Laddie's fishing
 Front Matter
 Master skylark
 The mysterious guests
 Steering without a compass
 The country road
 The three-sided question
 The risks of a fireman's life
 A bird of letters
 The queen's jewel's: a nonesense...
 The last three soldiers
 Plants that feed upon insects
 Miss Nina Barrow
 Nature's cycle-path
 A city in a volcano
 What is told by the bell
 A great poet and a little girl
 An afternoon call
 Talks with boys and girls about...
 Ned's gift
 A house-moving holiday
 In May
 Baking day
 The strange adventures of the hobby...
 The proud bird of Geneva
 The staff
 Curious facts and figures
 The letter-box
 The riddle-box
 Back Matter
 Back Cover

Title: St. Nicholas
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00065513/00326
 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: VID00326
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
        Frontispiece 1
        Frontispiece 2
        Page 618
    Laddie's fishing
        Page 619
        Page 620
        Page 621
    Front Matter
        Front Matter
    Master skylark
        Page 622
        Page 623
        Page 624
        Page 625
        Page 626
        Page 627
        Page 628
        Page 629
        Page 630
        Page 631
    The mysterious guests
        Page 632
    Steering without a compass
        Page 633
        Page 634
        Page 635
    The country road
        Page 636
    The three-sided question
        Page 637
        Page 638
    The risks of a fireman's life
        Page 639
        Page 640
        Page 641
        Page 642
        Page 643
        Page 644
        Page 645
        Page 646
        Page 647
        Page 648
        Page 649
    A bird of letters
        Page 650
    The queen's jewel's: a nonesense rhyme for chess players
        Page 651
    The last three soldiers
        Page 652
        Page 653
        Page 654
        Page 655
        Page 656
        Page 657
        Page 658
        Page 659
    Plants that feed upon insects
        Page 660
        Page 661
        Page 662
        Page 663
        Page 664
    Miss Nina Barrow
        Page 665
        Page 666
        Page 667
        Page 668
        Page 669
        Page 670
        Page 671
    Nature's cycle-path
        Page 672
        Page 673
        Page 674
    A city in a volcano
        Page 675
        Page 676
        Page 677
        Page 678
    What is told by the bell
        Page 679
        Page 680
        Page 681
    A great poet and a little girl
        Page 682
        Page 683
    An afternoon call
        Page 684
    Talks with boys and girls about themselves
        Page 685
        Page 686
        Page 687
    Ned's gift
        Page 688
        Page 689
        Page 690
        Page 691
    A house-moving holiday
        Page 692
        Page 693
    In May
        Page 694
    Baking day
        Page 695
    The strange adventures of the hobby horse and the woolly dog
        Page 696
    The proud bird of Geneva
        Page 697
    The staff
        Page 698
    Curious facts and figures
        Page 698
        Page 699
    The letter-box
        Page 700
        Page 701
        Page 702
    The riddle-box
        Page 703
        Page 704
    Back Matter
        Back Matter
    Back Cover
        Back Cover 1
        Back Cover 2
Full Text


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VOL. XXIV. JUNE, 1897. No. 8.
Copyright, 1897, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved.



THE oriole whistles his nesting song;
The bees, as they jostle the clover,
Are humming, "It 's June, June!" all day long
To the same note, over and over.
The listening winds lift the chorus high,
Till the corn blades rustle and quiver,
And -a bit of a tune the lad's lips try
As he hies away to the river.
The bees they are humming, It's June, June, June!"
And what is there more to be wishing,
When Youth and the year are chiming high noon,
And Laddie is going a-fishing

He casts him his line in the glassy pool
At the foot of the gnarled old willow,
And, sitting there, dreams he is done with school-
He 's a hunter, or plows the billow;
But a sliver of bark comes floating by,-
And, not now of the fish is he thinking,
He feigns it a ship, and the pebbles fly,
Till he has the enemy sinking!
The bees they keep humming, "It 's June, it 's June/"
And what is there left to be wishing,
When Youth and the year together chime noon,
And Laddie is busy a-fishing?



A locust is singing in yonder vine -
No! 'T is the reel that is whirring!
And something is tugging hard at the line
That would set even old blood stirring.
Ah! there he leaps upward in silvery curve!
He 's a big one-hold hard and steady!
And now he comes downward- Beware! Take a swerve,
And reel in-but always be ready!
The world all around him is June, glad June;
And what can there be to be wishing,
When the reel is whirring its jubilant tune,
And Laddie is wild with the fishing/"

But over the meadows a clear voice calls-
It 's Nannie, her turkey-broods cooping;
And out of the west, as the twilight falls,
The night-hawks come screaming and swooping.
Reel up, my lad, it is time to be done;
And anon, in the wayside grasses,
The gossiping rabbits like shadows run
As the fisherman whistling passes.
Oh, Youth and summer are over too soon,
And somewhat is left to be wishing;
But fair in the young night shines a new moon,-
And Laddie is home from the fishing

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[Begun in the November number.]
The thought ran through Nick Attwood's
head like a half-remembered tune. Once or
twice he had all but sung it instead of the
words of his part. Master Will Shakspere was
in town!
Could he but just find Master Shakspere, all
his trouble would be over; for the husband of
his mother's own cousin would see justice done
him in spite of the master-player and the bandy-
legged man with the ribbon in his ear -of
that he was sure.
But there seemed small chance of its com-
ing about; for the doors of Gaston Carew's
house were locked and barred by day and by
night, as much to keep Nick in as to keep
thieves out; and all day long, when Carew was
away, the servants went about the lower halls,
and Gregory Goole's uncanny face peered after
him from every shadowy corner; and when he
went with Carew anywhere, the master-player
watched him like a hawk, while always at his
heels he could hear the clump, clump, clump
of the bandy-legged man following after him.
Even were he free to go as he pleased,
he knew not where to turn; for the Lord Cham-
berlain's Company would not be at the Black-
friars play-house until Martinmas; and before
that time to look for even Master Will Shak-
spere at random in London town would be
worse than hunting for a needle in a haystack.
To be sure, he knew that the Lord Chamber-
lain's men were still playing at the theater in
Shoreditch; for Master Carew had taken Cicely
there to see the "Two Gentlemen of Verona."
But just where Shoreditch was, Nick had only
the faintest idea,--somewhere away off by Fins-

bury Fields, beyond the city walls to the north
of London town,- and all the wide world
seemed north of London town; and the way
thither lay through a bewildering tangle of
streets in which the din and the rush of the
crowd were never still.
From a hopeless chase like that Nick shrank
back like a snail into its shell. He was not
too young to know that there were worse things
than to be locked in Gaston Carew's house.
It were better to be a safe-kept prisoner there
than to be lost in the sinks of London. And
so, knowing this, he made the best of it.
But Master Shakspere was come back to
town, and that was something. It seemed
somehow less lonely just to think of it.
Yet in truth he had but little time to think
of it; for the master-player kept him closely at
his strange, new work, and taught him daily
with the most amazing patience.
He had Nick learn no end of stage parts off
by heart, with their cues and "business," en-
trances and exits; and worked fully as hard as
his pupil, reading over every sentence twenty
times until Nick had the accent perfectly. He
would have him stamp, too, and turn about,
and gesture in accordance with the speech,
until the boy's arms ached, going with him
through the motions one by one, over and
over again, unsatisfied, but patient to the last,
until Nick wondered. "Nick, my lad," he
would often say, with a tired but determined
smile, one little thing done wrong may spoil
the finest play, as one bad apple rots the bar-
relful. We '11 have it right, or not at all, if it
takes a month o' Sundays."
So often he kept Nick before a mirror for
an hour at a time, making faces while he spoke
his lines, smiling, frowning, or grimacing, as
best seemed to fit the part, until the boy grew
fairly weary of his own looks. Then some-
times, more often as the time slipped by, Carew


would clap his hands with a boyish laugh, and
have a pie brought and a cup of Spanish cor-
dial for them both, declaring that he loved the
lad with all his heart, upon the remnant of his
honour: from which Nick knew that he was
coming on.
Cicely Carew's governess was a Mistress
Agnes Anstey. By birth she had been a
Harcourt, of Ankerwyke, and therefore she was
everywhere esteemed fit by birth and breeding
to teach the young mind when to bow and
when to beckon. She came each morning to
the house, and Carew paid her double shil-
lings to see to it that Nick learned such little
tricks of cap and cloak as a lady's page need
have, the carriage best fitted for his place, and
how to cbme into a room where great folks
were. Moreover, how to back out again,
bowing, and not fall over the stools -which
was no little art,
until Nick caught
the knack of peep-
ing slyly between
his legs when he
His hair, too,
was allowed to,
grow long, and
was combed care-
fully every day by' V, '.
the tiring-woman;
and soon, as it
was naturally curly, .
it fell in rolling
waves about his
neck. /" !
On the heels of
the governess came
M'sieu' De Fleury, ---'
who, it was said,
had been dancing-
master to Hatton,
the late Lord
Chancellor of Eng-
land, and had taught him those tricks with
his nimble heels which had capered him into
the Queen's good graces, and so got him
the chancellorship. M'sieu' spoke dreadful
English, but danced like the essence of agility,
and taught both Nick and Cicely the latest

Italian coranto, playing the tune upon his
queer little fiddle.
Cicely already danced like a pixie, and
laughed merrily at her comrade's first awkward
antics, until he flushed with embarrassment.
At that she instantly became grave, and, when
M'sieu' had gone, came across the room, and
putting her arm about Nick, said repentantly,
" Don't thou mind me, Nick. Father saith the
French all laugh too soon at nothing; and
I have caught it from my mother's blood.
A boy is not good friends with his feet as a girl
is; but thou wilt do beautifully, I know; and
M'sieu' shall teach us the galliard together."
And often, after the lesson was over and
M'sieu' departed, she would have Nick try
his steps over and over again in the great room,
while she stood upon the stool to make her
tall, and cried, "Sa sa! as the master did,


scolding and praising him by turns, or jumping
down in pretty impatience to tuck up her little
silken skirts and show him the step herself;
while the cook's knave and the scullery-maids
peeped at the door and cried: "La, now,
look 'e, Moll! at every coupee.




It made a picture quaint and pretty to see
them dancing there. The smoky light, steal-
ing in through the narrow casements over the
woodwork dark with age, dropped in little yel-
low checkers upon old chests of oak, of walnut,
and of strange, purple-black wood from foreign
lands, giving a weird life to the griffins and
twisted traceries carved upon their sides. High-
backed, narrow chairs stood along the wall,
with cushioned stools inlaid with shell. Twink-

strong and well, and in those days the very air
was full of hope, and no man knew what might
betide with the rising of to-morrow's sun.
Every day, from two till three o'clock, he was
in Master Gyles's private singing-room at the
old cathedral school, learning to read music at
sight, and to sing offhand the second, third, and
fourth parts of queer intermingled fugues or
wonderfully constructed canons.
At first his head felt stuffed like a feasted


lings of light glinted from the brass candle-
sticks. On the wall above the wainscot the
faded hangings wavered in the draft, crusted
thickly with strange embroidered flowers. And
dancing there together in the semi-gloom, the
children seemed quaint little figures stepped
down from the tapestry at the touch of a magic
And so the time went slipping by, very pleas-
antly upon the whole, and Nick's young heart
grew stout again within his breast; for he was

glutton with all the learning that the old pre-
centor poured into it; but by and by he found
it plain enough, and no very difficult thing to
follow up the prickings in the paper with his
voice, and to sing parts written at fifths and
fourths and thirds with other voices as easily as
to carry a song alone. But still he sang best
his own unpointed songs, the call and challenge
of the throstle and the merle, the morning glory
of the lark, songs that were impossible to write.
And those were the songs that the precentor



was at the greatest pains to have him sing in
perfect tones, making him open his mouth like
a little round o and let the music float out of
Like the master-player, nothing short of per-
fection pleased old Nathaniel Gyles, and Nick's
voice often wavered with sheer weariness as he
ran his endless scales and sang absurd fa-la-la-
las while his exacting teacher beat the time
in the air with his lean forefinger like a grim
The old man, too, was. chary of his praise,
though Nick tried hard to please him, and it
was only by little things he told his satisfaction.
He touzed the ears of the other boys, and some-
times smartly thumped their crowns; but with
Nick he only nipped his ruddy cheek between
his thumb and finger, or laid his hand upon his
shoulder when the hard day's work was done,
saying, Satis cantorum it is enough. Now
be off to thy nest, sir; and see thou dost not
forget to wash thy throat with good cold water
every day."

All this time the busy sand kept running in
the glass. July was gone, and August at its
heels. The hot breath of the summer had
cooled, and the sun no longer burned the face
when it came in through the windows. Nick
often shut his eyes and let the warm light fall
upon his closed lids. It made a ruddy glow
like the wild red poppies that grow in the pale
green rye. In fancy he could almost smell the
queer, rancid odor of the crimson bloom crushed
beneath the feet of the farmers' boys who cut
the butter-yellow mustard from among the
bearded grain.
"Heigho and alackaday!" thought Nick.
"It is better in the country than in town!"
For there was no smell in all the town like the
clean, sweet smell of the open fields just after a
summer rain, no colors like the bright heart's-
ease and none-so-pretty, or the honeysuckle
over the cottage door, and no song ever to be
heard among the sooty chimney-pots like the
song of the throstle piping to the daisies on
the hill.
But he had little time to dream such dreams,
for every day from four to six o'clock the
children's company played and sang in public,
VOL. XXIV. 79.

at their own school-hall, or in the courtyard
of the Mitre Inn on Bread street near St.
They were the pets of London town, and
their playing-place was thronged day after day.
For the bright young faces and sweet, un-
broken voices of the richly costumed lads made
a spot in sordid London life like a pot of posies
in a window on a dark street; so that both the
high and the low, the rich and the poor, came
in to see them play and dance, to hear them
sing, and to laugh again at the witty things
which were written for them to say.
The songs that were set for Nick to sing
were always short, sweet, simple things that
even the dull-eyed, toil-worn folk upon the
rough plank benches in the pit could under-
stand. Many a silver shilling came clinking
down at the heels of the other boys from the
galleries of the inn, where the people of the
better classes, wealthy merchants, ladies and
their dashing gallants, watched the children's
company; but when Nick's songs were done
the common people down below seemed all
gone daft. They tossed red apples after him,
ripe yellow pears, fat purple plums by hand-
fuls, called him by name and brought him
back, and cried for more and more and more,
until the old precentor shook his head behind
the prompter's screen, and waved Nick off with
a forbidding frown. Yet all the while he
chuckled to himself until it seemed as if his dry
old ribs would rattle in his sides; and every
day, before Nick sang, he had him up to his
little room for a broken egg and a cup of rosy
"To clear thy voice and to cheer the cockles
of thine heart," said he; "and to tune that
pretty throat of thine ad gustum Reginc--
which is to say, 'to the Queen's own taste,'-
God bless her Majesty! "
The other boys were fain to play women's
parts, for women never acted then; and a queer
sight it was for Nick to see his fellows in great
farthingales of taffeta and starchy cambric that
rustled as they walked, with popinjay blue rib-
bons in their hail, and flowered stomachers
sparkling with paste jewels.
And, truth, it was no easy thing to tell them
from the real affair, or to guess the made from


the maiden, so slender and so graceful were
they all, with their ruffs and their muffs and
their feathered fans, and all the airs and mincing
graces of the daintiest young miss.
But old Nat Gyles would never have Nick
Attwood play the girl. "The lad is good
enough for me just as he is," said he; and that
was all there was of it.

IN September the Lord Admiral's Company
made a tour of the Midlands during the great
English fairing-time; but Carew did not go
with them. For, though still by name master-
player with Henslowe and Alleyn, his business
with them had come to be but little more than
pocketing his share of the profits; and for the
rest, nothing but to take Nick daily to and from
St. Paul's, and to draw his wages week by
Of those wages Nick saw never a penny:
Carew took good care of that. Yet he gave
him everything that any boy could need, and
bought him whatever he fancied the instant he
so much as expressed a wish for anything:
which, in truth, was not often; for Nick had
lived in only a country town, and knew not
many things to want.
But with money a-plenty thus coming so
easily into his hands,-money for dicing, for
luxuries, for all his wild sports, money for
Cicely, money for keeps, money to play
chuckie-stones with if he chose,- there was no
bridle to Gaston Carew's wild career. His boon
companions were spendthrifts and gamesters,
dissolute fellows, of whom the least said soon-
est mended; and with them he was brawl-
ing early and late, very often all night long.
And though money came in fast, he wasted it
faster, so that matters went from bad to worse.
Duns came spying about his door, and bailiffs
hunted after him around the town with unpaid
tradesmen's bills. Yet still he laughed and
clapped his hand upon his poniard in the old
bold way.
September faded away in wistful haze along
the Hampstead hills. The Admiral's men came
riding back with keen October ringing at their

heels, and all the stalls were full of red-
cheeked apples striped with emerald and gold.
November followed, with its nipping frost, and
all St. George's merry green fields turned brown
and purple-gray. The old year was waning
The Queen's Day was but a poor holiday,
in spite of the shut-up shops; for it was grown
so cold with sleet and rain, that it was hard to
get about, the gutters and streets being very
foul, and the by-lanes impassable. And now
the Children of Paul's gave no more plays in
the yard of the Mitre Inn, but sang in their
own warm hall; for winter was at hand.
There came black nights when an ugly wind
moaned in the shivering chimneys and howled
across the peaked roofs, nights when there was
no playing at the Rose, but it was -hearty to
be by the fire. Then sometimes Carew sat at
home all evening long, with Cicely upon his
knee, and told strange tales of lands across the
sea, where he had traveled when he was young,
and where none spoke English but chance
travelers, and even the loudest shouting could
not serve to make the people understand.
While he spun these wondrous yarns Nick
would curl up on the hearth and blow the crack-
ling fire, sometimes staring at the master-play-
er's stories, sometimes laughing to himself at the
funny faces carved upon the sides of the chubby
Dutch bellows, and sometimes neither laughing
nor listening, but thinking silently of home.
Then Carew, looking at him there, would
quickly turn his face away and tell another
But oftener the master-player stayed all
night at the Falcon Inn with Dick Jones, Tom
Hearne, Humphrey Jeffs, and other reckless
roisterers, dicing, and snapping shillings at shov-
el-board until his finger-nails were sore. Then
Nick would read aloud to Cicely out of the
"Hundred Merry Tales," or pop old riddles
at her puzzled head until she, laughing, cried,
"Enough!" But most of all he liked the
story of brave Guy of Warwick, and would tell
it .again and again, with other legends of Arden
Wood, till bedtime came.
In the gray of the morning Carew would
come home, unshaven and leaden-eyed, with
his bandy-legged varlet trotting like a watch-




dog at his heels; and then, if the gaming had
gone well, he was a lord, an earl, a duke, at
least, so merry and so sprightly would he be
withal; but if the dice had fallen wrong, he
would by turns be raving mad or sodden as a
sunken pie.

glare and choking the frozen drains; and there
was trouble and want among the poor in the
wretched alleys near Carew's house : for fuel
was high and food scarce, and there were many
deaths, so that the knell was tolling con-
Cicely cried until her eyes were red for
the. \e.ry -..I,:lrn. of it all, since she might
do. nothir t.:or them, and hated the sound
'' ,:,f [l ie -ulirn L.,i l.
I, i-'-l-aiw. (:'ice:ly!" said Nick; "why
ho liulJ Ly :r\ Ye do na know them;
'- \: need na care."
,, -Bat, Nick," said she, "no-
S.'." .:.i teems to care! And, sure,



temp:rl ri tmglit -l
he was but one thing
always to Cicely, and dofled
ill-humor like a shabby hat when
she came running to meet.him in
the shadows of the hall; so that
when he came into the lighted room
with her upon his shoulder, his face


---. 'C -..-


somebody ought to
care; for it may be
someone's mother that
is dead."
At that Nick felt a
very queer choking in
his own throat, and
did not rest quite easy
in his mind until he
had given the silver
buckle from his cloak
to a boy who stood
crying with cold and
hunger in the street,
and begged a farthing
of Nick for the love
of the good God.
Then came a thaw,
with mist and fog so
thick that people were
lost initheir own streets,
and knocked at their
next-door neighbor's
gate to ask the way
home. All day long,
down by the Thames
drums beat upon the
wharves and bells
ding-donged to guide
the watermen ashore;
but most of those who

was smiles, his step a frolic, and his bearing needs must fare abroad went over London
that of a happy boy. Bridge, because there, although they might
But day by day the weather grew worse, with in no wise see, it felt, at least, as if the world
snow and ice paving the streets with a glassy were still beneath their feet.


At noon the air was muddy brown, with a
bitter taste like watered smoke; at night it was
a blinding pall; and though, after mid-Decem-
ber, by order of the .Council, every alderman
and burgess hung a light before his door,
torches, links, and candles only sputtered
feebly in the gloom, of no more use than jack-
o'-lanterns gone astray, and none but blind
men knew the roads
The city watch was doubled -everywhere;
and all night long their shouts went up and
down-" 'T is what o'clock, and a foggy
night!" and right and left their hurrying
staves came thumping helplessly along the
walls to answer cries of "Murder!" and of
" Help! Watch! Help!" For under cover of
the fog great gangs of thieves came down from
Hampstead Heath, and robberies were done in
the most frequented thoroughfares, between the
very lights set up by the corporation; so that
it was dangerous to go about save armed and
wary as a cat in a crowd.
While such foul days endured there was no
singing at St. Paul's, nor stage-plays anywhere,
save at Blackfriars play-house, which was roofed
against the weather. And even there at last
the fog crept in through cracks and crannies
until the players seemed but moving shadows
talking through a choking cloud; and Master
Will Shakspere's famous new piece, "Romeo
and Juliet," which had been playing to crowded
houses, taking ten pound twelve the day, was
fairly smothered off the boards.
Nick was eager to be out in all this blind-
man's holiday; but, Nay," said Carew; "not
so much as thy nose. A fog like this would
steal the croak from a raven's throat, let alone
the sweetness from a honey-pot like thine -
and bottom crust is the end of pie! With
which, bang went the door, creak went the key,
and Carew was off to the Falcon Inn.

So went the winter weather, and so went
Carew; for there was no denying that both
had fallen into a very bad way. Yet another
change came creeping over Carew all unaware.
Nick's face had from the first attracted him;
and now, living with the boy day after day,
housed up, a prisoner, yet cheerful through it
all, the master-player began to feel what in a

better man had been the prick of conscience,
but in him was only an indefinite uneasiness
like a blunted cockle-bur. For the lad's pa-
tient perseverance at his work, his delight in
singing, and the tone of longing threaded
through his voice, crept into the master-player's
heart in spite of him; and Nick's gentle ways
with Cicely touched him more than all the
rest: for if there was one thing in all the world
that Gaston Carew truly loved, it was his
daughter Cicely. So for her sake, as well as
for Nick's own, the master-player came to love
the lad. And this was shown in queer ways.
In the wainscot of the dining-hall there was
a carven panel just above the Spanish chest.
At night, when the house was still and all the
rest asleep, Carew often came and stood before
this panel, with a queer, hesitating look upon
his hard, bold face; and stretching out his
hand, would press upon the head of a cherub
cut in the bevel edge. Whereupon the panel
slipped away within the wainscot, leaving a
little closet in the hollow of the wall, in which
a few strange things were stowed: an inlaid
rosewood box, a little slipper, and a dusty git-
tern with its strings all snapped and a faded
ribbon tied about its neck.
The rosewood box he would take down, and
with it open in his lap would sit beside the
fire like a man within a dream, until the hearth
grew white and cold, and the draught had
blown the ashes out in streaks across the floor.
In the box were a woman's riding-glove and a
miniature upon ivory, Cicely's mother's face,
painted at Paris in other days.
One night, while they were sitting all to-
gether by the fire, Nick and Cicely snug in the
chimney-seat, Carew spoke up suddenly out
of a little silence which had fallen upon them
all. Nick," said he quite softly, with a look
on his face as if he were thinking of other
things, I wonder if thou couldst play ? "
"What, sir ?" asked Nick; "a game ? and
made the bellows whistle in his mouth.
Nay, lad; a gittern."
Nick and Cicely looked up, for his manner
was very odd.
"Why, sir, I do na know. I could try. I
ha' heard one played, and it is passing sweet."
"Ay, Nick, 't is passing sweet," said Carew




quickly -and no more; but spoke of France,
how the lilies grow in the ditches there, and
the tall trees stand like' soldiers by the road
that runs to the land of sunny hills and wine;.
and of the radiant women there, with hair like
night and eyes like the summer stars. Then all
at once he stopped as if some one had clapped

and the silken shoulder ribbon was faded and
Nick stopped, then put out both his hands
as if to touch it, yet did not, being half afraid.
"Tut, take it up!" said Carew sharply,
though he had not seemed to heed. "Take it
up it is for thee."

S&j. -.

,,, i, i
,, I I, 1 LI
-II '1 i S'
- hJ'I' I, o I ; .H .
K. .~i.~I'Ih *'*"

I'~' L~II
17> >5' illil

the fire. own ? "
But in the morning at breakfast there was Carew turned and struck the table with his
a gittern at Nick's place a rare old yellow hand, as if suddenly wroth. "Why should I
gittern, with silver scrolls about the tail-piece, say it was for thee, if it were not to be thine
ivory pegs, and a head that ended in an angel's own ? "
face. It was strung with bright new silver But, Master Carew-" Nick began.
strings, but near the bridge of it there was a "' Master Carew' fiddlesticks! Hold thy
little rut worn into the wood by the tips of the prate. Do I know my own mind, or do I filter
fingers that had rested there while playing, my wits through thee? Did I not say that



it is thine ? Good, then 't is thine, although
it were thrice somebody else's; and thrice as
much thy very own through having other own-
ers. Dost hear? Well, then, enough we'll
have no words about it! "
Rising abruptly as he spoke, he clapped his
hat upon his head and left the room, Nick
standing there beside the table, staring after
him, with the gittern in his hands.


"SIR FLY hangs dead on the window-pane;
The frost doth wind his shroud;
Through the halls of his little summer house
The north wind cries aloud.
We will bury his bones in the mouldy wall,
And mourn for the noble slain:
A southerly wind and a sunny sky-
Buzz! up he comes again!
Oh, Master Fly!"

NICK looked up from the music-rack and
shivered. He had forgotten the fire in study-
ing his song, and the blackened ends of the
burnt-out logs lay smouldering on the hearth.
The draught, too, whistled shrilly under the
door, in spite of the rushes that he had piled
along the crack.
The fog had been gone for a week. It was
snapping cold; and through the peep-holes he
had thawed upon the window-pane with his
breath, he could see the hoar-frost lying in the
shadow of the. wall in the court below.
How forlorn the green old dial looked out
there alone in the cold, with the winter dust
whirling around it in little eddies upon the
wind! The dial was fringed with icicles like an
old man's beard; and even the creeping shadow
on its face, which told mid-afternoon, seemed
frozen where it fell.
Mid-afternoon already, and he so much to
do! Nick pulled his cloak about him, and
turned to his song again:

"Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;
The frost doth wind his shroud-"

But there he stopped; for the boys were
singing in the great hall below, and the whole
house rang with the sound of the roaring

"Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,
Hey derry derry down-a-down! "

Nick put his fingers in his ears, and began
all over again:

"Sir Fly hangs dead on the window-pane;
The frost doth wind his shroud;
Through the halls of his little summer house
The north wind cries aloud."

But it was no use, all he could hear was:

"Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,
Hey derry derry down-a-down! "

How could a fellow study in a noise like
that? He gave it up in despair, and kicking
the chunks together, stood upon the hearth,
warming his hands by the gathering blaze while
he listened to the song:

"Cold 's the wind, and wet 's the rain;
Saint Hugh, be our good speed!
Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain,
Nor helps good hearts in need.

"Down-a-down, hey, down-a-down,
Hey derry derry down-a-ddwn! "

He could hear Colley Warren above them
all." What a voice the boy had! Like a golden
horn blowing in the fresh of a morning breeze.
It made Nick tingle, he could not tell why.
He and Colley often sang together, and their
voices made a quivering in the air like the
ringing of a bell. And often, while they sang,
the viols standing in the corner of the room
would sound aloud a deep, soft note in har-
mony with them, although nobody had touched
the strings; so that the others cried out that
the instruments were bewitched, and would not
let the boys sing any more. Colley Warren was
Nick's best friend-a dark-eyed, quiet lad, as
gentle as a girl, and with a mouth like a girl's
mouth, for which the others sometimes mocked
him, though they loved him none the less.
Itwas not because his voice was loud that it
could be so distinctly heard; but it was nothing
like the rest, and came through all the others
like sunshine through a mist. Nick pulled the
stool up closer, and sat down in the chimney
corner, humming a second to the tune, and
blowing little glory-holes in the embers with the




bellows. He liked the smell of a wood fire,
and liked to toast his toes. He was a trifle
drowsy, too, now that he was warm again to
the marrow of his bones; perhaps he dozed a
But suddenly he came to himself again with
a sense of a great stillness fallen over every-
thing- no singing in the room below, and si-
lence everywhere but in the court, where there
was a trampling as of horses standing at the
gates. And while he was still lazily wondering,
a great cheer broke out in the room below, and
there was a stamping of feet like cattle gallop-
ing over a bridge; and then, all at once, the
door opened into the hallway at the foot of the
stair and the sound burst out as fire bursts from
the cock-loft window of a burning barn, and
through the noise and over it Colley Warren's
voice calling him by name: "Skylark! Nick
Skylark! Ho there, Nick! where art thou ?"
He sprang to the door and kicked the rushes
away. All the hall was full of voices, laughing,
shouting, singing, and cheering. There were
footsteps coming up the stair. What there,
Skylark! Ho, boy! Nick, where art thou?"
he could hear Colley calling above them all.
Out he popped his nose: Here I am, Colley
what 's to do ? Whatever in the world!"
and he ducked his head like a mandarin; for
whizz flap two books came whirling up the
stair and thumped against the panel by his
"The news- the news, Nick! Have ye
heard the news ?" the lads were shouting as
if possessed. We 're going to court! Hur-
rah, hurrah!" And some, with their arms
about each other, went whirling out at the door
and around the windy close like very madcaps,
cutting such capers that the horses standing at
the gate kicked up their heels, and jerked the
horse-boys right and left like bundles of hay.
Nick leaned over the railing and stared.
"Come down and help us sing!" they cried.
" Come down and shout with us in the street! "
I can na come down -there 's work to
Thy can na' be hanged, and thy work like-
wise! Come down and sing, or we '11 fetch
thee down. The Queen hath sent for us! "
The Queen hath sent for us ? "

"Ay, sent for us to come to court and play
on Christmas day! Hurrah for Queen Bess!"
At that shrill cheer the startled horses fairly
plunged into the street, and the carts that were
passing along the way were jammed against
the opposite wall. The carriers bellowed, the
horse-boys bawled, the people came running to
see the row, and the apprentices flew out of the
shops bare-headed, waving their dirty aprons
and cheering lustily, just for the fun of the
chance to cheer.
"It 's true!" called Colley, his dark eyes
dancing like stars on the sea. Come down,
Nick, and sing in the street with us all! We
are going to Greenwich Palace on Christmas
day to play before the Queen and the court -
for the first time, Nick, in a good six years;
and we 're not to work till the new masque
comes from the Master of the Revels! Come
down, Nick, and sing with us out in the street;
for we 're going to court, we 're going to court
to sing before the Queen! Hurrah, hurrah! "
Hurrah for good Queen Bess! cried Nick;
and up went his cap and down went he on the
baluster-rail like a runaway sled, head first into
the crowd, who caught him laughing as he
came. Then all together they cantered out
like a parcel of colts in a fresh, green field, and
sang in the street before the school till the
people cheered themselves hoarse to hear such
music on such a wintry day; sang until there
was no other business on all the thoroughfare
but just to listen to their songs; sang until the
under-masters came out with their staves and
drove them into the school again, to keep them
from straining their throats by singing so loudly
and so long in the frosty open air.
But a fig for staves and for under-masters i
The boys clapped fast the gates behind them,
and barred the under-masters out in the street,
singing twice as loudly as before, and mocking
at them with wry faces through the bars; and
then trooped off up the old precentor's private
stair and sang at his door until the old man
could not hear his own ears, and came out
storming and grim as grief.
But when he saw the boys all there, and
heard them cheering him three times three, he
could not storm to save his life, but only stood
there, black and thin against the yellow square



of light, smiling a quaint smile that half was
wrinkles and half was pride, shaking his lean
forefinger at them as if he were beating time,
and nodding until his head seemed almost nod-
ding off.
"Hurrah for Master Nathaniel Gyles they
"Primus Magister Sc/olarum, Custos fo-
rum, Quartus Custos Rotularum," said the old
man softly to himself, the firelight from behind
him falling in a glory on his thin white hair.
" Be off, ye rogues! Ye are not fit to waste
good language on; or, faith, I 'd Latin ye all
as dumb as fishes in the depths of the briny
Hurrah for the fishes in the sea !"
Soft, ye knaves! Save thy throats for good
Queen Bess! "
Hurrah for good Queen Bess!"
"Be still, I say, ye good-for-nothing var-
lets; or ye sha'n't have pie and ale to-night.
But marry, now, ye shall have pie- ay, pie
and ale without stint; for ye are good lads, and
have pleased the Queen at last; and I am as
proud of ye as a peacock is of his own tail! "

Hurrah for the Queen and the pie -
and the ale! Hurrah for the peacock and his
tail! shouted the boys; and straightway, see-
ing that they had made a rhyme, they gave a
cheer shriller and longer than all the others put
together, and went clattering down the stair-
way, singing at the top of their lungs:

Hurrah for th.e Queen, and the pie and the ale!
Hurrah for the peacock, hurrah for his tail!
Hurrah for hurrah, and hurrah we say--
We 're going to court on Christmas day
To sing before the Queen!

Good lads, good lads! said the old pre-
centor to himself, as he turned back into his
little room. His eyes were shining proudly in
the candle-light, yet the tears were running
down his cheeks.
A queer old man, Nat Gyles, and dead this
many a long, long year; yet that night no man
was happier than he.
But Master Gaston Carew, who had come for
Nick, stood in the gathering dusk by the gate be-
low, and stared up at the yellow square of light
with a troubled look upon his reckless face.

(To be continued.)



I HAD three friends. I asked one day
That they would dine with me;
But when they came I found that they
Were six instead of three.

My good wife whispered, We, at best,
But five can hope to dine.
Send one away." I did. The rest
Remaining numbered nine.

"I too will go," the second cried.
He left at once, and then,
Although to count but eight I tried,
There were remaining ten.

"Go call them back!" my wife implored;
I fear the third may go,

And leave behind, to share our board,
Perhaps a score or so."

The second one then straight returned;
As might have been expected,
He, with the ten, we quickly learned,.
Eleven made. Dejected,

We saw the first returning; he,
With all the rest, turned round,
And there, behold! were my friends three,
Though six they still were found.

(For those of you who yet may find
My riddle too complex,
I '11 say the friends I had in mind
Were S" and "I and X.")



The two stars at the right and near the top of the picture are the pointers."

THE degree of "A. B." is not-confined to col-
lege graduates. Aboard ship it means "able-
bodied seaman.
Every nautical A. B. knows how to box
the compass" and how to steer by it; but you
will be surprised to learn that no good helms-
man will steer by a compass unless all other
things fail him. Among those "other things"
are the horizon, the wind, the ivake of the ship,
:he stars, the soundings, and the line of the
turf when running along the coast. And so
:he able-bodied seaman, when a greenhorn
:akes his trick at the wheel, hands over the
VOL. XXIV.- 8o- 8. 6:

helm to him with this caution: Keep your
head out of the binnacle! "
I am speaking of sailing-vessels. Steamers,
especially those that travel on regular routes,
steer by compass. They "run their courses"
from point to point from lighthouse to light-
house, light-ship, day-mark, buoy, bell, or fog-
whistle. In thick weather they know, taking
wind and tide into consideration, how long
they should stand on each course, and try never
to pass the "signal" .at the end of it. When
they have seen or heard that signal, they start
on the next "run" or course. This is called


"running the time and distance." I have gone
into Halifax on a steamer that met with thick
fog from Cape Cod down. One morning the
captain said to me:
"We ought to pick up Sambro in half an
Surely enough, about half an hour later we
heard, through the fog, a cannon-shot, the dis-
tinguishing fog-signal of the Sambro light-sta-
tion on the Nova Scotian coast.
Real sailors-the Jack tars that man sailing-
vessels- actually prefer, as. I have said, to steer
by signs rather than by compass; and there are
times when the steamer-pilots have to.
You 've heard of a "landlubber "; but have
you ever heard of a lubber's point" ? Every
compass has one; and it is n't a point either,
but a line a fixed line in the compass that
runs exactly in the same direction as the ves-
sel's keel. Sailors poke a great lot of fun at a
landlubber; but they have great respect for the
lubber's point. Without it they could n't tell,
when steering by compass, whether the vessel
was keeping on her course or not; for instance,
if the vessel is to be kept on a northeasterly
course, the "N. E." mark on the compass
must lie directly over the lubber's point, which
thus is a kind of lubber that amounts to some-
thing in the world. In heavy or rolling seas
the compass is often so badly shaken up that
the point on which the helmsman has been di-
rected to keep the vessel won't remain over the
lubber's point, and he has to steer by other
signs. Often, too, in very calm, smooth water
the compass becomes, as the sailors say, slug-
gish" and dead," and has to be shaken to set
it moving. Now, it 's just as much trouble to
stop and shake a compass that 's misbehaving
itself as it is to stop and shake a bad boy, pro-
vided you can catch him; and the sailor, if other
signs are handy, prefers to keep on his course
by them, without paying any attention to the
compass's doldrums. In electric storms the
needle is apt to behave pretty badly. It will
"go crazy," and fly all around so that no one
can tell on what point the ship is steering.
Castaways, as 'the fishermen on the Banks
who while out in their dories find themselves
separated from their ship in a heavy fog, and
who often have no compass with them, could

never lay a general course for land unless they
had certain signs to steer by.
Of these various signs the horizon is the
readiest to hand. It is right out there over
the ocean. Every sailing-vessel has a ten-
dency to "come up into the wind to swing
toward the direction from which the wind is
blowing. For instance, if the wind is from the
east, the vessel's bow, instead of pointing stead-
ily in the direction in which the helmsman
steers, has a tendency to sweep over toward the
east. By keeping his eye on the horizon, the
man at the helm can detect the sweep of
the bow along the horizon line, and check or
correct it-keep the ship "off"-by a turn
of the wheel; or he may detect this "to" or
"off" motion by watching a sluggish cloud, if
one happens to be dead-ahead.
The fly at the masthead is often used as
a sign to steer by. It revolves on a pivot, and
hence, like a weather-vane, shows the direction

'; FLIES."
from which the wind is blowing; whereas a
flag attached to a halyard streams directly
astern, or at an angle more or less affected by
the speed and course of the vessel. A glance
at the fly having shown the wind's direction,
a glance at the binnacle shows from what point
of the compass it comes. Then, by watching
the fly, and thus keeping the ship always at
the same angle to the wind, you are able to
keep her on her course.
The ships of different nations have distinc-
tive flies. The American and the English fly
is a little triangular pennon. German ships
often have a small tapering bag at the mast-
head, and French vessels a "dog-vane "- a
line of corks with colored feathers on a wire.
The steamers of the French Line from New
York to Havre have a dog-vane at each



masthead-it is one of their distinguishing
Steering by the fly is one way of steering by
the wind, but there are other tricks for finding
the wind-point. A sailor can find the point
of a stiff breeze by simply letting it blow
against his face. 'In a light air, almost a calm,
he lifts his cap and turns his head until he feels
the cool breath on his moist brow, which is far
more sensitive than his sun-tanned face; or he
moistens the edge of his hand, and turning it
toward the wind, waves it gently back and forth
and to and fro until the coolness of the air is
felt on one side of that narrow surface and not
on the other. In heavier airs he will moisten
the palm of the hand and hold it flat to the
wind. The wind-point being found, the ship is
sailed as close to the wind as possible, the
helmsman keeping his eye on the sail-leech.
The least quiver, and a turn of the wheel keeps
her off enough to fill her sails; but with an ex-
perienced hand on the wheel there will be no
quiver along the leech. For an "A. B." can
tell by the feel of the helm when the ship is
about to come up into the wind; as a vessel
"comes up" the strain on the rudder is les-
sened, and by quickly checking her he keeps
the sails rap full and asleep "- keeps them
from quivering -and holds her on her course
without so much as a glance at the compass.
Sailors also steer by the wake of the ship.
When a vessel is running free-that is, with
ihe wind dead-astern- she must leave a straight
wake or she is not running a straight course.
When she is "on the wind," her canvas full, not
shivering,- when she is

As near as she will lie
By keeping full and bye,-
her wake will be at an angle greater or less ac-
cording to the force of the wind and the speed
of the vessel. This angle measures what we
call the ship's leeway"-that which.she loses
from a true course. With a vessel hove to
in a gale, the leeway becomes very large, and is
called the "drift." '
Coasting-craft steer by the line of white surf
on the shore, or in thick weather by its roar
as it breaks on the beach or rocks. They haul
in to catch the sound, then keep off until they

lose it, and then haul in again to a central line
and maintain it. An old sea-dog once told me
that one thick night, coming up along the coast
with a head wind so that they had to tack in
and off shore, they sailed their tacks, or ran
their "legs," by candles-running offshore long
enough to burn out two candles, but burning
only one for the inshore leg, so as to avoid
standing in too close.
The Alaska steamers on the inside route
between the main coast and numerous outly-
ing islands steer, even in running through the
narrowest channels, by the varying echoes of
the paddles from the shores.
A given course can also be run by sound-
ings, or, rather, by a line of soundings. In en-
tering New York harbor, keep in say fifteen,
twenty, forty fathoms, no less, until you get
ten fathoms. If then the lead shows fine
white sand, look out for Sandy Hook light-
ship. Coarse yellow sand will land you on
Fire Island.
That sailors prefer not to steer by compass
must have struck you as one curious fact.
Here is another. A steersman can keep his
ship better on her course at night, if it be
clear, than during the day. Look ahead, get
a star, and steady her head by it." So says
the A. B. of the ocean to the sailor who has
not yet won his degree. For to the helmsman
the stars are like the pillar of fire in Scripture.
They are the hands on the dial of the night.
They twinkle good-evening to poor Jack as
he sits up aloft or stands at the helm, and wink
"good-morning" and good-by" to him with
daylight. It is obvious that the "to" or "off"
movement of a vessel can be more quickly de-
tected by a small, bright object like a star dead-
ahead than by the monotonous sweep of the
horizon, or by peering into the compass-box.
Ihe same ancient mariner who told me about
measuring the length of the off and in shore
legs by the life of candles, told me that once,
when the oil in the binnacle-lamps gave out
and he was steering by a star, he occasionally
struck a match and looked at the compass to
see if the star had moved any." He was a
genuine "sea-cook," this ancient mariner, being
steward of the vessel on which I was sailing;
and he would bob up out of the cook's galley


amidships like a seal bobbing up through a
hole in the ice, and proceed to spin yams.
When the lookout sings out, "Land ho!"
and has replied to the officer's Where away ? "
a star over the rock or other danger may be
noted and brought down in line with the point
on the compass, and its proper bearing ob-
"The stars," said a sea-captain to me," move
apparently from east to west, so that when we
find our first star will no longer do, we select
another. This is the case with all but the
north or pole star, which is in line with two
certain stars in the Great Bear or Dipper; and
the orbit is so small that it is a good guide
for all night; and we can even detect errors
of the compass by it."
The.north star is of course as true as, or even
truer than, the most accurate compass. To the
"other things" that sailors steer by, the com-
pass is, however, what steam is to electricity.

To produce an electric light you require a
dynamo; to run the dynamo you need steam.
You may feel the wind on your moist brow or
hand; but the direction from which it blows
you can -except in case of the regular trade
winds, or unless you are up in sea-lore--tell
only from the compass. Then by sailing close
to the wind you can keep on that course with-
out looking at the compass. But sailors nat-
urally have a large accumulation of weather-
lore; and in addition to the "trades" there
are, except in case of violent storms, certain
regularities in the winds in certain parts of the
ocean, and certain other recurring signs, which
the helmsman can utilize, and which often
enable him to dispense with the compass alto-
gether. For instance, if in standing south to
round the Horn, you see the Magellanic
Clouds" (bright patches in the Milky Way)
directly above the ship, change your course
for the Straits of Magellan.



FROM the busy fields of farmer-folk
It starts on its winding way,
Goes over the hill, and across the brook,
Where the minnows love to play;
Then, past the mill with its water-wheel,
And the pond that shows the sky;
And up to the bridge by the village store,
And the church, with its spire so high.

You would never think that the country
From the hill to the store, could be
So long to a boy with an errand to do
And another boy to see.

You can never dream how short it is
From the farm to the frozen pond,
Nor how very much farther it always is
To the school-house just beyond.

Oh, the country road! at the farther end
It runs up hill and down,
Away from the woods and the rippling
To the toiling, rushing town.
But, best of it all, when you're tired and sick
Of the noisy haunts of men,
If you follow it back, it will lead you home
To the woods and fields again.




SCENE: A hollow tree in the woods. TIME : December, evening. PERSONS: Mr. Owl, Mr. Sharrow, Mr. Bear.

,' MR. OWL
/ (stretching his
( EIGHO! It 's
/ dark! How
.-{':" .. / fast the day-
''. light goes!
I must have
,. ,overslept.
It 's time I
And went about my breakfast to prepare.
I should keep better hours; I declare.
ikfore I got to bed 't was broad daylight!
That must be why I 'm getting up to-night
With such a sleepy feeling in my head.
Heigho! Heigho! (Yawns.)


MR. SPARROW: Why don't you go to bed,
If you 're so very sleepy ? it 's high time!
The sun has set an hour ago, and I 'm
Going home myself as fast as I can trot.
Night is the time for sleep.
MR. OWL: The time for what ?
The time for sleep, you say?
MR. SPARROW: That's what I said.
Well, my dear bird, your reason must have fled i
MR. SPARROW (icily):
I do not catch your meaning quite, I fear.

I mean you're talking nonsense. Is that clear ?
MR. SPARROW (angrily):
Say that again again, sir, if you dare !
Say it again!
MR. OWL: As often as you care.
You're talking nonsense-stuff and nonsense-
MR. SPARROW (hopping one twig higher up):
You are a coward, sir, and impolite!
(Hopping on a still higher twig)
And if you were n't beneath me I would fight.
I am beneath you, true enough, my friend,
By just two branches. Will you not descend ?
Or shall I-

MR. SPARROW (haStily) :
No, don't rise. Tell me instead
What was the nonsense that you thought I




It may be wrong, but if I heard aright,
You said the proper time for sleep was night.
That 's what I said, and I repeat it too!
Then you repeat a thing that is not true.
Day is the time for sleep, not night.
MR. SPARROW : Absurd !
Who 's talking nonsense now ?
MR. OWL: Impudent bird !

How dare you answer
back, you upstart
fowl !
How dare you call me
upstart you -
you Owl!
This is too much!
I '11 stand no /
more, I vow! /
Defend yourself!
MR. BEAR (looking out of hol-
low tree):
Come, neighbors, stop that row !
What you 're about I 'm
sure I cannot think. /-
I only know I have n't "'(
had one wink-
Of sleep. Indeed, I 've borne it
long enough.
'T would put the mildest temper in a
And I am" but a bear. Why don't you
To bed like other folks, I 'd like to know ?
Summer is.long enough to keep awake-

Winter's the time when honest people take
Their three months' sleep.
MR. SPARROW: That settles me!
I fly!
Dear Mr. Owl and Mr. Bear, good-
by! [Exit.
I must go too, to find another wood.
Every one 's mad in this queer
It is not safe such company to keep.
Good evening, Mr. Bear. [Exit.
MR. BEAR: Now I shall sleep.




THE risks and dangers that firemen face in
the discharge of their duty are known to very
few. The outside world the public at large
-hears little or nothing of them. Fires, in a
large city like New York, are of such common
occurrence that the newspapers rarely give
them more than a paragraphic notice; and, in
fact, all accounts of fires to-day are condensed
so as to occupy the smallest possible space.
Of course, conflagrations of any magnitude re-
ceive their share of recognition in the columns
of the daily papers; and reporters are never
stinting in the .praise they give the firemen for
the brave and skilful work that they perform;
but the fire departments throughout all our
large cities are so perfectly organized to-day
that the "large fire" does not often occur, and
detailed accounts are therefore seldom found
in the papers.
When we see a fire company dashing on its
way in answer to an alarm, we stop to admire
the stirring picture that they present. In-
stinctively we look in the direction that they
are proceeding for the appearance of smoke if
it be daytime, or the glare of the flames if it be
at night, to indicate the location of the fire. We
perhaps see none, and pass on our way; and in
the whirl of city life this incident is soon for-
gotten. And yet this company may return
with many of its members bruised and sore,
while others are perhaps conveyed to near-by
hospitals, mortally wounded. It is not always
the fire that makes the biggest show that is the
hardest to fight. The fire that goes roaring
through the roof of a building, lighting up the
city for miles around, .is sometimes much more
easily subdued than the dull, smoky cellar or
sub-cellar fire that forces the men to face the
severest kind of "punishment," the effects of
which are felt for. weeks afterward, before it is
At a sub-cellar fire that occurred one night,

a few years ago, on lower Broadway, I saw
over a dozen men laid out on the sidewalk, over-
come by the smoke. A gruesome sight it was,
too, with the dim figures of the ambulance sur-
geons, lanterns in hand, working over them, and
the thick smoke for a background.
These were brave fellows who had dashed in
with the lines of hose, only to be dragged out
afterward by their comrades, nearly suffocated
by the thick, stifling smoke that poured in vol-
umes from every opening in the basement.
Over one hundred and fifty feet of "dead-
lights," or grating, over the sidewalk had to be
broken in that night before the cellars were re-
lieved sufficiently of the smoke with which they
were charged, to allow the men to go in and
extinguish the fire. This required the com-
bined work of the crews of five hook-and-lad-
der companies, who brbke in the iron-work
with the butt-ends of their axes--the hardest
kind of work. But the newspapers the follow-
ing morning merely gave this fire a ten- or
twelve-line notice, mentioning the location and
the estimated loss, and adding that "it was a
severe fire to subdue." No word of the pun-
ishment and suffering the men were forced to
face before this fire was under control; no
mention of the dash after dash into the cellar
with the heavy line of hose, only to be driven
back to the street by the smoke, or to be
dragged out afterward nearly unconscious; nor
of the thud after thud with the heavy axes on
the thick iron grating that required twenty or
thirty blows before any impression could be
made on it. This was muscle-straining, lung-
taxing work that the average man has to face
only once in a lifetime; but the firemen in a
large city have it always before them; and
each tap on the telegraph may mean the sig-
nal to summon them to a task that requires
the utmost strength and nerve.
While speaking of cellar fires, let me relate


an incident that happened to some companies
in the down-town district at a fire of this de-
scription. It occurred in Barclay street, in the
sub-cellar of a crockery and glass warehouse,
amid the straw used to pack the glassware.
It sent forth a dense, stifling smoke, and was an
ugly fire to fight. I will relate it in the rather
characteristic way in which it was told me by a
fireman in one of the companies that were sum-
moned to subdue it. The story gives an idea
of what the firemen in the business part of a
big city may have to face at any time.
"The station came in one night at 11:30.
We rolled, and found the fire in Barclay street
in a crockery warehouse. Burning straw, jute,
excelsior, and all that sort of stuff in the sub-
cellar. Smoke? I never saw such smoke
since I 've been in the business. We went
through the building, and found the fire
had n't got above the cellar. We tried to get
the line down the cellar stairs, but it was no
use. No one could live on that stairway for a
minute. The chief then divided us up, sent out
a second [a second alarm], and we sailed in to

drownd it out; 27 engine got the rear; 7 en-
gine the stairway, to keep it from coming up;
and our company, 29, got the front. We pried
open the iron cellar-doors on the pavement,
only to find that the elevator, used to carry
freight to the bottom, had been run up to the
top. Here were four inches of Georgia pine to
cut through! And phew such work in such
smoke! Well, we got through this, opened it
up, and -out it all came! No flames, just
smoke, and with force enough to suffocate a
man in a second. We backed out to the gutter
and got a little fresh air in our lungs, and went
at it again. We brought a 35-foot ladder over
from the truck and lowered it through this
opening, and found we could n't touch botom! /
A 45-foot ladder was put down, and only three
rungs remained above the sidewalk; this
showed that there was over forty feet -of cellar
and sub-cellar! And down in this place we
had to go with the line. Well, the sooner we
got at it the sooner it was over; so, shifting the
line over the top rung of the ladder, so it
would n't get caught, down we started. It was







only forty feet, but I can tell you it seemed like
three hundred and forty before we got to the
bottom. Of course, when we got there it
was n't so bad; the smoke lifted, and gave us
. corner in the cellar shaft where we could
work, and we soon drove the fire away to the
rear and out; but going down we got a dose of
smoke we '11 all remember to our last days."
The company working in the rear fared even
worse than the other. They had to descend
into a narrow court only four feet wide, about
twenty-five feet long (the width of the building),
and forty feet deep, merely a shaft to give light
and air to the cellar and sub-cellar. When the
company in the front got to work, they drove
the fire to the rear with such violence that this
company was compelled to ascend rapidly to
the street floor to save their lives.
Next to a dangerous cellar fire nothing is
more dreaded by the men than what is known
in their own language as the "back-draft."
This is a sudden veering of the flames, usually
caused by the burning away of some portion

of the building that gives the fire renewed
draft, and changes its course completely.
The firemen arrive and find the whole second
or third floor of a building in flames. Axes
in hand, they smash open the doors, and with
the hose dash up the stairway. This is all afire,
and the flames are rolling above like a red pall.
With the engine at work and good pressure on
the line, the battle between the two elements,
fire and water, begins. Inch by inch the men
fight their way up the stairway, now to retreat
as the fire gains upon them, and now to advance
as it rolls away for a moment. The encourag-
ing words of the commanding officer are heard
behind them urging them on: Now, get in,
boys! Thai 's it-get in-get in! Make
the next landing! Hit it up, boys! and
all the other words of encouragement that he
usually gives.
They finally reach the landing. They are on
the floor with the fire. It rolls away from them.
They drive it further back. Encouraged by
their seeming victory, they drag up more of the

I U- 1 --;t
..I~ I
I :r y~i;



heavy hose to make a final dash at it, when
suddenly something falls in at the rear of the
fire that gives, it renewed draft. It rolls to-
ward them, an impenetrable wall of fire -the
deadly back-draft! Their only chance of escape
is to throw themselves upon their faces, in hope
that it may roll over them, or to hurl themselves
down the stairs up which they have so gal-
lantly fought their way. Better a broken leg
or arm than death by roasting; and the water
of fifty engines could never stay the progress of
that awful wave of flame.
Many a brave fellow has lost his life in this
manner; and very often all the members of a
company return with their eyebrows, hair, and
beard singed off, bearing evidence that they
have been ketched," as they express it, by a
less terrible form of this deadly draft.
Another kind of back-draft that is greatly
dreaded takes the form of an explosion, and
is usually met with in fires in storage-houses
and large warehouses that have been closed
up tight for some time. A fire breaks out in
such a building, and, as a rule, has been smol-
dering for some time before it is discovered.
The firemen are summoned, and raising a
ladder, they pry open an iron shutter or
break in a door to get at the fire. The com-
bustion going on within the building has gener-
ated a gas; and the moment the air gets to this,
through the breaking open of the door or window,
the mixture ignites. An explosion follows, and a
portion or the whole of the front of the build-
ing is blown out. Several accidents of this
kind have occurred in New York- one in a
storage-warehouse in West Thirty-ninth street a
few years ago, when the whole front was blown
out, hurling the firemen from the ladders, and
severely injuring a large number. Another ac-
cident of the same nature -occurred shortly after
this, in a large wholesale flour-warehouse down-
town. In this case it was supposed that parti-
cles of flour in the air inside the warehouse
became ignited and exploded; but it was prac-
tically another case of the back-draft. Sev-
eral firemen were maimed and injured in this
Now much greater caution is exercised in
opening up" buildings of this kind when a
fire breaks out in them; and to-day the back-

draft is of rare occurrence, though any alarm
may bring the firemen face to face with it.
The falling wall is another danger with which
the firemen have to contend in fighting a fire,
although it can truly be said that, like the big
fire, this difficulty is not often met with to-day.
Modern buildings do not crumble away as some
used to in the fires of ten or fifteen years ago,
and the up-to-date fire-proof building may be en-
tirely gutted inside while the walls remain intact.
It may seem strange to speak of a fire-proof
building being burned out, but experience has
taught the firemen not to put too much con-
fidence in such structures, for it has been shown
that many of them are really not so fire-
proof" as their builders had imagined.
There are several kinds of falling walls, and
the fireman of experience knows them well, and
what to expect from each. There is one kind
that breaks first at the bottom and comes down
almost straight, somewhat like a curtain. This
makes a big noise, but is not very much to be
dreaded. Then there is another that bulges or
"buckles in the middle at first, and makes a
sort of curve as it descends. This is a little
more serious than the first, and has caused many
fatalities. Then there is one that breaks at the
bottom and comes straight out, reaching clear
across the street, and remaining almost solid
until it strikes; and, as an old-time fireman
once remarked: "That 's the kind you want
to dodge."
This kind of falling wall has caused more
of the deaths in the department than any other
danger the firemen have to contend with. It
has killed horses as well as men, and destroyed
apparatus; and it is so rapid in its descent, and
covers so much space, that to escape it the men
have to be quick indeed.
The advent of winter brings with it addi-
tional dangers and hardships for the firemen.
Fires are much more -numerous during ex-
tremely cold weather, and fire-duty is usually
very trying throughout the winter months.
This excess of fires can be traced to over-
heated furnaces and stoves, fires being built
carelessly and in places not much used, and
attempts made to warm apartments that it
would perhaps not be necessary to heat at any
other time. The fire record during an unusu-


ally cold. spell goes up to from twenty-five to
forty fires per day in New York City, and this
keeps the firemen on the jump all the time.
All the serious fires seem to occur on bitterly
cold days or nights, and the suffering of the men
working at such fires is very great. To work

fraught with danger; for it is so incrusted with
ice that it is almost impossible to get a solid
foothold, and a misstep would hurl you to the
ground, forty feet below.
Such is the experience of nearly every fire-
man during the winter months; and although

- r



out of doors in a freezing temperature is not
very pleasant under any. circumstances; but to
work in water and with water in the bitter cold
is doubly disagreeable.
To stand upon the peak of a ladder at per-
haps the third or fourth story of a building,
directing the stream of water at the blazing in-
terior, while the thermometer is at about its
lowest point, is not a comfortable task. Per-
haps another stream is playing over your head,
and you stand in an icy spray. Icicles hang
from every point of your fire-hat, and the rub-
ber coat is frozen to your back; and the water
that is falling about you freezes as fast as it
falls. Every movement upon the ladder is

"ladder-work has been done away with to
some extent of late years in the big cities, still
the men are likely to be called upon to perform
such work at almost any severe fire, should the
construction of the building require it.
Broken glass and melted lead are among the
other dangers that firemen are compelled to
face at bad fires. The former occurs at almost
every fire, and is caused by the flames bursting
through the windows, or by the efforts of the
men to make an opening in the building. The
latter is caused by the burning away of metal
cornices and ornamental iron-work. at the top of
buildings in which an immense amount of solder
is used to hold parts together. When the roar-



ing flames pour out of the top-story windows
of a building and curl up against this metal-


work with the force of a blast-furnace, a perfect
rain of molten metal pours down, with an oc-
casional piece of red-hot tin or zinc for variety.
Men working upon ladders or on fire-escapes
underneath have to stand this red-hot shower
while it burns great holes in their rubber coats,
or protect themselves as best they can by

crouching inside the window-frames. "Top-
story fires" may not have the disadvantages
and discom-
forts of a cel-
lar fire in the
way ofsmoke,
but they make
up for it with
the numerous
petty dangers
of this kind.
There is
scarcely a fire
at whichsome
one is not in-
jured by the
broken glass,
sometimes se-
riously. There
are scores of
men in the
partment to-
day bearing
the marks of
cuts by glass;
and many
have been
maimed in
this manner.
They usually
receive their
injuries while
standing on
or going ui
the ladders.
A window
bursts open,
or some one
will break it
open with an
ax or with
a hook, and
large pieces of glass come sliding down the lad-
der, and if the men are not quick will cut them
across the back of the hand. Many have been
severely injured in this manner, the muscles
that control the fingers being severed, prac-
tically maiming them for life.
There is something weird and at the same



time exciting in watching the men making a night
attack upon a smoky fire. The hoarse shouts and
commands of the officers areheard; while the dim
figures of the men, some carrying lanterns, others
dragging the lines of hose into position, dash
in and out. Within can be heard the dull
chung, chung of the heavy ax making an open-
ing through some door or partition that keeps
the men from the seat of the fire. The thick
smoke rolls down at times and shuts everything
from view, only to lift the next moment and clear
away as if the fire had suddenly stopped. The
next instant it settles down
again, forming an inky pall
through which it is impossible
to see clearly for more than
a foot away. In the midst
of this there comes a crash
from above, and a perfect ava-
lanche of glass descends: a
window has been broken by
the heat or by the men within
to give them air. Those work- g
ing beneath who are unable to
escape this shower, stand per-
fectly still with their hands
drawn closely to their sides,
while the pieces rattle around
them. The thick leather fire- ^
hat, with its broad protecting .
laf at the back, saves them
fr'mi injury. This is a charac-
t-i tic position that the men
tale when in the midst of fall-
ing debris; and the leather hat,'
with its stout ridges or spines"
on the top, protects their heads
from many a serious cut or
When entering a strange
building filled with smoke, the
officers' first thought (and the
men's as well) is how to escape
should anything happen while they are work-
ing within. More correctly speaking, this is a
supposed rule, not written down, that is ob-
served by the men for their own protection.
But in the excitement and hurry of making an
attack upon a fire it is seldom thought of,
and men often find themselves lost in a building,

groping about, searching for some way of es-
cape, while the smoke gets so thick that their
lanterns are extinguished. Their only hope in
this case is to find the line of hose that has
been brought in, and, on finding it, follow it
along to the street. By keeping their faces low
down, close to the hose, they will usually find
a current of fresh air, especially if the line is
charged with water, and this will perhaps
save them from suffocation.
At the school of instruction the firemen are
taught, before they enter the service, how to

a .


use their hooks as a means of self-protection
when in smoky fires. The instructor tells them
that by pushing the hook ahead of them as they
are advancing in a strange building, it will give
warning of their approach to open hatchways,
partitions, etc. Falls through open bulkheads
and open hatchways when working in thick,


heavy smoke, are quite frequent, and form an-
other of the many dangers the firemen have to
To move about quickly and with safety in the
dark through a building that one is thoroughly
acquainted with is difficult enough; but when
we combine a heavy smoke with the darkness,
and add a building that we know nothing
about, it can be seen that the task of the ex-
ploring fireman is anything but an easy one.
Falls from roofs and extensions of buildings
occur frequently, and form another menace of


the calling. When walking on slippery roofs,
sometimes covered with ice and snow, getting
the lines of hose into position, or raising ladders
to get at taller buildings, the firemen work un-
der great difficulties; and it is remarkable that
there are not more accidents than do occur.
The water that they are using only adds to the
dangerous condition of the roofs, sometimes form-
ing a sheet of ice in cold weather; and as every-
thing is done in a hurry, the escapes that they
sometimes have are little short of miraculous.
Though their life is full of uncertainties and

risks, the firemen find their own amusement
and pleasure in the very dangers that they have
to face. There is scarcely a serious fire that
does not have a humorous side to it; and
they often laugh and joke afterward at the dis-
comforts and trials that they have just gone
through; or if not at their own, then at those
of some fellow-member who has been in a par-
ticularly disagreeable position.
An incident that happened at a large cotton-
fire in the lower part of New York, some years
ago, had its comic side, and was the means of
the firemen discovering the main body of the
fire, which for some time they had been en-
deavoring in vain to locate.
The smoke was pouring out of nearly every
part of the building; and although several en-
trances had been made, it had been impossible
to find the seat of the fire. The chief in
charge ordered some windows on the third
floor to be opened up," and a ladder was ac-
cordingly raised, and a fireman ascended. With
the aid of a hook he pried open the iron shut-
ters, and, lamp in hand, stepped in- and dis-
appeared! His companion upon the ladder,
wondering why he had so suddenly vanished
from sight, peered in, and found that he had
stepped into the elevator-shaft that was directly
under this window, and had fallen through to
the basement. Hastily descending, he alarmed
the others, and forcing an entrance, they made
their way to the cellar. Here they found their
comrade in a sitting position upon a bale o0
cotton, partly stunned and dazed from the
shock of the fall, but otherwise uninjured. I:1
his hand he still held the wire handle of his
lamp,- all that remained of it,- while in frort
of him, further in the basement, blazing merril,
was the fire they had been endeavoring to fin'.
His fall had led him directly to it. On afte'-
ward examining the hatchway, or shaft, through
which he had fallen, they found that it had
bars running diagonally across at each floor,
and in some marvelous way he had escaped
each one on his downward flight.
In relating his experience afterward, lie
seemed to think it was a particularly good
joke, and that it was especially funny his not
getting a "bump" from the cross-bars on his
way down; though I must confess I could not



see anything so very amusing in falling four
floors through a burning building, and bring-
ing up right in the heart of a fire.
Considering the exposure that men in this
business have to endure: jumping out of a
warm bed on a bitter cold night to answer an
alarm; tearing through the streets, in the face
of a biting wind, bareheaded and coatless, fin-
ishing their dressing as they
dash along; working in water-
soaked clothing in a freezing
temperature; and having long j |
spells of fatiguing work at a
time,- considering all these,
the mortality among the fire- ..:
men is very light. They are
usually of strong build physi-
cally, and able to stand expo-
sures that would kill 'the ordi-
nary man in private life two or
three times over, if such a thing
were possible. As a rule, they
are fond of their calling; and
the true fireman is as enthusias-
tic about his work, and as full
of spirit in executing it, as the
soldier or sailor. The very dan-
!.ers and uncertainties of which li 'I
;s life is so full add a kind of
: -cinating interest to it, and he
: always ready for the unex-
:;ted-which usually happens.
I witnessed a little incident at
be burning of the big Ameri-
"an Exchange Stable in New
ork, last summer, that was a
strikingg illustration of the pluck
Ff our firemen at a critical mo-
:nent, and their reluctance to
desert "the line" even when
great danger threatens them.
The building was located on Broadway, and
extended eastward, along Fiftieth street, to
Seventh Avenue. The fire was a big one, and
as at one time it seemed that the flames might
extend to other buildings, five alarms were sent
out. Twenty or thirty minutes after the out-
break, the Fifty-first street side was pretty well
burned away, and the walls on that side had
fallen, leaving great gaps through which streams

of water were being poured on the blazing inte-
rior. On the corner of Broadway and Fifty-first
street there was a corner piece of the wall
still standing, about two stories high, and sur-
mounted by an ornamental piece of stone-
work. This bit of ruined wall swayed to and
fro as the timbers and beams burned away
and fell with great crashes within.


"' III,
S'-~. 4,.

-r_ .z-- c.-r~- -


Almost directly in front of this remaining
tower of wall, among the steaming bricks and
smoldering woodwork, were crouched a little
group of firemen directing a heavy stream of
water into the roaring furnace facing them.
Their engine was working at full pressure, and
the line was a hard one to control. Here it
may be explained that when these big fire-en-
gines are working at full speed and forcing



from 500 to 800 gallons of water per minute
through the hose, the pressure of the nozzle is
all upward and backward. In order to con-
trol and direct the stream, the firemen throw
their full weight upon the line and nozzle, and
it usually takes from four to six men to man-
age such a stream.
Such was the little group that I describe.
Behind crouched their captain, directing and
encouraging them just as an officer upon the

houses opposite. Glancing back as they ran,
they were horror-stricken to see that the little
group of firemen had made no effort to escape,
but were still kneeling in the same position, as
if awaiting their fate. The crash came. The
street fairly shook, and volumes of red dust filled
the air and obscured the view, while the flames
for a moment leaped higher and higher, as if
glorying in their victory over the few brave
fellows who had been battling against them.


~ ,-l "
-0. f
L s
. ^ -**>*



i -

t. p


'1~ .

z '


battle-field stands behind his men directing' a
deadly fire into the enemy's ranks.
Suddenly a heavier crash than usual came
from behind this tall chimney-like piece, of wall.
It quivered for a moment, and then began to
fall straight outward, and, it seemed, directly
over the little group in the street. As it began
to totter, the few privileged spectators stand-
ing on the opposite side of the street ran in
dismay in every direction; for it looked as if it
would reach clear across and crash into the

The crowd returned, sickened with the exper-
tation of finding the little crowd of fire-fighters
buried beneath the smoking debris; but when
the smoke and dust cleared away, there was
the little band crouching over the hose as be-
fore, and facing the fire as if nothing at all had
happened. Their captain bent over them in
the same position, uttering a word of encourage-
ment now and then, while the powerful stream
was directed at some more effective point ex-
posed by the falling of the wall.




They had watched it as it fell, and had
gauged its distance. By a quick movement all
at once, they had shifted the hose far enough
to one side to dodge the wall as it came down,
and had taken their chances of getting hit by a
stray brick or two rather than desert the line at
this critical moment. To have done so would
have meant almost certain death to one or
more of their number, for a heavily charged
line of hose, when beyond control, twists about
in a serpent-like manner with frightful force, and
a blow from it is sufficient to kill a man.
They had hung together and faced the dan-
ger as one man, and it was a glorious exhibi-
tion of perfect discipline and indomitable pluck.
The crowd, realizing the nerve that it required
to stay in such a perilous place, gave vent to
a hoarse murmur of approval. If the firemen
heard it, they never gave any sign that they did,
but went calmly on with their work. Turning
their heads neither to the one side nor to the
other, but looking grimly ahead, they slashed
the water here and there in the blazing struc-
ture that was slowly turning to a blackened,
smoking mass of ruins.
When two or three companies are making an
attack upon a fire, and getting their lines of
hose into position, mingled with the hoarse
shouts and orders of the officers will come the
familiar cry of Start your water! followed
by number of the company to which the order
is passed. This might almost be called the
battle-cry of the men, for it signals the opening
of the attack upon the fire, and is a demand
for their only protection and ammunition--
With a good charged pipe" as they call it,
the firemen will venture anywhere, and attack
a mass of fire, no matter how formidable it may
seem; but without the aid of this important ele-
ment they are utterly helpless, and many a
company has been forced to desert the hose
and flee for their lives because of a bursted
length in the line or the sudden stoppage of the
supply from some unknown cause.
In order to facilitate the placing of lines of
hose in position, the water is very often not
started until they have reached the seat of the
fire, especially if it is a hard one to locate.
The hose itself is heavy enough to drag to the
VOL. XXIV.-82.

required position, without the added weight of
water; and if it has to be taken up three or
four flights of stairs, or up a fire-escape or lad-
der, it is the hardest kind of labor, and tugging
at a heavy and unwieldy 25-inch hose in a
smoky atmosphere, and in the excitement and
hurry of getting to work, is not the most agree-
able of work.
But when the line is in position and the blaze
is at last reached, the order is quickly passed
"Start your water!" This order is passed
along the line, sometimes shouted from a win-
dow and taken up in the street and shouted
from one to another until it reaches the en-
gineer, who, opening a gate or valve on the
engine, transforms the flat, flabby mass of hose
into a quivering thing of life, pulsating with
every throb of the engine and hurling at the
heart of the fire its welcome ton or more of
water every minute.
Accustomed as the firemen are to fight fire
in all its different forms, they become inured
to its dangers, and will dash into the most
perilous position, taking the greatest personal
risk, without giving it a second thought. Per-
haps if they stopped to think, they would not
be good firemen.
One of the rules of the New York Fire De-
partment cautions the officers not to expose
their men to unnecessary dangers or to jeop-
ardize their lives in any way in extinguishing
fires; and they are not supposed to order the
men into any position where they, the officers,
cannot go themselves. Although the rule is
generally observed, still, in the excitement of
making an attack upon a fire, especially if it is
gaining headway, all such rules are forgotten,
and almost any risk or chance is taken to
reach a good position and get the water applied
effectively. Very often the men themselves, in
their eagerness to attack their natural enemy
and "get a belt at it with the pipe," as they
say in their own parlance, or to beat some other
company into position and win "first water,"
will expose themselves to great danger; and
before they actually realize it, they are sur-
rounded on all sides by flames, with all escape
seemingly cut off. When caught in a" box" like
this, I have heard them remark afterward that
they would mentally vow that if they escaped



alive they would resign from the business the
next day; but when all danger was passed the
vow was forgotten, and they laughed at their
own fears, and were ready to jump into a place
equally hazardous.
Sometimes they are ordered to the roof of a
building on fire to ventilate," as they call it,-
break open sky-lights and bulkheads to relieve
the smoke inside, perhaps to drag into posi-
tion lines of hose that have been brought up
from adjoining roofs. The fire may have been
burning in the building longer than the officer
in command knows. This has weakened the
supports of the roof, and it needs only the
added weight of the men to cause it to collapse.
forcing them to jump to adjoining roofs, slide
down the hose or ladders, or make their escape
in any way possible.
I once saw a very exciting incident of this
kind at an East Side factory fire, some years
ago, when a company of men with a line of
hose had scarcely reached the roof when nearly
all the roof and part of the rear side wall col-
lapsed, leaving them hanging or clinging to the
coping and the part of the roof still remaining.
They were forced to jump to the roof of a
side building some twenty feet" below; and
but for the heroic work of some of their com-

rades, who climbed up and rescued those cling-
ing to the shaky piece of roof that remained,
they would have soon fallen directly into the
main body of the fire.
At the big Bleecker street fire, some two
years ago, the firemen had an experience they
will never forget. Six companies were working
in the big Manhattan Bank building on the
corner opposite the fire, trying to prevent the
flames from getting a foothold there. The
intense heat generated by the fire opposite
caused the iron piers or beams on the side to
twist and warp, and they gave way, carrying
down two floors. The firemen inside, panic-
stricken, not knowing what moment the whole
structure would collapse, had to make their
escape as best they could, jumping down the
place where the stairs had been (the stairs were
carried away by the falling of the floors), or
sliding down the hose on the outside of the
building from the fifth and sixth floors!
Many men were injured in escaping in this
manner; and the only wonder was that a num-
ber were not killed. The experience the men
had at this fire will last them a lifetime; but it
is only another example of the risks and dan-
gers that firemen may have to face at any mo-
ment in fighting fire in a large city.

A Bird @ Letters

The parrot cried;proud as could be.
/ "We birds who know letters
Are surely your betters,"
He called to the birds in the tree

ut the birds in the tree-top at play
All chirped in the jolliest, way,
'"We don't know ABC's,
But we're quite at our ease
In these higher branc.hes,"sa'id they.
Jftria ^gnin.



ct jS ove l a
_ro-ye av ~~jai

IN Chess-board Land there dwelt a ,

And he was quite forlorn

Because his mate the l, had been

Obliged her jewels to j

(As Isabel of Castile did

Long, long ere you were born).

And so, unchecked, the she grieved

Within the W walls;

She gave up theater-going,

She never went to balls;

"And say I 'm not at home," said she,

Unless the A calls."

The called upon the a,

He brought with him a -

I don't remember clearly--

Now, was he black, or white?

But, anyway, he said that he

Could get the jewels bright.

"But can we trust him," said the ;

With gems so rich and rare?

These & &, alas, lead checkered lives.

One must proceed with care."

This _Aj, wretched punster, said

This h was on the square."

"Go then, and quickly! said the ;

So forth the brave a set:

But how his tour was ended

I really quite forget.

Perhaps he found the gems. at last -

Perhaps he 's riding yet.



[This story was begun in tie November number.]



THREE years have come and gone since the
forge was built, and the three misguided pa-
triots, still loyal to their vow and to the thirty-
five stars on their dear old flag, are sitting
on the steps of the golden mill. Tumbler
the bear is sleeping comfortably on the dusty
path that winds away to the house. Cole-
man's tawny and curly beard and the black
hair on Bromley's face have grown long and
thick, and the down which beforetime was
on Philip's lip and chin now flares out from
his neck and jaws like a weak red flame. Philip
sits a little apart from the others, with the tele-
scope in its leather case strapped on his back,
and there is a look of sadness in his face.
Three years have wrought great changes in
the plateau. The harvests have been abun-
dant, and, purple grapes hang in great clusters
from the vines which have been grown from
cuttings of that solitary plant which overhung
the branch when they first came down its bank
with the captain and Andy the guide.
The building of the mill has been a work
of time, and it is not yet a month since Brom-
ley emptied the first yellow grist into the flaring
hopper. Two long years were spent in shap-
ing the upper and the nether stones, and the
new mill was rightly called golden," for five
thousand guineas from the mints of George
the Fourth and Queen Victoria were melted
in the forge and beaten into straps and bolts
and rings and bands for the wooden machinery.
Gold glistens in the joints of the. dripping-
wheel, and gleams in the darkness at the bot-
tom of the hopper, where the half of a priceless
cavalry-boot leg distributes the corn between
the grinding-stones. The hopper itself is

rimmed with gold, and the circular wooden
box, rough hewn, that covers the stones is
bolted and belted with the metal elsewhere
called precious; and from the half roof of oak
shingles to the slab floor, gold without stint
enriches and solidifies the structure. It plates
the handle and caps the top of the pole that
shifts the water on to the wheel, and the half
door which shuts out Tumbler the bear swings
on golden hinges and shuts with a golden hasp.
Healthy living and abundance of food have
rounded the lusty brown limbs of the three
soldiers, and charged their veins with good red
blood; but alas! they are pitiful objects to look
upon as they sit together there in the sunlight.
The smart uniforms with yellow facings are
gone, and the long cavalry boots, and the
jaunty caps with cross-sabers above the flat vi-
zors, and little remains of their former clothing.
Lieutenant Coleman has some rags of blue
flannel hanging about his broad shoulders, which
flutter in the soft wind where they are not gath-
ered under the waistband of a pair of new and
badly made canvas trousers having the letters
"U. S." half lost in the clumsy seam of the
right leg and a great "A" on the back; which
sufficiently indicates that they have been made
from the stiff cloth of the tent called A," and
that, if required, they could easily stand alone.
Such as they are, these trousers, on account of
their newness and great durability, seem to be
the pride of the colony.' They are certainly
much smarter than Philip's, which are open
with rents and patched with rags of various
shades of blue, and tied about his legs with
strings, and finally hung from his bare, tanned
shoulders, by a single strip of canvas.
All three of the men have hard, bare feet,
and the tunic or gown of faded blue cloth
which hangs from Bromley's neck shows by its
age that the overcoat-capes which were sacri-
ficed to make it were given up long ago. This


what-you-may-call-it is girded in at the waist
by a coil of young grape-vine covered with ten-
der green leaves, and fringed at bottom with
mingled tatters of blue cloth and old yellow
lining. And this, except some ends of trousers
which hang about his knees like embroidered
pantalets, completes the costume of the digni-
fied corporal who enlisted from Harvard.
With all their poverty of apparel, the persons
of the three soldiers, and their clothing as far as
practicable, are sweet and clean; which shows
that at least two of them have lost none of that
pride which kept them on the mountain, and
which still keeps up their courage in the au-
tumn of '69. Now let us see what it is that
ails Philip.
Many entries in the diary for the fifth sum-
mer on the mountain, which is just over, indi-
cate that the conduct of Philip was shrouded
in an atmosphere of mystery. So early as
March 12, 1869, we find it recorded:
Philip spends all his unemployed time in observations
with the telescope.
In the following April and May, entries
touching on this subject are most frequent, and
Coleman and Bromley have many conversations
about Welton's peculiar conduct, and record
many evidences of a state of mind which causes
them much annoyance and some amusement.
May 12. Requested Philip to remove one of the bee-
gums to the new bench. Instead of complying with my
request, he plugged the holes with grass, removed the
stone and board from the top, and emptied a wooden
bowl of lye into the hive, destroying both swarm and
honey.- After this act of vandalism he entered the
house, took down the telescope, and slinging it over his
shoulder, walked away in the direction of the Point of
Rocks, whistling a merry tune as he went.

At another time he was asked to set the Slow
John in motion to crack a mess of hominy, and
instead of spreading the corn on the rock he
covered its surface with a layer of eggs, and
hung the bucket on the long arm of the lever.
Such evidences of a profound absence of
mind were constantly occurring; and if they
were not indications of his desire to return to
the world, his secret observations with the tele-
scope made it plain enough that he was ab-
sorbed in events outside the borders of Sherman
Territory. If questioned, he assigned all sorts

of imaginary reasons for his conduct, and at the
same time he held himself more and more aloof
from his companions, to wander about the
plateau alone.
During the previous winter, Philip had re-
ported that one of the four young girls removed
by the Confederates at the time of the capture
of the officers had reappeared in the vicinity
of the burned house. This fact was soon for-
gotten by Coleman and Bromley, who were
working like beavers, pecking the stones for the
mill; but to Philip it was an event of absorbing
interest. Where were the others ? What suf-
ferings and what indignities had the returned
wanderer endured in her long absence, and
what hardships and dangers had not she braved
to reach her native valley again?
He watched Jones and the kindly neigh-
bors (not including Shifless) clearing away the
wreckage and rebuilding the Smith house be-
tween the sturdy stone chimneys.
In the diary for July 6, Lieutenant Coleman
An unspeakable calamity has fallen on the dwellers in
Sherman Territory. Reason has been blotted out in
the mind of our companion Philip, and now we are but
two, though in the company of an amiable lunatic.

All that summer, when his expert advice was
sorely needed, poor infatuated Philip took no
more interest in the construction of the golden
mill than he took in the spots on the moon.
So week after week, and month after month,
through the long summer and into the sad
autumn days, his companions kept a melan-
choly watch on Philip, who wandered to and
fro on the mountain, with the telescope in its
leather case strapped over his bare shoulders,
as we saw him first in the shadow of the golden

Scantily as the three soldiers were clad at
that time, they still had their long blue over-
coats to protect them from the cold of winter,
and broken shoes to cover their feet; and so in
the short December days poor Philip, grown
nervous and haggard with want of sleep,
strapped the telescope outside his coat, and
wandered about the Point of Rocks.

The morning of January io, as it dawned on
the three forgotten soldiers,-if it may be said




to have dawned at all,- cast a singular light on
the mountain-top. It had come on to thaw,
and the time of the winter avalanches was at
hand. The sky overhead was of a colorless
density which was no longer a dome; and it
seemed to Philip, while he stood on the rocks,
as if he could stretch out his hand and touch it.
Somewhere in its depth the sun was blotted
out. Ragged clouds settled below the moun-
tain-top, and then, borne on an imperceptible
wind, a sea of fog swallowed up the clouds and
blotted out the valley and the ranges beyond,
even as it had blotted out the sun, leaving Sher-
man Territory an island drifting through space.
With a moan Philip closed the telescope, and
replaced it in its leather case. Even the trees
on the island, and the rocks heaped in ledges,
grew gray and indistinct, and presently the thick
mist resolved itself into a vertical rain falling
gently on the melting snow. The strokes of an
ax in the direction of the house had a muffled
sound, like an automatic buoy far out at sea.
Philip turned with another sigh, and took the
familiar path in the direction of the ax, grop-
ing his way in the mist as a mountaineer feels
the trail in the night with his feet.
The sound of the chopping ceases, and a
great stillness broods on the mountain. Evi-
dently the chopper has sought shelter from the
rain. Brown leaves begin to show where the
snow has disappeared on the path, so familiar
to the feet of the wanderer that no sound
should be needed to toll him home. He throws
his arms out and presses his temples with his
clenched hands, and mutters with a choking
sound, as he walks. He does not know that
the rain is falling on his upturned face. He
turns to go back. He changes his mind and
advances. He is no longer in the path. He
has no thought of where he goes. The blades
of dead grass, and the dry seeds and fragments
of leaves, cling thick upon the sodden surface of
his tattered boots. He strides on absently over
the ground, parting the fog and cooling his
feverish face in the rain; and every step leads
him nearer to the boulder face of the mountain
where the great avalanches are getting ready to
fall a thousand feet into the Cove below. He
is no longer the cheerful, happy Philip of other
years, but a weakened, distracted shadow of


that other Philip, staggering on through the
He has forgotten his soldier comrades, and
the meaning of his life on the mountain. He
has forgotten even his patriotism and the exist-
ence of the flag with thirty-five stars. Sherman
Territory is receding under his feet, and the
grief that he has created for himself so industri-
ously and nursed so patiently is leading him on.
A blotch of shadows to the right assumes the
ghostly form of spreading trees. The naked
branches blended softly in the blanket of the
fog. The gnarled chestnuts that looked like
berry-bushes while on that first night they
waited at the deserted cabin for the moon to
go down, give no voice of warning, and Philip
comes steadily on, with the telescope strapped
to his back and the load in his heart. Under
his heedless feet the dead weeds and the sodden
leaves give way to the slippery rock.
For a moment the slender figure crossed by
the telescope is massed against the mist over-
hanging the Cove. Then there is a despairing
cry and a futile clutching at the cruel ledge, and,
in the silence that follows, the vertical rain, out
of the blanket of the fog, goes on shivering its
tiny lances on the slippery rocks.

IT was still early in the day when Philip fell
over the boulder face of the mountain; and
when the chopping which he had heard through
the fog ceased at the house, Bromley had in-
deed gone in, but not for shelter from the rain.
He had gone to warn Lieutenant Coleman of
the absence of their half-demented comrade
and of the peril he ran by wandering about on
the mountain in the fog. They felt so sure of
finding him near the Point of Rocks that they
went together in that direction; but before they
started Philip had wandered from the path, and
by the time they reached the rocks he had put
the house behind him and was walking in the
direction of the Cove. Finding no trace of him
there, and seeing the dense mist that covered
the valley and made observation impossible,
they separated and went off in opposite ways,


calling him by name, Philip! Philip! and
as they got farther and farther from each other,
"Philip! Philip !" came back to each faintly
through the fog and the rain. They made
their way to such points as might have af-
forded him shelter, but their calls brought no
response. They knew that in his peculiar state
of mind he might hear their voices and make
no reply, and in this, as they continued their
search, was at last their only hope of his safety.
At twelve o'clock a wind set in from the east,
redoubling the rain, but rapidly dispelling the
fog. In an hour every place where he could
possibly have concealed himself had been
searched, and with one mind they came back
to the Point of Rocks. They lay out on the
wet ledge and looked over with fear and trem-
bling, half expecting to see his mangled body
below. They could 'see clearly to the foot of
the precipice, and there was nothing there but
the smooth, trackless snow; and then when they
drew back they looked in each other's faces and
knew for the first time how much they loved
Philip and how much each was to the other.
They were almost certain now that he had
fallen over one face of the mountain or the
other. Yesterday they could have followed his
track in the thin snow, but now the rain, which
was still falling heavily, had beaten out the
track and melted what remained of the snow.
They went together down the ladders, and
for its whole length along the base of that
ledge. When they returned to the plateau,
Lieutenant Coleman and Bromley were tired
and soaked with the rain and crushed with the
awful certainty that Philip had fallen over the
great rock face into the Cove. They could nei-
ther eat nor sleep as long as there was a possi-
bility of discovering any clue to his fate; and so
in time they came to the slippery rock in front
of the station, where the heel of his boot or the
sharp edge of the telescope had made a scratch
on the stone that the rain was powerless to
wash out.
It was no use to call his name after that
dreadful plunge, the very thought of which so
tied their tongues that the two men stood in
silence over their discovery; and when they
could learn no more they came away hand in
hand, without uttering a word.

This was indeed the point where Philip had
gone over the great rock; but by a strange
good fortune his body had plunged into a mass
of rotten snow fifty feet from the brink of the
precipice. It was the snow of the avalanche
making ready to fall; and through this first
bank his body broke its way, falling from point
to point for another fifty feet, until he lay un-
conscious over the roots of the great icicles
which hung free from the rounded ledge below
him, dripping their substance nine hundred feet
into the cove.
When he came tb himself, chilled and sore
after his great fall, the moon was shining softly
on the snow about him and sparkling on the
ice below. He had no recollection of his fall,
and but the vaguest remembrance of what had
gone before. It was rather as if he had
dreamed that he had fallen upon the avalanche,
and when he had first opened his eyes upon
the snow about him and above him, he tried to
reason with himself that no dream could be so
He remembered vaguely the autumn days
by the golden mill, and he knew that it was
not winter at all; and yet this was real snow
in which he lay bruised and helpless. He
realized that he was almost frozen, and his
clothing, that had been wet, was now stiffening
on his limbs. The great shock had restored
his shattered mind, leaving, it is true, a wide
blank to be filled in for the best part of the year
that was past. He was now himself again, but
where, it was not at first so clear. There was
nothing to be seen above beyond the snow
which hung over him; but when he turned his
sore body so as to look away from the moun-
tain-side, his eyes rested on the long, white
roof of the Cove post-office, as he had seen it
often before from the top of the plateau. Philip
knew now that he was in the very heart of
the avalanche. He lay on the outer brink
of the ice which might fall with the heat of
another day's sun. At first he began to cry
for help; but his voice was such a small thing
in the mass of snow against the great rock!
And then he thought of the people from the
hills who would come at noon of the next day
to watch by the post-office to see him fall -
him, Philip Welton! And then he thought of



Coleman and Bromley, who must have given
him up for dead; and even of his uncle at the old
mill, with more of love than he had ever felt
for him before. He tried to drag himself little
from the icy brink; but his legs and arms were
numb and stiffened with the cold. He began to
clap his nerveless hands and to stimulate the
circulation of his blood by such movements as he
could make. He had an instinctive feeling that
the avalanche had been trembling yesterday
where it clung to the great, black vertical stain
on the face of the boulder just below the trees
that looked like berry-bushes from the road in
the Cove. He knew that it would not fall
during the night. He had no recollection
of the rain. He knew that more heat of the
sun was yet required to loosen it for the great
plunge. It was freezing now, and every hour
added solidity to the surface of the snow; and
yet as he gained the power he feared to move,
as the workman distrusts the strong scaffold
about the tall steeple because of its great
height from the ground.
Above him, ten feet away, he could see the hole
in the snow through which he knew he must
have fallen; and as he thought of the fearful shoot
his body would have made, clearing even the
great ledge of icicles, if the surface of that bank
had not been rotted by some cause, his limbs
were almost paralyzed with terror. The thought
helped to stir the sluggish blood in his veins,
and he shrank, rather than moved, a little from
the awful brink where he lay. Gradually he
rose to his feet and looked about him. The
Cove post-office, showing its white roof through
the naked trees that looked like berry-bushes
in their turn, far, far below him, fascinated him
until he felt a mad impulse to leap over the
icicles to oblivion. Instead of yielding to this
impulse, however, he covered his eyes with his
hands until he found strength to turn his back
on the tiny object that terrified him. If he
cried out, his voice, against the rock for a sound-
ing-board, might awaken the sleeping postmas-
ter before his comrades on the plateau. Even
in that case no help could reach him from be-
low across the bridgeless gorge; and even if his
comrades were above him on the rocks, they
could do nothing for him.
Should he wait there to meet certain death

in the avalanche to-morrow or the next day?
He thought of the cool courage of Bromley,
and wondered what he would do if he were
there in his place. As long as there was a
foothold to be gained, he knew Bromley would
climb higher, if it were only to fall the farther,
and he felt a thrill of pride in the dauntless
nerve of his comrade. This thought prompted
him to do something for himself, and he began
by whipping his arms around his body, keeping
his back resolutely on the small post-office, and
trying to forget its dizzy distance below him.
As he grew warmer and stronger, he felt more
courage. It was impossible to reach the hole
in the snow through which he had come, for
the broken sides separated in the wrong way
from the perpendicular. He was not a fly
to crawl on a ceiling.
A few yards to his right, as he stood facing
the mountain, the bank through which his body
had broken its way made a smooth curve to
the ledge where the icicles began. As he
looked 'at the great polished surface of the
snow, the thought came to him that nothing in
all the world but the soft moonlight could
cling there. Hopeless as the passage by the
bank was, he could reach it; and the feeling
that it led away to the region above prompted
him to pick his way along the narrow ledge
until he could touch with his hand the smooth
surface of the bank. He could only touch it
with his hand, for the edge curved over his
head as he stood alongside it. He felt that
the bank was hard. He was unable to break
its crust with his hand, and he knew that every
moment it was growing harder. His strong
knife was in his pocket. He drew out this and
opened it with his stiff fingers. Then he be-
gan to cut his way under the bank. Beyond
the first surface the snow yielded readily to
his efforts; and as it fell under his feet he made
his way diagonally upward until at the end
of half an hour, as it seemed to him, he broke
the crust of the great bank, and pushed his
head through into the fair moonlight. He
looked up at the glaring steep above him, and
it was beyond his power not to take one look
back at the tiny post-office below him. If he
had not been safely wedged in the bank, it
would have been his last look in life. As it


; -~'-~--~--~ --,~--.~-~--~-~--
--;- =-; -------~
c----~--~-~-------= -r=--


S~i~~ii~ ~~ i

34~ ~ ~ ________

ar m--;


1 l'


VOL. XXIV.- 83.

- ---1
=-'= -?




not necessary to go out
upon the surface of the
bank, which was con-
siderably less than per-
pendicular. He had
only to cut away the
'4 crust with his knife, and
so gradually work his
way upward in a soft
trench, leaving only his
head and shoulders
above the crust.
7 Philip felt a strange
S-. exultation in this new
dr power to advance up-
., '4 ward, and all his sturdy
strength came to his aid
...-.. ,. in his extremity. He
k. felt no disposition to
.-- 4.look back at the trail he
knew he was leaving
in the snow. He was
certain now of gaining
the top of the bank, but
what lay beyond he
knew not. Half the
distance he had fallen
would still be above
him. He was almost
up now; but at the
very top of the bank
there was another curl
of the snow, and once
more he had to burro)
under like a mole.
When Philip's head
did appear again on the
surface, it was not so
S. light as before, and with
his first glance around
he saw that the moon
was already sinking be-
low the opposite ridge.
He was almost within
reach of another hole to
HAVE FALLEN." (SEE PAGE 656.) pearance, and by the
was, he shrank trembling into the snow, and distance he had come, he knew it was not the
for a whole minute he never moved a muscle. one that he had seen from below; and beside
Fortunately for his shattered nerves, it was this opening the last rays of the moon glinted


on the brass barrel of the telescope attached
to its broken strap. How it had come there
he had no idea, any more than he knew how he
had come to be lying on the ledge above the
icicles where he had found himself a few hours
before. It was the old familiar telescope of
the station, through which the three soldiers
had looked at the prisoners and at old Shifless
in the valley, and it made him glad as if he
had met an old friend. He stretched out his
hand to draw it to him. Instead of securing it,
his clumsy fingers rolled it from him on the
smooth snow, and, as he looked at it, the tele-
scope turned on end and disappeared through
the hole in the bank. In the awful stillness on
the side of the mountain, he heard it strike
twice. It was nothing to Philip now whether
it fell in advance or waited to go down with
the avalanche. And just as this thought had
passed through his mind, and as he turned his
eyes to the side of the cliff above him, the
Far-away sound of metal striking on stone broke
sharply on his ear, and he knew that the tele-
scope had been smashed to atoms on the rocks
in the Cove bottom.
From where he crouched now on the snow
he could see the edge of the plateau above him,
and, as near as he could judge, it was rather less
;han fifty feet away. The smooth rock was
basedd in thin ice--so thin that he believed he
could see the black storm-stain underneath. It
was growing dark now, and after all his toil and
!lope he had gained only a little higher seat on
:ie back of the avalanche. He saw with half
glance that it would be impossible to climb
higher He heard the wind whistle through
;'Ie branches of the dwarfed old chestnut-trees
',ver his head; and as the cold was so still about
iiim, he knew that it was an east wind. He
could go nearer to the ledge, but he could gain
no foothold on the rock. In the midst of his
cruel disappointment and his awful dread of the
sun which would come to melt the snow next
day, he felt a greater terror than he had felt
when he had first found himself down below.
His companions might have gone mad and
thrown him over the rock,- it was all a dark
mystery to poor Philip. He could barely see
about him now. Even the sun would be better
than this darkness. It might be cold to-mor-

row. At any rate, it would be afternoon before
the sun, however warm, could get in its deadly
work on the avalanche. It never occurred to
him that he was nearly famished; and he must
have slept some while he lay in the snow; for
he dreamed that the people were gathered at
the post-office to see him fall, and a crash like
the roar of battle brought him to his senses
with a start. The next time he awoke, the
bright sun was indeed shining, and he was stiff
with the cold, as he had found himself at first.
He was hungry, too, as he had never been hun-
gry before, and the fear of starvation seemed
more dreadful to him than the dread of the
As he lay there in his weakened state, his
ears were alert for the faintest sound. He
thought he heard a movement on the ledge
above him, and then he heard voices, clear and
distinct. They were the voices of Coleman
and Bromley.
Poor Philip he heard them say.
At first he was unable to speak in his excite-
ment, but in a moment he raised his voice with
all the strength of his lungs, and cried," Help!
"Is that you, Philip? "
"Yes, George! Yes! Help!"
By questioning him they learned what his
situation was, and the distance he lay from tie
top of the ledge; for they could gain no posi-
tion whence they could see him. They bade
him keep up his courage until they came back.
It was indeed a long time before he heard their
voices again speaking to him, and then down
over the icy rock came a knotted rope made
of strings of the canvas that remained of the
" A" tent. At the end of the life-line, as it
dangled nearer and nearer, were two strong
loops like a breeches-buoy. Philip felt strong
again when he had the line in his hand, and
thrusting his legs through the loops, he called
out to haul away. As he went up, up, he clung
fast with his hands to the canvas; but he was
too weak to keep himself away from the rock
with his feet, so he bumped against it until
he was drawn over the surface of the same stone
he had slipped on the morning before. He saw
the kind faces of his two comrades, and then he
sank unconscious on the firm earth at their feet.

(To be continued.)




PLANTS, like animals, must eat to live. They the two little leaves. The two halves of a
cannot grow unless they have food. Even the large seed, as an acorn or a bean, are really
very young plant in the seed is supplied with leaves, stored full of starch, whereon the seed-
nourishment upon which it lives until it has be- ling may feed until it has taken hold upon the
come strong enough to care for itself. Open a ground. It is just as the chick in an egg is
nourished by the yolk until it is hatched.
Most plants are content to draw their food
S- .from the air through their leaves, and from the
'' soil through their roots. But there are some
dainty feeders that are not satisfied with the
1' simple diet of other plants, but like richer and
better prepared food. Among these the most
wonderful are what are called insectivorous
plants, such as feed upon insects. It seems a
cruel thing that plants should be fitted to prey
upon flies or beetles. But when we come to
see the curious ways in which some of these in-
sect-feeding plants are fitted to catch and live
upon their quarry, we cannot but admire them.
Perhaps some of the readers of ST. NICHO-
LAS have noticed the little plants called sun-
dews, that dwell in bogs in almost every part
of the world. The commonest of these in the
United States and in England is the round-
leafed sundew, which has a rosette of roundish
leaves on slender stalks. Out of the midst of
them rises a leafless stem, bearing a number of
small white flowers, that open one by one when
S'. the sun is shining. The leaves are fringed and
covered on the upper side with small, dark-red
bodies, called .glands, borne on slender stalks,
like tiny, round-headed nails. On each of
S these little glands may be seen a drop of clear,
sticky liquid that glistens in the sunlight. And
this appearance earns for the plant its pretty
name of "sundew."
SWhen an insect-a small fly, for example,
or a gnat alights upon a sundew leaf, he is
caught and held by the sticky fluid on the
morning-glory seed and you will find the tiny glands under him. Then the stalks of the
beginning of the morning-glory vine inside, glands near the edges of the leaf begin to bend
with a clear substance like jelly packed around in toward the spot where the little intruder is


the Venus's Fly-Trap, a cousin of the sundew.
FIt inhabits the moist, sandy pine woods along
Ao'$ *4' ,- the Cape Fear River, and is also found in other
Places along the coast of North and South
Carolina, but grows nowhere else in the world.
Sometimes it is cultivated in greenhouses.
The Venus's Fly-Trap is like the sundew in
i having a tuft of leaves with a flower-stalk
growing up among them. The blossoms are
larger, and are white. The leaves, which
spread out on the ground, are the marvelous
part of the plant. They are of two parts -
a narrow-winged stalk and a wider portion
which is called the blade. The blade is hinged
in the middle, so that the two halves can close
together. The edges are fringed with stiff
1 prickles, like a row of sharp spikes. On the
S. upper side of the blade are a few delicate bris-
.', ties, usually three on each half. These are
'.r -',' '- ', very sensitive, so that if you touch one of them
..ii -ever so lightly the two halves of the leaf close

SNow, when an insect crawls up on one of

fastened, at the same time pouring out an ex-
traordinary quantity of their sticky fluid. It
is like a puppy whose mouth waters when he
catches sight of a bone. This movement of the
-land-stalks is very slow, and it takes many
hours for the outer ones to close down on the
poor little victim. When they are at last
completely bent, it is a number of days before
they once more begin to spread. I ,
Meantime the fluid which they pour upon
the body of the insect actually digests all the
eatable part of him, leaving the hard shell or j
the thin wings behind, when the glands return
to their places. Sundews will digest tiny bits of
meat if placed upon the leaves. There is no
doubt that the plants are better for an occa-
sional meal upon an insect, for those that do
not obtain such food once in a while thrive
less than the plants that succeed in securing it. -. ..
Near the city of Wilmington, in eastern
North Carolina, there grows a wonderful plant, THE PITCHER-PLANT.


these leaves from the ground, or alights upon it
to rest after flying, he is very apt to touch one
of the bristles. Instantly the blade folds to-
gether and catches the unlucky visitor, while
the spikes around the edges interlock and keep
him from getting out that way. However, the
spikes do not fit together very closely, so that
tiny insects, the small fry that it is not worth
while for the plant to digest, can escape by
the openings between them.
The leaf remains folded until all the eatable
part of the beetle or butterfly has been swal-
lowed, which takes several days. Then it
opens again and is ready for the next comer,
unless it happens that it has eaten more than is
good for it, and then it sometimes dies. The
Venus's Fly-Trap is often spoken of as the most
wonderfully fashioned plant in the world, and
perhaps it deserves to be so called. There are
not many animals that are better fitted for cap-
turing their prey than is this small member of
the vegetable kingdom.
A relative of the Catchfly lives in the water,
and catches very small shell-fish and other little
water creatures. It is called Aldrovanda, and
is a native of Europe, India, and Australia. Its
leaves are never spread out flat, but are open
about as far as an oyster-shell is held when the
oyster is alive.
There is a quaint plant, and a very pretty
one, quite common in the Northern States, that
grows in peat-bogs. It has large flowers with
an odd, umbrella-like shield in the center. The
shape of this has given it the name of Side-
saddle Flower, but it does not look very much
like a side-saddle. The most familiar name
for the plant is Pitcher-Plant, and it is some-
times called Huntsman's Cup, or Purple Trum-
This Pitcher-Plant has leaves shaped like
open cups, that stand up from the ground in a
cluster. They are generally about half full of
rain-water, in which many insects are drowned.
It is probable that these serve as food for the
plant. The pitchers are gaily colored green
with dark-red or purple veining, and sometimes
purple all over.
Down south, in the sandy pine-barrens that
border the North and South Carolina and Flor-
ida coasts, there are other Trumpet-Leafs, or

Pitcher-Plants, some of them even more cleverly
contrived as fly-traps than the Northern one.
Two of these have the tops of the pitchers pro-
tected by lids, to keep the rain-water out. The
insects that get into these pitchers are drowned
in a liquid produced by the plant itself and
held in the bottoms of the leaves. Along one
side of the pitcher is a narrow wing, which
often bears a trace of honey. This serves to
entice insects from the ground up along the
wing to the mouth of the pitcher. If one of
these pitchers is cut open, the bottom is found
to be filled with the remains of unhappy crea-
tures that have perished there. They make
us think of the bones that strew the grim old
ogre's castle in the fairy tale.
California has a Trumpet-Leaf still more re-
markable than those that grow in the East. It
is the Darlingtonia, named for Dr. Darlington,
a famous botanist who lived near Philadelphia
many years ago. In the mountains where it
grows the people call it Calf's Head," from
the shape of the pitchers. These are sometimes
three feet tall, and are covered at top by a sort
of hood that bends down over the mouth. The
hood ends in two spreading wings that give it
the look of a fish's tail. Like the other Trum-
pet-Leafs, Darlingtonia has its pitchers brightly
colored, so as to catch the eyes of flying insects
and lure them to their destruction. Around
the mouth of the pitcher, along the fish-tail,"
and often down the wing on one side, there is a
little of the sweetish, sticky substance that offers
a bait to the visitor, tempting him to come al-
ways a little farther in search of more.
The upper side of the fish-tail and the inside
of the pitchers are covered with stiff hairs that
point downward. Master Insect finds it easy
work to crawl down into the pitcher, but if he
gets frightened by the darkness at the bottom
and tries to return as he came, he finds these
hairs very much in his way. So at length, worn
out by his vain efforts to climb up, he usually
falls into the well beneath him.
But even if he is strong enough to get past
the hairs, he is not likely to find his way to the
opening; for that is quite dark, while the hood
covering the pitcher is lighted up by thin yel-
low dots scattered over it, much like the oil-
paper that people covered their windows with




in the old days before glass was common. The
poor prisoner beats around inside the hood,
like a wasp on a window-pane, until he is tired
out and drops to the bottom. This California
insect-catcher sets its trap for big game. Grass-
hoppers, bees, hornets, butterflies, and now and
then a snail are captured by it, besides many a
smaller morsel. It is one of the hungriest of
the insect-eating plants.
Doubtless many of us have seen those tropi-
cal plants called Nepenthes, often cultivated in
greenhouses. They are
natives of the Malay
Islands, in the Indian
Ocean, and a few kinds
are also found in Nor-
thern Australia. They
are mostly climbing
plants, in their na-
tive forests sometimes
reaching the tops of -'
tall trees. The leaves
are very curious ob-
jects. First there is
a flat blade, much like -'
any ordinary leaf. The t.:-
tip of this is drawn out -
into a long stalk, like S ..
a tendril, that aids the
plant to climb by "
twisting around the
stems of shrubs and the
branches of trees. At
the end of this stalk
rests a pitcher, stand-
ing upright, with a
well-shaped lid cover-
ing its wide mouth.
The smaller Nepen-
thes pitchers look some-
thing like cream-jugs.
In the larger kinds the -
pitchers are sometimes
over a foot high. The
rims of the pitchers and
the under side of the lid give out a sweet fluid
like honey, that attracts insects. The inside
of the pitchers, just below the rim, is smooth
and polished, so that the unwary visitor who
crawls over the rim finds no hold for his little

feet and goes tumbling down into the fluid at
the bottom of the pitcher. Once there, he
cannot get out, but is drowned and digested,
as happens in our own Trumpet-Leafs.
Sometimes the rim bears a circle of sharp
spikes, pointing downward, that are said now
and then to catch small birds that seek insects
in the bottom of the pitcher. In some Nepen-
thes there are two kinds of pitchers. The
young ones rest on the ground, and are fitted
to catch crawling insects, while those that are

R .


A ; jap


formed later stand out in the air and set their
traps for creatures that fly.
The bladderworts are plants growing usually
in "the stagnant water of ditches and pools.
Most of the common ones have their leaves cut




into fine, thread-like divisions, that
bear odd little pouches. These
"poii c' 'l r turnb d l : r, that
the opening li::'k. di:.~:\nard:l.
The nimouth i ,Ilmo:-t c:li.sd by i
thin valve tli.it is el icrla : ike ini:i. -
i uLb It tretS u.: n a le ..t n
ai.:uini the ii ,idie i' the r u-,iJ'r .
l,:i in, a -,r\ iia.ill slait l ti cen.
The valve is -.o airraigLd that t
can open :,nl \ in iir It is .ers
thin, :an:l e.t the ihgli through
ir the insidee ':if the p,:,'uch.
If -e ,:pen oi'e ,:, theoe pouches
'.e shall cenerali rinj unl i v.i-
ter ..riniails inipri-oned in rhIem.


These creatures have found it easy to open
the valve and enter into the trap; but, once
inside, all their efforts to get out have been
unavailing, and at length they have died miser-

I / ably in their prison.
Iu SAround the opening
are a number of long
bristles that are sup-
posed to serve in
keeping away larger
animals that might
tear the pouches if
One of the prettiest
of the bladderworts
grows in ponds along
Ba the coast. It has
thread-like leaves un-
_" C der water which bear
many pouches. The
upper leaves, how-
Sever, are in a circle,
-/ and rest upon the
S surface of the pond.
Their stalks are
swollen and very
light, making a little
float that bears the
l.: .cri ilo:ft. These are bright yellow and
\ eri- :i:.. \, opening in the sunlight. In South
Ain.rica there is a curious bladderwort that
2ir\\ s :. rm in the rain-water that gathers in the
c:l.1p f:.rmed by the leaves of an air-plant re-
la.tel to: i:.ur Southern hanging-moss.
The-re i; nothing more interesting in the
wo.:rld ot plants than the life of these insect-
catchil-ri. Most of them grow in sandy soil,
\vih re their roots cannot find much food; con-
sequenrtly they have learned to look out for
thetm-cive- in other ways. None the less, it
se..n:- er\ strange that plants should come to
fte.'d iupon animals; for it is usually the other
way. We could hardly find a better example
of how Nature looks out for all her children.
If she places them in the midst of the most un-
favorable surroundings, she straightway betakes
herself to the task of fitting them tb make the
most of whatever is within their reach.





[This story was begun in the February number.]



AUBREY, which had been the home of the
Aubreys for many generations, was as interest-
ing and beautiful a home as could have been
found in all England, although it would have
been easy to discover far finer and more im-
posing show-places of vast dimensions, with
the facade and grounds of a palace, museums,
picture-galleries, miles of conservatories -the
whole kept up with regal state and splendor--
without going outside of the county of Lime-
shire. It was indeed a delicious old Eliza-
bethan manor-house, warm-hued, gabled, tur-
reted, irregular in sky-line, and having three
terraces in front of it that melted at last into
the river flowing below, set in a country of
velvety meadows, daisy-starred, cattle-dotted,
of royal oaks, of gracious glades and dewy
dells, of fair and fertile fields, of cathedral
towers and church spires and clustering vil-
lages, of lovely lanes, steep-roofed cottages, and
smock-frocked laborers-in short, the heart
of rural England. Our American travelers
were enchanted with it, each after her fashion:
Mrs. Andrews feebly excited, confused, inter-
ested as much by the least as by the most in-
teresting objects in view, and quite delighted
to find an American advertisement among those
posted at the station; Nina all eyes and ears
and untrained observation; Marian alone really
seeing and feeling all that was to be seen, and
all that it suggested.
It had been agreed by letter that they should
take the 10: 20 train from London, and every-
thing had been arranged on that basis; but
Mrs. Andrews had reckoned without her grand-
child. Nina, when the day came, flatly de-
VOL. XXIV.-84.

dined "to start so awful early." She wanted
to make some last purchases of bonbons and
toys and games for her cousins, she said.
She had been sent out to buy them the day
before, but had concluded to go to the park
instead. Nina was obstinate, and Mrs. An-
drews yielded. They took an afternoon train,
consequently, and arriving at Stoke-Pottleton
much later than they had appointed, found no
carriage or communication from Aubrey. Mrs.
Andrews, feeble and tired, exclaimed:
"I told you how it would be! They are
not expecting us, and they will be offended;
and they will think we have come from the
backwoods, and don't know any better. What
will they think ? What shall I say ?"
"It does n't make any difference when we
get there. And if I don't like it, I 'm not go-
ing to stay, either. They can't do anything to
us, if they are mad. We are Americans, and
we can go right straight back to New York,
and leave the old English behind, if we want
to," said Nina.
Then Nina ran off to join Marian, who was
talking to the station-master, and had found
out that there was no train anywhere for three
hours, for Stoke-Pottleton was a cabless station,
there was no hotel, and Aubrey was seven miles
"Well, now, look here! You 've just got to
get us a carriage right off, and that 's all about
it," put in Nina, pertly interrupting Marian.
The station-master did not see how this was
to be managed at first, and was as dubious as
respectful. Nina, tired and hungry and cross,
broke out with, "What 's the use of stations
and station-masters ? What do you English ex-
pect people to do when you have n't any way to
take tare of them, or to send them on, or any-
thing? The station-master made no answer
to this, but walked away.
Seeing how troubled "the young lady with


the old lady and child on her hands looked,
however, he relented, came back, and said he
would see what could be done, but feared they
were in for it."
When Mrs. Andrews was nearly ready to fall
from the bench through sheer fatigue, and it
was quite dusk, he came to say that a farmer
going that way had consented to take Mrs. An-
drews to Aubrey in his gig. The others would
have to wait until they could be sent for. So
Mrs. Andrews, well wrapped up, was put into
the gig, and rolled away in the cart of the
jolly, amiable Briton. The hours wore on, Ma-
rian quiet and patient outwardly, though really
nervous and uncomfortable, and Nina fuming
about a dozen things, and blaming everybody
except herself for the state of affairs.
She was heartily sick of the delay and thor-
oughly wearied when a dog-cart from Aubrey
drove up and took them away at last. Bowl-
ing briskly along the road, Nina's head fell on
Marian's shoulder.
Poor child! said Marian to Claudine,
" another time she will see the necessity of
keeping one's appointments. I only hope we
have not given as much trouble and annoy-
ance as we have suffered."
She spoke gently, and putting a traveling-
pillow under Nina's head, covered her warmly
with her plaid, drew her affectionately to her
side; and Nina, who was sleepy, but not yet
asleep, at last sorry and ashamed, whispered:
" It was horrid of me, Cousin Marian. I just
must be horrid sometimes. I guess I 'm natu-
rally bad. Grandy thinks so, I 'm afraid."
No, dear; you are not. You are naturally
good, I think, though often very thoughtless,
and too fond of having your own way, and
sometimes not as considerate of the comfort
and feelings of others as you might be. I must
say, Nina, you can't be really good or kind or
well bred unless you are unselfish. But you
will learn, I know; won't you ? To which
Nina sighed out a contrite, Yes, Cousin Ma-
rian. And I 'm so sorry; you are all tired
out, but you have n't said a word."
She kissed Marian affectionately, and' then
fell fast asleep in five minutes.
Meanwhile at Aubrey luncheon had been
delayed. The carriage and luggage-carts re-

turned empty from the station, and the non-
appearance of the party was not at all under-
stood. It was set down to every cause except
the real one, which never could have en-
tered their minds. So it was a surprise that
night when a gig rolled past the gates of the
lodge and up to the front door, where far-
mers' gigs were not wont to stop, and Farmer
Hodge being challenged by a haughty footman
at the door with a "Wotever are you doin,
'ere ? it came out that a lady for Aubrey"
had arrived at that hour and in that fashion.
John Thomas and his fellow-footmen with deco-
rous haste instantly conveyed the news to their
master, and then condescended to assist Mrs.
Andrews from her high perch.
The poor old lady was as rigid as a wax-
work figure from the long drive in the chilly
night air, and had as many wrappers about her
as a mummy; for there were rugs about her
feet, shawls and cloaks above these, and a
nubia and two veils around her head.
The darkness except for the light from the
open door, the strangeness of the surroundings,
the consciousness that she had failed to come
when she was expected and had got there
when she was n't, so embarrassed her that she
did not know how she got up the steps. And
she was standing there, quite dazed and bewil-
dered by more lights, more footmen, a vista of
beautiful rooms opening into the lofty hall,
wax-lights, flowers, colors, servants, when a
tall, fair lady in evening dress came running up
to her, followed by her husband and a troop of
young people. Mrs. Andrews found herself em-
braced, exclaimed over, taken possession of, wel-
comed with the utmost hospitality and kindness.
Only think of it! Only fancy! How was
it ? I have been so worried lest my letter had
stupidly missed you! So miserable for you, and
uncomfortable! Such a drive, sitting upright
in a gig! in the night air, too! Come in.
Come this way. Take my arm. I hope you've
taken no harm. Dear! dear! I fear you are
utterly exhausted, dear Mrs. Andrews. Sit here
-no, here."
All was exclaimed in a breath, and to her
timid, distrustful nature the relief was so great
that she burst into tears and murmured: "I
could n't help it. It was n't my fault. I. knew




how it would be. I told her so. I am so
sorry it happened-so mortified. It was Nina.
She would n't come by that train."
"Poor dear! She is quite overcome. Not
a word more, dear Mrs. Andrews. Don't ex-
plain. You are here safely, and that is the only
thing that matters in the least," said Mrs. Au-
brey warmly; and kneeling down by her, fell
to chafing her hands, and begging her not
to distress herself. Mabel brought a foot-
stool; Arthur shaded the light of the nearest
lamp; footmen hovered everywhere in the
background, ready to do anything, but respect-
fully awaiting direction. Orders were rapidly
given for a fire to be lit in her room, lest she
should be chilled; and word was sent to the
stables that the dog-cart should be sent to the
station for the others.
In short, in the next half-hour more fuss,"
as Nina would have said, was made over Mrs.
Andrews, more care taken of her, more con-
cern shown for her comfort, more eager desire
to consult her tastes and carry out her wishes,
than she could recall in the whole course of
her past life. It was all very gratifying to
Mrs. Andrews, but puzzling, surprising. She
was learning for the first time what a delightful
thing it is to be old in England-receiv-
ing the privileges, respect, reverence, so freely
accorded to old age by common consent there.
When she was calmer, a handsome young
officer staying in the house offered his arm
and escorted her upstairs as carefully, defer-
entially, as if she had been the proverbial
basket of eggs, or the loveliest girl in the
world. She was asked by Mrs. Aubrey whether
she liked a room with the morning sun, such
as her host had chosen for her, thinking it so
very cheery."
She did like it, and was taken into it, and
found it the largest, prettiest, gayest room in
the house, done up in pink chintz and gray
satin. The fire had been lit, and glowed in
delicious welcome to her; a large easy-chair
was pulled for her close to it, and another foot-
stool provided; two rosy, brisk housemaids were
bringing last things hot-water cans, a taper-
light, a hand-bell. Soon the butler knocked,
presenting Mr. Aubrey's compliments and a
dainty cordial made from his own recipe.

Mrs. Aubrey's deft French maid was sum-
moned, and Mrs. Andrews was in all ways
made comfortable. A supper-tray followed,
flanked by a glass of Mr. Aubrey's famous port.
Then came bed, after many more last loving-
kindnesses and friendly speeches, and good-
nights," and injunctions about not dreaming
of getting up to her breakfast," in the midst
of which Fraulein Hochzeiter, a spectacled,
clever-looking governess, entered. She was in-
troduced; was all concern, too, lest there should
have been "some shock to the system of
madame "; and offered a homeopathic remedy
for insuring profound sleep, which was ac-
cepted. Then more good-nights," and Mrs.
Andrews was left to darkness and her own
thoughts-if the confused but agreeable im-
pressions left by so much kindness can be called
.Nina and Marian were welcomed with equal
cordiality, if with much less demonstration,
when they arrived. Marian privately made
such explanation and apology as she could for
what had happened, and gave Mrs. Aubrey a
kind and yet a true impression of the child's
character in so doing. That lady said, Oh,
really adding, It is very sad and a great
injustice to her that she should have been so
foolishly indulged." But, none the less, she
was very nice to Nina'; hoped she would be
happy at Aubrey; said she should let Mabel
show Nina into her room after presiding over
their supper; and kept an arm about the child
as she talked kindly to her for some time.
Mr. Aubrey was very playful with her; Arthur,
the eldest lad, quietly civil; Mabel, the eldest
daughter, shyly observant and eager to be
alone with the new cousin. Mrs. Aubrey, per-
ceiving this, said: "You must go up now,
dear. Half-past eight is her usual hour, and
it is long past," she said to Nina. "Bid papa
good night, and see that your cousin is en-
tirely comfortable. But remember not to stay
talking longer than ten minutes. You will have
to-morrow and all the days that follow to chat-
ter in, you know; and you must be fit for your
duties, you know, love."
"Yes, mama," said Mabel, rising instantly.
She said good night, and then turning to Nina,
asked, "Will you come with me?" looking



shyly at Nina, and blushing very much over the
ordeal of making acquaintance with her.
"Where 's grand? I want to see grand
first," said Nina, who had begun to recover
from the plunge into strange waters.
Oh, she 's fast asleep by this time, and
must on no account be disturbed," said Mrs.
Aubrey, gently but decidedly. Miss Brew-
ster's room opens into yours, and she will be
at hand should you feel sleepless or nervous."
You '11 not get much beauty sleep' as it
is, Nina," said Mr. Aubrey genially from be-
hind his magazine. "And look here. If you
are not happy at Aubrey, do you come straight
to your Uncle Edward's den in the east wing
and lodge your complaints; and-by the beard
of the Prophet! -if it is the fault of my young-
sters, they shall all be popped in a sack and
dropped into the river as a mild mark of my
displeasure. Give us a kiss now, and be off
with you, girls."
He then said quickly, "Arthur! and that
young gentleman rose precipitately from his
seat with a blush, and a "What is it, sir ?"
But he did not need an explanation, for, fol-
lowing the direction of his father's glance, he
hastened to open the door for the two girls,
and going over to a little table, chose two bed-
room candlesticks, lit the candles, offered one,
with a bow and a Good night, Miss Barrow,"
to Nina, handed the other to Mabel, and returned
to the drawing-room. Nina, overawed for
once by the strangeness of her surroundings
and the formality of her cousins, did not dare
to urge again her wish to see her grandmother.
When Mabel reached her room, she set down
the light, and Nina could see that it was a
small but extremely cozy little room, with a
rosebud paper on the wall, a brass bedstead,
white dimity curtains, a moss-green carpet, a
long book-case full of books. In a small al-
cove there was a pretty little desk and a low
chair. Over the fireplace, in old English text,
was East or West, Hame 's best." A great
bowl of lovely flowers stood on the dainty
Oh, how cute this is! What a lovely little
room Nina cried.
"Do you truly like it ? I am so delighted !
I gathered and arranged the flowers for you

myself this afternoon. And I asked mama to
let me hang my favorite picture this one -
in here during your stay. I hoped you would
be pleased with it," said Mabel, blushing rosily
as she spoke, but still quite composed. "I
hope everything is as you would like it."
Together they wandered around the room
and inspected everything. When they came
to the fireplace, Mabel said, We all have a
liking for mottos at Aubrey, and have them all
about. I did this one and the one over the
front door. Papa chose it from 'Don Qui-
xote,'-' Under my cloak, a fig for the king,'-
and some for the school-room and nurseries.
Papa illuminates beautifully; you will see some
of his missal lettering to-morrow. I am trying
to learn it, but I am very dull about it. I think
we may sit down for a bit."
They sat down, and very soon all stiffness,
embarrassment, was gone, and they were chat-
tering away like a pair of magpies, exchanging
experiences, making plans-in a full flow of
feeling and reminiscence with their arms
around each other, indeed, when Mabel caught
sight of the clock, and gave a guilty start.
"Dear! dear! Only look! I 've overstayed
my time by fifteen minutes! I must go at
once! You heard mama."
"Well, what if you have ? What if she did ?
Sit down !" said Nina. It 's all perfect non-
sense! Stay. We are not a bit sleepy."
Oh, no; I can't! It is one of mama's rules.
A positive command. And I 've promised,
besides. I 'd like to, of course, immensely.
Good night. Come down the corridor to the
day-nursery when you are dressed in the morn-
ing, won't you ? third door to the left. One
more kiss It is so nice to have an American
cousin. You will find my Prayer-book over
there on the table, if your own should not be
unpacked, and you should wish to read your
Psalm. Good night!"
She hurried away, and Nina lay awake think-
ing of her of her blue eyes, her beautiful
golden hair in rich waves to her waist, her rosy
cheeks, her large waist and queer clothes,"
her soft voice, her curious way of speaking,
her manner, what she had said and what she
had meant by it until she fell asleep.
She did not stir or wake when Marian came




up, but the maid came in to prepare her bath
at seven next morning, and she rose with the
greatest alacrity, feeling that the day would be
full of novel sensations and experiences. She
recalled Mabel's conversation with vivid in-
terest. Who was Don Quixote"? Why did
" America as pronounced by Mabel sound as
if it were quite another country than the Amer-
ica Nina knew ? What did Mabel mean about
the Psalm? How kind and affectionate she
had been I 'm going to give her the big-
gest box of bonbons," she thought.
Accordingly, without waiting until she was
dressed, Nina flew over to her trunk and got
out all the parcels and opened them. The
bonbons were very good- the best -and per-
fectly fresh and tempting; indeed, so tempting
were they, that on reflection it seemed an alto-
gether better arrangement to eat the contents
of the biggest box herself, and to give the next
biggest to Mabel. With one shoe and stock-
ing on, she carried the big box over to the al-
cove, took a chair, and then and there ate most
of the contents in a very short time, although
it was indeed a big box. After this she natu-
rally felt indifferent about breakfast, and hurried
only that she might see what was to be seen,
and might have the pleasure of distributing
her presents.
"It was very good of you to remember
them all," said Marian, coming in as Nina was
leaving the room, her arms full of bundles.
"To select gifts always in just the right time,
to give them in just the right spirit and way,
choosing the right thing for the right person,
is the best part of giving, dear Nina. The
wish to give pleasure was generous; but was it
quite just to give pleasure at your grand-
mother's expense? Have you seen her this
morning? No? Well, when you do, tell her
that another time you will be more mindful
of her comfort, as I know you will. How
pleased the cousins will be with the things you
have brought! "
Nina had scarcely got out in the hall before
she saw Mabel tiptoeing past Mrs. Andrews's
door. "Good morning," Mabel said in a low
voice, and kissed Nina affectionately. Come
down this corridor. Now we can talk."
Where are you going ? asked Nina.

"To the day-nursery," said Mabel. "What
have you there? I beg pardon! it was rude
to ask, I know."
"Things for the children. Let 's go down-
stairs and put them on their plates," said Nina.
"Really? How very kind of you, Nina!
But they don't go downstairs. We have our
meals upstairs with Frjulein and Nurse, all but
Arthur, who is rather beyond that now. On
Sunday I dine with papa and mama, and am
allowed down every evening at dessert. You
see, I am only seventeen, although I seem
older, and of course I can't expect more until
I am quite out of the school-room and a full-
fledged young lady," said Mabel.
"And do you suppose that I am going to
eat at the second table with the nurses ?"
asked Nina angrily. "You can if you want
to, but I just won't, not for anybody! I al-
ways sit at the first table, same as anybody;
and order whatever I 've a mind to eat on the
whole bill of fare, and send out for anything I
want that is n't there, too. I never heard of
such a thing." She stopped, and regarded Ma-
bel with a heightened color.
Do you, really ? How very, very odd!
Well, I will speak to mama about it. But I
should think you would rather be with us. It's
lots jollier. And as to eating with the nurses,
you really must be careful not to say anything
about that where Nurse can hear it. She is a
most respectable, intelligent woman, very re-
fined for her station, and she would n't under-
stand; and I can't think why you should mind
in the least. Mama often dines with us when
papa is away and there are no guests, and we
think dear old Har- Nurse's name is Mrs. Har-
bottle -fit company for the Queen. I should
have thought that in America, a republic, there
could n't be such a feeling. -Come along, and
see for yourself, Nina, do! You don't know
what fun we all have together. Hark! What
a noise they are all making!" replied Mabel,
and opened a door into a long, light, bright
room, simply but comfortably furnished, having
an air of perfect order and cleanliness, a long
window stretching across one end, book-shelves,
bird-cages, glass cases containing the "collec-
tions" of the Aubrey children, racks on which
were disposed hats, bats, rackets, rods, and nets



of various kinds. In the center was a long table
around which were gathered six girls and four
boys. Behind the tea-tray sat enthroned a stout,
florid woman,- Mrs. Harbottle, or Nurse,"-
pleasant-faced, wearing an air of importance,
dressed in the freshest of print dresses, wear-
ing a spotless, neatly embroidered apron and a
fluted cap with purple bows. Jane, the school-
room maid, as freshly dressed in lilac print,
apron, and cap young, rosy, deft, and meek,
stood behind her chair waiting for orders. The
hubbub of voices ceased at once.
Put your parcels here," said Mabel, taking
them from Nina. "They would not be al-
lowed to open them now, of course. I beg
pardon for being late, Nurse. This is my
cousin from America. Where shall she sit?
Here they are, Nina, all except the little chicks."
She named them rapidly. Twelve pairs of eyes
fastened upon Nina greedily. Jane curtsied on
general principles. Jane always curtsied when
in doubt. Nurse rose and officially welcomed
the new arrival. "We are glad to see you here,
miss," she said. "The children have talked of
nothing else for three days. Sit here."
They all seated themselves. Nurse looked
at little Agnes, the youngest child present.
The dear little soul, who looked like a-blonde
cherub, bent her head, cast down her sweet
eyes, folded her hands in front of her,- all
the others did the same,- and grace was said.
Breakfast began. Nina now had time to look
about her and make her own observations.
There was a great yellow bowl of field flowers
in the middle of the table. The linen and sil-
ver were of the finest and handsomest. All this
was very well as far as it went; but where was
the great essential of all breakfasts, the food,
the dishes that she naturally expected to see,
elaborate, numerous, various? Not on the table,
clearly. Perhaps they would come later. She
waited to see. A cottage loaf there was, a
bowl of porridge, a pat of butter. In front of
Mabel's plate was set a little dish containing
four thin rashers of breakfast bacon. Presently
Jane placed in front of the ten children ten
bowls of bread and milk; she was bringing
Nina one when she motioned it away, saying,
"I don't want any breakfast," and thinking,
" and I don't see any if I did want it."

"Ah, miss, I fear you are over-tired," said
Nurse kindly. Perhaps, just for once, you 'd
like a little of my tea, weakened, and a bit of
dry toast. Jane, bring the toast."
"No, thank you," jerked out Nina tartly.
"Jane, put Miss Barrow's bowl of bread and
milk aside for her. You can't eat it now, miss,
can you ? I 've had the children like that be-
fore now. Perhaps you could manage a bit
of bacon?" said Nurse, willing to make every
concession. To the surprise of the Aubreys,
Nina declined all these dainties,- bacon, dry
toast,- would not have even an egg. And to
Nina's surprise, they all fell to upon their bread
and milk with one accord and the best appe-
tites possible; and two of the boys begged for
"another help," and Catherine, being asked if
she wasn't trifling with hers, said, Oh, no,
Nurse. It's most delicious, thank you." The
meal went on. Mabel, even, had only hot-
water tea, with a good deal of milk in it and
very little tea. The empty bowls were removed.
Nurse now cut a great pyramid of slices from
the cottage loaf, buttering each slice before she
cut it; and the children devoured from three to
seven slices of it, as an accompaniment to one
single egg each, which even the youngest man-
aged to break and eat with perfect propriety.
Any lapse from propriety in their table manners
was immediately observed and corrected by
Mrs. Harbottle, whose authority was evidently
unquestioned and absolute so far as it went.
Nina could not make it out at all. She, who
had always been coaxed, entreated, to find
something that she would condescend to eat,
who often missed a meal altogether, rarely ate
heartily, could not get over her amazement at
the provision made for her cousins, their atti-
tude of subjection to Nurse, the restraints laid
upon them,, the appetites that seemed only the
more ravenous. She had thought the table
bare, to begin with. It was certainly so when
Sthe little Aubreys had satisfied themselves; and
whatever she might think of the kind or lack
of variety of the food provided, she could not
doubt that a quantity of it had been disposed
of with the greatest possible relish.
"Well, perhaps they '11 have something for
dinner," she thought, when they all rose from
the table. There had been almost no talking.




The Aubrey children seemed to be suffering
from an acute and unconquerable fit of shy-
ness, and could only stare in a round-eyed way
at Nina. The presents, however, broke or
thawed all the ice. The party became at once
friendly, the children delighted, Nina pleased
and flattered by their pleasure.
There was a remarkable contrast in the dress
of the children. Nina wore a silk and cash-
mere frock, trimmed, silk stockings, French
shoes, and a gold watch pendent from a cha-
telaine. All the Aubrey girls wore plain stuff
dresses, and brown holland pinafores, loose in
the waist, adapted to any amount of running,
playing, climbing, cut and made by Nurse and
her nursery-maids, neat, comfortable, warranted
to wear and "be serviceable." Their boots
were thick. Their stockings were knitted of
Scotch wool. The effect of the whole, rather
clumsy and ungraceful, was redeemed by the

bright youth, the perfect health, the brilliant
bloom that went with it.
The bonbons distributed, Nurse, to Nina's
intense surprise and chagrin, doled out three
apiece all round, and locked the remainder
up, saying, I can't have you making your-
selves ill, and spoiling your appetites and di-
gestions. You shall have three every day,
after breakfast, until they are gone." They
made no protest, at least, though to Nina's
mind tyranny could no further go.
It was very kind of her; but is n't she the
oddest-looking creature our cousin? How
extraordinarily she is dressed; and did you see
her jewelry said Catherine, when Nina had
left them, in almost an awe-struck whisper.
"They are nice when they stop staring and
get limbered, Cousin Marian," said Nina; "but
the funniest children I ever saw. Mercy! Such
clothes! Just like an orphan-asylum!"

(To be continued.)



- -It. 9
wl-K'l r]



ONE of the best things the bicycle has done
for us is that it has carried us into regions we
have never before visited, and of which we
have scarcely heard. Thus it has acquainted
us with many interesting ways and things be-
fore unknown.
Most of us, at one time or another, have
basked for a while upon some sandy beach of
ocean or lake; we have bathed in the surf,
gathered shells upon the shore, and thus whiled
away many idle hours. But it was reserved
for the bicycle to make us really acquainted
with those stretches of beach and shore which
seem to have been purposely prepared by
kind Mother Nature as a glorious' cycle-path.
Whether or not she originally intended it for
wheels, she certainly spends a great deal of
her time in keeping the path in repair; and
those active servants of hers, Wind and Wave,
Rain and Sun, are kept very busy at work upon
it all the time.
This long and varied path stretches in its
entirety hundreds of miles along our ocean
shores and around the borders of our great
lakes; but the particular bit with which we
became familiar during happy summer weeks,
and to a share in whose delights I would tempt
others, is a comparatively small portion on the
southern shore of Lake Erie. It begins with
the extreme end of Cedar Point, which with its
long arm holds in a portion of Sandusky Bay,
and extends eastward fifteen miles or more up
the shore. This sandy shore continues all the
way to Cleveland and beyond; but because of
some intervening piles of rock one cannot ride
the whole fifty or sixty miles. The shorter dis-
tance is, however, enough for a summer day's
ride, especially if one takes it comfortably and
leisurely, and appropriates to himself the count-
less joys spread before him.
For a first ride the best time is a morning
after a hard three days' blow from the north'

east. The waves have pounded and beaten
the sands into a hard, smooth floor, and now
the wind has died away, though the sun has
not yet dissipated the crisp freshness of the air.
The storm has so stirred the shallow waters
that they are yellow out beyond the second
bar, and then merge into a delicious green.
The long after-swell comes rolling in, breaking
in foam upon the shore at whose extreme edge
you skim along like one of the gulls which
hover and circle over the water. There is a
fascination in those on-coming, curling waves.
You wonder how far up the sand the next one
will wash, and you swerve away just in time
to escape a wetting; or else, miscalculating,
your wheel cuts through the wave, sending a
dash of spray well over you.
One of the special delights of this shore ride
is that there is no monotony in it. Not in the
length of a whole summer will you have two
rides exactly alike. There will always be a
changing pathway, for the shore-line varies
with every breeze from water or land; and a
storm produces such changes in the shifting
sand as to make the shore almost unrecogniz-
able. Even on the same day, the different
hours bring novelties and fresh attractions.
What better beginning could be imagined
for a summer day than an early-morning ride
as the sun is rising and sending its first pink
rays over the land, and touching the water
while yet the pale blueness of night lingers
everywhere! You feel confident that later on
the day will be, like many that have passed,
too warm for riding or for any exertion; and
the sun of other days has so dried and loosened
the sand that it will be impossible to ride after
the lake breeze springs up and brings the water'-
line higher. But all night the breeze has been
offshore,- a thing to be surely depended upon
in this region,- and now there is at the water's
edge a strip, narrow, but wide enough for a


wheel, which is hard and wet. If the night
breeze has been strong the water has receded
beyond the first sand-bar, and a string of little
sandy islands peeps up to greet the morning
sunlight. Nature is still asleep, and there is
as yet no sound to disturb your meditations.
Perhaps, though, it is only a feigned sleep
which she has assumed in order to try to cheat
the daytime world; for all along the shore is
written a silent record of the doings of the
night a record composed of bird-tracks and
curving trails, the path of the little brown
turtle, and other evidences of midnight prome-
All is quiet now, however, and the water is
so still and glassy that it reflects almost in exact
tone the sky above it, and not a ripple breaks
the line where sky and water meet. It is hard

channel open; but later in the summer they
partly dry up, leaving wide marshy borders,
and so tiny a stream that it cannot force itself
through the sand-bar which every blow heaps
higher. These little coves serve as very con-
venient landmarks or mile-stones to the bicycle-
rider; and as they are always luxuriant with
their growth of marsh-plants, they are most
charming spots at which to stop and sketch
if you are an artist, to study natural history
if you are inclined that way, or simply to rest
and refresh your spirit with beauty if you are
lazy or have no particular bent.
At the entrance to some of these coves the
landowners have built out little docks, to pro-
tect their shore from being washed away. Al-
though you must dismount and climb over
them, you will not be disposed to quarrel with


to realize that there is a horizon-line anywhere;
and as you fly so swiftly along you almost feel
that you are a winged creature soaring through
endless space. So noiseless are you in your
flight that the slender-legged snipe which
"teeters along the shore, seeking to pick up
an early breakfast, does not hear you until you
are close upon him, and then he flies upward
with a curious, frightened cry as you dart past.
The shore-line of Lake Erie is broken at
frequent intervals by little coves or creeks, with
names as picturesque as -their appearance.
These do not ordinarily impede the progress
of the rider; for, except in an unusually wet
season, they are for the most part separated by
a strip of dry sand from the lake. In the early
spring and in wet seasons the creeks are so
high that a sufficiently strong current keeps a
VOL. XXIV.-85.

them,--unless, perchance, you are that foolish
person who rides for a record rather than for
enjoyment,- for they are most picturesque lit-
tle affairs, with grass and vines and even tiny
shrubs growing up between the stones.
They are very pleasant resting-plkces, too,
though there is no lack of comfortable seats
along the shore in the shape of logs and other
drift. Nor is the soft, yellow sand to be de-
spised when no other seat offers. It is even to
be preferred, as it affords opportunity for much
interesting study in the large numbers of small
creatures which make their home in it. Dozens
of little toads will come hopping about; bril-
liantly colored flies will alight near by; and,
regardless of the presence of an onlooker, the
curious little sand-bees, in color so like the
sand, and yet with a glint of green in the sun-



light, will continue the burrowing out of the
little holes that sometimes for long distances
make the sand look as if it had been shot with
small bullets.
The best-known and most beautiful of the
coves hereabouts is Old Woman's Creek, where


marsh and water plants grow in unchecked
luxuriance, from the white water-lily which
floats upon the surface to the wild-rice in the
background, which tosses its plumes in the
breeze, inviting chattering swarms of birds to
partake of its abundance. The lotus spreads
broad, velvety blue-green leaves in wide masses,
and the huge, pale-yellow blossoms lift their
queenly heads on high, and breathe forth on
the air a delicate fragrance. To the marshy

borders of the stream the pink marshmallows
lend a glowing presence, and still farther on,
the wild morning-glory and grape-vines clamber
up the banks and over every projecting branch,
rock, or shrub.
It was just here, at the spot where this creek
empties itself into the
lake, that we learned
by experience of the
changing character of
our wheel-path. Some
days before we had gone
up the shore to Cedar
Point,- a good twelve-
mile ride,- and there
had taken a boat across
the bay to Sandusky, for
a short visit. In the
meantime a storm had
come up; but it had
somewhat subsided, so
that on the return trip
we found the beach hard
and smooth, until we ar-
rived at Old Woman's
Creek, within three miles
of home. The rain and
the waves together had
opened up the channel,
and here we were sud-
denly brought to a
standstill by a broad
stream of water, not
deep, to be sure, but
impassable for wheels.
We could go back a
half or three-quarters of
a mile, and take to the
road, making a circuit
round the marsh; but
we were tired, and the prospect of climbing
up the bank over the brush and tangle was not
alluring, and besides, the rain, which had made
our shore path so hard and firm, had cut up the
road into ruts and heavy clods. Necessity"
has ever been the mother of invention," and
it was not many minutes before we had doffed
shoes and leggings, shouldered our wheels, and
bravely waded through.
There are some useful little points to be



learned about shore riding. For one thing,
it is much easier to ride if the tires are not
pumped up as hard as for road riding. If they
are very hard they cut into the sand, whereas
if they are softer they spread out flatter, and
less resistance is offered, and the sand is suf-
ficiently yielding so that the rim is not en-
dangered. Sometimes a strip of apparently
hard sand will be found to be very soft, owing
to a quicksand or bed of gravel underneath.
It is better then to take to the strip of
gravel or pebbles next the water, or farther
back, whichever it chance to be. There is
no danger of puncture, for the pebbles on
this shore are almost invariably flat and worn
very smooth, and are not at all unpleasant
to ride over. The only things to avoid, in fear
of puncture, are the occasional shells and the
dead fish which lie scattered on the shore,
washed in by the waves. A sharp bone might
prove very disastrous. It is also wise, if the
sand is soft and wet, not to lay the wheel down
while resting. If even a little of the sand once
gets into the bearings, a complete overhauling
will be necessary.
The prettiest ride of all is the one at sunset.
Any one who has dwelt for even a short time

beside a large body of water, and is possessed
of an observant eye, knows how varying are
the sunsets, how each evening brings a new ex-
perience, a fresh surprise; but I do not think
this is realized to the fullest extent until one
has ridden a wheel right into the midst of the
glory, as it were. For when you are flying
along at the edge of the shore, the color of the
sky is reflected in the water, and brought to
your very feet with nothing between you and
it, until you really feel as if you had entered
into and appropriated it to yourself. The same
sensation is felt when you float on the bosom
of a lake in a small boat; but on a wheel there
is an added enjoyment in the sense of security,
the feel of the solid earth beneath, even if
waves dash high beside you. The tops of the
waves reflect the rose hue of the sky, while un-
derneath they curl over in a deep, rich green,
and finally break into a mass of turquoise-blue
foam. The wet sand from which the water has
receded here and there catches glints of brilliant
orange or glowing crimson, and though you
speed ever so rapidly, you do not leave any of
the beauty behind; it is always there until the
sunlight fades from the. sky and the blue shad-
ows of night creep over the water.



IF you will take down your geographies and
look on the map of the West Indies, you will
notice, between the islands of Santa Cruz and
St. Christopher, two small islets which, unless
your map is an unusually large and complete
one, will have no names given. These two
islands belong to the Dutch, and the most
northerly and westerly of them is called Saba.
The Dutch are noted for their odd and quaint
customs and for their perseverance, Holland
being sometimes called the Land of Pluck ";
but I doubt if anywhere in all their possessions

have these curious people shown their queer
and eccentric habits to greater advantage than
in the little out-of-the-way island of Saba.
The island is small, its greatest diameter being
not over two and one half miles, and it is no-
thing more than an isolated mountain-top rising
out of the sea. The sides are very steep and
high, rising in places for a sheer 2000 feet.
There is no harbor, no beach, no safe anchor-
age, and no large trees on the island. Al-
though Saba has a population of over 2500,
yet you might sail all around it without seeing





* : .' "- .. .. -:-V '" ,_ -s -.' -" -'

.- -_ _- -. i _


any signs of houses or settlements. If you ing rock on the southern side of the island; and
wished to land, or "go aboard" as the Sabans here you would find a steep, winding flight of
say, you would have to do so on a shelv- stone steps leading up the rocky mountain-side.


.-- --- -LI __~ ~lri

'':' .'

: r




Following these steps, which number eight
hundred and are called "The Ladder," you
at last reach the top of the mountain, and
looking inland, see a small, grassy plain
covered with neat- white, red-roofed houses,
the whole surrounded on every side by tower-
ing peaks and precipices covered with beau-
tiful tree-ferns, bamboos, and wild plantains.
This little town, the only one
on the island, is known as The
Bottom "- a curious name,
surely; but it is well named,
nevertheless, for the plain on
which it is built is nothing .
more than the bottom of the
crater of an extinct volcano.
Descending the slope into
this queerest of queer towns,
you find the streets simply nar-
row paths walled with stone,
higher in places than your head,
while every inch of earth is cul-
tivated with true Dutch thrift .
and industry. Here and there
small patches of sugar-cane,
yams, and arrowroot are side
by side with beans, corn, and
potatoes, with palm and banana
trees rising over all. The popu- iL
lation consists of whites and
negroes in nearly equal num-
bers, while the blue-eyed and -
tow-headed children play with
black-skinned and curly-haired
piccaninnies; but all are Dutch
in speech, manners, and looks.
The houses, shops, gardens-
everything is Dutch. The peo- E LAND
ple are friendly, quiet, industri-
ous, and religious, and, above all, think their
little town and island the fairest spot on earth;
and although many of the men are sailors, and
see every quarter of the globe, yet they always
return to Saba to spend their old age. You
wonder what these people do for a living: surely
they cannot make a livelihood from their minia-
ture garden-plots; but you would never guess
what the real and practically the only occupa-
tion of these out-of-the-world people is, so I
will tell you at once. It is boat-building!

Think of it!-boats built in a crater a thou-
sand feet above the sea, in a place to be reached
only by a hard climb up the narrowest of steep
stone stairways, or by a still steeper and almost
impassable ravine where every timber and
plank used in their construction has to be
brought from the shore on men's heads!
Our Dutch West-Indian friends, however, do


not bother themselves about getting their little
craft down the stairs or ravine. When the boat
is finished they haul it to the brink of the preci-
pice; and when all. is ready, and the sea smooth
and favorable, they calmly lower it over the
edge, exactly as if their island were a ship and
they were launching a life-boat. Strangely
enough, these crater-built boats are noted
throughout the West Indies for their speed,
strength, and stanchness, and always bring a
high price from the people of the other islands.






NOTHING in a ship becomes so closely iden-
tified with her throughout her whole career as
the ship's bell. Officers and crew come and
go; masts, decks, engines, and boilers become
old, and are replaced by new ones; but from
the day that she first glides into the water the
same ship's bell remains always a part of her,
marking her progress all over the world, and
finally going down with her to a lonely grave
at the bottom of the, sea, or surviving her as a
cherished souvenir of her existence and achieve-
ments. On a man-of-war the bell is usually
inscribed with her name and the date of her
launching; and as it is probable that it may
some day become a memento of a glorious his-
tory, the bell is often the subject of special
care in casting or selection. Sometimes the
hundreds of workmen who have built the great
ship contribute each a silver coin to be melted
and molded into a bell which shall be the
token of their love for the object of their cre-
ation and their interest in her future career.
Often the people of the city or State after which
a man-of-war is named may present to her a
magnificent bell appropriately ornamented and
inscribed with words of good-will and good
wishes. Such a bell is usually presented with
ceremony after the ship goes into commission.
Ships' bells in general are made of bronze,
like other bells. The addition of silver in their
composition gives them a peculiarly clear and
musical tone. They are placed in such a posi-
tion on the upper deck that they may be heard
from one end of the ship to the other; and
are usually near the mainmast or at the break
of the forecastle. One peculiarity exists in a
ship's bell which is necessary on account of her
motion at sea. The tongue is hung so that it
can swing in only one direction. If it were
not so the bell would be continually ringing as
the ship rolled and pitched. The direction in
which the tongue can swing is another impor-

tant point. If it were athwartships the bell
would ring at every heavy roll of the ship; and
if it were fore and aft the bell would ring at
every deep pitch; so the direction in which the
tongue can swing is nearly half-way around
between these two.
The ship's bell is the regulator of all her
daily routine. It rings out to her officers and
crew that the time has come for them to do
certain things. It tells when it is time to
make the ship tidy for inspection, and when
it is time to go to drills; it tells the navigator
when to take his sights, and the watch-officers
when to go on watch; it tells the portion of
the crew below decks when to come on deck,
and those on deck when they may go below
to rest or sleep. It is struck by hand whenever
the ship's clock marks the hour or half-hour;
but it is struck in a peculiar way.
On board ship the twenty-four hours of the
day are divided up into periods of four hours
each, called watches. Beginning at eight o'clock
in the evening, the four hours from then till
midnight make the first watch; the four from
midnight until four o'clock in the morning make
the mid-watch; the four from four until eight
o'clock in the morning make the morning
watch,; the four from eight o'clock in the
morning until noon make the forenoon watch;
the four from noon until four o'clock in the
afternoon make the afternoon watch; and the
four from then till eight in the evening make
the dog-watches.
The crew of a ship is usually divided, into
two parts, also called watches; and at sea one
watch is on deck and on duty for four hours
while the other is below, resting or sleeping.
At the end of four hours they exchange places.
They are named for distinction the starboard
watch and the port watch. When not at sea
all hands are on deck, and each watch does the
work during the day on its own.side of the


ship, except a few special men who stand in
watches as at sea.
You can easily see that, since there are six
watch periods in a day and two watches of
men, the same men would have the same period
of watch every day. This is prevented by di-
viding the watch from four in the afternoon
to eight into two equal parts called the first
dog-watch and the second dog-watch. That
makes an odd number of watches in each day,
and changes the rotation for the men.
The day being divided into watches, the
strokes of the bell tell off the hours and half-
hours of the watches. Thus at the end of the
first half-hour of the watch the bell is struck
once, at the end of the full hour twice, at the
end of the next half-hour three times, and so on
until at the end of the fourth hour it is struck
eight times. Then it begins over again for the
next watch. You will notice that all the odd
numbers of strokes are oh half-hours, and all the
even numbers on the hours. If you ask a sailor-
man on board what time it is, he will not tell
you in hours and minutes, but in bells. Thus
if he says, "It has gone seven bells, sir," you
will be pretty sure to know what portion of the
day it is in, and can tell at once whether he
means half-past eleven, half-past three, or half-
past seven. The bells are struck from one to
eight through the dog-watches, the same as in
any other watch.
On a war-ship the bell is struck by the mes-
senger-boy of the officer on watch. He takes
the clapper in his hand and makes the strokes
in groups of two, struck quickly, with a slight
pause between, and the odd bell, if it is a half-
hour, is struck last. Thus five bells are struck
ting-ting, ting-ting, ting; six bells, ting-ting, ting-
ting, ting-ting; and so forth.
Only once a year do they strike more than
eight bells on board ship, and that is at mid-
night on New Year's Eve. When twelve
o'clock is announced that night the officer of
the watch calls out, Strike eight bells! then,
"Strike eight more for the new year!" Six-
teen bells then ring out in loud vibration, arous-
ing every soul by their unusual number, and an-
nouncing to everybody, from the captain down
to the ship's cook, that the old year is gone and
they have entered upon a new year.

The ship's bell is sometimes used for other
than routine purposes. When a ship is lying
at anchor in a fog the bell is struck frequently
as a warning of her presence, so that vessels

. I
'" '


under way may hear, and keep clear of her.
On a man-of-war three strokes each time are
given, the odd stroke being made first in order
to make the ringing different from the third
half-hour of the watch. Thus the fog-bell of a
war-vessel rings out ting, ting-ting every two
or three minutes while the fog lasts. Merchant
vessels simply ring the bell rapidly five or six
times, then stop, then ring the same way again
after a few minutes' pause; but on board of
a man-of-war this would mean "Fire!" and
would bring her whole crew rushing on deck,
leading out hose, grabbing buckets, and start-
ing pumps. This fire-signal is rung on our
naval vessels at least once a week for drill,




and all the officers and men have regular sta-
tions at hose and pumps, to which they go as
fast as they can, and start streams of water flow-
ing just as if there were a real fire. In these
drills officers' servants usually form a line with
buckets to take water from a deck-pump and
throw it on the fire. Of course when there is
no real fire the streams from the hose are pointed
over the side, and the buckets are passed along
and emptied overboard.
On a certain man-of-war on the Pacific sta-
tion a few years ago the officers had Chinese
servants; and although they could scarcely
speak a word of English, they were quick to
learn what was shown to them, and soon did
like clockwork the fire-drill with buckets. One
day there was a real fire. Volumes of smoke
poured up from the fore hold, and it took
several streams of water nearly an hour to
put out the flames. When the fire was under
control some one thought of the Chinamen;
and behold! there they were, ranged, in line
and in plain sight of the smoking hatchway,
rapidly passing their buckets along, but emptying
them over the sip's side as they had been
taught to do!
On Sunday when divine service is held on
board a man-of-war the bell is tolled slowly,

one tap at a time, before the service begins, to
let the officers and men know that it is church-
time. During the service a long white pen-
nant on which is a blue cross is kept flying over
the ship's flag. The bell is also tolled in the
same way during burials at sea.
Other bells which give information to those
who navigate ships at sea are the fog-bells of
lighthouses. Nearly every lighthouse has its
fog-bell, so that when the coast is hidden by
fog in the daytime, or the rays of the light-
house lamp are shrouded by fog at night, the
great bell is set going by clockwork to ring out
a warning to passing vessels and make them
keep clear. Some lighthouses have a big steam
fog-horn instead of a fog-bell. When one of
our men-of-war passes near a lighthouse in the
daytime, its keeper strikes the fog-bell three
times as a salute, and the man-of-war returns it
by blowing three whistles.
At the entrance to harbors there is often a
buoy with a bell on top which rings incessantly
with every lurch as the buoy is rocked by the
waves, so that in a fog or in the darkness of the
night vessels can find it by the sound, and then
know that they are at the mouth of the channel
which leads to a safe anchorage.
Bells thus play an important part at sea.



HIGH above in the cherry-tree
The bees are holding a jubilee.
The time is .May, and the trees abloom,
And the air is sweet with the rare perfume.

"We need not wait for the fruit to grow,"
The bees hum busily as they go.
"The blossoms are sweet, and the Wind is sly:
He 's sure to scatter them by and by!"

High up among the blossoms gay,
The bees are gathering sweets to-day.
And Robin wisely shakes his head:
" They 're welcome ;- I'll wait for the cherries red! "

VOL. XXIV.-86.

(A Sketch from Life.)


IT happened in the Isle of Wight, far back
in the days of the Crimean War, and it is a
true story, for I have heard my mother tell it
many times.
The Little Girl was only three years old; in
fact she was celebrating her third birthday.
Her mother was with her, and her brother, a
beautiful five-year-old, in a holland blouse.
The picture of the children, as they looked all
those long years ago, hangs in the home of
the writer's parents, so that it is easy for- her
to describe their appearance. They were slen-
der children, with blue eyes, pink cheeks, and
bright curls.
On that August day in the far past the Little
Girl's curls were snooded with a blue ribbon
and crowned with a wreath of blue speedwells
and forget-me-nots, because it was her birth-
day, and because the young mother thought
the flowers matched her eyes. She wore a
blue frock and a pinafore of fine white lawn.
The birthday feast was spread on the top of
a low haystack in the barn-yard of the farm-
house in which the children and their parents
were spending the summer. There was a birth-
day cake and other 'goodies Isle o' Wight
doughnuts," of course, and Isle o' Wight jun-
ket." You have never tasted junket as these
islanders make it. It is a glorified clabber, cov-
ered an inch deep with thick, yellow cream,
and scattered with Hundreds and Thousands."
These wonderful little red and blue pellets, so
tiny that you cannot count them, do not grow
on this side of the ocean, but on the other side
they were the sweet delight of the children of
the long ago.
The snowy table-cloth was strewn with wild
flowers, because the feast took place in the Isl-
and of Flowers. A blue awning protected the
heads of the revelers from the old-fashioned
August sun; and beyond the green of the rab-

bit-warren and the rush-grown common they
could see the rolling downs and the white cliffs
and the blue and shining sea.
There was only one drawback to the chil-
dren's enjoyment, and that was a flock of geese
that jabbered and stretched their long necks at
them. The children did not like geese. They
had run away from them, hand in hand, too
often--running for their lives, as they almost
believed in those days. However, their mother
was with them this time; and, after all, though
the neck of a goose is terribly long, it cannot
quite reach to the top of a stack.
Suddenly there appeared in the barn-yard a
tall man with flowing black hair. He wore
a black sombrero, and a blue cloak with a
velvet collar. His eyes were certainly of the
near-sighted kind, but they were dark and lus-
trous, and his clean-shaven, beautiful mouth
was curved with one of the sweetest of smiles.
The mother of the children had never seen
the poet before, although her husband had met
him; but she knew Alfred Tennyson at once.
A voice gruff but not unattractive accosted
her thus:
"Pray who are you? And how did you get
up there ? "
"I am G- B- 's wife, and these are
our children. We climbed up here, and we are
having a feast because it is our little girl's third
He laughed and said, "Hold up the child
that I may see her."
The proud young mother obeyed, and then
he stretched out his arms and cried, Drop
her down! Don't be afraid! Mrs. Tennyson
and the babies are in the carriage. She can't
get out, so come down and see her."
So the Little Girl was dropped into the poet's
arms, and he said:
"Little maid, how old are you to-day ?"


"Thwee," quoth she.
"Then you and I have a birthday between
us. I am forty-five to-day, and you are three.
Perhaps when you are a woman and I am an
old man you will remember that we had one
birthday once."
Meantime the mother had slipped down the
other side of the stack with Wa-Wa," as the
little boy was sometimes called.
At the yard gate was a carriage, and in it a
lovely lady. She was fair-skinned and dressed
all in white; her large dark eyes beamed kindly,
as she received us with a welcoming smile.
There were two boys with her, one a baby
on his nurse's lap.
After a while the poet said, Now, Emily,
you have talked enough. Come, Hallam, take
the Little Girl's hand, and walk together. We
will go indoors and see if we cannot find her
And as he spoke the father came out to greet
the visitors.
Hallam Tennyson was a striking child, with
long, fair curls and solemn brown eyes a
grave, self-possessed boy, picturesquely attired
in a velvet blouse with a wide lace collar.
This was the son of whom the poet wrote to
Mr. Gladstone many years later: "I do not
think any man ever had a better son than I
have in him."
Hallam took the Little Girl's hand, and said
in a slow voice: How old are you ? "
I 'm thwee. This is my birthday."
"Then we have birthdays together. I 'm
thwee in four days," said the little boy.
Then the poet went into the tiny sitting-room
occupied by the children's parents. The table
was littered with books, volumes of his own
poems among them. He took up some of
the military books, and Maud," and talked
about the war, and about the poem, which had
just come out. Later he and the children's

father walked home to Farringford over the
Beacon Down, one of the poet's favorite walks.
In the forty years to come of intimacy be-
tween the two families he often read his poems
aloud to his friends; and in the earlier days
"Maud especially, begging that they would
never hear his pet bantling abused without
defending her." In later days he constantly
alluded,to the abuse the poem received on its
first publication, since amply atoned for.
Once, when Lear, the artist and musician,
known to many children as the author of the
celebrated "Book of Nonsense," was at Far-
ringford, he went to the piano and began im-
provising a musical setting to Maud," sing-
ing most of the poem through. This delighted
Mr. Tennyson, and he marched up and down
the drawing-room, occasionally adding his
voice to that of the singer, and exclaiming,
" Lear, you have revealed more of my Maud'
to myself!"
Some lady tried to improve on Lear's impro-
visation, and write out the music, but the for-
mal setting fell short of the original, and the
poet was never satisfied with it.

This is the story of a Little Girl's birthday.
There were many other birthdays celebrated
in the Isle of Wight, and little sisters came into
the world to spend it with her; but that third
birthday was the most important of all. From
that day, during the long weeks passed every
summer and winter in the Isle of Wight, where
the Little Girl's father soon built himself a
home, the children of the two families were
constant companions, playing in the big house
or the wide grounds of Farringford, or gal-
loping over the downs together on their ponies;
and as men and women grown continuing the
friendship of childhood's days, though but one
of the poet's two sons remains, the younger
having died while still a young man.


SPPoE .-E *. GO *AND. ,SEE .




WHY do you eat and drink? What an easy
question this seems to answer. I suppose that
almost every one of you will feel sure you can
answer it, and will say, Of course we eat
and drink because we are hungry and thirsty."
Yes, that is quite true, but I want to go a little
further than that and tell you why it is that
you feel hungry and thirsty, and help you to
understand what your food does for your body.
First, let us see why you feel hungry and
thirsty. You do not always feel hungry and
thirsty, do you? For some time after your
breakfast you feel comfortable, and then, per-
haps, you learn your lessons; or, if it is holiday
time, you run about and play or take a long
walk, and after some hours you begin to feel
those curious and uncomfortable feelings which
we call hunger and thirst, and you are very
glad when you sit down to dinner. In all your
running and walking you have been using your
muscles, and in doing your lessons you have
been using your brain, and other parts of your
body have been used without your knowing
anything about it; some things in your body
have, in fact, been used up, and you have,
without knowing it, lost something from your
body, and so you need to take something into
your body to mend it, as it were, and to make
up for what you have lost.
Let me give you an example of how you are
always using up the material of your body with-
out knowing it. When you breathe upon a
looking-glass, as you no doubt have often done,
the glass does not remain as clear as before; it
soon becomes cloudy, and if you touch it you
find that it is wet. Why? Because there is
moisture in your breath; and it is known that
some water always is breathed out with the air.
Then again, when you run, in hot weather,
you perspire a great deal, that is, your skin

gets wet with water which is squeezed out
through tiny holes in the skin. Your face may
even get so wet with perspiration that the water
will roll down it in streams. Here, again,
water is used up. This kind of loss is always
going on; even when you are fast asleep, your
gentle breathing carries out some moisture with
it to the air around you.
So it is with food also; you need supplies to
make up for what has been used up and lost;
you need fresh air for the same reason, but of
that we shall talk another time.
Your body is like a steam engine which, after
working a long time and using up all its coal,
has to take in a fresh supply. You will learn
later, that the food and drink you take into
your body are really a kind of fuel; without
them the body could ino more work than a
locomotive could keep running without coal to
replace what is burned in its fire.

We next have to see what becomes of the
food ard drink you take in, so that you may
understand how it takes the place of what has
been lost.
What do you do with the food you put into
your mouth ? You bite it, of course, and cut
it up with your teeth into very small pieces,
the moisture in the mouth helping you by
mixing with it and making it soft. When it
is bitten up, you swallow it, sending it down
from your throat through a tube, called the
gullet, into your stomach.
By a process called digestion, the stomach
and other internal organs prepare the food so
that it may be taken up by the blood, and con-
veyed to whatever part of the body may need
new supplies. For your feet and hands, which
are far away from the interior, need feeding as
much as any other part of your body; and the
.food material has to get to them.
There are some special things which your


body needs to feed it. Meat contains some-
thing that is needful, bread something else,
milk and sugar contain other things; and you
eat a number of kinds of food, so as to make
the right mixture needed for keeping you well.
Sometimes you do not take the right kinds of
food, or you take too much of one kind, and
then you may feel ill.
Now, remembering that the useful part of your
food passes into your blood, let us find out how
it is carried about to all parts of the body.
Well, the heart which lies in the chest, and
is no bigger than your own fist, is a powerful
pumping-machine. It is like an elastic bag
divided into four parts. All the blood in the
two divisions of the one side is red, and all that
in the other side is blue. You must think of
the red blood as the good, pure sort, and of
the blue as the used up portion. The muscles
in the walls of your heart are very strong,
and when they draw together that is, con-
tract, they drive the red blood with a great
rush into a large blood-vessel, which soon di-
vides into two, one going to the upper part of
your body and one going to the lower part.
These large vessels give off rather smaller
branches to different parts of your body, and
these smaller vessels at last break up into the
very fine hair-like vessels which make up the
fine network which supplies every part of your
body with blood. Each of the tiny islands of
flesh surrounded by blood-vessels, takes through
their thin walls all that it needs of the blood to
feed it, and also empties into the vessels all the
used material it no longer needs.
These fine hair-like veins soon join others and
so form larger ones, and still larger ones, till all
join in one great vessel, which, however, re-
turns to the pumping-machine, running into
that half of the heart which contains blue blood.
In our next talk we shall see how the blue or
used blood is cleaned and changed into red
blood, and then returns to the other side of the
And how long do you think your blood takes
S to make this great round -to run through the
very tips of your fingers and your toes and to
get back again ? Only as long as you take to
count thirty slowly -that is, only half a min-
ute. Just try to fancy this constant rush of

blood round and round that is going on inside
you without your perceiving anything of it!
Is it not wonderful ? You can feel something
of it, if you like. Put the finger of one hand on
the wrist of the other, just below the thumb;
then you can feel the beating of a pulse that
is, you can feel a blood-vessel swelling up with
the rush of blood that is sent out of the heart
in great jerks every time the muscles squeeze
it up so tight as to empty the side that contains
the red blood. You can feel your heart beat -
that is, you can feel its pointed end tap against
the inner wall of your chest when those same
muscles contract and draw it up out of its lower
place. You can feel pulses in other parts of
your body besides your wrist; as in the neck,
for instance; and you may try to find out for
yourselves how many times in a minute your
pulse or your heart beats, if some one will start
you counting when a minute begins on the
clock, and tell you when it is over.
In each one of you, then, this rushing blood
is carrying good food through the body, and
every part of the body is drinking in this food
through the thin walls of the vessels; and so
every part is being fed. So the tired and used
up parts are freshened and strengthened, and
the food replaces what has been lost.
But besides carrying food to all parts of the
body, your blood has, as we saw a little while
ago, to carry something away from all the parts
it visits. All the used-up stuff, which has no
more goodness .in it, and is not wanted any
more, and which would only make you feel ill,
if it were not carried away, oozes through the
walls of the vessels into the blood, and is taken
by it to special parts of your body which are
like machines arranged for cleaning the blood,
such as the lungs and the skin. You have
already heard how the skin gets rid of water,
which, as perspiration, carries other things we
cannot see with it, and we shall see in our next
talk how the lungs do their work.
So your blood takes away what is used from
the body at the same time that it carries the
supplies furnished by your food and drink.
But most of you boys and girls eat and drink
far more than is needed to make up for what gets
used up and lost in your bodies. You ought to
eat more, and all healthy children do; for your




food has not only to feed you in the same way
as the food of grown-up people has to feed
them, but it has to make you grow bigger.
You know that you are growing every day;
you do not notice it much, perhaps, but when
you are measured, you find that you are an
inch or two taller than you were a year ago;
and if you try to put on the boots that you
wore last year you find that they will not go
on, for your foot is larger than it was, and what
fitted you a year ago will only fit a younger
child now. You have grown taller and bigger
in every way; your bones have grown larger,
your muscles have grown thicker and stronger,
and your skin has grown in order to cover the
larger bones and thicker muscles. You have

had plenty of good food to eat, and so this has
all come about without any difficulty to you.
Your bones, muscles, and skin, are all made
of tiny'masses of that wonderful living stuff
we. mentioned in our first talk; and when these
little masses, which are called cells, are well fed,
each can divide into two cells, and so the whole
bone or muscle grows bigger. If you eat and
drink even more than is needed for your mend-
ing and growth, then the extra food may go to
make fat, and you become plump little people.
But those of you who are growing very fast are
usually thin, for your growth takes up so much
of your food that little is left to make fat.
So here is one of the most important things
that your food does it helps you to grow.

(To be continued.)




THIS is the tale of Little Ned,
Who laughed with glee in his wee white bed,
And then sat up in the silent night
To open his hand, that was closed so tight,
Over a shining dollar bright.
He laughed as he thought of all 't would
The candy and marbles and tops piled high
Before his imaginative eye!

For to-morrow would open the County Fair;
The early morning should see him there.
And a silver dollar, shining and smart,
That seemed to him like the wheel of a cart,
His mother had given to him to spend -
For a very good boy was our little friend.

So when the day dawned clear and bright,
He started forth with a heart as light
As a new balloon, or his 'favorite kite.

V i


His lunch in a basket hung from his hand;
He knew it was good by his mother
For who could put everything "just so"
But a fellow's mother, I 'd like to know.

So, full of joy to his finger-tips,
With a quick "good-bye," away he skips;
His hand in his pocket, now and then,
And oh, the feeling of richness when
He lifted his dollar and dropped it again!

At last he was there. The County Fair
Is a wonderful thing, I do declare,-
And Ned's brown eyes were round with
Though he looked about with an air quite
And there he saw, the very first thing,
A man with a beautiful diamond ring--
A beautiful man, with mustaches black,
Who stood in a crowd beyond the track.
The crowd just parted close to the gate,
The man looked toward him and seemed to
So Ned drew close to hear-'t was fate.

"Just let me show yer," the man went on,
"The thing you will set yer hearts upon
As soon as you see it, Ladies and Gents,
For just one dollar and fifteen cents!"
And then he proceeded to show a pin
Of wonderful twisted gold, set in
With beautiful stones of green and red -
"Emeralds and rubies," the dark man said;
And they dazzled the eyes of Little Ned.

He pushed to the front of the listless crowd;
The man continued his discourse loud:
"Why them there rubies," he cried, "alone
Are worth the price, when all 's said and
A Empress would grace such jewels; why
them 's
The very finest of all the gems.



And think of the bargain, Ladies and Gents:
This pin for a dollar and fifteen cents!"

Then Ned's eyes burned, and his heart beat
He thought of his mother, and visions
Before him of her, whom he held so dear,
Wearing that pin. He could almost hear
Her voice, as she looked in the box to see
His gift (and he knew what her smile would
"Why, Ned, is this beautiful pin for me ?"

The man went on: "I say it 's the chance
Of a lifetime. You can see at a glance
These gems are beauties, Ladies and Gents,
And all for a dollar and fifteen cents!"

That settled Ned. He made up his mind,
If he could borrow, or beg, or find
A dime and a nickel-the dollar was there.
But what did he own, from his boots to his
Worth three whole nickels? His kerchief? No;
His mother embroidered the letters. Oh!
VoL. XXIV.- 87.

For the top or the marbles left at home.!
His jews'-harp! The tissue-paper and coml'!
He gladly would sell them, all in a bunch-
But happy thought! he could sell his

And there, by good luck, was cross-eyed Pete,
Always hungry, and ready to eat.
Ned called, as Pete lazily passed the tents:
"Say, want my luncheon for fifteen cents? "
The fat boy eagerly looked it through.
There were cinnamon rolls and crullers, too;
And hungry and hungrier he grew.

He searched his pockets many a time,
But all he could find was a little dime.
The voice of the man grew loud and high;
But he watched from the corner of his eye
To see if the youngster meant to buy.

At last he called, in a jocular way:
" Look here, you, sonny, come here, I say;
I see that you want this pin; well, then,
"I '11 sell it to you for a dollar ten."

'T was done. Pete took the lunch and was off.
The man was seized with a sudden cough,
As he put the dollar and ten-cent piece
In a wallet, by no means free from grease.
And he held the pin in the sun's bright rays
Till every gem seemed to flash and blaze
Before little Ned's enchanted gaze.



Would have tempted the appetite of a
"- queen.
The printed signs. in letters of frost,
SLike Ice Cream Sod,.i and ': Ice Cr.-.an,."
c.: st
vR*- Our Ned a prang: and the lemi n:.:!
S But thought thir-:r and hungrt, i-e l;t re-

So hei slaked hii thirst -at a pL.uii: punml.
\Vith the -ihaii ted tin i-u. lt nity a- runmp
SHaid erite:ld and nirkedl. It %as :treakled
w'ithl rust,
Bur Ned drank close to the han:llr just
\\here -vey b-v dirnks. 'lthc.uh ,il seem
To think tlnat nobody knows the z..:sheme.

He came ito .1. P,.in'- n. t JLI'tv, Ih,.i
In a tent, btit oitu had t-, pay to
And Ia Merr) -g,--!.ini where ,u could
A fier)' stfcdl, or s"t inside

H' irnsd et nat in tn

-i I ul .
He 'rapt i.ed T it, l..-*u it.

1-us ni Ir 'i Sc dcii ii
' 'irr-c rflir ar i.


Of fruit and the sandwiches, in
The rows of berries and leaves



Of the latest song, from an organ ground.
Only five cents for a thrilling spin!
Ned sighed, but smiled as he felt the pin
Quite safe in his pocket; for, after all,
At the thought of his gift even this seemed

At last, in the heat of the afternoon,
Ned traveled homeward an hour too soon -
Tired and hungry, and dusty and hot,
And cross he might have been were it not
For the beautiful gift all ready to give,-
It seemed to him he could hardly live
To place his offering in her hand.

She saw him coming, so burned and tanned,
Fully an hour before he had planned,
And threw him a kiss from where she sat
On the broad piazza. He waved his hat
And smiled dear heart such a radiant
Taking his pin from the box the while,
He hurried on till he reached her side,
Dropped the pin in her lap, and tried
His breathless expectancy to hide.

What is it she 's saying? What does he
hear ?
"A breastpin ? Was anything ever so queer ?
Found in your popcorn, was it, dear ? "

His popcorn! She thought it a common
He winked to keep the tears from his eyes.
"Why, mother dearest, the pin is gold,
And those are rubies and emeralds. Hold
It here in the sun. See how they shine.
Is n't it beautiful ? Are n't they fine ? "

His mother smiled as she said, "They 're
Dear lad; and the pin is only brass."

" It can't be, mother "- his face flushed red-
"' T was fit for an empress,'the big man said."

"What man, my deary? What do you
mean? "
"The man at the fair;" and he tried to screen
His face from her gaze; but when he knew
That I wanted to buy the pin for you

He gave it to me for a dollar ten.
I thought he was very kind but -" Then
The tears gushed forth, and the sobs began
To choke the disheartened little man.

His mother tried to soothe him in vain.
"He cheated!" he cried again and again,
And threw himself full length on the grass.
"To think, to think, it is only brass!
And I sold my luncheon to greedy Pete,
And I have n't had anything to eat! "

This was of straws the very last;
His mother's arms now held him fast.

IE- fi.k


- a
r .- *-

- .r;F* *

9I U ..

"Dear heart," she said at last--"dear lad,
Don't think I am crying because I 'm sad;
It 's only because I am very glad.

"This beautiful pin will always be
More precious than rubies and gold to me,
And I '11 always keep it; for, don't you see,
That of all great gifts there 's no greater one
Than the tender love of my little son."





ONE beautiful morning in the month of May,
last year, when the school children of the city
of Minneapolis awoke, their eyes were eagerly
turned to the east for a token of the weather;
for should the day be fine, they were to take
part in an event unique in all their school life.
Indeed, it is not likely that any children the
world over ever engaged in so strange an en-
terprise. They were to move with their own
hands an old dwelling-house-the first one
erected in their city- from its site to a city park
five miles away. For weeks they had been plan-
ning for the event, which was to be in the na-
ture of a public celebration. The project was
the result of the enterprise of a newspaper,-
one of the evening papers of Minneapolis,--and
the whole city had entered into the plan with in-
terest. The publishers of the paper had bought
the building some time before, and had given it
to the city. Following this, the novel plan was
proposed of having the school children of the
city, between the ages of nine and eighteen
years, draw the building to its' final home in
a park at Minnehaha Falls, the beautiful little
cataract so happily described in Longfellow's
" Song of Hiawatha."
The mayor of the city declared a public f&te-
day; the municipal offices, the public library,
and the like, were closed; and the public-
school children had a holiday. If it had rained
on the morning of the moving, five great steam-
whistles in as many parts of the city were to be
blown loud and long to notify the children of a
postponement; but the weather was favorable,
and more than ten thousand young people
gathered at the school buildings in various parts
of the city at fifteen minutes after eight o'clock,
and then marched to their appointed stations.
Many other thousands who would have liked
to help pull assembled along the line of march;
they would have assisted in the drawing of the
building had it not been that not more than

ten thousand could be utilized, and the first
applicants were selected.
The relays were from one thousand to fifteen
hundred strong. They were distributed along
the course so that no relay would travel further
than suited the strength of the scholars.
The old house had been mounted upon wide
moving-trucks, whose broad wheels would
easily roll over the pavements. To spare the
strength of the children, eight sturdy horses
were attached to the wagon upon which the
building had been loaded; but save as they
aided in giving the proper direction and in
steadying the movement of the line, they were
not needed. In fact, there were several times
when the children pulled the house fairly upon
the haunches of the horses, and the drivers
were at their wits' ends to guide their steeds.
Two ropes, each six hundred feet long, were
attached to the ends of the wagon-poles of the
teams; a double row of children, representing
the first relay, formed in line under direction of
the teachers of their schools; a stirring blast
from the horn of a bugler rang out; and just at
the stroke of nine the children gave a tremendous
pull, and the old house moved off as hand-
somely and as royally as though it had been
the chariot of a king. Thousands of people
gathered along the route as the strange proces-
sion passed; and yet, while there were thou-
sands of children, besides those who did the
pulling, hurrying and scurrying along in a whirl
of excitement, not an accident occurred.
SOnce in a while the children at the ropes
would get so excited by the novelty of the
whole affair that before the drivers would be
able to check the movement, the children
would pull the horses into a trot, and then
there was great tumult and many cries and
loud yells from the policemen along the route;
and sometimes it took heroic measures to stay
the youngsters in their mad course. At the-


extreme head of the procession two other teams
of horses were attached to the ends of the
ropes to give direction to the line, though there
was much more likelihood of the horses being
run over than of their doing much good.
Many of the schools had banners to carry
at the head of their lines, and all the children
of the schools of the city had received badges
which entitled them to the freedom of the street-
car lines of the city for the entire day. As
rapidly as one relay completed its part of the
course, the children stepped back, at a signal

walls should stand,- a reminder of the days
when the population of the city consisted of
the builder of the house and his family. The
man who erected the building, Colonel J. H.
Stevens, is yet alive, and but for illness would
have been present at the celebration.
The building was erected forty-six years ago
- not so long a time in the Eastern States, but
a quite extended period for a city in the newer
West. The house was built on the banks of the
Mississippi River, within sound of the roar of
the Falls of St. Anthony, now the motive-power


from the bugler, and the waiting relay ad-
vanced and seized the ropes.
The relay thus relieved then took the cars
for the park, and there awaited the building.
At the end of five hours the odd procession
reached the beautiful park. Here the mayor
of the city, the members of the board of park
commissioners, and representatives of other de-
partments of the city, formally received the
old house, and it was turned over to-the park
board to be maintained as a home for various
interesting relics as long as its weather-beaten

for the mills of the largest flour-manufacturing
center in the world.
It will be many days before the children
of the schools of Minneapolis forget the time
when, ten thousand strong, with banners flying
and cheers resounding, and the stirring notes
of the bugler's horn ringing out on the soft May
air, they moved this humble but historic build-
ing to its last peaceful resting-place,
Where the Falls of Minnehaha
Flash and gleam among the oak-trees,
Laugh and leap into the valley.





IN May the gardener goes around
And with his spade he digs the ground.
He makes our front-yard garden-plot,
Then plants in it forget-me-not;
Pansies, too, with faces shy-
Always peeking at the sky-
And while he works with all his might
I watch and make him do it right.

Now with my iron spade and rake,
I, too, a garden-plot can make.
My flowers very seldom grow
(I do not know the reason though);
And if I work the whole day through
The gardener cares not what I do.
He does not seem to think that he
Can learn a single thing from me.


ON Saturday we always bake
Biscuits and tarts and jelly-cake,
Or else a pudding rich and good,
Or pies and other kinds of food.

I help 'mama with right good will,
And make-believe my stove to fill
With wood and paper laid just so,
To bake my tins all filled with dough.

It matters not how hard I try,
My dough burs black I wonder why ?
But when papa comes home, you see,
I have my table set for tea.

He says that everything is "prime,"
And helps himself a second time;
But, do you know, I half believe
He slips the pieces up his sleeve!
Annie Willis McCullough.

r.. L



of the H:-, HoBBY: HHoQ

j o- and the



Listen all and straight I 'll tell
Of strange adventures that once befell.

ONE night when the house was dark and still,
These adventures did begin,
Of the hobby-horse and the woolly dog,
And the trumpeter made of tin:
What time they went a-hunting,
oFor to see what they -could win.
Slyly through the door went they,
Slyly through the house,
Hoping they might find a deer;
But found, instead, a mouse.
Now let us hunt!" the dog he barked;
The hobby-horse ran fast;
The trumpeter raised up his horn,
And blew a merry blast.
The dog he barked; the horse
he ran;
The trumpeter blew his horn;
And over the house they hunted the mouse
From midnight until morn.

Through kitchen and through dining-room,-
For woods they had the chairs,-
Through parlor and through hall they chased,
And down the cellar stairs.

The hobby-horse knocked down
a chair; r
The dog fell in a pail;
The trumpeter reached for the
But only touched its tail!

They hunted the mouse all over the house,
Until they nearly dropped:
They thought at last they had it fast,
When in a hole it popped!

M MThen back to the nursery they crept,
As the day was coming in -
The hobby-horse and the woolly dog
And the trumpeter made of tin.

This is the tale I heard them tell
Of a strange adventure that once befell.


o, THE bird of Geneva sits up on his perch
(He is carved out of pieces of wood),
He holds his head up on his very long neck,
And he looks far more proud than he should.

'But you just pull a string that 's
attached to his leg,
And he changes his dignified mien.
His head and his tail tumble flipperty flop--
He 's the sorriest bird ever seen.
VOL. XXIV.-88.



THE lines upon the treble clef
Are lettered E, G, B, D, F.

<---- O---- By

"Encourage girls by double fun"
When all their practising is done.

The treble clef has furthermore
The letters, on its spaces four,
For spelling "F A C E, face."

(Put F upon the lowest space.)

Bass-clef lines, G, B, D, F, A,-
Please put them in your mind to stay:
Good boys deserve fun always." Now!

D* Fu- -- ay"-- |

The boys will learn that anyhow.

The bass-clef spaces lettered thus:
A, C, E, G-won't trouble us;
Upon the first space put the "A -
"All Candy Eaten Gladly," say.


Con well this lesson o'er and o'er;
The staff will puzzle you no more.



IF the readers of ST. NICHOLAS would like
something curious in figures, here it is:
Choose any number, either in hundreds, thou-
sands, or tens of thousands, and write it down.
Add the figures composing this number to-
gether. Subtract their sum from the first num-
ber written.
Now add together the figures of this re-
mainder: you will find that they always amount
either to 9, or to a multiple of 9. Let us take
a number by way of example:
Suppose you take . . 8357
These figures, added together, make 23

Now add these last figures, and you get 18-
or twice 9.

This curious fact is the basis of a very pretty
puzzle, with which one can mystify those who
are not acquainted with it.
It is done thus: Ask any one to write down
a number without telling you the figures. Then
tell him to add the figures and to subtract, as
above. Now ask him to strike out one figure
from the answer last obtained. Ask him to
add the remaining figures, and give you the
sum of them.
You will be able at once to name the figure
struck out, in this way: Take the sum just
given, for example.- Suppose the 8 was struck
out; then the sum of the other three figures is
o1. When you are told that io is the sum of
the figures remaining, you know that 8 is the
figure that will bring the whole amount to the



THE lines upon the treble clef
Are lettered E, G, B, D, F.

<---- O---- By

"Encourage girls by double fun"
When all their practising is done.

The treble clef has furthermore
The letters, on its spaces four,
For spelling "F A C E, face."

(Put F upon the lowest space.)

Bass-clef lines, G, B, D, F, A,-
Please put them in your mind to stay:
Good boys deserve fun always." Now!

D* Fu- -- ay"-- |

The boys will learn that anyhow.

The bass-clef spaces lettered thus:
A, C, E, G-won't trouble us;
Upon the first space put the "A -
"All Candy Eaten Gladly," say.


Con well this lesson o'er and o'er;
The staff will puzzle you no more.



IF the readers of ST. NICHOLAS would like
something curious in figures, here it is:
Choose any number, either in hundreds, thou-
sands, or tens of thousands, and write it down.
Add the figures composing this number to-
gether. Subtract their sum from the first num-
ber written.
Now add together the figures of this re-
mainder: you will find that they always amount
either to 9, or to a multiple of 9. Let us take
a number by way of example:
Suppose you take . . 8357
These figures, added together, make 23

Now add these last figures, and you get 18-
or twice 9.

This curious fact is the basis of a very pretty
puzzle, with which one can mystify those who
are not acquainted with it.
It is done thus: Ask any one to write down
a number without telling you the figures. Then
tell him to add the figures and to subtract, as
above. Now ask him to strike out one figure
from the answer last obtained. Ask him to
add the remaining figures, and give you the
sum of them.
You will be able at once to name the figure
struck out, in this way: Take the sum just
given, for example.- Suppose the 8 was struck
out; then the sum of the other three figures is
o1. When you are told that io is the sum of
the figures remaining, you know that 8 is the
figure that will bring the whole amount to the


next higher multiple of 9. If some other fig-
ures had been written down, and you had been
told that the sum of the remaining figures was
20, for instance, you would be certain that the
next higher multiple of-9 was 27, and that there-
fore 7 would be the figure struck out as follows:
24= sum of above figures.

8,66 these figures amount to 20.
The fact that you do not know the figures
chosen, or any of the answers, and that you ask
for only the sum of the remaining figures, ren-
ders this a very puzzling feat.
One thing more: do not let any one strike
out ciphers always figures.
Here is another curious fact about figures:
Write down in a row all the numerals except
the number 8, thus:

Now choose any one of these numerals and
multiply it by 9. Suppose we choose 2, which
multiplied by 9 will of course give us 18.
Then multiply your row of figures by this
18, thus:



The answer, you see, is all 2's. If you had
chosen 3, the answer then would have been
all 3's-and so on with each number chosen.
Another curious fact is that if you write
down any sum in three different figures, and
then reverse those figures and subtract the lesser
amount, you will find that the middle figure of
the answer is always 9. Try it, thus:
Write . . ... 763
Now reverse that. . 367

Now reverse again, but this time
add the amounts . .. 693

Your answer will always be the same, 1089,
except in one instance: if the first two figures
you write are alike, as 778, and the last figure
next in regular order, as 887, 776, 998. In
that case you will get 99 for your answer; but by
again adding this, and then adding the sum re-
versed, you come back to -your o189. Example:

Reversed 677 subtracted.

". 99 added.

891 added.




CONTRIBUTORS are respectfully informed that between the ist of June and the s5th of September manuscripts cannot conveniently be
examined at the office of ST. NICHOLAS. Consequently, those who desire to favor the magazine with contributions
will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date.


AN exceptionally well-informed correspondent, Mrs.
F. F. Knous, of New Haven, Conn., who is the author
of an address concerning the hiding of the Charter of
the Connecticut colony in the famous "Charter Oak,"
very obligingly writes to remove the uncertainties evi-
dent in the answers to the sixteenth question in the
" Thanksgiving-day Problem," and referred to on page
434 of the March ST. NICHOLAS.
Mrs. Knous assures us it is not a mere tradition, but a
historical fact that the charter was abstracted from the
council-table by Captain Joseph Wadsworth, on All Hal-
lowe'en (October 31), 1687, and was hidden in the oak
known to the Indians as the "Treaty Oak," and since"
called the Charter Oak," where the precious document
remained until news came to America, some time in
1689, of. the accession of William and Mary. The oak
fell August 21, 1856; but two young trees in Bushnell
Park, Hartford, have been grown from its acorns.
Mrs. Knous, who traces her ancestral line to Captain
Joseph Wadsworth, and also to John Allyn, Secretary to
the Council, both actors in the stirring drama of the
Charter, also says that John Wadsworth, Joseph's half-
brother, was one of the Council.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I was born and live in West
Point. Of course your readers know about West Point.
My father is professor of drawing, and he is teaching
me to draw. There are nearly 350 cadets here, and
I know many of them. I am nearly twelve now, and
I have been here all that time, except in the sum-
mer. I belong to the Junior League Club" in New
York, and last year I drew a picture for a prize in a
competition, but I did not get the prize; a boy of fifteen
got it.
I have been taking you for nearly four years, and I
like you very much. I have read nearly all the contin-
ued stories, and I like "A Boy of the First Empire"
best so far.
I have a brother and a sister, both younger than I am,
but I like them verymuch. I and the rest of the boys
on the post have lots of fun, and I should like to play
foot-ball, but cannot on account of a lame knee.
Your faithful reader, PAUL A. LARNED.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have just had an interview
with our Chinese cook, and I succeeded in persuading
him to tell me the legend of the pretty narcissus flower,
or Chinese lily, which perfumes my whole room, and
which he presented to me a short time ago. This is
what he told me:
Once upon a time, there was a very rich Chinaman
who had two wives, and each wife had a son. At the
father's death, instead of being equally divided, his prop-
erty was taken possession of by his elder boy, son of

the head wife. The younger received only a very small,
stony valley, which he could not possibly sell or do any-
thing with.
The boy's mother wept and prayed for months contin-
ually, which conduct at the end did some good; for Con-
fucius had pity on her, and scattered from heaven some
lily-bulbs through the little valley. These took root
and grew, and they were the first ever seen on earth.
It was just before the Chinese New Year when the
flowers came out in full bloom, and the boy took some
down to the market for sale, and in a short time they
were in great demand.
In a few years he became very rich, and lived happily
all the rest of his days with his mother.
It is needless to say that the bad brother lost his prop-
erty and died in misery.
With best wishes, I remain your interested reader,

MY DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl eleven
years old, and I and my brothers and sisters live on a
big ranch that my grandpapa owned before my papa was
born. All of us except three were born on the ranch.
My oldest brother took ST. NICHOLAS until he was
twelve years old, and now my brother Roy takes it.
Last winter we lived in San Francisco, but we were all
glad to get back to the ranch again, and to see our pony
and our dogs. We love our pony Dot" very much, and
we often take rides on his back or drives in the little
This is the first letter that I have written to ST.
NICHOLAS, and I hope you will like it.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never written you be-
fore, but I love to read you, and am always very glad to
see you come to our house.
I have a new puppy a Scotch terrier. He is as fat as
a butter-ball. He did not receive a Christmas present,
so the next day he got even with the world by eating
two chickens the cook had prepared for dinner.
On Christmas Eve I had a beautiful tree, and about
twenty of my little friends were present, and the tree
bore fruit for each guest. We had a fine time. Santa
Claus surprised us very much by coming in through the
window, and I think he was just the nicest, jolliest old
fellow in the world. Mama said he was a success in
every sense of the word.
We had a flash-light picture taken of the tree, Old
Santa, and all the children.
I have a beautiful doll about as large as myself, so
you may know I am a girl. My doll's name is Beatrice,
and papa built such a nice play-house, just like a sure-
enough house; but someway I never use it I like a
make-believe house better. I mean, papa had carpenters
build the house.
I am nearly eight years old. Uncle David says I am
"a quarter to eight."
Mama tells me that first letters, like first calls, must
not be too long.
Your interested little reader and admirer,


DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little Southern girl
nearly thirteen years of age. I have often visited the
North, and I like it very much; but the South is so
warm and sunny that the. cold, bleak North does not
make me feel at home.
I have two brothers, both younger than myself, and
one little baby sister one year and a half. My brothers
and sister are very fond of pets, but I do not care much
for them.
I love to read and practise on the piano. I have been
taking music-lessons for four years, and I am very fond
of it.
Charleston is a queer old town, very much like Eng-
lish towns, my father says. The streets are narrow, and
the city is not very big, still it holds many things that
we Charlestonians love.
My grandmother has been giving you to me for nearly
two years, and I just love you. My brothers also enjoy
you very much. Wishing you success, believe me to
be, as ever, your true reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have decided to tell you
something about our.town, as it is the birthplace of our
new President, William McKinley.
The town is much larger and busier than it was when
McKinley was a boy. It is a manufacturing town, and
contains about 70oo inhabitants.
The old frame building in which our President was
born was situated in the business part of the city. It
has been torn down and taken to a beautiful little sum-
mer-resort called Riverside Park, a few miles out of
One old gentleman loves to tell stories about the boy-
hood of young William, and tells how he used to play
"I-spy" in his woodshed with the other boys of the
neighborhood. Your interested reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: One of my sisters wrote to you
some time ago, and as she told you nothing about our
home, I thought you would like to hear a little about it.
We came down here in I890, just after a big flood, and
had been here only three years when there was another
big flood, and it broke over a flat on one side of us, and
ran into the same river again on the other side of us;
so that we were on an island.
I did not tell you that we lived on the Brisbane River,
just below where another river, called the Stanley, joins
it; and the Brisbane River comes down on one side,
gives a bend, meets the Stanley, and comes down on the
other side of us. It was the Stanley that was the high-
est in the first 1893 flood; and it could n't get away
down the Brisbane River, so it went up it, and we could
see them fighting from the house. At last the Brisbane
had to give in, and rushed right across the flat quite
close to the house. We went out to see it falling over a
cliff into a big gully called Sapphire Gully; and the
water shook the ground that we were standing on just
as if it was going to fall. The gully was called Sapphire
Gully because our grandfather found a sapphire there.
There are six of us- five girls and a boy. There
are two older than myself, and three younger. Doris,
the youngest little girl, was born in the beginning of the
1893 flood. The Christmas before last "Dadda" put
up two swings and a giant's stride for a present to us
all, and we have had a lot of fun on them both. Per-
haps you don't know what a giant's stride is, so I will
try to explain. It is a long post standing straight up,
with any number of ropes you like hanging from the

top of it (ours has four ropes), and the piece that the
ropes are joined on to is something like a crown. This
top piece is on a pivot, so you can hang to the ropes and
swing after running around the pole until you are swung
free of the ground.
I am twelve years old, my eldest sister is sixteen, and
my little brother is one.
I remain your loving reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : I have been taking you ever
since I was able to read, but have never written to you.
I like all the stories in ST. NICHOLAS; but I think I
like mama's story-"Danny and the 'Major'"-and
"June's Garden" best. At Christmas-time we each had
to learn a Christmas piece or poem; and I chose "The
Picture," from ST. NICHOLAS, for I thought it was very
pretty.. I read about Helen Keller, and I think she
must be lovely.
With a great deal of love, I am your constant reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS : I don't know whether you ac-
cept letters from non-subscribers or not; but this Christ-
mas I bought a ST. NICHOLAS, and was so delighted
with it and so interested in the letters that I- thought I
would like to write one too. I intend to become a sub-
scriber very soon. I am a native of Manitoba, having
lived there all my life, with the exception of the last two
years, which I have spent in Vancouver; quite a change
from the former country, with all its ice and snow and
skating, tobogganing, and snow-shoeing, while here the
weather is always mild, we having snow but seldom;
and the principal amusements are sailing and bathing.
During all the summer, every day the beach at English
Bay is thronged with pleasure-seekers bent on bathing
or rowing; and great fun we have splashing about in the
water, for not many can swim. I am learning, and can
go a little way. In the summer I go down at six o'clock
every morning with my father and brother. I collect
stamps, but have not many yet.
Your devoted admirer, KATHLEEN HOOPER.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have never seen any letters
to you from Peru, so I think I will tell you about this
It took us about twenty-five days to get here by
steamer from New York. We are at an American ob-
servatory, a branch of Harvard College Observatory. It
is about 8ooo feet above the level of the sea. We are
two and one half miles away from the city of Arequipa.
There are three great mountains near us. The highest
is about 20,500 feet high. Another is a volcano, about
19,000 feet high. The third is about 17,000 feet high,
and is named Pichupichu. El Misti, the volcano, is the
most interesting. It is a perfect cone, and has two cra-
ters, one inside of the other. The inner one is slightly
active; but the other is dead. Once in a great while a
little smoke rises from the inner crater. On the very
summit this observatory has a meteorological station
which is the highest in the world.
The people here call themselves The Children of the
Misti." The lower class live in stone huts with thatched
roofs. The huts have neither windows nor chimneys.
The chickens and dogs live in them with the people.
There are orily a few animals here that are not fa-
miliar to the readers of ST. NICHOLAS. The llamas are


the strangest. They are called "the little camels of
Peru," and it is a very good name, too, as a llama looks
a great deal like a camel, except that it has no hump on
its back. They have long necks, and their feet are
padded, I think, because when walking on cobblestones
they make scarcely any noise. When they are irritated
they spit at the offender.
Arequipa is situated on the little river Chili, which
flows through a barren and almost rainless country.
Smaller streams, called acequias, are conducted along
terraces which are built on either side of the river to
irrigate the valley. From these still smaller ones
branch; and on certain days the water is allowed to
flow through certain fields, to keep the vegetation from
drying up through lack of rain.
Little over one hundred years ago there were some
severe earthquakes, and more smoke than usual rose
from El Misti. The people of Arequipa were fright-
ened, so some priests undertook to keep El Misti from
eruption. They took a large iron cross, which, it is
said, was taken from a convent that was destroyed by an
earthquake, and finally succeeded in getting it to the top
of the mountain. There they set it up, believing that
the cross would quiet El Misti, and keep it from erup-
tion. The cross is there yet, close by the station,
though somewhat bent by the wind.
Your admiring ten-year-old reader,

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I am a little girl nine years
old. I have a fine toboggan hill right by the side of our
house, and it is all ice, and very fine. I have just been
reading some stories in a Minneapolis paper about
gophers. All natives of Minnesota are nicknamed "go-
I have two pet cats. One's name is "Brighteye," and
the other's is Punch," and I dress them up in doll's
clothes. I go to the Murry School, and I am in the B
third grade. I like the story about Master Skylark,"
and liked the two stories about Lincoln and Tad and
Willie Lincoln.
We had an amaryllis last year, and we measured it
from Lincoln's birthday until a week after, and it grew
an inch a day.
I am writing this on my papa's typewriter. I think
it is lots of fun to write on a typewriter; and I suppose
you do not get many little girls' letters written on type-
writers. Do you?
Your little friend, DOROTHY L. HARWOOD.

DEAR ST. NICHOLAS: I have taken your magazine
for a long time. Yes, and I should miss it very much
if I did not get it.
I live in Ouray, Colorado, but I visited my grandpa
and grandma last winter. I go to school. I am eleven
Colorado is a mining country. My papa is a mine
inspector, and sometimes he takes me down in the mine
with him. We go down in a cage. Once when I was
in the mine they were blasting, and the explosion blew
out our candles, and it was so very dark. The noise
was so great that we had to put our fingers in our ears.
They have cars down there, and they fill them with ore
and put them on the cage, and hoist them up to the top
of the shaft, and the ore is taken to the mill.
We often have snow-slides. Not long ago some men
were killed in a snow-slide.
We have burros in Colorado. I was riding one once,
and it tried to buck me off, but did not succeed.

Mama and papa enjoy the magazine as much as I do.
They think it is good for old and young. I should like
to write a story to the ST. NICHOLAS when I get older.
I think it would be a great honor.
They make a great deal of maple-syrup and sugar in
Susquehanna County. Grandpa and I went out and
tapped some trees. When we get the syrup how we
shall enjoy it on some buckwheat cakes!
With sincere love, your constant reader,



SHE sat intent upon her book
With such a serious air;-
A charming young folks' magazine,
Profuse with pictures rare.

"How do you like it, Bessie dear ?"
I asked this maid of eight,
Who looked mature beyond her years,
And wore a look sedate.

"I like it very much," she said,
It 's nice as it can be;
But,"-with a self-complacent air-
It 's 'most too young for me."

Good Grandma Gay 's a happy danie
Who lives upon our street;
She has a bright and genial face,
And so serene and sweet.

I saw her read this magazine,-
She sat and smiled and smiled
At some quaint fairy-stories there,
As pleased as any child.

"It 's such a pleasant book," she said,
"And always bright and smart.
How many of their clever rhymes
I 've learned to say by heart!

"But then, in all this reading fine,
There 's surely bound to be
Some things, you know, among the rest,
Almost too old for me! "

WE thank the young friends whose names follow for
pleasant letters received from them: Lillian Oliver Shiff,
Gladys Atkins, Mildred Smith Merrill, Eva Bessie Bailey,
Lilian Elizabeth L., Fanny M. J., Lila Hedges, Glenn
Southwell, L. and M., Carmelita H. S., Elsie Gemmill,
Nelson Sutro Greensfelder, Alice L. Radcliff, George
W. H. Allen, Lillie Bernard, Laura O. Snyder, Stella
Newberg, Willie Damon, Marion Tufts, E. Read Vail,
Lucie Elinor Fox, Bennett Styles, H. F., F. Constance
Folsom, D. R. G., Dorothy M. Smith, Kenneth Van
Wagenen, Joseph B. Townsend, Edith, Anna L. Clark-
son, Norton H. Kirkpatrick, Frank A. Moses, Jr., Ralph
W. E. Smalley, Robert W. Wilson, Priscilla Mills, E.
Heller, Edith Barry, Eloise M. Tyler, Henry Kent
Hewitt, Helen Sloan, Pierre W. Wildey, Farrell S.
Durment, Bertha M. Telfer, Ethel W., Alexander R.


WORD-SQUARES. I. Gain. 2. Abba. 3. Ibis. 4. Nast. II.
i. Iron. 2. Rape. 3. Opal. 4. Nell. III. i. Goat. 2. Okra.
3. Arab. 4. Tabs.
CHARADE. Gar-net.
NUMERICAL ENIGMA. Sweet are the uses of adversity, which,
like the toad, uglyand venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his
CONNECTED TRIANGLES. I. i. Clear. 2. Lean. 3. Eat. 4. An.
5. R. II. z. Great. 2. Roan. 3. Ear. 4. An. 5. T. III.
Swear. 2. Wean. 3. Eat. 4. An. 5. R.
ver. 3. Armor. 4. Noose. 5. Tomahawk.
CENTRALACROSTIC. DuMaurier. I. Sedan. 2. Louis. 3. De-
mon. 4. Small. 5. Fluid. 6. Scrap. 7. Drive. 8. Wrest. 9.

RHYMING BLANKS. Roan, crone, stone, groan, moan, blown,
thrown, prone, tone, lone, own, none, mown, zone, grown, bone,
shone, cone, strown, flown, throne.
CONNECTED SQUARES. I. I. Cone. 2. Omen. 3. Need. 4.
Ends. II. i. Bats. 2. Ague. 3. Tune. 4. Seen. III. I.
Sins. 2. Idea. 3 Neap. 4. Saps. IV. x. Ages. 2. Gnat. 3.
Ease. 4. Stem. V. x. Seen. 2. Edge. 3. Eggs. 4. Nest
DIAMOND. I B. 2. Bug. 3. Burns. 4. Gnu~.5. S.
WHO WERE THEY? I. Charles VI. of France. 2. Aristides.
3. Son of Edward III. of England. 4. Julian. 5. Oliver Crom-
well. 6. Napoleon I. 7. Bede, the historian. 8. Dionysius. 9.
Zenobia. so. St. Chrysostom. ir. Edward I. of England. 12.
Richard I. of England. 13. William II. of England, because he
had red hair. 14. Mary, daughter of Henry VIII. 15. Charles
XII. of Sweden. 16. Catharine of Russia. 17. Martin Luther.
18. George Washington.

To OUR PUZZLERS: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the s5th 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 MARCH NUMBER were received, before March z5th, from M. McG.- Four Weeks in
Kane "--Josephine Sherwood -Paul Reese "Jersey Quartette "- Madeline, Mabel, and Henri Helen C. McCleary Allil and Adi
- Grace Edith Thallon-Jo and I.
ANSWERS TO PUZZLES IN THE MARCH NUMBER were received, before March 15th, from Little Sisters," 2 Maud R. Everett, 2-
F. Dub, 4- Edith J. Haas, 2--Margaret Whittemore, -Gladys Block, I-Kent Shaffer, --Carroll Shaffer, -F. Tack, 2
-" Oodle," a-Helen W. Fassett, x-Millie Papenbrock, --Mary A. Taber, 2-Lawrence E., 2-Frances Rogers, 2--D. E. S.
Wishart, 2-"One or Two," 2-Marion E. MacArthur, 3-- Lesley S. Johnson, i -Dorothy Kendall, 3 "King Philip," 6-Adelaide M.
Gaither, 2- Fanny R., 3- Sam Slawitsky, 6- Elsie Gemmill, 4- Rosalie A. Sampson, 5 Guy M. Grandin, 3-" Posie and Louise,"
5 No name, Phila., 3-" Rikki-tikki-tavi,"4 Eleanor Vilas, 2 -Sylvester D. Matteson, I Mabel Sammons, 2 Irving and Mama,
o1- Willie R. Wheeler, Eugene T. Walter, 3 Frederic G. Foster, 2 Ruth Ewing, 2 ClAss No. 19," 9- Mabel, Blanche, and
Violet Thompson, 5-Edward Lincoln, 4-Mary L. Crosby, Adelaide Devine, i -Mary K. Rake, 2- "The Trio," 7-Mary H.
and Ernest T. Rossiter, 8 -No name, Daytona, 2 Esther Miles, i Ethel Winifred Graham, 3-" Two Little Brothers," 9 Bryan-
ite," 3-Paul Rowley, 8--Marguerite Sturdy, 7-Daniel Hardin and Co., 7-S. Hankovitch, Jr., 4-Donna Margaret Drew, i-
Mary E. Meares, --Roger Hale Wellington, io-C. D. Lauer and Co., 9-E. Everett, J., and "Goolinks," 6-Frederick T. Kelsey,
4-"Merry and Co.," 6 -Arthur and Louise, 4- E. S. Eastman, o Clara A. Anthony, 8 Sigourney Fay Nininger, so-Dana and
Mabel Waldron, 8.

* *

5 It *6
# n

* I *
I It

* 2
I, *
* *

7 I I 8

FROM I to 2, crafty device; I to 3, devoted; 2 to 4,
wages; 3 to 4, close, dark prisons; 5 to 6, chewing the
cud; 5 to 7, netlike; 6 to 8, assuaged; 7 to 8, an old-
fashioned yellow flower; I to 5, at a distance; 2 to 6,
formerly; 4 to 8, an ornamental knob; 3 to 7, to esti-

I. ADD fifty to a girl's name, and make a marine pro-
duct. 2. Add fifty to a young child, and make a scene
of noise and confusion. 3. Add fifty to a fruit, and
make a kind of type. 4. Add fifty to the ancient capital

of Navarre, and make a man's name. 5. Add fifty to a
mist, and make a nut. 6. Add fifty to a common dog,
and make to move in a spiral. 7. Add fifty to part of the
body, and make a nobleman. E. G.


THE letters in the first omitted word in each sentence
may be transformed so as to form the four remaining
1. The horses in the driver's * which he
uses for peddling * are * and he *
* them so well they are not afraid of s *
2. The lad cannot * time to * his
lesson, but he *a * from his neigh-
bor's trees with a shaped instrument.
3. One of the a in favor of the girl's beauty is
that the color a into her cheeks, and after a
* * of time again till they are like
the of a lily.
4. The boy does not hesitate in the * to write
upon his * compositions which he will *
S* from that are from much
5. One of the * of news is, that if you *
S* the earth a certain number of * it *
S* a swarm of* *



EACH of the eight small pictures may
be described by a single word. When
these words have been rightly guessed,
and placed one below another, in the
order in which they are numbered, the
initial letters will spell the name of a
distinguished personage.


I. A LETTER from Poland. 2. To
mimic. 3. A musical drama. 4. Ir-
regular or uneven. 5. Out of the way.
6. A public command by high au-
thority. 7. Striking effect. 8. A small
drum. 9. A memento. io. To advert.
II. A post at the end of a staircase.
12. A color. 13. A letter from Po-
land. "MEDINA."
Famous authors.
I. A MULE. sells rolls, Jew!
2. Deers lack chins.
3. Fanny R. Stone led.
4. I dare salt fun.
5. I make my wheel crack a tea-pail.
6. Wolf howl! Stray hen! Ned,


I. CUSTOM. 2. An Athenian law-
giver. 3. Brisk. 4. A narrow pass
between mountains. 5. To pierce.


(EXAMPLE : subtract fifty from to kill,
and leave to utter. Answer, S-1-ay,
I. Subtract ten from certain animals,
and leave enemies.
2. Subtract fifty from bartered, and
leave turf.
3. Subtract one hundred from a small
stream, and leave to exhale.
4. Subtract six from a call, and leave
to rest.
5. Subtract fifty from sport, and
leave to requite.
6. Subtract five from to push, and
leave a covering for the foot.
7. Subtract fifty froi location, and
leave gait.



8. Subtract five hundred from a
sketch, and leave a float.
9. Subtract one from a pigment, and
leave to gasp.
o1. Subtract five hundred from pre-
cious, and leave part of the body.

SARAH stood and to you beckoned:
"Come, our hoops we '11 roll!"
Through my first you took my second,
And fell upon my whole.


An aperture. 2. Above. 3. Allows.
4. First.
I. Certain animals. 2. An herb. 3.
To take to pieces. 4. To pause.
mon word. 2. A shout. 3. A jot. 4.
To remain.
I. Bulk. 2. To aid. 3. Withered. 4.
A branch.
I. A college. 2. Beverages. 3. To
jump. 4. To see.

I COMES once in a thousand years;
2 leads ever in acts and arrears;
1-2 is akin to .rich and poor;
I-2-3 you find at your door;
1-2-3-4 is something we mow;
2-3 is close by, wherever you go;
3-4-5 is of strict definition;
3-4-5-6 prevents repetition;
4 and 5 for another must stand;
To 4-5-6 take your needle in hand;
5 and 6 is a measure of space;
6 and 7 has a mother's face;
6-7-8 is to tangle and mix;
7-8 by your side forever you fix;
8-9-10 is productive of pain;
8-9-Io-II to tactics pertain;
My whole is a science, exact and
To use it needs skill in sign and
Though some of its parts are ac-
knowledged not pure,
Still, praise for its truth will- always
endure. M. E. SAFFOLD.


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