Front Cover
 The child-painter
 Autumn song
 A boy of the first empire
 An ancient table
 James Russell Lowell
 Base-ball sketches
 Quality, not place
 Hero-tales from American histo...
 Hans the otherwise
 The poet to his cat
 A song full of children
 Aground in the Amazon
 Playing dominoes
 A silent partner
 The pirate's little joke
 Teddy and carrots: Two merchants...
 How the godmother failed: A latter-day...
 The manatee, tapir, and peccar...
 A little boy's vain regret
 Who cares?
 The howlery crowlery room
 The artist's daughter
 Finger play
 The states in rhyme
 The letter-box
 The riddle-box
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00302
 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: VID00302
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: Baldwin Library of Historical Children's Literature in the Department of Special Collections and Area Studies, George A. Smathers Libraries, University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved, Board of Trustees of the University of Florida.
Resource Identifier: oclc - 01764817
lccn - 04012675
 Related Items
Preceded by: Our young folks
Preceded by: Children's hour (Philadelphia, Penn.)
Preceded by: Little corporal
Preceded by: Schoolday magazine
Preceded by: Wide awake

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Front Cover 1
        Front Cover 2
        Front Cover 3
        Page 970
    The child-painter
        Page 971
        Page 972
        Page 973
        Page 974
        Page 975
        Page 976
        Page 977
        Page 978
        Page 979
        Page 980
    Autumn song
        Page 981
    A boy of the first empire
        Page 982
        Page 983
        Page 984
        Page 985
        Page 986
        Page 987
        Page 988
        Page 989
    An ancient table
        Page 990
    James Russell Lowell
        Page 991
        Page 992
        Page 993
        Page 994
        Page 995
        Page 996
        Page 997
        Page 998
        Page 999
        Page 1000
        Page 1001
        Page 1002
    Base-ball sketches
        Page 1003
        Page 1004
        Page 1005
        Page 1006
        Page 1007
        Page 1008
        Page 1009
        Page 1010
        Page 1011
    Quality, not place
        Page 1012
    Hero-tales from American history
        Page 1013
        Page 1014
        Page 1015
    Hans the otherwise
        Page 1016
        Page 1017
        Page 1018
        Page 1019
        Page 1020
        Page 1021
        Page 1022
    The poet to his cat
        Page 1023
    A song full of children
        Page 1024
        Page 1025
    Aground in the Amazon
        Page 1026
    Playing dominoes
        Page 1027
    A silent partner
        Page 1028
        Page 1029
    The pirate's little joke
        Page 1030
    Teddy and carrots: Two merchants of newspaper row
        Page 1031
        Page 1032
        Page 1033
        Page 1034
    How the godmother failed: A latter-day fairy tale
        Page 1035
        Page 1036
        Page 1037
    The manatee, tapir, and peccary
        Page 1038
        Page 1039
        Page 1040
        Page 1041
    A little boy's vain regret
        Page 1042
    Who cares?
        Page 1043
    The howlery crowlery room
        Page 1044
    The artist's daughter
        Page 1045
    Finger play
        Page 1046
        Page 1047
        Page 1048
        Page 1049
    The states in rhyme
        Page 1050
            Page 1050
            Page 1051
    The letter-box
        Page 1052
        Page 1053
        Page 1054
    The riddle-box
        Page 1055
        Page 1056
        Page 1057
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text

4 0,i

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OCTOBER, 1895.



IT is a singular fact that one of the most
American of painters should be an Englishman,
with a slight "burr" in his speech which tells
of a Scotch strain in him as well. From New
York to San Francisco, and from St. Paul to
New Orleans, everybody knows J. G. Brown's
life-like pictures of the New York newsboy
and bootblack. His vivid portraiture of this
waif of the pavement-the humblest part in
the great business life of America--is stamped
by something which makes them his own. It
is easy enough to discover the secret of Brown's
success. His pictures are, above all, human,
and nothing interests us so much as humanity.
One does not have to dive very deeply into
the mysteries to know that every art-worker
must put into his work something of himself.
It is this putting of his character into the thing
that he produces which gives it special charm
or value. It would be reasonable, therefore,
to conclude that since J. G. Brown's boot-
blacks and newsboys are such good, whole-
some, light-hearted tatterdemalions, the artist
himself must have a large share of these
pleasant qualities.
He has; and his career is such a fine exam-
ple of success, and of success in the face of

obstacles, that it is well worth telling as an
example and an encouragement. To-day, when
he is sixty-three years old, Mr. Brown is hale,
hearty, and shows nd loss of interest over his
work. And the very latest of his pictures
shows more spirit, finer composition, and a
keener sympathetic grasp of the healthy side
of boy life than anything he has painted.
What he has done with his art is well enough
known. Let us see what the man J. G. Brown
has done with his life. It will really be more
interesting than any of his pictures.
In Bensham, a little town of Durham, in the
north of England, a lawyer of modest means
became the father of a boy baby on November
II, 1831. That baby, it need scarcely be said,
has become the hale, well-preserved artist, with
a full, curly gray beard, who paints newsboys
in the Studio Building at 51 West Tenth street
in New York city.
As one of his recent critics asserted, John G.
Brown is a born artist." But proof of this
artistic talent declares itself earlier in some than
in others. John Brown could draw before he
could read or write. His father would speak
of the boy's skill with his pencil when he
thought the youngster was asleep, and often

Copyright, 1895, by THE CENTURY CO. All rights reserved.


No. 12.


took these first productions of his little boy
to his office, and showed them to his clerks
with evident pride. But in small country
towns in the first half of this century parents
were not apt to regard art as a desirable
or paying field of labor. Mr. Brown was evi-
dently this kind of a parent. For, when John
was thirteen years old, and it was a question
of his earning his living, he wanted to go into
an engraving company. It was a regular
money-making trade, but leaned to the side of


art. His father would not consent to this, and
as a result of his father's objection young Brown
was bound for seven years to a glass-company
at Newcastle-on-Tyne. His family had re-
moved to that English city when he was
a one-year-old baby.
Apropos of his babyhood, before telling of
his glass-working apprenticeship, one incident
should be recorded because it left a lasting
result which, in some degree, was an obstacle
to the boy's success in the field of art. It is
needless to declare that
the obstacle has been
bravely overcome.
He was just old
enough to be able to
walk little. Onemorn-
ing he was pattering
round in the kitchen
in all the glory of a
pair of new shoes.
New shoes are slip-
pery, while new walk-
ing legs are not ab-
solutely sure. On the
floor of the kitchen
was a boiler, full of
.. scalding hot water,
Sand with the cover
off. Of course, the
time when the new
s. shoes slipped and the
baby legs gave way
was when the child
was near this caldron.
Down he fell, his right
arm went into the
scalding water, and up
went a prodigious
howl of pain from the
poor scalded baby. It
was a frightful burn,
and the doctor did not
know how to treat it
very well. Mymother
says I cried from that
burn for nineteen
months," Mr. Brown
says. That it was a
ROWN.) serious one is evident


1895.] "THE CHILD-PAINTER "; J. G. BROWN. 973

from the fact that his right hand has ever since completed his apprenticeship at the age of
been cramped and shortened, so that he can twenty-one. Then he went to Edinburgh, where
bend his fingers only very imperfectly. And he secured employment at his trade. But he
that is the hand he has
to use in painting.
"In handling my
brush I have to use
it in one way rather
than another on ac-
count of these con-
tracted fingers," said
Mr. Brown, "and
that counts a little in
the. technic of my
But if the boy's
hand was almost crip-
pled, nothing could
cripple his pluck and
determination. He
was one of those boys
with a "grip," who al-
ways make a success.
And he had n't lost
his taste for art, if he
was an apprentice
glass-worker in the
grimy factory at New-
castle-on-Tyne. Hap-
pily his evenings were
his own. So he at-
tended the Govern-
ment School of De-
sign, as a persistent
student in the night-
class. The tuition was
free. William B. Scott
was his first teacher.
Any illustrated Lon-
don papers that he -
could secure he always
When some picture specially pleased him also found his way (who could have doubted
he would go to work and copy it. Noel Paton it?) to the Government Royal Academy Schools,
and Frost--prominent contributors to the il- and devoted his evenings to drawing. It
lustrated press of those days-were his special hardly seems necessary to call attention to the
favorites. He kept up this sort of thing dur- way in which this earnest young man, while
ing his seven years' apprenticeship. following the trade on which he depended for
At the close of the seven years he was a his living, also advanced himself in the career
master glass-worker, and also a man; for he which his heart had chosen when he was in


short clothes. Here is a lesson to those who
feel that they could succeed in some pursuit
that they like, if circumstances did not fasten
them to another task.
Look at the way Brown managed the thing:
The evening classes
at the Royal Academy -,:*.,
Schools were from six :
to eight. His time at .
the factory was not up
until six. Then he was
tired after his day's ..
work, grimy and moist *
from the sand and
clay and sweat. He
had to hurry home,
wash himself, change
his clothes, and walk
a mile to the schools,
as fast as he could, so
as not to lose any
more of the precious
time of instruction
than was necessary.
And that is what he
did night after night,
for thirteen months.'
He used to go there
in such a rush that
for five or six minutes
after he got into his
place in the school,
he could do no draw-
ing-except of his :;'
breath. So he sat and
panted, and listened
eagerly to the instruc-
tor; and when the in-
structor, surprised that
a pupil who was so
attentive and earnest
should always be a "HE WANTS
half hour or so late,
inquired into the reason, his interest in the
young glass-worker was increased.
Then came a proud and happy moment in
Brown's life. One day he received an invita-
tion to be present in the hall of the Art School
at the giving of prizes. There were fifty or
sixty glass-workers in the place where he was

employed, and they began to chaff the young
fellow, and tell him he must have won a prize.
" Well, if I have," he said good-naturedly, I '11
shy my hat in the air as soon as I come back,
so that you '1l know it." An hour later the door


of the factory was flung open, young Brown
darted in with a fine honest smile of delight on
his face, and he sent his hat whizzing into the
air. They crowded round him, eager to hear.
And they heard that their brother glass-worker,
John Brown, had indeed won a prize of three
pounds in the Art School competition!



When John Brown asks $5000 for a picture
to-day and gets it, the sum does not seem as
big or as gratifying as did that prize of fifteen
dollars. It was a turning-point in his career,
the new impulse given to his sturdy courage by
that recognition and assistance. The workmen
hurrahed till the glass-house echoed, patted him
heartily on the back, and felt they all were hon-
ored by his success. The Edinburgh papers
had it on the next day. "A glass-worker named
John G. Brown has won a prize at the Gov-
ernment Royal Academy Schools." The bosses
of the factory, who dealt with the workmen
through the foremen, and hence knew little of
them personally, dropped in and asked to have
the prize-winner pointed out. Some of them
invited the successful young workman to their
houses. Oh, how sweet it was! Honor, money,
social success, to him the glass-worker, for his
own work -in art, the first fruit of his dogged
devotion to painting. What wonder that it
keyed him up!
After thirteen months in Edinburgh he went
to London. Every young man in the United
Kingdom with a particularly brainy head, and
a fine plucky confidence in his ability to hew
out his fortunes, drifts to London, just as.in
America clever young fellows from all parts of
the country come to New York.
There in the vast metropolis the young art-
student made designs for a manufacturer of
stained-glass windows, and also painted por-
traits. He was getting away from the glass-fac-
tory a little, and was taking a stronger hold on
art. He was perfectly willing to paint a por-
trait for eight or ten dollars. He could finish
two of them a week.
One night he heard Harry Russell sing some
of his emigrant songs. Russell was a concert-
singer of those days; he had a sympathetic
voice, and sang popular songs. That settled
it for young Brown. He would emigrate. He
must cross the wide blue sea." And he did.
He arrived in New York on his twenty-second
birthday, and he has been here ever since. As
usual, when he made a change from one place to
another, he at once sought for his art instruction
in the new field. His three-pound prize, and
his portrait-painting at ten dollars a portrait,
had not yet enabled him to sink the artisan and

be only the artist. So he got employment in a
glass-factory, and went to the night-classes of
the Academy of Design, then on the southwest
comer of Broadway and Thirteenth Street.
Thomas S. Cummings had charge of these
classes at that time.
So far young Brown's career had been very
like that of the good young man in the story-
books. Now, in the story-books, the good young
man, as a rule, marries his employer's daughter.
So that though this is always a most beautiful
and delightful thing, it does not seem thrill-
ingly novel or original on the part of the hero.
Still, this is what J. G. Brown did, some two
years after he arrived in America. He married
Miss Owens, the daughter of his employer.
They went to live in Brooklyn, where Mr. Brown
took a studio on Atlantic and Clinton Streets.
And after they had been one year married Mr.
Owens died, and a year later came the panic of
1857, in which whatever property the Owens
family had was lost. Mr. Brown is ever so much
better able to endure these hard times, to-day
when he is sixty-three, than he was then when
he was twenty-six. But he went ahead, with
the grit that has always marked him, painting
portraits, and about this time he began to paint
children, pictures of little boys and girls, with
a "story" in them. His fondness for this class
of subject brought it about that after a while
he was spoken of as "The Child-painter." He
is still entitled to this appellation, though his
tough" little newsboys and bootblacks are al-
most too bold and independent to be styled
children. Most of them are little men.
One evening about this time Mr. S. P. Avery,
the well-known art-dealer, invited Mr. Brown
to his house. To this day the veteran artist re-
calls that evening as one of the pleasantest hap-
penings in his career. He met a great number
of artists, and he saw a house full of fine paint-
ings. Later, Mr. Avery purchased one of
Brown's pictures, and this was a great help and
encouragement to the young artist.
In 1860, George Boughton, one of the best
known of the American artists of a slightly
older generation than this, gave up his New
York studio to go to Europe for a year. Mr.
Brown, then thirty years old, took the studio.
Boughton is still in Europe, and Brown is still

in the studio, in the Studio Building, 51 West not to let Boughton know who he was. He
Tenth street, a tenant of thirty-five years' stand- wanted to see if Boughton would recognize in
ing-the oldest in the place, the graybeard of sixty the black-haired fellow
The next time Brown saw Boughton was of thirty who had taken his studio.



thirty years later, when the latter was on a visit "Do you know who I am ? he asked.
to this country, and was the guest of honor at Boughton looked at him closely for half a min-
a dinner given to him by the Lotos Club. He ute. Then he said with decision: "You are
sat at Boughton's right, and had asked them John G. Brown." Not bad for Boughton!



About the time that Mr. Brown moved into simple homely objects about them. But when
the Tenth Street Studio Building, he got a little visitors come to his studio, and he shows
place at Fort Lee where he lived in the sum- them these pictures, they look at them, praise
mer. This was after he was The Child- them, and then say: "But won't you let us see
painter." He loved to paint children playing some of your boys, Mr. Brown? And it is be-
in the bright country sunshine, finding
the pure open air with the grass and
flowers the best setting for their inno-
cence. At this time John Sherwood, who
built the Sherwood Studio Building at
the corner of Fifty-seventh street and
Sixth avenue, chanced to see some of
these pictures of children by Brown, and
said to him: Brown, I like these. Paint
me a boy. I '11 give you five hundred
dollars for it."
This was a windfall to the young
artist, to whom a sum like that still
looked imposingly big. Through Mr.
Sherwood he got several orders for
pictures. Ever since that time Mr.
Brown has been painting boys. It is
not that he is fonder of little boys than
of little girls, but the public seems to
like pictures of the former better than
of the latter. Possibly this is because
little girls are not in. the newspaper-
selling line and do not black boots--
and most of Mr. Brown's boys are
shown as doing one or the other. Some
of his own children, as well as his wife,
have been models for his paintings. He
has a family of several children, the
youngest of whom is now eleven. FROM A PHOTOGoRPH B BAROY.

In 1862, Mr. Brown reaped another
honor. He was made an Associate
Member of the Academy of Design, at whose
night-school he had studied nine years before.
The following year he was made a full member.
In 1887, he was elected President of the Am-
erican Water Color Society for a term of eight
Mr. Brown enjoys painting his roguish boot-
blacks and newsboys, but although he has be-
come well known for this class of subject, the
thing he likes best to paint is something very
different from these frolicsome youngsters. He
likes painting old people, especially old wo-
men. And he likes to picture them in the
surroundings of a country home, with all the


cause the public like the boys best that the
artist paints them oftener than anything else.
In nearly all of these paintings there is a
story, or else a note of feeling--something more
than the mere ragged boys themselves. Here
are two or three bootblacks entirely busied over
a canary which has escaped and which they
have caught. Here they have stood a box on
end, and are trying to teach a small fox-terrier
to "stand up" and to "beg." In another, a
bigger boy is keeping two smaller ones from
fighting. And so on, through an endless variety.
These last two years have been bad ones for
art. Art-workers are always the first to suffer


from hard times. Even people who have
money to spend feel as if it would look wrong
to buy pictures with it when there is so much
suffering to be relieved. They don't think long
enough to discover that if the artists don't sell
their works in hard times artists have to suffer.
Mr. Brown, aware of the "dull times" in art,
used his brush on larger and more important
compositions. One of these was his Academy
picture recently, of a crowd of newsboys
watching one of their number who is walking on
his hands. Another is the Sidewalk Dance."
It is a common scene in New York streets. The
newsboys and bootblacks seem to live in the
open air most of the time, and so Mr. Brown's
pictures of them are nearly always sidewalk
scenes. But this canvas deals with little girls
chiefly. In a tenement-house region let some
organ-grinder sound the loud breezy notes of a
waltz, and these tattered little girls suddenly
clutch each other and whirl around on the
hot pavement with a prim enjoyment that is
marked. How in the world these small crea-
tures of seven and eight know how to waltz is
something to be explained! But some of them
do waltz gracefully and in perfect time, as one
may see for himself on any warm spring day.
This painting is now on exhibition in Milwaukee.
Mr. Brown does all of his painting in the
studio, and he does everything from life. If it
is only a bit of orange-peel, a scrap of newspa-
per, a battered tin can, or what not, it is
painted from the actual thing itself. There is a
good strong light in his studio, and by increas-
ing the effect in his painting, he makes his pic-
tures look as if they were done out of doors.
He used to make sketches of things out of
doors, with notes giving the color effects and
positions, and so on, and then work on his
paintings from the sketches. But a friend once
said to him: "Brown, why don't you paint
right from the model ? The result is so much
more natural." The remark struck Mr. Brown,
and now he does everything from a model.
Mr. Brown used to get his models himself.
He would seek them at Thirty-third street and
Broadway, or around the Fifth Avenue Hotel,
or in City Hall Square and Printing House
Row. "And it was pretty hard to get them,
sometimes," he said. "They naturally knew

nothing about posing as models to an artist,
and thought I was guying them when I said I
would pay them to come and stand still while I
painted them. But now, some boys who have
served a long time as models for me, but who
have got too big to fill the bill any more, are
still useful in picking out other boys who can
serve the purpose. They know what I want,
and never bring me the wrong kind of boy."
These pictures by John G. Brown are so
popular, and there is such a sale of them as
reproductions, that he has all his paintings
copyrighted. He sends two small photographs
of the painting, with the title written underneath,
to the Librarian of Congress at Washington,
and incloses a one-dollar bill. In this way he
secures his rightful profits from the sale of the
copies. Otherwise anybody who chose might
copy one of his works, and keep all the pro-
ceeds from its sale. Sometimes Mr. Brown sells
a copyright for several hundred dollars.
It seems almost unnecessary, after this ac-
count of Mr. Brown's career, to say that he
is a hard worker. In one day he will have a
sketch of a dozen or more figures entirely drawn
in; and as he is very careful in measuring to
secure the perspective, this shows what a rapid
worker he is with his pencil.
His models come at ten in the morning and
stay until three in the afternoon. By half-past
three or four his day's work is over; and if you
drop into his studio then, you will probably
be kindly received, and will discover that he is a
big, thickset man, with a genial face, gray beard,
and glasses.
In these days of success, this painter of the
bright gamins of the New York streets is still
simple and genial. He has a warm feeling for
a lively boy. "I used to be one myself," he
says heartily, with his rich burry" voice.
Sometimes his models give him not a little
trouble by their ignorance of what he desires
for his pictures. After he has started painting
a boy with hair that frowsily strays over his
forehead, the boy appears some morning with
his hair cut close to the roots. Or they dress
up to come for the pose; and instead of being
interesting ragged urchins, they are only poorly
dressed little boys whom one would hardly care
to see either in a picture or out of it. It is no


_ ~J~


use to tell them what to do and what not to do.
"They forget before they reach the landing on
the way out," says Mr. Brown, with a laugh.
It is to be regretted that the early sketches and
paintings of John G. Brown were destroyed

by fire during his sojourn in London; but he
has a number of sketches of children that were
made over thirty years ago. One of them, a
little girl in a skirt that stands out as if it be-
longed to the era of crinoline, is the present



;d~~, 7A


wife of the artist. Those earlier child-pictures
are sweeter, but not so strong as those of to-
day. The titles that Mr. Brown gives to his
paintings are perfectly in keeping with the
subjects; and naming pictures is not easy.
"This is one of my models," Mr. Brown

Once he kept a boy for nearly an hour in a
rather difficult pose, which he wanted to draw
in so that he might go on with the work.
Moreover, it was not one that was very tiring.
But Mr. Brown was beginning to wonder if
the lad could stand it any longer when he


said one day to the writer, pointing to a ragged
urchin, who looked as if he had walked out of
the frame of one of the artist's pictures to take
a rest in the armchair in which he was so com-
fortably curled up. "This is 'Pete.' The little
rascal never took a bath in his life. When his
hands and feet show in a picture he has to be
washed up a little, as they are even too dirty
to be picturesque." Pete grinned as if he was
pleased with the distinction of being an absolute
stranger to the bath. But he probably does wash
his face and hands occasionally. His face was
bright enough to deserve not to be hidden by dirt.
Mr. Brown is considerate of the boys, and
does not make them pose too long at a time.

heard him carelessly humming a street air.
The boy was "all right."
Although it is an artist's work that the pub-
lic has to deal with, and his personality should
not affect the judgment on this, one way or
another, yet, as a matter of fact, interest in the
artist creates an added interest in his work. It
seems as if one who knows the career of John
G. Brown, and the sturdy way in which he has
made his own way in the world, must enjoy his
bootblacks more than if he were ignorant of the
hardy and amiable qualities which exist in
him. There is certainly much in that career to
admire, and much that deserves praise outside
of his ability as an artist.




A SONG of the reaping-time,
Of the feast-days of the year;
A song of the grain and the well-filled wain,
And the husking-time that 's near.
Here 's hey, for a merry romp
In the brown old fields and vales!
And ho, for the mead where the cattle feed,
And ho, for the autumn gales!
A hunt through the tall, dim woods
For the fruit of the oak and vine;
A peep at the nest of the last redbreast,
And a call where the chipmunks dine.
A smile in the morning skies,
And a laugh in the streams that flow,
As they share their joy with the girl and boy
That to-day may a-rambling go.





[Begun in the November number.]
IT was a stubborn fight with fate that went
on in the gilded Elysian Palace in the street of
St. Honor in those bright days of a Paris June.
An emperor was trying the hard task of ruling
his own spirit; a conqueror was set to the bit-
ter struggle of conquering himself. Than this
there is no harder task in all the world, whether
for boy or emperor.
And, in this fight, allies were not to be de-

pended upon; foes really were friends. For
the first would have tempted the overpowered
monarch to stand at bay against victorious
Europe and distrusting France; the others
were determined to drive him from France at
all hazards. And, in his case, to go was his
only safety; though had he died fighting for
his lost crown, history would have given him
even greater glory.
Then came the end, when his ministers set
themselves up to be his masters; when those he
had most richly rewarded became his keenest
foes; when France refused to acknowledge as its


ruler a man twice overthrown; when from those
to whom he looked for counsel came only luke-
warm loyalty, false protestations, or unwelcome
truth; when from anger at the unreliable Cham-
ber of Deputies, whom he, like Cromwell,
threatened to turn out "neck and heels," he
would change to indecision, silence, even timid-
ity, it was plain there was but one thing to do.
He did it. On the twenty-second of June,
1815, Napoleon signed a second abdication,
proclaimed his little son, whom Austria had
kidnapped, Emperor of the French, and three
days later left Paris forever.
He drove to Malmaison, twelve miles from
Paris, that beautiful estate, half palace, half
villa, which had been the home of the Empress
Josephine. Here Napoleon had spent many
happy hours in his days of power and prosper-
ity; here Josephine had died while he was at
Elba; here the Emperor had planned out his
greatest campaigns, his most glorious victories;
and here Philip came to him.
Philip could not-he would not-renounce
his loyalty, his devotion, his love. There are
some natures which are truest when clouds are
darkest and when days are most threatening.
Such was the nature of Philip Desnouettes.
Such, indeed, were yet many of the people
of France: old soldiers who had fought for the
Emperor; old friends who had shared alike his
pomp and his reverses, men and women who
had sent their sons to die for France and the
Emperor, and would not admit his weakness
even now when fate seemed so set against him;
boys who had been brought up to have faith in
Napoleon's glory as in the sun, and would not
believe there could be such a thing as an
So Philip, loyal and hopeful still, followed
the Emperor to Malmaison. He had almost
had a falling-out with Citizen Daunou, because
that stanch old republican had favored the re-
moval of Napoleon and, with Lafayette, had
cried for the restoration of the Republic.
Philip cared nothing for a republic. To him,
knowing nothing of such a relief from tyranny,
a government meant only the Emperor. So here
he was, at Malmaison, ready to fight for the Em-
peror, if need be to die with him or for him, so
constant was his loyalty, so deep his affection.

Get me speech with the Emperor, young
Desnouettes," a voice said at his elbow, as he
was about to enter the palace; I have some-
thing for his good."
Philip turned about. The speaker was Pierre
the inspector of police.
"Is it you, Pierre? Philip exclaimed; what
have you to say ? "
"That is for his ear, yonder, my friend,"
Pierre replied. Get me speech with him and
quickly. Time presses both for him and me."
"So, my boy! it is you?" Napoleon ex-
claimed as Philip was ushered into his presence.
Ever faithful, you!" and he embraced the
boy warmly.
The Emperor looked worn and oppressed,
colorless and sad. Philip was almost startled at
the change, but My faith! he said to himself;
think what he has gone through! Who would
not look badly after such a strain ? And then
he burst out with the feelings that were tug-
ging at his heart.
I had to come, Sire," he cried. My place
is by your side, if you will but permit me. Use
me as you will. See; I am ready. I will work
for you; I will follow' you; I will die for you.
Your enemies are afoot. They plot your ruin.
Bid me remain by you. I swear to kill the
first traitor who dares lay hand upon my
Napoleon's eyes filled with tears as he lis-
tened to the excited boy's pledges of devotion.
His listlessness gave way to interest.
Brave boy he said. "Were there others
like you I might yet save France! But no.
They are all the slaves of the allies those
sovereigns of Europe whom once I spared, and
who now dishonor themselves in persecuting
me. Imbeciles! they would give me up to-day
to save France so they say; to-morrow they
will give up France to save their own precious
heads. I alone could retrieve all."
Philip fired with enthusiasm. "You can, Sire.
You will. Your army is gathering almost within
call. It will rally around you. In your sol-
diers yet remain patriotism and the hope of
glory. They are for France and the Emperor.
With you to lead them, nothing is to be de-
spaired of."
The Emperor reflected. He was a sick man.




Already action was becoming a task. "A di-
vided nation and all Europe to face?" he
said. It is too desperate a chance. I dare
not plunge France again into war. And yet -
we must think of it carefully, my Philip."
Then Philip remembered that Pierre was wait-
ing. He communicated the young inspector's

What! -he who is one day to be Minister of
Police ? said the Emperor with a smile. Bid
him enter."
Pierre came speedily.
"At great risk I am come, Sire," he said,
"for things are not going your way at head-
quarters. But while a chance remains to aid
him who gave me my step, I seize it. I bring



you word from friends. I am charged with an
offer for safety. See; at Havre waits an Ameri-
can merchant-vessel; her captain stays for you
in Paris. Horses are ready. Everything is
prepared. At your orders the captain will sail.
To-morrow you may be at sea, safe under the
American flag, secure from enemies, free to go
wherever you choose. Sire, will you accept ?"
Napoleon sat silent, then he said: "You are a
clever one, Monsieur the Inspector. And you
will swear to me this is not a blind -a plot?
I thank you and my friends. It might be well.
I could go to America- get some land be a
farmer--end my days in peace. Or, if the
land of Washington rejects me, I could go to
Mexico; I could lead the Independents there;
perhaps found a new Empire of the West. But
no," he said, shaking his head; "flight I dis-
dain. It is not for' me to skulk in secret from
my foes. I have no fear. It is the duty of
France to protect me."
Philip, too, was.in doubt. 'He could not bear
to think of his hero flying secretly from France.
To him, indeed, France without Napoleon was
as day without the sun.
But, Sire," said Pierre, "reflect! the allies
are marching on Paris. They will surround
Malmaison. Bliicher swears your destruction.
At any moment his cavalry may cross the Seine,
capture you, and carry you off. Listen! do you
hear that ? It is the sound of the Prussian can-
non." As he spoke the distant boom of cannon
fell upon their ears. The enemy was, indeed,
at Compiegne.
The guns of his foemen acted like a tonic
upon the Emperor. His indecision flamed into
action. "The enemy at Compiegne ? he cried.
"To-morrow he may be in Paris! It is time
to act. Those people at Paris are fools and
traitors. Boys; there are a hundred thousand
of my soldiers behind the Loire. At their head
I can conquer. Here, Philip write! And you,
Monsieur the Inspector, deliver the message I
would send at once to those waverers at Paris.
I may yet save France."
At the Emperor's dictation Philip wrote rap-
idly to the provisional government at Paris:
In abdicating power I have not renounced the noblest
right of the citizen the right of defending his country.
The enemy's approach to the capital no longer leaves the
VOL. XXII.-124.

least doubt as to their intentions or their bad faith. In
these grave circumstances I offer my services as general.
I ask to serve France for the last time, and I swear
to save her.

There, Monsieur the Inspector," said Na-
poleon, signing the note, give this to Caulain-
court. He is my faithful friend. It need not
compromise you. Assure him that when the
enemy is driven from France I will myself
retire. Go."
"And the American vessel, Sire? queried
"It must sail without me. Now it is for us
to save France."
Philip caught the Emperor's flash of enthu-
siasm. He hurried Pierre from the palace.
"But it is to no purpose, my Philip," the
inspector said. Fouch6 and those others at
Paris will listen to no such splendid scheme.
Above all else, they wish to get the Emperor
away, and to make their peace with the Bourbons.
They fear Napoleon, and, now that they have
him down, will keep him down. He should
have accepted my offer."
Napoleon was pacing his room when Philip
returned; he was issuing.orders with his old-time
energy. So sure was he of the call from Paris,
so filled was he with the idea of action and
leadership again, that he dressed in his famous
chasseur uniform, called his aides about him,
had his horses saddled and in readiness to
mount, and waited anxiously for the summons.
He paced the room restlessly. "Why does
no answer come ?" he cried. "Perhaps Cau-
laincourt could not arrange it. Captain Des-
nouettes, go you. Take one of the horses--
hasten to Paris. See Caulaincourt-Fouch6-
any one. Tell them I am ready; arrange for
my coming."
Philip caught the spirit of his master. He
was soon riding in haste to Paris. The first
official he encountered at the Tuileries was
Davout, Minister of War-Davout, whom
Napoleon had raised from a lieutenancy to be
Marshal, Duke, and Prince of the Empire.
To him Philip told the Emperor's desire.
The "butcher of Hamburg," as the Prussians
called Davout, fumed with rage.
"You are fools-you and your Emperor!"
he cried. "Tell Bonaparte to get out. We do



not want him. We have had far too much of
him. We can neither fight nor negotiate while
he remains. If he thinks he can be chief and
master again, he is mightily mistaken. Tell
him to get out, and speedily, or I will have
him arrested, even if I have to grab him by
the collar myself! "
Philip was almost speechless at such brutal
and vindictive words from one of Napoleon's
old-time friends and followers. Then he as-
sumed his most dignified bearing.
Monsieur the Marshal," he said, "I have
too much respect for the Emperor and for you
to carry such a message."
The War Minister turned on him savagely.
"Who are you, boy ?" he said. "What are
you? An officer of France. I am your su-
perior. Get you to the station at Fontaine-
bleau straight, and there await my orders."
"Sir," said plucky Philip, "I take no orders
from any one save my master the Emperor. I,
at least, will not desert the man to whom
others, even more his debtors, deny their oath
of loyalty."
Puppy! the enraged marshal cried. Do
you brave me? I will punish you for this!"
"You shall not! I will give you no chance,"
Philip returned, quite as hotly. "I resign my
commission as captain in the army. I notify
you of this, Monsieur the Marshal. Henceforth
I obey only my honor."
Then, turning, he sprang to his horse and
rode to Malmaison, leaving the War Minister
fuming with rage. And thus Philip threw away
his commission.
"What?" cried Napoleon, when, as Philip
returned to Malmaison, he read failure in the
young man's face. "They do not refuse, do
they? "
"They do, Sire," Philip replied, and told of
his reception.
At first Napoleon blazed out in wrath. Ar-
rest me? Me? Davout ? he cried. Then
the reaction came. He flung off his uniform;
he sank into a chair. "Well, let them come,"
he said resignedly. I am ready, if necessary,
to lay my head on the block. I will be a
sacrifice for France."
Again he sank into lethargy. Again Philip,
alarmed for the Emperor's safety, dashed out

for news. He feared Davout might carry out
his threat. But he learned of events even more
"The enemy have surrounded Paris," he
reported. "They have almost flanked Mal-
maison. Blicher swears to take you prisoner,
and hang you in the sight of the invading
armies. It is either fight here, or fly at once.
Sire, which shall it be ? We can defend you -
we will-- to the death! But it would be your
death, too, for we could not long hold Mal-
maison against the enemy. Say but the word,
though, and here we are, ready to shout, For
France and the Emperor!' and die defending
Again Napoleon started to his feet .He
drew his sword. Let us defend ourselves,
my friends," he cried. Let us die for France.
Alas!" he said, changing from energy to sad-
ness, "it is of no avail. It would be but a
useless sacrifice. The people at Paris have no
patriotism. They have no energy. All is over.
Let us go into exile."
Swiftly the orders were given. The Empe-
ror assumed citizen's dress. He said good-by
to his mother, his brothers, his household, little
thinking he would never see them again. And
that same evening two carriages drove from
Malmaison, carrying Napoleon and his few
personal friends to the sea-coast, where, it
was said, a French frigate waited at Rochefort,
to carry the discrowned Emperor to a place of
Philip rode on the coachman's box, as in his
palmy days of pagedom. He would not de-
sert his hero.
The journey into exile was full of exciting
adventures. Wherever he was recognized Na-
poleon was greeted with the hail that had ever
been to him both incense and inspiration," Long
live the Emperor!" His exile was almost a
triumph. Philip felt that if the Emperor would
only rally his friends around him and make a
stand, the return from Elba might be repeated.
But it was too late. The old fire smoldered;
its flaming up was only momentary. He still
hoped against hope for a recall to Paris.
At last he reached Rochefort. He had de-
layed too long. Escape was impossible. The
harbor was blockaded by the English fleet.



Then Napoleon, ever ready with devices, and
quick with surprises, outdid himself in surpris-
ing. "I will board one of the English ves-
sels," he said. I will throw myself on 'the
hospitality of England. General Gourgaud, you
and Captain Desnouettes shall go to London
for me. I will send a request to the Prince
Protests were unavailing. Napoleon had
made up his mind. And then it was that he
wrote to the Prince Regent of England the
famous letter which Lamartine called "the ap-
peal of a great soul struggling with the ex-
tremities of fate ":

ROYAL HIGHNESS: A victim to the factions which
divide my country, and to the enmity of the great
powers of Europe, I have ended my political career, and
come, like Themistocles, to sit down beside the hearths
of the British people. 'I place myself under the protec-
tion of their laws, which I claim from your Royal High-
ness, as the most powerful, the most constant, and the
most generous of my enemies. NAPOLEON.

This was the letter which, accompanying
General Gourgaud, Philip bore to London.
The boy was well-nigh dazed with this -unex-
pected decision of the badgered Emperor.
The two officers sailed on a small vessel, which
the English permitted to pass their blockade,
and were soon in London.
Then Napoleon, bidding adieu to France,-
to France which had once exulted in him, and
now cast him out,-went on board the English
frigate "Bellerophon," a guest, and not a pris-
oner, and sailed for England.
But England feared its dethroned rival too
greatly to be magnanimous; it feared him too
much to be hospitable. The ministers of the
Prince Regent refused Napoleon's request.
They had "the Corsican ogre" at last in their
power. They would punish and imprison him.
So Philip's mission proved a failure; and
when by the side of brave General Gourgaud,
he rode into Plymouth, he felt that there was
now neither safety, salvation, nor the hope of
rescue for his Emperor. Already he knew the
decree had gone forth that consigned the most
marvelous man of modern times, the conqueror
of Europe, the terror of England, to a lifelong
captivity at St. Helena-that prison-rock
across five thousand miles of sea.

Napoleon was transferred to the frigate
"Northumberland." His protest was recorded:
He wrote:

I am not the prisoner, I am the guest of England. ..
I appeal to history. It will say that an enemy, who for
twenty years had fought the English people, went of
his own accord, in the hour of misfortune, to seek an
asylum under the protection of their laws. What more
striking proof could he give of his esteem and confi-
dence? But how did England reply? It pretended to
hold out a hospitable hand to its enemy; and when he
had taken it, with confidence, England immolated him.

The Emperor's protest was of no avail. Eng-
land was determined. Napoleon must go.
The farewells were said with all the accom-
paniment of tears and embraces that are a part
of the impulsive French nature. "Farewell,
my friends," said the Emperor. "Be happy.
My thoughts will never leave you nor any of
those who have served me. Tell France that
I pray for her."
But where was Philip ? Included among those
who had been permitted to come on board the
Northumberland to say good-by to Napoleon,
he had no sooner felt the warm embrace of the
Emperor than he had disappeared.
Half crazed with the defeat of all his high
hopes; unable, yet, to feel that his Emperor's
star had set; cast down by the refusal of the
English to let him accompany his master into
exile; tenderly commanded by Napoleon to go
back to his sister and his home in Paris, Philip
had taken a sudden and desperate resolve.
What were sister and home to him if this
man he had so long served, reverenced, and
followed was to be consigned to so monstrous
a fate? He would go with the Emperor. They
should not drive him away.
In the confusion of farewells and departure,
while the calm, dignified, and imperial figure of
the vanquished conqueror was the center of all
eyes, Philip had slipped from sight.
Diving down into the hold of the great frig-
ate, swiftly and unobserved, the boy hid himself
among the orderly array of stores for the voyage
that filled the vessel's hold. Good luck the
.usual "Philip's luck"-favored his choice of
a hiding-place. He had blundered upon a
"snuggery" flanked on one side with chests of
sea-biscuit and on the other by casks of water.




" Now, let them find me if they can!" Philip below, and my Emperor was gone fro
said. "Good-by, France." forever!"
Philip, still with the Emperor, was bound for
St. Helena as a stowaway. With this last glimpse of the Empero
At least, that was his intention. But as with story of Philip Desnouettes comes to an
the Emperor, so with Philip. His "luck" had His later adventures are full of interest
changed. When but a few hours at sea a they have no bearing upon the great hi
prying seaman-" Bah! that imbecile !" Philip character with whom thus far his boy-lifi
always said in parenthesis when he was telling been so closely associated.
this story, "what business had he to blunder When "the White Terror," that fanat
upon my retreat? "-had discovered the stow- venge of the royalists, ran its short care
away, ignominiously dragged
him from his hiding-place and
marched him, like a criminal, be-
fore the officer of the deck.
There was scant time for ex-
planations. A Dutch hoy was
passing within hail and the next
instant, as it seemed to Philip, he
was unceremoniously flung over
the side despite his frantic protest '
and his impassioned appeals to' '""
say farewell to his Emperor. '_
"But I did get one last glimpse '
of him in spite of those perfidious
English and those pigs ofDutch- 'i'j 11
men," Philip said, in reciting his I'
adventures. It was after I had ,/
been tumbled neck and heels into /
the Dutch hoy. We were just
casting off from the big Nor- ''
thumberland frigate. I lifted
my eyes in despair. Just then
my Emperor came on deck. In
the distance the headland of Cape
La Hogue rose dimly through -
the mist. The Emperor recog-
nized the shore; he knew it was
his last look at France. He
stretched out both hands toward '
that misty coast-line as if in fare-

n me

r, our
t, but
e had

ic re-
er of

well. Oh, Mademoiselle, my sister, shall I ever
forget that look, shall I ever lose the sound
of that voice I loved so well! I could hear
him plainly as he cried, 'Adieu, land of heroes!
Adieu, dear France! A few less traitors and you
would be mistress of the world!' Alas! it was
my last sight of his face, my last hearing of his
voice. For even as I would have cried out my
farewell, those pigs of Dutchmen hustled me

proscription and death in France, Philip and
his sister, with Citizen Daunou, fled to America.
There they joined certain of their exiled com-
patriots in founding in Texas one of those
French refugee communities known as the
"City of Refuge." One after another, these
attempts in the New World at military republics
sacred to Napoleon failed of success, and Philip
and his sister drifted first to New Orleans and


then to Philadelphia. Citizen Daunou returned
to France; Mademoiselle married one of the
many friends she had met and made in the
Crescent City, and lived and died a lady of
New Orleans.
Pierre the Inspector became a royalist, and
wore the white cockade, not from patriotism
but from policy. "He who turns his coat has
still a coat to wear," was his philosophic con-
clusion, in spite of Philip's indignant protests.
And Babette-she too accepted the inevitable;
and when Pierre rose to high honors, and be-
came not the Minister of Police as the Em-
peror prophesied, but chief and prefect- what
do you think ? He married Babette, and they
were both of them loyal to the White Cockade
of the Bourbons until the tricolor came in
once more with the third Napoleon.
As for Philip, he became a merchant of Phila-
delphia; he changed his unhandy French name,
" Desnouettes," which baffled everyone, into its
Yankee equivalent, "Tyler"; he married an
American girl, and lived a loyal and devoted
citizen of his adopted country.
But, though he learned to look at things
differently as he grew older, he never forgot
his Emperor. Good American citizen though
he became, the stirring experiences of his
youth, when he was a lively young page of the

palace in the days of the splendid First Empire,
were never forgotten by him.
In a small room in his big Philadelphia
home, Philip kept what he called his sanctuary.
In the center stood a bronze bust of Napoleon,.
draped with the tricolor, and surrounded with.
trophies of the days that were gone-not the:
least interesting of these trophies being the
green-and-crimson suit of a Page of the Palace,
and the light-blue uniform of a Lieutenant of
* Philip mourned the death of Napoleon, and
treasured for years an unquenchable hatred
against "perfidious Albion," as he persisted in
calling the great English nation which he de-
dared to be "his Emperor's murderer."
Though his preference was for a republic, he
still did not conceal his joy when, by a question-
able method, in the middle year of the century,
the Bonapartist power came again to France.
"It is but retribution," he said; and old
memories came crowding upon his mind when
at the head of the Second Empire reigned, as
Napoleon the Third, the brother to that same
bright little fellow for whom, in days long gone,
Philip had danced "zig-zag" on that never-for-
gotten June morning when, beneath the chest-
nuts of St. Cloud, the ragged boy of the Street
of the Washerwomen first met "Uncle Bibiche."





"I HAVE a table," And learned folk say
Said Arthug to Mabel, That wise old Hindoos
"Three thousand years old; This table could use
And though it has stood Before Egypt's day!"
So long, 't is as good
As the finest of gold!" "Why, Arthur," said Mabel,
"Do show us this table
"O, Arthur, your table, That 's older than Egypt -as old
I fear, is a fable, as creation!"
And you are its knight.
Of course it is round, My table is square,
But where.was it found? Not round:- to be fair,
Now tell,-honor bright!" But why should I show
What all the girls know,-
"'T was found, they say, Mabel, This very old table, called
In the great tower of Babel; Multiplication ? "



THE Lowells hold an honored place in the
local history of New England. One member
of the family introduced cotton-spinning into
the United States; and for him the town of
Lowell is named. Another left money to found
in Boston the course of lectures known as the
Lowell Institute. The most famous of them
all was James Russell Lowell, born in 1819,
at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on February 22,
also the birthday of the most distinguished of
all Americans.
The father of James Russell Lowell was a
Boston clergyman of high character and fine
training; and his mother, who was descended
from an Orkney family, had an ardent apprecia-
tion of poetry and romance, which she was able
to transmit to her children. The boy grew to
manhood in Cambridge, then little more than
a straggling village.
At the age -of eight or nine he was sent as a
day-scholar to a boarding-school in Cambridge,
where the boys were made to work hard. To
the training and to the instruction received at
this school Lowell owed much in after life. It
happens that two or three of the letters he
wrote then to a brother away from home have
been kept, and they show that he was already
fond of books, often thinking about them, and
always glad to get them. In one letter written
before he was ten, he tells his brother that their
mother has just given him the three volumes
of Scott's Tales of a Grandfather," and he de-
clares, I have got quite a library."
At the age of fifteen he entered Harvard.
This was in 1834, and in 1836 Longfellow came
to the college to teach literature, succeeding
Ticknor, as Lowell was to succeed Longfellow
a score of years later. At Harvard, Lowell was
not a diligent student; he liked better to read
what interested him than to master the tasks
set for him in the college books. Spenser was
already a favorite poet of his, and he seems

early to have entered on the study of Dante,
which was to be a life-long pleasure to him. He
began to rhyme for himself, and in his junior
year he wrote the anniversary poem. He was
made editor of the college magazine in his se-
nior year. He seems to have been popular
with his classmates, and he was chosen to write
the class poem. But he had so neglected cer-
tain of the prescribed studies of the college,
that he was suspended for several months; and
as the term of suspension extended over class-
day, he was not able himself to deliver the poem
he had written. He had it printed for his com-
panions, although he held it in too slight esteem
ever to include it among the poems which he
published in later years.
After his graduation he thought of entering
the Divinity School; but he decided at last to
study law. Although he was on the very verge
of giving it up twenty times, he persevered, and
received his degree of Bachelor of Laws in
1840. He opened an office in Boston, but it is
doubtful whether he ever had even that "First
Client" whom he was afterward to describe in
a humorous sketch. Not liking the law as a
means of livelihood, he finally abandoned it,
as Holmes had done only a few years earlier.
Lowell had become engaged to Miss Maria
White, who greatly influenced his life. In 1841
came the publication of a volume of poems,
some of which had been printed already in
the magazines, while others were hasty and
crude rhymes which he kept out of later
editions of his poems-just as Whittier re-
jected his own early verses. Lowell was barely
twenty-two when his book appeared; but there
was more than one poem in it which gave high
promise of his future. In addition to his ability,
he had a deep love for letters; and this it was
which led him, a year later, to start a monthly
magazine. But the magazine soon came to an
end, leaving its proprietors in debt.


Until he met Miss White, Lowell's interests
and his ambitions were almost wholly literary.
Under her influence he came to have a strong
sympathy for the slaves. He swiftly saw that
in real life there were causes to be fought
far better worth the struggle than any mere
craving for personal fame. His love for letters
never lessened, but it was linked thereafter to
the love for human freedom. He was married
at last in 1844, in which year he brought out a
revised edition of his poems. A few months
later he gathered from the magazines certain
prose criticisms, chiefly about the older English
poets -criticisms which he thought so lightly
,of in later years that he did not allow them to
be included in his collected works. And about
this time he was a frequent contributor to the
Philadelphia Freeman, the anti-slavery journal
formerly edited by Whittier. *
Settled at Cambridge, in "Elmwood" (the
house where he had been born), happily mar-
ried, supporting himself by his writings, and en-
listed in the service of a cause which he had
taken to heart, Lowell undertook to contribute
every week, either in prose or in verse, to one of
the ablest of the anti-slavery journals; and he
kept this agreement for nearly four years -from
1846 to 185o. These were four years of un-
rest and excitement throughout the world, and
here in the United States the discussion over
slavery became more and more serious. The
slaveholders were aggressive, and the abolition-
ists were striving hard to arouse the conscience
of the nation against the buying and selling of
human beings.
Chiefly to gain an increase of territory for
the spread of slavery, this country became in-
volved in a war with Mexico over the admis-
sion of Texas. Although it is easy enough
now to see that we needed the new lands we
were to gain by force of arms, and that with-
out them the proper growth of the United
States was not possible, it was hard to foresee
this then. What was plain at that time was
that both the motives and the methods of those
who were urging us into the Mexican War were
alike unworthy. This is what Lowell discerned
with his usual keenness; and no one attacked
those responsible for the Mexican War more
sharply than he, or more effectively.

The famous "Bigldw Papers" were written
in verse and in the homely dialect of the New
England farmer. With pungent humor, and
in stanzas that had a sharp flavor of the soil,
Hosea Biglow made fun of the attempts to
rouse his fellow-citizens to military fervor. His
stinging lines, which scorched themselves into
the memory, were accompanied by the prose
comments of Parson Wilbur, who represented
the other side of the New England character.
While the clergyman was glad to air his culture
and his learning, he served admirably to set
off the simple frankness of the Yankee youth.
That the lyrics of Hosea should linger in the
ears of those who heard them, Lowell took care
to give to each a swinging rhythm, and often
also a catching refrain. When at last the scat-
tered "Biglow Papers" were collected into a
volume in 1848, the author, just to show that
the New England dialect could be used for
other things than satire, added to the book a
Yankee idyl, "The Courtin'," one of the most
charming and natural love-episodes in all Eng-
lish poetry.
The poem is a favorite with American youth,
and is frequently recited in schools. Perhaps
these two stanzas are especial favorites:

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown
An' peeked in thru' the winder,
An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'Ith no one nigh to tender.

He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle,
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

While he was writing the Biglow Papers"
one after another, Lowell was also at work on
a satire of a very different kind-" The Fable
for Critics," which also was published in 1848.
It was a review in verse of the state of Ameri-
can literature at the end of the first half of the
nineteenth century. It contained a gallery of
portraits of the American authors then well
known and in every portrait the striking fea-
tures of the original were seized with swift in-
sight and with sharp vigor. The spirited lines
of the poem are as readable now as when they
were first written, with their scattering fire of
verbal jokes, of ingenious rhymes, and of per-


* ;s T


VOL. XXII.- 125.




A-Iz CAM -



sonal witticisms. As the Biglow Papers" is
the finest political satire yet written in the
United States, so "A Fable for Critics" is the
clearest and most truthful literary satire.
Nor did these two satires withdraw him
wholly from the higher poetry on which his
heart was set; and in this same year, 1848, he
sent forth also The Vision of Sir Launfal," his
first attempt at telling a story in verse. Perhaps
it is the best of all his serious poems -loftiest
in conception and most careful in execution.
His habit then, as always, was to brood over
the subject he wished to treat in verse, to fill
himself with it, and finally to write it out at
a single sitting if possible. He rarely rewrote,
and his verse lacked finish and polish, though
it never wanted force. It was at this time
that he told Longfellow he meant to give up
poetry because he could "not write slowly
His poetry also suffered from another failing
of his. He was not content to set forth beauty
only, and to let the reader discover a moral for
himself. Longfellow, Whittier, and Lowell all
insisted too much at times on the lesson of the
song. And Lowell knew his own defect, and
wrote later in life,-" I shall never be a poet till I
get out of the pulpit, and New England was all
meeting-house when I was growing up." And,
in the Fable for Critics" (which was pub-
lished without his own name as author, and in
which he thought it best to include himself
among the poets satirized), he thus judges his
own efforts:
There is Lowell, who 's striving Parnassus to climb-
With a whole bale of isms tied together with rhyme;
He might get on alone, spite of brambles and boulders,
But he can't with that bundle he has on his shoulders;
The top of the hill he will ne'er come nigh reaching,
Till he learns the distinction twixtt singing and preach-
His lyre has some chords that would ring pretty well,
But he 'd rather by half make a drum of the shell,
And rattle away till he 's old as Methusalem,
At the head of a march to the last new Jerusalem.

But while these years were bringing to Lowell
success as a poet, the health of his wife was
slowly fading. For her sake they went to Eu-
rope in 185i, returning the following year. In
spite of all that could be done for her, she died
in October, 1853.

In the fall of 1854 Lowell delivered a series
of lectures on the English poets. These ad-
dresses, given at Lowell Institute in Boston,
showed all the richness and strength of his cul-
ture, and displayed the full power of his criti-
cal faculty. They proved that he was the
American critic who had at once the keenest
insight and the widest knowledge. Almost im-
mediately afterward the professorship of modern
languages at Harvard was offered to Lowell,
Longfellow having resigned it. He accepted
the honorable position, and was allowed two
years' leave of absence, to spend in Europe in
study. It was in the spring of 1857 that Lowell
became a professor of Harvard -just ten years
after Dr. Holmes had jdihoed the faculty of the
same college.
With Dr. Holmes he was soon brought into
closer contact. A new American magazine
was planned, to contain writings more particu-
larly from the New England group of writers;
and the editorship was offered to Lowell. He
accepted on condition that Dr. Holmes would
promise to contribute; and, therefore, when
the first number of the Atlantic appeared
in 1857, it contained the opening paper of the
"Autocrat of the Breakfast Table." For four
years Lowell edited this magazine, toiling faith-
fully, writing abundantly himself, generally on
political subjects, and encouraging new writers
of ability. After he resigned the editorship of
the Atlantic he became for a while one of the
conductors of the North American Review.
Under the title of Fireside Travels," he pub-
lished, in 1864, a volume of his prose papers,
collected chiefly from the magazines.
But long before this peaceful prose appeared,
Lowell had been moved again to express in
verse his feelings and his thoughts on the times.
Hosea Biglow had spoken out strongly during
the Mexican War; and it was the Civil War
which aroused him once more. Love of coun-
try was the core of Lowell's character; and the
outbreak of the rebellion stirred his nature to
its depths. The second series of the "Biglow
Papers," written at intervals during the war,
met with even wider popular approval than the
first series; and certainly the stinging stanzas
of Jonathan to John" are unsurpassed in all
English satire. When this second series of the




" Biglow Papers were collected into a volume
in 1866, Lowell wrote for it a consideration
of the past, the present, and the future of the
English language in America -a paper which
had scholarship equal to its humor, and a
sweetness of temper equal to both--a paper
to be read by all who want to understand how
it is that we Americans own a full half of the
English language.
In 1869 Lowell made a collection of his

essays in criticism. The year after, another
volume appeared, called My Study Windows,"
and a few years later came yet another, the
second series of "Among my Books."
As these volumes proved, Lowell was the
greatest of all American critics of literature.
He had knowledge and wisdom, culture and
sagacity. His writing has the leisurely full-
ness of the scholar, and the sharp thrust of the
wit. The gift of the winged phrase was his,


graver verse, Under the Willows," in which
he included his more serious poems of the war.
Among them were the thrilling lines of "The
Washers of the Shroud," and the noble and
lofty ode recited at the Harvard Commemora-
tion of those of her students who had fallen in
battle for the right--the ode in which the poet
set forth in imperishable phrase the true char-
acter of Abraham Lincoln. And in this same
year Lowell also put forth the longest of his
single poems, "The Cathedral."
From the many critical papers he had writ-
ten, chiefly for the periodicals he had edited, and
often founded on courses of college lectures,
Lowell made a first choice in 1870, and pub-
lished "Among my Books," a volume of prose

and no man of our time could better pack
truth into a single sentence. He had, also,
the wide and deep acquaintance with literature
which is the best foundation of learning.
He had enjoyed heartily his own frequent
reading of the works of the great authors he
wrote about, and he was able to convey some
of this enjoyment to his own readers, and to
explain to them the reasons for his liking. His
favorite of all was the mighty Florentine poet,
Dante, whom Lowell steadily studied from
early life. Indeed, the advice he gave to young
men seeking culture was to find the great writer
whom they most appreciated, and to give them-
selves to the constant perusal of this great
writer, growing up to him slowly, and dis-


covering gradually that to understand him
adequately would force them sooner or later
to learn many of the things best worth learning.
At the time of the celebration of the one hun-
dredth anniversary of the chief events of the Rev-
olution, Lowell was the poet to whom the Ameri-
can people turned to have their thoughts and their
sentiments voiced for them in verse; and Lowell
delivered an ode at the centenary of the fight
at Concord Bridge, and another at the cente-
nary of Washington's taking command of the
American army at Cambridge, just before the
siege of Boston, and a third on the Fourth of
July, 1876. In the same year these "Three
Memorial Poems" were published together in
a single volume.
The next year he was called to the service
of the country whose foundation he had been
celebrating in song. He was sent in 1877 as
American minister to Spain, where another
man of letters, Washington Irving, had pre-
ceded him half a century before. In 1880 he
was transferred from Madrid to London. No
American minister ever made himself more
welcome among a foreign people than Lowell
was among the British. And his popularity
was not due to any attempts to please their
prejudices; Lowell never gave up any of his
Americanism-rather on occasion did he affirm
it. Nowhere more plainly than in England was
Lowell's Americanism seen to be ingrained.
With him patriotism was almost a passion. In
sending him to Great Britain the United States
put its best foot forward, and our kin across the
sea were quick to understand the opportunity
offered to them; and by their request Lowell
delivered in England many public addresses -
formal orations some of them, while others were
but off-hand speeches after dinner. But what-
ever the occasion, Lowell was equal to it.
He remained in England three years, and
upon his home-coming, Dr. Holmes greeted
him with a set of verses, including these lines:

By what enchantments, what alluring arts,
Our truthful James led captive British hearts,-
Whether his shrewdness made their statesmen halt,
Or if his learning found their dons at fault,
Or if his virtue was a strange surprise,
Or if his wit flung sawdust in their eyes,-
Like honest Yankees we can simply guess;

But that he did it, all must needs confess.
England herself without a blush may claim
Her only conqueror since the Norman came.

After his return to his native land, Lowell
revised the most important of the many ad-
dresses he had delivered in England; and in
i886 he published them in a volume entitled
Democracy." Here at home Lowell never
hesitated to point out the shortcomings of his
countrymen, their errors and their blunders;
but when he was abroad it was on their merits
only that he was willing to dwell.
He delivered a notable speech on the "In-
dependent in Politics," and this address was
included in a volume of "Political Essays,"
published in 1889.
In the same year appeared also his last
volume of poetry, Heartsease and Rue." In
verse as in prose, Lowell often worked too
hastily for perfection of finish. The "Biglow
Papers" have a tunefulness and a rhythmic
swing lacking to most of his more serious
poems. Some of these later verses have light-
ness and ease; and they have also their share
of the humorous shrewdness and the witty pith
for which the "Biglow Papers" are not sur-
passed in all English literature.
As Lowell drew near to the allotted limit of
three-score years and ten, he was everywhere
recognized as one of the foremost citizens of
the republic, a type of the character most
needed in American public life -the man of
broad culture, having a solid understanding of
his fellow-man, and a deep love of his country.
Probably the later years of his life were made
pleasant by this atmosphere of appreciation; but
at last his health failed, and he died on August
12, 1891, being then seventy-two years old.
Of the New England group of American au-
thors, of which Lowell was the youngest (al-
though both Whittier and Holmes survived
him), all except Hawthorne were poets; and
the fame of Longfellow and Whittier may be
said to be due wholly to their poetry. Lowell,
like Emerson, was a poet also, but his work in
prose was at least equal in value to his work in
verse. He was the one great literary critic of
the group, as Hawthorne was the one great



A. f


ie f J44!:*



ABOVE the door of a small country inn near
the village of St. Renaud, in southern France,
there hangs a quaint old signboard, dingy
with age and battered with the storms of many
winters. The paint upon it, which-was doubt-
less of the brightest colors when first laid on,
has been almost entirely worn away, yet
enough remains to reveal the figure of a long-
backed charger, with flowing mane and tail,
astride of whom are four doughty knights, fully
armed. The legend beneath the picture is very
indistinct, but if one has good eyes and a lively
imagination, he may make out the three words,
Quatre Fils Aymon. If the keeper of the inn
should see you examining his signboard, he
will give you no peace until he has told you its
meaning and history. That sign," he will
say, has hung above this door for hundreds
of years for a thousand years, for all anybody
knows. It was there when my grandfather's
grandfather kept the inn, in the days of Louis
the Great; and I have heard it said that it was
an old sign even then. The great Louis him-
self once stopped in the middle of the road
there, to admire it, while my ancestor fetched
him a cup of cold water."
And then he will make you sit down on the
bench beside the door and listen to this story:
In the days of Charlemagne there lived for
a time in the forest ofArdennes a rebel chieftain,
Aymon the Duke of Dordon, with his four sons,
Richard, Adelhart, Guichard, and Reinold.
At one time the duke had stood high in the
favor of the king, and had held from him many
castles and great estates. Indeed, it had not
been long since he was able to muster ten thou-
sand fighting men under his own banner, and
there were few names in all France that were
feared more than his. But he was proud and
selfish, and cruel not only to his enemies but to
his dependents. The noblemen who supported
him could not endure his tyranny, and, one by

one, they attached themselves to other leaders.
One by one, also, his castles, with the broad
lands surrounding them, became the property
of his rivals. Finally he rebelled against the
king, and became an outlaw, hiding in the
forest and with a small band of desperate men
making unexpected forays into the neighboring
It was in vain that rewards were offered
for his capture; in vain that the king's sol-
diers continually patrolled the country in search
of him. He always appeared where he was
least expected. If he was seen one day in
the direction of Liege, the next day he would
be hovering about ChAlons, a hundred miles
away. So swiftly, indeed, did he pass from
one place to another, and so skilful was he in
evading his enemies, that no one could ac-
count for it until it was discovered that he rode
a fairy horse, that was gifted with the speed
of lightning and the wisdom of a man. The
name of this horse was Bayard "; and those
who had seen him declared that in beauty
and strength and swiftness he had not his
equal-in all the world. With Aymon, also,
was a cunning dwarf, named Malagis, who was
skilled in the power of magic, and who advised
him with reference to all his enterprises. It
was believed that if either the horse or the
dwarf could be captured, it would not be hard
to bring the rebellious outlaw to terms.
A blacksmith who had a smithy in a cavern
among the mountains, and who was himself
somewhat of a magician, contrived one night,
by disguising himself as the duke's old groom,
to steal the horse from the stable which the
outlaws had built for him in the forest. Hav-
ing muffled Bayard's feet in leather bags half
filled with feathers, he led him out of the wood,
and then mounting him, rode with all speed to
his smithy. He had little trouble in leading
the horse into the cavern, and in placing him


in a well-hidden nook at the rear. Then he
piled his forge with fuel, and, plying his bellows
with all his might, he soon had the smithy so
full of smoke that the sharpest eyes could not
have seen the spot where Bayard stood.
When Aymon went out in the morning to
saddle his good steed for another foray, he was
astonished to find the stable empty. He called,-
Bayard! Bayard!" but there was no response.
He fancied that some one in the forest was
mocking him, and he sat down on a stone and
bewailed his hard fortune. He was tired of the
long contest he had waged with the king, and
he felt ready to give himself up and suffer what-
ever punishment might be imposed. While he
was thus grieving and pondering, some one at
his elbow pronounced his name, and looking
around, he saw the, ugly visage of Malagis the
"What is the matter, my lord ? asked the
Matter enough," answered Aymon. They
have gotten Bayard at last, and now there is
nothing left for us to do but to give ourselves
up to our enemies."
"Nonsense !" said Malagis, picking up a
horseshoe-nail from the ground. "I know
who has the good steed. Wait a little while
and he shall be yours again."
Then without another word he turned and
walked away. At the hut of a forester whom
he knew, he disguised himself as a country lad,
and then set out by the nearest route to the
blacksmith's cavern. The horseshoe-nail which
had fallen from the thief's pocket had told the
whole secret. But the journey into the moun-
tains was a longer one than the dwarf had sup-
posed, and, magician though he was, he lost his
way more than once. It was not until the
evening of the second day that he arrived in
front of the smithy. The smith, who was sitting
in the door of his cavern, was a most pitiable
object to see. A bloody handkerchief bound
about his head half concealed an ugly wound in
his forehead. His face was swollen, and there
were black and blue marks beneath his eyes, the
lids of which he could scarcely separate. One
of his arms was broken and tied up awkwardly
in a sling, and his right foot was bruised and
bleeding. When he saw Malagis approaching


he fetched a deep sigh of relief and cried out,
" Ah, my dear boy, how glad I am that you
have come I knew that my prayers would be
answered. But I had to wait a long time, and
had you delayed until morning I surely would
have died!"
What is the matter, sir ? asked Malagis.
"I have met with a great accident," answered
the smith. Only see my head and my arm
and my foot. Yesterday morning- and yet it
seems much longer ago I was trying to shoe
a horse that a strange knight had brought to
me. I have shod many horses, but never such
a one as this. Oh, how vicious he was, and
how strong! He fairly leaped upon me, and I
escaped, as you see, only with my life."
"But where was the knight, the owner ?"
"The knight ? Ah, the cowardly fellow!
He ran away as fast as his legs would carry
him. And not a soul has been near the smithy
since, and I have sat here helpless and prayed
to the saints that they would send help."
"Where is the horse?"
"The horse ? Ah, he is in here tethered
to the iron ring, at the farther end of the cav-
ern. It was lucky I put him there, otherwise
he would have overturned my forge and broken
my anvil and ruined me entirely."
"I have heard," said Malagis, "that you
want to employ an apprentice, and I have come
to see if you will take me. There is nothing
in the world that I would like so well as to
learn the trade of a smith."
"Certainly, I '11 take you," cried the smith
impatiently. And the first thing that you do
you must help me to bed; and when you have
dressed my wounds then you must get me some
food, for I am almost starved."
Malagis hastened to relieve the necessities of
the poor man, and so skilfully did he do it
all that the smith was filled with astonishment
that a mere country lad could know so much.
Yet he kept his thoughts to himself, and after
he had eaten heartily of some broth he dropped
asleep. Only once during the night did he
rouse himself from slumber, and then merely to
exclaim: "A horse ? Ah, yes, and what teeth
he has, and what heels! Don't go near him,
for your life! "
At the break of day Malagis built a fire

in the forge and heaped dry sticks upon it until
the flames leaped up almost to the roof. But
the smith still slept soundly, nor seemed to be
in the least disturbed. When every corner of
the cavern was lighted up so that the smallest
object could be plainly seen, the dwarf went to
the farther end to look at the horse. It was
indeed Bayard, but he did not know Malagis in
his disguise. The animal leaped at the magi-

- -C-


cian in great fury, and would have torn him
in pieces if he could. But when the disguised
dwarf spoke, and said, Bayard, good Bayard !
Let us hasten to your master," all the creature's
anger vanished, and he became as gentle as a
lamb. He suffered Malagis to untie the halter
that held him, and to lead him out of the
An hour later the smith awoke and looked
around him. The sunlight was streaming in

through the wide-open door; some flickering
flames were still leaping up from the forge:
and his eyes, no longer swollen and painful,
took in the whole cavern at a glance.
A horse! he exclaimed. Ah, yes; and
I am so glad that he is gone, and the boy with
him! "
Duke Aymon was overjoyed when Malagis
returned to him with Bayard. He caressed the


horse fondly, and called him. many endearing
names. But he was heartily tired of living
as an outlaw, and when Charlemagne soon
afterward offered on certain conditions to par-
don him and his four sons, he accepted the
pardon and renewed his allegiance to the king.
His restless disposition, however, would not
allow him to tarry about the court; and so,
after spending some time in Spain, fighting the
Moors, he retired to his former home in Dordon.



III,>, i -I' V), V/ I p -l

Aymon's four sons remained for a long time
in the neighborhood of the Ardennes, and with
them stayed Bayard. Sometimes the young
men were loyal to the king and were among
the staunchest and bravest of all his war-
riors. Then, at the slightest provocation, they
would act rashly, turn against all their old
friends, and again be exiled to lead a life of
outlawry in the forest. Through these changes
of fortune their most faithful ally was the horse
Bayard. They needed no other steed, for he
was large enough and strong enough to carry
them all. It was even said of him that, like
our modem dinner-tables, his back could be
adjusted to suit circumstances. Whether one
of the brothers or all four wished to mount him,
he was always just the right size to accom-
modate them. And then he could be kept
when necessary without any expense; for he
would thrive and grow fat on leaves as readily
as other horses would on corn.
At length the four brothers, leaving the Ar-
dennes, made their way into southern France
and visited their father's castle of Dordon. A
sorrier set of outlaws were probably never seen
than they when they presented themselves bare-
footed and wholly wretched at their mother's
door, and begged her, for the love of God, to
give them food and clothing. But all this has
little to do with Bayard, who was still with
them, and the most contented of the whole
company. They were next heard of at Taras-
con, where they joined forces with Ivo, the
feudal lord of that territory, against a band of
Moorish invaders who had crossed over the
mountains. And here it was that Bayard first
distinguished himself in battle. Reinold had
ridden him to the field, and had dismounted in
order to engage in a hand-to-hand fight with
the Moorish chieftain, who had challenged him
to single combat. The horse remained quietly
in his place, and all went well until he saw
signs of treachery on the part of the Moors.
Then Bayard, with a shrill neigh, leaped for-
ward and ran with great speed into the thickest
ranks of the enemy. Men and beasts were
overthrown by the fury of his onset, and such
was the surprise and fright which it caused
among the Moors that they were easily and
quickly put to flight. Duke Ivo was so highly
VOL. XXII.-126.

pleased with this exploit that he gave Reinold
a beautiful mountain-castle, which he called
There Reinold, after he had married the
daughter of Duke Ivo, took up his abode;
and there, with Bayard as one of his family,
he lived in peace for many years. But as he
grew older, he longed to become reconciled
to King Charlemagne and to know that the
wicked follies of his youth had been forgiven.
Embassy after embassy was sent to Charle-
magne begging that he would pardon the four
sons of Aymon. Then their mother, the Duch-
ess Aya, who was the king's own sister, jour-
neyed to Paris and besought her brother to
have mercy on her children. But at first the
king refused to listen to her entreaties and
bade her return to Dordon. Finally, however,
he said to her:
There is one condition, and only one, upon
which I will consent. If Reinold will give
Bayard to me to be drowned, then I will not
only pardon your four sons, but I will restore to
them all the fiefs and possessions which would
have been theirs had they never rebelled
against me. But I cannot pardon the beast
Bayard, for he has done me more harm than
all the others."
When Aya returned to Montalban and told
Reinold the conditions upon which the king
would pardon him, he was furious.
"Better remain an outlaw," he cried, "than
betray my dearest and most faithful friend!
Tell Charlemagne that I will not accept his
But his mother and his wife pleaded with
him to consider the consequences that would
follow. They said to him that so long as he
remained unreconciled with the king, not only
he himself, but all his family, would be consid-
ered as outlaws. "And for such outlaws," they
said, "the gallows of Montfaucon are ready-
and the inscription which future generations will
read thereon is: 'Here Reinold gave up his
wife and children to die a shameful death for
the sake of a dumb animal.'"
"Mother! Wife!" cried Reinold. "You
shall have your will. But when Bayard is
slain, I too shall die."
At that moment, Bayard, who had heard all



that was said, whinnied softly and came and
laid his head upon his master's arm. The war-
rior burst into tears and turned away.
On a dark day in autumn the long bridge
across the Seine at Paris was crowded with
foot-soldiers and horsemen; and on the banks of
the river gathered a rabble of citizens who had
heard that the great Bayard was that day to be
drowned. It is even said that Charlemagne
and his peers were there to see the execution
of the poor animal, but of the truth of this
statement there are many doubts. The noble
horse was led to the middle of the bridge,
where iron weights were attached to his feet.
It would seem, indeed, that the animal's strength
as well as his marvelous wisdom had deserted
him; for we are told that at a given signal a
party of men pushed him suddenly over the
edge, whereupon he fell with a great splash
into the Seine. But, notwithstanding the im-
mense weights that were hung to his feet, he
rose three times to the surface, each time
mutely fixing his sorrowful eyes upon Reinold,
who stood weeping upon the bank. When
he saw this Charlemagne was beside himself
with anger.
"The horse is bewitched! he cried. "He
is no mere animal, but a fiend. Beware, Count
Reinold! He is looking to you for aid. If you
are keeping him alive by any tricks of enchant-
ment, I will refuse my pardon."
Reinold's mother, terrified at the words of
the king, threw her arms around her son's neck
and covered his eyes with her hand so that he
could not see Bayard's appealing gaze as the
horse rose for the fourth and last time. The
count freed himself from his mother's embrace,
and breaking his sword in two threw it into
the river.
"Lie there, good blade, trusted friend and
companion!" he cried. "Lie there with my
Bayard, the faithfulest comrade that any man
ever yet had! Never more, so long as I live,
will I mount a horse or draw a sword!"
Then he turned and fled out of Paris, and

paused not nor took any rest until he had left
the city far behind him. Coming, toward ev-
ening, into a wild forest, he sank down upon
the ground, where he lay for two days over-
whelmed with grief and distress. After this he
made his way painfully on foot to Montalban.
To a pilgrim whom he met on the way he
gave his golden spurs in exchange for the
man's gray robes, for he was resolved to be-
come a pilgrim himself and to seek in the Holy
Land forgiveness and peace.
Who will teach our sons to be true knights
and noble men," cried his wife, "if you go and
leave them thus ? "
But Reinold turned away and departed on
his long and toilsome journey, while his family
wept for both him and Bayard. It is said that
after he reached the Holy Land he remembered
his vow and neither wielded a sword nor
mounted a horse. Nevertheless, in the contest
then going on between the Christians and Sara-
cens he was no mere looker-on; but, armed
with a mighty club, he fought like a hero in
the Christian ranks.
And there are those who say that Bayard
was not drowned in the Seine, after all. For
when he saw, upon rising the fourth time, that
there was no hope of aid from Reinold, he
freed himself by a mighty effort from the
weights fastened to his feet and, concealed by
a fog which had risen upon the river, swam
far down the stream. Then, making for the
shore, he escaped into the Ardennes, where on
still moonlight nights he may yet sometimes
be heard galloping from point to point among
the old haunts in the woodland which he loved
when he was alive.
Such is the story which the innkeeper at St.
Renaud will tell you. And when you ask him
what connection it has with the old sign that
swings over his door, he will tell you that half
the country inns in France were once named
after the four sons of Aymon, and that his sign
is the last evidence of the once general admi-
ration for the horse Bayard.






(A Storyfrom the Desert.)


better than
Ser is better than
sleep. Rise up
-and-pray !
Fl rang the muezzin's
I morning call to
prayer from the glisten-
ing white clay tower
by the little mosque of
Mutah, when the hooded priest
in the nest of the Moorish minaret
saw the red disk throw off the sand of the
great Sahara.
"La illa it Allah, Mahamoud rusol il Allah!"
(There is one God and Mahomet is his prophet!)
he muttered, and gave the morning call:
"Prayer is better than sleep. Rise up -and
Full of soft but penetrating music, it fell
about the little mosque and the silver-gray mud
huts of Mutah, huddled together in a small
oasis upon the border of the great desert, sur-
rounded by gardens where dates and grapes
and melons and gourds were raised for trade
with the caravans crossing the sand. Their
custom was all that kept Mutah alive.
The music of the call stole in upon the ears
of those who were still asleep, through the lat-
tice windows of the little Arab village, waking
them from good dreams and bad; and, because
they all knew that prayer was better than sleep,
they all rose up to pray.
Little Yamoud's mother, Umda, roused her
fatherless boy a little rudely, perhaps, but
not unkindly. She was only enforcing, as
every good Mohammedan mother should, the
vital importance of prompt response to the
muezzin's morning call.
Their hut was upon the outskirts of the vil-
lage, and the garden about it was none of the

best,-even among those poor, sandy gar-
dens,- or it would doubtless have been taken
away from them when Yamoud's father died,
some months before.
It is true there were none of his brothers
living about Mutah to seize the property; but
even if there had been, the hut and the garden
were hardly worth seizing, considering the ob-
ligations which such an act would have im-
posed upon the ones who took them. So
Umda was allowed to live on there with Ya-
moud; and, as she had always done most of
the work, which is the common custom of her
people, there was very little change when her
husband died, except that she no longer had
any one to protect and defend her.
This was a very sad condition; and Yamoud,
young as he was, longed to be old enough and
strong enough to stand between his widowed
mother and the world.
The muezzin did not leave the minaret at
once, that morning, but stood, shading his eyes
from the red glare, looking away over the end-
less sand; for, far in the distance, writhing and
squirming over the glistening surface, he saw a
twisting line of black, looking like a gigantic
serpent trailing its long body over the sea of
It was no uncommon sight. He knew at
once that it was a caravan coming in: coming
in from days and weeks of plodding over those
parched and burning plains, parched and
burning in the day, but cold-almost cold
enough to freeze-at night just before daylight.
It was the length and the size of the caravan
that attracted the hooded priest's attention. It
meant that there would be a ready sale that
day for all of the products which the people
of Mutah could offer at the khan, or market;
which meant, again, more generous donations
to the mosque, on account of the good fortune
of the Faithful. So the muezzin was glad, and

smiled as he watched the long caravan, while
the people below were repeating their morning
Then he went down and announced the
good news, and all the villagers seemed sud-
denly to come to life. The torpid stillness of
Mutah disappeared. The village rang with
shouts, and every one hurried to gather into
bamboo bags-rather more like baskets than
bags, perhaps all of the fruit that was any-
where near ripe enough and not altogether too
much decayed to sell when there was a great
demand. And every one who could carry a
basket on his head prepared for a visit to the
It required the old, wise heads to select and
pack the fruit, and the children, as usual, slipped
away, whether they would have been of assis-
tance or not, and ran to the point where the
trail passed closest to the village, to lie half
hidden in the sand as near as they dared to
go, and watch the caravan go by.
It was a privilege which was always considered
the children's right, for it was all that they ever
saw of the great world. They were never taken
to the khan till they were old enough to carry
baskets and sell fruit except Yamoud, who
always went with his mother now, having no
one with whom he could remain at home.
The caravans never came within a mile of
Mutah, for there were only four or five little
springs in the village, which, by the most
economical system of irrigation, just managed
to keep the date-palms and the gardens bear-
ing; while at the khan, two miles away, there
was a great walled space, out of which the
camels could not wander, with a deep well and
a great trough in the middle of it, and a walled
town surrounding it.
It was not much of a town, but it lived because
a kind of caravan supply-and-exchange market
was needed there. It was there where the
caravans rested for a day before making their
final plunge into the desert, and there where
they rested for a day to "shake off the desert"
when coming out again with their precious
burdens from the heart of Africa.
Often the children did not get back again
till long after the caravan had passed, and then
came full of news of what they had seen and

heard. This time, however, they came hurrying
home, shivering and silent.
They spoke only in whispers to one another;
and their great eyes, and the terrified way in
which they shrank into dark corners and tried
to hide themselves, would quickly have warned
their parents that something was wrong, if they
had not been quite too busy to notice anything.
They had surely seen or heard something
which thoroughly frightened them, though Arab
children are not very easily frightened, but they
kept it to themselves.
It was not so much because they did n't wish
to tell, as in response to the universal Oriental
habit of refraining from speaking abruptly upon
any subject that is of importance.
They only shivered and crouched about and
hid themselves, and from the shaded corners
watched with something like awe as, one by
one, when their baskets were filled, the villagers
lifted them upon their heads and started away
toward the khan.
Yamoud's mother was among the very last,
as she had no one to help her fill her basket;


and the boy cast a timid glance toward his
companions as he caught the corner of his
mother's sarai, or long scarf, in his hand and
reluctantly followed her away.



Some of the children crept on after them a
little way, in a kind of mute sympathy, and
whenever Yamoud looked back he saw their
great, sad eyes solemnly staring at him, saying
so plainly that they knew very well that they
were taking their last look, and the gloom be-
hind him only made the horror ahead the more
dreadful; but none of them spoke a word.
At last, when they were all alone upon the
sand, and Yamoud was walking very close to
his mother, he looked up and said, Hold me
fast with your hand, mama, when we enter the
khan, for I am afraid."

UMDA turned sharply upon him, exclaiming,
as she did so :
"You?-Yamoud ebno'l [that is, son of]
Ahmad afraid? Afraid of what?"
It was too direct a question for any Arab to
attempt to answer it, and Umda doubtless
meant it more as an exclamation than interro-
gation. She stood staring at the boy, her only
child, confessing that he was afraid, in that
land where men, and boys too, were measured
and valued solely according to personal courage.
Yamoud was only ten years old, but he did
not seem like one who would be much afraid
of anything. He was looking calmly up into
his mother's eyes, and curling his bare toes
about in the hot sand.
At last she cried, angrily, "Allah forbid it.
Yamoud cannot be a coward."
Slowly and thoughtfully the boy asked:
"Is he always a coward, mama, who is
Umda gave a short grunt, half closing her
eyes,- an Arab's way of saying yes.
Then, mama, I am a coward, for I am
afraid," Yamoud replied; and his mother al-
most dropped the basket from her head, she
-trembled so with rage and mortification, as she
looked scornfully down upon her boy.
She could not speak; but she cast one quick
glance back toward their village, almost hidden
in the green of the oasis, then away toward the
khan, and thanked fortune that no one was
near enough to hear her son confess that he
was a coward.
Papa is not coming back to us again, is he,

mama ?" Yamoud asked; and his mother an-
swered, sharply :
"Never. He has taken the long journey.
But he was brave. He is where the Prophet
promised eternal happiness to the brave. No
coward can ever follow him."
"I do not want to follow him while you live,
mama," Yamoud said; and, touching his fore-
head with his finger, added, "Hast thou not
told me how it is written here, that when I
grow large and strong I shall be your help and
strength ? "
Umda did not pay much attention to what
the boy was saying. She only shuddered, and
repeated with a groan,
Shall I, the wife of Ahmad the brave, be
the mother of ebno'l Ahmad the coward ?"
Yamoud's lips quivered, and his eyes were
bright with tears, but he clung to his thought,
and continued: "If the famine comes again,
mama, what can you do without papa ?"
"I can sell these," she replied, indifferently,
shaking the bracelets on her arm, and pointing
to the silver bands upon her ankles.
"But if the famine lasted longer than they
did, mama, could n't I help you then ?"
"What is the help of a coward?" Umda
muttered, fiercely. It is the help of the south
wind, bringing sand instead of rain."
"I might not be a coward, then, mama,"
Yamoud pleaded. "But if I am carried away
and. sold as a slave, then who will help you?
It is for that I am afraid, mama; for I heard
men say that the caravan that passed was led
by Abu'l Hasham."
Abu'l Hasham the mother gasped, catch-
ing him by the shoulder, and staring wildly at
him as though to make sure he was still there.
"Come back with me quickly to Mutah."
No, no, mama," Yamoud cried, struggling
and tugging against her so vigorously that his
little feet sank into the hard sand. I will not
go back like a coward. Only hold me with
your hand. Then he cannot steal me for a
slave. No; I will not go back."
After what she had been saying about bra-
very, Umda did not dare to let him see how
thoroughly she, too, was frightened, and she
turned again reluctantly toward the khan, keep-
ing her trembling hand upon his shoulder. It



was just what he had asked of her, and Ya-
moud was entirely satisfied.
Abu'l Hasham was not a mere nursery bug-
bear, created to frighten children from disobe-
dience. He was the living terror of every
,tribe and village for hundreds of miles. He
was a powerful brigand slave-collector.
Yamoud chattered fearlessly enough, but
Umda was silent now, as they approached the
mud walls of the miserable town.
There were only two gates in the wall one
at each side of the town. In the arch, over
each, an inscription was set in great black let-
ters,- over one, "Gate of the Desert," and
over the other, Gate of the Sea."
Umda's face grew still more anxious and
stern as they entered
the town, and the bed-
lam of voices greeted
them from the khan.
Men, women, and
children, in the inevi-
table fashion of a great
caravan coming to
rest, were shouting
and wranglingin many
languages, and camels
and dromedaries were
grunting and groaning
as they went through
the laborious task of
lying down.
It was not the con-
fusion which disturbed -
Umda,however. Ordinarily
it would have been an in-
spiration. She would have
hurried into the thick of it, sure
that where there was the most shout-
ing and wrangling the people were widest awake,
and in a moment she would have been making
as much noise as any of them, and selling
her fruit in a way that her neighbors always
To-day she would rather have given it all
away than go near the place. She silently set
her basket down the moment they were inside
the khan, and sitting on the ground beside it,
with her back against the wall, she clasped
her arm nervously about Yamoud.

"Why don't you shout, mama ?" he asked;
but receiving no reply was soon lost in watch-
ing the great caravan settling itself for the day's
It was an intensely interesting sight, espe-
cially as there were many children in the throng,
and he had never before had such an oppor-
tunity to watch from a safe distance, always
having been hustled and jostled about, while
clinging to his mother's sarai, among the
He wholly forgot Abu'l Hasham, nor did it
once occur to him that the children he was
watching were slaves, stolen by this Terror of
the Desert, for he had entirely thrown off his
fear when he felt his mother's hand, and knew

---4 *
.^ ^ ^


that she would guard him; but his attention
was suddenly recalled by a tightening grip
of the arm about him, and, looking up, he saw



a tall and powerful Moor, with a deep scar on
one cheek, slowly approaching them.
"A comely widow and a comely child and
fine fruit in the basket. What is the price for
the whole of it ? the Moor asked, pausing di-
rectly in front of them.
Yamoud had never heard his mother's voice
sound so strange as when she replied,
"Take it without money. It has no price."
She pushed the basket toward him with her
It was the same form which the prophet
Isaiah used, when he called,- Ho, every one
that thirsteth come, buy wine and milk
without money and without price." It is the
same form which one still hears, every day, wher-
ever there are Arab venders crying their goods.
In the common acceptance of trade to-day,
however, it is more apt really to mean that the
purchaser is expected to be particularly liberal;
but for once a vender would have been glad to
be taken at her word.
Umda was trembling from head to foot, and
would have given her fruit, and her bracelets,
too, to have been well out of the khan.
The Moor motioned to a servant who was
following him to take the fruit away, and asked:
"Where shall the money and the empty bas-
ket be delivered?"
"At the house beside the Desert Gate," Umda
replied, in a faint trembling voice, and rising she
caught Yamoud's arm, whispering,
Come quickly. We must hurry."
They hurried in a way that was most uncom-
fortable for the boy. Umda walked faster and
faster till he was running beside her, and faster
yet till she was literally dragging him along.
They did not stop at the house beside the
Gate of the Desert. or anywhere else; but as
they hurried over the sand it gradually became
clear in Yamoud's mind why it was that his
mother had not told the Moor truly where she
lived, or had not waited for her money and
basket, which he knew were so important to her.
Having thought out the puzzle, he looked up,
while he ran, and asked, "Mama, was that
Abu'l Hasham ?"
Umda did not answer; for in truth no one had
told her that it was the stealer of slaves, and
how should she know?

How should Yamoud know, when she did not
answer ? He did know, however, and he shud-
dered as he thought how he had sat and with
his own living eyes looked up into the face of
the terrible slave-collector. Yet it did not seem
to him anything so fearful, after all, so long as
his mother's hand was on him; and he under-
stood his mother as little, on the way back to
Mttah, as she had understood him on the way
to the khan.
If he had realized the double meaning in the
sentences spoken by the Moor, as his mother
understood them, it would have been different.
A circumstance which troubled Yamoud much
more was a stranger from the khan whom he
saw following them when he once looked
.back, and whom he saw again in the village,
during the afternoon; but he did not speak
of it to his mother, lest she should think again
that he was only a coward and like the south
ALL through the day Umda's eyes followed
her son wherever he went, and Yamoud, well
aware of it, kept himself carefully where she
should not find this difficult. He was quite
too well satisfied to object to her watchfulness,
for like all the children of-the desert he had
heard no end of stories--wonderful fancies,
most of them concerning the mysterious
means sby which Abu'l Hasham secured the
children and carried them away into slavery.
On the southern side of the desert it was not
infrequent for the slave-thief to carry off an
entire village, taking the men and women too;
leaving only the old and infirm. It was not
often, however, that such a bold stroke had
been attempted on the north of the desert. It
was too near the British authority, that was then
working so vigorously to crush out the slave-
trade. So the people of Mutah had only
learned to tremble for their children, and the
children to tremble for themselves when it was
whispered that Abu'l Hasham came their way.
Yamoud did not at all like to be a coward,
and upon his mother's definition he tried very
hard to convince himself that he was not afraid;
but he was afraid. Especially when he caught
sight of the stranger who followed them from
the khan, was he afraid.



Still, Yamoud began to think that he was not
going to fall asleep during the night. The mo-
ment he shut his eyes he seemed to be looking
right up into the face of Abu'l Hasham. When
he put that fancy out of his head he was sure
that the stranger was creeping up to him, and

He always slept on a mat beside his mother,
on the earth floor of the one little room in their
hut. But just under the roof his father had
constructed a low, dark loft, where they stored
their fruit when it was ripening too fast in the
sun or not fast enough in the rain; for there was


one season of the year when, for a little time, it
rained, even out there on the desert. When it
did rain it rained almost incessantly; and the
people collected the water in tanks to help out
the springs.
This loft was not a particularly comfortable
place to sleep, but Yamoud willingly obeyed
when his mother told him to take his mat up
there for one night.
VOL. XXII.-127.

if he opened his eyes again, in the darkness, he
thought that he could see all the evil spirits he
had ever heard about, winking and blinking and
grinning at him, just as they did in the stories.
The result was- that when he did fall asleep
he slept very soundly, and overslept, for the
first time since he had been taught to say the
morning prayer. He did not hear the morning
call of the muezzin at all; but that was not so



remarkable, for neither did any one else hear it.
The muezzin did not climb the white tower
that day. The sun came up without his aid.
Another caravan came out of the desert without
his seeing it. It came and passed and entered
the khan without a soul in all Mutah seeing it;
and not a basket of fruit was carried to the
khan that day. Such an occurrence was un-
heard of, but it is true.
When Yamoud opened his eyes he sawthrough
a crack in the mud and straw roof that it must
be broad daylight; and he knew from the heat
in the loft that the sun had been beating on it
for some time. He wondered how it was pos-
sible that his mother had not called him, and
creeping to the opening he looked down into
the little room.
At first he could hardly breathe, everything
was so strange down there-everything was in
such confusion. His mother's sleeping-mat was
torn in shreds. Nothing was as it should be.
Umda was not there. He called, but she did
not answer; and, in spite of the fact that his
heart was thumping terribly, he dropped to the
floor, and ran across the room to the open door.
His mother was nowhere to be seen, either
outside, about the village, or in the garden; but
looking toward the nearest huts he instantly
knew that something very serious had happened.
A few old men and women were sitting about
the doors, wailing and moaning and shouting,
as they always did at funerals.
At first Yamoud thought that his mother
must be dead; though, if so, the mourners
would naturally be at his own door. Yet, if
his mother were alive, he knew very well that
she would be among the mourners, for there
was no one in Mutah who could wail and
moan at funerals so acceptably as Umda.
What could have become of her? He called
again and again, but she did not answer;
neither did any of the mourners pay the slight-
est attention to his cries.
At last, while he still stood there trembling
and choking with dread, he caught a word
which the mourners pronounced more fre-
quently and louder than the rest,--it was
"Abu'l Hasham,"- and then he knew it all.
He sat down on the ground right beside his
own door, with his back against the mud wall

of his hut, and, all alone, Yamoud began to
wail and moan like the rest.
It would not have been different if his mo-
ther had really been dead, except that if she
had been the only one dead in the village,
many of the people would have joined him,
and moaned and wailed with him; he would
not have been left alone.
All that were left had misery enough of their
own to wail about that day, not to bear an-
other's burden; and they mourned for the lost
precisely as if they were dead. Indeed they were,
dead, so far as Mutah and those left behind
were concerned. They had been carried away


to be sold as slaves in distant countries. They
would never return to Mutah--not one of
In the spontaneous poetry to which the
Arabic is so easily adaptable, Yamoud put his
thoughts into words, and sang his sorrow in a
low, sad chant, often closing a line with a pro-
longed, wild wail, such as he remembered so



i :II

well, when it told of his mother's suffering after
his father died.
It was the accepted mode of mourning, and
a great deal more real and relief-bringing than
some modern, more civilized methods.
"Oh, Abu'l Hasham the terrible, the wicked
thief of men, came into my home last night,"
Yamoud moaned. Oh, my mother feared his
coming, but my mother thought only of me;
yes, she hid me away from him that I might be
safe; but he came--yes, he came. While I
slept and never knew it, he came!--oh, he
came!- and no hand was lifted for my mother.
O Light of my Eyes, O Breath of my Body,
O my Sun and my Moon, thou art gone! he
has carried thee away! and I slept--oh, I
slept. He will sell thee for a slave, far, far
away, and I cannot help thee I, thy Yamoud
ebno'l Ahmad. O my mother, why did I sleep ?
Why did I not-"
Here he stopped suddenly, and for some
time sat in silence, watching his little fingers as
they slowly clasped and unclasped and twisted
about each other, continuing the sad story
which his lips had ceased ceased for a little
while to tell; for his mind was busy with
a theme which caused him, all but the mute
refrain of the fingers, to forget even his
By and by he whispered slowly, Is Yamoud
ebno'l Ahmad really a coward ? Is he nothing
but a south wind, bringing sand and no rain ?
His mother is not dead. She needs him; but
he cannot help her, for he is not near her.
He can never help her unless he knows where
she is, and unless he is beside her. If it is
written in his forehead that he shall be her
strength and shield, it is written in his forehead
that he shall find her and be near her."
He sprang to his feet and entered the hut.
No one noticed him, or would have thought or
cared if they had; for there were too many
sorrows in Mutah that morning for people to
think or care about one another's griefs.
Presently he came out again with one of his
mother's long white mourning sarais wrapped
about him. It fell, something like a skirt, al-
most to his feet. At the waist it was twisted
in a girdle, then it was carried up over his
shoulders and head, leaving only a narrow slit

through which he could see, and effectually
covering every inch of him except his feet.
From five to ten the children spend all
day in the charge of their mothers, often help-
ing them in their work, and then they wear
short skirts and girdles. After that the boys
are supposed to begin to be men warriors;
and thenceforward they decorate themselves
with more and more clothing, according to
their wealth and occupations, till the yards and
yards of superfluous cloth which some of the
desert Arabs twist about themselves are simply
astonishing. So that, even in ordinary times,
there would have been nothing remarkable
enough to attract much attention in the way
Yamoud dressed himself.
Truly, it would have been hard to determine
whether he was a boy or girl, or a woman, or
even a man who, by some freak of nature, had
been stunted in his natural growth; but many a
wanderer disguises himself in much the same
way, upon the desert, and the kind of curiosity
which would pry into it, simply for the sake of
curiosity,'is very much lacking among the
No one saw the little'figure emerge from the
door; and, as the hut lay on the outskirts of
Mutah, there were no more to pass, for Yamoud
turned directly out upon the sand, without so
much as looking back where the people were
still moaning and wailing.
He walked so fast that he almost ran, on
and on, toward the mud-walled town about the
khan. Who could have thought it the same
little fellow who, yesterday, in that path had
said, "Hold me fast with your hand, mama,
when we enter the khan, for I am afraid."
He was quite too young for any deep-laid
plan almost for any plan at all; but the one
thought which had come to him was enough.
He had just one purpose in view, and he had
the courage to take the only step which, so far as
he could see, would help him to accomplish it.

As Yamoud passed the Gate of the Desert
he shuddered; but it was more, even then, from
thinking of his mother than of himself; for he
did not hesitate an instant in turning toward
the khan. He saw at once that it was another



and much smaller caravan there, and wan-
dered slowly about, asking a question here
and there, judging more by appearances and
comparisons than by the words actually spo-
ken in answer.
It was precisely what an older Arab would
have done, no matter how simple the subject
upon which he sought information, or how im-
portant. But this was surely some racial in-
stinct in him more than any knowledge of the
ways of the world. He was too young to
be worldly wise.
After he felt sure that the caravan really en-
tered that morning by the Desert Gate, and
would leave before sunset by the Gate of the
Sea, he wandered out of the latter gate, a little
way, and along the trail.
No child born to the desert ever failed to
learn to read the shifting sands as early and as
easily as other children to read a printed book;
and Yamoud had not wandered far before he
knew that Abu'l Hasham's caravan left the
khan in two parts, and that the part leaving
last, with most of the unmounted, did not pass
over the sand till nearly daylight. So the cara-
van in the khan would be less than twelve
hours behind.
There was only one way, and that they both
must take. They might come to the Desert
Gate from several different directions; but go-
ing out at the Gate of the Sea meant always
to cross another narrow belt of desert, then a
slowly rising plain, with more and more strag-
gling green, then through bare and rugged
mountain passes, and down through the beau-
tiful tropical valley bordering on the great in-

land sea to the seaport city the city to which
Abu'l Hasham must take his captives.
That was enough. Being all that could be
learned or done at present, it had to be enough,
and, with the undemonstrative submission to the
inexorable which is in every drop of Arab
blood, as soon as Yamoud had come to this
conclusion he returned to the khan, wandered
about indifferently for a time, till he found a
solitary, sleeping camel, under whose shadow
he could curl himself up, and soon he was as
sound asleep as any one in the caravan.
The patient endurance of hunger and thirst
is something to which the Arab is very early
trained; and another most excellent quality is
his power to sleep at will the moment that
there is nothing else to do. Many a pang of
hunger and gasp for water has been stifled and
forgotten in that way. Yamoud had even
greater troubles, which, for the time, he was
ready to forget.
He knew that when the camel was aroused,
the sun would wake him, which was all that
was necessary.
The sun was setting when the caravan
wound slowly out through the Gate of the
Sea, leaving the town to sink into darkness and
silence behind it; and among the throng of un-
mounted followers,-so often forming an im-
portant part of the long-journey caravans, es-
pecially as they near their destination,- there
moved along the little atom of humanity
wrapped in the mourning sarai. The figure
attracted now and then a glance from some
one, chiefly because it was so small and so
alone, but otherwise was unnoticed.

(To be concluded.)



SAID A, Whene'er I stand between
The letters B and D,
I 'm in the midst of all that 's BAD,
As you may plainly see."

" How strange!" said merry, laughing E;
When I between them am,

I 'm tucked up comfortably in BED,
And happy as a clam."

"It 's quality within ourselves,"
Then mused the letter A,
"And not the place we occupy,
That makes us sad or gay."






THE great Civil War was remarkable in many
ways, but in no way more remarkable than for
the extraordinary mixture of inventive mechani-
cal genius and of resolute daring shown by the
combatants. After the first year, when the con-
testants had settled down to real fighting, and
the preliminary mob-work was over, the battles
were marked by their extraordinary obstinacy
and heavy losses. In no European conflict since
the close of the Napoleonic wars has the fight-

ing been anything like so obstinate and so
bloody as was the fighting in our own Civil
War. Hundreds of regiments, both Northern
and Southern, suffered each in some one en-
gagement far more heavily than either the
Light Brigade at Balaclava, or the Guards at
Inkerman, or than any German regiment in the
Franco-Prussian war; and yet they have gone
entirely unnoticed by the poet, and dismissed
with but a scant line or two by the historian.
In addition to this fierce and dogged courage,
this splendid fighting capacity, the contest also


brought out the skilled inventive power of
engineer and mechanician in a way that few
other contests have ever done.
This was especially true in the navy. The
fighting under and against Farragut and his
fellow admirals revolutionized naval warfare.
The Civil War marks the break between the
old style and the new. The ships with which
Decatur and Perry and Hull and Porter won
glory in 1812 were essentially like those with
which Drake and Hawkins and Frobisher had
harried the Spanish armadas two centuries and
a half earlier. They were essentially like the
ships that made up the fleets of Tromp and De
Ruyter, as of Collingwood and Nelson. But,
in the Civil War, steam, iron armor, and entirely
new weapons, worked such a revolution that
the fleets of to-day differ as widely from those
of Nelson as did his ships-of-the-line from the
galleys of Alcibiades twenty-two hundred years
before. The steam-frigate, the ironclad, the
ram, and the torpedo in all its forms--the
practical use of all these dates from the Civil
War. Terrible encounters took place when
these engines of war were brought into action
for the first time, and one of these encounters
has given an example which, for heroic daring
combined with cool intelligence, is unsurpassed
in all time.
The Confederates showed the same skill and
energy in building their great iron-clad rams as
the men of the Union did in building the moni-
tors which were so often pitted against them.
Both sides, but especially the Confederates, also
used stationary torpedoes, and on a number of oc-
casions torpedo-boats likewise. These torpedo-
boats were sometimes built to go under the water.
One such, after repeated failures, was employed
by the Confederates, with equal gallantry and
success, in sinking a Union sloop-of-war off
Charleston harbor. The torpedo-boat itself
went to the bottom with its victim, all on board
being drowned. The other type of torpedo-boat
was simply a swift, ordinary steam-launch op-
erated on the surface.
It was this last type of boat which Lieu-
tenant W. B. Cushing brought down to Albe-
marle Sound to use against the great Confed-
erate ram Albemarle." The ram had been
built for the purpose of destroying the Union

blockading forces. Steaming down the river, she
had twice attacked the Federal gunboats, and
in each case had sunk or disabled one or more
of them, with little injury to herself. She had re-
tired up the river again to lie at her wharf and
The gunboats had suffered so severely as to
make it a certainty that when the ram came out


again, thoroughly fitted up, to renew the attack,
the wooden vessels would be destroyed; and
while she was in existence the Union vessels
could not attack and reduce the forts and
coast towns. Just at this time Cushing came
down from the North with his swift little tor-
pedo-boat an open launch with a spar rigged
to push out in front, the torpedo being placed
at the end. The crew of the launch consisted of
fifteen men, Cushing being in command. He
not only guided his craft, but himself handled
the torpedo by means of two small ropes, one
of which put it in place, while the other ex-
ploded it. The action of the torpedo was
complicated, and it could not have been oper-
ated in a time of tremendous excitement save
by a man of the utmost nerve and self-com-
mand. But Cushing had both; he possessed
precisely that combination of reckless courage,
presence of mind, and high mental capacity



necessary to the man who leads a forlorn hope
under peculiarly difficult circumstances.
On the night of October 27, 1864, Cushing
slipped away from the blockading fleet, and
steamed up the river toward the wharf, a dozen
miles distant, where the great ram lay. The
Confederates were watchful to guard against
surprise, for they feared lest their foes should try
to destroy the ram before she got a chance to
come. down and attack them again in the
Sound. She lay under the guns of a fort, with
a regiment of troops ready at a moment's no-
tice to turn out and defend her. Her own
guns were kept always clear for action, and she
was protected by a great boom of logs thrown
out roundabout, of which last defense the
Federal knew nothing.
Cushing went up-stream with the utmost
caution, and by good luck passed, unnoticed, a
Confederate lookout below the ram.
About midnight he made his assault. Steam-
ing quietly on through the black water, and
feeling his way cautiously toward where he
knew the town to be, he finally made out the
loom of the Albemarle through the night, and
at once drove at her. He was almost upon her
before he was discovered; then the crew and
the soldiers on the wharf opened fire, and at
the same moment he was brought to by the
boom, the existence of which he had not known.
The rifle-balls were singing about him as he
stood erect guiding his launch, and he heard
the bustle of the men aboard the ram, and the
noise of the great guns as they were got ready.
Backing off, he again went all steam ahead,
and actually surged over the slippery log of
the boom.
Meanwhile, on the deck of the Albemarle the
sailors were running to quarters, and the sol-
diers were swarming down to aid in her de-
fense. And the droning bullets came always
thicker through the dark night. Cushing still
stood upright in his little craft, guiding and
controlling her by voice and signal, while in his
hands he kept the ropes which led to the tor-

pedo. As the boat slid forward over the boom,
he brought the torpedo full against the somber.
side of the huge ram, and instantly exploded it,
almost at the same time that the pivot-gun of
the ram, loaded with grape, was fired point-
blank at him, not ten yards off.
At once the ram settled, the launch sinking
at the same moment, while Cushing and his
men swam for their lives. *Most of them sank
or were captured; but Cushing reached mid-
stream. Hearing something splashing in the
darkness, he swam toward it, and found that it
was one of his crew. He went to his rescue,
and they kept together for some time, but the
sailor's strength gave out, and he finally sank.
In the pitch darkness Cushing could form no
idea where he was; and when, chilled through,
and too exhausted to rise to his feet, he finally
reached shore, shortly before dawn, he found
that he had swum back, and landed but a few
hundred feet below the sunken ram. All that
day he remained within easy musket-shot of
where his foes were swarming about the fort
and the great drowned ironclad. He hardly
dared move, and until the afternoon, he lay
without food and without protection from the
heat or insects. Then he managed to slip un-
observed into a dense swamp, and began to
make his way toward the fleet. Toward even-
ing he came out on a small stream, near a camp
of Confederate soldiers. They had moored to
the bank a small skiff, and with equal stealth
and daring he managed to steal this, and be-
gan to paddle down-stream. Hour after hour
he paddled on through the fading light, and
then through the darkness. At last, utterly
worn out, he found the squadron, and was
picked up.
At once the ships weighed their anchors, and
they speedily captured every coast town and fort,
now that their dreaded enemy was no longer in
the way.
The fame of Cushing's deed went all over the
land, and his name will stand forever among the
highest on the honor-roll of the American Navy.


jjnd6Q ~hijQntQ.


VERY old people may remember hearing their
grandfathers say that a great many years ago
the Baron of the Land of Nod asked two ques-
tions of his three wise men which none of them
could answer. If they do not remember, it will
not matter at all: a great many things have
happened that history has found it convenient
to forget.
But that is neither here nor there. The
Baron offered great rewards for any answer to
his questions; but although all the wisest men
in the world tried, no one succeeded; and the
questions remained unanswered year after year,
until "to answer the Baron of Nod" became
a common saying among the people, meaning
simply neither more nor less than to do the
impossible. And, what was more, the whole
story had grown so old that it had been made
over into a popular song, so that it must have
been very old indeed; and this was the song:

If you seek to find a fortune
By your wit, do not delay:
To the Land of Nod betake you-
If your wit can find the way.
There 's a rose-bush by the roadside,
And two shrubs beside the stream,
With three little hills behind them,
And a castle white as cream,
Where, if you can answer questions
At the hazard of your neck,
You will find both fame and fortune,
And have money by the peck!

Now it so happened that in the little village
of Narrheit there lived a lad whose name no-
body knew. The floods had left him in the
rye-field when he was but a baby, and his
parents were past all finding out. Johann Bar-
thel, the woodman, found him, and took him
home to grow up with the little Barthels. Jo-
hann's wife cut down her husband's old clothes
to fit the little fellow; and Johann himself
cut down his grown-up name from Johann to
"Hans" to give to the youngster who had lost
his own.
As the lad grew up, he was not at all like

the small Barthels, whose noses all turned up
like little red buttons, for his turned down like
a hawk's beak; and while they were one and


all as stumpy as their noses, he shot up like
a young tree. And, too, while the little Bar-
thels chattered all day long without ever saying
a thing worth listening to, Hans, when not
at work, sat still in the corer, thinking;
and when questioned as to his thoughts
by the meddlesome villagers, always gave
answers that left them even more puzzled ..
than they were before.
This was something that the good, thick-
headed people of Narrheit could not under-
stand; and like all such good, thick-headed
people the world over, they believed that
there could be nothing worth understand-
ing in what they could not understand
themselves. So, like all good, thick-headed
folk, the dull villagers, believing them-
selves to be most undoubtedly wise, called
the lad, not "Hans the Wise," but "Hans
the Otherwise," and thought him neither
more nor less than a blockhead.
Hans cared little for that, and bearing no
grudge, went quietly about his business, help-
ing Johann with the fagots,- saying little, and
thinking much which was more than all the
rest of the villagers could have done together.
At last, however, the bench beside the Bar-
thel family porridge-pot grew overcrowded; and
one day, when Hans came home from the forest,
there was not an inch left at his end.
"Why don't you sit down?" growled Jo-

hann, his heavy voice making little waves
dance all round the rim of the big blue bowl.
"There is no room," faltered Hans, hanging
his head.


"What! No room?" cried the father, count-
ing upon his thick red fingers: "One, two,
three, four--four on the bench, and there is
no room? Elsa, Elsa!" he called to his wife,
who was frying the sausages out in the kitchen,
" there are only four bdys sitting down; yet
there is no room for Hans the Otherwise."
"Then Hans the Otherwise must find room
for himself somewhere else! replied the shrill
voice of the mother.
There was no help for it.

VOL. XXII.--128.



Hans turned away with-
out a word, and went from house
to house through the village, seeking shelter.
The butcher gave him to eat, the baker gave
him to drink, and the candlestick-maker gave
him five farthings for good luck; but "There
is no room!" said all the rest, and closed the
door in his face -so that he came to the end
of the village homeless and hopeless. And
there the idlers mocked him as he leaned
against a post by the way.
"Oho, Hans the Otherwise," cried one, "go
think for a living! "
Oho!" jeered another. Go set the river
on fire with your answers that nobody under-
stands !"



And "Oho! sneered
still another. "Go an-
swer the Baron of Nod!"
S At this the crowd shouted with
Slaughter. But Hans pulled his belt
tighter about his faded gabardine; and "Thank
you for nothing," said he, curtly. I will take
your advice. Answering questions is not so
hard when one knows how; and a fool may
know what the wise men have n't found out.
Perhaps I can answer the Baron."
At this the loafers laughed so hard that the
tears rolled down their cheeks. But Hans
turned his back on the village and all, and
struck out sturdily down the highway. When
he came to the cross-roads he buried his five
farthings under the old oak there, and set out
in earnest on his journey.
He wandered over land and sea, through
strange countries and among strange people;
and it was a long, long while before he found
the Land of Nod. And when he did come
to it at last, he did not know it at all. For so
many years had passed that the two little shrubs
beside the stream had sprung up into a great
forest, in which the trees stood so close together
that the birds had to turn their
mouths edgewise to sing; the
rosebush had become a vast
jungle of briers under which
the road was lost to sight;
and the three little hills had


grown into huge mountains so black and so
high that even on the brightest summer morn-
ings the sun never rose above them until eleven
o'clock next day.
"Well," said Hans, as he drew a long breath,
"I don't know where in the world I am, but
Get-There never sits down! So he fell upon
his hands and knees to follow the road under
the rose-bush. He had crawled only a little
way, however, when he was challenged by the
guard. Here, my fine fellow," cried the Cap-
tain, where are you going so fast ? "

thick as a Brussels carpet. Moth-eaten tapes-
tries flapped upon the moldy walls; the tall
wax candles had all burned down so low that
they had turned them upside down and were
burning them the other way; while the very
air itself had not been out in the sun for so
long that it had turned yellow as saffron.
Down in one cobwebby corner the Three Wise
Men sat, hunting desperately through all the
realms of science and philosophy for an answer.
The walls were chalked full of mathematical
problems so abstruse that it made Hans's
head ache to look at them; and perched high
up on his mildewed throne, the Baron frowned
down with dust inch-deep upon his bristling
brows, and his clothes so old-fashioned that
they were just coming back into style.



Hans rubbed his knees. "You don't call
this fast, do you ?" said he.
"Well, so slow, then," bellowed the Captain.
"Where are you going ?"
I wish I knew replied Hans.
Oh, pshaw! let him go," cried one. "He
is a fool."
Not so," interposed another. "Not so;
for any fool would know where he was going.
Where do you come from ?"
"From Narrheit," said Hans.
"What did I tell you ? cried the first. He
is a fool, for they are all fools at Narrheit."
Well, then," exclaimed the Captain, he is
certainly a wise man for coming away! We
must take him to the Baron, or we are all dead
men "
So they led him over the moss-grown draw-
bridge and up dark stone stairways into the
great hall, where the dust lay on the floor as

Gr-r-r!" he growled, impatiently pulling his
musty mustaches. "Have you found those
answers yet ?"
Oh, your Grace," gasped the first, as he fell
on his knees, "I have gone through the arith-
metic from fractions to cube root, and if-if-"
"And I," stammered the second, "have
worked the whole algebra from theorems to
quadratics, but -but-"
"And I," faltered the third, "have demon-
strated every proposition in the geometry, and
- and -"
The Baron gritted his teeth like a gross of
slate-pencils. I am tired of your arithmetical
'ifs,' your geometrical hands and your alge-
braical butss'! he roared in a fury. If you
don't answer those questions in so many words
by supper-time, I 'll-I 'll-"
Indeed, there is no telling what he might
not have done; but just then he spied Hans.



" Hullo!" he cried. "What's this? Another
wise man? Gr-r-r! What do you know, sir ?"
I know that I am not a wise man," replied
Hans calmly.
The Baron stared, surprised. "Well, I vow,"
he exclaimed; "that is more, to begin with,
than any of the others knew! But can you
answer questions ?"
Hans rubbed his head. I cannot say that
I cannot," said he.
"Why not?" demanded the Baron, aston-
"Why, because," said Hans, "if I say that
I cannot answer a question, it will prove that
I can, for then I shall have answered the one
you have just asked me."
That 's so," mused the Baron, twisting his
mustache; "I had n't thought of that! Per-
haps I would better ask the questions, and see."
Hans bowed, and the Baron began.
"The king has forbidden my joking," said


he, "because my jokes are too broad. Now,
sir, tell me, how broad may a good joke be ? "
"A good joke," replied Hans, slowly,-""a
very good joke, may be just as broad as its wit
is deep."
The Baron looked puzzled. "And pray,"
said he, "what is the depth of wit?"
The depth of wit," returned Hans quickly,
"is precisely the same as the height of the
The Baron looked more puzzled than ever.
"Oh, come," said he, with a frown (for Barons

do not like to be trifled with), "that is all true
enough, no doubt; but tell me now, with no
more trifling, what is the height of the ridicu-
lous to a hair's breadth ?"
"Five feet nine inches," said Hans, with a


"Oh, stuff and nonsense! ejaculated the
Baron. "How do you make that out?"
"Why," replied Hans, bowing modestly,
"you think me ridiculous for giving such an
answer,-and five feet nine inches is just my
The Baron looked up at the ceiling, and
then he looked down at the floor, perplexed.
"We-e-ell," said he slowly, rubBing his chin,
-"that may be so, too; but-I don't see-
what that has to do with the matter."
" Neither do I," said Hans; that is for you
to decide. I only give answers to the ques-
"That's so," assented the Baron; I had n't
thought of that"; and he scratched his head.
"You do answer them; and all your answers
certainly seem fair, and plain enough, and easy
to understand, so far as they go; yet I don't
seem to have gotten to where I want to get. I
suppose it must be the fault of the questions."
You might ask something more," suggested
But I can't think of anything more to ask,"



snapped the Baron. "We seem to have come
to a sort of stopping-place."
"I am ready to go on," said Hans, accom-
But I don't know how to go on!" roared
the Baron. I don't know where we are, nor
how we got here, and I can't see how to get
to anywhere else!"
Well, you need n't shake your fist at me! "
protested Hans. "It is not my fault."


That 's so," apologized the Baron, crossly;
"I had n't thought of that. I suppose I may
as well give up and take that for an answer;
though I don't know any more about how
broad a joke may be than I did before."
"I 'm sorry," said Hans; "I did the best I
could for y :Ou.a But let 's go on with the sec-
ond question!"
"All right," said the Baron, brightening up.
"Where can I find a buried treasure ? "
For a moment Hans stood dumfounded.
Then he suddenly remembered his five far-
things. Oh, that is easy enough," said he;
"just dig under the old oak at the cross-roads."
Two regiments of soldiers and five huge
wagons were sent galloping away in mad haste
to the spot. In a short time they returned with
the five farthings-one in each wagon.
"Donnerschlag und Dunkelheit!-" sputtered
the Baron, when he saw the five poor little
rusty farthings. "Throw the rascal into prison!"
Oh, come, that is n't fair! cried Hans, in-

dignantly. -" Did they not find the treasure
buried just where I said they would ? "-
"Oh, yes," stuttered the Baron; "but it is
such a small treasure!"
"To be sure," said Hans, frankly," it is
small. But you did n't ask how large it was;
you asked only where it was buried."
"That 's so," acknowledged the Baron, cha-
grined; I had n't thought of that. It 's just
my luck! said he, disgustedly. I might just
as well have asked for a large treasure
as not, while we were at it;" and he
chewed his mustache ruefully. "Well,"
said he, at length, grinning gloomily,
"you 've answered my questions, and I
am neither the wiser nor the wealthier for
being answered. But I 'm a man of my
word, and you shall have a heaping
peck of gold. But as for those wise
men," he stormed, seeking a vent for his
rage somewhere," I shall discharge them
and give their back pay all to you, to-
gether, with their places."
Then the three wise men were furi-
ous. It was bad enough to lose a good
job in hard times, let alone losing their
back pay too. 8o they conspired to-
gether against Hans, saying to .he

Baron: "If this fellow is wiser than we are,
Sire, he can, no doubt, answer all the questions
we can ask him."




"To be sure," nodded the Baron.
"And if he cannot," said they, craftily, "he
is not so wise as we are, and you ought not
to keep him in our places."
"That's so," mused the Baron; I had n't
thought of that. Perhaps you would better
ask him a question apiece-that would be a
fair test."
Then the Three Wise Men took counsel to-
gether. Now," said the first, if we succeed
in sending this fellow away, the first thing the
Baron will ask, after he is gone, will be where
to find another and a larger buried treasure--
I know these Barons!"
And then-pop!-off will go our heads! "
groaned the second.
Oh, dear, that will never do!" cried the
third. "We can't be wise men without our
heads! We must ask him how to find a buried
"What good will that do?" objected the
first. If he does tell us, it will be answering
our question, so we will all lose our places."
And if he does n't tell us," continued the sec-
ond, "we shall keep our places-but we won't
know how to find a buried treasure when he
is gone."
Come, come," called the Baron, growing
impatient; "hurry up your questions! "
It was Hobson's choice with the wise men.
So the first turned to Hans, and asked: Can
you find a buried treasure whenever you wish? "

"Yes," said Hans.
"How?" asked the wise man.
"Hold on," cried Hans, "you can't have
two questions! and the wise man sat down,
biting his lips.
Then the second advanced, and asked: "How
can you find a buried
treasure whenever
you wish ?"
By not wishing to
find one," said Hans,
" until I know where
one is to be found."
Oh, dear me! "
protested the wise
man. "That is no
" Indeed,"
said the
Baron," I
think it is a very
sensible one. It
would have saved
me lots of dis-
appointment if I
had followed that "'GOOD!' SHOUTED THE BARON."
plan at first."
They had just one more chance left. So the
three put their heads together' to find a qiies-
tion from which there could be no possible
escape. And then the third arose, with a
look of malicious triumph, and asked: "How



did you know that a treasure was buried under
the oak at the cross-roads ? "
Why," said Hans, laughing merrily, I knew
that a treasure was buried under the oak because
I buried it there myself."
The Baron threw himself back with a roar
of laughter, for he dearly relished a joke-
when it was on some one else. "Good !" he
shouted. "Good enough! If you want to find
a buried treasure, go bury it yourself! Ho, ho,
ho! Why, you have outwitted the wits at
their own game!" he cried in high glee. "I
could n't have done it any better myself!"
which was a great deal for a Baron to admit.
And then said he to Hans: "Whatever you
wish, sir, speak, and it shall be yours "
Then please let me go back to Narrheit,"
cried Hans, quickly. I would rather be a fool
in peace than a wise man in peril."
Then the Baron gave Hans a sack of gold,
and sent him back to Narrheit in his own coach.
Now, Johann Barthel," said Hans, as he

stood in the door, "I have come back to
But there is no room! cried Johann.
Hans threw his bag of gold on the floor.

"Don't say there is no room," laughed he.
"Just make the bench a little longer!"
And that is a saying in Narrheit to this day.



TUCK in thy toes, prick up thine ears,
Assume a listening attitude,
And I will tell thee, happy cat,
The tale of thy beatitude;
And when I 've told thee all the truth,
Just rub mu hand in gratitude.

What hast thou to be thankful for
Besides thy far-famed fatitude?
Thou roamest free, with ample room,
Not housed in cramping flatitude;
And thou hast beds luxurious
On couch and chair and matitude-
Beds which but for thy hairs would be
Adorned with neatest attitude.
Thy days are passed in quietness,
Unteased by brawling bratitude;
Nor even are thy nerves outworn
By steady stream of chatitude.
Simple thy clothing, happy cat,
Unvexed by styles in hatitude.
Well may'st thou pity other cats,

Harried and worn by scatitude;
For friendly hands are stroking thee
With touch of gentle patitude,
And never once has cruelty
Stirred thee to pitapatitude.
Noble cat-pleasures fill thy life,
And swell to high ecstatitude:
Thou meetest oft thy cattish kind,
And join'st in feline spatitude;
And when the felines go for thee,
Thou giv'st them tit-for-tatitude;
And in the house thou mak'st thy boast
Of cellars cleared of ratitude.
Let other cats their homes desert
In folly blind as batitude:
Thou 'It never seek divorce from thine
On grounds of incompatitude.

Now, cat, I 've told thee all thy lot
Of happy this-and-thatitude,
And I expect to see in thee
Appreciative catitude.





ery e.w e.li H .Pe,

gfJidWen pfaoing in Ae stPeet,
C Afdeen pattePmng down tAe Ostoau,
(P.dp.en's voices, cfodrpenrs feet,
Aitenolen, cudi'en eveawAere!

CPiidren wording in tfe books.
nPfdPen caught' n Apliqf showers;
jober-c-i^d en peeading books,
Joll ch idpen. picking flowers.

/ CipdtenP stao.ing aps you pass,
C'itd;Pen t ampring ffowe -bec s;
TudnnY chAdirfen. in. IRe graLss
Wt tRneir feet above Teii- heads. j

C(iidren. out upon the bc)x,
Saci;na off acrGPoss tAe aea. ;
ChildrPen miles and miles awacuo
Ckldrien. aifting on mn knee,


* ;P d~ vet ppoud and vain.,
Dressed up int -te oa~test styfe;
Cidren smiifn. 6ack again
W~ten II fook at' i9~em, and smite.
W6,L I
~tifdr ,,e a -iRc~ ome f'on sc1.m oof,
Cncidren fnsnf 9 ice YnuA pies;
@RdPen f~sf~n1g 5n ;n e poof,
CkifPbcli-ert AcL5'n. ttev'-ffies



CR;Pdrer z uecrg 'opden Itt~
~h;Pren I qn for- if~eit- breoL4
CB;Ptren. ;m ife'stiraetS ott n;ge5t t
US'Fdren sound aseleep ;n. beas

I ve c 5ressed Ne 50olleres 6ofrL,
I rR~g wA t~-tdirr ffoags urtfurted--
Ch, out- 6artls ftave room to holot
A?? Ifle chtfailoen In Ae. Wrld i

VOL. XXII.--129.



fe ^ '- -- .",o._ -

b ; .i


TWENTY years ago a British trading-steamer,
the "Augusto," made a pioneer trip up the
Amazon. She ascended the Teffe River, one
of the tributaries of the Amazon, in the far
western part of Brazil, and tried to enter a
smaller river that flows into the Teffe.
As Captain Collyer, who commanded the
Augusto, did not know the channel,-and, in
fact, no white man knew it at that time,- he
secured a native Indian pilot. Now, it hap-
pened to be the end of the rainy season, and
the little river was much higher than usual--
higher than it had been for ten years; and very
likely the Indian pilot was misled by this. At

all events, the Augusto ran upon a bank, and
became fixed there so firmly that nothing could
budge her
It was not strange that they could not dis-
lodge her, for, as the water went down to its
usual level, it was seen that the Augusto had
run upon an island, and upon that island she
remained for eight months, tilted so that the
highest point of the keel was forty-five feet up
in the air, as the picture shows.
The crew built themselves a house on the
island, and moved into it. They could n't very
well live in a ship that was tilted like a to-
boggan slide; and, besides, who knew when the



Augusto might slide down into the river among
the hungry fish -to say nothing of the big-
mouthed alligators?
Word of the ship's awkward fix was written
to the owners and insurers, and they sent from
London men called "surveyors," to find out
what it was best to do. These wise men ex-
amined the Augusto, and returned to London
to see whether some sort of ponderous machine
could be sent out for rescuing the poor stranded
Meanwhile other surveyors examined the
case, and advised that the Augusto should be
sold for whatever anybody would be foolish
enough to pay; and their advice was taken.
As soon as the vessel was thus abandoned,
the master of the Augusto thought he would
try his hand at getting her afloat.
The cargo was moved toward the stern; tim-
bers were set up to support the vessel, so that
her hull would not be strained; and then the

Augusto's force-pumps were put to work, forcing
water against the earth and mud just beneath her.
It was a case of

Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand.

Each little stream of water carried off a few
grains of sand; and soon the uptilted vessel
found herself sliding gently down the hill, while
the stubborn earth that had held her fast for
eight long months, and which would have defied
any violence less than blasting, was gently per-
suaded not only to let the captive go, but even
to make a road for her descent to the river.
Then the English flag was hauled down, for
her new owner was a Brazilian, and the yellow
diamond on a green ground was hoisted as a
sign that the Augusto was henceforth to belong
to the great South American Republic.
Certainly the steamer was fairly earned, for
she had been rescued by one man's ingenuity.



MISTRESS MORNING -well she knows
How to play at dominoes
With the children, blithe and gay,
Wide awake at break of day.
First she shows her bluest skies,
Matched by Mary with her eyes.
Next she plays her breezes light,
Matched with Lucy's laughter bright.
Then she throws her sunshine true,
Matched with smiles by merry Lou.
Flowers come now, sweet white and red,
Matched by Josie's flower-like head.
For each charm the morning throws
In this game of dominoes
Something sweet the children bring,
Matching her in everything.
If the game goes thus all day,
Who will be the victor, pray?





/I ,
2 i

Afl ./


S THE 7: 05 is late
to-night; it 's
i a quarter after,
--, now.
SCome holidays,
-there 's extra
Work, the train-

S- But Dan and I
know how to
wait,-been at
it all our days,--
And fretting never
hurries trains
nor helps out
other ways.

What 's that? You think I ought to go and
hitch my horse? Why, man !
None but a stranger in these parts would say
that of old Dan.
If every human had the brains that that old
horse has got,
There 'd be a scarcity of fools, so p'r'aps it 's
better not.

If you are n't 'quainted in the place, of course
you would n't guess
That Dan and I we engineer for Adams's
And though Dan 's silent partner, yet he al-
ways takes the lead,
While I go 'long to lend a hand, or tongue,
in case of need.

We manage this way: Do you see the office
next the track ?
Well, there Dan leaves me when I throw the
reins across his back,
And while I 'm making out the bills, he
comes across the road,
And backs the wagon up for me all ready to

Old Dan, he knows as well as I what trains
bring in express.
This 7: 05 's the last to-night. He 'd stand
right there, I guess,
Till doomsday, waiting patiently; but when
it once has come,
No power on earth can keep old Dan from
making tracks for home.

Once in a while there comes a time when I
am hindered here,
And Dan is wanted farther up, so I say in
his ear,
"Old fellow, you go on ahead, and wait at such
a place."
He takes the middle of the road and jogs
his usual pace.



And when, b] 'mn Lv. I eti a :chn,:e t.:
follow on b.-hin' Ini, I-
I 'm pretty ..,lr. thie :.i:i.:e I N1;,i will b1e '-l \ a -
just whV -re 'I I !! hl l l -l
H e knows mi, -tce m.dJ ti !. ii : I ,. ., -_ 1,
as if he 'ii like to 1, .- "
"Old man, you 're just a tifle late.
Your watch is slow to-day."

Old Dan, he 's took it in his head that
there 's no kind of use
In living just to please yourself, and thinks So when Dan leaves the partnership I'11 send
there 's no excuse my resignation,
And then there '11 be two vacancies to fill at
S -this 'ere station.

!S :" There goes the section-signal up The train
i'" s in this block.
I hope I have n't bored you, sir, with all this
foolish talk.
Yes, there 's your train. A half-hour late.
S "hake hands? Yes, sir/ Goodnight!
'g'" Get up, Dan! Whoa! Gee off! Back up!
Old fellow, you 're all right.

And, consequently, folks all know where they
can catch a ride.

Though I don't like to notice it, I cannot
help but see
Old age is laying hold of Dan, and has his
eye on me.
eye on me.,-


-?-,II I~



SYou must not be a Pirate," said the King
across the ocean;
You must not be a Pirate," said the Peo-
ple on the shore;
S"And if to chase a ship
again you make the
slightest motion,
When we catch you,
we will hang you,
-. as we should have
done before."

k a

Said the Pirate to himself, Well, this spoils
all my old trading;
I might as well sell clams- for I 'm a
bucaneer no more.
But I '11 get even with their laws; they '11
pay for their upbraiding,
For I '11 start a pretty legend that I '11 tell
along the shore."

So for many, many miles on 'the sandy,
wind-swept reaches,
He told strange tales in whispers of the
gold that he would hide,
And the people all went out with their
shovels on the beaches,
And they dug on bay and shingle by the
ebbing of the tide.

That was many years ago, but the legend
it still lingers,
And the Pirate well might smile,
--- for the ocean-beach is lined
With a band of earnest searchers
whose strong arms and busy
S Dig for hidden golden treasures
they will never, .never find.




[Begun in ite May number.]

IT was necessary to shake the amateur far-
mer very rudely next morning before he could
be awakened; and even after he had opened
his eyes Teddy was obliged to repeat several
times the well-known fact that they ought to
get out of the yard before the shop was opened.
"Seems to me it 's taken half an hour to
get you awake," he said, "an' now it 's time
we was over the fence. I 've got stuff enough
for breakfast in my pocket, an' we '11 eat as
we go."
By this time Carrots was fully alive to the
surroundings, and in a twinkling assumed his
old character, which he fancied had been thrown
off nevermore to be resumed.
As soon as- they were in the street, and had
begun breakfast while walking toward South
Ferry, he asked his companion regarding busi-
ness during his absence, and received a most
satisfactory reply.
I 've been getting' along first-class," Teddy
said; "an' we 've got a good big capital to
begin on."
"But I 'm dead broke," Carrots replied
mournfully. I spent some of my money when
I went out with the farmer, an' the rest of it
while I was walking' in yesterday."
"You can't be broke so long 's you 've still
kept your interest in the firm, an' that eighty-
six cents has grown to more 'n two dollars."
But I don't own a share of it."
Course you do, an' we won't have any talk
'bout it either. I 'lowed you 'd stay longer 'n
you did, and so wanted you to take the whole
of the cash; but you would n't, and we 're
pardners jest the same 's if you 'd been here
all the time, 'cause your money was in town
even if you was n't."

"But I did n't do any work, did I ? "
"It does n't make any more difference now
than it did when I was locked up in the sta-
tion-house. I did n't work then, but you made
me take all the profits. It seems to me it
would be a good idea to buy another box an'
brushes. I 've had such luck with this, an'
earned so much more 'n I did with only the
papers, that we 'd better keep the two goin'."
"All right," Carrots replied enthusiastically.
"I '11 get a new one, an' sell papers too."
"Do you s'pose you can buy a box ready
made? "
"I reckon so. Let me have some money,
an' I '11 snoop 'round City Hall, or down to
Fulton Ferry. Some of the fellows will know
of an outfit for sale."
Teddy handed him a dollar as he asked:
"Who '11 'tend to the'lawyer this morning' ?"
"I guess you 'd better, 'cause I might n't
get my box in time, an' to-morrow I 'll start in
regular. Where '11 I see you this noon ?"
Come down to the ferry."
SI '11 be there, sure."
With this promise the two parted, and Teddy,
quite as cautious regarding the possibility of
meeting Skip as ever, went after his morning's
stock of papers.
Half an hour later he was busily at work
when Teenie Massey came running toward him,
evidently in the highest state of excitement.
"Say, Carrots got home last night! "
"Well, don't you s'pose I know it? "
"Yes; an' so does Skip Jellison."
"How 'd you hear of it ? "
"Reddy saw him down on Fulton street, an'
Skip 's just wild. Says he 's goin' to thump the
head offer Carrots if he shows hisself 'round this
town to-day. You 'd better come right up to
City Hall an' see if you can't help him!"
"Help who ? "
"Why, Carrots, of course. Sid Barker said



he told one of the fellers that he was goin' up
there to work, this forenoon, an' if somebody
don't stop him there '11 be trouble."
Skip won't dare to do any fighting' after the
fuss with me."
"He says he will; an' he 's goin' to smash
Carrots's box, so you 'd better go up."
"It seems as if I 'd only make the matter

worse," Teddy said half to himself. I don't quaint
believe Carrots 'll be fool enough to show his second
nose round where Skip is, an' if I go there '11 It w
be some kind of a row sure. Why can't you him, a
manage this thing, Teenie ?" Fail
"What could I do ?" went 1
"See Carrots, an' tell him to keep away." though
"I '11 try it," Teenie said doubtfully; "but I leave 1
don't believe he '11 listen to me. You see, after One
I carried him that letter he 's got a idea I 'm whom
standing' in with Skip, an' I ain't at all." already

is reminder of "the warning" caused
y to think there was more in the threat of
r Jellison's than he had at first believed.
e letter which Teenie brought on the day
to Carrots's departure for the farm had
while escaped his mind.
w, however, it seemed evident, and only
able, that after making such a threat Skip
should try to carry it
into effect.
SHe was sadly at a
loss to know exactly
what he ought to do,
but urged Teenie to
go in search of Car-
rots; and when that
young gentleman had
departed at full speed
he muttered to him-
"It 's too bad to
knock off now, when
business is so good,
but I s'pose it 's got
to be done; an' yet
I 'd be in an awful
scrape if I should get
'rested ag'in for more
fighting. "
While he was thus
debating in his mind,
the meeting which he
wished to prevent was
already taking place.
On leaving his
friend, Carrots had
visited Fulton Ferry
for the purpose of call-
ing upon an old ac-
tance to inquire if he knew where a
d-hand box could be found for sale.
ras during this interview that Reddy saw
nd reported the fact of his arrival to Skip.
ing in his purpose at this point, Carrots
boldly up to the City Hall with never a
ht in his mind of the peremptory order to
town which he had received.
by one, he greeted the acquaintances
he met, repeating the story which he had
y told Teddy relative to his experiences


on the farm, and asked concerning the welfare
of those friends whom he had left behind.
As a matter of course, all this required con-
siderable time, and the forenoon was nearly
half spent when he reached City HallPark.
Business in the newspaper line was usually
dull at this hour, and he found quite a party
of his brother merchants in the vicinity of the
park, with apparently no other idea than that
of passing the time as pleasantly as possible.
Carrots approached as he would have done
a week previous, and was soon in the center
of the interested throng, who were listening to
his views of country life in general and his own
experience in particular, when a stranger ap-
proached him and whispered:
Did you get that box you wanted to buy ?"
No," Carrots replied. "Have you got
one to sell ?"
"A feller I know of has, an' it 's a dandy! "
"Where is it? "
Down on Rose street, under the bridge."
"I '11 go there in a minute." And Carrots
turned to continue his story, when the stranger
"You '11 have to come quick, or he '11 be
gone; and this is the biggest trade you ever
It is probable Carrots would not have in-
terrupted himself in the pleasing task of de-
scribing the incidents which happened on the
farm during his presence there, but for the fact
that he remembered what Teddy had said
regarding the necessity of being industrious;
and realizing that he had already wasted more
time than his partner might approve of, he
hurried away with the stranger, without once
thinking to inquire how the latter could have
learned he was in need of a bootblack's outfit.
The messenger went rapidly toward the
point designated, and Carrots followed, never
thinking of possible danger.
On reaching Rose street he saw no boy near
the bridge, and was about to ask his guide if
the alleged owner of the box had not gone to
some other portion of the city, when he was
suddenly seized from behind, and, turning his
head slightly, he saw Skip's face.
"So you had the nerve to come back here,
did you ?" Master Jellison asked, working him-
VOL. XXII.-13o.

self into a passion, which was not a very difficult
task for him.
"Come back here? Where else could I
go ?" Carrots asked, frightened, and at the
same time determined that the enemy should
not see any signs of fear on his face.
It does n't make any difference to me where
you ought ter gone, so long 's you come here.
Now I 'm goin' to serve you jest as I threat-
ened. Hold him, Sid,'while I see what he's
got in his clothes."
At this instant Sid, Reddy, and another boy
came out from their hiding-places, and the trans-
fer of the prisoner was quickly made.
Sid held Carrots by the hands in such..a.
manner as to prevent the slightest movement
save at the expense of considerable pain,
and. the stranger volunteered to act as sentinel
during the punishment.
Skip understood that it was necessary for
him to work very rapidly lest he should be in-
terrupted by the guardians of the peace, and
no pickpocket could have been more skilful
than he in searching the prisoner.
"Here! don't you take that-it ain't mine!"
Carrots cried as his enemy seized the dollar
which Teddy had given him.
"Then, if it ain't yours, I reckon it 's mine."
"I '11 have you 'rested for stealin' if you
don't put that right back!" Carrots threatened,
struggling in vain to release himself from Sid's
detaining grasp.
I reckon you won't be able to do much of
anything by the time I get through with you," Skip
replied, with an exasperating chuckle. "This is
jest about as much as I need to pay for the
swell dinner we fellers want; an' when I see the
owner I '11 give it back to him, if I feel like it."
Then, without further parley, he began to
beat the helpless boy in the most cruel man-
ner, and probably would have continued until
Carrots had received serious injury had it not
been for a warning cry from the sentinel.
Master Jellison was very careful of his own
precious body. He had no idea of allowing
himself to be captured, since he might be
brought before the same judge to whom Car-
rots had told the story of his attack on Teddy;
and therefore he delayed his flight only long
enough to say threateningly:


Now, if you an' that chump from Saranac
don't get out er this part of the city before
to-morrow morning I '11 fix you so 's you can't
even wiggle." And, with a blow by way of
emphasis, he started at full speed toward the
water-front, Sid, Reddy, and the sentinel fol-
lowing close at his heels.
Poor Carrots was in a sad plight. His nose
was bleeding, his cheek cut, and his head
buzzing like a mill-wheel from the effects of
the blows.
He seated himself on the curb-stone, and
was giving full sway to the grief and anger of
his heart, when some one touched him gently
on the shoulder.
Looking up quickly, he saw Teenie Massey,
who asked in surprise:
"Why, what 's the matter? Did Skip catch
you ? "
"Yes, he did; an' he stole a dollar that be-
longed to Teddy."
The enormity of this last offense .caused
Master Massey more surprise than if he had
seen his friend in a much worse bodily condi-
tion. He had feared Carrots might get a
whipping, but never believed Skip would be so
bold as to commit downright robbery.
How did it happen? he asked solicitously.
Carrots told his story in the fewest possible
words, and concluded by making the most
dismal and bloodthirsty threats relative to what
he would do to Master Jellison when the
proper time should arrive--all of which had
but little effect on Teenie.
When from sheer lack of breath the victim
was forced to cease speaking, Master Massey
asked in a matter-of-fact tone:
"Where do you s'pose you '11 live now ?"
"Where will I live? Why, the same place
I allers have, of course."
"But you won't dare to if Skip 's goin' to
cut up this way."
"I '11 have him 'rested for stealin', an' then
we '11 see how he '11 act. I guess he '11 get
sick of trying' to run fellows out er town!"
Teenie made no reply to this threat because
he did not believe it would be carried into
effect, but said in what he intended should be a
soothing tone:
It ain't likely he '11 try to do anything' more

to-day, so you 'd better brace up an' get some
of the blood off of your face. I 've jest been
down to tell Teddy what I heard Skip say he
was goin' to do, an' you ought ter get 'round to
the ferry, 'cause he '11 be huntin' for you."
"I 'm goin' to see that lawyer first, an' find
out what can be done with Skip."
"Well, you want ter kind of spruce up a bit
before you do that, for you don't look very fine
now, Carrots."
"I '11 jest leave the blood all over my face
till the judge sees it."
"Then you '1 stand a good chance of bein'
'rested for a pirate, 'cause you look like one."
And Teenie, understanding that it would be
useless to argue further with Carrots while he
was in such a frame of mind, believed it his
duty to notify the victim's partner that it was
useless for him to neglect business, since the
mischief had already been done.
Leaving the disconsolate victim of Skip's
vengeance on the curb-stone, Master Massey
walked slowly toward the City Hall; but be-
fore he was very far from the scene of the late
encounter, he met Teddy.
A few words sufficed to acquaint the latter
with all that had happened.
It certainly was discouraging, to say the least,
that Master Thurston should be obliged to
spend so much time just at this hour, when
trade was most flourishing; but he did not
neglect what was manifestly his duty, even
though it cost him so much in the way of
prospective profits.
His first thought on approaching his partner
was to attempt to soothe him; but after a few
moments he realized how useless such a task
would be, and proceeded at once to more he-
roic measures.
"Now, see here, Carrots, this won't do at
all. It ain't any good for you to try to have
Skip 'rested for takin' that dollar, an' the law-
yer '11 be mad, jest as likely as not, if you go
to him 'bout it. Course it 's pretty hard to git
sich a thumpin'; but it 's over now, an' we've
got to bigger how we can git the best of that
villain ourselves."
"He 's worse 'n a villain-he 's a heathen! "
Carrots yelled.
Well, call it a heathen then. We '11 square


up with him before we're much older, an' that's
a good deal better 'n trying' to get somebody
else to do it for us. I 'll bet he has to give
up that money before a week, an' we can 'ford
to wait two or three days for the sake of doin'
the thing right."
"I don't see how we '11 ever get the best of
Skip. He 's always got his gang with him."
"We '11 find some way before long, so you 'd
better fix yourself up and get to work. There's
all the more need of hustling now we 've lost
a dollar."
I did n't lose it It was stole! "
"Well, it 's gone, an' we 've got to make it
up. Now, be a man, an' to-night we '1l talk
this thing over."
Teddy spoke so sternly that Carrots was
forced to obey; and, walking slowly and
mournfully to City Hall Park, he washed his
face in the basin of the fountain, drying it as
well as he could with the sleeve of his coat,
for Teddy no longer carried his newspaper
valise since he had a dwelling-place in which
to leave it.
As a matter of course, Carrots's friends who
chanced to be in the vicinity insisted on know-
ing exactly what had happened, and on being
informed of the outrage denounced the per-
petrator of the villainy in no measured terms.
He '11 get hisself into trouble if he keeps on

this way very long," one of the listeners said
when the story had been told in all its details.
"I 've got tired seeing' him trying' to run the
whole town, an' it strikes me there oughter
be enough other fellows that feel the same way
to set down on him."
More than one expressed the same opinion,
and Teddy was made happy by hearing sugges-
tions as to what should be done to curb Master
Jellison's ambitions; but although very much
advice was given, no one volunteered anything
in the way of assistance toward righting the
wrong that had been done.
Vain threats and denunciations would not
bring back the stolen money, and to Teddy
this was more important than "squaring him-
self" with Skip. Therefore, after having waited
for Carrots to talk with his friends as long as
he thought absolutely necessary, he whispered:
Now, see here, old man, I 've got to go to
work. We must n't fool any more time away.
Let 's earn what we can the rest of the day, an'
to-night we '11 fix up some kind of a plan."
Carrots would have been better pleased to
remain with his friends; but his partner was
so peremptory that he could not refuse to go
to work, and half an hour later the business
associates were industriously engaged either in
selling papers or blacking boots, according to
the demands of their customers.

(To be continued.)


THE Princess was fair as a maid could be,
And she bore the stamp of a high degree;
She lived in a palace, and dressed in blue,
As the daughters of Kings are apt to do;
And the palace had fir-trees round about
(The usual run of them have, no doubt).
The Princess loved a Prince in mail,
As one always does in a fairy-tale.

He was handsome and brave, but, just the same,
He had n't a cent to his royal name -
Which, as every one knows who knows a thing,
Is a fatal defect in a future king.
So the maid might weep and the maid might
moan -
Her father's heart was as hard as stone.
He locked her up in a tower room,


All horrible spiders and darkest gloom,
To worry as if her heart would break;
And all for her penniless Prince's sake!
Perhaps it was mean of the stern old King,
But in fairy-tales it is quite the thing!

Well, the Princess had, as need scarce be told,
A fairy godmother, bent and old.
She came through the wall, with her magic wand,
And the situation she deeply conned,
And shortly evolved a brilliant plan,
As fairy godmothers always can.
At night, when the white stars filled the skies,
The Princess opened her great gray eyes;
And in at the window smoothly rolled
A fairy bicycle built of gold,
With cobweb spokes and a silver tire,
And its lantern filled with the glow-worm's fire--
A new invention, and, what is more,
Not met with in fairy-tales before.

So the Princess mounted, and through the air
She skilfully wheeled her way to where
The Prince was waiting among the firs
With another bicycle just like hers.
Away they sped like the whirling wind,
Leaving her father far behind.

Swift as he could the King pursued,
Uttering words that were highly rude;
But after a time he stopped to laugh,
For both of the wheels had snapped in half!
They tell me machines of the finest make
Sooner or later are bound to break;



4 V\-.)i : ;~)4~q_ ___f~kb~iF

ND- V-- -
5711MNMSA ".K

So we cannot wonder in case we 're told
That a fairy bicycle built of gold,
With cobweb. spokes and a silver bar,
Is not of much use to travel far!
Back to the dreary tower room,
Back to the spiders and darkest gloom,
The Princess went with the stern old King;
And the bronze door shut with a dismal ring,
And-alas for the maid!-her pauper swain
Was never so much as seen again.
Perhaps you will say, my little friends,
"What a horrible way this story ends! "
But you know the tales that you read in youth

Vary a bit from the strictest truth.
So my moral -at least the way it looks-
Is- Sometimes it's different from the books!


(Eighteentk iafer of the series on North A merican Quadrufeds.)


OF all the large animals of the American
continent, none is more remarkable in form
than the MANATEE.
MANATEE. While it is not by any
(Man-dius A-mer-i-can'us.) means a quadruped,
yet it is so large, so little known, and so in-
teresting, as to fairly demand a place in these
Although this strange creature is of goodly
size, often reaching a weight of several hundred
pounds, and sometimes attaining a length of
thirteen feet, yet I venture to say that not more
than one person out of every four thousand in
the United States could now arise and cor-
rectly answer the question, "'What is a Mana-
tee ?" Whenever you mention the name of the
creature to any one save a student of quadru-
peds, of a surety you will have that question to
answer forthwith.
The Manatee is an animal that lives exclu-
sively in the water, and while it is shaped
somewhat like a seal, it is very far from being
one. I mention the seal by way of comparison
solely because it is the only quadruped which
can be used. The heavy, bag-like body, short
neck, blunt nose, and round head of our harbor
seal do indeed suggest the form of the Manatee;
but there the resemblance stops short.
Instead of having hind flippers like a seal,
the body of the Manatee terminates in a very
broad and very flat tail, which forms an ad-
mirable propeller. Its front limbs are simply
big, flat paddles, by no means so shapely and
useful as the front flippers of a sea-lion. It has
no hair,- or, at least, none to speak of; a
smooth, but very thick and tough skin, small
weak eyes, and a blunt nose. Instead of hav-
ing teeth like a seal, and feeding on fish, it has
only a set of rather weak molars, and lives
solely on aquatic plants.
It lives in the mouths and lower reaches of

rivers that flow into the sea in tropical latitudes,
and while it does not object to salt water, it is
most at home in water that is either brackish or
else quite fresh; and the latter is preferred be-
cause of its aquatic vegetation. Unlike the seal,
it is quite unable to come out on land.
I am glad to be able to say that even to-day
this remarkable animal is an inhabitant of one
portion of our strangely diversified United
For some particular reason, probably the
abundance of good food combined with a good
depth of water, a number of Manatees have
chosen to inhabit the St. Lucie River, Brevard
Co., Florida, which flows into Indian River,
eighteen miles above Jupiter Inlet. Their pres-
ence there has been well known for twenty
years or so; but, fortunately for them, they
possess neither the checkered-leather hide of
the sad-eyed alligator, the spun-glass plumes of
the unhappy egret, or the delicious flesh of the
wild turkey; and so as yet they have not been
entirely exterminated.
In 1888, plucky Captain Zellers, of Titus-
ville, went a-fishing for them with a 300oo-foot
net, made of rope, and caught four specimens
alive and unhurt. Three were shipped in tanks
of water to New York. During that year they
were shown at New York and Cape May; but
at the approach of winter all died from the
want of a warm aquarium. The skeleton rep-
resented in our illustration, now in the National
Museum, formerly belonged to a St. Lucie
River Manatee, thirteen feet in length, which
was collected, "for scientific purposes," by
Mr. Shipman, of Rochester, in 1884.
The Manatee belongs to a mammalian order
called Si-re'ni-a, or Sea Cows, which contains
only three species: our Manatee, that of
West Africa, and the dugong of Australia. As
its clumsy form suggests, it is an animal of quiet


and even sluggish habits, entirely harmless, and
easily taken when once its haunts are known.
When at home, its food consists of tender aqua-
tic plants and grasses, always eaten under
water, and its presence is generally revealed by
the bits of broken stems and grass which
escape and float to the surface above where it
is feeding.
In captivity it feeds on cabbage, lettuce, the
leaves of the canna, celery tops, water-cress,
spinach, and also certain kinds of ocean sea-weed.
In the St. Lucie River, its favorite food is a lux-
uriant, trailing aquatic grass, called manatee
grass, in which the Manatee finds not only good
food, but good hiding-places from its human
The bones of this animal are massive, solid,
and quite heavy (some hunters will tell you its
bones are "solid ivory"), and its skin is as
thick and tough as that of a hippopotamus. I
have seen very good canes made of strips of
manatee-skin, twisted like a lightning-rod, and
dried. Its flesh is very good, and to me it
tastes quite like lean pork. Curiously enough,

i-. __---_-----


this strange creature actually sheds its outer
skin every year, as does a serpent. The living
specimens that from time to time have been
captured and kept for exhibition in Demerara,
Philadelphia, New York, and London, have in
all cases been of small or medium size, varying
in length from four to seven feet. The one
which was shown in the Central Park Men-
agerie, in 1873, was 6 feet 9/ inches in length,
and weighed 450 pounds, from which we may

hazard a guess that Mr. Shipman's Manatee
must have weighed between 1ooo and 1200
In Florida the Manatee once inhabited sev-
eral localities on the Gulf Coast as far north as
Tampa, if not even farther, and. on the Atlantic
side it is known to have been taken at St. Au-
gustine. Whether it is still to be found alive
on the west coast is a question; but I doubt it
very much. At all events, it was once suffi-
ciently abundant there to bestow its name upon
a county, a river, and a thriving town at the
mouth of Tampa Bay.
In more southern latitudes, the American
Manatee is found at certain points on the coast
of Cuba (I found it myself in the Isle of Pines,
in 1875), and of Yucatan, Honduras, Guate-
mala, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, and the coast of
South America generally, but particularly the
Guianas and the Amazon, as far south as south-
ern Brazil. The feeling is a foolish one, I
know, but for all that, as a patriotic American,
I have always felt positively proud of the fact
that we can count the Manatee as belonging to
the mammalian fauna.of the United States. But
that is not a circumstance to the genuine joy I
felt in the discovery of a true crocodile of huge
dimensions in Southern Florida, and in forcing
jealous and unbelieving foreign naturalists to
accept the credentials of Crocodilus acutus Flo-
ridanus. At first they all seemed to feel that
we had no right to have a genuine crocodile,
fourteen feet long, all our own! But we have
it, nevertheless.
Still less known in this country, and never
seen, either in menageries or museums, are the
two species of Tapir found in Central America.
The sleek, plump-bodied, chocolate-brown Tapir
of South America we do see occasionally, both
alive and dead, but of BAIRD'S TAPIR there is not
even one adult stuffed speci-
men in existence, either in this
(Ta s aird'i) country or in Europe. A few
skulls and skeletons, and two or three muti-
lated and unmountable skins are positively all
the world possesses in representation of this
species, and, what is still worse, no naturalist
has yet had an opportunity to even write a de-
scription of the full-grown animal! The young
animal is known to be of a reddish-brown



------- -c


color, marked with irregular white spots and
Our universal poverty in specimens of the
Tapir named in honor of Professor Baird is not
due to the extreme rarity of the animal, but
rather to a lack of enterprise on the part of the
intelligent white men who from time to time
have had it in their power to procure and
to preserve specimens.
The animal is well
known in Panama,
Costa Rica, Nicara-
gua, Honduras, and
Southern Mexico.
Although Tapirs are
usually found along
small and well-shaded
rivers in the hot low-
lands of the tropics,
they are frequently
found on forest-covered mountains as well. Dr.
Frantzius informs us that in Costa Rica Baird's
Tapir is found both in the lowlands and on the
highest mountain ranges. He says also that
" it is much hunted, for its flesh is very delicate;
the backwoodsmen salt it, or dry it in the air, and
thus provide themselves with large stores. Its
thick hide is very useful. Tapirs are very
fond of the salt-licks which are formed in the

neighborhood of the
numerous mineral
springs by the evap-
'oration of the saline
water. Here they are
S Either shot with bul-
lets on moonlight
S nights, or are hunted
down with dogs, and
killed with spears."
SIn Guatemala, Nic-
a aragua, and Costa
S Rica there lives an-
other species, known
as Dow's TAPIR, Of
(T'ap'i-nrs Don/i.)

which a little more is
known than, of the
preceding. In Messrs.
Salvin and Goodman's Biologia Centrali-Am-
ericana, there is a very excellent illustration
which represents a nearly adult mounted speci-
men in the Jardin des Plantes, at Paris.- The
color of the animal is a nearly uniform blackish
The food of the Tapir consists of the soft
and fleshy plants which grow abundantly along


the margins of tropical rivers, and in dense
forests where the humidity is great. This ani-
mal is almost as fond of water as the capybara,
and when attacked always heads straight for
the nearest stream. It is very shy, very keen-
witted, and without dogs is difficult to kill.
Of the few American quadrupeds for which
an intelligent hunter entertains a certain amount
of respect, the COLLARED PECCARY is one. Al-




COLLARED PECCARY. though he is only a little is seldom that more than eight or ten individ-
(Di-cofy-zes ta-jas'su.) flat-sided,high-shouldered uals are seen together. The time was when
hog, wild and uneducated, they were much more ready to fight than they
yet he is a plucky fighter when angry--and are now; but, like all other dangerous animals,
like a true child of the wild West, he gets mad they have learned to fear man and his deadly

Not long since, Mr.
Baker visited Uvalde
Co., Texas, for the
purpose of collecting
"Musk Hogs," as the
Peccaries are there
called, and the follow-
ing is an extract from
a very interesting letter
he sent me from the
seat of war:


quite easily. It always annoys him very much
that any one should dare to go a-gunning for
him, and Mr. A. B. Baker, of the Washington
"Zoo," points to a long slit in the side of his
leather leggings as an illustration of what a
Texas Peccary can do when he is very angry.
This species has a very wide range, being
found from the Red River of Arkansas as far
south as Patagonia. In Texas it is no longer
abundant save in the low jungly bottom lands
along the Rio Grande. It does not go in great
droves, like the White-Lipped Peccary, and it
VOL. XXII.-13r.

We are now camped in
the low country, about fifty
miles from the Mexican
border. This country is one
vast thicket of mesquite,
"cat-claw," and prickly-
pear. Everything has a
thorn, and without leather
leggings riding is impos-
sible. I have had much
difficulty in finding any one
who would help me in get-
ting the Hogs, as all are
afraid of having their dogs
killed; but at last I found
a man who was willing to
hunt with me.
We have camped by a
deserted ranch, which
shelters us from the pour-
ing rains, rise every morn-
ing before daybreak, and
as soon as it is light
enough to ride with safety,
are in the saddle. When-
ever the dogs find a hog-trail, we have a lively race,
tearing after them through brush and thorns, until the
trail ends either in a dense thicket, or a den in the rocks.
In the latter cases we have had two or three lively scenes,
in one of which an enraged Peccary, beset by the dogs,
charged down upon me, and with a vicious sidewise swipe
of his tusks, cut clean through my leggings. But for
the thick leather, the little beast would have laid my leg
open to the bone.
Whenever the dogs brought a Peccary to bay, we
would shoot it as soon as we could do so without the
risk of killing a dog: but I regret to say that yesterday
our best dog was nearly killed by a Musk Hog. How-
ever, we have already secured thirteen fine specimens.



America generally, and southward to Paraguay,
is more sociable in
WHITE-LIPPED PECCARY. its habits than the
(Di-coity-Zes la-bi-'us.) other species, and is
sometimes found in droves of from fifty to one
hundred individuals. This species is quite pug-
nacious, possibly emboldened by the number
of able-bodied fighters, and many stories are

told of peccary hunters who have in turn been
hunted, and forced to climb trees for safety.
In its habits the Peccary is always a true
hog, with an appetite for anything that can be
chewed and swallowed. Naturally .its princi-
pal source of food-supply is found in nuts,
mast, roots, and fruits; but it also eats reptiles,
worms, larve, eggs, young animals when avail-
able, and crops when any are within reach.



HE was six years old, just six that day,
And I saw he had something important to say
As he held in his hand a broken toy:
He looked in my face for an instant, and then
He said, with a sigh, and a downcast eye,
"If I could live my life over again,
I think I could be a better boy! "




WHO cares what borders on Japan?
Who wants the rule of three
When the sun is shining in the sky
And birds sing on the tree ?

Who cares for height of mountain-top,
Just when a kite can fly
Above the highest clouds that float?
I 'm sure it is not I!

And if ten men can dig a well,
Now who would give a pin
To know how many days each one
Would take to dig it in?

If Chinese people upside down
Must walk-what matter, pray?
Or live on rats, and lie awake
All night, and sleep all day?

If James and John have three pounds six,
Whatever that may be
In cents and dollars, I am sure,
Is nothing much to me!

If any boy or girl alive
Cares for such things as these,
Let them come in, and we '11 go out,
And thank you-if you please!

' ..t ti tt'--I w---_ _'.


r :
i. .


M-o -

- i

I 00MW


IT does n't pay to be cross -
It's not worth while to try it;
For Mammy's eyes so sharp
Are very sure to spy it;

A pinch on Billy's arm,
A snarl or a sullen gloom,
No longer we stay, but must up and away
To the Howlery Growlery room.

7. "'


Chorus. Hi! the Howlery! ho! the Growlery!
Ha the Sniffery, Snarlery, Scowlery !
There we may stay,
If we choose, all day;
But it 's only a smile that can bring
us away.
If Mammy catches me
A-pitching into Billy;
If Billy breaks my whip,
Or scares my rabbit silly:
It's Make it up, boys, quick !
Or else you know your doom!"
We must kiss and be friends, or the squabble ends
In the Howlery Growlery room.
Chorus. Hi! the Howlery! ho! the Growlery!
Ha! the Sniffery, Snarlery, Scowlery!
There we may stay,


If we choose, all day;
But it's only a smile that can bring
us away.
So it does n't pay to be bad;
There 's nothing to be won in it:
And when you come to think,
There 's really not much fun in it.
So, come! The sun is out,
The lilacs are all a-bloom.
Come.out and play, and we 'll keep away
From the Howlery Growlery room.
Chorus. Hi! the Howlery! ho! the Growlery!
Ha! the Sniffery, Snarlery, Scowlery !
There we may stay,
If we choose, all day;
But it 's only a smile that can bring
us away.


60 .11 I r2A

3 5-,c q




e little spe twixt fingers 3&. iumbs
is round s a circle you see! ..a;
hle in there, Z tiny square .'rc;e
WOhws corners four to me.

ie lzwn where he rolls
in the sunshine bright,
iAd the dciniy spread
theft covers his bed
's fIst sleep t night.

0, (cut M /W.~~ ,i
Ad 6:lIei

4442s SL *m MNM rub~b,
H-P V~ g u

_ _II___ __~I~



BACK again to school,
Hear the bells a-ringing !
Feet a-dancing, heads a-whirl,
Shouting boy and smiling girl,
Apron trim and shining curl,
Here they come a-singing
Back again to school.
Back again to school,
Clear September weather,
Wayside goldenrods ablow;
Eyes a-sparkle, cheeks aglow,
Down the grassy ways they go,
Merry mates together
Back again to school.

So sings your friend Dorothy Deane in a song
lately sent you in Jack's care, my young book-de-
vourers; and your Jack heartily joins in the in-
visible chorus of good will and fine spirits.
WHO knows where corks come from? This
question was asked of the children of the red
school-house one day, and some funny answers
One child said, From bottles "; another timidly
shouted, The druggist's ; another said, Off of
trees"; and the dear Little Schoolma'am began to
feel rather discouraged. Suddenly a freckled little
fellow of eight summers held up his hand.
Well, Eddie," said the Little Schoolma'am, en-
I think corks are trees,- I mean there are cork-
trees,- and all sorts of things are made out of
them, such as life-preservers and everything."
"Very good," said the dear Little Schoolma'am.
And then she read to the class a little paper about
the cork-tree.
To-day every one of those children knows that

Spain is a great country for cork-trees. Some of
them know more yet on the subject, for they have
inquired, and also have looked in the cyclopedia.
You may follow the same plan; my chicks, when-
ever you feel like doing so.
What sort of tree is it, I wonder, big or little?
does it bear flowers? Is the trunk all cork, or is the
cork only the bark, or else the center of the trunk ?
My birds don't seem to know. One traveled fel-
low says that the cork-tree is "a kind of oak."
Now, is that possible, my wise ones?
MANY letters have come to this pulpit in answer
to the message I gave you in April from Lutie E. D.
I should like to show all these notes to you, my
friends, but that is not practicable. Rita C., who
writes pleasantly from St. Leo, Florida, says that
her papa calls the plant the Bryophyllum; Ida May
Ingersoll sends word from Florida that where she
is living, and in Cuba also, it is called the Chan-
delier plant; E. J. H., now in Pernambuco, Brazil,
says: "I have seen hundreds of these wonderful
plants growing here in Brazil. I often pick one
and put it away in a drawer, and in two weeks in-
stead of one leaf there are many."
Next comes Cecil Barr, whose letter tells us about
the leaf. He says:
I have read of a sprig of this life-leafplant about fifteen
feet long, cut from a banyan tree on this island of Nassau,
which sprouted three months after it was cut, without
water or earth, and with no other culture than being first
packed in a trunk, and then hung up on a nail!
Last of all comes a delightful letter from a young
girl of fourteen. It is so satisfactory and interest-
ing, you shall have it entire:
MY DEAR "JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT ": I think this is
the first letter you have had from Uruguay or even from
South America, because I have never seen any from
here among the letters to you. I am writing in answer
to the letter about the Florida Leaf" in the April num-
ber of ST. NICHOLAS, I895. From the description given
I think it must be The Life Plant," or Leaf of Life "
(Bryophyllum calycinum, natural order Grassulaceae-
Stone Crop and House-Leek family). It is a native of
Asia, found in the Malaccas; it is a tall plant and grows
to about three feet high with thick, bright green, succulent
leaves, notched, leaving rounded segments; the stem of
the plant is a pinkish brown color, the flowers are large
and pendulous, of a greenish yellow, sometimes turning
to purple. It is a greenhouse plant, but grows wild in
Jamaica, West Indies, Brazil, and in Entre Rios, Argen-
tine Republic. In Jamaica it is considered a great curi-
osity by the Creoles on account of its tenacity of the liv-
ing principle, whence it is called the Leaf of Life." A
single leaf, if broken off and hung by a thread in a room,
or put into a box or book, will begin to grow from every
notch in little pink buds that soon turn green and form
little leaves with long rootlets like threads. It grows if
thrown upon the ground even if the leaves are cut in
halves. It can only be dried to be put in a herbarium by
first killing it with" a hot iron or by boiling water. In
its native country it grows in the hottest, stoniest places.
Here, where I live, it grows very well, although it does
not belong to this country and has not yet flowered. The
hot climate suits it, and a small sprig that was brought
here from Rio Janeiro nearly two years ago has given
us about a hundred plants.



I am fourteen years old and live on an Estancia (that
is a cattle and sheep farm, which corresponds to the
ranches in North America). I was born here, but my
father and mother are English. The Estancia is one of
the largest; it is nine square leagues in size and. has
lovely woods as well as treeless parts (pampas); it is
nearly surrounded by rivers, one of which is the Uru-
guay. There are 1o,ooo cattle, 40,000 sheep, 700 horses
and about 2,000 ostriches. The men on the place speak
only Spanish and are called Lyanchos and have a
very picturesque dress; they nearly all ride well, and some
of them are horse-breakers. My sister and I have only
just begun to take ST. NICHOLAS, but for ten years we
have had it given to us in bound numbers and we like
it very much. I will write to you again soon and tell
you more about this country and the house I live in. I
am very interested in The Boy of the First Empire ";
I like stories of that time. Your loving reader,
DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: I have just read in
the April number of ST. NICHOLAS, a letter from a

reader which states that the native Mexican dogs have no
hair. This is true, as I can testify, having myself seen
one of these curious dogs.
There is no hair on any part of the body except a tuft
of down on top of the head and on the tip of the tail.
Very sincerely your friend,

DEAR JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT: Here is something I
want to tell you about. After the first autumn rain here,
millions of white-winged ants throng the air. They
generally come in flocks and you will see patches of
them on the sidewalks when you are only too close to
them. They do not sting, but they stick like burrs.
For a while after you will see countless wings lying
upon the ground, but their owners have disappeared.
What causes the ants, and where do they come from ?
I think they come from the trees, for you find them most
on the tree-shaded sidewalks.
Hoping to get an answer from yourself or some of
your congregation, Your devoted hearer,


HERE is a story in verse that has given the dear
Little Schoolma'am quite a shock. Though writ-
ten expressly for you by her bright and honored
friend, Mrs. E. T. Corbett, the precious little lady
"says she "cannot stand it."
Think of that! Well, finally, with Mrs. Cor-
bett's cordial consent, the Little Schoolma'am asks
each and all of you boys and girls to go carefully
over" this story,-so full of queer, inappropriate
spellings,-and write it out for her with all the words
given correctly. I tell her she '11 have hundreds
of copies, and surely she needs only one; but the
dear soul says there cannot be too many. The
more the merrier. And she is going to have judges
who will examine all the copies and award prizes
for the best twenty-four,-prizes of brand new one-
dollar bills: ten of them for the very best one sent;
five each for the three next best; two each for the
five next best, and one each for the fifteen next
best in order.
Well, here is the story. For further particulars
concerning the spelling contest, I am requested to
refer you to THE LETTER Box* of this month.


A LITTLE made wanted two go too a bawl.
Said mamma: Ewer to young;" butt she cried:
"Knot at awl-
I'll where my wight frock, with read gloves, I
My blew shoes will bee suite with rows-colored
And there 's my knew wring-'t is all that eye
I '11 be dressed in grate stile, and seam lovely

VOL. XXII.- 132.

To the garden she flue, saying: "No thyme to
I must chews a nice flour to put in my hare."
But- the garden was bear, and Marion side.
Neither bury nor bud in the boarders could hied.
She stood on the path four a minute, I wean,
But a beat and a bolder alone could be scene.
A cent from sum leaks was born on the gale.
"I '11 go," she exclaimed; "to the would and
the veil."

Sew she went on her weigh, but she went fourth
in vane.
She caught a bad cold, she was horse and in
She would clime on a bow:-wen it broke with
her wait,
She regretted the feet, for she could n't walk
She uttered a whale Owe my heal and my
tow !
I 've injured my gate--I 've dun it, I no!"
A rye face she maid, and grate tiers did she
Then homeward she limped, hart heavy as led.

As she hide to her rheum the clock peeledout ate,
And Marion fane wood have dressed for the fate,
But she fell in a feint. When her farther was
The sad tail, he turned pail: If our hoarse
wasn't soled,
And the whether so fowl- air an our it will rein -
I 'd caul for the doctor to lessen her pane."
So Marion wept-she had mist the gay bawl,
And she gave a deep grown that was herd inn
the haul.

* See page o152.




From Kansas, going north, we come
Upon Nebraska State,
SWhere people start from Omaha,
En route for the "Golden Gate."
S Sometimes along the river Platte
Five hundred miles they ride;
Sometimes upon the higher ground
,' Through prairies rolling wide.
ir, Nebraska's fertile prairie lands
Are good for corn and wheat;
And many tons are made each year
Of sugar from the beet.

Oh, mighty prairies of the West,
So boundless and so free!
How glorious roll your waves of green,
S Like billows of the sea!



From Kansas, going north, we come
Upon Nebraska State,
SWhere people start from Omaha,
En route for the "Golden Gate."
S Sometimes along the river Platte
Five hundred miles they ride;
Sometimes upon the higher ground
,' Through prairies rolling wide.
ir, Nebraska's fertile prairie lands
Are good for corn and wheat;
And many tons are made each year
Of sugar from the beet.

Oh, mighty prairies of the West,
So boundless and so free!
How glorious roll your waves of green,
S Like billows of the sea!



Eighteen hundred and sixty-one
Can ne'er forgotten be;
'T was then that "Bleeding Kansas"
And joined our family.

In infancy this thriving child
Through many troubles passed,
But ever since she 's run alone
Few States have grown so fast.

A lovely prairie land is this,
With many a happy home;
And herds of cattle, flocks of sheep,
Where bison used to roam.

The Kansas River, flowing east,
To the broad Missouri goes,
While south and east the Arkansas
To the Mississippi flows.

N -13 .--.



WE are sure that all our readers will welcome the an-
nouncement in the Jack-in-the-Pulpit pages this month
of a prize competition; and the exercise in spelling offered
by the ingenious verses, Marion's Adventures," will be
found very entertaining and not really difficult.
In sending copies of the verses, all young competitors
must be careful to write on only one side of the paper,
and to sign the full name and address in every instance.
Do not write letters or notes that require any reply, as
we cannot undertake to answer questions. The condi-
tions of the contest are fully stated in the Little School-
ma'am's offer and in the following paragraphs:
The competition is limited to subscribers and regular
readers of ST. NICHOLAS from the ages of ten to sixteen
inclusive; and in awarding the prizes, not only the cor-
rectness of the version will be considered, but also the
age of the sender, the general neatness of the copy, pen-
manship, and the time of receipt (allowing for the dis-
tance of the sender's residence from New York). All
copies of the verses for this competition must be in hand
by October 20th, and no competitor can submit more than

one copy. For the protection of all, moreover, each copy
offered must be signed by a parent, guardian, or teacher
of the sender, with these words: I hereby certify that
this is the unaided work of (name) of (ad-
dress), aged -
While the Little Schoolma'am of course hopes to ob-
tain a large number of correct copies, it is possible that
an absolutely correct version may not be received, and
so some of those containing a few errors may still suc-
ceed in winning a prize. To many boys and girls the
work will be easy, and from all it will require only
care and patience. No reader of ST. NICHOLAS; there-
fore, need hesitate to enter into the competition, and the
Little Schoolma'am hopes to hear from a great many
young folk, eager to set their wits to work and win a
Address all communications for this competition to
The Little Schoolma'am, Care of ST. NICHOLAS, The
Century Co., 33 East 17th St., New York.
The report awarding the prizes will appear in the
December number.


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have traveled a good deal in
Europe and other countries these last few years, and have
seen many famous buildings.
In India we saw lots of curious things and had a de-
lightful time, except for the inconvenience of not having
any drinking-water, or at least any that Americans would
call fit.
When my mother and father went out to a dinner-party
they each had to take a servant to stand behind their
chairs and wait on them. It must seem queer to most
people over here, but there it was the regular custom and
is considered only polite.
Most of the houses there are very picturesque with all
of their beautiful eastern hangings, panels, and various
We spent six months in India and then went to Dres-
den, where the wonderful gallery of art is, and we saw
the beautiful pictures. I think that Dresden is a lovely
city, but I had more fun in India, where everything was so
new and strange.
I enjoy you immensely and had my cousin forward you
to me when I was abroad, for you see I changed my ad-
dress so often. I remain your faithful reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I want to tell you about a nice
time I had last summer when I was down on Cape Cod.
Mama, my sisters, some friends, and myself went out

for a row on the river; we rowed for quite a while, when
all of a sudden we found we could row no further; the
tide was low and we were stuck on the sand.
We enjoyed ourselves for about an hour watching the
fish and eels that were covered with phosphorescence;
they sparkled and rather frightened us for they would
dart so quickly when we least expected it. We played
games until mama thought we had better row home.
A friend stood up in the bow of the boat to tell us what
way to go. We stuck several times but finally got out
where the water was deep. Every time we rowed a stroke
the water would glisten with phosphorescence.
I am your interested reader, FLORENCE D- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: For over a month I have been
wishing to write and tell you what a comfort you were
to a poor "sister," when there were two little girls and
a small, but very energetic, boy to be amused through an
attack of the measles. They all were sick at the same
time, and upon me fell the pleasant duty of reading aloud,
as our mother had her time sufficiently occupied making
chicken-soup and blanc-mange for the invalids.
I don't know what I should have done without the
piles of old ST. NICKS in the children's-room, for many
and varied were the subjects I was requested to read about.
And little Dick spent most of the time, when he was not
occupied in dropping things over the ledge of his bed for
the fun of standing on his head to reach them before I


I FIRST PRIZE.- $Io.oo for the best answer.
3 SECOND PRIZES.- $5.00 each, for the three next best.
5 THIRD PRIZES.- $2.oo each, for the five next best.
15 FOURTH PRIZES.- $I.oo each, for the fifteen next best.


caught him, hunting up articles he thought would be
specially interesting, and as soon as I came in the room
he would'point to a heap of ten or twelve numbers and
wave me to a chair with a graceful gesture of his little
speckled legs. And he would really keep quiet as long
as I read.
All of them are well now, and planning for fun when
they go to visit our aunt; but little Dick is pegging away
at his first reader so he can learn to read The Boy of
the First Empire" to himself.
I am so glad vacation has come, for I studied a good
deal last winter preparing for college, and I went to my
tutor in the evening instead of morning and found it
very inconvenient, because when I was free my friends
were at school and vice versa.
I am afraid this letter will be too long, but I want to
tell you something my little sister said one day. She was
walking down the garden walk with mother and stopped
to admire a beautiful butterfly poised, with quivering
wings, on a rose: Mama," she said with a puzzled look,
"what makes this flutterby wink his leaves so? "
I must close now, as there is some more practice "to
make my hair straight and make my nose curl" to be
done by your devoted reader, KITTYWINKS."

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: A friend lent me some of your
lovely magazines, and I like them so much mama is go-
ing to buy them for me every month. I have nothing
much to do but read, and I enjoy them very much.
I am an invalid. I have been in bed a year, but the
last few months I have been in a wheel-chair so that
now I can look out of the window and be rolled from one
room to the other.
I fell on roller skates about six years ago which caused
a disease of the spine. I am sixteen years old. I have
not been to school in four years.. From one of your lov-
ing readers, FLORENCE MADE K-

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am an American girl
living in Paris and go to a convent school. Papa goes
across the river to the other side of the city every month,
expressly to get you, for I really think I could not do
without you.
With my brother I have great times going over the
scenes described in your story of the "Boy of the First
Empire." It seems more real to see the actual ground.
Some time ago I was taken to see the grave of General
Lafayette, which is in a cemetery back of the grounds of
the Convent of Picpus, in a far-away part of Paris. We
entered the gate of the convent and there were met by the
concierge, who was a very good-hearted little old woman,
and showed us first the very wall that Victor Hugo, in
"Les Mis6rables," says Jean Valjeanr climbed over with
little Cosette on his back. Then she led us down through
some beautiful gardens, which were kept very neat and
clean, and through a gate in a wall. We were now in a
little cemetery where several noble families are buried.
In a far corner we found the tomb of dear Lafayette.
A large, flat, plain-looking gray slab of stone covered his
grave. A small United States flag stood at one side, and
a neat grave-decoration presented by the Patriotic Order
of the Sons of America was on the other side. Beside
him lay his wife, who had a tombstone very much like his
own, and several of his family were buried near by.
To the left of the grave was an iron gate in a high
wall. Through this we could see a monument in the
midst of beautiful bushes and flowers. In this little
quiet corner of Paris are buried thirteen hundred or
more people who were beheaded during the terrible
Revolution of 1789. Their bodies were thrown into a

Spit here. Among them was the body of General Beau-
harnais, the Empress Josephine's first husband. His
head was cut off during the Reign of Terror.
We felt very sad as we stood by the grave of Lafay-
ette and thought over this horrible history; but we felt
glad also that, after all the great Lafayette did for our
country, his fate was not so terrible. A peaceful death
brought him to this quiet grave, where all true Ameri-
cans who can should come to honor his name.
Coming out we saw two funny little fat nuns dressed
in gray, going around muttering prayers. The concierge
gave me two beautiful pansies, plucked from the garden,
which I shall always keep in remembrance of Lafayette's
With many wishes for your prosperity, dear ST.
NICHOLAS, I remain your devoted reader,

OUR readers will find in ST. NICHOLAS for July, 1892,
page 643, an interesting story by Victor Mapes, of two
patriotic American boys who decorated Lafayette's grave
one Fourth of July in Paris a few years ago.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am not quite seven years old
but I have been reading your magazine a long time. I
have six brothers but no sisters. We are spending the
summer on the seashore. I love to wade and catch crabs.
We had a big time on the Fourth of July, I never saw
fireworks before in summer. We always have them at
Christmas. Your constant reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a boy of thirteen years of
age. I am a constant reader of your magazine, but I
have never written to you before. I have read many in-
teresting letters which have been published in your
Letter Box, but none from Cape Colony. I dare say
some of your readers would like to hear something of
life in this country. The town I live in is a border
town. It is surrounded by a chain of mountains, and it is
about 16o miles from the sea. A few miles to the east
of it is Kaffir Land. The town is the center of. a wide
agricultural district. Many of the farmers in the neigh-
borhood keep ostriches. I would like to tell you of a
little adventure I once had with an ostrich when I was
on a visit to a farm with my father. I had an air-gun
and wished to use it. I got tired of waiting for my
father to come out with me, as he was speaking to the
farmer so I slipped away by myself. I went into one of
the camps to try to shoot some pigeons which I saw
there. They flew off to some little distance and I fol-
lowed them up, but each time I came within range of
them they flew a little further on. I had followed them
up for about 200 yards when I suddenly became aware
of a large ostrich about 300 yards in front of me. He
was coming along toward me, but as I had often been
in the camps before, and had found the ostriches harm-
less, I took no notice of him. But this time a pair of
them had a nest, and this was the male bird of the pair.
Presently he began to run toward me, then lay down
and flapped his wings on the ground. I was rather sur-
prised and alarmed at this proceeding, and, turning
round, I ran as hard as I could toward the nearest
fence; but as soon as he saw me turn he got up and
charged after me. The harder I ran the faster he came
on. After I had run about fifty yards I looked over



my shoulder and just behind me was the ostrich, a great
mass of fluttering feathers. In another second I received
such a blow on the back that I shot forward about ten
yards and then fell, plowing along the ground for
some distance. Fortunately, the ostrich had been run-
ning too fast to kick at me, and had simply run over me,
striking me with his breast. He could not stop at once
but ran on some distance ahead, then turned and came
back to where I was lying. He then proceeded to jump
on me, coming down with his full weight on my side.
He repeated this several times, and then I became uncon-
scious. When I came to my senses there were several
Kaffirs with my father and the farmer standing round me.
Each Kaffir had a long, forked stick keeping off the os-
trich that still careered round about us. They helped
me home to the farm and I lay in bed nearly all day. I
had received two ugly gashes on the side of my fore-
head, and my ribs were so sore that I could hardly walk
from the pain in them. This is an experience which I
think none of your American readers can have had. I
hope this account of my adventure will be interesting to
them. I am your interested reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am spending the summer in
Bristol and it is a very interesting place. There is part of
the old house Captain Benjamin Church used to live in
who killed King Philip on Mt. Hope. The house is two
hundred and fourteen years old.
The other day I rode to Mt. Hope and saw the chair,
made of rock, King Philip used to hold his councils in,
and also the place where he was killed.
He was killed near a spring, so it is called King Philip's
Spring. Hoping you will publish this I remain, your
great admirer, HELEN C. R-

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: This is our second summer in
Digby. Digby is a little town on the Annapolis Basin
about six miles from the Gut, a strait connecting the Basin
with the Bay of Fundy. On each side of Digby is a deep
bay, one called the Racquette, the other the Joggin. The
tide here rises from twenty-six to thirty feet and at low
tide both bays are bare. At high tide the two- and three-
masted schooners, which were stranded in the mud, float
and sail out in safety.
We were told, the other day by a "city chap," that the
tide rises and falls twice in the twenty-four hours. He
seemed to think it was something extraordinary and un-
heard of. I wonder where he came from.
Digby is a very interesting town. It boasts four or
five hotels. But the chief interest is the fishing village.
On the Racquette there are six wharves, all in a state
of fishiness and oldness, more or less. To these wharves
come the fishing-boats with their crews of jolly fishermen
and their barrels of fish. Some are dirty, some are clean.
When the former come in it is best to go to another
Yesterday a small sloop came in. The crew, four with
the captain, stood on deck with the ropes, one out on the
bowsprit ready to jump on shore. The men leaped on
shore and fastened the ropes, and then they put on their
oil-skins preparatory to unloading the fish.
Then with pitchforks they threw the fish up on the
wharf. The fish, cleaned and partly salted, slipped and

slid in all directions, but the men did not care, catching
them up they tossed them on the wharf again. It was
Saturday afternoon so the fish were not weighed but cov-
ered with a sail. They still lie on the wharf while the
men saunter about, for it pours to-day.
Digby is beautiful! There is no such air anywhere!
Though we wear our red, white, and blue," and remem-
" Uncle Sam and our dear New York, we shall be sorry
to leave Digby.
Friday at an entertainment they ended with "God
save the Queen." The Queen's flag floats from boats
and houses; but our flag, "The Star Spangled Banner,"
proudly beckons to the breezes from the mastheads of
many pleasure-boats, and the tops of the cottages taken
for the summer by families from the States.
Yours sincerely, VIRGINIA 0- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken ST. NICK for more
than ten years and know I could not get along without
it. And I like especially the letters, but I have never
yet seen one written from this place.
I like "Jack Ballister's Fortunes" better than any
story published, and after that "A Boy of the First Em-
pire." I live within one hundred yards of the Cele-
brated Natural Bridge, the "Seventh Wonder of the
World." Looking from our front porch one can see, in
the distance, Thunder Ridge, the highest point of the
Blue Ridge Mountains, and at its base winds the historic
James River. We have three dogs: Flush," an Irish
setter, a Scotch collie named Glory," and Chimmie
Fadden," a yellow bull-pup. I remain your constant
reader, H. G. E- .

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I live in San Jos6, the "Garden
City," which is about fifty miles from San Francisco.
I used to live in Columbus, Ohio, but my parents
moved to San Jos6 when I was eight years old. I live
about twenty-two miles from Mt. Hamilton on which is
situated the Great Lick Observatory. I went there once
and stayed all day and it was all explained to me. Pro-
fessor Barnard showedus the Dog-star through the twelve-
inch telescope. But we were not allowed to look through
the large one as they only allow you to look through the big
telescope on Saturday nights. We can see the domes, in
which are the telescopes, every day. There are a great
many interesting things to see there. I saw the wind-
machine that tells how fast the wind blows an hour, and
the machine that measures the rainfall, and the great tall
clocks that keep time for all California.
I remain, Your little friend, MARIE B- .

We thank the young friends whose names follow for
pleasant letters received from them:
Corinne DeZeller, Ethel Ames Tyler, Josie A. S., Os-
car Baumgart, Lambert H., Florence Strong, Bertie B.,
Russell Fawcett, Winifred Warner, Myra Lloyd Musser,
Mary A. Spencer, Lucy B. G., Alice M., Marie Baldwin,
Clara V. Becker, Mary Chandler Draper, Willie C. E.,
Georgette P. P., Natalie C. O., C. V. Briggs, C. Evsta-
phieve C., Jean Aiken, Maynard Grover, Elizabeth B. S.,
Alice G. E., Ellen S. A., Sadie A., Kate H., William P.,
Dunham Jackson.






DIAMOND. I. B. 2. Mob. 3. Mourn. 4. Bouquet. 5. Brunt.
6. Net 7. T.
STAR PUZZLE. From 2 to I, needs; 3 to 2, grain; 3 to 4, guess;
4 to i, soars; 5 to 4, files; 5 to 6, fakir; 6 to I, rends; 7 to 6, floor;
7 to 8, fears; 8 to i, stars; 9 to 8, opals; 9 to to, opera; to to s, at-
las; x to to, aroma; i to 12, alter; 12 to i, rills; 12 to 13, refer; 13
to 2, ripen.
PREFIXES AND SUFFIXES. I. K-in-k. 2. Y-earl-y. 3. S-par-s.
4. S-light-s. 5. S-pore-s. 6. T-wis-t. 7. S-team-s. 8. Y-east-y.
9. S-late-s. Io. S-wing-s.
RHOMBOID. I. Bane. 2. Tome. 3. Dial. 4. Trim. 5. Near.
6. Fret.
OcTAGONs. I. x. Bat. 2. Blurt. 3. Augur. 4. Truly. 5.
Try. II. I. Net. 2. Norah. 3. Erase. 4. Tasty. 5. Hey.

3. Vulture. -4. Ibis. 5. Nut 6. Guitar.
NUMERICAL ENIGMA. "Good humor may be said to be one of
the very best articles of dress one can wear in society."
CONNECTED WORD-SQUARE. I. x. Able. 2. Boil. Link. 4.
Elks. II. i. Card. 2. Away. 3. Race. 4. Dyer. III. I. Sand.
2. Afar. 3. Name. 4. Drew. IV. I. Wood. 2. Ogle. 3. Olga.
4. Dear. V. s. Wren. 2. Ripe. 3. Epic. 4. Neck.
CUBE. From I to 2, bream ; to 3, baked; 2 to 4, match; 3 to 4.
ditch; 5 to 6, naked; 5 to 7, nizam; 6 to 8, dated; 7 to 8, moved;
I to 5, ban; 2 to 6, mad; 4 to 8, hod; 3 to 7, dim.
CENTRAL ACROSTIC. Horseshoe. Cross-words: I. boHea. 2.
alOne. 3. caRts. 4. baSin. 5. crEek. 6. baSte. 7. apHis. 8.
clOgs. 9. blEnd.- WoRD PUZZLE. Head.

To OUR PUZZLERS: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th 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 JULY NUMBER were received, before July i5th, from M. McG.-G. B. Dyer-"Tod
and Yam"-Walter L. Haiglt-"Shrimp"-Florence E. Goldschmidt- "Clive"-Blanche and Fred-R. S. B. and A. N. I.-
Pearl F. Stevens-" Owl's Nest Club "-Josephine Sherwood- Franklyn Farnsworth-Grace E. Sherman- "Jersey Quartette"-
Paul Reese-Emily B. Dunning-Harold M. Case-Donald S. and Isabel H. Noble-" Four Weeks of Kane"- Emily Russell and
Nicholas Bleecker -" Merry and Co."-Jessie Chapman and John Fletcher-Daisy B. Allen -Helen C. McCleary- Robert S. Clem-
ent -Mary Lester and Harry-" Fallsburg "-Alice Mildred Blanke and Co.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE JULY NUMBER were received, before July 15th, from "Connecticut Trio," i-Anna M. Lewis, i
-"Wisdom," 2-Howard Dingle, --Theron G. Yeomans, Jr., 2-"Coquettes," 3 -G. C. R. Kelly, i-Lydia and W. Maxwell
Moore, 2--Alida F. Brown and Mary E. Bogardus, -M. E. H., 2--Chas. J. Harriman, --Ruth Cutter, 9- Ingeborg, Margaret.
Sinclair and Co., 5-Anna A. A. Coleman, 3-" Flower that Blooms," 2 -Marjorie Lewis, i -Robt. M. Mathews, i- "Trudie Wah,
6 -Lelia M. Tyler, x Grace Busenbark, i Helen Jones, 2 -Margaret M. Reeve, 3-Alfred G. B. Steel, Herbert S. Abraham, 4
--Clara W. and Bessie C. Chambers and Robt. E. Hopkins, 5-Katharine E. Selden, i-"Trilby,," 3-C. L. L. F., x-C. L. Field
and G. A. Lawlor, i-Edith Fernald, --J. Bertram Mitchell, I -Meta Mencke, 3-J. Merchant, 2-E. Marion Prescott, --H. O.
Koerper, 4-- "Two Huckleberries," 7 Emily Hunter, a Samuel G. Friedman, I Abby S. Howell, I Oscar Baumgart, I -Arthur
K. Porter and Louise H. Merritt, 2 N. C., 4-Louisa E. Jones, 8 Uncle Will and Ed, 3 Uncle Will and Fannie, 8- Helen Rich-
ards, i- J. Honora Swartz, 7-Dana Crawford, io- Lucius Tuttle, 9 "Nip and Tuck," 3-" Goosequill," 2- L. B. Shaw and B. B.
and K. Lyon, i Roger Toll, 3- M. B. Twelner, 2-John Coolidge, 9- C. V. Briggs, 2 "The Trio," 4- Edith De Baun, 2- E.
D. P., 2-George Heyl Adams, 9-" Knott Innit," 9 -Georgia Bugbee, to-George S. Corlew, -Effie K. Talboys, xo-"Trenton
Trio," 9-Alma Steiner, 5 Rebecca W., 2 Charles Travis, to Katharine D. Hull, 2 Five Cousins," 7 "Sporting Pig," 3-
Mary Pratt, 4- Mama and Marguerite Feldpauche, x -"Devonites," 4-"Jacobii," o Gabrielle-Marie," 3-Marguerite Sturdy, 8
- Ellen Jewett, 5 Helen Rogers, to Catharine G. Welch, I -" Houltonites," 4- M. S. Williams, 5 -" Two Little Brothers," ao-
Adelaide M. Gaither, x-Burgess and Alm6 St. J., 9-Dorothy Green, io- Ms. Louise Baldwin, 4-Harry and Roy Williams, io-
"Two Romans," 8 Eugene T. Walter, Laura M. Zinser, 6- Oskytel H. C., x- Paul Rowley, 9- Ethel and Edna, 2 Bob
Bright, 7-James Maynard, Jr., and his father, o--Azro and Charles Lewis, 2-0. S. W., 9-" Three Little Maids from Edgewater,"
xo Frederica Yeager, 8- Sigourney Fay Nininger, o--" The Butterflies," 9 -" Tweedledum and Tweedledee," 7- Hans and Otto
Wolkwitz, 7-No Name, Hackensack, 9-"The Quartette," 3-Herbert A. Alex. and H. George H., 3-Jo and I, xo-Albert
Smith Faught, 9 -Harry and Helen, 8.
HIDDEN GRAINS OF CORN. with food or drink. 6. A heavenly body. 7. Separates.
EAMPLE: Find a grain of corn in the name of a fa- 8. A mistake. 9. A small venomous serpent. Io. To
mous French author. Answer, Corn-eille. disturb or irritate. I. Liberated. 12. The best part
mous French author. Answer, Corn-eille.
I. Find one in the name of one of Shakspere's of ajoe. 3. A cross, ill-tempered woman.TETT
2. Find one in a musical instrument. QUINCUNX.
3. Find one in the fruit of an oak.
4. Find one in an English poet's pen-name.
5. Find one in a retired place.
6. Find one in an emblem of abundance.
7. Find one in an architectural projection.

ALL of the words described contain the same number
of letters. When these are rightly guessed, and placed
one below another, in the order here given, the zigzag,
beginning at the upper left-hand letter, will spell the
name given to quite a large body of water.
CROSS-WORDS: I. A common quadruped. 2. Wis-
dom. 3. Freighted. 4. To deserve. 5. To entertain

ACROSS: I. A Shakespearean character. 2. To take
food. 3. To be delirious. 4. The evening before a
holiday. 5. Certain days in the Roman calendar.
Diagonally, beginning at the lower, left-hand. I. A let-
ter from Russia. 2. A color. 3. To go away from. 4.
The lower edges of a roof. 5. The goddess of revenge.
6. A letter from Russia. HULME.



I. A FRAGMENT. 2. An article of furniture. 3. To
lift. 4. A passage. 5. To arrange, as birds arrange
their feathers. "JERSEY QUARTETTE."


,. *

4 6 2
CROSSWORDS: I. Bydegrees. 2. Cooked over coals.
3. A storehouse for grain. 4. To injure by false re-
ports. 5. Pacified. 6. Items entered in a book. 7.
From I to 2, bestowed; from 3 to 4, tendency; from
5 to 6, certain meals. HERBERT W. ELLIS.


ALL the words pictured contain the same number of
letters; when rightly guessed and placed one below the
other, in the order numbered, the diagonal (from the
upper left-hand letter to the lower right-hand letter) will
spell the name of a celebrated American writer.

I AM composed of one hundred and forty-nine letters,
and form a quotation from Colton's Lacon."
My 64-13-39-23 is delicate. My 121-109-57-47 is
network. My 92-30-107-18 is crippled. My 7-100oo-
88-147-103 is quaked. My 25-97-33-111-15 is a
quick puff of smoke. My 74-2-137-143-70 are useful
animals. My 135-21-67-52-50 is part of a saw. My
115-94-5-118-82 is much discussed by bicyclers. My
41-90-72-76-43 are freaks. My 86-145-35-140-132 is
a very hard metallic substance. My I1-49-54-28-129
are animals of the hog kind. My 37-9-127-122-14 is a

bundle of grain or straw. My 89-113-80-149-32 is a cub.
My 22-124-61-45-78 is a large quadruped. My 120-
105-59-144-65-133-16 is a prickly plant. My 46-1ol-
63-83-26-142 is the name of several cereal and forage
grasses. My 68-131-117-1-95-19 is to hurry. My
99-96-85-1o8-75-36 is writhes. My 71-81-55-I12-66-
114-4 is a large animal belonging to the cat family. My
29-93-38-139-104-141-84 is rumor. My 146-1Io-42-
20-56-3-79 is the golden-winged woodpecker. My
31-98-87-106-24-6-148-123 is attitude. My 12-73-
119-116-138-34-91-Io2-126 is artful. My 58-48-77-8-
136-62-128-10-125-53 is outlandish. My 40-17-51-60-
27-44-69-130-134 is an animal with a big hump on the

I. READ forward, I am a time of feasting and jollity;
read backward, I am a mechanical power.
2. Forward, a little article found in every work-bas-
ket; backward, folds or doublings of thread.
3. Forward, an enlarged root; backward, to repulse.
4. Forward, dress; backward, to boast.
5. Forward, a dull color; backward, a poet.
6. Forward, a popular sport; backward, to whip se-
7. Forward, to subsist; backward, wrong-doing.
8. Forward, a blow with the hand; backward, vulgar
9. Forward, guardianship; backward, to sketch.
Io. Forward, a planet; backward, rodents.

f : .

I. UPPER DIAMOND: I. In stupid. 2. A small ani-
mal. 3. Fast. 4. Became gradually smaller. 5. A
rod with a short crosspiece at the end. 6. A cave. 7.
In stupid.
II. LEFT-HAND DIAMOND: I. In wrapped. 2. A
label. 3. An instructor. 4. Irrigated. 5. Pierced. 6.
A color. 7. In wrapped.
III. CENTRAL SQUARE: I. A portable chair. 2. In
good season. 3. Musical instruments. 4. Egyptian
dancing-girls. 5. A genus of trees or shrubs.
IV. RIGHT-HAND DIAMOND: I. In coast. 2. To
cover the top or end of. 3. A fowl. 4. Useful in clean-
ing. 5. One of the Anthozoa. 6. To bite. 7. In coast.
V. LOWER DIAMOND: I. In doses. 2. A play upon
words. 3. Attendants. 4. Sweetened.- 5. Courage. 6.
To notice. 7. In doses. "JERSEY QUARTETTE."



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