty. One thing
more I do recollect about poor Professor Feas-
ter. Flossy was at once his delight and his ter-
ror. She was so bright, so original, so alas! so
impish. She used to climb up on his back, lean
over his shoulder, and pull out his watch to see
if the lesson hour were over. To be sure, she
was only eight at this time, and possibly the
scenes from Wilhelm Tell which he loved to
declaim with republican fervor may have been
rather beyond her infant comprehension.
One day Flossy made up her mind that the
Professor should take her way about something
-I quite forget what- rather than his own.
She set herself deliberately against him,-three
feet to six !-and declared that he should do as
she said. The poor Professor looked down on
this fiery pygmy with eyes that sparkled through
his gold-bowed spectacles. "I haf refused," he
cried in desperation, to opey ze Emperor of
Austria, meess 1 Do you sink I will opey you ? "
Then there was Madame M-- a Danish
lady, very worthy, very accomplished, and-
ugly enough to frighten all knowledge out of a
child's head. She was my childish ideal of per-
sonal uncomeliness, yet she was most good and
I must not forget to say that before she be-
gan to teach she had wished to become a lec-
turer. She had a lecture all ready; it began
with a poetical outburst, as follows:
I am a Dane I am a Dane!
I am not ashamed of the royal name !
But we never heard of its being delivered. I
find this mention of Madame M- in a letter
from our mother to her sister:

Danish woman very ugly,
But remarkably instructive.
Drawing, painting, French and German,
Fancy work of all descriptions,
With geography and grammar.
She will teach for very little,
And is a superior person.

I remember some of the fancy work. There
were pink-worsted roses, very wonderful, really
not at all like the common roses one sees in
gardens. You wound the worsted round and
round, spirally, and then you ran your nee-
dle down through the petal and pulled it a
little; this, as any person of intelligence will
readily perceive, made a rose-petal with a dent
of the proper shape in it. These petals had to
be pressed in a book to keep them flat while
others were making. Sometimes, years and
years after, one would find two or three of
them between the leaves of an old volume
of Pinch, or some other book; and instantly
would rise up before the mind's eye the figure
of Madame M- with scarlet face and dark-
green dress, and a very remarkable nose.
Flossy reminds me that she always smelt of
peppermint. So she did, poor lady! and proba-
bly took it for its medicinal properties.
Then there was the wax fruit! You young
people of sophisticated To-day, who make such
things of real beauty with your skilful, kindergar-
ten-trained fingers, what would you say to the
wax fruit and flowers of our childhood ? Per-
haps you would like to know how to make them.
We bought wax at the apothecary's, white
wax, in round flat cakes, pleasant to nibble,
and altogether gratifying. Wax, and chrome-
yellow and carmine, the colors in powder. We
put the wax in a pipkin (I always say pipkin
when I have a chance, because it is such a
charming word, but if my readers prefer sauce-
pan, let them have it, by all means ) -we put
it, I say, in a pipkin, and melted it. For a
pleasure wholly without alloy, I can recommend

the poking and punching of half-melted wax.
Then, when it was ready, we stirred in the
yellow powder, which.produced a fine Bartlett
color. Then we poured the mixture--oh,
joy!--into the two pear- or peach-shaped halves
of the plaster mold, and clapped them toge-
ther; and when the pear or peach was cool


and dry, we took a camel's-hair brush and
painted a carmine cheek on one side. I do not
say that this was art, or advancement of culture;
I do not say that its results were anything but
hideous and abnormal; but I do maintain that
it was a delightful and enchanting amusement.
And if there were a point of rapture beyond
this, it was the coloring of melted wax to a
delicate rose-hue, and dipping into it a dear
little spaddle (which, be it explained to the
ignorant, is a flat disk with a handle to it), and
taking out liquid rose-petals, which hardened
in a few minutes and were rolled delicately off
with the finger. When one had enough (say,
rather, when one could tear oneself away
from the magic pipkin), one put the petals
together, and there you had a rose that was
like nothing upon earth.
After all, were wax flowers so much more
hideous, I wonder, than some things one sees
to-day ? Why is it that such a stigma attaches
to the very name of them ? Why do not people
go any longer to see the wax figures in the Bos-
ton Museum? Perhaps they are not there
now; perhaps they are grown forlorn and dilap-
idated-indeed, they never were very splen-
did!-and have been hustled away into some
dim lumber-room, from whose corners they
glare out at some errant call-boy of the theater,
and frighten him into fits. Daniel Lambert,
in scarlet waistcoat and knee-breeches! the
"Drunkard's Career," the bare recollection of
which brings a thrill of horror !-there was one
child at least who regarded you as miracles
of art.
Speaking of wax reminds me of Monsieur
N- who gave us, I am inclined to think, our
first French lessons, besides those we received
from our mother. He was a very French French-
man, with blond mustache and imperial waxed
a la Louis Napoleon, and a military carriage.
He had been a soldier, and taught fencing as
well as French, though not to us. This unhappy
gentleman had married a Smymiot woman,
out of gratitude to her family, who had rescued
him from some pressing danger. Apparently
he did them a great service by marrying the
young woman and taking her away, for she
had a violent temper-was, in short, a perfect
vixen. The evils of this were perhaps lessened

by the fact that she could not speak French,
while her husband had no knowledge of her
native Greek. It is the simple truth that this
singular couple, in their disputes, which unfor-
tunately were many, used often to come and ask
our father to act as interpreter between them.
Monsieur N- himself was a kind man, and a
very good teacher.
There is a tale told of a christening feast
which he gave in honor of Candide, his eld-
est child. Julia and Flossy were invited, and
the governess of the time, whoever she was.
The company went in two hacks to the priest's
house, where the ceremony was to be per-
formed; on the way the rival hackmen fell out,
and jeered at each other, and, whipping up
their lean horses, made frantic efforts each to
obtain the front rank in the small cort6ge.
Whereupon Monsieur N- very angry at this
infringement of the dignity of the occasion,
thrust his head out of the window and shrieked
to his hackmen:
Firts or sekind, vich you bleece! which
delighted the children more than any other
part of the entertainment.
There was poor Miss R-, whom I re-
call with mingled dislike and compassion. She
must have been very young, and she had about
as much idea of managing children (we required
a great deal of managing) as a tree might
have. Her own idea of discipline was to give
us "misdemeanors," which in ordinary speech
were "black marks." What is it I hear her say
in the monotonous singsong voice which al-
ways exasperated us ? -" Doctor, Laura has
had fourteen misdemeanors! Then Laura
was put to bed, no doubt very properly; but
she has always felt that she need not have
had the "misdemeanors," if the teaching had
been a little different. Miss R- it was who
took away the glass eye-cup; therefore I am
aware that I cannot think of her with clear
and unprejudiced mind. But she must have
had sair times with us, poor thing! I can dis-
tinctly remember Flossy urging Harry, with
fiery zeal, not to recite his geography les-
son,- I cannot imagine why. Miss R-
often rocked in the junk with us. That reminds
me that I promised to describe the junk. But
how shall I picture that perennial fount of



joy? It was crescent-shaped, or rather it was
like a longitudinal slice cut out of a water-
melon. Magnify the slice a hundred-fold;
put seats up and down the sides, with iron
bars in front to hold on by; set it on two
grooved rails and paint it red--there you have
the junk! Nay! you have it not entire, for it
should be filled with rosy, shouting children,
standing or sitting, holding on by the bars and
rocking with might and main.

'Yo-ho! Here we go!
Up and down! Heigh-ho!

Why are there no junks nowadays ? Surely it
would be better for us, body and mind, if
there were; for, as for the one, the rocking
exercised every muscle in the whole bodily
frame, and as for the other, black Care could
not enter the junk,-at least he did not,-nor
weariness, nor shadow of annoyance." There
ought to be a junk on Boston Common, free
to all, and half a dozen in Central Park; and
I hope every young person who reads these
words will suggest this device to his parents
or guardians.
But teaching is not entirely confined to the
archery practice of the young idea; and any
account of our teachers would be incomplete
without mention of our dancing-master-of
the dancing-master, for there was but one.
You remember that the dandy in Punch, be-
ing asked of whom he buys his hats, replies,
Scott. Is there another fellah ?" Even so it
would be difficult for the Boston generation
of middle or elder life to acknowledge that
there could have been "another fellah" to
teach dancing besides Lorenzo Papanti. Who
does not remember-nay! who could ever
forget--that tall, graceful figure, that marvel-
ous elastic glide, like a wave flowing over
glass ? Who could ever forget the shrewd,
kindly smile when he was pleased, the keen
lightning of his glance when angered? What
if he did rap our toes sometimes, till the tim-
orous wept, and those of stouter heart flushed
scarlet, and clenched their small hands, and
inly vowed revenge?
No doubt we richly deserved it, and it did
us good.
If I were to hear a certain strain played in the

Desert of Sahara, or on the plains of Idaho,
I should instantly forward and back and
cross over"; and so, I warrant, would most
of my generation of Boston people. There is
one grave and courteous gentleman of my ac-
quaintance, whom to see dance the shawl-
dance with his fairy sister was a dream of
poetry. As for the gavotte-O beautiful
Amy! 0 lovely Alice! I see you now, with
your short silken skirts floating out to extreme
limit of crinoline; with your fair locks con-
fined by the discreet net, sometimes of brown
or scarlet chenille, sometimes of finest silk;
with snowy stockings, and slippers fastened by
elastic bands crossed over the foot and behind
the ankle; with arms and neck bare. If your
daughters, to-day, chance upon a photograph
of you taken in those days, they laugh, and ask
mama how she could wear such queer things,
and make such a fright of herself; but I re-
member how lovely you were, and how per-
fectly you always dressed, and with what
exquisite grace you danced the gavctte.
So, I think, we all who jumped and changed
our feet, who pirouetted and chass6ed under Mr.
Papanti, owe him a debt of gratitude; his hall
was a paradise, the stiff little dressing-room, with
its rows of shoe-boxes, the antechamber of de-
light. And thereby hangs a tale. The child
Laura grew up, and married one who had
jumped and changed his feet beside her at
Papanti's, and they two went to Europe and
saw many strange lands and things. And it fell
upon a time that they were storm-bound, in a
little wretch of a grimy steamer, in the Gulf of
Corinth. With them was a traveling compan-
ion, who also had had the luck to be born in
Boston, and to go to dancing-school; the other
passengers were a Greek, an Italian, and-I
think the third was a German, but, as he was
seasick, it made no difference. Three days
were we shut up there while the storm raged
and bellowed, and right thankful we were for
the snug little harbor which stretched its pro-
tecting arms between us and the white churning
waste of billows outside the bar.
We played games to make the time pass; we
talked endlessly, and in the course of talk it
naturally came to pass that we told of our
adventures, and where we came from, and, in


short, who we were. The Greek gentleman
turned out to be an old acquaintance of my
father's, and was greatly overjoyed to see me,
and told me many interesting things about the
old fighting-days of the Revolution. The Ital-
ian spoke little during this conversation, but
when he heard the word Boston he pricked
up his ears; and when a pause came he asked
if we came from Boston. "Yes," we all an-
swered, with the inward satisfaction which every
Bostonian feels at being able to make the reply.
And had we ever heard, in Boston, he went on
to inquire, of "un certo Papanti, maestro di
ballo "? Heard of him ?" cried the three
dancing-school children. "We never heard of
anyone else!" Thereupon ensued much de-
lighted questioning and counter-questioning.

This gentleman came from Leghorn, Mr. Pa-
panti's native city. He knew his family; they
were excellent people. Lorenzo himself he had
never seen, as he left Italy so many years ago.
But reports had reached Leghorn that he was
very successful; that he taught the best people
(O Beacon street! O purple windows and
brown-stone fronts, I should think so!); that he
had invented un piano sopra molle," a floor
on springs. Was this true ? Whereupon we
took up our parable, and unfolded to the Li-
vornese mind the glory of Papanti, till he
fairly glowed with pride in his famous fellow-
And, finally,' was not that a pleasant little
episode, in a storm-bound steamer in the Gulf
of Corinth?

(To be continued.)


oa ww t
Cie J.


IN a hall of strange description, antiquarian Egyptian,
Working on his monthly balance-sheet, the troubled monarch sat,
With a frown upon his forehead, hurling interjections horrid
At the state of his finances, for his pocket-book was flat.
Not a solitary, single copper cent had he to jingle
In his pocket; while his architects had gone off on a strike,
Leaving pyramids unfinished, as their salaries diminished,
And their credit vanished likewise in a way they did not like.




It was harder for His Royal Highness than for sons of toil,
For the horny-handed workmen only ate two figs per day;
While the king liked sweet potatoes, puddings, pies, and canned tomatoes,
Boneless ham and Blue Point oysters, cooked some prehistoric way.
Men sing small on economics when it comes to empty stomachs,
And Egyptian kings are molded just the ordinary size;
So with appetite unwonted old Rameses groaned and grunted,
\,/ As he longed for twisted doughnuts, ginger-cakes, and ap-

While he growled, the royal grumbler spied a bit of broken
In a long undusted comer, just behind the palace door.
When his hungry optics spied it he stood silently and eyed it;
Then he smote his thigh in ecstasy and danced about the
By the wit Osiris gave me, this same bit of glass shall save
I will sell it for a diamond at some stupendous price.
And whoe'er I ask to take it will find, for his own sweet
sake, it
Will be better not to wait until I have to ask him twice!"

Then a royal proclamation was despatched throughout the nation,
Most imperatively calling to appear before the king,
Under penalties most cruel, every man who bought a jewel,
Or who sold or bartered precious stones, and all that sort of thing.
Thereupon the traders' nether joints quaked and knocked together;
For they thought they smelled a rodent on the sultry desert air.
It was ever their misfortune to be pillaged by extortion;
So they packed their Saratogas in lugubrious despair.

When they faced the great propylon, with an
apprehensive smile on,
Sculptured there, in hieroglyphics two feet u
wide and three feet high,
Was the threat of King Rameses to chop
every man to pieces
If, when shown the royal diamond, they
dared refuse to buy.
Pale but calm, the dealer, Muley Hassan, eyed
the gem and coolly
Cried, The thing is but a common tumbler-
bottom; nothing more !"
Whereupon the king's assassin drew his sword,
and Muley Hassan
Never peddled rings again along the Nile's
primeval shore.


Then Abd-Allah Abd-El-Mahdi faintly said the stone was shoddy,
But he thought upon a pinch he might bid fifty cents himself.
There ensued a slight commotion ere he could repent the notion;
And Abd-Allah was promoted to the Oriental shelf.
Every heart was wildly quaking; every knee was feebly shaking;
It was poverty or death before them all they plainly saw.
When the king played judge and jury, never man escaped his fury,
For his rulings were despotic and his lightest word was law.

When they saw how things resulted, all the jewelers consulted
On some plan to save their lives, before they dared to dine or sup,-
Dashing off on flying journeys to consult the best attorneys
Who referred to their authorities, and. had to give it up!
Quite exciting was the writing, the inditing, and the skiting
Through the valleys of the Tigris, the Euphrates, and the Nile;
But, in spite of all their seeking, not a hole appeared for sneaking
Safely out of the predicament which deepened all the while.

Through it all with visage jolly, by the palace gate Ben Ali
Sat, without a dollar to his name, and nothing else to do.
Though his clothes were old and holey, he was sleek and roly-poly;
So he sat and smiled in silence at the many things he knew.
Suddenly a bright idea struck him: Why could he not be a
Champion of all these jewelers and save them from their fate ?
He had not spent days compiling abstruse problems on the tiling
Of the vestibule for nothing, so he did not hesitate,

But with confidence suggested if their cause in him were
He could extricate them safely ere a dog could wag its
= tail;
And, although he seemed quite youthful, they would find his statement truthful,
For within his little lexicon was no such word as "fail."





How they crowded on the balustrade that ran
around the palace,
When Ben Ali was before His Royal Majesty
the King!
And when Ali rose to meet him, how the cheers
burst forth to greet him-
"Sail in, Benny!" "You 're the
boy! "- until they made the fl.
welkin ring !/

" It would be the sheerest folly, great Rameses," said Ben Ali,
To pretend to buy the finest precious stone upon the earth
Without going at it coolly, and approximating duly,
Without fear and without favor, its indubitable worth.
I confess, and likewise shall you, that this stone's intrinsic value
Is but nothing-while the estimate that Muley Hassan gave
Adds another nothing to it-for it's glass, and Muley knew it! "T
So he chalked another cipher with a graceful Delsarte wave.

" If I understand your theses, most adorable Rameses, p
You must part with this great diamond to raise a little gold;
Yet, although you wish to sell it,- you '11 forgive me if I tell it,--
Its true worth increases naught on that account, when all is told."
So he pointed to his writing and went calmly on reciting,
Nothing added to a nothing surely makes it nothing more;
And the value I have thought on simply puts another naught on
To the aggregated estimate, increasing it to four:

Now it seems to m

5 00000

$ 00
ra ,.

e to follow that the sum bid by Abd-Allah-
Which was fifty, if I recollect the circum-
stance aright-
Should be likewise added to it; so, just by
your leave, I '11 do it,
Making full five hundred thousand in a
fair, unbiased light.
Sire, I trust my computation suits your royal
As I wish to buy the gem that you are
offering for sale.
I am sent with that intention by the Jewelers'
And I lose my whole commission if my
proposition fail."



Gloating on the promised treasure, King Rameses beamed with pleasure,
And, arising, said he thought five hundred thousand just the dot;
Yet, although he quite believed him, still men had before deceived him,
So he felt constrained to ask entire payment on the spot.
" Very well," said Ben; but scholars would allow at least five dollars
As a discount from the whole amount that I have been assessed."
" I agree," the king said, smiling in a manner quite beguiling,
You may discount five for cash in hand, and then produce the rest."
In a hurry King Rameses signed them all complete releases
And receipts in full for every responsibility;
And, as soon as that was a
O done, he asked Ben
000 1Ali for the money;
Whereupon Ben Ali rose
and said with great civility,
"That we may not make a miscount, I will first subtract my
Then he took his hemstitched handkerchief and rubbed the
five away.
S Now I 'm ready to obey you, and am quite
prepared to pay you
The remainder as it stands-for there is
nothing left to pay! "
King Rameses tore his raiment at such visionary payment,
Seeing how the wool was pulled across his mercenary eyes;
But his claims were all receipted, and his wicked aims defeated;
So he 'd have to whet his appetite on atmospheric pies.
Then like some volcanic spasm burst the crowd's enthusiasm,
Making Ali rich with presents in the rapture that ensued:
While a very ancient carving represents the king as starving -
But it 's likely that the neighbors sent him in some sort of food.

5ri OP ML



A_ *__



[ Begun in the December number.]

FAR southwest of Moqui, and still in the edge
of the great Dry Land, is whit I am inclined
to rank as the most remarkable area of its
kind in the Southwest--though in this won-
derland it is difficult enough to award that pre-
eminence to any one locality. At least in its
combination of archeologic interest with scenic
beauty and with some peerless natural curiosi-
ties, what may be called the Mogollon watershed
is the one of most startling regions in America or
in the world.
The Mogollones* are not a mountain system
as Eastern people understand the phrase. There
is no great range, as among the Appalachians
and the Rockies. The "system" is merely an
enormous plateau, full three hundred miles
across, and of an average height above the sea
greater than that of any peak in the East: an
apparently boundless plain, dotted only here
and there with its few Ibnely hangers-on" or
" parasites" of peaks,-like the noble San Fran-
cisco triad near Flagstaff,-which in that vast
expanse seem scarce to attain to the dignity of
mounds. On the north this huge table-land
melts into hazy slopes; but all along its southern
edge it breaks off by sudden and fearful cliffs
into a country of indescribable wildness.. This
great territory to the south, an empire in size,
but largely desert and almost entirely wilderness,
has nevertheless the largest number of consider-
able streams of any equal area in the thirsty
Southwest. The Gila, the Rio Salado, t the
Rio Verde, and others-though they would be
petty in the East, and though they are small
beside the Rio Grande and the Colorado--
form, with their tributaries, a more extensive
water-system than is to be found elsewhere in
our arid lands. The Tonto t Basin-scene of
one of the brave Crook's most brilliant cam-
paigns against the Apaches-is part of this
wilderness. Though called a "basin," there is
Spanish, "The hangers-on." t "Salt
t"Tonto" is S

nothing bowl-like in its appearance, even as
one sees down thousands of feet into it from
the commanding "Rim" of the Mogollones.
It is rather a vast chaos of crags and peaks
apparently rolled into it from the great break-
ing-off place-the wreck left by forgotten wa-
ters of what was once part of the Mogollon
About this Tonto Basin, which is some fifty
miles across, cluster many of the least-known
yet greatest wonders of our country. South
are the noble ruins of Casa Grande, and all the
Gila Valley's precious relics of the prehistoric.
The Salt River Valley is one of the richest of
fields for archaeologic research; and the country
of the Verde is nowise behind it. All across
that strange area of forbidding wildernesses,
threaded with small valleys that are green with
the outposts of civilization, are strewn the gray
monuments of a civilization that had worn out
antiquity, and had perished and been forgotten,
before ever a Caucasian foot had touched the
New World. The heirlooms of an unknown
past are everywhere. No man has ever counted
the crumbling ruins of all those strange little
stone cities whose history and whose very
names have gone from off the face of the
earth as if they had never been. Along every
stream, near every spring, on lofty lookout-
crags, and in the faces of savage cliffs, are the
long-deserted homes of that mysterious race -
mysterious even now that we know their de-
scendants. Thousands of these homes are per-
fect yet, thousands no more changed from the
far, dim days when their swart dwellers lived
and loved and suffered and toiled there, than
by the gathered dust of ages. Very, very few
Americans have ever at all explored this Last
Place in the World. It has not been a score of
years known to our civilization. There is hardly
ever a traveler to those remote recesses; and
of the Americans who are settling the pretty
oases, a large proportion have never seen the
wonders within a few leagues of them. It is a
River," a fine stream whose waters are really salt.
panish for fool.



far, toilsome land to reach; and yet there is no
reason why any young American of average
health should not visit this wonderland--which
is as much more thrilling than any popular
American resort as the White Mountains are
more thrilling than Coney Island on a quiet day.
The way to reach this strangely fascinating
region is by the Atlantic and Pacific railroad to
Prescott Junction, Arizona, four hundred and
twenty-eight miles west of Albuquerque. Thence
a little railroad covers the seventy miles to Pres-
cott; and from Prescott one goes by the mail-
buckboard or by private conveyance to Camp
Verde, forty-three miles. Camp Verde is the
best headquarters for any who would explore
the marvelous country about it. Comfortable
accommodations are there; and there can be
procured the needful horses-for thencefor-
ward horseback travel is far preferable, even
when not absolutely necessary. There is no
danger whatever nowadays. The few settlers are
intelligent, law-abiding people, among whom
the traveler fares very comfortably.
The Verde* Valley is itself full of interest;
and so are all its half-valley, half-cation tributa-
ries-Oak Creek, Beaver Creek, Clear Creek,
Fossil Creek, and the rest. Away to the north,
over the purple rim-rock of the Mogollones,
peer the white peaks of the San Francisco
range (one can also come to the Verde from
Flagstaff, by a rough but interesting eighty-
mile ride overland). All about the valley are
mesas,f and cliffs so tall, so strange in form and
color, so rent by shadowy cautions as to seem
fairly unearthly. And follow whatever caion

or cliff you will, you shall find everywhere more
of these strange ruins. They are so many
hundreds, that while all are of deep interest I
can here describe only the more striking types.
Beaver Creek enters the Rio Verde about a
mile above the now-abandoned fort. Its cation
is by no means a large one, though it has some
fine points. A long and rocky twelve miles up
Beaver, past smiling little farms of to-day that
have usurped the very soil of fields whose
tilling had been forgotten when history was
new, brings one to a wonder which is not the
greatest of its kind," but the only. There is, I
believe, nothing else like it in the world.
It has been named-by the class which has
pitted the Southwest with misnomers -

S IIT is hardly a well,-
though an exact term is
difficult to find,-and
Montezuma $ never had
anything to do with it;
< but it is none the less
S wonderful under its misfit
name. There is a legend
(of late invention) that Mon-
tezuma, after being conquered
by Cortez, threw his incalculable treasure into
this safest of hiding-places; but that is all a
myth, since Montezuma had no treasures, and
in any event could hardly have brought the
fabled tons of gold across two thousand miles
of desert to this "well," even if he had ever
stirred outside the pueblo of Mexico after the

Rio Verde, Green River,"- so called from the verdure of its valley, which is in such contrast with its weird
surroundings. t Table-lands.
t The war-chief of an ancient league of Mexican Indians, and not "Emperor of Mexico," as ill-informed
historians assert.



Spaniards came-as he never did. But as
one looks into this awesome abyss, it is almost
easy to forget history and believe anything.
At this point, Beaver Creek has eaten away
the side of a rounded hill of stone which rises
more than one hundred feet above it, and
now washes the foot of a sheer cliff of striking
picturesqueness. I can half imagine the feel-
ings of the first white man who ever climbed
that hill. Its outer show gives no greater prom-
ise of interest than do ten thousand other ele-
vations in the Southwest; but as one reaches
a flat shoulder of the hill, one
gets a first glimpse of a dark rift
in the floor-like rock, and in a
moment more stands upon the J
brink of an absolutely new ex-
perience. There is a vast, sheer
well, apparently as circular as
that peculiar rock could be
broken by design, with sides
of cliffs, and with a gloomy,
mysterious lake at the bottom.
The diameter of this basin ap-
proximates two hundred yards;
and its depth from brink of cliff
to surface of water is some
eighty feet. One does not
realize the distance across until
a powerful thrower tries to hurl '
a pebble to the farther wall. I
believe that no one has suc-
ceeded in throwing past the
middle of the lake. At first
sight one invariably takes this
remarkable cavity to be the
crater of an extinct volcano,
like that in the Zufii plains al-
ready referred to; but a study of the unburnt
limestone makes one give up that theory. The
well is a huge "sink" of the horizontal strata
in one particular undermined spot, the loosened
circle of rock dropping forever from sight into
a terrible subterranean abyss which was doubt-
less hollowed out by the action of springs far
down in the lime-rock. As to the depth of that
gruesome, black lake, there is not yet knowledge.
I am assured that a sounding-line has been sent
down three hundred and eighty feet, in a vain
attempt to find bottom; and that is easily

credible. Toss a large stone into that midnight
mirror, and for an hour the bubbles will struggle
shivering up from its unknown depths.
The waters do not lave the foot of a perpen-
dicular cliff all around the sides of that fantastic
well. The unfathomed slump is in the center,
and is separated from the visible walls by a nar-
row, submerged rim. One can wade out a few
feet in knee-deep water,-if one have the cour-
age in that "creepy" place,- and then, sud-
denly as walking from a parapet, step off into
the bottomless. Between this water-covered

- -

rim and the foot of the cliff is, in most places, a
wild jumble of enormous square blocks, fallen
successively from the precipices and lodged
here before they could tumble into the lower
There are two places where the cliff can be
descended from top to water's edge. Elsewhere
it is inaccessible. Its dark, stained face, split by
peculiar cleavage into the semblance of giant
walls, frowns down upon its frowning image in
that dark mirror. The whole scene is one of
utter grimness. Even the eternal blue of an


Arizona sky, even the rare fleecy clouds, seem
mocked and changed in that deep reflection.
Walking around the fissured brink of the
well eastward, we become suddenly aware of a
new interest-the presence of a human Past.
Next the creek, the side of the well is nearly
gone. Only a narrow, high wall of rock, per-
haps one hundred feet through at the base, less
than a score at the top, remains to keep the well

and three stories. It was a perfect defense to
the Indians who erected it; and was not only
safe itself on that commanding perch, but
protected the approach to the well. This is
the only town I know of that was ever builded
upon a natural bridge; as some houses in this
same region are probably the only ones placed
under such a curiosity.
Leading from the center of this fort-house, the

W I A." -.o -.. -. -

a well. On one side of this thin rim gapes the
abyss of the well; on the other the abyss to
the creek. Upon this wall-leaving scarce
room to step between them and the brink of the
well, and precariously clinging down the steep
slope to the edge of the cliff that overhangs the
creek-are the tousled ruins of a strong stone
building of many rooms, the typical fort-home
of the ancient Pueblos. Its walls are still, in
places, six to eight feet high; and the student
clearly makes out that the building was of two

only easy trail descends into the well; and it is
so steep that no foe could prosper on it in the
face of any opposition. This brings us to a tiny
green bench six or eight feet above the level of
the dark lake, where two young sycamores and
a few live-oak bushes guard a black cavity in
the overhanging cliff. We look across the dark
waters to the western wall, and are startled to
see in its face a perfect cliff-house, perched
where the eagle might build his nest. A strange
aery for a home, surely! There, on a dizzy



little shelf, overhung by a huge flat rock which
roofs it, stands this two-roomed type of the hu-
man dwelling in the old danger-days. From
its window-hole a babe might lean out until he
saw his dimpled image in the somber sheet be-
low. Only at one end of the house, where a
difficult trail comes up, is there room on the
shelf for a dozen men to stand. In front, and
at its north end, a goat could scarce find foot-
ing. The roof and floor and rear wall are
of the solid cliff, the other three walls of stone
masonry, perfect and unbroken still. A few
rods along the face of the rock to the north is
another cliff-dwelling not so large nor so well
preserved; and farther yet is another. It is
fairly appalling to look at those dizzy nests and
remember that they were homes! What eagle-
race was this whose warriors strung their bows,
and whose women wove their neat cotton tunics,
and whose naked babes rolled and laughed in
such wild lookouts-the scowling cliff above,
the deadly lake so far below! Or, rather, what
grim times were those when farmers had to
dwell thus to escape the cruel obsidian knife *
and war-club of the merciless wandering savage!
But if we turn to the sycamore at our back,
there is yet more of human interest. Behind
the gray debris of the cliff gapes the low-arched
mouth of a broad cave. It is a weird place to
enter, under tons that threaten to fall at a
breath; but there have been others here before
us. As the eye grows wonted to the gloom, it
makes out a flat surface beyond. There, forty
feet back from the mouth, a strong stone wall
stretches across the cave; and about in its cen-
ter is one of the tiny doors that were charac-
teristic of the Southwest when a doorway big
enough to let in a whole Apache at a time
was unsafe. So the fort-house balanced on the
cliff-rim between two abysses and the houses
nestled in crannies of the bald precipice were
not enough-they must build far in the very
caves! That wall shuts off a large, low, dark
room. Beyond is another, darker and safer,
and so on. To our left is another wall in the
front of another branch of the cave; and in
that wall is a little token from the dead past.
When I went there for ST. NICHOLAS, in June,

1891, my flash-light failed, and I lit a dry en-
trana t to explore during the hour it would take
the lens to study out part of the cave in that
gloom. And suddenly the unaccustomed tears
came in my eyes; for on the flinty inortar of that
strange wall was a print made when that mortar
was fresh adobe mud, at least five hundred years
ago, maybe several thousands,-the perfect im-
print of a baby's chubby hand. And of that
child, whose mud autograph has lasted perhaps
as long as Caesar's fame, who may have wrought
as deep impression on the history of his race as
Caesar on the world's, we know no more than
that careless hand-print, nor ever shall know.
This left-hand cave is particularly full of.in-
terest, and is probably the best remaining ex-
ample of this class of home-making by the
so-called "Cliff-dwellers." With its numerous
windings and branches, it is hundreds of feet in
length; and its rooms, formed by cross-walls of
masonry, extend far into the heart of the hill,
and directly under the fort-house. It seems to
have been fitted for the last retreat of the peo-
ple in case the fortress and the cliff-houses were
captured by an enemy. It was well stored with
corn, whose mummied cobs are still there; and-
equally important-it had abundant water. The
well seems to have no outlet-the only token
of one visible from within being a little rift in the
water-mosses just in front of the caves. But in
fact there is a mysterious channel far down
under the cliff, whereby the waters of the lake
escape to the creek. In exploring the main cave
one hears the sound of running water, and pres-
ently finds a place where one may dip a drink
through a hole in the limestone floor of a sub-
terranean room. The course of this lonely little
brook can be traced for some distance through
the cave, below whose floor it runs. Here and
there in the rooms are lava hand-mills and bat-
tered stone hammers, and other relics of the for-
gotten people.
Returning to the creek at the foot of the hill,
and following the outer cliff up-stream a few
hundred feet, we come to a very picturesque
spot under a fine little precipice whose foot is
guarded by stately sycamores. Here is the out-
let of the subterranean stream from the well.

SThe only knives in those days were sharp-edged flakes of obsidian (volcanic glass) and other stone.
t The buckhorn-cactus, which was the prehistoric candle.
VOL. XIX.-45.


From a little hole in the very base of the cliff
the glad rivulet rolls out into the light of day,
and tumbles heels over head down a little ledge
to a pretty pool of the creek.
The water of the well is always warmish, and
in winter a little cloud of vapor hovers over
the outlet. Between the cliff and the creek is
pinched an irrigating-ditch, which carries the
waters of the well half a mile south to irrigate the
ranch of a small farmer. Probably no other man
waters his garden from so strange a source.
Somewhat more than half-way back from
Montezuma's Well to Camp Verde, but off the


ling road, is another curiosity, only less im-
ant, known as

is the best remaining specimen of what we
call the cave-pueblo that is, a Pueblo
an "community-house" and fortress, built
natural cave. The oft-pictured ruins in
Mancos caion. are insignificant beside it.
ere the tiny valley of Beaver Creek is very
active. The long slope from the south bank
us look far up toward the black rim of the
ollones, and across the smiling Verde Valley
to the fine range beyond. On
S the north bank towers a noble
limestone cliff, two hundred
'- feet high, beautifully white and
..- beautifully eroded. In its per-
pendicular front, half-way up, is
a huge, circular natural cavity,
'",I '. very much like a giant basin
.' ;"' tilted on edge; and therein
S stands the noble pile of Mon-
Stezuma's Castle." A castle it
'.~ truly looks, as you may see from
Sthe illustration--and a much
finer ruin than many that people
'A rush abroad to see, along the
'.,I' historic Rhine. The form of
'' the successive limestone ledges
upon which it is built led the
S aboriginal builders to give it a
I shape unique among its kind.
S' ,1 It is one of the most preten-
i tious of the Pueblo ruins, as it

there are many hundreds that
are larger.
From the clear, still stream,
hemmed in by giant sycamores
'', that have doubtless grown only
Since that strange, gray ruin was
S deserted, the foot of the cliff is
some three hundred feet away.
'" The lowest foundation of the
castle is over eighty feet above
i the creek; and from corer-stone
to crest the building towers fifty
feet. It is five stories tall, over
sixty feet front in its widest




part, and built in the form of
a crescent. It contains twenty-
five rooms of masonry; and
there are, besides, many cave-
chambers below and at each
side of it small natural grottos "
neatly walled in front and with ''-
wee doors The timbers of the
castle are still in excellent pres-
ervation,-a durability impos-
sible to wood in any other cli- "
mate,-and some still bear the '-'
clear marks of the stone axes fi'r
with which they were cut. The
rafter-ends outside the walls
were "trimmed" by burning
them off close. The roofs and
floors of reed thatch and adobe
mud are still perfect except in
two or three rooms; and traces
of the last hearth-fire that
cooked the last meal, dim cen-
turies ago, are still there. In-
deed, there are even a few
relics of the meal itself-corn,
dried cactus-pulp, and the like.
The fifth story is nowhere
visible from below, since it
stands far back upon the roof
of the fourth and under the
hanging rock. In front it has
a spacious veranda, formed by
the roof of the fourth story, "
and protected by a parapet which the picture
shows with its central gateway to which a
ladder once gave access. It is only the upper
story which can be reached by an outside
ladder-all the others were accessible only
through tiny hatchways in the roofs of those
below. So deep is the great uptilted bowl in
which the castle stands, so overhanging the
wild brow of cliff above, that the sun has never
shone upon the two topmost stories
There is but one way to get to the castle;
and that is by the horizontal ledges below.
These rise one above the other (like a series of
shelves, not like steps), ten to fourteen feet apart,
and fairly overhang. The aborigines had first
to build strong ladders, and lay them from ledge
to ledge; and then up that dizzy footing they

S. .

: 7-

carried upon their backs the uncounted tons of
stones and mortar and timbers to build that
great edifice. What do you imagine an Amer-
ican architect would say, if called upon to plan
for a stone mansion in such a place? The
original ladders have long ago disappeared;
and so have the modern ones once put there
by a scientist at the fort. I had to climb to
the castle by a crazy little frame of sycamore
branches, dragging it after me from ledge to
ledge, and sometimes lashing it to knob's of
rock to keep it from tumbling backward down
the cliff. It was a very ticklish ascent, and gave
full understanding how able were the builders,
and how secure they were when they had re-
treated to this high-perched fortress and pulled
up their ladders- as they undoubtedly did every



night. A monkey could not scale the rock; are still traces of the little fields and of the
and the cliff perfectly protects the castle above acequias that watered them. Even in those
and on each side. Nothing short of modern far days the Pueblos were patient, industrious,
weapons could possibly affect this lofty citadel, home-loving farmers, but harassed eternally by
Down in the valley at its feet-as below wily and merciless savages-a fact which we
Montezuma's Well and the hundreds of other have to thank for the noblest monuments in our
prehistoric dwellings in the cation of Beaver new-old land.
The characteristic irrigating-ditches of the Southwest.

IF in the Flowery Kingdom you had happened
to be born,
Enough of flowers you might have--and every
flower a thorn;
You would not, light as thistle-down, this
Fourth of July
Dance round with
your torpedoes
and your mel-
"41 0 low mimic horn;
For you would be,
poor little maid,
unused to go
7 alone,--
S A prisoner whose
bandaged feet
9 V no liberty have
Oh! what is it floats
above us, so dauntlessly on high,
The sunset bars, the midnight stars, a glory
in the sky!
The winds are waiting on it, with rainbows,
storms, and showers,
And all the sunshine of the land pours through
that flag of ours!

And if, a darling of the sun, you first had seen
his ray
Where far in
shine the
snows of
Where women -
wastetheir TURKISH GIRL.,
dreary lives and wear the time away
In braiding jewels for their hair the livelong
summer day,
Outdoors would be a
fairy-land forbidden
to your eye,
The slave of the
zenana, within its
walls to die.

And if you chanced
to be the child of
the Circassian hills,
Where the shepherd's
fluting wild the
I glades with music



One day the thought of wandering herds and
leaping mountain rills ,
With longing that is but despair across your
memory thrills,-
A Turkish merchant lifts your veil and finds
that you are fair;
You are his slave, and never more will breathe
your native air.


And if where the Dark
Continent its vast
recesses hides,
Where to lose itself in
deserts the mighty
river slides,
Your home were in a
wattled hut upon
the jungle-sides -
A warrior with his spear

across the thicket glides,
And tears you from your mother's arms, and
never heeds her wail,
To sell with gold and ivory where the slave-
ship drops her sail.

Or even if you had been
born a week's sail
o'er the sea,
In that Green Island
from which snakes i
to flee,
More like than not this
sorry day an exile
you would be, IRISH GIRL.

Or turned out of your cabin in the bog to
sleep, machree;
And you 'd have no country of your own till
you crossed wild leagues of foam,
And church-steps in a foreign land would be
your only home.

But here you dance, as light as if the wind's
will were your own,
Nor cramped your feet, nor dwarfed your soul
where this bright flag is blown !
No merchant weighs that heart of yours, as
heavy as a stone,
With silks and
shawls; no fetter
cuts your white '
wrist to the "i
bone; -
But to blossom and '
to bourgeon ,,
here you are as '
free as flowers, ,
This blessed banner
overhead pos-
sesses heavenly 'I

Oh, what is it
floats above us,
so dauntlessly AMERICAN GIRL.
on high,
The sunset bars, the midnight stars, a glory
in the sky!
The winds are waiting on it, with rainbow,
storms, and showers,
And all the sunshine of the land gleams in
that flag of ours !


Y'ar witw Dolly

IB. Etudra S. 33umstead,

Mfy Dolly went to the Fourth of July --
I never should have allowed her -
We both were careless bolly and I,
And came too close to the powder.
I don't know how it happened, myself-
Twas something about the fuses -
But Dolly and I were laid on the shelf
with blisters and bumps, and bruises.
------ i ,

I wasn't hurt very much, you know, r
- Tho' mama declared it shocked her;
My troubles were cured, lonq, long aSo -
Without once callinQ the doctor.
But Dolly will never "again be fair
Where the horrid powder shot her,
And it fri35ed and singed. her goldenlhair
Till she's balder than Uncle Potter.

. A


Translated by Nina M. Miel from Le Petit Marchand de Sucre d'Orge,"
published in the St. Nicholas for May.

IT is recess: the children joyfully escape from school
and' rush to the little vender, who never fails to be there
when the time comes for them to be dismissed.
He is a child of ten or twelve years of age, clothed in
white, with a sweet, winning face, who proudly wears
his little cap, which is also white, and carries the little
tray hanging from his neck.
His stock-in-trade is carefully arranged in lines on
white paper; it consists of the sticks of barley-sugar so
dear to French children. Some are flavored with lemon,
some with orange, some with chocolate, some with
caramel, and some with marshmallow; these last white
and melting in the mouth, and twisted into spirals. One
cent for the little ones, two for the large. It is a rare
thing for the child, on starting for school, not to obtain
from his mama the precious coin which will procure him
this dainty dessert after his luncheon.
The little vender serves each in turn, receiving the
pennies in his little box, and wrapping the end of each
stick of barley-sugar with a piece of paper, so that his
young customers may not get their fingers sticky.

He does not disdain to do honor to his wares by tast-
ing one of his sticks himself. From time to time he
withdraws it from his lips, crying: "Barley-sugar, bar-
ley-sugar, one cent and two cents! "
One corner of his apron is tucked up and shows his
knee-breeches, his stockings, neatly pulled up, and his
stout shoes; for our little dealer is obliged to make long
rounds among the schools of the neighborhood where
he finds his best customers, and, in the evening, to the
approaches to the theaters frequented by workingmen
and their families, to whom a stick of barley-sugar is a
favorite treat.
It is his mother without doubt, a poor widow, who
makes his humble stock at her home. On her range,
always lighted, is put the mixture of water, barley, and
sugar, which, after boiling for a long time, is poured
into different receptacles to be flavored and pulled, then
shaped into sticks which are to become cold and hard on
a marble slab. His day at an end, the little barley-sugar
vender, if he has had good sales, returns home, joyfully, to
pour into his mother's lap the result of his day's business.




A GLAD summer welcome to you, one and all!
And now, in this time of bloom and sunshine, I am
moved to discourse to you familiarly upon

IT is not always July, my friends, and the fire-
cracker cannot well be chosen as our national
flower blooming violently as it does every twelve-
month. New York State has, they say, made the
goldenrod its own. The graceful mullen is re-
jected, I suppose, because it is naturalized, not
native; besides, a national flower is needed,-
not a national stalk. Therefore, is it not full time
that you and I should help the nation to decide?
And since it must be one thing if not another, what
shall it be ? That is the question.
Our country's flower should have a wide range
of blooming. It should be hardy, ornamental, and
with a decided air of its own not a national air;
that is another matter. It need not be large nor
showy, but it should be bright and worthy of honor
-above all, it should convey a sentiment to the
hearts of the people.
One day the dear Little Schoolma'am, after ex-
plaining the subject, "Our National Flower," to
the children of the Red School-house, asked:
"'Which of you can propose a flower? "
There was a deep silence for some seconds.
Then up went a little hand:
"I can, ma'am. I think it ought to be the
Yankee-doodle dandelion!"
The little girl who said this was not making fun:
she was in earnest, though all the school laughed.
And, to my mind, one might do worse than pro-
pose the dandelion,- bright, sturdy, ever-present
little republican that it is.
According to some historians, a spray of the scar-
let thorn floated out upon the sea to greet Colum-
bus as he neared his promised land. Brother

Burroughs, I am informed, is to tell you about the
thorn in this month's ST. NICHOLAS; Brother
Fenn is going to picture it for you in three of its
pretty varieties; and Sister Nason is to sing you a
fine ballad telling how it was the first to greet
At all events, it may be well for you, my investi-
gators, to look into this matter. Observe all the
North American flowers you meet with; find out
all you can about every plant that, so far, has been
suggested as our national flower. Speak to the
grown folk, ply them with questions, tell them, up
and down, that this country needs a national flow-
er, and it ought to have it. After a while they '1
select one, or my name is not Jack. And what if
the scarlet thorn, with its pretty bud, its bright
fruit, its defensive thorn, its strong, expressive
lines, above all, its historic welcoming of Christo-
pher Columbus,--should prove to be the choice?

I HAD intended, my good listeners, to address
you awhile to-day on the important question,
"Have we a National Hymn ?" but my pulpit is
laden with so many, many letters concerning this
point, that I hardly know which to take up first.
And now the dear Little Schoolma'am warns me
that this is your busy month, and that -if I don't
mind--she feels pretty sure you would prefer that
I should wait till August. This Fourth of July
will be gone by that time; but our country will
very probably be here, and we shall have ample
time to report a few of the views and opinions of
this congregation upon this still unsettled and most
urgent question-our National Hymn.

YOUR Jack has not felt quite comfortable in his
pulpit since he told you that he knew where you
could buy a good, sound, live horse for five dollars.
What if some eager little chap with that very sum
carefully tucked under his pillow has been lying
awake o' nights thinking of the day when he should
become the owner of this dashing steed or a gentle
pony, whichever he had decided to buy! Ah,
well, the fine horse is for sale- many fine horses
are- for five dollars, and for even a lower price ;
but all my boys and girls do not live in or near
Australia, and it is in Australia that these equine
bargains are to be found.
Hey ? What does equine mean? No, you funny
boy of the Red School-house, it does not mean
"horses fed on quinine." Ask the Latin class, or
the dictionaries. They will tell you.
Yes; in Queensland, Australia, I am told, on
good authority, horses are so plentiful that they
are really in the way. Ordinary animals are not
worth two dollars a head, and good ones in a half-
wild state overrun the colony. At auction they
will not bring more than thirteen or fourteen dol-
lars a dozen. Think of that! Thousands of horses
to every single boy who desires to ride. It reminds
me of the present condition of things in New Jer-
sey-millions of mosquitos to every boy or girl who
wishes to be bitten !




IT was a hot, summer day. Betty Ross, seated
in a high-back chair at her front window, was in-
dustriously plying her needle. Out in Mulberry
street the cobbles and the bricks in the narrow
sidewalk fairly shimmered with the heat. They
were used to it, though. All day the sun beat
down upon them. Rising out of the Delaware in
the morning, it passed from one end of the long
street to the other, at last sinking to rest in the
Schuylkill, beyond the town. The big maple-tree
along the curbstone, however, threw a pleasant
shade over the front of the little two-story
Despite the extreme heat there seemed to be an
air of suppressed excitement in the usually quiet
city ; and the quick tread of passing feet, the clatter
of a galloping horseman, and the heavy rumble
of a loaded cart, caused Betty to pause from her
work and glance into the street. Even "Powder,"
the big black cat who always curled up for a good
long nap right after dinner, was wakeful and rest-
less. He stood on the arm of Betty's chair, his
fore feet on the window-sill, gazing up and down
the street at every passer-by. Once Betty heard
the sound of fife and drum, and laying her work
aside she stood on the broad doorstep while a whole
regiment of raw Virginia troops marched slowly up
Second street, just below, on their way to join the
Continental army in New Jersey.
But this reminded Betty that she must not waste
her time. Ever since her husband's death, some
years before, she had supported herself by taking
in sewing, and now she was accounted the neatest
and most skilful seamstress in all Philadelphia.
With her present piece of work she was taking ex-
tra pains, and yet it must be finished by sunset.
She was making shirts with wide embroidered
ruffles for General Washington, who must hasten
away that night to overtake the Virginia regi-
ment, and with them join the waiting army.
And so she sewed on steadily for an hour or more.
Powder had at last curled up on the cool stone
of the doorstep, and was apparently fast asleep.
Neighbor Samuel Smith paused at the window to
wipe his perspiring brow and tell the latest news
from Congress and the army. "Yes," he said, in
answer to her inquiry; "Congress decided upon
the flag this morning, and without any debate
either "; then he passed slowly on to his home near
the corner below.
Again she heard footsteps approaching. They
paused at her door, and she had barely time to
put aside her sewing when the tall form of Gen-
eral Washington himself appeared in the doorway.
Very warm he was with his stiff uniform, his heavy
hat, and epaulets, and all. With him were her
husband's uncle, Colonel Ross, and a gentleman

in citizen's clothes. Powder, aroused from his nap,
took refuge under his mistress's chair.
Betty Ross," said General Washington, noting
the heads that were peeping out from the opposite
windows, and the presence of a half-dozen boys in
the doorway anxious to see and hear all that was
going on, "we want to speak with you privately."
"Come in here, then," said Betty, leading the
way through the little entry into the darkened back
parlor; we will not be disturbed here."
The gentlemen followed, Colonel Ross carefully
closing the door behind him.
"Betty," said Washington, "we have decided
on the flag, and we want you to make it for us.
Do you think you can do it?" "I don't know
whether I can, but I 'll try," said Betty. "How
is it to be made ? "
Washington took from his pocket a rough draw-
ing, and explained how wide it should be and
how long, the number of stripes and how they were
to be arranged, and explained to her that in the
upper left-hand corner there was to be a blue field
with thirteen white stars.
"But why hast thou made the stars six-pointed?"
asked Betty. No one knew.
At last Robert Morris, the committeeman in civi-
lian dress, suggested that in English heraldry the
star had six points.
"Yes," answered'Betty with spirit, and that is
all the more reason why ours should be five-pointed."
But, Betty, can you make a shapely five-pointed
star? asked Colonel Ross.
Hastening into the front room, she returned with
her work-basket. Picking out a square piece of
cambric, she deftly arranged it, one fold over an-
other, and finally with one clip of her shears she
cut off the greater portion of it. Opening out
what remained she showed them a perfect star
with five points. The committee were delighted
with the suggestion, and it was adopted at once.
And this is said to be why the stars in our flag
to-day are five-pointed, while those on our coins,
following the English custom, have six points.
Betty made her flag, soon to be unfurled as the
emblem of Independence and Union, with thirteen
stripes of alternate red and white, and thirteen
white stars arranged in a circle on the blue field in
the corner. Some said the stars represented the
constellation called Lyra, and were an emblem of
harmony and unity; but Congress designed it to
be "a new constellation."
For years Betty and her daughter made flags
for the government, and Betty cut many graceful
five-pointed stars with one clip of her shining
shears. To this day the little girls among her
descendants, just as soon as they are old enough
to use a pair of scissors, receive a piece of paper,


and their mamas show them how their great-great-
grandma made the star for General Washington.
It was one of these little girls, now grown up, who
showed me how to do it.

TAKE a square piece of paper and fold it in half;
then fold it again so that it will resemble fig. I.

Fold it again on the dotted line so that when folded
it will be as in fig. II. Fold it over once more,


again on the dotted line; when it should have the
shape of fig. III. Then cut it as shown by the
dotted line in fig. III,
and you will have a sym-
metrical five-pointed star.
Betty's little house is
standing to-day. Every-
thing else around it has
changed-even the name
of the street is different.
Tall five-storied buildings I
look down on both sides- *
one fancies, with con- \
tempt-upon the little
two-storied building with
its shingled roof and dor- /
mer window. The front
room where Betty sewed
is now used as a store,
but, with the exception
of a new floor, the show- FIG. III.
window, and the door, it is as it was a hundred
years ago. May it long withstand the march of
so-called progress!


BY F. E.

IN this article I shall very simply and briefly
state a few of the principles that govern the use
of the apparatus and chemicals employed in de-
veloping dry plates. By following the plain direc-
tions given, one may develop his own pictures
with intelligent skill. But, unless the young ex-
perimenter has the patience to master the few
principles of the art and science of photography,
he will never make a photographer. It will be
a mere matter of chance whether he gets good
pictures or not. The real art and science of
photography are in the intelligent use of a lens
and in the development of the plate. A person
who does not know why and how to vary the pro-
portions of his chemicals under different circum-
stances, and who, therefore, sends his pictures to
be developed for him, is not a photographer. He
is on a level with the child who holds the end of
the rein when his father drives.
We must first consider the action of light on the
prepared plate, and then the uses of the few chemi-
cals needed.
When light shines on various substances, it
causes certain changes to occur in them. Some
it causes to change in color. The compounds of
silver, for instance, turn purple or brown or black,
as you have probably seen photographic "proofs"
and indelible ink do, when exposed to light.
In preparing photographic plates, the glass,
paper, or celluloid is coated on one side with a

mixture of fine glue and a solution of silver. This
coated side is called the "film" side. The coat-
ing is done in a room lighted by the least possible
quantity of red light. The mixture is called an
"emulsion." These emulsions are made at differ-
ent temperatures, the emulsions for the most sen-
sitive plates being made at higher temperatures
than those for slow plates. The plates will keep
good for months.
When one of these plates is put into a camera, in
the place of the ground glass, and the lens is un-
capped before a landscape, the light that comes
through the lens acts differently on different parts of
the plate. The light that comes from the bright sky
affects the plate much more than the small amount
of light that comes from any dark, less lighted
object. When the plate is taken to the dark-room
and looked at after the light has acted upon it, no
picture is visible. Its coating is of just the same
uniform cream-color as before. But when you
pour over your "exposed" plate certain photo-
graphic chemicals, whose uses are to be explained
later, the plate will become black, from a deposit
of silver, wherever any light has shone on it through
the lens. The sky part of the picture quickly turns
black; but if a man in a black coat had been stand-
ing before the lens when the plate was exposed to
the light, that part of the plate where his coat
should appear would not be changed at all. When
the picture has been developed, we can put the plate


into a solution which will dissolve away any un-
changed parts.
If we hold the developed plate up to the light,
we see a picture in which everything is exactly
as it is not in nature. A black coat, for instance,
would be almost bare glass; a white sky would be
black, and we should call the picture a "nega-
tive." From one negative, any number of pictures,
true to nature, and called "positives," can be
made. For if we put the negative, when dry, upon
another plate or piece of paper coated like the
first plate- film touching film-and let the light
shine through the negative and upon the film of
the second plate, and treat the second plate or
paper with chemicals as before, the light shining
through the bare glass makes the second plate
black in those places below bare spaces; while the
black parts of the negative, say the sky, protect
the second plate, whose sky will be light, as in
nature. We thus have a "positive," which may
be a window-transparency, or lantern-slide, or paper
picture, with lights and darks as in nature.
We might say that the "art" of photography
consists in handling the plates, apparatus, and
chemicals in a neat and exact way; in choosing
picturesque subjects; and in placing the sitters so
as to get the best picture. The "science" of pho-
tography requires such a knowledge of the actions,
or, as chemists say, "reactions" of the chemicals
employed, that by skilful use of these chemicals one
may save a plate, even when the exposure was
made under unfavorable conditions of light or for
too long or too short a time.
Photographic chemicals may be divided into
classes according to their uses:
I. Those sometimes called the developers.
Among these are: pyrogallic acid, hydrochinon,
and eikonogen. I recommend eikonogen to the
beginner, because it is clean, powerful in its action,
and not a poison.
2. The alkali group. The principal of these
are: carbonate of potash, carbonate of soda, and
aqua ammonia.
3. Hyposulphite of soda, commonly called
"hypo," used in making the "fixing" solution.
4. Sulphite of soda, called the restrainerr."
5. Bromide of potassium, or "bromide," the
The developers put strength into the blacks of a
picture or make it "intense." One must always
use a little alkali with them. The alkali group
are called accelerators because they hurry, so to
speak, the action of Group I. If you have had
very poor light or very little light for your picture,
you use a large proportion of alkali. The solu-
tions, mixed together, of one or more members
of Group I with one or more members of Group
2 are called "developers." "Hypo" is the chem-
ical which dissolves away the portions of the emul-
sion not needed, and therefore "fixes" the parts
needed. It is frequently used for plates in a solu-
tion of ten parts of water to one of hypo.
Sulphite of soda is used to prevent the members
of Group i from wasting their work, or from being
affected by the air. There is, therefore, a differ-
ence between its work and the work done by the

bromide, which is that of a retarder, not of a
Bromide is used to prevent too rapid action of the
members of Group I in case the light were allowed
to shine too long on the plate through the lens.
A plate that is left too long exposed under the action
of the light is said to be "over-exposed." When
the light has not acted long enough on a plate it
is said to be "under-exposed." By using a little
more alkali *than usual, carefully, we may often
save a plate; but sometimes, if too much is used or
it is used when there is no need for it, the plate will
turn gray all over, and we get no picture at all.
The plate is then said to be fogged." It may be
"fogged" from over-exposure, from improper use
of the chemicals, or from the use of poor chemicals.
An under-exposed plate is deficient in detail
and is weak in contrast. An over-exposed plate
is full of detail; every minute figure in the pattern
of a dress and every branch and leaf of a tree may
show, but there is no contrast, and the sky appears
hardly darker than anything else.
If you will keep a note-book in which to record
facts connected with the exposure and development
of each plate, you will not need to use more than
the first half-dozen of your plates in experimenting.
Your eikonogen must be kept dry and cold and
in the dark. The sulphite of soda and carbonate
of potash must be in bottles tightly corked; they
will spoil if more than a little air is allowed to enter
the bottles. You can make up your solutions as
Solution A. Take of sulphite of soda crystals
i Y ounces, or of granular sulphite of soda Y of
an ounce. Dissolve this in 12 ounces of hot water.
When this is cold, add Y ounce eikonogen. This
gives you Io grains pf eikonogen to the ounce of
Solution B. Carbonate of potash 3 drachms (I80
grains), and add of water enough to give about
o1 grains to the ounce of water. Put in a measur-
ing-glass 3 ounces of A and I of B. This is a
"normal developer." If your plate should be over-
exposed take less B; if under-exposed take a little
more of B than a normal exposure requires.
Take your plate-holder into the dark-room, and
arrange your red or yellow light. In the dark-
room you must have running water, or at least a
pitcher of water, and a pail to pour the waste water
into. Dust the exposed plate and put it into your
developing-tray. Flow your four ounces of mixed
developer quickly over the surface of the plate so
as to cover it completely, and gently rock the tray
to prevent specks or air-bubbles from resting on
the plate.
If the exposure was right, the picture will very
soon begin to appear, and will grow gradually in
strength, keeping good contrast. Keep the tray
covered as much as possible, and do not bring it
near the light often. One cannot give any exact
rule as to time; you can soon tell about it by the
gradual and steady growth of the picture. After
some minutes it will appear to sink into the film,
and you will begin to see the picture on the back
of the plate. Wash the plate, and put it into the
tray of hypo solution. In a few minutes, the cream-



white of the unaffected part of the plate will be
dissolved away, and the plate is said to be fixed."
It is a good plan to lay the plate face down in the
hypo, provided the plate can be lifted a little at one
end, so that the film does not touch the tray. Then
wash the plate thoroughly. If there is no running
water, change the water in the dish four or five
times, letting the plate stay in fifteen minutes at a
Your developing- and hypo-trays should each
be marked, and never used for anything but its
special chemicals. Especially must you avoid get-
ting a single drop of hypo into your developing-
tray; it may spoil the picture, and often spoils the
dish too.
Use fresh hypo every day; the developers will
last much longer.
If your picture comes up before ten seconds, it
was probably over-exposed, and may fog and be
spoiled, unless you can check it quickly enough.
Pour the solution off from the plate, and fill the
tray with water; weaken your developer with water,

add a few drops of bromide, pour the water off from
the plate, and try again.
If the plate were under-exposed, it would come
very slowly. When you have found, by noticing
the way in which you needed to vary the propor-
tions of your chemicals, whether or not the expo-
sure was right, expose another plate, and change
the length of the exposure, if necessary. This
second exposure must be made under the same
conditions of light. Your first picture ought to be
taken in the middle of a sunny day between ten
o'clock and two. Do not let the sun shine into
your lens. Keep your camera steady, when ex-
posing. If necessary put it on a bench and sit on
it, while you expose your plate.
When your plate is washed, set it up on edge
to dry. Do not attempt to make a print from it
until it is entirely dry.
One cannot expect to treat the whole subject of
developing in this brief paper, but a careful worker
can make very fair pictures with such simple direc-
tions as I have given.


CONTRIBUTORs are respectfully informed that, between the Ist of June and the 15th of September, manuscript can-
not conveniently be examined at the office of ST. NICHOLAS. Consequently, those who desire to favor the
magazine with contributions will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: Every morning that I expect
you I come down to breakfast early, so as to get the first
glimpse of your exciting story, "Tom Paulding "; and
though I do not often have time to read it before school,
it is always the first thing when I come home. I am
also greatly interested in your kind friend "Jack-in-the-
Pulpit,"-whose stories I love dearly.
You are always so nice when you come to us, but later
in the month you always look rather soiled on account
of the little hands that finger you, for our house is full
of boys, and small ones, too.
I have a very good friend who comes to my house for
supper, and we usually work your puzzles out together
in the evening. I am a little girl, living in New York,
quite far up-town; and I am also
Your interested reader, EMMA T--.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for four years,
and I often see a letter from an army or. a navy girl; and
as I was born in a Navy Yard- Mare Island and have
always lived in one, I thought I must write, too.
I will tell you something about this Boston Navy Yard,
where all the children have such good times. My papa
has command of the barracks in which, at the time I am
writing this letter, we have quarters, although we expect
to have moved away by the time you print this letter if
you think it good enough for the Letter-box." Right
in front of the barracks is the parade-ground, where the

soldiers drill and where we play croquet and tennis.
Then comes the cannon park where there are about
seven hundred and fifty cannon, and the ball park where
are little pyramids of cannon-balls, and where we have fine
times playing tag and other games. And there is a stand
where the band from the "Wabash" plays three after-
noons in the week, and every one goes out and promen-
ades up and down to hear it. So we have lots of fun.
There are about one hundred and eighty men in
these barracks, and they have about twenty bugle-calls
a day, from reveille, or "Can't get 'm up," at 6 A. M., to
"taps," at 9:30. Calls for drill and guard-mounting at 8,
meal-calls, calls for forenoon drills and recalls; color-
mounting at 8 and haul down colors at sunset, or retreat
and sick-calls, etc. The meal-calls sound like Soup-e,
soup-e, without a single bean; pork-e, pork-e, without a
streak of lean; coffee, coffee, meanest ever seen." The
cavalry-call sounds like Go dowit to the stable as quick
as you can and get the poor horse some corn." At drill,
just after guard-mounting, they play The Muffin Man."
Your loving reader, GERTRUDE ALMY H- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I wonder if I am the only
reader of you here in Persia.
I think boys of my age can find this country easily if
they have studied geography. It is governed by the
Shah. He is a good king for this country.
My mama teaches me some of my studies. I am
studying Persian, Turkish, and Syriac. In this part of



the country they all speak Turkish. I am studying
French, too. My brother, who is four years younger
than I, is studying Armenian.
We have a large pond in our yard. It is frozen over
all the winter. I have a pair of skates. I think a good
many of your readers think that Persia is a very hot
country. It is in some parts of the country. But here
it is cold; we live in the northern part, which is the
same as ancient Media.
We have a white donkey; we ride him a great deal.
Your interested reader, ALLEN O. W- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : I have been taking you onlyfour
months. When I was nine years old my papa took me
to Niagara Falls. The falls come down with such force
that fine spray fills the air. I also have been to Wash-
ington and Mauch Chunk. I rode up Mount Pisgah over
the gravity railroad, and had a beautiful view of the
country for miles from the summit of this mountain. From
there we rode up to a quiet little mining-town among the
mountains where we saw the burning coal-mine.
While in Washington we went up in the top of the
Washington Monument, nearly five hundred and fifty-six
feet from the ground. I have lived in three different
cities: Philadelphia, Rahway, N. J., and now live in
Wilmington, Del., and think I like it the best. This
is a great manufacturing city, and has a population of
about sixty-two thousand.
I was very much interested in the "Admiral's Cara-
van," and also like your Letter-box."
Your appreciative friend, EUGENE C. H- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have been here three years.
My native home is Indiana. I came through Illinois as
we came here. I think it a fine country-the beautiful
prairie stretches away as far as eye can see. We have
the finest mineral springs here one ever saw. I think
we raise the finest fruit in the world. In the lower lands
of Arkansas people raise cotton, mostly. I don't expect
the children in cities and in the northern States ever saw
any growing. I think it beautiful, with the bolls of cot-
ton hanging down, and as white as snow.
Your new friend, INES McM-- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: As it is raining very hard, and
my lessons are prepared, I am going to write you a short
I have been taking you about three years, and my
happiest moments are spent in reading you. I am ac-
quainted with one of your writers, Miss A. M. Ewell.
I spent two very pleasant weeks at her home in Prince
William County, Va. I enjoy her stories very much.
It is getting dark, so I must close.
Your faithful reader, GRACE H- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: This is an army-post in southern
Arizona, about fourteen miles from Mexico. Our nearest
town is Tombstone. The post is just at the mouth of a
cation of the Huachuca (pronounced Wachuca) moun-
tains. We are five thousand two hundred feet above the
sea, and the climate is splendid. Lovely storms come
down the mountains, but we never have rainy days.
There are cavalry and infantry at the post, and an Indian
company. One of the Indians died recently, and he had
a regular military funeral; his coffin was on a caisson
with a flag over it, and the band played. It must have
seemed queer to the other Indians. On Washington's



TER-BOX. 717

Birthday we had two picnics. Some of the little children
rode on burros and went a short distance up the canon.
The burros go so slowly they would not have had much
time for a picnic if they had gone far. The rest of us
got a dump-cart from the quartermaster, and a big white
mule they call Whitewings," and went up to the springs,
aboutthree miles up the caton. We had lots of fun climb-
ing over rocks and gathering water-cresses. Then we
had lunch. Coming home was more fun than anything
else. Whitewings tried to trot all the way home. Going
down hills we went bumping along until we all felt sick.
After we came home our pictures were taken.
Yours sincerely, EUGENIA B-- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: In the April number of your
charming magazine you spoke of that kite as being a
monster; it was rather large, but another boy and I
built a kite last summer that beat that one "all hollow."
The boards were one-half inch thick by two inches wide;
very heavy brown paper was used for covering, which
was fastened on by lapping over the outside string and
When finished, it was about eight feet high, and when
it was lying on its side I could just comfortably reach
to the place where the cross-string was fastened to the
cross-stick; and I am thirteen years old, and four feet
nine inches tall. We built it for a storekeeper who had
plenty of string. For a tail we had four or five pairs
of pants, an old hammock, and twenty-five or thirty feet
of old rope. It took two boys to start it, and when it
had got up where there was a good breeze it took its
turn pulling, and we could not have held it much longer
had not a man helped us. At its full height it had six
balls of wool-twine, and also enough other twine to have
reached two blocks. In regard to tails, I think that
rags are better than paper, for they are not so apt to
get tangled should anything happen to the kite.

DEAR ST. NICHOLA'S: I read every month, with so
much pleasure, the letters from your bright boys and
girls in all parts of the world, and thought perhaps one
from me might find room. I call myself an American,
for I was born in New York fourteen years ago, but
my father is a Dutch artist, and we live in Paris.
I would like to describe my last summer's trip to Brit-
tany. Last July we went for a month to Quimperle, a
little town of about four thousand inhabitants. It is sit-
uated in a charming valley, often called the Arcadie of
Finistlre," its quaint old houses leaning in all sorts of
angles, with sunken mud floors, on which the babies,
pigs, and chickens play together; and at the little half-
doors the old people sit to smoke and gossip after their
day's work.
Three rivers meet in the town, and the old moss-grown
bridges offer many motifs or hints to the artists who were
the first to find these out-of-the-way corners.
We drove then to Pont-Aven, over such a wonderful
road, kept, like all the post-roads in France, in perfect
Pont-Aven is not so pretty as Quimperle, but has quite
a colony of artists of all nations. We spent our two
months there very pleasantly, with trips to the sea and
to "pardons," which occur every Sunday at one or the
other of the many churches.
Perhaps not all your little friends know just what a
Breton pardon is. Early in the morning crowds of
country carts, loaded with peasant women dressed in
snowy caps and collars, and looking like so many strange
birds, were seen driving toward the church, which this
time was on the estate of a marquis, and beautifully placed


in a woody valley,opening out to a stream. At eleven
o'clock they formed a procession of priests, boys carrying
banners, and girls in white,headed by such music as they
could obtain.
As the church was too small to hold them all, several
hundred kneeled out on the hillside during mass, and a
few old beggars dragged themselves around the church
on their knees, asking alms.
After mass the business of the day begins,--the men
drinking cider and gossiping, while the young folks walk
about among the booths buying pretty favors.
A few of them found their way through the wood to
an old fountain which is supposed to be sacred; and the
Bretons believe that it cures all diseases. Poor old men
afflicted with rheumatism poured the water carefully into
their sabots, down their sleeves, aiding each other in
pouring it down the back of their necks; mothers washed
their sick babies in the pool below.
After the pardons, the peasants' weddings are interest-
ing. It is a very poor wedding, indeed, in which there
are not two hundred invited guests. The wedding feast
is served in the covered market, the sides of which are
hung with large linen sheets, and just behind where the
bride stands it is dotted with flowers.
The bridal party appear, headed by their traditional
bagpipes, and then begins the feast; afterward comes two
hours' feasting on dishes of pork, beef, and greens, hard
and heavy Breton cakes, and black bread, all washed down
with great draughts of cider.
Then the pipers, mounted high upon barrels, begin
their, to our ears, piercing music. The dance is a sort
of gavotte, slow, and long in duration, with only now and
then a rest for more cider.
As they dance in sabots, it is not very graceful, and

from the sad, smileless faces I think it more of a duty
than a pleasure. It is kept up for three days, and the
couple who dance longest are the heroes of the hour!
I mean to be an artist, and as soon as my school work
is over I shall begin hard studio work.
Your friend and reader,
Avis H-.

WE thank the young friends whose names follow for
pleasant letters received from them: C. G. M., N. A.,
Elfreda S., Charlotte C., Louis D., Ellinor D. W., Clara
K., Winifred M. A., Stewart R., H. M. S., Emma L. C.,
Harold M. B., Nellie M. A., F. D. C., Grace A. L.,
Lewis A., Edith M. B., Harry B. H., Elsie B. B., Saidee
P. M., Bertha B., Mathilde F. and Sue H., Maud and
Lily, Lucetta G. B., Ellen M. B., Hattie D. L., John B.,
Jr., Paul Jerome W., Eleanor M. W., Thos. M. P., Jr.,
Ethel F., Estelle M. S., Edith A. G. E., Lyman K., Lyn-
dego, Persen M. B., Ormie S. P., Harry R., Veva A.,
Ethel B., Elise C., Elsa H., Edward S., "Little Iowan,"
Lenore S., Alice W., Hazel J. H., George F. P., Ella K.,
Edith M. B., Elizabeth W., Helen T., Herbert E. S.,
Helen, Sarah L., Louise M. P., Clare, Bessie C., Francis,
Geo. Aug. H., Eliza G. F., Julia B. F., Blanche W.,
M. Y., Ernestine P., Frank B., S. Annie W., Miriam C.,
Dora May G., D. E. T., Annie F. G., Helen E., Made-
line L. S., Eleanor M. B. and Bessy M. K., Thos. L. E.,
Arthur N. H., May W., Julia R. C., Grace M. H., Bessie
B., Henry B. S., Bessie M. G., Russell P., Helen L. H.,
Alice G. H., Hazel M. H., Pearl H., Robin G. H., Kate
C. W., Solange N. J., Louise H. H., Isabel S. T., B.
Gage L., E. D. P., Allie S. D., Burnadene S., "Junie,"
Mabel S., Edith P. B., Willy G. T. G., Daisy A., Har-
old E. C., Coleman M., Ada E. T., A. Louise T.


A LETTER PUZZLE. Begin at C in "actual." DOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals, John Richardson; finals, Abraham
Calm weather in June Lincoln. Cross-words: I. Judean. 2. Occasional. 3. Hidalgo.
Sets the corn in tune. 4. Narcotic. 5. Raven. 6. 1. 7. Continual. 8. Heroism. 9. Am-
SYNCOPATIONs. Bunker Hill. I. Ga-b-le. 2. Br-u-it. 3. Ti-n-es. phora. to. Rough. ii. Diana. 12. Spur. 13. Orb. 14. Neuralgia.
4. As-k-er. 5. Dr-e-am. 6. Cu-r-es. 7. Ap-h-is. 8. Lo-i-re. 9. So- A DICKENs ACROSTIC. Initials, Matthew Bagnet. Cross-words:
I-ar ao. Do-I-or.- ANAGRAM. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. I. Mark (Tapley). 2. Akershem (Miss Sophronia). 3. Traddles
RHOMBOID. Across: i. Cades. 2. Towel. 3. Newel. 4. Renew. (Tommy). 4. Tilly (Slowboy). 5. Heep (Uriah). 6. Edward
5. Roger. (Dorrit). 7. Weller. 8. Bagstock (Joey). 9. Agnes (Wickfield).
A BIRD PUZZLE. Vacation. Vireo. 2. Albatross. 3. Chick- s0. Gamp (Sairy). i. Nell. 12. Emma. 13. Dodgers (Mrs.).
adee. 4. Avocet. 5. Turkey. 6. Ibis. 7. Owl. 8. Night-hawk. SINGLE ACROSTIC. Second row, Gaberlunzie. Cross-words:
a Agate. Satan. 3. Obese. 4. Cedar. 5. Crisp. 6. Blink.
DOUBLE ZIGZAG. From I to so, Sebastopol; from ai to 20, 7. Dusky. Indue. 9. Azure. o. Niece. i. Gelid.
Montebello. Cross-words: x. Sediment. 2. Semitone. 3. Subdu- GR O. rer. e. i .
ing. 4. Adjacent. 5. Disabled. 6. Stage-box. 7. Outreach. GREEK CROSS. I. I. Order. 2. Rhine. 3. Divan. 4. Enact.
8. Spicular. 9. Spousals. io. Stiletto. 5s Rents. II. x. Aster. 2. Scale. 3. Taken. 4. Elect. 5. Rents.
III. x. Rents. 2. Ewart. 3. Nadir. 4. Tribe. 5. Strew. IV. i. Strew.
CHARADE. Lark-spur. 2. Touch. 3. Ruble. 4. Eclat. 5. Whets. V. i. Strew. 2. Tiara.
DIAMOND. I. J. 2. Sup. 3. Sapid. 4. Jupiter. 5. Pithy. 3. Razor. 4. Erode. 5. Wares.
6. Dey. 7. R.
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 APRIL NUMBER were received, before April 15th, from "The Peterkins"- Maude E.
Palmer Paul Reese Chester B. S.-" The McG's."- Alice Mildred Blanke and Co.--Josephine Sherwood-- E. M. G.-Mama and
Jamie -" Uncle Mung "- Ida Carleton Thallon --' Guion Line and Acme Slate "- Gertrude L.- Hubert L. Bingay.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE APRIL NUMBER were received, before April 15th, from C. Chester, --Grace Irene S, i-Grace
Isabel, I C. Chester, Elaine S., 4-" Two Crane Sisters," Emily B. B., Agnes M. B., Theodore At J. Ladner, 2 -
S. M. G. I. M. G., I--Naje Rheatan, 2-Winifred M. Mfttingly, I-Jas. Henry, x- Minerva Camp, -Jan and Dick, I--M. 1B.
Foster, I- Bessie White, 2- Charlotte and Daisy, i Ruth F. Graves, i Mary L. Thomson, I Lillian Reser, The F. C. C., I -
Ida B. Graves, i- Academie B., 2-" Only I," Gwendolen Reid, 3-F. G., Grace Louise Holaday, 9-K. and S. Reed and
R. Hale, i-Florence E. Bannister, 2-A. M. J. and A. J. J., I-Effie K. Talboys, 7- Fannie G., I-Ruth M. Mason, 2- Margaret
Eddy, 2-Harold Short, i -L. O. E., Ix -Louis Don, 2-Lelia Rightor, i-"Star," --Nellie L. Howes, 9-May C. Francis, 4-
Olive Gale, 2 -" Gugga," 2 Lena Quinn, I Lionel and Marion, so- Laura M. Zinser, 5- Helen S. Coates, 3- Marian W.
Low, I Rosalind Mitchell, 2 Nan and Grace, 5 Ethel et Cie, 5 Mama and Charlie, 4 Charles H. Munch, 2 Nellie Archer 2 -
Ida, Alice, and Allie, 12-M. T. B., 2-" May and '79," 5-Jo and I, io-Jessie Chapman, 3-"Leather-Stocking," 12-"Floren-
tia," 7-" We Girls," 8- Rosalie Bloomingdale, 12-" The Partners," 9-" Three of One Kind," 3-Violet and Dora Hereford, 6-
" Three Blind Mice," 2- Sarah and Susan Lucas, Anna A. Crane, 2- Polly, i--Esm6 Beauchamp, 4.


ALL of the words described contain the same num-
ber of letters. When rightly guessed and placed one
below the other, the first and second rows of letters
(reading downward) will each spell a word often heard
in July.
CRoss-WORDS: I. Bright in color. 2. A puzzle.
3. Waning. 4. An eelbuck. 5. A fabulous animal.
6. Indolent. 7. Involving some secret meaning.


Myfirst, it "hath charms among arts, you will find;
My second word means to make one, or to bind;
My third, an enchantress who sang by the shore;
My fourth is what newspapers have by the score;
My last word is what on the altar is burned-
Its obsolete meaning is tax," I have learned.

I. CROSS-WORDS : A small lizard. 2. To rever-
berate. 3. A small bird.
Primals, unaccustomed; finals, the quantity of ten
barrels of flour; primals and finals connected, a philos-
II. CROSS-WORDS: I. To stain. 2. Lethargy. 3.
To commence. 4. To care for.

Primals, an inhabitant of a certain European country;
finals, to set on shore; primals and finals connected, a
country of Europe. "JONNIE THUN."


ACROSS: I. Pertaining to vegetable mold. 2. A femi-
ninename. 3. Fatigues. 4. A pliable strip of leather.
5. A wicked city of ancient times.
DOWNWARD: I. In rhomboid. 2. A pronoun. 3. To
entangle. 4. The flower-de-luce. 5. Vehicles. 6. An
illustrious man. 7. Dejected. 8. A river of Italy. 9. In
rhomboid. B.


.ONCE of an animal I formed a part,
Yet in that life had neither head nor heart;
But dead, I'm cured, by man I am made whole;
An understanding have, and boast a soul.

But brief the triumph; for I 'm now brought lower
Than in the sphere I had adorned before.
Perfidious man! Who then his arts will trust?
Blackens my character, treads me in the dust.

Yet I forgive-to him my soul devote,
And save him from all trials,--near, remote,
From desert sands and winter's icy sleet,-
Nothing my kindly purpose can defeat. c. L. M.



I AM composed of thirty-nine letters, and am a sen-
tence from a speech by Robert C. Winthrop.
My 21-16-3-33 is a tropical fruit. My 27-10-18-
20-24 is an occurrence. My 6-38-35 is a sprite. My
26-31-1-14-11 is to vex. My 8-29-22-36-15 is to cook.
My 28-19-32-7-5-23 are kindnesses done or granted.
My 17-25-34-39-13 is to loiter. My 4-30-12-9-2-37 is
to stop. o. s. D.

I. ACORNS. 2. A Scriptural proper name. 3. Dis-
graced. 4. A gage used by a mason. 5. To recount.
6. To prevent by fear. 7. To designate. c. D.


ALL Of the words described contain the same number
ofletters. When rightly guessed and placed one below
another, in the order here given, the central letters, read-
ing downward, will spell the Latin term for a book-
CROSS-WORDS: I. Pains. 2. To gather after a reaper.
3. The outer covering of a flower. 4. To cause to fit.
5. A musical instrument. 6. A collision. 7. To linger.
8. To broil on a gridiron. 9. A cavalry sword. Io Poets.
II. To treat with injustice. 12. To ramble. 13. The
outer husk or bract of a spikelet. 14. A precious stone
carved in relief. c.

HET A nC s hang clam ta messmur sopie;
Het ethar elis batbed in grimmshine onon,
Ta erst rofm lal ehr cleerhuf sineo,
Wih. t thare-grinsst tenilsly ni nute.
Eht item, woh atubilufe dan read,
Wenh really strufi binge ot shlub,
Dan eht lufl agafeel fo eht yare
Yawss ore hemt wiht a shelgrenit shub.

ALL of the words described contain three letters, and
the zigzag, beginning at the upper left-hand corner, spells
a title given to Christian II., a cruel king of Denmark
and Sweden.
CROSS-WORDS: I. A beverage. 2. An exclamation.
3. Distress 4. A unit. 5. To increase. 6. Metal. 7.
Since. 8. One who entertains hatred against another.
Since. 8. One who entertains hatred against another.

9. To attempt to escape. io. Consumed. II. A word
used in the motto of the Prince of Wales. 12. A snare.
13. To seize by a sudden grasp. 14. A short-legged
and stout variety of horse. 15. To vibrate harshly.
16. The goddess of revenge. 17. The flat part of a
grate at the side, where things are placed to be kept
warm. c.

A DISTINGUISHED literary woman:


ACROSS: I. A kiln. 2. The part sung by the low-
est female voices. 3. A loud, continuous noise. 4.
DOWNWARD: I. Impels. 2. The agave. 3. To be-
spangle. 4. A large, round molding on the base of a
column. "XELIS."


S. .
di* *5
* C C 5 C C
C. .

2. Encountered. 3. The daughter of JEetes. 4. Those
who make a display of their knowledge. 5. Rigid.
6. Consumed. 7. In parades.
2. A Scriptural name. 3. One who notes. 4. Estab-
lished. 5. Leased again. 6. Three fifths of to prevent.
7. In parades.
III. CENTRAL DIAMOND: I. In parades. 2. Part of
the head. 3. Finished. 4. Burdened. 5. A number
of men who relieve others in carrying on some work.
6. The governor of Algiers. 7. In parades.
2. To obstruct. 3. Made into bundles. 4. Issued sud-
denly. 5. To govern. 6. A cave. 7. In parades.
2. An affirmative answer. 3. To sing as the Swiss
mountaineers. 4. Drawn. 5. Denominations. 6. One
half of a task. 7. In parades. G. F.


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