Back Cover
 The boy's cartoon
 Philadelphia - a city of homes
 Another history
 The garret at grandfather's
 Good night
 Polly Oliver's problem
 Driving the cow
 The bamboo
 Holly-berry and mistletoe
 Just for fun
 The white cave
 The old doll to the new one
 My aunt Aurora's reticule
 A tournament of roses
 The versatile violin
 Bruin and the porcupine
 The three caravels of Columbus
 The road to yesterday
 Kitty's Christmas stocking
 Inanimate things animated
 An unfortunate visit
 The letter-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00266
 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: VID00266
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
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
        Back Cover 3
        Page 322
    The boy's cartoon
        Page 323
    Philadelphia - a city of homes
        Page 324
        Page 325
        Page 326
        Page 327
        Page 328
        Page 329
        Page 330
        Page 331
        Page 332
        Page 333
        Page 334
        Page 335
        Page 336
    Another history
        Page 337
    The garret at grandfather's
        Page 338
        Page 339
        Page 340
        Page 341
        Page 342
        Page 343
    Good night
        Page 344
        Page 345
    Polly Oliver's problem
        Page 346
        Page 347
        Page 348
        Page 349
        Page 350
    Driving the cow
        Page 351
    The bamboo
        Page 352
        Page 353
        Page 354
        Page 355
    Holly-berry and mistletoe
        Page 356
        Page 357
        Page 358
        Page 359
    Just for fun
        Page 360
        Page 361
    The white cave
        Page 362
        Page 363
        Page 364
        Page 365
        Page 366
        Page 367
        Page 368
        Page 369
    The old doll to the new one
        Page 370
    My aunt Aurora's reticule
        Page 371
        Page 372
        Page 373
        Page 374
        Page 375
    A tournament of roses
        Page 376
        Page 377
        Page 378
        Page 379
        Page 380
    The versatile violin
        Page 381
    Bruin and the porcupine
        Page 382
    The three caravels of Columbus
        Page 383
        Page 384
        Page 385
    The road to yesterday
        Page 386
    Kitty's Christmas stocking
        Page 387
        Page 388
        Page 389
        Page 390
        Page 391
    Inanimate things animated
        Page 392
        Page 393
    An unfortunate visit
        Page 394
        Page 395
    The letter-box
        Page 396
        Page 397
        Page 398
        Page 399
        Page 400
        Page 401
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

* ,.*

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-- -4:


MARCH, 1893.

(Scene: Florence, A. D. i54o)


"Goon Master! I crave your service. See,
I am not the beggar I seem to be;
Though you '11 say, as I tell my story o'er,
It is such as you 've often heard before.

"'T is not for myself," he sobbing said,-
"'T is not for myself I 'm asking bread:
But my mother is breaking her heart to-day;
For she's ill, and may lose her place, they say,
In the silk-mill. If I could only get
A florin or two, she might hold it yet.
Old Tito, the picture-dealer, said
He would give me enough to buy us bread
For a month or more, should I chance to
Some one of your craft upon the street,
And beg him to draw on the panel I hold
A sketch of the Sibyl gaunt and old
Whom the greatest of Florentine painters all
Has drawn on the Sistine Chapel wall.
A dozen I 've asked, good Master mine,

But none of them paused to draw a line.
You have pencils with you. Dare I claim
A picture, in charity's holy name?"

With a kindly look on his stern sad face.
The artist at once began to trace
The Sibyl ancient, and with such art
As quickened the throb of the boy's warm
No word as he worked did he deign to say,
But, signing his name, he went his way.

" Whose name is this ?" asked the boy of one
To whom he displayed the picture done.
"Where got you-?" came the question.
Has given a prize so rich to you?
Why, lad, that one cartoon you hold
Will bring you many a piece of gold;
And that you, a Florentine, should not know
The name!-It is Michelangelo!"

Copyright, 1893, by THE C.NTURY Co. All rights reserved.


No. 5.




STATES and cities exist to make families
comfortable, because this makes children com-
fortable. Unless the children are comfortable
now, the next generation will fare ill. If you,
my dear boy and girl, who are reading this
page, are comfortably seated; if you have light
enough on these lines; if the air about you is
pure; if you find the house you are in a true
home, be it large or small; if you are not told
every time you jump not to make too much

noise, or the people above or below will object;
if the street is safe for you at all hours of the
day or evening; if it is, as nearly as may be, like
a village street, quiet and clean, and not like a
city street, noisy and noisome; if there is room
for you to play outside the house, and room in-
side its walls to amuse yourself; if you are fed
and warm, and happy-above all, if you feel
in your house an atmosphere of security, and
understand in a dim way that father and mother




own the spot called home and are safe there,
then, as far as you are concerned,- and to the
extent that this is true as far as all children
are concerned,-the United States is a success.
Unless there are a great many more of you
children enjoying all I have said than are with-
out such comforts, then the United States is a
failure, no matter how big, or how rich, or how
populous it may be, or how glorious its history.
The United States is
here first, and chiefly,
not to make history, as
you might imagine
from your school histo-
ries, but to make fami-
lies and their children
comfortable in houses
of their own. Failing
to do that, it fails in all.
This is just as true of .:
cities as it is of coun-
tries. Their first busi-
ness is to make children
comfortable. They
may wax large and
great, and be famed
and known without do-
ing this, but even then
they are just where the .
base-ball player is if
he makes third and
yet misses the home-
plate. So far as winning the game goes, he
might just as well have gone out on three strikes.
His base-hits may help his record and win a
cheer, but they do not win the game unless he
gets home. The only way to make children
comfortable is to make families comfortable;
and the best way to make families comfortable
is to put each in a separate house which it owns.
As far as a city succeeds in doing this, it succeeds
as a city. As far as it fails in doing this, it fails
as a city. If the families of a city are cramped
and crowded, if each lives in a house it does
not own, and dreads rent day; if it sees the sky
only through a window-pane, and has neither
roof nor yard it calls its own; if it has to share
its staircase and its doorway with other fami-
lies-and the staircase was never built which
is broad enough for two families; if the street

is not a family street, and the seething and tur-
bid tide of city life wells and swells past its
door, then neither the family nor the children
will be comfortable. The city has failed.
It may, like Paris, fill its galleries with paint-
ings worth a king's ransom, and sculpture
which men cross sea and land to see for a brief
moment and remember for a lifetime; it may
carry its Eiffel Tower to the skies and set a light


h.. .....-, --l: ..----..2 : .
there whose glory is as of the sun; it may line
its ways with palaces, and draw to it all the
world's wealth and wonder; but, for all this, fail-
ure is its portion. Families are not comforta-
ble within its walls: Children are not at sweet
ease in its ways. It has failed. Its day will
come, as it came to Paris in 1871. The grim
and iron girdle of war will surely bind its beauty,
and for soft splendors there shall be desolation.
All its garish glory shall be smoke, and gar-
ments rolled in blood shall be spread in all its
streets. Famine shall devour its people, and
fire its beautiful places.

I propose to tell you of a city which for two
hundred years has grown so as to make fami-
lies more and more comfortable; so as to set
each in its own house; so as to make life easier




and easier for the average ordinary:
which is neither rich nor poor, which w
way by work, owns the roof over its
and stands secure in modest
unquestioned independence.
Philadelphia is a dingy city by
the side of Paris; it is out-
done by most of the world's
centers in all by which the world
reckons greatness; but no city
that is, or ever was, has done
more to make families, and
therefore children, comfortable.
If all Paris were to file past you,
every fifth person would be a
child under fifteen years of age.
If all Philadelphia were to do
the same, there would be three -
such children for every ten
persons. File for file, there
would be one half more chil-

dren in Philadelphia than in Paris; more, file
for file, than in New York or London; more
than in any of the world's old great cities:-
more, because Philadelphia makes life more
comfortable for families and for children.
This is not an accident. Nothing is an ac-
cident in the characters of cities or of persons.
If you were late to school this morning and
do not stop being late, now, you will be late
to everything all your life; even in getting an
article ready for ST. NICHOLAS, though this
seems as impossible to you now as it would have
done to me when I read ST. NICHOLAS, and
wondered if I should ever write for it.
Philadelphia came late among American
cities. It was founded 58 years after New
York, 50 years after Boston. The voyage had
few risks, and no suffering. William Penn, in
i681, came on no exploring expedition. For
almost the first time in history, a new city was
to be laid out by amicable purchase, and not
by conquest. We are used to this now. It was
an altogether new thing two hundred years ago.
The day for Indian fighting along the coast was
practically over. The sea-coast was known.
There were no discoveries to be made. The
land was secure. England held it without
a rival. The little Dutch and Swedish set-
tlements on Delaware Bay, and Philadelphia's
future site, were glad to come under the Eng-
lish flag. Almost the only trace left of either
is the Swedes' church, the oldest in the city,





for all the world like those you may
Swedish fiords to-day.
Penn sat in London over maps an(
and laid out his new city on paper
boom towns are laid out to-day in tl
and South. He knew the ground. H(
stood its advantages. No seaboard ri
Tied navigation so far in-
land. The Southern rivers
were shallower. The Hud-
son ended in impenetrable
forest. On the Delaware
vessels stopped between
the fattest fields along the
whole coast. The very soil
of the narrow peninsula be-
tween the Delaware and
the Schuylkill is the only
fertile city-site on our coast.
It lies far enough south
to gain the teeming life
of fin and feather that fills
the coasts and waters of
the south Atlantic. You
can still stand on the steps
of Independence Hall on a
still October day, and hear
the crack of fowling-pieces
among the reed-birds on
the river.
Within the memory of
men not old the chief meat- l' /
supply of the city was fat-
tened on the flat rich farms
which make up the "neck "
where the Delaware and
the Schuylkill meet. The
land around Philadelphia
is to-day a vast kitchen-garden. It alw
raised more food than any area as large
any other of our great or growing
Lastly, just beyond these two rich river
lie the first Western wheat-fields, in th
stretch of Delaware, Chester, Montgome
Lancaster counties.
The farms of these counties fed the
Washington. His baker-general was a
sylvania German, Christopher Ludwig, w
a youth spent in fighting the Turk on th
ube, sold gingerbread to the boys of the

lution, in Letitia street. Beginning by baking
bread at Valley Forge, he ended by baking
six thousand pound-loaves for the surrendered
army of Cornwallis at Yorktown. Uncle Sam's
wheat-farm, which has cheapened the world's
bread, began at the doors of Philadelphia.
It was the first city to get rich selling wheat.


Pennsylvania farms gave it the first big rich
thickly settled "back-country," on whose trade
an American city grew great. Under the first
President Adams, Lancaster, Pa., was the big-
gest American city back of the sea-coast. In
1890 instead of the first it was the sixty-first
of such cities in population.
All this meant foreign trade and swift growth
for Philadelphia. In its first forty years it grew
faster than any other American city in its first
hundred. It was the Chicago of the last cen-
tury. In twenty years 2500 houses went up.




The like was never seen before. It has often
happened since. Money was made easily. A
bright boy of seventeen like Benjamin Frank-
lin could walk up Market street in 1723 with
two loaves of bread under his arm, and brains
in his head, and in fifteen years become rich.
Five years later he had retired from business,
and had begun flying the kite, the spark from
whose string told the world that electricity
and lightning were one. In a town given to
money-making, he stopped money-making at
forty years of age and did something better-
he served his fellow-men: He made scientific
discoveries; he invented a new stove; he got
together the first American scientific society;

he started a fire-company; he organized the
Philadelphia police; he founded a library; he
helped start a university; he turned men's
thoughts to books, study, and knowledge.
When the Revolution came he was old and
rich. He put all at stake in his country's ser-
vice. He was the only American who signed
the Declaration of Independence, the Treaty
of Peace, and the Constitution. He gave Phila-
delphia the one other thing which makes cities
great: in him a great man had walked her streets.
Franklin's fortune was not the only one made
in Philadelphia, a hundred and thirty years ago,
in a trade as large as that of any two other
American cities. Fifty years after Philadelphia


was founded, it built the largest public build- cheap, black stones, unless people first know
ing any American city had ever erected, the how to make things. Philadelphia, first of
State House, now Independence Hall,-as it American cities, received people skilled in all
has to-day, in its city hall, the most costly. The the crafts of central Europe, which two centu-
Declaration of Independence was issued from ries ago was ahead of England in making
the Pennsylvania State House because it was things. It is not now. If you will open your
natural for the Continental Congress to meet in Physical Geography at the map of Europe, you
the largest, the wealthiest, and the most thriving will see a deep groove right down the Rhine to
of American cities, L
and to sit in the
most imposing
building in the ,t T
thirteen colonies. ll -.-
It was not until cp....
the Erie Canal IRED... .: Ve v W b .?"
gave New York :US -... C .... vj' ,' W t.
the trade of the c ... .
West beyond the -A -
Alleghanies, that SUE r
it became a larger AC, .
city than Phila- ..i .. / ,
Philadelphia in
the last century
was a big place
for trade. In this
hundred years, it
has been a big
place for making
things. It has the
biggest carpet-
mills in the world.
Its locomotive
works, turning out
two engines a day,
are the biggest
anywhere. But
big works, al-
though everybody
talks about them,
do not do as much
for a city as a great
many small ones.
In no other city
can a man find
work of so many MEMORIALS OF FRANKLIN.
kinds near his house as in Philadelphia. Lake Constance, and then by the Rhone to the
This is because-there is always a "because" Mediterranean, while another groove runs east
in cities-coal is near, and comes down the by the Danube. This groove, in the Middle
Schuylkill cheaply. But cheap coal is mere Ages, when the pirate Norsemen closed the seas




to peaceful folk, was the great highway of Eu-
rope. In it sprang up earliest cathedrals, uni-

? F :"- -

versities, and factories. Right from the center
of this industrial channel, there came to Phila-
delphia a German immigration, skilled in weav-
ing, in iron, and in all the industries of two
hundred years ago.
The English immigration, also, while it was
led by Quakers,-good business-men all, people
who paid their debts, told no trade lies, and
had one price for all,-was made up of men
and women from the cities of southern Eng-
land. At that time, pretty nearly all the cities
and most of the manufactures of England were
in its southern half. They are not now. While
New England and the South drew their immi-
gration from country England, the incomes to
Philadelphia and Pennsylvania were from the
cities, the stores, and the shops of south Eng-
land. When you look on the map of Philadel-
phia to-day, you see London names-Rich-
mond, Kensington, and Southwark; and the
largest places near are Bristol and Chester,
named after the busiest ports of England in
the seventeenth century.
Cheap food and industry will not make the
families in a city comfortable unless a city has
room to grow, is well planned, and wisely

governs itself. Philadelphia is fortunate in all
three respects. The site is flat. All directions
are open to growth. It is not cramped by river
and bay, as are Boston and San Francisco. It
is not on an island, as is New York. Swamps
do not hedge it in as they pen Chicago. Build-
ing land, city lots, have always cost less and
been more nearly of about the same price in its
different quarters, than in any other city of a
million people ever seen. The growth of the
city has never been crowded. It has spread out
in two- or three-story fashion over an occupied
area which comes close to that of London itself.
English towns, laid out on the lines of old Ro-
man camps, with a Broad and a High street cross-
ing each other at right angles, and lesser streets
crossing each other checkerboard fashion, gave
Penn the thought of his plan for Philadelphia.
When you have your big town, some one
must own the land and the houses. If a few
own them, the many will not like it. They ought
not to like it. In a city where everything is
right, every family will own something. That
city is most near to the right thing where the
most people own something. This will not
come about unless the laws are right. The

-. i.

E^"&."---. : :-.-[ .. : *, .-. .' ; .. t ..;-.

laws are not good unless bread is cheap, unless
men have skill in their work, and are of sav-
ing habits, and unless land is cheap, the city



I" -. -i. -


plan good, and wrong-doers are locked up at
once. But all these things will not bring about
the right city, in which most people own some-
thing, unless the laws make it easy for a man
who works with his hands to buy the house he
lives in. If a man owns that, he will care more
about looking after his home than about mak-

ing a row because some one else is richer than
he is.
This row is what older people call the social
question." Now, a man who owns the house
he lives in does not want to make a row. He
is too busy taking care of his house. You
cannot make a rioter out of that man. He


,.- -



is a "capitalist." He will never be a tur-
bulent striker. He is, in the best sense of the
word, independent. Riches are worth what
they give. The best things they can give are
comfort and security. The man who owns the
house he lives in has these. In Philadelphia
any industrious, saving man can own his home
before he dies; and more such men own houses
than do not. Philadelphia is the only city in
the world in which this is true. This is the

biggest and best thing which can be said of
any city.
The law in Philadelphia has made this easy,
in the first place, by separating the owning of
the ground on which a house is built and the
owning of the house which stands on the ground.
This is done by what are called fixed "ground-
rents." A ground-rent is paid for the use of the
ground independent of the house which stands
on it. In Philadelphia, a ground-rent once




fixed by the man who first sells use of the land
cannot be changed, and lasts forever. A ground-
rent does not grow if the ground gets to be
worth more: it stays the same. If the ground

to use it after it is saved. This is done in
Philadelphia by savings-banks, which depositors
themselves manage, in order to get together the
money for each to pay for a house. When you


and house get to be worth more, the man who
owns the ground-rent does not benefit by this,
but the man who owns the house. Practically,
when a house is bought under this plan, only
the house is bought the land is paid for by a
fixed yearly sum which cannot be added to.
The law did this. This is one step. The
next must be a desire to save money, and ability

and ten thousand other persons put your pen-
nies in a savings-bank, they make many dollars.
These dollars are taken by those in charge of
the savings-bank and lent to men who pay
interest. This interest is finally paid to you,
less the cost of taking care of the money.
But you can see how, if a hundred of you got
together and paid your pennies in, you might




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make your own savings-bank by letting one of
your own number have the money at interest.
Suppose he bought chickens with it, when he
had made enough from the chickens to do so,
he would pay the money back. Then another
boy would get the loan and buy a printing-
press. When he had made enough to pay that
back, another boy would have his chance. When
this is done by men and women to buy houses,
their club is called a "Building Association."
There are in Philadelphia about 500 of these
associations, and 500 more in the State of Penn-
sylvania. The entire iooo, in 1889, were pay-
ing out $33,000,000 to be used in buying
houses; and of this about $22,000,000 was
being paid out in Philadelphia. From 1849 to
1876, these associations bought 30,000 houses,
at a cost of $72,000,000. Since then the
associations have lent money to about 50,000
persons who were buying houses. In the last
sixty years, about 8o,ooo houses have been
bought in this way. The average price of a
house began at about $iooo; it rose to $2000;
and now most of the houses bought by
men who work cost from $2500 to $3500.
What kind of houses are they? There is a

sample one which has been put up at the Co-
lumbian Exposition in Chicago. When you go
there, you must look at it. There is nothing
more wonderful in all that marvelous Exposi-
tion than this proof that the laws, the habits,
and the business of a city of one million people
can be so arranged that even the day-laborer
earning only $8 or $o1 a week can own the
roof over his head and call no man landlord.
The result of all this is that Philadelphia is
not a city of palaces for the few, but a city of
homes for the many-which is better. It is
not magnificent, but it is comfortable. In 1890
its 1,046,964 inhabitants were living in 187,052


they live in. It is the privilege of the prosper-
ous. The number of families owning the house
in which they live is from four to six times
greater in Philadelphia than in any other great
city of the world. You cannot know, until years
and life have taught you more than any boy
or girl should know of this hard and bitter
world, how much of comfort, peace, and hap-
piness is summed up in that statement. It
means room and air and health. It means that
each family can have its own bath-tub, its own
yard, its own staircase, and its own door-step.
These are simple daily blessings for most of
us; but for tens and hundreds of thousands in

* -


dwellings. This means that with only two-
thirds as many people, it had twice as many
houses as New York. With just as many peo-
ple as Chicago, it had one half more houses.
Of the 200,000 families in Philadelphia, seven
out of eight had separate houses, and three-
quarters of its families, or 15o,ooo, owned the
houses they lived in. In New York only one
family in six lives in a separate house, and of
these not one family in six owns the house it
lives in. In Chicago less than half the families
are in separate houses. In general, in big cities
much less than half the families live in separate
houses, and less than a quarter own the houses

all large cities they are absent. They are not
enjoyed by half the people who live in the
world's great cities.
As for owning a home, this is a blessing un-
dreamed of probably by eight families out of ten
elsewhere. To have given this blessing to eight
citizens out of ten, is to work one of the world's
great industrial miracles.
Home-owning for the wage-earner, comfort
for the family, and room for the children are
not all that a city ought to provide, but they
are its first and most important duty. A city
will not be all it should be even after they are
got, as they are in Philadelphia. Street after


street of small two-story brick houses looks
rather mean and dingy. If the great mass of
voters are men owning small houses and living
in a small way, then all the work of the city will
be done in a small way, too. Pavements will
be cobblestones, rough and dirty; the drinking-
water will be plentiful, but indifferent. The
schools will be numerous enough, but the pay
of the teachers will be low. But it is better to
spread a carpet on the poor man's floor than to
spread an asphalt pavement under the car-
riage-wheels of the rich. It is better to have

nation was bor in a day, and the freedom of
man crowned with everlasting honor. But the


. ,--rsafl-tif $SE


bath-rooms by the ten thousand in small homes,
than to have brilliant fountains playing in beauti-
ful squares. If one must choose
between schools which are all they
should be, and separate dwelling
for the children of each family, bet-
ter the separate home every time. ', I
The Declaration of Independence
has unspeakably dignified Phila-
delphia in all history. Here a

i independence which has been
secured for the man who works
and for his family, is a not less
wonderful triumph of the rights
of man. It is a crowning vic-
-- tory for the comfort of children.
-/ When one is asked, as I was
asked in writing this article, to
tell the children of ST. NICHO-
LAS where Philadelphia could
be justly praised among the world's cities, he
can but point to the little home set among the
splendors of the Exposition and
say 15o,000 of these, owned by
the families which live in them,
are such a triumph of right living
Sin a great city as the world never
saw before, and can see nowhere
9 else but in Philadelphia, a city
"-glg of homes.

"150,000 OF THESE."


-- -



"WELCOME, old friend, Lysander Pratt!"
" Welcome, my dear Philander Sprat."
" What have you all these years been at?"

"I traveled to the wondrous East,
Its greatest marvels saw, and least."

Oh, how extremely good was that!"
Not wholly good, Philander Sprat."
Now, wherefore not, Lysander Pratt?"

"Upon a raging Eastern sea,
The ship was wrecked that carried me."

Alas! How terrible was that!"
Not wholly so, Philander Sprat."
Now, tell me why, Lysander Pratt."

"A swelling wave my body bore,.
And cast unharmed upon the shore."

"What luck! Now surely good was that!"
" Not wholly good, Philander Sprat."
" Why not? Why not, Lysander Pratt?"

" Men were less kind than the cold wave;
They sold me then to be a slave."

"Ah, what a cruel thing was that?"
" Yet not all bad, Philander Sprat."
"What good was there, Lysander Pratt?"

"I sang, and pleased the Sultan so,
That gifts and gold he did bestow."

" Good quite unmixed, I 'm sure, was that."
" Not good unmixed, Philander Sprat."
" What bad was there, Lysander Pratt?"

" So jealous were his favorites then,
They threw me in a lion's den."

" Oh, horrible indeed was that!"
" Yet not all bad, Philander Sprat."
"Say quickly why, Lysander Pratt."

VOL. XX.-22.

"I found, dropped down into that lair,
" The Sultan's long-lost signet there."

" Well, joyful chance most sure was that!"
" Yet not all good, Philander Sprat."
"Why not all good, Lysander Pratt?"

"So doting did the Sultan grow,
That home he would not let me go."

Doleful most certainly was that."
"Yet not so bad, Philander Sprat."
"Tell me why not, Lysander Pratt."

"At last, so gracious had he grown,
He made me heir to crown and throne."

"In truth most wonderful was that!"
But not all good, Philander Sprat."
"I see not why, Lysander Pratt."

"His sons both day and night sought still
How they my guiltless blood might spill."

"Alas, what woe, what pain was that!"
"Yet not all woe, Philander Sprat."
" Not all ? Why not, Lysander Pratt ?"

'T was by their aid at last I fled,
And safely backward home was sped."

"Now surely wholly good was that!
On your feet fall you like a cat
Whatever haps, Lysander Pratt."

"Yes, safe through all I came at last,
And smiled to think of dangers past.

"Yet, I, who on high thrones have sat,
Came home as poor as toothless rat.
That was not good, Philander Sprat."

SSee Quite a History," in ST. NICHOLAS for February, I880.



THE rooms at grandfather's house had been
used so long, they were almost human them-
selves. Each room had a look of its own,
when you opened the door, as expressive as a
speaking countenance.
Come in, children dear the sunny sitting-
room always seemed to say.
"Sit still and don't talk too much, and don't
handle the things on the tables," said the large,
gleaming, dim-lighted parlors.
Dear me, what weather this is! grumbled
the poky back-entry where the overshoes and
water-proofs and wood-boxes were kept.
"There's a piece-of cake-in the cupboard
for you," quietly ticked the dining-room clock,
its large face looking at no one in particular.
But of all the rooms in that house, up stairs
or down, not one had the strangeness, the
mysterious nod and beck and whisper, of the
murky old garret.
Hark, what was that ? it would seem to
creak; and then there was silence. Hush! I '11
tell you a story," it sometimes answered.
Some of its stories were true, but I should
not like to vouch for all of them.
What a number of queer things it kept
hidden away under the eaves that spread wide
a broad-winged cloak of shadows! What a
strange eye it had; its one half-moon window
peering at you from the high, peaked forehead
of the gable.
The garret door was at the far end of the
long upper hall; from it the stairs (and how
they did creak!) led up directly out of the
cheerful daylight into that uncarpeted wilder-
ness where it was always twilight.
It was the younger children's business to trot
on errands, and they were not consulted as to
when or where they should go. Grown people
seem to forget how early it gets dark up-garret
in winter, and how far away the house-noises
sound with all the doors shut between.
When the children were sent up-garret for

nuts,-for Sunday dessert with mince-pie and
apples, or to pass around with cider in the
evening,--they were careful to leave the stair
door open behind them; but there was little
comfort in that, for all the people were two
flights down and busy with their own concerns.
Down-stairs in the bright western chambers
nobody thought of its being late, but up-garret,
under the eaves, it was already night. Thick
ice incrusted the half-moon window, curtaining
its cold ray that sadly touched an object here
and there, and deepened the neighboring gloom.
The autumn nut-harvest was spread first
upon sheets, on the garret floor to dry, and
then it was garnered in the big, green bath-tub
which had stood, since the children could re-
member, over against the chimney, to the right
of the gable window. This tub was for size
and weight the father of all bath-tubs. It
was used for almost anything but the purpose
for which it was intended.
In summer, when it was empty, the children
played "shipwreck" in it; it was their life-boat,
and they were cast away on the high seas.
Some rowed for dear life, with umbrellas and
walking-sticks, and some made believe to cry
and call for help,-for that was their idea of the
behavior of a shipwrecked company; and some
tramped on the bulging tin bottom of the tub,
which yielded and sprang back with a loud
thump, like the clank of oars. It was very
In winter it was the granary. It held bush-
els and bushels of nuts, and its smooth, out-
sloping sides defeated the clever little mice,
who were always raiding and rummaging
among the garret stores.
Well, it seemed a long distance, to the timid
little errand-girl, from the stairs, across the
garret floor, to that bath-tub. Noiseless as
fear in a wide wilderness," she stepped. Then,
what a shock it was, when the first loud hand-
fuls of nuts bumped upon the bottom of the


pail! The nuts were pointed, and cold as lumps
of ice; they hurt the small hands that shoveled
them up in haste, and a great many handfuls it
took to fill the pail.
Hanging from the beams that divided the
main garret from the eaves, dangled a perfectly
useless row of old garments that seemed to be
there for no purpose but to look dreadful. How
they might have looked in a different light can-
not be said; there seemed to be nothing wrong
with them when the women took them down at
house-cleaning time and shook and beat them
about; they were as empty as sacks, every one.
But in that dim, furtive light, seen by over-
shoulder glimpses they looked like dismal male-
factors suffering the penalty of their crimes.
Some were hooded and seemed to hang their
heads upon their sunken breasts; all were high-
shouldered wretches with dangling arms and
a shapeless, dreary suggestiveness worse than
human. The most objectionable one of the lot
was a long, dark weather-cloak, worn about
the twenties," as old people say. It was of the
fashion of that "long red cloak, well-brushed
and neat," which we read of in John Gilpin's
famous ride.
But the great-grandfather's cloak was of a
dark green color, and not well brushed. It had
a high, majestic velvet collar, hooked with a
heavy steel clasp and chain; but for all its
respectable and kindly associations, it looked,
hanging from the garret rafters, just as much a
gallows-bird as any of its ruffian company.
The children could not forgive their great-
grandfather for having had such a sinister-look-
ing garment, or for leaving it behind him to
hang in the grim old garret and frighten them.
Solemn as the garret looked, no doubt this
was one of its jokes: to dress itself up in
shadows and pretend things to tease the chil-
dren; as we have known some real people to
do. It certainly was not fair, when they were
up there all alone.
The scuttle in the roof was shut, in winter, to
keep out the snow. A long ladder led up to it
from the middle garret, and close to this ladder
stood another uncanny-looking object -the
The family had always been inveterate bath-
ers, but surely this shower-bath must have

capped the climax of its cold-water experi-
It was contrived so that a pail of water, car-
ried up by the scuttle-ladder and emptied into
a tilting vessel on top of the closet, could be
made to descend on a sudden in a deluge of
large drops upon the head of the person inside.
There was no escape for that person; the
closet gave him but just room to stand up
under the infliction, and once the pail was tilted,
the water was bound to come.
The children thought of this machine with
shivering and dread. They had heard it said-
perhaps in the kitchen-that their little grand-
mother had "nearly killed herself" in that
shower-bath, till the doctor forbade her to use
it any more.
Its walls were screens of white cotton-cloth,
showing a mysterious opaque glimmer against
the light, also the shadowy outlines of some ob-
jects within, which the children could not ac-
count for. The narrow screen door was always
shut, and no child ever dreamed of opening it
or of meddling with the secrets of that pale
closet. It was enough to have to pass it on
their lonesome errands, looming like a "sheeted
ghost" in the garret's perpetual twilight.
The garret, like some of the great foreign
churches, had a climate of its own; still and
dry, but subject to extremes of heat and cold,
in summer it was the tropics, in winter the
frozen pole.
But it had its milder moods also,-when it
was neither hot nor cold, nor light nor dark;
when it beamed in mellow half-tones upon its
youthful visitors, left off its ugly frightening
tricks, told them "once upon a time stories,
and even showed them all its old family keep-
These pleasant times occurred about twice
every year, at the spring and fall house-clean-
ing, when the women, with brooms and dust-
pans, invaded the garret and made a cheerful
bustle in that deserted place.
The scuttle-hole in the roof was then open,
to give light to the cleaners, and a far, bright
square of light shone down. It was as if the
garret smiled.
All the queer old things, stowed away under
the eaves, behind boxes and broken furniture


and stoves and rolls of carpet, were dragged
forth; and they were as good as new discover-
ies to the children, who had not seen them nor
heard their stories since last house-cleaning
There was the brass warming-pan, with its
shining lid, full of holes like a pepper-box. On
this warming-pan, as a sort of sled, the chil-
dren used to ride by turns-one child seated
on, or in, the pan, two others dragging it
over the floor by the long, dark wood handle.
And there were the pattens
"which step-great-grandmother
Sheppard brought over from
England"; one pair with leather
straps and one with straps of
cotton velvet, edged with a
tarnished gilt embroidery. The
straps were meant to lace over
a full-grown woman's instep, but
the children managed somehow
to keep them on their feet, and
they clattered about, on steel-
shod soles, with a racket equal
to the midnight clatter of Santa
Claus's team of reindeer.
There was a huge muff of dark ':
fur, kept in a tall blue paper :
bandbox; the children could
bury their arms in it up to the
shoulder. It had been carried
by some lady in the time of
short waists and scant skirts and
high coat-collars; when girls
covered their bare arms with
long kid gloves and tucked their
little slippered toes into fur-lined
foot-muffs and went on moon-
light sleighing parties, dressed as girls dress
nowadays for a dance.
One of these very same foot-muffs (the moths
had once got into it) led a sort of at-arm's-
length existence in the garret, neither quite
condemned nor yet allowed to mingle with un-
impeachable articles of clothing. And there was
a "foot-stove used in old times on long drives
in winter or in the cold country meeting-houses.
They were indefatigable visitors and meeting-
goers,-those old-time Friends. Weather and
distance were nothing thought of; and in the

most troublous times they could go to and fro
in their peaceful character, unmolested and un-
suspected-though no doubt they had their
sympathies as strong as other people's.
A china bowl is still shown, in one branch of
grandfather's family, which one of the great-
aunts, then a young woman, carried on her
saddle-bow, through both the British and Con-
tinental lines, from her old home on Long
Island to her husband's house on the west
bank of the Hudson above West Point.



No traveling member of the society ever
thought of "putting-up" for the night anywhere
but at a Friend's house. Journeys were planned
in stages from such a Friend's house to such an-
other one's, or from meeting to meeting. In
days when letter-postage was dear and news-
papers were almost unknown, such visits were
keenly welcome, and were a chief means by
which isolated country families kept up their
communication with the world.
There were many old-fashioned household
utensils in the garret, the use of which had to



j. _


be explained to the children; and all this was
as good as history, and more easily remembered
than much that is written in books.
There was one of the old "Dutch ovens "
that had stood in front of the roaring hearth-
fires in days when Christmas dinners were
cooked without the aid of stoves or ranges.
And there were the iron fire-dogs, the pot-
hooks, and the crane which were part of the
fireplace furniture. And the big wool-wheel
for the spinning of yarn, the smaller and lady-
like flax-wheel, and the tin candle-molds for
the making of tallow candles; and a pleasure
it must have been to see the candles drawn,"
when the pure-white tallow had set in the slen-
der tubes and taken the shape of them per-
fectly, so that each candle, when drawn out by
the wick, was as cold and hard and smooth as
alabaster. And there was the "baby-jumper"
and the wicker "run-around," to show that
babies had always been babies-just the same
restless little pets then as now-and that
mother's and nurse's arms were as apt to get
The garret had kept a faithful family record,
and hence it told of sickness and suffering as
well as of pleasure and business and life and
A little old crutch, padded by some woman's
hand with an attempt to make it handsome as
well as comfortable, stood against the chim-
ney on the dark side next the eaves. It was
short enough for a child of twelve to lean upon,
and it had seen considerable use, for the brown
velvet pad was worn quite thin and gray. Had
the little cripple ever walked again ? With
what feelings did the mother put that crutch
away up-garret when it was needed no more ?
The garret did not say how that story of pain
had ended; or whether it was long or short.
The children never sought to know. It was
one of the questions which they did not ask:
they knew very little about pain themselves,
and perhaps they did not fully enter into the
meaning of that sad little relic.
Still less did they understand the reverence
with which the house-cleaning women handled
a certain bare wooden frame neither handsome
nor comfortable-looking. It had been made to
support an invalid in a sitting posture in bed;

and the invalid for whom it was provided, in
her last days, had suffered much from difficulty
of breathing, and had passed many weary
hours, sometimes whole nights, supported by
this frame. It had for those who knew its
use the sacredness of association with that long
ordeal of pain, endured with perfect patience
and watched over with constant love.
But these were memories which the little
children could not share. When their prattling
questions touched upon the sore places, the
wounds in the family past, they were not an-
swered, or were put aside till some more fitting
occasion, or till they were old enough to listen
with their hearts.
Under the eaves there was an old green chest
whose contents, year after year, the children
searched through, in the never-failing hope that
they should find something which had not been
there the year before. There were old account-
books with their stories of loss and gain, which
the children could not read. There were bun-
dles of old letters which they were not allowed
to examine. There were ink-portraits," family
profiles in silhouette, which they thought very
funny, especially in the matter of coat-collars
and "back-hair." There were school-girl prizes
of fifty years ago: the school-girls had grown
into grandmamas and some were dead.
There was old-fashioned art-work: paintings
on velvet or satin; boxes covered with shells;
needle-books and samplers showing the most
exemplary stitches, in colors faded by time.
There were handsomely bound volumes of
" Extracts," containing poems and long pas-
sages of elegant prose copied in pale brown ink,
in the proper penmanship of the time. And
there was a roll of steel-plate engravings which
had missed the honor of frames; and of these
the children's favorite picture was one called
" The Wife."
It is some time since I have seen that pic-
ture; I may be wrong about some of the de-
tails. But as I remember her, the wife was a
long-necked lady with very large eyes, dressed
in white, with large full sleeves and curls falling
against her cheek. She held a feather hand-
screen, and she was doing nothing but look
beautiful and sweetly attentive to her husband,
who was seated on the other side of the table



and was reading aloud to her by the light of an
old-fashioned astral lamp.
This, of course, was the ideal wife, the little
girls thought. Every other form of wifehood
known to them was more or less made up of
sewing, and housework, and every-day clothes.
Even in the family past, it had the taint of
the Dutch oven, and the spinning-wheel, and
the candle-molds upon it. They looked at their
finger-tips; no, it was not likely they would
ever grow to be long and pointed like hers.
The wife no one of them should ever be-only
a wife perhaps, with the usual sewing-work, and
not enough white dresses to afford to wear one
every evening.
It took one day to clean the garret, and an-
other to put things away; winter clothing had
to be brushed and packed in the chests where
it was kept; the clothes-closet had to be
cleaned; then its door was closed and locked.
The last of the brooms and dust-pans beat a
retreat, the stair door was shut, and the dust
and the mystery-began to gather as before.
But summer, though no foe to dust, was a
great scatterer of the garret mysteries. Gay,
lightsome summer peeped in at the half-moon
window and smiled down from the scuttle in
the roof. Warm weather had come, the sash
that fitted the gable window was taken out
permanently. Outdoor sounds and perfumes
floated up. Athwart the sleeping sunbeams
golden dust-motes quivered, and bees from the
garden sailed in and out on murmuring wing.
If a thunder-storm came up suddenly, then
there was a fine race, up two flights of stairs,
and whoever reached the scuttle-ladder first
had the first right to climb it, and to pull in the
shutter that covered the scuttle-hole. There
was time, perhaps, for one breathless look down
the long slope of bleached shingles,-at the
tossing tree-tops, the meadow-grass whipped
white, the fountain's jet of water bending like a
flame and falling silent on the grass, the neigh-
bor's team hurrying homeward, and the dust
rising along the steep upward grade of the
village road.
Then fell the first great drop-another, and
another; the shutter hid the storm-bright
square of sky, and down came the rain--
trampling on the shingles, drumming in the

gutters, drowning the laughing voices below;
and suddenly the garret grew cool, and its
mellow glow darkened to brown twilight.
Under the gable window there stood for
many years a white pine box, with a front that
let down on leather hinges. It was very clean
inside and faintly odorous. The children
called it the bee-box; and they had a story of
their own to account for the tradition that this
box had once held rich store of honey in the
A queen bee, they said, soaring above the
tops of the cherry-trees in swarming-time, had
drifted in at the garret window with all the
swarm in tow; and where her royal caprice
had led them the faithful workers remained,
and formed a colony in the bee-box, and, like
honest tenants, left a quantity of their sweet
wares behind, to pay for their winter's lodging.
There may have been some truth in this
story, but the honey was long since gone, and
so were the bees. The bee-box, in the chil-
dren's time, held only files of old magazines
packed away for binding. Of course they
never were bound; and the children who used
to look at the pictures in them, grew into ab-
sent-minded girls with half-lengths of hair fall-
ing into their eyes when they stooped too low
over their books, as they always would to read.
The bee-box was crammed till the lid would
no longer shut. And now the dusty pages be-
gan to gleam and glow, and voices that all the
world listened to spoke to those young hearts
for the first time in the garret's stillness.
The rapt young reader, seated on the garret
floor, never thought of looking for a date, nor
asked, "Who tells this story?" Those voices
were as impersonal as the winds and the stars
of the summer night.
It might have been twenty years, it might
have been but a year before, that Lieutenant
Strain led his brave little band into the deadly
tropic wilderness of Darien. It is doubt-
ful if those child-readers knew why he was
sent, by whom, or what to do. The begin-
ning of the narrative was in a "missing num-
ber" of the magazine-it mattered not; they
read from the heart, not from the head. It
was the toils, the resolves, the sufferings of the
men they cared about; their characters and



-conduct under trial. They agonized with "Trux-
ton" over his divided duty, and wept at his all
but dying-words:
"Did I do right, Strain?"
They worshiped, with unquestioning faith,
.at the shrine of that factitious god of battles,
Abbott's Napoleon." With beating hearts and
burning cheeks they lived in the tragic realism
of "Witching Times." "Maya, the Princess,"

and "The Amber
YIf' Gods," In a Cel-
lar," The South
i. Breaker," stormed
their fresh imagi-
Inations and left
.. them feverishly
dreaming, and
there in the gar-
ret's tropic warmth
and stillness they
first heard the
voice of the great
master who gave
us Colonel New-
come, and who
S wrought us to such
pi.. vivid sympathy
:. with the fortunes
of Clive and Ethel.
-' And here the last
Number was miss-
ing, and for a long
time the young
read:lers went sorrowing for Clive,
i," l rl-iinkitr that he and Ethel
h-,ad beer parted for all their lives.
Tliese garrer readings were fre-
q uenrly a st:,hlern joy, but perhaps
"r ,lAher ai is in the secret of the
S bee-box. arid did not search very
closely or ,all very loud when a
girl ni- m riing, about the mid-
:lie of the v irn r, midsummer after-

.-\0h uL t rni,' -u mmer the sage was
picked rn'd --pread upon news-
rpa:er's uii..:n the garret floor to
dry. That %,.s a pleasant task.
Childrenr are sensitive to the
touch of beauty connected with
their labors. Their eyes lingered with de-
light upon the color, the cr&pe-like texture of
the fragrant sage, bestrewing the brown garret
floor with its delicate life, already wilting in the
dry warm air.
"September winds should never blow upon
hops," the saying is: therefore the hops for a
whole year's yeast-making were gathered in the
wane of summer; and here, too, was a task




which brought its own reward. The hops made
a carpet for the garret floor, more beautiful,
even, than the blue-green sage; and as the har-
vest was much larger so the fair living carpet
spread much wider. It was a sight to see, in
the low light of the half-moon window, all the
fragile pale green balls, powdered to the heart's
core with gold-colored pollen-a field of beauty
spread there for no eye to see. Yet it was not
wasted. The children did not speak of what
they felt, but nothing that was beautiful, or
mysterious, or stimulating to the fancy in those
garret days was ever lost. It is often the slight
impressions that, like the scent of the roses,"
wear best and most keenly express the past.
No child ever forgot the physiognomy of

those rooms at grandfather's: the mid-after-
noon stillness when the sun shone on the lemon-
tree, and its flowers shed their perfume on the
warm air of the sitting-room; the peculiar
odor of the withering garden, when October
days were growing chill; the soft rustle of the
wind searching amongst the dead leaves of the
arbor; the cider-mill's drone in the hazy dis-
tance; the creaking of the loaded wagons, the
bang of the great barn-doors when the wind
swung them to.
No child of all those who have played in
grandfather's garret ever forgot its stories, its
solemn, silent make-believes; the dreams they
dreamed there when they were girls, or the
books they read.


Now you sleep, dear! Do you dream?
Are you sailing far away?
On some fairy shallop bound
For a land where it is May-

Where no cloud is dark with rain-
Whence are banished ice and snow-
Where the roses have no thorns,
And the rude winds never blow?

Do you hear a music strange,
Wiling you to that bright shore-
Home of dreams that dance and sing,
Free of Earth forevermore?

Do you fancy you would be
Glad, like them, to idle there;
Far away from tasks and rules
Their light-hearted mirth to share?

Nay, I think you would come back,
Longing for the changeful days,
Wild with wind, or white with snow,
And the dear, familiar ways.

For the fairies, fairy-land--
Idle dreams for elf and sprite:
But for you-a child of Earth-
Earth's commingled shade and light.
Louise Chandler Moulton.

,.'. ....4 -,-> i:.. .

:.- '. .*. --.- *-- .__ _.-----__--- ,.. .
:" .-- -. _-^ -- "," 1 ,.^ ',.-

,-, hl -

-- -- -..,

,., ..,_"LO ST.": _.


re EIID"* VI5L~C.

2" *



Author of The Birds' Christmas Carol," A Summer in a Ca(on," etc.

[Begiun in the November number.]
THE months of April and May were happy
ones. The weather was perfect, as only Cali-
fornia weather understands the art of being; the
hills were at their greenest; the wind almost for-
got to blow; the fields blazed in wild flowers;
day after day rose in cloudless splendor, and
day after day the Golden Gate shone like a
sapphire in the sun.
Polly was inwardly nervous. She had the
"awe of prosperity" in her heart, and everything
seemed too bright to last.
Both she and Edgar were very busy. But
work that one loves is no hardship, especially
when one is strong and young and hopeful, and
when one has great matters at stake-such as
the health and wealth of an invalid mother, or
the paying off of disagreeable debts.
Even the limp Mrs. Chadwick shared in the
general joy; for Mr. Greenwood was so utterly
discouraged with her mismanagement of the
house, so determined not to fly to ills he knew
not of, and so anxious to bring order out of
chaos, that on the spur of the moment one day
he married her. On the next day he dis-
charged the cook, hired a better one the third,
dunned the delinquent boarder the fourth, and
collected from him on the fifth; so the May
check (signed Clementine Chadwick Green-
wood) was made out for eighty-five dollars.
But in the midst of it all, when everything in
the outside world danced with life and vigor,
and the little house could hardly hold its sweet
content,- without a glimmer of warning, with-
out a moment's fear or dread, without the pre-
cious agony of parting, Mrs. Oliver slipped
softly, gently, safely, into the Great Silence.
Mercifully it was Edgar, not Polly, who found

her in her accustomed place on the cushions,
lying with closed eyelids and smiling lips.
It was half-past five. Polly must have
gone out at four, as usual, and would be back
in half an hour. .. Yung Lee was humming
softly in the little kitchen. In five minutes
Edgar Noble had suffered, lived and grown ten
years. He was a man. And then came
Polly,-and Mrs. Bird with her, thank Heaven!
Polly breathless and glowing, looking up at the
bay-window for her mother's smile of welcome.
In a few seconds the terrible news was bro-
ken, and Polly, overpowered with its awful sud-
denness, dropped before it as under a physical
It was better so. Mrs. Bird carried her home
for the night, as she thought, but a merciful
blur stole over the child's tired brain, and she
lay for many weeks in a weary illness of deli-
rium and stupor and fever.
Meanwhile, Edgar acted as brother, son, and
man of the house. He it was who managed
everything, from the first sorrowful days up to
the closing of the tiny upper flat where so
much had happened: not great things of vast
outward importance, but small ones little
miseries and mortifications and struggles and
self-denials and victories, that made the past
half-year a mile-stone in his life.
A week finished it all! It takes a very short
time, he thought, to scatter to the winds of
heaven all the gracious elements that make a
home. Only a week; and in the first days of
June, Edgar went back to Santa Barbara for
the summer holidays without even a sight of
his brave, helpful girl-comrade.
He went back to his brother's congratula-
tions, his sister's kisses, his mother's happy tears,
and his father's hearty hand-clasp, full of re-
newed pride and belief in his eldest son. But
there was a shadow on the lad's high spirits as



he thought of gay, courageous, daring Polly,
stripped in a moment of all that made life dear.
I wish we could do something for her,
poor little soul," he said to his mother in one
of their long talks in the orange-tree sitting-
room. "Tongue cannot tell what Mrs. Oliver
has been to me, and I 'm not a bit ashamed to
own up to Polly's influence, even if she is a girl
and two or three years younger than I am.
Hang it! I 'd like to see the fellow that could
live under the same roof as those two women,
and not do the best that was in him! Has n't
Polly some relatives in the East ?"
No near ones, and none that she has ever
seen. Still, she is not absolutely alone, as many
girls would be under like circumstances. We
would be only too glad to have her here; the
Howards have telegraphed asking her to spend
the winter with them in Cambridge; I am confi-
dent Dr. Winship will do the same when the
news of Mrs. Oliver's death reaches Europe;
and Mrs. Bird seems to have constituted herself
a sort of Fairy Godmother in Chief. You see,
everybody loves Polly; and she will probably
have no less than four homes open to her.
Then, too, she is not penniless. Rents are low,
and she cannot hope to get quite as much for
the house as before, but even counting repairs,
taxes, and furnishings, we think she is reasona-
bly certain of fifty dollars a month."
"She will never be idle, unless this sorrow
makes a great change in her. Polly seems to
have been created to become' by doing.'"
"Yet she does not in the least relish work,
Edgar. I never knew a girl with a greater ap-
petite for luxury. One cannot always see the
deepest reasons in God's providence as applied
to one's own life and character; but it is often
easy to understand them as you look at other
people and note their growth and development.
Now, Polly's intense love for her invalid mother
has kept her from being selfish. The straitened
circumstances in which she has been compelled
to live have prevented her from yielding to self-
indulgence or frivolity. Even her hunger for
the beautiful has been a discipline; for since
beautiful things were never given to her ready-
made, she has been forced to create them. Her
lot in life, which she has always lamented, has
given her a self-control, a courage, a power,

which she never would have had in the world
had she grown up in luxury. She is too young
to see it, but it is very clear to me that Polly
Oliver is a glorious product of circumstances."
But," objected Edgar, that's not fair. You
are giving all the credit to circumstances, and
none to Polly's own nature."
"Not at all. If there had not been the
native force to develop, experience would have
had nothing to work upon. As it is, her lovely
childish possibilities have become probabilities,
and I look to see the girlish probabilities blos-
som into womanly certainties."
Meanwhile Polly, it must be confessed, was
not at the present time quite justifying the good
opinions of her friends.
She had few of the passive virtues. She
could bear sharp stabs of misfortune, which fired
her energy and pride, but she resented pin-
pricks. She could carry heavy, splendid bur-
dens cheerfully, but she fretted under little cares.
She could serve by daring, but not by waiting.
She would have gone to the stake or the scaf-
fold, I think, with tolerable grace; but she would
probably have recanted any article of faith if she
had been confronted with life imprisonment.
Trouble that she took upon herself for the
sake of others and out of love, she accepted
sweetly. Sorrows that she did not choose,
which were laid upon her without her consent,
and which were "just the ones she did not
want, and did not need, and would not have,
and could not bear,"-these sorrows found her
unwilling, bitter, and impatient.
Yet if life is a school and we all have lessons
to learn in it, the Great Teacher will be unlikely
to set us tasks which we have already finished.
Some review there must be, for certain things
are specially hard to keep in mind, and have to
be gone over and over, lest they fade into forget-
fulness. But there must be continued progress
in a life-school. There is no parrot repetition,
singsong, meaningless, of words that have ceased
to be vital. New lessons are to be learned as
fast as the old ones are understood. Of what
use to set Polly tasks to develop her bravery,
when she was already brave ?
Courage was one of the little jewels set in her
fairy crown when she was born, but there was
a round, empty space beside it, where Patience


should have been. Further along was Daring,
making a brilliant show, but again there was
a tiny vacancy waiting for Prudence.
The crown made a fine appearance, on the
whole, because the large jewels were mostly in
place, and the light of these blinded you to
the lack of the others; but to the eye of the
keen observer there was a want of symmetry
and completeness.
Polly knew the unfinished state of her fairy
crown as well as anybody else. She could
not plead ignorance as an excuse; but though
she would have gone on polishing the great
gems with a fiery zeal, she added the little jewels
very slowly, and that only on compulsion.
There had been seven or eight weeks of par-
tial unconsciousness, when the sorrow and the
loneliness of life stole into her waking dreams
only vaguely and at intervals: when she was
unhappy, and could not remember why; and
slept, to wake and wonder and sleep again.
Then there were days and weeks when the
labor of living was all that the jaded body could
accomplish; when memory was weak; when life
began at the pillow, and ended at the foot of
the bed, and the universe was bounded by the
chamber windows.
But when her strength came back, and she
stood in the middle of the floor, clothed and in
her right mind, well enough to remember,-oh!
then indeed the deep waters of bitterness rolled
over poor Polly's head and into her heart, and
she sank beneath them, without a wish or a
struggle to rise.
If it had been anything else! she sobbed.
"Why did God take away my most precious,
my only one to live for, when I was trying to
take care of her, trying to be good, trying to
pay back the strength that had been poured
out on me,-miserable, worthless me! Surely,
if a girl was willing to do without a father and
sisters and brothers, without good times and
riches, willing to work like a galley-slave, will-
ing to 'scrimp' and plan and save for ever and
ever; surely 'they' might be willing that she
should keep her mother! "
Poor Polly Providence at this time seemed
nothing more than a collection of demons which
she classified under the word 'they,' and which
she felt certain were scourging her pitilessly and

needlessly. She could not see any reason or jus-
tification in 'their' cruelties,-for that was the
only term she could apply to her afflictions.
Mrs. Bird had known sorrow, and she did her
best to minister to the troubled and wrong little
heart; but it was so torn that it could be healed
only by the soft balm of Time.
Perhaps, a long while after such a grief (it is
always "perhaps in a great crisis, though the
certainty is ours if we will but grasp it), perhaps
the hidden meaning of the sorrow steals gently
into our softened hearts. We see, as in a vision,
a new light by which to work; we rise, cast off
the outgrown shell, and build us a more stately
mansion, in which to dwell till God makes that
home, also, too small to hold the ever-growing
IN August Mr. John Bird took Polly to the
Nobles' ranch in Santa Barbara, in the hope
that the old scenes and old friends might soothe
her, and give her strength to take up the burden
of life with something of her former sunshiny
Edgar was a junior now, back at his work,
sunburned and strong from his summer's out-
ing. He had seen Polly twice after his return
to San Francisco; but the first meeting was an
utter failure, and the second nearly as trying.
Neither of them could speak of the subject that
absorbed their thoughts, nor had either courage
enough to begin other topics of conversation.
The mere sight of Edgar was painful to the
girl, now,-it brought to mind so much that
was dear, so much that was past and gone.
In the serenity of the ranch-life, the long
drives with Margery and Philip, the quiet chats
with Mrs. Noble, Polly gained somewhat in
strength; but the old "spring," vitality, and
enthusiasm had vanished for the time, and the
little circle of friends marveled at this Polly
without her nonsense, her ready smiles, her
dancing dimples, her extravagances of speech.
Once a week, at least, Dr. George would
steal an hour or two, and saddle his horse to
take Polly for a gallop over the hills, through
the cautions, or on the beach.
His half-grave, half-cheery talks on these



rides did her much good. He sympathized and
understood and helped, even when he chided,
and Polly sometimes forgot her own troubles in
wondering whether Dr. George had not suf-
fered and overcome a good many of his own.
"You make one great error, my child," he
said one day in response to one of Polly's out-
bursts of grief; "and it is an error young peo-
ple very naturally fall into. You think that no
one was ever chastened as you are. You say,
with Jeremiah, No prophet is afflicted like
unto this prophet!' Now, you are simply bear-
ing your own share of the world's trouble.
How can you hope to escape the universal lot ?
There are dozens of people within sight of this
height of land who have borne as much, and
must bear as much again. These things come
to all of us; they are stern facts; they are here,
and they must be borne; but it makes all the
difference in the world how we bear them. We
can clench our fists, close our lips tightly, and
say, Since I must, I can'; or we can look up
and say cheerfully, I will!' The first method
is philosophical and strong enough, but there is
no sweetness in it. If you have this burden to
carry, make it as light, not as heavy, as you
can; if you have this grief to endure, you want
at least to come out of it sweeter and stronger
than ever before. It seems a pity to let it go
for nothing. You can live for your mother now
as truly as you did in the old times; you know
very well how she would have had you live."
Polly felt a sense of shame steal over her as
she looked at Dr. George's sweet, strong smile
and resolute mouth, and she said, with the hint
of a new note in her voice:
"I see, and I will try; but, oh! Dr. George,
how does one ever learn to live without lov-
ing,- I mean the kind of loving I had in my
life ? How does one contrive to be good when
one is not happy? How can one walk in the
right path when there does n't seem to be any
brightness to go by?"
My dear little girl," and Dr. George looked
soberly out on the ocean, dull and lifeless under
the gray October sky, when the sun of one's
happiness is set, one lights a candle called 'Pa-
tience,' and guides one's footsteps by that!"

If only I were not a rich heiress," said Polly

next morning, "I dare say I should be better
off; for then I simply could n't have gone to
bed for two or three months, and idled about
like this for another. But there seems to be no
end to my money. Edgar paid all the bills in
San Francisco, and saved twenty out of our pre-
cious three hundred and twelve dollars. Then
Mrs. Greenwood's rent-money has been accu-
mulating four months, while I have been visiting
you and Mrs. Bird; and the Greenwoods are
willing to pay sixty dollars a month for the
house still, even though times are dull; so I am
hopelessly wealthy,- but I am very glad. The
old desire to do something, and be something,
seems to have faded out of my life with all the
other beautiful things. I think I shall go to a
girl's college and study, or find some other way
of getting through the hateful endless years that
stretch out ahead! Why, I am only a little past
seventeen, and I may live to be ninety! I do
not see how I can ever stand this sort of thing
for seventy-three years!"
Mrs. Noble smiled in spite of herself. "Just
apply yourself to getting through this year,
Polly dear, and let the other seventy-two take
care of themselves. They will bring their own
cares and joys and responsibilities and prob-
lems, little as you realize it now. This year,
grievous as it seems, will fade by and by, until
you can look back at it with resignation and
without tears."
"I don't want it to fade! cried Polly, pas-
sionately. "I never want to look back at it
without tears! I want to be faithful always;
I want never to forget, and never to feel less
sorrow than I do this minute! "
"Take that blue-covered Emerson on the
little table, Polly; open it at the essay on
'Compensation,' and read the page marked
with the orange leaf."
The tears were streaming down Polly's
cheeks, but she opened the book, and read
with a faltering voice:
We cannot part with our f-fr-friends. We cannot
let our angels go. [Sob.] We do not see that they
only go out that archangels may come in. We do
not believe there is any force in to-day to rival or re-cre-
ate that beautiful yesterday. [Sob.] We linger in the
ruins of the old tent where once we had shelter. ..
We cannot again find aught so dear, so sweet, so grace-
ful. [Sob.] But we sit and weep in vain. We cannot


stay amid the ruins. The voice of the Almighty saith,
"Up and onward forevermore!" The sureyears
reveal the deep remedial force that underlies all sorrow.
.The man or woman who would have remained
a sunny garden flower, with no room for its roots and
too much sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls
and the neglect of the gardener is made the banian of the
forest, yielding shade and fruit to wide neighborhoods
of men.

Do you see, Polly?"
"Yes, I see; but oh! I was so happy being
a garden flower with the sunshine on my head,
and I can't seem to care the least little bit for
being a banian-tree! "
"Well," said Mrs. Noble, smiling through
her own tears, I fear that God will never in-
sist on your 'yielding shade and fruit to wide
neighborhoods of men' unless you desire it.
Not all sunny garden flowers become banian-
trees by the falling of the walls. Some of
them are crushed beneath the ruins, and never
send any more color or fragrance into the
world. "
"The garden flower had happiness before
the walls fell, said Polly. It is happiness I
want. "
The banian-tree had blessedness after the
walls fell, and it is blessedness I want; but,
then, I am forty-seven, and you are seventeen! "
sighed Mrs. Noble, as they walked through the
orange orchard to the house.
One day, in the middle of October, the mail
brought Polly two letters: the first from Edgar,
who often dashed off cheery scrawls in the
hope of getting cheery replies, which never
came; and the second from Mrs. Bird, who
had a plan to propose.
Edgar wrote:
". .I have a new boarding-place in San
Francisco, a stone's throw from Mrs. Bird's,
whose mansion I can look down upon from a
lofty height reached by a flight of fifty wooden
steps-good training in athletics! Mrs. Mor-
ton is a kind landlady and the house is a home,
in a certain way:
"But oh! the difference to me
'Twixt tweedledum and tweedledee!

"There is a Morton girl, too; but she neither
plays nor sings nor jokes, nor even looks,-
in fine, she is not Polly! I have come to the

conclusion, now, that girls in a house are al-
most nuisances,--I mean, of course, when they
are not Pollies. Oh! why are you so young,
and so loaded with this world's goods, that
you will never need me for a boarder again?
Mrs. Bird is hoping to see you soon, and I
chose my humble lodging on this hill-top be-
cause, from my attic's lonely height, I can
watch you going in and out of your 'marble
halls'; and you will almost pass my door as
you take the car. In view of this pleasing
prospect (now, alas! somewhat distant), I send
you a scrap of newspaper verse which pro-
phesies my sentiments. It is signed M. E. W.,'
and Tom Mills says whoever wrote it knows
'T is but poorly I 'm lodged in a little side-street,
Which is seldom disturbed by the hurry of feet,
For the flood-tide of life long ago ebbed away
From its homely old houses, rain-beaten and gray;
And I sit with my pipe in the window, and sigh
At the buffets of fortune-till Polly goes by.

There's a flaunting of ribbons, a flurry of lace,
And a rose in the bonnet above a bright face,
A glance from two eyes so deliciously blue
The midsummer seas scarcely rival their hue;
And once in a while, if the wind 's blowing high,
The sound of soft laughter as Polly goes by.

Then up jumps my heart and begins to beat fast.
She's coming! it whispers. She's here! She has
While I throw up the sash and lean breathlessly down
To catch the last glimpse of her vanishing gown,
Excited, delighted, yet wondering why
My senses desert me if Polly goes by.

Ah! she must be a witch, and the magical spell
She has woven about me has done its work well,
For the morning grows brighter, and gayer the air
That my landlady sings as she sweeps down the stair;
And my poor lonely garret, up close to the sky,
Seems something like heaven when Polly goes by!

P. S.-Tony has returned to the university.
He asked after the health of the sunset-haired
goddess' yesterday. You 'd better hurry back
and take care of me;-no, joking aside, don't
worry about me, little missionary; I 've out-
grown Tony, and I hope I don't need to be
reformed oftener than once a year.
Yours, EDGAR."



Mrs. Bird's letter ran thus:
without you just about as long as we can en-
dure it. The boys have returned to school and
college. Mr. Bird contemplates one more trip
to Honolulu, and brother John and I need
some one to coddle and to worry over. I have
not spoken to you of your future, because I
wished to wait until you opened the subject.
It is too late for you to begin your course of
kindergarten training this year, and I think you
are far too delicate just now to undertake so
arduous a work; however, you are young, and
that can wait for a bit. As to the story-telling
in the hospitals and asylums, I wish you could
find courage and strength to go on with that,-
not for your own sake alone, but for the sake
of others.
"As I have told you before, the money is set
aside for that special purpose, and the work
will be carried on by somebody. Of course I
can get a substitute if you refuse, and that sub-
stitute may, after a little time, satisfy the impa-
tient children, who flatten their noses against the
window-panes and wish for Miss Pauline every
day of their meager lives. But I fear the substi-
tute will never be Polly! She may 'rattle round


in your place' (as somebody said under different
circumstances), but she can never fill it! Why
not spend the winter with us, and do this lovely
work, keeping up other studies if you are strong
enough? It will be so sweet for you to feel
that out of your own sadness you can comfort
and brighten the lives of these lonely, suffering,
these motherless or fatherless children. It will
seem hard to begin, no doubt; but new life
will flow in your veins when you take up your
active, useful work again. The joyousness that
God put into your soul before you were born,
my Polly, is a sacred trust. You must not hide
it in a napkin, dear, or bury it, or lose it. It
was given to you only that you should share it
with others. It was intended for the world at
large, though it was bestowed upon you in par-
ticular. Come, dear, to one who knows all
about it,-one whom you are sweet enough to

"Mrs. Noble," said Polly, with a sober sort
of smile, the 'Ancon' sails on the 20th, and I
am going to sail with her."
"So soon ? What for, dear ?"
"I am going to be a banian-tree, if you
please," answered Polly.

(To be continued.)



IT 's just the time when it does seem
Like everything had gotten still,--
'Cept often, down beside the stream,
Why, maybe there 's a whippoorwill;
And frogs always! But, somehow, they
Don't seem like noises made by day.

Then all up through the meadow-grass
It's nice an' cool for "Blossom's feet.
I let the bars down while we pass,
An' 't seems like everything smells sweet.
It's red out where the sun went down,
But all the woods below are brown.

An' there 's one star; but just as soon
As that comes out, it 's getting' dark!
'Way off, the cow-bells make a tune,
An' then our dog begins to bark,
An' lights, up at the farm, peep out,
An' Granny's candle moves about.


ONE night, when the hills were drenched with dew,
And moonbeams lay about,
The comical cone of a young bamboo
Came cautiously creeping out.

It tossed its cap upon the ground,
Amazed at the sudden light,
And so pleased it was with the world it found
That it grew six feet that night.

It grew and it grew in the summer breeze;
It grew and it grew, until
It looked right over the cam-
To the further side of the e, 4



A Japanese phrase the wood-
cutter used
(" Fine tree!" is what we

He chopped it all round, till
it fell on the ground;
His ox then hauled it

He made a fine tub from the lowermost round,
And a pail from the following one;
A caddy for rice from
the very next slice,

More than begun;

A nd. .i .r .o .. .

VOL. XX.-23.

The next were tall vases, and medicine-cases,
With dippers and cups galore:
There were platters and bowls, and pickets and poles,
And matting to spread on the floor.

A parasol-frame, and an intricate game,
And ribs to a paper fan;
A sole to his shoe, and a toothpick or two,
He made next,- this wonderful man!


A pencil, I think, and a bottle for ink,
And a stem for his miniature pipe;
A ring for his hand, and a shokoji stand,*
And a tray for the oranges ripe.

A rake then he made, and a small
And a trellis to loop up his vine;
A flute which he blew, and a tea-strainer, too,
And a fiddle to squeak shrill and fine.

It would take me all day, if I were to say,
All that wonderful man brought to view;
But a traveler I met says he 's sitting there yet,
At work on that single bamboo.


1~9~T~~K` "'~~ I'"":


(A Christmas Romance of 1492.)


[Begun in the December number.]

The goodly men rode far, rode fast,
And reached the robber-den at last.

AN hour after returning to Twin Towers,
though the sun was low, Egbert, with a fine
following of armed men, was on his way to the
robbers' haunt.
Upon Egbert's right, unhelmeted and with
snowy hair drifting to his shoulders, rode the
young knight's counselor-in-chief, a soldier sea-
soned by rugged warfare at home and abroad.
It was almost noon of the next day when
Egbert's men entered the rocky ravine so
snugly hiding the Hardi-Hoods.
Wood-cutter Canute, who had joined the rob-
ber-assailers, when he learned their errand as
they passed his house, strode ahead as guide.
We will ride at yon wall of rock, and knock
upon it till they swarm forth as bees from an
hive; then, with quick play of arms, all are at
our mercy," said the old counselor.
Marry!" cried Egbert, "I have a plan
that betters that. These bees do sting. What
say you to a fire before that oak door, and
then-" But in an instant the whole of his
men were surrounded by the Hardi-Hoods,
who seemed to have sprung from the ground
beneath the horses' feet.
"At them, ye brave men!" called Egbert,
trying to reach a robber with the point of his
sword, but missing his thrust, for his horse
Then a hand-to-hand fight began. Strokes
and thrusts filled the air, and laid many low
upon the trampled ground, while a shaft from
the well-aimed crossbow of the robber-chief
opened a vein in Egbert's arm.
It was at this point that Ethelred, casting
about him in the tight-shut cave for the cause
of this sudden broil without, as a cry or shout

reached his ears, saw his little sword upon the
wall, and reaching till his fingers clasped upon
it, caught it down. Then pushing with all his
boyish strength against the oak door, he forced
it open, and running out into the midst of clash-
ing steel and clanging halberd, cried:
Hola! 't is Count Egbert, come to rescue
me!" and urging his way to the knight's side,
he used his little sword in sturdy protection
of his friend till Egbert had time to stay his
wounded arm by a quick binding of his hand-
kerchief upon it.
The engagement was not so cruel nor bloody
an affray as many of that day, and ended with
less slain and hurt than might have been ex-
pected. Ethelred's right cheek was pinked,
but what cared he for that?
"Now, your swords, your crossbows, your
halberds!" demanded Egbert, not unkindly, the
moment he had conquered; and after taking
the counselor-in-chief aside for his advice, he
announced the punishment upon the Hardi-
"'T is banishment to the high seas," said he,
"until, perchance, you come upon some new
shore. You are never to return to this, our coast.
Now, away to yonder cove, where. lies a boat
of mine, which, before night, shall sail with you
all aboard."
"'T is generous of you, Count Egbert, and
we go right willingly," responded the chief,
while the rest made ready for the departure.
"What shall we do with this leaking bag of
barley ?" cried one.
"I will take it," said Canute; "I have a
fancy for that which is my own."

They come! they come! in brave array,
And bring a merry Christmas day.
CHRISTMAS DAY of 1492 had dawned crisp
and clear; and though there was no sound of


merriment without or within Charlock castle, in
the kitchen there was a boiling and brewing, a
sputtering and stewing, that betokened hearty
preparation for the great holiday.
"Yea, let the lads and lassies make merry! "
cried Sir Charles to the cook; "and build you

"Yes, my lord," said the cook, meekly; and
courtesying, she hastened to the kitchen, to set
the scullery-boys to stoning raisins and slicing
Bertha, no longer drooping like the lute-
string ribbon on her last year's bonnet, nor


a plum-pudding that shall be no less in girth
than the waist of the largest of the three oaks!"
Prithee," said the cook," 't is seldom.a pud-
ding can be compounded that size, before it
falls asunder."
"Let it fall asunder, then!" thundered Sir
Charles, a gleam of wrath in his eye; "but
make you it as I have ordered it, or-"

sad and woebegone as the cypress-tree, was
spruced most chipperly, a bit of mistletoe in her
red belt, and the train of her long gray gown
pinned high, that she might the more quickly
move from room to room, while she and Holly-
berry busied themselves right gladly in decking
the walls of the great hall with holly-berry and



Soon Bertha reappeared, gowned in a pil
brocade, with still the bit of mistletoe at h
girdle, looking as lovely as a blush-rose, though
she was somewhat anxious, and spoke but liti
for watching of the clock.
Sir Charles was clad with more care than f
a long week past. His hair and beard we
brushed until they
shone, and a
medal hung upon
the breast of the
new slashed doub-
let he wore; while
Holly-berry, in a
holiday suit of
white, bespattered
with bright red
dots, and with
long, pointed cap
to match, belted
his waist with a
spray of the red
and green holly-
berry, and stuck a
bit of it in his cap-
band, till he looked
as festive as the
plum-pudding it-
Only the Lady
Charlock, in a
somber gown of
black, seemed de-
pressed and sad.
"'T is three
times the crows
have called a fu-
neral at us!" ob-
served she, with
a sigh, as crying 'MAKE YOU IT AS
" Caw, caw, caw," the crows flew from east
west across the castle. "I hope your fath
hears them not, for 't is so bad an evil om
-the worst that is!"
Mayhap not always responded Bertha. "
is somewhat fanciful, but it seemeth me th
are only saying, Good Lady Charlock, w]
wear you a mourning-frock ? Is it because ye
wish to look as black as any crow?' Go 1
Mother! Let me fix this holly at your thro;


Now, that is better, and becomes you as well
as the day."
The clock went one, two, three; the boar's
head and the stuffed peacock were upon the
board, flanked right and left by the smoking
plum-pudding and steaming wassail-bowl, when
a bugle-call was heard, thrice blending with the


--- -

trampling of horses, and the Whoa, you there!
Get you up, nag!" and "Have a care!" in
strange voices, just without Sir Charlock's door.
Ere Sir Charles could answer a second wind-
ing of the bugle-horn, the double front door
opened wide, and into Sir Charles's very pres-
ence came Egbert, Ethelred, the counselor-
in-chief, and the entire retinue of returned
By the muscle and brawn of twenty genera-




tions of Charlocks! what do you here, Count
Egbert Traymore of Twin Towers ?" demanded
Sir Charles, feeling for his sword.
I bring your son, Ethelred, as a peace-offer-
ing, well fitting Christmas day. Let bygones
go by, Sir Charlock," replied Egbert.
"And won't you forget the feud, Father?"
cried Bertha, advancing upon her father, with
appealing eyes, as Sir Charles clasped his son
in his arms.
"What feud? I know of no feud. 'T is
already forgotten i" exclaimed Sir Charles, ex-
tending his hand most cordially to Egbert., I
have my son; that is enough. Here is your
Egbert, and welcome. We will to the Christ-
mas-board, and be happy."
Holly-berry, you rogue, you shall sit to my
right, the Jack-sauce for my pudding," said Sir
Charles; "for I believe much of this is your
devising; Egbert shall sit next his Bertha,
neathh that mistle-bough and by my Lady
Charlock's right; while Ethelred, who has the
look of one underfed on black bread, sits by
me, on the left"; and so ranged and seated,
there was not a merrier board for miles round
than that of Sir Charles Charlock.
"How came your cheek so pinked, Ethel-
red, my little man; and Egbert so stiff in the
use of his left arm ?" asked Sir Charles, when
they had reached mid-meal; and all at the table
soon heard the story of Count Egbert's victory.
So," continued Sir Charles, "here is to the
brave Count Egbert!"
The toast was received with cheers.
Now, Holly-the-wise, you shall call the
next. To whom do you cry it?" said Sir
Holly-berry stood upon his seat, and shak-
ing his cap-bells, said:
"Adown the road, far in the wood,
Lives one who 's always kind and good,
Turns hate to love, and wrong to right,

As changes darkness into light;-
You know her name, let us bestow
A ringing cheer on Mistletoe."
"Hear Hear! Hear !" cried Count Egbert.
"Cheer! Cheer! Cheer! cried Sir Charles,


"with another, as merry, to this word-wag,
And Mistletoe, well content that the way
of true love had thus been made smooth by
her, sat in the blaze of her own Yule log, and
knit her thoughts into a new romance.




S \\ \\ \ \ ,
W y do you jump whenever you p
Asked the rabbit in 92;
Because it is leap-year, doncherKnow,:
Said the humorous kangaroo.

"I'd like a berth in the sleeping-coach'
Said anElephant, who was going far;
"The only trouble, though, is my trunk;
That has to ride in the baggabge-car!"

Some bold bad thieves in a cave laughed, out,
As their bats of $old they tossed;
~h not so loud said one of {he crowd;
"For if we are found we're lost .


Five policemen in the night-time trying to find & wicked thief,
All in line, and with derk-lbnterns, each of them shaking like & leaf.
"Sh!"cried the first, and "'sh!" the second, "'sk!" the third, and "'sh!" the fourth.
'Let'sone go east, nd one go west, 4i and one go south, <
and one go north."
"Well," said the fifth, of all most frightened, "that will only take four, you know;
Hadn't I better run back hommetere's no place left for me to go?"

lstric rve heard,
o.1 feathers in this
way referred;
"Tey're very beautiful, I know,
and I suppose the worst of
the lot would be ridiculously
cheap at 54a, but, at the same
time, I'm not here for decorative
-purposes, so
If you want a bonne
With ostrich-plums on i
Please take'em from ? .
some other bird! ---

Were you at Bulls Run? says the lite boy;
And says. he, the old sojer-man,
Why, I grow out of breath when I think of it-
I was one of the ones who ran!



[Begun in the November number.]
THE roar of the surf
on the shore of the
ocean, after the ears of
a listener have become
accustomed to it, does
not seem to interfere
greatly with othersounds
which are different from it. The roar of a
waterfall is much like that of the surf, and Ned
and Hugh had become so accustomed to it
that they could talk and hear almost as well
as if it had not been there. So when they
heard through the darkness of the forest an
altogether distinct sound, it brought them to
their feet, ready for action. It was natural that
their first words should be: "The black can-
nibals! They are here-!"
Hugh had been lulled almost into slumber
by the monotonous song of the waterfall. Ned
had been half dozing at the foot of a tree,
barely awake enough to begin to guess that it
must be almost time to change watches with
His eyes had opened suddenly, and he was
conscious that he was listening to something.
" It sounded like the breaking of a stick! he
said to himself. What is it ? "
From the night shadows two human eyes
were staring at him and Hugh and the fire.
They are two boys! whispered a voice.
"How could they ever have come here ? They
seem to be alone. Well, if those six villains
knew it, they would rob them. This is a
strange piece of business !"
Just before that, he had made a forward
step, and had trodden, full weight, upon a dry,
brittle branch of a tree. It had broken with
a sharp, loud snap, and that was the noise

which had startled the boys. He was now
standing still and stroking his long, bushy, red
I must warn them," he said to himself;
"but it may be the end of me. Perhaps I
can get across the mountains, again, and hide
somewhere else. It is sure death to me, if I
am taken."
He was almost afraid of doing a good action,
for fear it might betray him to his enemies. He
seemed to fear danger from every human being,
good or bad.
He remained perfectly cool and calm about
it, but suddenly he turned his head quickly,
as if he too were listening as intently as was
Ned Wentworth.
"What 's that ? he exclaimed. Can it be
possible? They are coming this way! Now
I 've got to go right in, or be torn to pieces.
This is horrible!"
For just a moment he stood still.
Thud, thud, crash, crash,-a great, rushing
sound, accompanied by loud, fierce cries, came
through the forest. Whatever it might mean,
the boys had their guns leveled, ready to de-
fend themselves. Meanwhile the noise grew
louder and nearer.
"Hugh," said Ned, "they 're coming! "
Stand your ground, Ned! said Hugh.
"Boys," shouted a deep voice out of the
darkness, get close to the fire. That 's your
only chance. I'm coming there, too. The fire!
Ned -" began Hugh, but he was cut short
there, for a great, dim, blurred form bounded
from the shadows and flashed past him with
a long, flying leap that carried it clear over
the fire.
Hugh stood motionless, but Ned was more
wide awake. Still, it was almost by instinct
that his gun came up to his shoulder and was
discharged at that startling phantom. Over and


over the creature rolled upon the ground, while
another and then another followed it.
Don't shoot again, boys! Stand close by
the fire. Those are kangaroos! And now
come the dingoes! Hear that ?"
"Dingoes, Ned! They are wild dogs!"
shouted Hugh, as he obeyed the warning.
"They won't come near a fire. Oh, I 'm glad
it 's a good blaze! "
You may be thankful," said the deep, warn-
ing voice, as its owner came striding in and
stood beside them. "There they come! I 've
lived in these woods a long time, but I never
before knew of dingoes running kangaroos at
"I 've known them to kill hundreds of
sheep at night, upon our place," said Hugh.
"That 's their time. I think they get their
kangaroo mutton whenever they can."
"I should n't wonder if they did, only I
never saw it. What a pack!" exclaimed the
stranger. Then, remembering that he had not
said a word as to who he was, he turned to Ned
and remarked suddenly, "You never saw me
before. My name 's Beard."
Beard ?" said Ned. My name is Went-
worth. And this is Hugh Parry."
I know," said Beard, looking keenly at
Hugh; "son of Sir Frederick Parry, of the
Grampians. Look at those dingoes! There's
enough of them to tear down a dozen men! "
The forest seemed to be full of gleaming
eyes, white teeth, snapping jaws, fierce yells and
snarls, as the dingoes dashed around, hither and
thither, longing to rush in upon the three hu-
man beings and the fallen kangaroo, but in
wild-beast fear of the glowing camp-fire.
"Heap up the fire," said Beard. We must
keep it blazing. They won't stay here. Some
of the pack went right on after the other
kangaroos. Don't waste any ammunition on
dingoes. It 's precious stuff, out here."
The barking wild dogs circled around the
camp again and again, and then, as if with one
accord, they gave it up, and the sound of their
cries died away in the depths of the woods.

As for Ka-kak-kia and his five comrades,
they had not traveled far after finding the trail
which they intended to follow next morning,

and they were now sound asleep among the
The larger band of blackfellows had been
in a different state of mind as to the best way
of spending an evening. It had been a great
thing for them to capture so very large and
fat a kangaroo as the one which was now
cooking in their deep, fire-heaped oven-hole.
As soon as he was done he would make a
splendid barbecue, with which to celebrate
their victory over Ka-kak-kia.
It was not a great while before they began
to rake away the fire and pry out the roast.
They ate it all, taking plenty of time and
dividing fairly. Even the speared warrior ate
well. The darkness came upon them before
their meal was over, but their fire had not been
permitted to bur low. It was heaped and
heaped, for it was to be the central point of
a grand palti," or corroboree dance, to be
performed in the most complete manner, be-
fore taking a war-hunt after Ka-kak-kia and
his followers.
One of them must have had with him a bag
of white ocher, and the kangaroo they had
roasted had supplied grease enough to turn it
into paint. They were all of them corrob-
oree artists, and knew how to smear lines of
white along their ribs and limbs, so that each
black form suggested the outlines of a bleached
skeleton. Time was consumed by the work
of decoration, but at last they were ready for
the dance. With their "wirri" or waddy-clubs
in hand, upon beginning, and afterward with
spears, shields, and other sticks, successively,
around and around the roaring bonfire, which
they had piled up with resinous wood, the hid-
eous figures pranced, and danced, and whirled
to the time of a wild, monotonous chant.
Then the dance changed, and one by one
they bounded, and gesticulated, and boasted,
and whooped, and brandished their weapons,
looking very much like so many skeletons
capering between the firelight and the dark-
ness. The wonder was, how they could caper
so long and yell so loudly, after having eaten
so much kangaroo, of which, indeed, nothing
but the picked bones remained.
It was very late when the corroboree ended,
and at the hour when the black, skeleton-


painted savages gave it up and lay down to
sleep off their fatigue, an absolute contrast to
this barbaric scene was presented by the camp
of Sir Frederick Parry, on the bank of the
swift river.
Two white tents had been pitched-one for
Sir Frederick and Lady Maude, and one for
Helen Gordon. Another tent-cover lay on
the grass; but it had not been set up, for it
belonged to the absent boys and was not now
needed. Marsh, the mule-driver, lay sound
asleep on a blanket near the spot where his
mules were hitched. Bob McCracken also lay

the sentinel, sniffing, whining, yawning, as if he
were still uneasy.

Ned and Hugh did not feel at all like going
to sleep again, after having been stirred up in
such a manner. As soon as the excitement
about the wild dogs subsided a little, they
began to stare hard at the man Beard. He was
far more unexpected out there in the bush than
were wolves or kangaroos. He was as little
expected as the blackfellows.
The boys' presence was as great a surprise to
him, and he said so.


asleep on a blanket, just inside of the line to
which he had carefully fastened the halter of
every horse in the camp. On one side of him
lay a rifle, and on the other a gun, and he
had his boots on. As for Sir Frederick's other
men, Keets must have been asleep in the wagon,
but Brand was awake and on his feet, walking
slowly, steadily all around the camp as a sen-
tinel. He had a gun on his shoulder, a re-
volver in his belt, and his eyes were all the
while busy, as if he expected somebody.
The two hounds lay under the wagon; the
fire burned well; the horses and mules stamped
now and then; while Yip walked around behind

"How on earth did you get away out here ?"
he asked; and they told him, very freely, while
he sat by the fire and cooked for himself slice
after slice of kangaroo meat, like a man who
was very hungry.
He 's a tremendous fellow," whispered
Hugh to Ned. "He must be a bushranger,
and a desperate sort -of chap!"
"He seems good-natured enough," whispered
Ned. "He looks as if he might be as strong
as a horse."
I think he is," said Hugh.
"Who did you say were in Sir Frederick's
party?" Beard asked them. "Tell me again."



He seemed to be talking like a man half
awake, or in a sort of dream; but Hugh
repeated the names, one by one.
Helen Gordon?" said Beard. "Any rela-
tion to the Gordons of Falcon Hall, in York-
shire ?"
"That's where they lived once," said Hugh.
"My grandfather does n't keep up the hall
now. He has leased it. My mother was his
only daughter. Uncle Robert 's in India, in
the army-"
"Your mother was Maude Gordon? Your
cousin Helen is a daughter of Robert Gor-
don?" asked Beard.
"Yes," said Hugh, thinking it odd to be
questioned about his family by a wild, red-
bearded fellow, there in the wilderness.
And they 're lost ? Lost in the bush-and
you are, too ? asked Beard, as if he needed to
say something.
"We 've lost them, anyhow," said Ned, break-
ing in. We don't know which way to turn to
find them."
"Tell me again about the blackfellows," said
Beard, turning his face once more full upon
them. It was strangely flushed, and it looked
very red in the firelight.
Ned Wentworth had hardly had a chance to
talk up to that moment, and it was his turn.
He told all there was to tell up to the beginning
of the skirmish, but there he was interrupted.
"Ka-kak-kia?" exclaimed Beard. "I know
him. He'sa friend of mine. He and his fel-
lows would n't be half so likely to kill me as the
others would. A blackfellow will kill anybody,
though, if he thinks he can gain anything by it.
You can't trust them. Well, what with white
savages and black savages, and dingoes, these
woods are full of wolves! "
The dingoes were killing sheep at the Gram-
pians when we came away," said Hugh; "but
we did n't think of finding any blackfellows or
bushrangers out here. Father said they were
all gone."
"They 're not, then," said Beard, in a hoarse,
rasping voice. "There are six of the worst
white villains camped within three miles of this
very spot! They 'l1 be here after us in the morn-
ing. If they found your father's camp, they 'd
be more dangerous than blackfellows."

"They would n't attack it, would they ?" ex-
claimed Hugh, springing up in sudden dismay.
"What? Attack my father, and mother, and
Helen ?"
"I 'm afraid so; and lay it to the blackfel-
lows, or to me, if it should ever be discovered.
But they would n't leave a trace of it, with the
river close by to hide everything in. I know
them. They 'd assert that I did it. They 've
done that sort of thing before."
All that Hugh and Ned could do was to look
at each other and draw long breaths of fear and
grief. It was a dreadful state of affairs, and the
man Beard put his head down on his folded
arms and sat still for fully a minute.
"Boys," said he at last, looking up, "we
must n't be near this fire after daylight; but we
can lie down for a while now. You '11 all get
safely out. Promise me one thing, on your word
of honor."
"We '11 promise," said Hugh.
"I '11 promise anything that I ought," said
Ned. "What is it?"
"If I get you safe back to your own camp,
promise not to tell how you got there. Promise
not to say that you met me. You may tell
your father and your mother, in confidence,
but you are not to tell anybody else."
They promised solemnly.
I have got to get out of this region, any-
how," said Beard; but I don't want anybody
to know even that I 've been here."
He was evidently a very queer fellow. He
was roughly clad, wild, savage, desperate-look-
ing, but there was something gentle and kindly
in the way he spoke. His eyes were bloodshot,
and his voice was hoarse, and now and then he
showed his strong, white teeth. He said very
little more, but he made the boys lie down,
telling them to go to sleep, if they could, and
there he sat and looked at the fire, with his
repeating-rifle in his lap.
Ned," said Hugh, as they stretched out on
their blankets under a tree, do you believe
you can sleep?"
"It seems as if I could n't do anything else,"
said Ned. "If I don't, I won't be worth a
cent to-morrow."
Sleep will come to over-tired boys, even if
they try to keep their eyes open. So it was


that neither of them heard the man Beard
muttering, after a while, there by the fire:
So it is Hugh Gordon Parry !-and Maude,
and Helen Gordon! Well, my time has come.
What on earth made them all come out here to
be speared or clubbed in the bush No, I can
save them! I will save them, no matter what
becomes of me! "
SIR FREDERICK PARRY'S camp was astir at
daylight the next morning. As soon as there
was light enough to cast a line, the baronet him-
self was fishing from the rock by the water's
edge, and was having fair success, although
none of the fish were large. He was evidently
depressed, and he paid no attention to the prep-
arations for breakfast going on at a little dis-
tance behind him. The fire was blazing vigor-
ously; the camp table was already spread with
its white cloth, its bright cutlery, its silver, and
its china. There was also a stir in the tents,
and before long Lady Parry came out of one
of them, and Helen Gordon out of the other.
Both were looking pale, and as if they had not
rested well.
Oh, Aunt Maude," said Helen, "I had such
awful dreams about Hugh and Ned! I feel
as if I could find them myself."
Poor child!" exclaimed Lady Parry. "You
look pale and ill. Yes, we must find them, and
I hope we shall find them to-day."
Helen tried to speak again, but her voice
seemed to fail her, and she turned away. In
another moment her aunt was at the water-side,
exclaiming: "Fred, where do you think the
boys are? We must find them !"
My dear," he replied consolingly, "no
doubt we shall find them. As to getting home,
all we have to do is to follow this river down.
We will start as soon as we find the boys."
Frederick," she said, "if anything has hap-
pened to them, I-"
Her voice thrilled and trembled with suffer-
ing, and there was so much anguish in her
face that Sir Frederick turned away his gaze
and replied:
Immediately after breakfast we will all
search for them and just there he hooked

a fish, and had an excuse for not saying any-
thing more.
Nevertheless, the day's work of the people in
that camp was already cut out for them; and so
too for the other parties wandering in that

The black boy, in the shelter of a tuft of
weeds, awoke as early as Bob McCracken
among his horses. The boy had no breakfast
to get, nor had he anything to get one with,
for the wicked white men had robbed him of all
his hunting-sticks. He was not discouraged,
however, for he seemed to have a definite idea
of the direction he should take to find his people.
The camp of blackfellows that he set out to
find with such a remarkable degree of energy,
did not contain his mother or aunts or sisters,
for it was a camp of warriors and hunters, and
it had left all womankind in a place so far
away that sheep-farmers, like the owner of the
Grampians, naturally supposed that no savages
were likely to trouble them.
The corroboree dancers must have been fa-
tigued, for they had danced long and late; but
for all that they were stirring at the first dawn
of light. They built up their fire, although
there was not a mouthful of anything left for
them to cook for breakfast, and neither was
there any water for them to drink; but they
did not seem at all disturbed by that. Soon
after waking, they were searching among the
trees for a grass or blackboy" tree,-what
white men would have called a "blue-gum"
tree, or eucalyptus."
They found several, some old and some
young; but they chose the latter. Each man
began to dig with one of his sticks at about
four or five feet from the foot of one of those
trees. He dug down until he came to a main
root, with fresh, succulent branches shooting
from it. He cut off a shoot, split it, and began
to chew it, getting water from it as if it had
been a slice of watermelon, and soon there
were no thirsty blackfellows in that party.
As for eating, they had done well enough the
day before. Their next movement was to sit
down in a circle and hold a kind of jabber-talk
that did not last long. They pointed at the
cabbage-palm and across the prairie, and shook



their heads. Ka-kak-kia and his friends would
not be so unwise as to stay there and be
speared. They had gone surely, and the cor-
roboree dancers all said so; and they were
entirely correct. The chief and his five follow-
ers knew that they would be hunted after, and
they also intended to hunt for other people,
and so all their sticks were picked up about as
early as they could be seen, and their owners
were already pushing on cautiously through the
forest, in a line that indicated they intended to
visit the white boys' camp at the waterfall.
If that were so, however, they were likely to
find there a deserted camp, for not a man in
all that bush was on his feet earlier than was
Beard, the cave-man, and he at once awoke
his young companions.
Ned and Hugh had slept well, with an idea
that they were under a sort of protection; but
they sprang to their feet promptly when they
were stirred up. Then they each looked very
hard at Beard, as if they were anxious to see
what sort of man he might be by daylight.
It was not quite daylight yet, but they got
an idea of a very powerful, very rugged, wild-
looking man, with as gloomy a face as they
had ever seen. His voice, when he spoke to
them, was very deep, but it was kindly enough.
"We must have breakfast directly," he said.
"There is no time to spare."
Do you think the blackfellows will follow
us?" asked Ned.
"There is no doubt of it," said Beard.
"They 're too stupid and obstinate to give up
anything. They '11 follow a party for weeks,
when they 've once begun the pursuit."
Mr. Beard," said Hugh, how many kan-
garoos there are in this forest!"
Yes," said Beard. As soon as the blacks
were driven off, there was nobody to hunt 'em,
and so their number increased. That 's what
brings the blackfellows back again, and it brings
the dingoes too."
"I wonder if the big flocks of sheep don't
partly account for there being more dingoes,"
said Hugh, soberly. I never thought of
Other men have," said Beard. Wild ani-
mals have to .eat something. The dingoes
would disappear if they could not find food.

He talked freely about anything and every-
thing that lived in the woods; but every time
either of them said or asked anything about
himself, he evaded the question completely, and
they could learn nothing concerning him.
"The blackfellows may be after us," re-
marked Ned, "but they will have some dis-
tance to travel."
"The white savages have n't far to go," re-
plied Beard. I 'm more afraid of them. I 'm
going to put you into a safe hiding-place for a
while, and then I 'm going to scout and see
what they 're about. I don't want you to be
speared or shot while I 'm away."
I quite agree with you," said Hugh; "but
we must find our camp."
Don't worry," replied Beard. Let us get
away from here first."
The horses being quickly saddled, the boys
mounted and set out. They took all their game
with them, as they might need it for food.

The six white rascals who had camped at the
foot of the great stump were also astir early.
While they were eating breakfast, however,
they watched carefully the woods around them,
and talked about blackfellows and coffee-pots.
Not one of them had the least idea that the
lost coffee-pot was at that moment resting
quietly within the hollow of the enormous
trunk beside them.
"Tell ye what, boys," said Bill, at the end
of a long discussion, "we have n't come away
out here for nothing, this time. We sha'n't
really run against any blackfellows. They 're
shy of such a party as this is. They 've cleared
out. We 've got to git that fellow's nuggets,
though,--cost what it may "
They decided to hunt on foot, in couples,
and not to get so far apart from one another
that one couple could not hear a signal-call
from the next.
We '11 find him, sure," said Jim. He 's
built himself a cabin of some sort to live in,
somewhere round here. I reckon it was a
pretty safe place, too, till we tracked him."
They set out upon their thieving scout at just
about the time when Beard halted and said to
Ned and Hugh:
"Here we are, boys!"




They had traveled several miles, and the
morning was well advanced.
Now we will hide the saddles and bridles,"
he added; and we can put the horses where
we can find them again. I '11 show you how
to do that."
Ned and Hugh hated the thought of giving
up their horses, but their estimate of the dan-
ger they were in had been growing all the
way, and they dismounted. The saddles and
bridles were easily disposed of by hanging them
upon a scrubby sapling among some rocks
tangled over with vines and bushes. The
horses were led across a flat, bare ledge, on
which their hoofs made no mark, to a wide,
grassy open, where they were picketed by
Beard, to feed until they should be wanted.
Now, my friends," said he, "come right
along. I am going to show you a secret that
you must keep."
"I wish somebody would show us our
camp. Oh, for a sight of father and mother
and Helen !" said Hugh.
"I think I can find that easily," said Beard,
" as soon as the woods are clear. Your mother
would wish you to come in alive, though. I can
tell you that."
It was a serious warning, and yet the great
shadowy forest around them looked peaceful
enough, in spite of all its wolves, four-footed or
two-footed, white or black.
There was one part of that forest where,
at this time, a great deal was occurring within
a small space. The great towering trees-
palms, and gum-trees, and other kinds--were
so scattered as to make it appear almost open
and sunny. It was very beautiful, but it was
a deceitful beauty that concealed many dan-
gers. Here and there were lines and clumps
of bushes and undergrowth, that divided the
open forest spaces into glades and lanes and
green vistas which branched into and away from
one another.
Along one of these green vistas rode a man
with head bent forward, as if he were absorbed
in deep thought. It was Sir Frederick.
Lost!" he exclaimed at last. "To think
of Ned and Hugh lost in the bush!-to die
there of hunger and thirst, or to be killed by
black cannibals! It is horrible! "

Then he raised his head and looked around
him for a moment.
"Maude!" he called. "Come this way! You
should not wander so far, my dear. Helen!"
No answer came, and again he called; and
then his face grew suddenly pale.
"Where are they?" he exclaimed. "In which
direction have I been riding ? Where is my
wife! Helen! Are they lost? Am I lost?"
and putting his hand to his mouth, he gave
a long, half-tremulous, and alarmed "Coo-ee-e!
Coo-ee-e! Coo-ee-e!" He ceased, and once
more his head bent forward, almost down to
his horse's mane.
Sounds do not travel far among tree-trunks,
bushes, undergrowth, and broken ridges of
rough ground. It was not far to where a lady
on a bay horse was leaning over, at that very
moment, to free the skirt of her flowing riding-
habit from a branch of thorn.
As she once more sat erect, she glanced around
"Frederick! she exclaimed; and after an-
other moment of silence she added, in tones
of increasing excitement, "Where is he ? He
was in sight only a minute or so ago. Fred!
Am I lost-lost in the bush? Frederick! "
Full, loud, frantically clear was that last
cry for help; but Lady Maude Parry was mis-
taken. It had been fully five minutes since
she had seen her husband or niece, and they
had been galloping in different directions among
those deceptive forest avenues.
At the end of one of these, at the base of
a rugged ledge of rocks, a fair-haired girl
reined in a graceful, spirited white pony.
"Uncle Fred and Aunt Maude will catch
up with me in a moment," she said. "We
can't hunt for Ned and Hugh any farther in
this direction. And yet it would be terrible to
go back to camp without them."
She wheeled her pony as she spoke, and he
made only a few bounds forward before he was
again reined in, and Helen looked rapidly
around her.
"They're all the same," she said uneasily.
"One glade is just like another. Which of
them did I come by ? I '11 wait for the others
here a minute or so. If I should ride around
I might lose myself. They '11 come."





She waited, while her pretty face put on an shouting to each other and to the dogs; and in
anxious expression, a moment more the camp was left in charge
"Aunt Maude! Uncle Fred!" she shouted, of some spare horses and six mules, while its
half weeping.
"Why don't
you come ?
It all looks
alike. I don't
know which
way to turn !"
She did not
dream that al-
most at that
same moment
her uncle was
leaning very
over his horse,
nor that her
aunt had lost
her way in the
maze of trees;
but Helen's
face put on
an ashy pale-
ness as she
turned it up-
ward. Her L. .
lips were mov-
ing, too, but A M,-,- S U.-
there was no rmn Y. N o
sound to be n f "
heard, and all 1 g-.
around her q .
was the awful -' .a.
silence of the tn
tralian forest.
Thus they remained for a while, so very near keepers dashed away into the woods. Not one
to each other and yet so separated, each afraid of them, however, went in the right direction
to move for fear of going farther away, and to find any of the missing persons.
each growing sick at heart as the sense of help- Sir Frederick Parry was a man of firm nerves.
less loneliness crept over them. He was a cool man and brave, and now he
In another direction, less than two miles dis- reined in his horse, and reasoned calmly:
tant, a man rode excitedly into an open place, I can't sit still here," he said. "I will try
a camp by a little river, shouting: to go back along my own tracks. There, I
"Boys, mount again! I've lost track of can see the hoof-marks, if I ride slowly. The
them Sir Frederick and Lady Parry and Miss worst of it is that a blackfellow may see them
Helen! They're out in the bush!" better than I can! I must find them! "
Three other men sprang into their saddles, His wife also was riding onward, but she was
VOL. XX.-a4.

not looking for any trail. --She was trying to
guess her way, and every now and then she
sent out a plaintive "Coo-ee-e!"
Again,- again,-again,- and each time she
paused and listened, painfully; but no answer
came back to her from the leafy silence. Lady
Maude burst into a fit of weeping that made
her tremble from head to foot.
Helen was only so far away that she could
not hear, and she, too, attempted, time after
time, to shout "Coo-ee-e"; but it seemed to. her
as if her husky, frightened voice could hardly

have startled a bird that she saw rise from a
wide-branching tree beyond her.
"No one could hear it," she said to herself.
"Even if there were blackfellows in the woods,
they could not hear such a weak little call.
They would not know I am here. How hor-
rible it would be to see one of them!"
She seemed to find relief also in urging her
pretty pony to a brisk gallop that carried her
farther yet from the friends who were looking
for her, and for whom she was so earnestly

(To be continued.)

So you 're the latest victim-no,
I beg to make polite correction-
You 're Dot's new doll, of course, and so
You have a beautiful complexion.

It 's very easy, Miss, to praise
Those blushing cheeks, for one supposes
You 've not been placed before a blaze
That mixed your lilies with your roses.

You 've not been toasted for an hour,
To teach you beauty's a delusion;


You 've yet to learn that fire has power
To leave one's features in confusion.

Your form 's as trim as trim can be;
Your share of sawdust 's not denied you;
No one's unpicked your seams to see
Just what it was you had inside you.
You 've all your hair on, light as tow;
You've both your eyes, of blue most tender;
You 've not been scalped, and well I know
You've not been dropped upon the fender.

Your squeak's not broken, I '11 be bound;
You're not condemned your woes to mutter.
When you are banged about, a sound
Of protest you can shrilly utter.

But wait a little while, my dear;
You '11 not escape the fate of others.
Stoop! let me whisper in your ear-
Dot, you must know, has two small brothers

(e Old Doll to the e One.



My Aunt Auror's



"THEE 'S traveling. Then she wore it, and bonny she
laughing at looked in it.
Smy reticule, 'T was on their journey homeward that they
Child Alice," turned in their nags at our cedars, one night at
said Grandma, twilight, while I stood in my garden watching
spreading it out my primroses open.
on her lap as she "Thee 's welcome, Aunt Aurora," I cried,
lifted the wide bag from the cedar chest and well pleased to catch sight of her sweet, rosy
tenderly stroked its faded green satin. "Dear, face and sparkling brown eyes. Father hastened
dear! how well I remember putting in that out to lift her from her saddle, and then he and
bead-work! 'T was for my aunt Aurora that I Uncle Jacob exchanged soberest greetings.
made it. 'T was only as a task that I did stitch- I hastened to draw my aunt into the house,
ing; for, being a Friend, I held not to gewgaws. and take off her cloak and bonnet. "'T is a
Nay, old bag, thee was bonny when thee was twelvemonth since I have seen thee !" I cried.
new! See, it is an ample bag. We held to "Thee 's good to look at, Aunt Aurora; and
plenty of space in those days. And never, while yea, what does thee think! I have finished the
memory serves, shall I forget the reticule's first reticule! "
journey. 'T was not to a Philadelphia assembly, "Has thee finished it?" laughed my aunt.
with my aunt Aurora's purple square-toed slip- "Indeed! Why, thee 's a marvelous industrious
pers and gorgeous dancing-fan stowed away in child! Thee's been at this only two years."
it,- though I dare say it traveled that way "Yea," I answered shamefacedly; "but thee
often enough,-but 't was a gruesome journey, knows beads are troublous things to chain. I
thelike to make thine ears to tingle. Come, I got them into a sore pucker, often and often."
must tell thee of it." "'T is a bit of folly," quoth my father, eying
it humorously.
My uncle Jacob was of the world's people, "'T is a beauty," said Aunt Aurora. Marry,
but my aunt Hannah -that was my father's but I think 't will e'en carry my best new bon-
sister-was a strict Friend. My uncle Jacob was net."
an iron-master, and 't was a grievous wrong to "Of course thee will stay the night at our
our people, and especially to my aunt Hannah, house, Jacob ?" said my father.
that he had made gun-castings for a man-o'- Nay," replied Uncle Jacob, "I have a sum
war lying in Delaware Bay, and had taken of money to place in a man's hands at ten o' the
moneys for them. So he carried his young sis- morning to-morrow. The business is urgent,-
ter Aurora with him when he journeyed to Red 't is a crisis of the man's affairs,-and I must not
Bank to receive-the moneys of certain merchants lag. We but stopped to try your tea-cakes and
there. 'T was a chance for her to get at Red beg that you lend us Hannah. She can safely
Bank some bonnets and fripperies in the New ride behind me, and Aurora wants her."
York modes, she not being content with the The thought of a visit to my uncle's great
Friends' garb save when she was on horseback house set my heart a-dancing.


"Indeed I must have my promised fortnight's
visit from Hannah," urged my aunt, "now that
she can travel secure in our company."
"Nay," said my father, "not so secure.
Jacob, thee knows the risk thee runs traveling
the pine-woods at night. Stay till morning."
As safe by night as day in those long, lonely
stretches," returned my uncle. And my busi-
ness must be carried."
"My! thee 's a rash man," cried my father;
"for not only does thee cast the implements of
war instead of the pruning-hooks of peace, but
thee ventures into the pine-woods thickly bestead
with highway robbers, when thee has moneys
of great value upon thee."
"Tush, Brother! I can shoot and ride; and
Aurora's shot is as true as mine."
But the highwayman shoots from covert.
Leave the women, and I will lead them over
to-morrow myself."
"Nay," said my aunt Aurora, firmly, to this.
"Brother rides not alone to-night. But say,
Hannah, is thee frightened to go ?"
Does thee want to go ?" asked my father.
Oh, I do most truly! I said, a great long-
ing seizing me.
"See," said my uncle. He showed us the
broad seam in the lining of his loose great-
coat. Inside it lay a deep silk pouch, and flat
within that a chamois pouch containing the
money. If we are waylaid, there 's a bag o'
silver bits in the saddle-bags which I will fling
them, and then whip and spur will carry us be-
yond their reach."
So thee says," said my father. Hannah,
thee must decide. Will thee go ?"
I glanced from Aunt Aurora to the moon
turning from silver to gold in the pale evening
sky and sheening the pine-woods. Then I
looked at our cozy supper-table, where I was
mistress, and thought on the home safety.
Gyp has seven young puppies," said my
aunt Aurora, alluringly.
Oh, if thee pleases, Father, I would e'en
like to go!" I decided, forgetting highwaymen
as I thought of the kennels.
After supper I ran about, getting ready.
" If thee takes me, Aunt Aurora, thee must take
Boskie," I cried, stooping to lift him from his
basket and smoothing his silky locks. Boskie

was my little Skye terrier, my only playmate
and friend. I cannot leave Boskie," I said.
"And what with saddle-bag and bandbox,
pray, where shall Boskie be stowed ? laughed
my aunt. I think he must e'en ride in the
bottom of my new silk reticule. There he
can cuddle as snug as a bee in thistledown.
What ?-has thee a blanket for Boskie ? And
a pocket in it for his collar? Thee 's a little
old maid! But come, my girlie; we must
hurry to saddles, while the moon is high. We
shall need its light in the pine-woods."
'T was a calm night of midsummer. The
moonlight silvered everything. Far to east-
ward through the silence came the sound of
the sea. My father most reluctantly bade fare-
well to his little housekeeper, and we rode se-
dately away. The night air in the village was
sweet with dewy odors of rose, and honey-
suckle, and faint musk, which gave place to
heavy warm pine scents as we entered the sil-
ver dusk of the woods. I leaned against my
uncle's broad back, and occasionally chirruped
to Boskie, who lay snuggled in the bottom of
my aunt Aurora's reticule, which had one
string unloosed and dangling down, so that he
might get the air. And so we rode for hours.
Then my aunt's horse lagged behind a little.
"Brother," she said, with an odd little trem-
ble in her voice. "Shall we return to An-
thony's? 'Star' has a stone in one hoof. She
limps now."
"Aurora! he exclaimed in dismay. Then:
"Ah, well, perhaps we shall ride through scot-
free, in spite of all our terrors. Nay, we must
ride on. There be strange doings in these
woods," he continued musingly. I am little
minded to lose treasure to these Jersey high-
waymen; but duty is duty, and risk is risk.
At most they will only rob us."
"And then what will your creditor do? "
"I will sell mine own land to make restitu-
tion," he answered.
Boskie whined softly in his bag. He was
lying against the pommel of my aunt's saddle
for a rest.
Give him to me," I cried, reaching my
hands over for him; but even my fingers strok-
ing his head would not soothe him. He is
too warm in his blanket," I said. Nay, Bos-




kie, what ails thee? What does thee hear?"
I questioned, as he continued his whining.
At this my uncle sprang down and halted
both horses. The silence was oppressive; not
a sound broke across the night song of insects.
He left us, with his pistols in his hands, to rec-
onnoiter a few
yards ahead.
I was unbuck-
ling Boskie's
blanket. My
aunt Aurora
leaned over to
me and said,
Do not take
it off, dear.
Thee 's deft-
handed, Han-
nah. See,bro-
ther has left
his coat lying
on the horse.
Slip the money
into the pocket
of the blanket,
and strap it
close. Haste,
my sweeting!
They will not
seek for mo-
neys in such
a place. For
we shall surely
be searched,"
she added with
a sigh. My
hand shook,
but I did her
bidding swift-
ly; and while
I did so big "'LET ME PASS!'
hot tears fell
upon Boskie's coat, and I yearned unspeak-
ably for my little white bed at home.
My uncle examined Star's foot, and re-
mounted. "Ride most cautiously," he said.
His tone seemed to seal our doom, so sad was
it. My frightened heart went pit-a-pat, and
every tree-trunk loomed ghostly and grim.
But truly they were upon us before we

thought. My uncle's horse whinnied and
shied, and I, clinging to him in sheer terror,
saw standing about us the threatening figures
of the highwaymen.
Sooth, they were a bold, perilous gang to
meet with in such a place.


Let me pass! This is the king's highway,"
cried my uncle, stoutly braving them, and point-
ing his pistols.
"What's your business?" asked the chief
robber, who stood coolly facing them.
"That 's as little to you as I would yours
were to me," answered my uncle. "You see
me here protecting my two women. And I



will even do just that," he added. "Stand off
and let us go."
Can this be Jacob Foulke ? was asked.
"Jacob Foulke was to ride alone," said a
voice. "We '11 lose him a-loitering here."
A low sob broke from me as I shrank be-
hind my uncle. I thought of a surety my hour
was come, and the idea was sore and new to
me, being so softly bred. There was a burring
sound of private talk about us.
"We must have your pelf and your ladies'
jewels," said the robbers; "and then ride as
you will. Will ye give up, or be searched ?"
You 're a rascally scoundrel," cried my .un-
cle, angrily. He clicked his pistol, and moved
his spurred boot restlessly across the horse's
ribs. "Alas, Star hath no gait!" he mut-
tered, looking to where my aunt sat motionless.
She saw that we were surrounded by gleaming
Let them search us," she decided, laying a
calming hand on my angry uncle.
Stout hands and a many of them led us hel-
ter-skelter through brake and bramble to an
open place where gleamed a great fire of
pitchy logs burning in the soft darkness; for
the moon was setting. We were fain to dis-
mount, and 't was with great disgust and disap-
pointment that one robber called out, "These
women be Quakers! "
But what hath the little maid hugged tight
there in the silk bag ? cried another.
"So please you, sir, it is only my little dog,
my little pet dog! I pleaded, holding to him,
and forgetting in the danger which threatened
him the greater danger to my uncle's money.
The man grasped him roughly by the skin, but
Boskie did not bark, only cried most piteously.
Then they flung him aside and turned the reti-
cule inside out. They slit the fine stitched lin-
ing. See, here be the mended places. And
then they fell to, on saddle-bags and band-
boxes. There was a reckless turning out o'
gear such as made my aunt Aurora wince, es-
pecially as she had with her the new bonnets,
in the latest New York mode of fashion, fresh
brought over by ship from London.
My uncle blanched and struggled when they
pulled off his coat to search it. I can e'en see
his white face yet, and the look in his eyes,

when Aunt Aurora called to him in a ringing
tone, Brother, you must throw your coat into
the fire!" And seeing him unwilling, what did
my intrepid aunt, but dart under the ruffians'
arms,- they grasping the coat loosely, for their
great surety of it,-and seizing the garment she
flung it into the very heart of the blazing fire,
where no one durst touch it. It burned
In the hubbub of rage which followed, she
stood silent and unwavering, while my uncle
said sadly, "Aurora, that was rash. I might
have compromised." They took the new sil-
ver tea-pot bought for Aunt Hannah, and the
bag o' silver bits.
Mayhap th' maids ha' siller in their shoon,"
bawled a thick voice.
My aunt Aurora dropped instantly to the
turf, and pulling off her shoes flung them at
him. They tore off the good silver buckles.
Mine, too, they demanded; and I yielded them
up reluctantly, being fond of what small tog-
gery I possessed. But I managed to catch up
Boskie, and smuggle him into the reticule again.
At last one of the robbers called out: Lads,
let be! We ha' what plunder these Quaker
folk ha' not burned up for us; they be a queer
kind o' Quakers, too, that spend their fairin' in
bonnet gear! But clear the way o' them. We
ha' other work to-night."
Then they let us go, and scarcely could I
breathe for the anxious throbbing of my heart
as I felt my uncle's strong arm lift me to the
saddle-seat, with Boskie in the reticule, and the
money safe!
My uncle spake not a word, but with a
birchen withe (for the robbers had filched his
riding-whip) he urged the horses forward as well
as he could, considering Star's lame foot. He
glanced ever behind him, knowing too well
that he was Jacob Foulke, and fearing pursuit,
while my aunt Aurora's gaze strained to east-
ward, praying for the dawn.
Never was its rosy flush sweeter than when
it crept at last over the eastern sea. 'T was
only then that we felt safe, and turning aside
into the hamlet of Squan we sought its tavern.
The inn was closely shuttered, and the inmates
were wrapped in sleep. Stiff and aching, my
aunt Aurora and I were lifted down to the


square red bricks of the porch, while a sleepy
hostler came blinking to take the horses.
I was faint and giddy as I leaned against
a pillar, while my uncle began bitterly to be-
moan his short-sightedness in taking the jour-
ney. I have even lost all my moneys, and
brought thee through a dreadful night!" he
A smile broke over my aunt Aurora's face.
She had taken a seat on a settle near the fire,
where she sat thrusting her tumbled curls under
her bonnet.
"Truly, thee might have fared sorely had
thee left us behind, brother; for then surely
they had known thee to be the Jacob Foulke
whom they expected. And thee has naught
to be angry for that I flung that coat on the
fire. 'T was but the price of a coat. Thee
looks surprised. And did thee truly think the
money was burned ? Nay, nay! Hannah, give
me Boskie. See, brother, how useful a little

dog may be A little dog in a reticule! and,
laughing, she handed" him the money.
The landlord, with candle and night-cap,
came stumbling out to see who claimed his
hospitality thus early.
"What! thou?" he cried, recognizing my
uncle with astonishment. "So thou and thy
women ha' rid safe through the robbers' wood,
and at night! What mercy saved ye ?"
"Partly," said my uncle gravely, "this lit-
tle dog, that traveled in a green silk reticule;
and by your leave he '11 take a sup o' milk and
the best pickings of a bone."
And so the debt-money was saved and paid,
and later on I was more than happy with Gyp's
seven puppies cuddled in my lap. Boskie had
the bonniest collar that could be found in all
the city of New York.-But oh, he died long,
long years since, my dear little Boskie; and
this is all I have left of that gone time,-this
queer, faded old silk reticule.







WHY, it is raining roses! "
So exclaimed a little girl from the East, who
stood lost in amazement on one of the em-
bowered avenues of the town of Pasadena, in
Southern California.
A few days before she had been blockaded
in a snow-storm in New Mexico, and now, with
many more children, she looked up and down
the avenue that was white with roses, callas,
and other flowers. The air itself was filled with
roses and rose-buds, thrown aloft by little
hands, and falling to strew the pathway of the
President. The sides of the street were lined
with children, each child bearing baskets or
bouquets of flowers from their gardens, or from
the flowery fields which stretch away from the
crown of the San Gabriel Valley.

Such a scene was hardly suggestive of war,
yet part of this floral exhibition was called a
"Battle of Roses." The first gun was fired
when up the avenue came a huge old-fash-
ioned coach -the kind used in California in the
days of real stage-coaching, and a giant among
From top to bottom the entire coach was
bedecked with flowers, and filled the air with
fragrance that vied with the odor of the orange-
blossoms from the groves on every side.* The
spokes of the wheels were covered with calla-
lilies. One little boy gave twelve hundred of
these beautiful lilies to be used in various deco-
rations. The interior of the coach was lined
with the broad leaves of the fan-palm, the back
was a solid mass of daisies, and the chains sup-

* The first three illustrations for this article are drawn from photographs by C. J. Crandall and L. E. Jarvis,
Pasadena, Cal.


porting the platform for baggage were wound
about with cypress and pinks. The railing on
top was almost hidden by choice roses of every
hue, while the "boot" and other portions of
the old coach were also lavishly decorated.
From the windows peeped young and happy
faces, the soldiers of this chariot of war, while
on the top sat several young ladies and gentle-
men. The driver held the reins of four spirited
horses, all wearing belts of jingling sleigh-bells,
and beautifully caparisoned with garlands and
At the word the horses sprang forward, and

set -all these varieties were there, and a host
of other choice roses.
As the four-in-hand dashed up the avenue, it
drew the fire of the hundreds of children stand-
ing in line, and volleys were given and returned
until the air was filled with roses.
The first obstruction was a gate built across
the street. It was some twelve feet high, a solid
mass of calla-lilies, and opened by two little
maidens only upon the payment of a floral toll.
No sooner was the toll settled than away sprang
the horses, to be again pelted with blossoms.
And so the old coach went on its way until


the new War of the Roses began. The bugler
on the coach sounded the alarm, and the
soldiers within and on top of the coach made
ready their weapons great baskets of roses.
What a wealth of shot and shell! Mar6chal
Niel, Gold of Ophir, Jacqueminot, Black Prince,
La France, Duchesse de Brabant, Bride, Sun-

it joined the procession of the President,- de-
lighting the children, big and little, and con-
tinuing the floral campaign.
After such an exhibition Southern California
might well claim to be the Land of Flowers,
as during all the months that are winter months
in the East, nearly as brilliant a display can be


made. The "Tournament of Roses" is given
every year; it might be called a floral thanks-
giving, as the idea which suggested the festival
was the coming of the winter flowers and the
ripening of the oranges. It is essentially a chil-
dren's day; and the young folks are encouraged
to take part in it. For weeks beforehand the
tournament is talked of, and the fortunate

of Ceremonies. The band plays gaily, and
they wend their way to the park, where the
tournament is to be held. The grand stand is
already packed with men, women, and children,
and in front is a heaping pile of oranges and
flowers, free to all. Finally the Master of
Ceremonies rings a bell, the young folks stand
back, and the track is cleared. The first event



owners of pony-carriages and carts are vying
with one another in the elaboration of designs
to compete for the prizes offered to the vehicles
showing the most beautiful and artistic floral
decoration. Prizes are given also for the various
races of ponies, horses, and burros,- one prize
being for the last burro to arrive in a slow race.
Finally the day- the first of the new year -
arrives. Early in the morning the procession
forms. The boys and girls on horseback, their
steeds garlanded with flowers, join the Master

is a revival of an old Italian and Spanish sport,
played in the fifteenth century, and known as
"tilting at the rings." Rings a little larger than
a napkin-ring are suspended at intervals over
the course, and the "knights" charge upon them
at full speed, endeavoring to carry off as many
rings on their long lances as they can. The
one taking the greatest number is declared the
victor. Shouts and cheers greet the knights,
some of whom often are descendants of the
oldest Spanish families in the State.



Next comes the hurdle-race, or fence-jump-
ing, by fine California thoroughbreds. Can it
be, as I have heard, that a calla-lily hurdle is
used?" we have heard asked. Quite possi-
ble, for the men now drag across the track a
veritable hedge of the white flowers--to East-
ern eyes the most remarkable hurdle a horse
ever jumped. The bell rings, and away go the
racers. They clear the hurdle in graceful leaps,
and sweep past the grand stand with a clatter
of hoofs and a jangle of silver trappings from
the old Mexican saddles, spurs, and bits.
The third event is a race in which the young
folks are particularly interested. Two fine
greyhounds-" Mouse," whose picture has been
shown you in ST.
NICHOLAS,* and her
grandson, "Junior"
-have challenged
the fastest race-
horse in Pasadena.
Mouse is bedecked -; ..
with a huge collar of i.
red geraniums (the -'
"colors" of the club I
to which she be-
longs), and looks up,"
blinking and winking
very hard, as much
as to say, "I have .
run away from this
horse on many a "
hunt, and I don't
propose to be de- -
feated before all
these people."
All is ready. The track on both sides is
crowded with eager faces. Go !" shouts the
starter. Around comes the race-horse, Daisy,"
and as she crosses the line with hardly a
glance at her old companions, Mouse and
Junior are slipped, and they dash away amid a
chorus of cheers and shouts. The horse skims
along like a bird, but close beside her are the
two dogs, moving like machines. Around the
course they go, Junior ahead, barking and
thinking it great sport, while old Mouse hangs
at the quarter, looking up every few moments
to see why Daisy does not go faster. Louder
grow the shouts as the competitors pass around

the great circle. Boys and girls crowd upon
the track, and the cry goes up that the dogs are
ahead. A moment later, horse and dogs come
rushing across the line, the latter well in ad-
vance. As every one knows that the fastest
horse cannot run away from a greyhound, the
defeat of Daisy is considered no disgrace.
Whether Mouse will take part in another
tournament is a question, since she now has
" a family of young Mice," as a little neighbor
calls the tan-and-mouse-colored puppies, which
promise to run in some of the tournaments of
the future, no doubt greatly to the credit of
their mother.
While the dogs are being congratulated and


the kennel of fox-hounds beneath the grand
stand is howling and baying a welcome, the
open space within the track is cleared for the
polo-teams, and for an hour they give an ex-
citing exhibition of their manly sport.
Then comes the "slow race between a score
or more burros, all of pensive mien, all mounted
by their young owners. Each little rider is de-
termined to be the last in, and so win the prize.
Go! shouts the starter. Clang! rings the
bell, up rise many pairs of long ears, and the
cavalcade is off amid loud shouts of laughter.
One shaggy old burro develops remarkable
slowness from the very start. His little hoofs

* See ST. NICHOLAS for November, 1889.




are lifted deliberately, and placed upon the
ground with a leisure that marks the little fel-
low as the winner of the prize; and so it proves,
for not until all the others are in does this very
sedate racer reach the winning-post.


While the burros have been contending for
the last place, the targets of another ancient
sport-one that was played in London during
the time of Henry III., and by the Spanish and
Italians years before-have been placed in po-
sition. The game was
called Quintain" in
olden days, and pic-
tures of it are found
in many faded manu-
scripts. In Pasadena
it was played on horse-
back,- the" knights"
(among them "Don
Arturo Bandini ") rid-
ing past the target at
full speed, and hurling
their javelins. Their
skill in horsemanship
and in directing the
darts presented a most
interesting spectacle.
"i't"$' It would be impos-
sible to describe here
all the events of this
Tournament of Roses.


Y_ r'o~


There were races for farmer boys upon ranch
horses, races by little girls on flower-decorated
ponies. There was the tug of war between
rival teams from neighboring towns; a game
for the boys, in which long lines of oranges
formed a feature; and a revival of many old
sports,-a program that gratified not only the
thousands of American spectators, but also the
Spanish and Mexican residents of the sur-
rounding country.
There was an exhibition of diminutive tan-
dems, with equally small dog-carts in which sat
children surrounded by flowers. Some of the
carriages bore fanciful flower designs. One was

hung with bells of a big white flower, and upon
the back were the initials of the words "Tour-
nament of Roses," in different colored roses.
Other carriages were trimmed with the abun-
dant California holly-berries, or the fern-like
pepper-tree and its bunches of bright red ber-
ries, while others were ornamented with the
golden wild-poppy, the State flower.
The day, though in the middle of the "win-
ter months," is here warm and beautiful. Snow
there is, but it remains high on the distant
mountains, like a restless giant, eager but afraid
to pounce down upon the orange-groves and
flower-fields of the summer-land below.



"BEHOLD me!" cried the Violin;
"I have such harmonies within
As make the eye of beauty dim.
I make men smile, I bid them weep,
I rouse their pride, or lull to sleep
The children with a twilight hymn.
From bird-song sweet to thunder-
I voice the universal soul.
Let but a master sweep the
I wake to all celestial
things !"

"'T is true," remarked the Piccolo,
"Your scope is very wide, I know.
But when your owner's little boy
Decides to take you for his toy,
You glide from weird, heart-rending shriek
To every form of ghastly squeak,-
The saw-file note, the porker's squeal,
The agony of ungreased wheel,
The grit of pencil upon slate,-
Indeed, your repertory 's great!"



-7 -1

S. ,I .

BRUIN: "Nothing like this for solid enjoyment. Your favorite book, and fling yourself down upon one of these gentle
little grassy mounds. How few can rise to the beauty of such a scene-! "

THE "GRASSY MOUND": "But yo can!

Ke llq:



IN the days of Columbus vessels were gener-
ally called caravels," and if of considerable
size for those times they were called by the
Spaniards noes.
When Queen Isabella determined to help
Columbus to make his voyage, a royal order
was sent to the city of Palos to fit out three
caravels and to place them at the royal disposal.
The city made a pretense of complying, but it
was so well known that the ships were for Co-
lumbus's hazardous venture into the terrible
western ocean that neither money nor force
could get them equipped and manned. Over
and over again the people were assembled in
the public square and the order read with great
pomp, but all in vain. Columbus, in his de-
spair, begged that the prisons be opened and
the convicts allowed to go with him. Finally,
a ship-owner of Palos, Martin Alonso Pinzon,
was induced, by an offer of a large share of the
rewards in case of discoveries, to make an ac-
tive effort to fit out the expedition. He was
a popular sea-captain and a vigorous man of
business, and it was entirely due to him that
Columbus was able to set sail from Palos
on his ever-memorable voyage. Pinzon con-
demned two of the caravels given by the town,
and substituted two stanch vessels of his own.
One was a decked vessel of three hundred tons,
large enough to be called a nao, and the other
was a little thing with lateen sails, which was
chosen on account of her light draught, in case
rivers had to be ascended in the country they
expected to discover. The nao was at first
named the Gallega," but they renamed her
the Santa Maria." Columbus took her for
his flag-ship, for he held an admiral's commis-
sion from Ferdinand and Isabella. The little
lateen-rigged caravel was called the Nifia."
Of the three caravels offered by the town of
Palos, the only one which Pinzon considered
seaworthy enough to accept was the "Pinta,"

a boat about half as large as the Santa Maria,
and rigged like her. His shrewdness in re-
jecting the others was fully proved before the
expedition reached the Canaries; for it was
discovered that the Pinta had been tampered
with, and had been purposely weakened. A
long delay in the islands was necessary to re-
pair her.
Such were the vessels in which Columbus
discovered America: one as large as a small
schooner, and the other two about the size of
lighters. Had he suspected the length of his
journey, or known of the terrible storms which
can rage in the Atlantic Ocean, he never would
have dared to venture out in craft so frail.
They were so badly rigged that it was only be-
fore a favorable wind that they could sail at all;
but the time had come for the Old World to dis-
cover the existence of the New, and an all-wise
Providence guided Columbus in every way for
the best both going and coming. He embarked
in August, at a season when fair winds blow
steadily from Spain to the Canaries. From
there the regular northeast trades blew him
straight to his destination, and he reached San
Salvador in October, after the disastrous West
Indian cyclones were over. He started back
in January, and, being unable to sail against
the trades, was forced to the northward until
caught in the westerly winds and gales of the
winter season in the North Atlantic, and these
drove him homeward to the Azores and to
Lisbon. He made this return trip in the little
Nifia, which had been square-rigged at the
Canaries on the outward voyage. His flag-
ship, the Santa Maria, had been wrecked by
striking a reef on the coast of Hayti. The
Pinta, with Pinzon, got back to Spain some
time after Columbus's arrival in Lisbon; for
the two caravels had been separated in a gale
before reaching the Azores.
At the World's Fair will be three caravels

exactly like the
tion,-the same
gear and guns
same colors and
flying the same
flags. So if you
go there, you
can judge for
yourselves what
a foolhardy and
marvelous thing
it seemed to sail
thousands of
miles away into
that unknown
ocean in such
little, clumsy
The new Santa
Maria, and the
Pinta and Nifia,
have been built
in Spain for the
Fair. The Santa
Maria was built
in Cadiz by the


three of Columbus's expedi-
size, the same rig, the same
and finishings; painted the

Pinta and Nifia were built at Barcelona by
the Spaniards, but the United States paid for
them, and when they were finished they were

.. -

4 11

Spanish government, and is put in commission as United States men-of-war,

now manned by Spanish naval officers and and each was manned by two naval officers and
sailors. They are going to sail her over eight sailors from the United States steamer
"Bennington." The Benning-
ton towed them to Huelva.
Then, during the celebration
of the landing of Columbus
in America on the 12th of
October (which the Queen
Regent of Spain and the little
boy-king attended), all three
of the caravels were anchored
near the convent of La
Rabida, just where their ori-
ginals had ridden at anchor
on the morning Columbus
went on board to sail away
on his voyage of discovery.
S- After the celebration they
were all three taken to Cadiz,
THE CARAVEL N]RA. to await a favorable month
for going across the Atlantic.
almost the same route which Columbus sailed, The Pinta and Nifia will be towed across by
until they reach Havana, but a Spanish gun- the United States steamer Bennington, going
boat will go along to look out for her. The over the route of Columbus's voyage. At



Havana both will be presented to the Span-
ish Government. Then, in charge of the Span-
iards, all three will be taken from Havana to
the St. Lawrence River, up the St. Lawrence,
and through the canals to the World's Fair
at Chicago.
The pictures shown are drawn from photo-
graphs of these three new caravels; so that even

" .1 .

* .- -

is Columbus's own flag, bearing a large green
cross. On the sails of the Santa Maria and
Pinta are painted big red crosses, and the
stripes around all the vessels are bright reds,
whites, and blues. The hulls in general are
simply covered with tar, giving them a rich
mahogany color.
Do not fail to see these strange ships if you

3' ---

I --
I: ,L.,
r h-AY<.
a -,r




if Columbus could have photographed his own
ships, you could hardly have had truer pictures
of them. On the Santa Maria are the flags
and banners of Columbus's time. At the main-
mast-head is the royal standard, with the quar-
tered arms of Castile and Leon. At the fore

go to the Fair, for you will never get a true
idea of the courage and daring of Columbus
or of the almost superhuman greatness of his
effort until you see with your own eyes how
clumsy and fragile were the ships in which he
crossed the stormiest of all oceans.

VOL. XX.-25.



4. L. -




WILL some wise man who has journeyed
SOver land and over sea
To the countries where the rainbow
And the glorious sunsets be,
Kindly tell a little stranger
Who has oddly lost her way,
Where 's the road that she must travel
To return to Yesterday?

For, you see, she 's unfamiliar
With To-day, and cannot read
What its strange, mysterious sign-posts
Tell of ways and where they lead.

And her heart upbraids her sorely,
. Though she did not mean to stray
When she fell asleep last evening
And abandoned Yesterday.

For she left a deal neglected
That she really should have done;
And she fears she 's lost some favors
That she fairly might have won.
So she 'd like to turn her backward
To retrieve them if she may,-
Will not some one kindly tell her
Where 's the road to Yesterday?


(A True Story of Christmas in River Street.)

Swill surprise you to hear that Ted
was eight years old before he ever
hung up his stocking or knew any-
thing about Santa Claus. The reason
for this sad state of things was that
Ted lived 'way down town in River
street. Santa Claus does not go to
that part of the city,- that is, he did not go
before Ted was eight years old. It happened
then that some young college women moved
into No. 1o, and Ted went to call upon them.
Many children called, played games, and read
picture-books, and some belonged to "clubs"
at this house. They told Ted about it, and he
followed as soon as he could walk so far on
his crutch.
It was easy now for him to go quite fast, be-
cause he had had his crutch a long time; he
could hardly remember when he did not need
it. The very first thing he did remember was
lying in a white bed, not at all like his own bed
at home, and soon after he began to use his
crutch, and was always left behind by the other
children running to fires and to the police-sta-
tion. After a while he could go faster, but he
often lost his breath and had to sit down to
rest, so he passed much of his time alone, and
did not grow big and strong. In fact, he was
the very thinnest and smallest.boy of his age
on.River street, and that is saying a great deal.
The first day that Ted called at the "big
house," as the children named it, happened to be
the day before Christmas. It was twilight, and
two men were carrying in a very tall spruce-
tree fixed in a stand. Before the door closed,
Ted had slipped in like a cat and stood look-
ing curiously at the greens on the walls, the low
table and chairs, and the big boxes in the room

where they set down the tree. What it all
meant he did not know at first, but he had
seen such trees on the sidewalk in just such
boxes, and an idea came to him slowly that
they had a festive significance. The room was
warm and bright, a large flag hung at one end
between the windows, and there were colored
prints on the walls. Ted found many things to
look at, and, soon becoming tired, sat down on
one of the small chairs to enjoy them at leisure.
He did not feel like an intruder, because there
were many other children looking on, and the
lady who was hanging up wreaths and crosses
did not notice him. He spoke to her first; his
impatience got the better of his shyness, and
when she came down from the high ladder he
went up to her and said in a piping voice:
"Please, Missis, w'en does this concit begin?"
The lady smiled, but did not reply immedi-
ately. She held out her. hand in greeting to
the new guest, and Ted placed his grimy
little left hand in it in a very awkward way, for
no one had ever taught him how to shake
hands. Then she said she was glad to see him
and asked him his name. She told him hers;
it was Miss Miles. Ted looked at her sharply,
and he decided to tell her.
"Ted McFinley," he said; and then asked
.again, W'en does this: concit begin?"
S"Well, Ted," said Miss Miles, very sociably,
"I am sorry if you are disappointed, but we
are not going to have a concert here."
Wot 's them for, then ? asked Ted, point-
ing to the tree and the greens. I seen them
onct where a concit was, and I stood outside.
I 'd come an' stan' here, too, if yer had con-
cits. There 's nice singin' at concits. But if
yer don't,-why, wot 's the good of them ?"


Miss Miles drew a long breath; she hardly
knew where to begin.
"We think the greens look pretty," she said;
"and the tree is for Santa Claus. To-morrow
is Christmas day, you know."
Ted nodded his head, but there was one ob-
scure point, and he did not mean to let it go.
Wot 's Sandyclaws ?" he asked. He put
his difficulty all in one word, but it took a great
many to answer it. Fortunately, Miss Miles
felt equal to this question, and she told him the
dear old story, winding up with the astonishing
statement that this wonderful being was coming
there that very night for the purpose of filling,
the stockings of good children. Ted had never
heard anything like this before, but Miss Miles
spoke with such assured faith that he felt it
must be true, and he was puzzled as to whether
he belonged among the elect. To his great
delight her next words decided this question.
Would you like to hang up your stocking,
Ted? she asked, moved by his pitiful igno-
rance of Christmas pleasures.
"Yes," said Ted, heartily, tugging at the
shoe of the well foot, meaning to leave the
ragged stocking he had on. Miss Miles
gently stopped him; she had a queer sort of
smile just then, Ted thought, and she spoke
very softly.
Oh, no," she said; Santa Claus likes clean
stockings, Teddy. Get your mother to wash
and mend one for you. Then bring it to me."
She did not give him a new stocking, you
see, because the College Settlement in River
street is not an almshouse, and does not wish
to make paupers of its neighbors. Ted stared
at her, but he soon found voice to say:
"I ain't got any mother. Dad and me lives
alone. I does the washin', and I kin git yer a
clean one, if yer wait till I come back."
He hurried away on his crutch and he hur-
ried back; but by the time he returned the chil-
dren had all been sent home, and Miss Miles
sat alone, dressing a big doll. She heard him
coming, and opened the door herself, so Ted
had no hesitation about entering quite boldly.
Under his jacket was the stocking; he drew it
out before he had breath to speak. It was a
long, coarse gray stocking recently washed and
stiffened in the icy air in which it had been

hung up to dry. It had in the knee a great
hole, which had been hastily drawn up by
Ted's over-and-over stitches, and in the toe
was a smaller one which he had not noticed.
"Will it do?" asked the owner, eagerly.
"The other one blowed away. I 'm so sorry,
for I wanted to hang it up for Kitty. She's my
sister. She ain't very good; but she 's good to
me, an' they 've took her to the Juv'nile 'Sylum.
She never knowed nothing' about that Sandy-
claws, or maybe she 'd been better. Do you
think he '11 go 'way up to the 'sylum?"
Tell me more about Kitty," said Miss Miles,
gently; "but first let us go down-stairs and get
some tea. I 'm getting hungry are n't you ?"
"Yes," said Ted, "I 'm hungry a good deal.
But," he added, as they went down together,
I did n't s'pose you ladies ever was."
But they often are, Ted; and they get un-
tidy, too, working all day. Would n't it be
nice to wash our hands before tea ? "
Ted scarcely had time to decide this ques-
tion, before he found his hands and face un-
dergoing a washing. He submitted with pretty
good grace, reflecting that the ceremony might
have something to do with conciliating the
mysterious Sandyclaws.
"And now, Ted," said his hostess, when she
had helped him to the good, plain food before
them, "tell me about Kitty, and we '11 see what
can be done about a Christmas stocking for her.
How old did you say she was ? "
"I don't know exactly, said Ted; "but she
ain't fourteen. I heard the folks say once that
she 'd git good, too, up to the 'sylum. But it
ain't for good children; and I guess yer can be
pretty bad, even if yer ain't fourteen. I think if
Kitty got something in a stockin'-I tell yer,
I '11 come early to-morrow and take her mine,
if yer think Sandyclaws would n't mind. I 'm
goin' to see her on Christmas. Dad says so."
Oh, we '11 do better. I '11 lend you a stock-
ing; and I do believe there '11 be something in
it, too," cried Miss Miles, with conviction.
"Do yer really?" asked the child. "But
how will he know it 's fer Kitty?"
"We '11 put her name on it, Ted. You your-
self shall hang it up, and then you must go
home, or what will your father say?"
Dad ? Why, he won't know it. He does n't




come home nights," said the boy as composedly
as if such were the common habit of fathers;
" and he '11 be sleeping' when I come here in the
morning But I '11 tell him some day, mebbe,
if he happens to be feeling' good and speaks
kind to me."
No fitting reply came to Miss Miles. She
was puzzled, as she had often before been puz-
zled as to particular applications of the Fifth
Commandment down in River street, and she
returned to the safer topic of Christmas gifts.
She hazarded guesses as to what Santa Claus
might have in his pack for boys of-say, nine,
and girls of thirteen; and she found Ted firmly
convinced that, whatever else might be wanting,
there would be "a watch that wound up," and
plenty of gay ribbons. The hole in the toe
of his stocking disconcerted him somewhat
when he discovered it; but he brightened up
upon thinking it might be stopped by putting
in an apple first. Or a orange," he suggested
happily. "I never had a whole orange, and
Kitty would like that best. I hope he 's got
oranges. Do you think, now, he 'd jest as lief
give Kitty a orange ? "
Miss Miles thought so indeed. She treasured
his unselfish hints as to what would please his
sister; and he preferred to talk of her gifts
rather than of his own.
At last the stockings were hung to his entire
satisfaction, a paper was pinned on Kitty's, bear-
ing her name, and Ted went home radiant, to
dream of a wonderful giant with long, white
beard, who brought Kitty back in a sleigh
drawn by eight prancing circus ponies.

Now, Santa Claus had already come to River
street. He did not come in the usual way,
through the chimney. He came through the
hearts and hands of some little girls in a school
up-town who knew that he thought of going to
River street and would need a great many toys.
There are more little children in one house in
River street than in a block of houses up-town,
and it would be out of the question for one
Santa Claus to supply all their wants; so these
little girls formed a Santa Claus Society," and
as a result two large packing-cases full of books
and toys "as good as new" stood in the hall
of No. io, awaiting the arrival of the children's

saint. These Miss Miles and her friends opened
as soon as Ted had gone; and such a lot of
pretty things came to light! It would take too
long to name half of them; and, indeed, it took
a very long time to unpack them, because the
children themselves had done the packing.
Each parcel was wrapped up separately with a
great many windings of cord, and upon many of
them were directions as to destination. Most
of the children had evidently wished that virtue
should get its material reward in River street
just as in the story-books, for they had written
on the wrappers, "For a good girl," For a
good boy," or For a girl who tells the truth,"
"For an honest boy," carefully specifying the
age of the recipient. Some few had written
out names for the dolls.
Among other odd-looking packages was a
small square one wrapped in pink tissue-paper
and tied with bright green ribbon. Under the
ribbon lay a sheet of note-paper folded several
ways, and when it was opened it read:

i want you to give this to sum wun that has to keep
still like mee cos its lots of compinny.
Respeckfly yurs
P. S. Aint the case splendid ?
91o Jefison Avenoo.

There it was! In a gorgeous plush watch-
case the prettiest toy watch you ever saw.
As if on purpose to reward Ted's faith," ex-
claimed Miss Miles; and from some unselfish
little soul who thinks of others just as he does.
If people only knew how near Jefferson Avenue
and River street really are "
"They'd understand the New Testament
then," rejoined her brisk Boston ally, and
there might be less work for you. But we
must hurry on if this work is to be done
Very late that night it was done. The tree
hung full of gifts, the tables were covered with
packages, and Ted's stockings were stuffed full.
The dwellers at No. so slept late after their
labor, and Ted had patrolled the block oppo-
site a long, weary time before Miss Miles came
to the window on Christmas morning and dis-
covered him leaning against the railing, his face
very pallid and tired, and his large brown eyes




fixed intently upon the house door, lest he
should miss a chance to enter. It would never
have occurred to him to ring the bell. He lived
in a tenement-house where the door stands
open all the time.
When she saw him, Miss Miles pushed up
the window and beckoned to him.
During that dreary time of waiting on the
street, Ted had begun to doubt the beautiful


story of last night, and even the event of his
visit seemed vague and unreal. The awful
thought which comes to us all, when some great
pleasure is promised to us,--that it may be
too good to be true,- had come to Ted.
I might 'a' dreamed it," he said to himself,
"or I might 'a' thought about it, setting' down
to rest." But no; he felt sure he could n't
have done. that; such a flight of imagination
was far beyond his powers.
So he held on bravely to the faith in Santa
Claus which he thought necessary to the filling
of Kitty's stocking.
Taking the end of a loaf of bread which had
been put on the shelf for his breakfast, he went
down three flights of stairs to the common hy-

drant and sink, and there washed his face as
well as he could, before tasting a crumb. The
water was cold, and there was, of course, no
soap nor towel. It was very disagreeable, this
first morning bath, and one cannot blame Ted
for thinking it a hard way to begin the day.
Shivering in his scanty clothing, he then started
out, gnawing his dry bread. No wonder it had
seemed to him almost noon before the kind
face of last night looked out upon him.
Miss Miles could not know all this; but she
did know that the children in her neighbor-
hood had a strong objection to ringing the bell,
and she reproached herself for keeping the poor
little fellow waiting in the chill air while she
had been eating her breakfast. It had never
crossed her mind that he would come so early,
and hurrying down she brought him in to a
good, warm fire and proposed that he should
have something to eat. Ted looked at her
wonderingly. So elated was he with expecta-
tion that he had no sense of cold or hunger.
It was all real now -if only the rest would
come right. There was one question he must
ask; it had worried him since daylight, and
caused him many anxious doubts. He put it
directly in a shrill whisper with anxious haste:
Oh, Missis, did he put the things in Kitty's
stocking? I went and told you she was n't
good, and mebbe he heard me. I did n't
mean it a bit, but he-oh, he brung 'em to
her jest the same, did n't he ? "
The only reply was, Come and see."
And when he did see, his heart was too full
for speech. There hung the stockings, bulging
out in strange shapes, and near them hung some
warm underclothing for Ted, such-as he had
never before owned. Ted took down Kitty's
stocking very carefully, and sat down to inves-
tigate. First a pair of red mittens, then two
bright hair-ribbons, two handkerchiefs, a cor-
nucopia of candy. In the heel was the precious
orange, while nuts, figs, and raisins filled the toe.
The happy brother drew a long sigh of satis-
faction. He had not hoped for so many gifts.
Surely Kitty would be good now and come
home again to him, so that he need not sit
alone. He folded up each article neatly and
replaced it in her stocking before he touched
his own. He, too, had mittens, the candy, and




the orange, and besides he had an easy game
and a bright picture-book; but beyond all else
he had the watch! It was a wonderful watch.
When it was wound up the hands began to
travel around the face with such expedition
that they made the entire circuit in about fif-
teen minutes. The works then ran down, and
you had all the pleasure of winding it up anew.
Every little boy knows that the best part of
owning a watch is winding it up, so this was
the very best kind of a watch a little boy could
own. Under the spell of possessing it, Ted
submitted to a warm bath, with plenty of soap
and towels, this time, and then put on the com-
fortable clothing. It was rather hard to have
so much washing and dressing in one morning,
but then for a watch one can stand a great
deal. It was soon over, and away went Ted,
hugging his treasures; and I am very glad to
say that not one of the rough children about
thought of molesting him.
Two days passed away. A heavy snow had
fallen on Christmas night, and his new friends
supposed he could not travel through it. On
the third day at twilight he came, slipped in as
he had done the first day, and silently waited
for Miss Miles. To no one else would he
speak. She was soon found, and came to him;
but, looking at him closely, was shocked by
a great change. His eyes were unnaturally
bright, his breath came heavily and in gasps,
and the hand she held was burning.
"Why, Ted," she exclaimed, "how ill
you irc! Why did you
.. ,(i:.n c o'ut tIin
-1:1% .

you poor child? Sit down and rest awhile be-
fore you tell me."
"I can't," said the child, faintly, holding out
a small folded wad; I jest came to bring you
Kitty's stocking. I washed it, and I was 'fraid
Sandyclaws would think I kep' it; but I fell
down two times trying' to come here yesterday.
I 've been orful tired sence, and I guess I
must stay in bed. I want to tell you that
Kitty liked the things. She liked the watch
best, an' I gave it to her, an' she sed she 'd be
real good, 'cause now she knowed there was
Sandyclaws. An' oh, Missis, it 's nice up to
the 'sylum! I 'd like to go too, only she did n't
hang up no stocking, and-s'pose you had n't!"
He paused from sheer fatigue. His interest
in the subject had borne him on through this
long speech, and he had more to say, but he
did not say it then. A sort of shiver passed
over him, he grew dizzy, and the next thing he
knew he was lying in a little white bed, just
like the bed he used to lie in so long ago.
There were many other children in beds near
him, and, after awhile, when he grew better
they all began to talk together, and it was very
pleasant and sociable.
When he could once more use his crutch,
and was fearing they would send him back to
that desolate room he called his home, a great
thing happened. Miss Miles brought to see
him a certain learned doctor who knew all
about lame people, and by his advice Ted was
taken to the "Home for Crippled Children"
iumt bleyon-1 t it,. Th-re he is n,, grow-
ing -tr:.nZ-er ard ijr;cr. jn, d alre.hed\ t;-ilk;rIg o(.
C(hir-_rm.s and o( hati 1-,e L. ) Sandi-l_ la s
i: go- qc t- LbrinT. F:r hirii-elf? e, -.. :,me-
Lcs; bt fjr otrener he
t.,ikS of" .ilt5 f].-r K itmy.




MR. GLASS-CUTTER : What skater can cut a better figure than I ?"


CREAM PUFF: "Well, that doughnut must be pretty sleepy; it has.yawned for the last twelve hours."

FOOT-BALL: Don't know how to play foot-ball? All you have
to do is to let yourself be carried around and be kicked."

"Pen-cils to shar-pen! Pen-cils to shar-pen! "






SAID the Queen of the Cannibal Islands one day
To the King of the Cannibal Isles,
"I fervently wish you would take me away;
My appetite 's really becoming passe;
I should like to go miles upon miles."

So they ordered their boat, and away they set sail,
And with talk both pleasing and witty,
And a glimpse now and then of a sociable whale
(With occasional pauses in order to bail),
At last they arrived in the city.

"Now, the first thing, my dear," said the King to the Queen,
"That we really, you know, ought to do -"
"Yes, dear husband," she murmured; "I know what you 'd say."
So they entered a restaurant over the way,
And ordered a little-boy stew.

"And,. pray," said the King to the waiter, who stared
With his eyes popping out of his head,


And who would have-fainted right there had he dared,
"I trust you will see that it 's ably prepared,-
We 're particular how we are fed."

"Excuse me, good sir," said the waiter, whose hair
Was beginning to whiten with fright,
"But little-boy stew-oh! I hope you won't care-
Is not to be found on our poor bill of fare;
We 're short of that order to-night."

"Very well," said the King; "bring a little-girl pie,
And see that the crust is well done."
Just then there arose a most terrible cry,
For the King, who was hungry, had fixed a keen eye
On the waiter, who started to iun.

I really can't finish this pitiful tale.
The police took the strangers ip hand;
And I venture to say if that sociable whale
Had dreamed in the least how the journey would fail,
He would not have allowed them to land.

I '' ,i !

i iI *
i i il,! /i 1 ,

] J I ,/

!t ''l, "11^ t
j T '- /



DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We live near the center of Mis-
souri. I am a little girl ten years old. I have traveled
a great deal. I spent one season at Old Point Comfort,
Virginia. I enjoyed catching crabs from off the pier, and
bathing is fine in Chesapeake Bay. We visited San Fran-
cisco, California. I loved to go out to the Cliff House;
it is situated about six miles from San Francisco. The
scenery is fine, especially the sea-lions playing on the
rocks in the ocean in front of it. The great ocean waves
as they dash against the rocky cliffs, make a loud roar,
and fallback in spray through which you see the rainbow.
It is truly grand. There are many places of interest
there-the Presidio, where& the United States soldiers
are stationed, and the old fort at the entrance of the bay;
also the Alcatraz Island, on which the United States
prisoners are kept. I enjoyed our trip through Yellow-
stone Park most of all. The geysers are wonderful;
but the most lovely sight I. ever saw was the grand
canon. I stood on Point Inspiration one afternoon
about four o'clock; the sun was shining brightly; there
was an eagle's nest and fish-hawks just below on the
cliffs. Oh, it looked so grand I have my little cane that
helped me climb about the mountains. It is a pine
stick; I picked it up as we started up the canon, just be-
fore we came to the cascades. I remain your constant
reader, SYLVIA J. S--.
MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am going to tell you of
the lovely times I have in the country. Our country
residence is in the eastern part of New York State, nine
miles' drive from Schenectady. When I am there I ride
horseback and drive. I was also in Dorchester, Mass.,
in the summer. One day we went to Salem and saw
manyhistorical things. One was a church that was built
in 1629; the beams are the same old ones, but the siding
is new. In Essex Institute we saw the lock from the
door of the room in which the Declaration of Indepen-
dence was written, the mittens and shirt that Governor
Bradford was baptized in, the carving-knife and fork that
Napoleon Bonaparte used at St. Helena, a piece of the
chair Penn sat in when he made the treaty with the
Indians, and two bottles of the tea that was thrown over-
board at the Boston tea-party,- it was found in the shoes
of Lot Cheever after removing his disguise,- and many
other things. I am your constant reader, "PEGGY."

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: When my eldest sister was
in America in 1887, she sent me ST. NICHOLAS for a
present, and since that time I enjoy your coming every
month. As a little girl I learned how to read English
in your stories for very little folks," and now, as I am
sixteen, I know how to read your beautiful stories all by
myself. Though I am a German girl, I like the English
stories much more than the German ones. I think no
German story is as beautiful as your Little Lord Faun-
tleroy," or your "Lady Jane." I have a ,, trn den," a so-
ciety, with three of my school-friends. Every Tuesday we

meet; we read stories and work. In these afternoons we
are making dresses and other things for poor children.
We are always very happy and diligent. When the meet-
ing was at our house, I showed them one of your vol-
umes, and they all were astonished to see how beautiful
your pictures are.
To-day it is nearly impossible to go over the street.
You know that our Queen Olga died, and therefore
every one is in haste and excitement. In all the streets
there are flags, and in the windows there are pictures or
busts of the Queen with flowers and plants around them.
This evening the Emperor is expected, and beside him
more than twenty-five princes announced their arrival.
You know our dear Queen was very much beloved by
every one who knew her. Twice a day all the bells of
Stuttgart are ringing for half an hour. To-day the streets
near the castle and the courtyard are so crowded with peo-
ple, that one has to make a great detour to go to the upper
part of town. To-day's evening papers say that twenty-
four thousand people passed in file through the castle.
This spring one of my sisters brought us from Eng-
land a pen-wiper made of a wishing-bone, like the one
that was told about in your November number. I remain
your loving reader, LOUISE H-- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We have taken you for some
time, and are much interested in your stories. We are
staying up in Skye. I do not know whether you have
been in Skye. It is very nice. Our house is a stone's-
throw from the sea. A little stone pier runs out into
the sea. We fish off this pier for tiny fish, such as cod-
lings, about three inches long. We used to swim, but
now it is too cold. We have a boat and we go out deep-
sea fishing. Our house faces the Island of Raasay, and
on our right hand is the Island of Scalpay, and on our
left is Sligachan Loch, and it is a very pretty sight to see
the fishing-boats going up the loch every evening, with
brown sails, to fish for herring. The children here are
very dirty. They live in little dirty huts thatched with
straw, and having ropes strung across with stones at
both ends to keep the roof on. This is the first time I
have written to you. I hope the letter is interesting
enough to be printed.
I remain your affectionate and interested reader,
K. MAUD A. L-.
(Nine years old.)

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: This is my second letter, but
I don't think you received the first one, because it had n't
the right address on the envelop. I am going to tell you
that this is the first year I have taken you, but you beat
all the books I have read for young folks. Children en-
joy reading your serial stories, and they learn a great deal
from them. Even grown-up folks read them.
I am a telegraph-operator for the Central and South
American Company on the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, and
am twelve years old. Your constant reader,


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I thought I wouldwrite and tell
you about our visit to Rome last year, and about all the
wonderful and curious things that we saw in that dear
old city. I am very fond of Rome and Italy, for my mother
is an Italian.
I have lived a good deal in both England and France.
We are now visiting my aunt on the North River. It is a
beautiful place, and I have enjoyed my visit to America
very much.
When we were in Rome we did a great deal of going
about and sight-seeing. One day my mother told me that
we were going to see the catacombs. I said nothing,
but, to tell the truth, I felt a little frightened, and when
the time came I would not go down, but stayed up-stairs
with the monks.
The picture-galleries of Rome are not so fine as those
of Florence. The world-renowned church of St. Peter
is a wonderful building. I saw the statue of St. Peter.
Now good-by. I am your devoted and interested reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We are three girl-cousins, and
are staying in the country together.
There is a small bit of woods by our house, and one
day we cooked down there on a little iron stove, and fried
some potatoes and bread, which were very good, consid-
ering it was tile first time we had ever cooked alone. We
had a picnic last fall, and we were standing by a small
pool with some of our friends, when a girl took me,
Louise, by the arm, and said, laughingly, Let 's take a
swim," and accidentally we fell in. The water was not
deep, so we easily crawled out, looking, as the others said,
"like drowned rats."
One afternoon, last summer, we took a walk with a
friend. Some yellow-jackets came out and flew after her
and got in her hair and her clothes, and stung her very
badly in eleven places. She turned so red and slapped
herself so that we thought she was crazy, and ran up to
her to help her, at which the yellow-jackets tried to sting
us, too, but did not succeed. Your constant readers,

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : It was mother's birthday
a few days ago, and we children gave her two little gold-
fish in a glass bowl. We have called them Punch" and
"Judy." They are no trouble to keep. We feed them on
ants' eggs, and give them two a day and change the wa-
ter once a week.
I have a dear little canary which sings very merrily and
wakes me up nearly every morning. Its name is "Toby."
Sometimes I open the cage and let it fly about the room.
It enjoys this greatly. I catch it by putting my handker-
chief gently over it, and it lies in my hand and pretends
to be dead,- but soon comes to life again in its cage.
I have two twin brothers, Archie and Kingsley,--they
are nearly eight,-and a little sister Mary. Good-by.
From your little friend, MARGARET W. B--

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A friend has given me a year's
subscription to your magazine for a Christmas present.
I also got the bound volumes for 1892.
I have a great many books, and take several papers; but
among them all I don't think I like any better than I like
I wish I could know Mary P. E. and Winnie M. P., of

Fort Sam Houston, because I am an army girl myself.
My papa is a captain in the regiment next to theirs in
number-the 22d Infantry. We are far north among
ice and snow and cold, while they are walking among
flowers every day. But we have lots of fun, and, although
we can't ride in ambulances (for papa says the Bogie
Man at Washington will catch us if we do!), when the
market-sleigh comes around, every morning, we hitch
our sleds to it and have jolly times being pulled around
the fort. Somebody is always upset.
Your true friend, WINIFRED V. W -.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: We had a little dog that was
given to us by a captain of a merchant ship. The dog's
name was Dick," and he could go up a ladder with a
pitcher of milk, and would go down again just as well as
a person would go up and down stairs. He was a splen-
did swimmer. When the ship sailed away he cried as
if he were entreating the ship to come back.
Yours sincerely, M. M. H-.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken you for three
I don't like the winters here at all, for you can't slide
down hill then; but you can in summer, and this is the
way it is done: First we find a long steep hill, covered
with long, dry, foxtail-grass; then we get a long board
and drag it sideways down the hill, which smooths the
grass. Then we make some sleds, and are ready to slide
down the hill.
I saw our neighbor brand four colts with his brand
(P) ; he blindfolded them, and then pressed the hot brand
against their left fore shoulder, burning the hair off, and
leaving a scar the shape of the brand, which they never
outgrow. Your loving reader, E. A. R-
P. S.-They brand in the dark of the moon; other-
wise they believe that the brand will grow larger.

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you about my
trip to Alaska. We left Portland, Oregon, one bright
June day for Tacoma, which is beautifully situated on
Puget Sound, and from there you have a lovely view of
Mount Tacoma, one of the highest peaks on the Pacific
coast. Its summit is always covered with snow.
Our first stop after leaving Tacoma by steamer was at
Seattle, but because it was so early in the morning and
the boat only waited there a little while, we stayed on
the boat and did not get off at all.
Our next landing was at Victoria, B. C., where we
stayed five hours. We reached there about eight o'clock
in the morning and went to the Hotel Victoria, where
we had our breakfast; afterward we took a carriage
and drove all around the town. We went over a bridge,
above a pretty cascade, and we saw the Navy Yard and
dry-dock near by.
From Victoria we went to Fort Wrangel, which used
to be an old Russian fort; now it is nothing but a
small Indian settlement, and there are some very curious
things to see. I saw some very queer poles-totem poles
they are called-carved out of trees; some of them had
figures of bears on top of them, some whales and some
eagles. We got off the boat and walked till we came to
a very shaky old bridge, and carefully went across it. On
the other side we saw some more totem poles; one of
the most curious had a bear carved on top of the pole
and the footprints of the bear going all the way up to
the top.



The next stop we made was at Juneau, which is quite
an interesting place and has a population of 1655; but
most of them are Indians,. On the dock there were
Indian women with baskets, silver bangles, and spoons
and salmon-berries to sell. The Indians are very clever
in making the bracelets and spoons out of coin-silver
with very rude tools; they were also very clever in mak-
ing a bargain with us.
From Juneau we went across Douglas Sound to the
Treadwell Stamp-mills, and I enjoyed seeing them take
the gold from the ore.
We then went on to Sitka, which is on Baranoff Island,
further south. We reached there on the Fourth of July
and fired a salute with a small cannon before we reached
the dock; the captain had the ship all trimmed with'flags,
and it made it look very gay. The harbor of Sitka is
lovely, filled with little islands, and there are snow-capped
mountains all around it.
We got off the ship and went first to see the Greek
church, which is very interesting. There is an oil-paint-
ing there of the Madonna and Child, which came from
Russia and is very beautiful; there are other paintings

in the church, aid all of them are very old. There is an
old castle at Sitk which used to belong to the Russians,
as Sitka is an old Russian town and must be over a
hundred years old.
After leaving Sitka th: most wonderful sight of the
whole trip was going through Glacier Bay among the
icebergs, where we went to seq the great Muir Glacier;
it was the sixth of July, but wasaSo cold that we had to
put on all the winter clothes that we had.
It rained nearly all the time we weSi there, but we had
a good view of the glacier. The captain sent us ashore
in small rowboats, and nearly everybody went, in spite
of the wet weather. We had to walk a long way before
we got to the glacier, and when we reached, it, it was
just like walking on ice.
Prof. Reid of Cleveland, and the friend of his whqwas
with him, had a little hut built near the glacier, where
they were going to stay some months. We started O.
our return trip, stopping at Juneau, Wrangel, and Port
Townsend, and we made the entire trip in seventeen
days. Yoqrs truly,



DOUBLE ACROSTIC. Primals andfinals, Napoleon. Cross-words: RHOMBOID. Across: Krait. 2. Emmet. 3. Apron. 4. Snood.
1. Napoleon. 2. Altamaha. 3. Poetship. 4. Obligato. 5. Ladleful. 5. Elder.
6. Enervate. 7. Oratorio. 8. Napoleon. ILLUSTRATED PUZZLE. Fold the lower part of the puzzle in half,
CONNECTED DIAMONDS: I. I. S. 2. Ace. 3. Amiss. 4. Sciatic. lengthwise, and the name of George Washington will appear. The
5. Estop. 6. Sip. 7. C. I. .F. 2. Dan. 3. Donor. 4. Fana- answer to the rebus on the upper part is, First in war, first in peace,
tic. Noted. 6.Rid. 7. C. III. .C. Par. 3. Papal. first in the hearts of his countrymen."
4. Capital. 5. Rated. 6. Lad. '7. L. IV. L. Mat. 3. Mucus. A HEXAGON. Talc., 2..Alert. 3..Legers. 4. Create. 5. Traced.
4. Laconic. 5. Tuner. 6. Sir. 7. C. V. I. L. 2. Cab. 3. Cater. 6. Steed. 7. Edda.
4. Lateral. 5- Berry. 6. Ray. 7. L.
SPROVERB PUZZLE. Longfellow. I. Folks. 2. Known. 3. Honey.
DIAMOND: I. G. 2. Ten. 3. Tones. 4. Genesis. 5. Nests. 4. Wager. 5. Offer. 6. Great .7. Folly. 8. Tells. 9. Grown.
6. Sis. 7. S. o1. Fewer.- ANAGRAM. Percy Bysshe Shelley.
NUMERICAL ENIGMA. Civility may truly be said to cost nothing; BEHEADINGS. Beranger. i. B-read. 2. E-rebus. 3. R-each.
if it does not meet with a due return, it at least leaves you in the 4. A-theist. 5. "N-arrow. 6. G-host. 7. E-motion. 8. R-hone.
most creditable position." COMPLEX SQUARE. Across: i. Shad. 2. Wane. 3. April. 4. Yell.
HOLLOW STAR. From i to 2, spindle; I to 3, spiders; 2 to 3, PRIMAL ACROSTIC. Waterloo. i. Wafer. 2. Alter. 3. Theme.
enlists; 4 to 5, paining; 4 to 6, paddles; 5 to 6, guesses. 4. Eagle. 5. Reign. 6. Lance. 7. Olive. 8. Opine.
To OUR PUZZLERS: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the isth 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 DECEMBER NUMBER were received, before December 15th, from Maude E. Palmer-" The
McG.'s "-"Uncle Mung"- Mama and Jamie-" Nearthebay "-Alice M. Blanke and Co.-L. O. E.- C. W. Brown -" The Wise
Five "- E. M. G.- Rosalie Bloomingdale -Paul Reese- Infantry "- Stephen O. Hawkins essie Chapman -Josephine Sherwood-
"Leather-Stocking"-" Suse"- Helen C. McCleary- Ida Carleton Thallon- Jo and I-" Wareham "- Hubert L. Bingay-- Ida
and Alice.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE DECEMBER NUMBER were received, before December Isth, from Helen B. Myer, x--Helen T. Mark-
ham, I -G. B. Dyer, 6-" Bick," -Arnold Furst, Charlie Ames, I -Marie A. B., -J. S. and E. S., -Rosita C. de V. Corn-
well, I-Walter Pach, I--Edwin B. Potts; i-Bessie and I, i-Marion, I'-Jeanrette, I-Margaret S..Otheman, I-John Farson,
Jr., i- Sister Mary F., I -Melville Hunnewell, 4-" Uncas," 6- Bolero," a -Herbert Lockwood, I-Sadie and Jamsie, 3 Maud
and Dudley Banks, 6-Effie K. Talboys, 5-Arthur D. Quackenbush, I -Delia L. Newton, 2-S. C. Hilder, 2-Arthur F. Saen-
ger, I Effie W. Perkins, i- M. D. Gardener, r- Annie B. Thorne, Laura M. Zinser, 5-"Two Chums," 2- Chester B. Sum-
ner, 6-No Name, Waterbury, Conn., 5-" Elizabeth," 4-Dora F. Hereford, 5-" Two Sage Judges,"2- Frank Rieder, I.

HALF-SQUARES. the central letters reading downward will spell the
name of a painter who has been called "The American
I. I. The sea-cow. 2. A flowering shrub. 3. Ycleped. Wilkie." RUTH.
4. Beverages. 5.. To spread abroad. 6. Half of a word
meaning "to acquire by labor." 7. In money. ANAGRAM.
II. I. An animal resembling a small hog. 2. A char-
acter in Tennyson's "Idylls of the King." 3. An eccle- A FAMOUS man of letters:
siastical dignitary. 4. A descendant. 5. A feminine STYLE.? LO, A CHARM!
name. 6. A musical tone. 7. In money.

._-- -" T '^ ment. 2. To detest. 3. To polish. 4. A strengthening
Medicine 5. Upright.
meant. 2. To detest. 3. To polish. 4. A strengthening

4- watch. 2. Borne by the feet. 3. Stately. 4. A musi-
i. cal term meaning sweetly. 5. A spirited horse.
III. CENTRAL SQUARE: I. A lock of hair. 2. Pul-
[ S -- '. .. verized volcanic substances. 3. The after song. 4. To
i move sidewise. 5. To slumber.
with violence. 2. Harmony. 3. An ecclesiastical head-
dress. 4. The Turkish government. 5. To show con-
EACH of the above pictures may be described by.a which anything manifests. 2. A harbor. 3. To turn
word of five letters. When these are .rightly guessed aside. 4. A woolen twilled stuff. 5. To go in.
and placed one below another, in the order here given, F. w. F.



I. MY primals and finals each name an English
CROSS-WORDs (of equal length): I. To ascend. 2.
To expiate. 3. Unsullied. 4. To beautify. 5. Con-
cord. 6. An Egyptian water-lily. 7. An island in the
Egean sea. 8. To long'for.
II. My primals and finals each name an English
CROSS-WORDS (of equal length): I. To shatter. 2.
Semi-diameters of circles. 3. Made-of oak. 4. To deal
unjustly with. 5. Observes. 6. Visionary. 7. Cour-
age. 8. Frivolous .. LAURA .M. Z.
OD yuo kown weerh het scocur swolb?
Drune het wonss; .
Dewi-edye dan swimone adn tinylaid fiar
Sa awnex coxtie scole-dented dan rear;
Yerve udilch skown
Ewerh bet frits crusco swobl.


zigzag, beginning at the upper left-hand letter, will spell
the name of a celebrated poem by Milton.
CROSS-WORDS: I. A delicate tissue. 2. To praise in
song. 3. Nice perception. 4. An inferior magistrate
among the Mohammedans. 5. Any system of rules re-
lating to one-subject. 6. An African parrot. 7. Any
species of cormorant. D.

CRoss-woRDS: I. The point of a pen. 2. A little
carving in relief. 3. A pale red color, with a cast of
orange. 4. To proceed. 5. Scolded. 6. Pertaining to
a certain grain. 7. To scatter for drying.

i. I. PERTAINING to ships. 2. A proverb. 3. Un-
,:e rt in. 4. Chills. 5. An old word meaning to hurt.
li. I. Fear. 2. A maniac.. 3. An -old word- mean-
ing toshun. 4 A volcano. 5. Fear
SA. L. B. ANDC. S. P.

I 2

3 4

5 6 .

THE problem is to change one given w
given word, by altering one letter at a tin
tion making a new word, the number of l
ways the same, and.the letters remaining
same order. Example:. Change LAMP t(
moves. Answer: lamp, lame, fame, fare, i
In the accompanying picture, change MA
to MARCH in nine moves. Each change i
illustration, and each picture used in the
bered. The central picture is not a part
J. C. B.

ALL of the.words described contain t
her of letters. When these are right
placed one below another, in the order

8. .9

S UPPER SQUARE (I to 2, etc.): I. To go before. 2. The
.hii:'p side of a knife. 3. A chill. 4. An animal.
SSIDE SQUARE (3 to 6, etc.): I. An animal. 2. A
I'finine name. 3. To send forth. 4. To estimate.
LOWER SQUARE (6 to 7, etc.): I. Fixed allowance.
2. Ancient. 3. To care for. 4. A small whirlpool.
From 4 to 7, that which is established as a criterion.
H. W. E.
ord to another
ie, each altera-
etters being al-
always in the
O FIRE in four
.RCH back again ..
s shown in the
puzzle is num- .
Sof the puzzle. .

*I. IN- puzzles. 2. Turf. 3. A word occurring fre-
quently in the Psalms. 4. A mammal having a single
:he same num- hoof on each foot. 5. Marked with spots of different
y guessed and shades of color. 6. The handle of an ax. 7. To esti-
here given, the mate... F. s. F.


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